Spare the blog, spoil the child

I liked the URL, but not the execution over here.  The boy who was just driving through San Francisco is now a man living in Korea.  Who knew that all it'd take for that second ball to drop was a ten hour plane ride?  The doctors are baffled.  Come over here.  I'll make this all up to you I swear.

All Roads Lead to Pizza Factory

But I am wasteful with my time lord. Oh how I let things dangle. And as I sit naked on this leather chair in Weed California, most of the story has already passed by. It is late here, so the rest will wait. But I will tell you the end: All Roads Lead to Pizza Factory.

Lie - Not the end at all. The snow will keep things interesting tomorrow. They never talk about snow in California. It must be a sign from America. Oh U.S. of A, I hear your voice on the wind. Shut up, I am trying to sleep.

Go South Young Man

They say if you drive south long enough, you live forever. So I did it, or that is to say I'm doing it. Pantsless at the bottom of Oregon, I reach out to you.

At the edge of Washington there is an industrial park. They make clouds. I did not stop for the tour, but the basics were obvious. Mountains of logs cover the concrete from the sidewalk to the wide mouthed factories. From these factories there issued copious expanding matte steel clouds. They coated everything above us, and two days later we haven't driven out from under them yet. I suspect this is the main fabrication point for the greater North West. As we left this tower of industry behind us, the car was cut off by a dirty red and purple panelled Chevy truck. It wove a bit before straightening out in the right lane. I read the back of their your heads as they pulled away; a baseball cap, a shoulder length brunette, a long blond. I forgave the near miss. The car was running erratic on a seventeen year old boner.

Crossing into Oregon involved a bridge and a sign. I would have prefered something more but so it is. The winding road was guarded by giant golems, inert excavators that slept but not so soundly that I would have honked the horn. Certainly one could assume they only waited for a hard hat toting operator to come and resume his work on the earth, but there was more malice in them than that. No, I think it's safe to say that they'll animate the moment there's trouble.

This is not the end.

Y2XK

So it's 2010, Jesus-Christ.

Ten years and a few days ago a lot of people thought you world was going to end. Y2K. People called into talk radio shows to explain how at the stroke of midnight the computers were going to think it was 1900 and they'd totally shit an old timey bike or something. The grid was coming down and if you didn't stock MRE's, (meals ready to eat, an army put-in-your-mouth-substitute that can also be made into an anti-Gatorade bomb), garbage cans full of water and a ham radio you were fucked my friend, Fucked!

But now a word from my sponsor.

And we're back. Buy those videos kids.

So it will come as no surprise that looking back, as the clock rolled over to Y2XK, I was disapointed with the path my life had taken. I mean really, what have I done? In the past ten years I graduated highschool, enroled in three different Universities, graduated from one of those, worked several times at a Forestry Eduacation camp, was punched once outside a nightclub and got several tries at having sex. Pretty normal you might say. Pretty average. And that's just it.

I could have been so hard.

If humanity had been thrown into a post-apocalyptic wasteland I would be so hard right now. I would have slept with feral dogs. I would have had to make difficult decisions about caving a skull in for a crust of bread. I would wear tattered, awesome clothes that blew ragged in the gritty-grey sand of erodded skyscrapers. At exactly twelve midnight, January 1st 10 P.E.D. (Post Easy Days) I would have shook the mane of hair under my weathered panama hat with powerful developed neck muscles because my brother in arms Celery, (P.E.D. everything changed and 'Dean' just didn't feel right any more), would be a techno-mage, using the dying art of chemestry to create flashes and soaps and conductors that would frighten the savage eastern raiders. He'd also be good with things like keeping time without a wristwatch because he's so smart.

As for me, I'd carry a shovel and a shotgun, the only things you need to bury a man. And they'd call me Jack. Jack Shit.

As for you? Well you'd all be dead.

But I'd be so hard.