If any of you beautiful ladies is looking for theme ideas for a new set, I have one.
"Duck Commander"
Outdoor shoot. In and/or around water. Lots of camo, a little mud, maybe a shotgun or two.
Let's make this happen.
"Duck Commander"
Outdoor shoot. In and/or around water. Lots of camo, a little mud, maybe a shotgun or two.
Let's make this happen.
I left my new iPad sitting in my office at work last night.
I'm surprised by how distraught I was when I got home, got my chill on, then reached into my bag to find emptiness. Well, in the words of Stephen Stills, "If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with." And so, I dusted off the old Blackberry Playbook. Yikes.
As a dedicated Blackberry disciple for many years, I was so damn happy to get that Playbook last year. It never really lived up to its potential, as far as I'm concerned. I mean, the thing didn't have email. This is Blackberry we're talking about, right? How does it not have email out-of-the-box?
Anyway, I waited and waited for the oft-hyped Playbook 2.0 update. Six months of delays had me itching for change in a way I wasn't completely comfortable with. Then 2.0 dropped. And it sucked. Turns out, the lack of native email wasn't the problem. It's just a bad device, and it took the massive disappointment that was 2.0 to open my eyes.
I bit the bullet and started researching tablets. I had just abandoned my trusty Blackberry Torch smartphone for the RAZR MAXX running Android (which is FUCKING AWESOME by the way), so I assumed an Android tablet was the way to go. Plus, of course, I was dead set against Apple and all it's evil.
Then Apple announced the pending iPad launch.
I had a decision to make. Suddenly the field of 65,000 Android tablets (there really are a LOT of them out there) was muddied by one muthafuckin iPad. After days and days of reading and reviewing and researching, I made the decision to leverage the new iPad launch to snag an iPad 2 at a lower price. Great idea, right? That's what I thought too.
Then I watched the New iPad launch announcement. And I was hooked. Call it hypnotism. Mesmerism. Baptism.
I bought it.
I love it.
And when I left it on my desk at work last night, my old dusty Playbook became a surrogate. A substitute tablet, and a bad one at that. After ten minutes, I abandoned the Playbook, hopped in the car and drove ten miles to the office to get my iPad back. It was a beautiful reunion, and all was happy with the world.
Can I get an Amen?
I'm surprised by how distraught I was when I got home, got my chill on, then reached into my bag to find emptiness. Well, in the words of Stephen Stills, "If you can't be with the one you love, love the one you're with." And so, I dusted off the old Blackberry Playbook. Yikes.
As a dedicated Blackberry disciple for many years, I was so damn happy to get that Playbook last year. It never really lived up to its potential, as far as I'm concerned. I mean, the thing didn't have email. This is Blackberry we're talking about, right? How does it not have email out-of-the-box?
Anyway, I waited and waited for the oft-hyped Playbook 2.0 update. Six months of delays had me itching for change in a way I wasn't completely comfortable with. Then 2.0 dropped. And it sucked. Turns out, the lack of native email wasn't the problem. It's just a bad device, and it took the massive disappointment that was 2.0 to open my eyes.
I bit the bullet and started researching tablets. I had just abandoned my trusty Blackberry Torch smartphone for the RAZR MAXX running Android (which is FUCKING AWESOME by the way), so I assumed an Android tablet was the way to go. Plus, of course, I was dead set against Apple and all it's evil.
Then Apple announced the pending iPad launch.
I had a decision to make. Suddenly the field of 65,000 Android tablets (there really are a LOT of them out there) was muddied by one muthafuckin iPad. After days and days of reading and reviewing and researching, I made the decision to leverage the new iPad launch to snag an iPad 2 at a lower price. Great idea, right? That's what I thought too.
Then I watched the New iPad launch announcement. And I was hooked. Call it hypnotism. Mesmerism. Baptism.
I bought it.
I love it.
And when I left it on my desk at work last night, my old dusty Playbook became a surrogate. A substitute tablet, and a bad one at that. After ten minutes, I abandoned the Playbook, hopped in the car and drove ten miles to the office to get my iPad back. It was a beautiful reunion, and all was happy with the world.
Can I get an Amen?
I've been waiting for Seth MacFarlane to take his brilliance to the big screen for a while. Finally, "Ted". If you haven't yet seen the trailer, catch it after the drop. Oh, and put the kids to bed before you queue it up. It's raunchy, but I believe this will be the funniest movie ever made. I just pray this isn't another case of all-the-good-shit-is-in-the-trailer.
That is all. Enjoy Ted...
[YOUTUBE]http://youtu.be/VxKfC77XAp8[/YOUTUBE]
That is all. Enjoy Ted...
[YOUTUBE]http://youtu.be/VxKfC77XAp8[/YOUTUBE]
It's a sad day for the Millard South family.
I wasn't fortunate enough to be in any of Dr. Kaspar's classes when I was a student at Millard South, but I remember that she was very friendly, approachable, and quick with a smile. Any of her current and former students will tell you that she was a wonderful person and an excellent educator.
I just can't express the shock I feel from this tragedy. The answers that come may never satisfy the many questions we've been asking ourselves since yesterday's shooting, but I know that the Millard South family will never forget Dr. Kaspar, and the giant void left by her loss can never be filled.
- A.
MSHS - Class of '93
I wasn't fortunate enough to be in any of Dr. Kaspar's classes when I was a student at Millard South, but I remember that she was very friendly, approachable, and quick with a smile. Any of her current and former students will tell you that she was a wonderful person and an excellent educator.
I just can't express the shock I feel from this tragedy. The answers that come may never satisfy the many questions we've been asking ourselves since yesterday's shooting, but I know that the Millard South family will never forget Dr. Kaspar, and the giant void left by her loss can never be filled.
- A.
MSHS - Class of '93
A Walk Down Memory Lane
I was digging through an as yet unpacked box this evening. I know, I know, I moved in last April. This particular box contains nothing that I would consider essential as home decor and accessories go. I did however find a few cassette tapes that had belonged to my grandfather. Stuff I hadn't heard in at least twenty years.
My grandparents - my paternal grandparents - lived in a little town called Syracuse, about an hour south of Omaha, for most of the first half of my life. Grandma worked at the hospital; Grandpa was pastor at the Methodist church in town. I spent countless weekends there, in addition to the obligatory week-long visits each summer. In the early years, before Grandpa was retired by cancer, they lived in a parsonage that sat right next to the church.
On a typical Saturday afternoon, we were kept busy at the church. That is to say, the adults were busy working, I was exploring. I loved roaming the halls and passageways of that place. I haven't stepped foot in that church for ten years, yet I remember every nook and cranny, every sound and smell to this day.
. . .
At the head of the addition that housed the classrooms was Grandpa's office. He's in there working away, door wide open. His door is always open. I peek in, see him deep in thought. Deciding to leave him to his work, I turn to the staircase across the hall. Down the short flight I go, then through the back entrance to the kitchen. Mom is there, with Grandma and a few other ladies from the congregation, preparing the pre- and post-service snacks for the following morning. I mix a few pitchers of juice at Marge's request. Then I help Mom mix a batch of cookie dough, taking a bit for myself before strolling out through the dining area to the main stairwell.
Up two flights and through the big wooden double doors is the sanctuary. Dad's in here, tuning the piano for tomorrow's service. I sit quietly in the first pew and watch. I always got a kick out of watching him work the piano. I wonder why he doesn't do it anymore. He notices me watching and directs me with a nod to the organ, situated just on the other side of his current project.
"Play me a middle C," he says, and I do, knowing exactly what he has in mind.
He answers my middle C from the piano; his trained ears quickly comparing the two notes. A nod indicates a match.
"Gimme an E."
I play it exactly as he does when tuning: two quick taps, followed by a long hold.
Ba Ba Bummmmmmmm.
Ba Ba Bummmmmmmm.
He does the same at the piano.
Ba Ba Bummmmmmmm.
It sounds good to me, but he's not convinced. A few barely perceptible taps on the tuning lever...
Ba Ba Bummmmmmmm.
"Right there. Alright, Andy, lets get back to the house. It's almost time for dinner."
"I'll get Grandpa." I say, as I slip off the organ bench, and bound across the pulpit to the side door.
Down the back stairs, I turn left, back toward the classrooms. I step into Grandpa's office.
"We're going back to the house for dinner, Grandpa. What are you working on?"
"Well, I'm trying to decide what to write for tomorrow's sermon." He answers. "I can't quite find the theme I need. What do you think, squirt? What should I talk about in service tomorrow?"
I consider the question for a moment, finally settling on the best sermon topic ever, for a seven year old.
"I think you should talk about robots!" I say, smiling confidently.
"That's a great idea!" He says; each word slipping out between chuckles. Mussing my hair, he adds, "Let's get to the house, I'm starving."
. . .
The old cassettes I found today, packed away in a box under the stairs, contain recordings of a number of Grandpa's sermons and a few performances of his barbershop quartet. I staked a claim to them eight years ago, as we were sifting through boxes after Grandma passed. My intention was to digitize them, put them on CD for my dad and his brothers. I never really found the time.
I studied the faded, hand-written labels on each cassette. One of them read, "Syracuse UMC Sermons 9/82 - 12/82." Feeling more than a little curious and a whole lot nostalgic, I dug out the old boom box, and dropped in the sermons cassette.
The first sermon on side B was titled "What Good Is a Congregation of Robots?"
I was digging through an as yet unpacked box this evening. I know, I know, I moved in last April. This particular box contains nothing that I would consider essential as home decor and accessories go. I did however find a few cassette tapes that had belonged to my grandfather. Stuff I hadn't heard in at least twenty years.
My grandparents - my paternal grandparents - lived in a little town called Syracuse, about an hour south of Omaha, for most of the first half of my life. Grandma worked at the hospital; Grandpa was pastor at the Methodist church in town. I spent countless weekends there, in addition to the obligatory week-long visits each summer. In the early years, before Grandpa was retired by cancer, they lived in a parsonage that sat right next to the church.
On a typical Saturday afternoon, we were kept busy at the church. That is to say, the adults were busy working, I was exploring. I loved roaming the halls and passageways of that place. I haven't stepped foot in that church for ten years, yet I remember every nook and cranny, every sound and smell to this day.
. . .
At the head of the addition that housed the classrooms was Grandpa's office. He's in there working away, door wide open. His door is always open. I peek in, see him deep in thought. Deciding to leave him to his work, I turn to the staircase across the hall. Down the short flight I go, then through the back entrance to the kitchen. Mom is there, with Grandma and a few other ladies from the congregation, preparing the pre- and post-service snacks for the following morning. I mix a few pitchers of juice at Marge's request. Then I help Mom mix a batch of cookie dough, taking a bit for myself before strolling out through the dining area to the main stairwell.
Up two flights and through the big wooden double doors is the sanctuary. Dad's in here, tuning the piano for tomorrow's service. I sit quietly in the first pew and watch. I always got a kick out of watching him work the piano. I wonder why he doesn't do it anymore. He notices me watching and directs me with a nod to the organ, situated just on the other side of his current project.
"Play me a middle C," he says, and I do, knowing exactly what he has in mind.
He answers my middle C from the piano; his trained ears quickly comparing the two notes. A nod indicates a match.
"Gimme an E."
I play it exactly as he does when tuning: two quick taps, followed by a long hold.
Ba Ba Bummmmmmmm.
Ba Ba Bummmmmmmm.
He does the same at the piano.
Ba Ba Bummmmmmmm.
It sounds good to me, but he's not convinced. A few barely perceptible taps on the tuning lever...
Ba Ba Bummmmmmmm.
"Right there. Alright, Andy, lets get back to the house. It's almost time for dinner."
"I'll get Grandpa." I say, as I slip off the organ bench, and bound across the pulpit to the side door.
Down the back stairs, I turn left, back toward the classrooms. I step into Grandpa's office.
"We're going back to the house for dinner, Grandpa. What are you working on?"
"Well, I'm trying to decide what to write for tomorrow's sermon." He answers. "I can't quite find the theme I need. What do you think, squirt? What should I talk about in service tomorrow?"
I consider the question for a moment, finally settling on the best sermon topic ever, for a seven year old.
"I think you should talk about robots!" I say, smiling confidently.
"That's a great idea!" He says; each word slipping out between chuckles. Mussing my hair, he adds, "Let's get to the house, I'm starving."
. . .
The old cassettes I found today, packed away in a box under the stairs, contain recordings of a number of Grandpa's sermons and a few performances of his barbershop quartet. I staked a claim to them eight years ago, as we were sifting through boxes after Grandma passed. My intention was to digitize them, put them on CD for my dad and his brothers. I never really found the time.
I studied the faded, hand-written labels on each cassette. One of them read, "Syracuse UMC Sermons 9/82 - 12/82." Feeling more than a little curious and a whole lot nostalgic, I dug out the old boom box, and dropped in the sermons cassette.
The first sermon on side B was titled "What Good Is a Congregation of Robots?"
I have always been here.
I have always looked out from behind these eyes.
It feels like more than a lifetime.
Feels like more than a lifetime.
Sometimes I get tired of the waiting.
Sometimes I get tired of being in here.
Is this the way that it's always been?
Could it ever have been different?
Do you ever get tired of the waiting?
Do you ever get tired of being in there?
Don't worry, nobody lives forever.
Nobody lives forever.
I have always looked out from behind these eyes.
It feels like more than a lifetime.
Feels like more than a lifetime.
Sometimes I get tired of the waiting.
Sometimes I get tired of being in here.
Is this the way that it's always been?
Could it ever have been different?
Do you ever get tired of the waiting?
Do you ever get tired of being in there?
Don't worry, nobody lives forever.
Nobody lives forever.
Who was born in a house full of pain.
Who was trained not to spit in the fan.
Who was told what to do by the man.
Who was broken by trained personnel.
Who was fitted with collar and chain.
Who was given a pat on the back.
Who was breaking away from the pack.
Who was only a stranger at home.
Who was ground down in the end.
Who was found dead on the phone.
Who was dragged down by the stone.
Who was trained not to spit in the fan.
Who was told what to do by the man.
Who was broken by trained personnel.
Who was fitted with collar and chain.
Who was given a pat on the back.
Who was breaking away from the pack.
Who was only a stranger at home.
Who was ground down in the end.
Who was found dead on the phone.
Who was dragged down by the stone.
