Are You There God? It's Me, Randomness

I just saw this article description on CNN News: "Believe it or not, it’s been nearly 43 years since “Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret'"... I was going to write a random post tonight about whatever came to my head, and a few weeks back I decided I should do a post about some of my earliest reading experiences, specifically "Are You There, God, It's Me Margaret", by the most banned author in America, Judy Blume. So I took those two semi-formed thoughts, along with the random viewing of an online article, and combined them to create an introduction to a post for a blog titled, "Of Intersections and Strange Things Told" because I thought it was fitting.

And here we are.

I remember reading the book at an early age, maybe 11 or 12. Definitely in middle school or even younger. I remember that it was well written and that I really cared about the characters. Blume was one of my favorite writers as a kid. Like the best children's and young adult authors, they seem to remember what it's like to be in the age group they are targeting and they treat kids as competent individuals, unlike most adults.What I remember most, however, is Margaret dealing with puberty and having her first period. Here I was, just going though puberty myself, and a main character in a major novel was going through the same things, albeit in a much bloodier and disgusting manner.

I was lucky as a kid. In Hartford we got health class/sex ed in 6th grade. I had this giant, looming male sex ed teacher who taught us everything, so I was exposed to reality at a young age. I think more kids should be taught about the realities of life at an earlier age. I know it was a huge benefit for me; I wasn't lost in the world. Why do so many people think that hiding reality of the world from kids is the best way to prepare them for the world? Anyway, while reading the book, I wasn't disgusted by the descriptions or confused by the subject matter or anything like that; I simply related (very deeply) to this young girl going through the most traumatic time of every person's life. One scene that clearly sticks out is Margaret stretching her chest in and out, repeating to herself, "I must, I must, I must increase my bust!" There were so many emotions running through me while reading that. There was the young, hormone-crazed boy fantasizing about a pretty girl and her breasts; there was the young pre-teen, trying to figure life out for himself, sympathizing with this poor girl, knowing exactly how she felt as she wished for a certain part of her anatomy to grow just the slightest bit; there was the still somewhat-religious, overly-guilty Catholic side of me that felt bad for having such an intimate look into this girl's life; and there was the lover of language, marveling at the fact that words on a page could make me feel so much. 

Mostly I remember her breasts.

Honestly, though, it was just a really good book that made me feel like I wasn't alone in the world and that what I was going through actually mattered.

Many years after I read it, somebody mentioned the book, and I said I read it in middle school. She seemed very surprised and asked if I wasn't "weirded out" by all the "period talk." At the time of the discussion, I hardly recalled the "period talk" and I only remembered that it was an amazingly real and awesome coming-of-age story (and the breasts scene).

So yeah, I've been influenced by reading since I was able to do it, and I encourage people to read as much as possible. Literally as much as possible. There is so much good material out there to read (and listen to and watch) that you should be constantly eye-gobbling it all up. Yes, you should be exercising and eating right and carrying on meaningful relationships yadda yadda, but you should also be taking in as much information and differing perspectives and art as possible. It's awesome, I swear.

Create, too. The best (and most important) part of taking in all the information and opinions and entertainment that you can is creating something in return. Creating something is one of the best feelings in the world. And when you start creating things, you'll have times when you feel like it's not even you doing it. Authors have talked about the "words already being there", they just put it on paper. Athletes talk about getting in the "zone" and not even thinking about what they're doing. The act of creating something, whether it's a novel, a sculpture, a ridiculous blog post, or a perfect game, is a thing of wonder that even the creator doesn't fully comprehend.

Maybe this is a stretch, but I think that's why we are so fascinated with the idea of an ultimate "Creator". We feel that we have to give credit to something for creating this amazing thing called life. It couldn't have just happened, someone must have planned this. But maybe, like with many works of art, or with the perfect game that LSD couldn't even ruin, the creation of a work of beauty is out of the control of anyone or anything. Maybe it just exists because it needed to exist?

Fuck do I know, but another thing I remember about "Are You There God? It's Me, Margaret" is the main character questioning the presence of God. I didn't think you could even do that. This girl was looking for some guidance from above and she got no response (hello middle school) so she questioned whether He was even there or not. Damn. I wanted to be half as courageous as her. She even touched on the topic of masturbation. This was a time in my life when I thought touching myself was a one-way ticket to the fiery pits of Lucifer's torture chamber (obviously, I still did it anyway, spending what should have been a relaxing post-climactic state in a confused sweat, terrified of the damnation that surely awaited me).

Needless to say, many of the topics in the book became recurring themes of my life (not so much the wishing for an increased bust size or worrying about menstruation, but definitely the questioning of god and masturbation). That's the crazy part about art, you never know what's going to leave a mark. I read AYTGIMM (for all you acronym fanatics out there) without knowing what I was getting into, and I may not have read it if I knew what it was about, but I remember it to this day and know for a fact that it had a profound impact on me

So go read! Take in some art! Watch some GoPro videos (that's art if I've ever seen it).

If you're looking for things to read, type in an author you like in Amazon.com and they'll give you hundreds of suggestions. Or, look at the side of this page for my favorite blogs. There has been a lot of estrogen on this page so far, so here's a little testosterone: check out my brotha, my roommate, my Corbin Frat Brat Packy Patna, J Roc-a-Block Roc-a-Fella and his awesome blog Men vs Beer. (http://menvsbeer.blogspot.com) Learn about some good beers, read about some good times (maybe see a few pics of the Prof himself) and enjoy a good read. Maybe you'll start your own blog about something you're interested in, or maybe you'll just blog your random thoughts. Or, if you already have a blog, maybe this is what you need to help you step up your game.

Your thoughts and ideas are important, no matter how random, so let the world hear them. Besides, we could use a little more randomness in this highly regulated and structured society of ours.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

Stoned Willy's Guide to Valentine's Day

Stoned Willy Poonhound's Guide to a 

Poontastic Valentine's Day

Wassup Bitches n' Mutts! It's Spoven Weedle's Spiritual Sherpa here to lead ya on a journey to the land a breast milk n' fine honeys. Let a true hound show ya how its goin down.

Ya may not like his music, but the ugly bastard bagged Beyonce. Respect the poonhound game.

Not only is today the 84th anniversary of evrybody's favorite Prohibition Era massacre, today is also the day some fools long ago decided to designate as a celebration of evrybody's favorite activity: bumpin uglies. Ya know, doin the freak nasty, the ole in out, in out. Gettin sum stank on the hang low, a lil of the old how's your father, some hide the salami, pack the pepperoni, guzzle the gabba gool, pork the pig. Im talkin bout some body rockin knockin the boots, rockin out in the nappy dugout, swimmin in a sea of shag.Yeah that's right, lovehounds,  it's Valentine's Day, the Hallmark Holiday that the US Greeting Card Association wants to remind you is extremely important to the person or persons yer currently bonin, so make sure to buy em a lil sumthin nice this year ya heartless bastard.

Now before I go revealin some of my best tricks to landin that pretty lil sumpin sumpin ya had yer eye on since you quit World of Warcraft n' finally left yer apartment, lemme break down what type 'a tradition it is we're actually carryin on here today. Back in the day when Rome was runnin shit, they had a lil celebration from February 13th to 15th. Just like any typical Roman party, they started by sacrificin a goat n' a dog (A DOG? YOU MOTHERFUHHHH RRRRRR GRRRR GRRRRR GRRRR ok calm down calm down all the Romans are dead, hubris and an overextended central government did em in, yer okay yer okay). From there, the party got a lil more awesome for the Romans and a lil less awesome for the Ro-womans. After the animal sacrifice (grrrrr fuckers) evrybody got naked 'n drunk, then the women made their own sacrifice: they waited in line as the men took the dead animal hides and whipped the shit out of em with the carcasses. Next, men drew women's names from a hat 'n got to diddle the fiddle of whoever they picked for the rest of the celebration. Women actually encouraged all this cuz they thought the ritual made em more fertile.

So, what does this mean? It means that since the beginnin of time, bitches n' mutts have done some wild shit to bust a nut.

A poonhound must know how to use this knowledge to his advantage.

Heed my words n' yer gonna be chillin with bitches way outta yer league n' knockin em up like a drunken Seth Rogen. Or if ya prefer, you'll be knockin fly honeys off yer collar like that special powder knocked those fleas off my collar last spring. By the way, just to officially end all the rumors, those fleas came from a pile of grass I rolled in at the park and definitely NOT from that lil Pekingese bitch from down the street.

Ok, so if ya didnt plan in advance for this lil national celebration of the beautiful union of two souls, all week ya been lookin round yer class or office or local bar for a warm body to spend Valentine's with so you dont have to act like yer celebratin "Singles Awareness Day" which should never be referred to in its acronym form (SAD) because the resulting irony would be so intense it would cause a black hole to form and tear the very fabric of our existence. At this point, chances are ya got slim pickens. The general poulation is about 10% date-able and you already nanaged to scare off another 5% with those facebook pics you were tagged in at last week's house party with yer cousin Chuck (what were ya doin with his gerbil anyway? Weird, man).  Here's a helpful poonhound hint: give that quiet lil chicadee at work or school wearin the conservative dress and her hair in a bun a holler. Ya never know, it could be a She's All That situation and ya could end up with Rachel Leigh Cook idolizin yer nutsack cuz ya asked her out when nobody but Steve from Sales with the wild dandruff would give her the time of day. More importantly, that lil shy dove in the office could be a screamin cockatiel in the sack, survivin on a strict diet of her man's testicular love juice.

So when ya finally got a lil date, pay attention to the bitch. Or at least pretend. A few simple nods and "yups" and "really?"'s really make her nipples push thru the light fabrics she's wearin. Askin questions about whatever type a female drama she's talkin bout will cause her thighs to slowly spread throughout supper, and if ya can somehow tie the convo into some shit she was talkin about in a previous convo, her vaginal canal will turn into Mega Maid and suck the air outta yer scrotum right thru yer urethra.

Here's how a typical Slick Willy Pimpin conversation goes down:

Fine-Ass Bitch: "So this chick at work is really gettin on my last nerve, I swear to God."

Me: *nods, looks deep into her eyes very understandingly* "Yeah?"

Dime-Piece Bitch: "Yeah, and Im not puttin up with it much longer."

Me: "What's goin on?"

Perfect Ten Bitch: "I worked too damn hard. I mean....(indecipherable babblin for three to sixteen minutes)...She swears she's better than me."

Me: "Kinda like that chick from yer yoga class right? The one ya talked about the other day."

Westminster Dog Show Blue Ribbon Award-Winning Bitch: "Yes!" *looks at me with wide eyes* "Yes, oh my god I cant believe you remembered that." *gently puts her paw on mine, lettin her eyes roam nonchalantly from my eyes to my crotch and back to my eyes* "Let's fuck."

And that's how it go. So either start carin about these bitches or start takin acting classes. Either way, when ya got the "thoughtful and carin individual" thing down, yer precious jewels will be sucked up by that vacuum-poon soon enough.

And when she goes from "suck" to "blow"? Mmmmmmm....

Since it's Valentine's Day and even the most jaded of bitches will still appreciate a gift, givin gifts is a good idea. Just dont half ass it. Unless of course yer in a long term relationship n ya established yerself as a poonhound who doesnt believe love can be expressed thru material goods n what not n yer love is so infinite and deep it could never be cheapened by gifts so ya dont exchange anything besides maybe on chrismas and every other birthday. In that situation, ya can stop at the highway underpass n grab a few roses n balloons out the back of a beat-up Plymouth Voyager and yer bitch will flip out 'n give you an unsolicited beejer cuz yer so thoughtful and spontaneous. But most of ya aint on that level of poonhoundery yet. It takes years of giftless holidays and anniversaries to establish that mindset in a bitch.

So for the rest of ya, avoid the last second gas station or CVS gifts. If ya end up empty handed at the time of the date, tell her ya got a surprise n then go to the bathroom and find some tickets or sum shit on yer smartphone. Hell, get nothing, it's better than 7-11 roses. And if ya get her 7-11 roses and she appreciates it, watch out, ya probably got a crackhead on yer hands. Then again, if shes the type that likes to wrap her mouth around a glass tube that used to hold gas station flowers and suck in crack cocaine fumes, ya know yer in for a real freaky Valentine's. 

If yer not ready for A Crackhead Valentine, chocolate is a good alternative. But fuck those bullshit assortment heart boxes with their three good caramels and maybe a peanut butter fillin' and the rest filled with some pink goo that oozes nastiness between yer teeth. Ya end up throwin half the box away cuz ya took a bite of 8 pieces and every one was cherry gel or bullshit coconut. Nah, spend a lil extra and get a shitload of specific chocolates she likes. If ya dont know what she likes, get milk chocolate, caramel, and peanut butter. If she dont like those or at least one of em, she gets no joy from life and aint worth yer time anyway lil homey.

Flowers are aite but they're played out. Plus, now she gotta find a vase for em, maybe even cut the thorns and stems, water em, all that other nonsense, and they still die quick. So get her sumthin that will at least increase her sexual desire, like chocolate, or get her somethin a lil more memorable. Tickets to some kind of event are always good. VIP tickets are better. A personal, private show in Alicia Key's limo parked in a lot overlookin the Grand Canyon at sunset is even better, but that's Weedle Level 6 and ya got a long way til ya reach that state of consciousness.

Now, ya dont gotta go crazy. Sometimes a thoughtful lil gift is better than a big ole expensive whatever whatever. Remember, pay attention to her (or pretend) and listen for lil hints that she drops when yer with her. And she will drop em. While walkin down a typical city block, a woman will spit out the phrase "Ohh that's nice" or "That'll look good with my red heels" or "I should get those after I get my income tax check" or "Yeah that diamond-studded double-ended dildo looks fun" on average at least 7 times. If ya can remember just a few of those instances, yer gonna have plenty of ideas for a gift that's sure to induce a wet bob on the knob.

Alright mutts, thats enough Wisdom of the Poonhound for one day. Peep my words, yes my heavenly words, and you'll have bitches locked up like 73rd. Word to big Ruck.

And bitches, understand that Im doin this for the benefit of the finer, sexier-in-a-summer-dress gender. I want ya all to be happy and Im tryin to teach these young hounds how to provide the happiness ya deserve. Yer welcome for that. Also, I dont leave anybody out when Im droppin knowledge, so Ill drop one last gem for ya bootylicious selves. This is very important and its somethin to keep in mind, especially durin these lil holidays when dudes buy ya that diamond-studded double-ended dildo and think they got a free access pass to all yer erogenous zones. So on this Valentine's Day, remember bitches:

Now go out there n celebrate yer sexual desires.

-Stoned Willy Poonhound, SWP World Ambassador

-----

Well! That was interesting! I hope you can take something from all this...on second thought, maybe you shouldn't take anything from this. Ever.

Peace!

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

Stoned Willy's Guide to Building a Snow Mansion

Hey there blog fans! For today's blog, I'm doing something a little different. Of Intersections and Strange Things Told is proud to present our first guest writer. I'd like to introduce to you...Stoned Willy Poonhound.

Stoned Willy Poonhound's Guide to Building a Snow Mansion

Wassup Bitches and Mutts!

If yer like me 'n ya live on the Beast Coast, ya just got dumped on by a lil' blizzard named Nemo (who name's these damn things? It's like they're doing it on purpose for the internet meme creators). Well, ya can't let a lil' thing like two feet of snow get in yer way of gettin it IN like a real poonhound should. In fact, if ya know what yer doin' (or if ya have an experienced poonhound like me to lead ya) two feet of snow can add a whole new level of enjoyment to yer typical poonhound activities.

I'm gonna break it down real simple so even the most basic of numbskulls can skim thru this thing and still learn what they need to build a serious snow mansion. That's right...mansion. We don't build forts 'roun here. This is grown ass poonhounding, this aint for lil' poonpups. 

So, first things first. Yer gonna need...

Hallucinogens

Lots of em.

Many people skip this step. That is a mistake. Hallucinogens are the key to the creation of any solid snow structure; they open the doors of perception and make ya see all types of designs and formations to make in the snow. Also, spendin a lot of time exposed to snow can lead to a condition called snow blindness, and hallucinogens are a well known preventative type measure against that horrible affliction (citation needed). 

A lot of people think crazy stunnin visuals are needed to enjoy a hallucinogenic trip, but that is not true. In fact, snow is perfect for trippin cuz the endless white causes your brain to create its own light show. Next time yer lookin to trip yer balls off, stare at the snow for 30 seconds 'n look away real quick. Yea. Fireworks.

Poonhounds prefer psilocybin (magic mushrooms) but acid, lsd, dmt or any other hallucinogen of yer choosin will do just fine. I recommend mushrooms cuz they're all-natural 'n the others may cause ya to forget that yer building a snow castle and put ya into a deep dissociative state where ya think yer trapped in an avalanche 'n the only person who can save ya is Sylvester Stallone but he's too busy fightin John Lithgow so ya gotta dig yerself out but ya can't tell which way is up or down cuz gravity has no effect on yer body cuz it's just a theory anyway man I mean who the hell does Newton think he is and matter a fact who the hell does that beaver over there think he is with his tiny top hat and bow tie why is he dressed up like that and why isn't he helpin dig he's just starin at ya with his little nose twitching and his teeth making that noise that's usually so cute but now it's crazy loud and annoying and it may cause yer left eye to burst from its socket so ya better choke that damn beaver but it's too late he's gone and yer arm is buried in snow up to the shoulder cuz ya lunged for an imaginary beaver and now ya wished ya listened to those damn drug PSAs in 5th grade gym class.

So yea, I just go with mushrooms.

Mushrooms are a very spiritual psychedelic, 'n it's important to get in the right mindstate before ya take em so that yer in the right mindstate while yer on em. Before I eat god's toe fungus, I like to spend a lil' time meditatin on the beauty of the circle of life while evacuatin all waste from my body into the porcelain throne. For the simpletons, that means I think positive thoughts on the toilet taking a shit before I eat shrooms.

Taking a psychedelic voyage is all about love and positivity and peace. Positive Energy Activates Constant Elevation. Bring positive vibes 'n all will be right in yer brave new world. 'N make sure to eat at least a quarter.

Down the hatch!

So now that yer mind is right, next yer gonna need...

Music

This is somethin ya need prepared well before yer journey. Everything's better with music, 'specially a spiritual quest to construct the most spectacular spectacle of a snow mansion. 

Yer gonna need an ipod or a smartphone and a small mobile speaker. I like this guy:

Look at his lil' winter hat! This lil' fool actually carries a mean sound, and he fits right in yer coat pocket so he'll stay dry. ImixID Audiobots are the name of these speakers and I highly recommend em. They're great for all types of outdoor poonhoound activities. Yo ImixID holler at me 'bout that product placement deal my doggies.

Yer gonna need a playlist just for this adventure (unless ya already have a Trip List, as a real poonhound always should). Here's a few suggestions:

-Anything and everything by Bonobo (a must)

-Jimi

-Blockhead

-DJ Shadow

-El-P (especially his instrumental stuff)

-DJ Krush

-Tommy James and the Shondells' two best songs

-Pink Floyd 

-Led Zeppelin

-Anything from the Beatle's LSD Years

-A selection of Black Hippy songs

-Ol' Dirty Bastard

I guess ya could make a playlist of any music ya love personally, but for real, ya should learn to love all the stuff I mentioned. These artists have a way of heightenin the intensity and beauty of a spiritual journey that will forever change the way ya listen to music. Especially Ol' Dirty Bastard. Word.

Ok, you should be mentally and aurally prepared to start building your winter wonderland. Now you just need...

At Least 2 Feet of Snow

Minimum. Otherwise ya gotta shovel yer whole yard and half a yer neighbor's just to have enough to make a lil' snow coffin for yerself. Fuck that. Two feet of snow is perfect cuz ya get all the snow from the driveway and road and sidewalks, which gives ya 'bout 4 feet of snow over a good portion of the yard. Plus, as ya dig, ya keep adding to the top, so it gets even higher. If yer in an area gettin more than two feet of snow on the reg, ya don't need me to tell ya how to build a proper snow castle, ya probably live in one. And if ya live in an area that didn't get at least two feet of snow, ya didn't eat those mushrooms already did ya? Damn. I knew I shoulda mentioned this rule first.

Ah well, for the rest of ya, ya should be knee deep in snow on a head full of shrooms with a small speaker in yer coat blasting the trippiest music outside of a Twilight Zone episode. 

Now, let's talk about the diggin equipment yer gonna need...

Yer Damn Hands

It's a snow fort. Mansion. Whatever. It's snow. Put on some gloves and start diggin. Ya got intricate, powerful tools attached to the ends of both yer arms. Use em. 

But since yer ancestors evolved to form opposable thumbs (ya lucky sons of monkeys) ya might as well use those, too. So if yer not hound enough to dig with yer bare paws, use...

A Cheap Little Snow Scraper Thing

Put this in yer dominant hand 'n get to hackin. This is strong enough for areas ya want to bulldoze thru 'n precise enough for when ya wanna put the finishin touches on the ceiling and ionic columns and whatnot. Besides the scraper, yer gonna need sumthin to remove the snow as ya dig. A push broom does a good job clearin out the snow from the inside. Most people simply use a shovel to get rid of all the extra snow. That's cuz most people aren't poonhounds. We don't take the easy way. What I use is a metal dust pan to scoop the snow. But wait, yer probly sayin, "doesn't that make more work for yaself?" Huh. Yer mos def not an experienced snow architect. That's ok, that's why I'm here to guide ya thru it. 

The dust pan holds the perfect amount of snow with each scoop. When throwing snow on top of the ceilin of yer structure, ya can't throw a large amount of snow at one time. A heavy load will collapse the whole damn thing. I use the dust pan to slowly spread out the snow on top of the castle, lettin it to grow at a nice even pace. The snow gets packed down as it rises up, and I can keep diggin out the ceilin from the inside. 

This is scientifical shit right here. I use the dust pan cuz I'm a perfectionist. I keep my angles precise.

Also, I forgot to get the shovel before I ate the shrooms 'n Jimi started talking to my soul while his guitar tore a lightnin bolt thru my brain so I just picked up the first thing that looked like it could hold snow 'n headed out into the cold night air like the abominable shroom-man.

I could have used an ice cream scoop and it wouldn't have mattered. The psilocybin tapped into the natural diggin instincts of my breed and as ODB shimmy shimmied his ya I cleared out 125 square feet of snow.

Another reason to use the random shit lyin around your house is because it's cost effective. Ya dont need to waste any good equipment on this lil' venture. At one point, I got lost in the melody of a Blockhead beat when the broom suddenly became a beautiful black stallion that I mounted and used to gallop round the driveway. Unfortunately, the stallion couldn't hold my weight and it snapped in half. So don't use yer best equipment is what I'm sayin.

Bein a poonhound means knowin when to pimp and knowin when to scrimp. You can scrimp on the diggin tools ya use to make yer snow castle (like I said, ya really only need yer hands) but when it comes time for the tools yer gonna need inside yer castle, a real poonhound knows it's time to pimp...

A Proper Beverage 

A drink says a lot about a hound. I typically don't drink anythin that doesn't come in a purple velvet bag, but in blizzard conditions, the beverage ya choose can literally make or break the success of yer venture. We all know that liquor warms our insides, despite what quack doctors wanna tell us, but when buildin a snow mansion, ya need a beverage that will lend yer ice abode the touch of class that distinguishes a masterpiece of snow architecture from a flimsy, low-class snow shack. 

Another thing that separates the real craftshounds from the fake is what ya got decoratin yer snow pad. Yes poonhounds, it's truly what's on the inside that counts.

Lights

Ya need something to light up yer newly dug snow mansion, but ya dont wanna be running extension cords or wasting a whole bunch of batteries. I highly recommend the lil' lights that come with these gloves:

See that lil' light on the index finger? Take it off the gloves and stick the back of the light right into the ceilin. They'll stick there for however long ya need and ya got yerself an illuminated igloo of ecstasy. 

Now yer ready to enjoy the fruits of yer labor. The great thing bout chillin in a snow castle is that ya can make a pillow anywhere you want. Find yer comfort zone and lay yer hooded head down on a pile of fresh snow, letting yer mind drift into the pleasantly melancholic soundwaves comin from yer pocket 'n the dazzlin light show behind yer eyelids. Any other personal indulgences you may want to...indulge in should be prepared well in advance. Ya dont wanna be in a dimly lit snow fortress listening to Bonzo's Montreux on a head full of psychotropic substances tryin to roll an acceptable L. Any tasks requirin fine motor skills need to be done before ya imbibe any hallucinogens. Again, all my real poonhounds already know.

Once ya settle in, yer gonna find yer head 'n butt groove, yer drink and whatever whatever will be right in arm's reach, yer body 'n mind n' soul will be perfectly in synch with each other 'n the natural world around ya...this is Parad-Ice. (Come up with yer own name puns, that one's mine.) Now all ya need to do is call up some snow bunnies, tell em to bundle up and come over to the Poonhound Playa's Ball on Ice, and start spreadin that weedle love. 

Well, there ya have it. If ya follow these steps, yer gonna have the most impressive snow domicile (snowmicile?) on yer block. A good snow castle is perfect for journeys into yer inner-most being, chillin with yer favorite bitches and mutts, or for more practical purposes, such as like when ya need a lil' hideaway from those bail bondsmen that may or may not be lookin for ya. I'm not sayin I'm wanted in three states, I'm just...wait. Ya hear that? That twitchin....and teeth suckin....that goddamn beaver's back! Why's he starin at me? Did I disturb his nest? Do beavers have nests? Why is he so loud?

"Po' up."

What?! It talks! I jumped to all fours inside my Fortress of Poon-itude. Shit, I talk, so I guess I shouldn't be too surprised. What did he say?

"Po' up."

Huh? Am I buggin out? Well, I mean, yeah I'm buggin out, but what is he sayin?

"Po' up."

Wait a minute. I thought for a second, then repeated, "Po up?" 

A single word came out of the beaver's twitchy lil' mouth. "Drank."

I replied, "Head shot?"

"Drank." He waddled closer to me. "Sit down."

I sat back on my hind legs.

We said in unison, "Drank."

He reached his short arm towards me. I felt a natural urge to bite his furry little paw, but sumthin held me back long enough to watch him grab my bottle of whiskey, unscrew the top, and tip it in my direction.

This wasn't a belligerent beaver bent on me buggin out on a bad trip. He was my spirit animal, here to guide me on an inward journey to enlightenment. 

I took a drank and offered it back to him, but he was already gone. It was just me, Stoned Willy Poonhound, trippin my un-neutered balls off in a freshly built ice hotel with Kendrick Lamar bumpin on my miniature snowman speaker and three of my favorite bitches on their way.

And that's how ya build a snow mansion.

Peace!!! and Spread Weedle!

-Stoned Willy Poonhound, SWP World Ambassador

Disclaimer: The views and opinions expressed in this article are those of Stoned Willy Poonhound and do not necessarily reflect the views or positions of this blog. Names and places are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Events portrayed in this article are creations of the psychotic/genius mind of a fictitious character. They should not be attempted in the real-world. 

Unless of course you're a big boy or girl and you don't need any stupid "legal disclaimer" telling you what to do.




I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

The Arnold Palmer

It was 4:48 PM. Twelve more minutes. He could handle twelve more minutes. Hell, he hadn't done a thing since he saw his desktop clock read 4:09 PM. To be perfectly honest, he hadn't done a thing since he finished that leftover burrito for lunch. At this particular moment, his mind was fixated on the ice cold Arnold Palmer he was going to make himself when he got home.

It was Friday evening, the start to a three day weekend for Steve Hollands. He had been working 5 day work weeks for 48 weeks straight. This week he had put in 58 hours between his two jobs.  He didn't feel too bad about slacking off for the last few hours.

His boss, a 75 year-old semi-senile millionaire with a penchant for cheap cars and cheap suits was in a meeting all day, the only reason Steve was able to relax. Normally, the old man would be standing, or more likely leaning, over Steve's shoulder, watching him type away on his obsolete desktop. Steve respected financial conservatism, but he also respected technology that worked properly.

He actually didn't mind the slower processing speed on this lazy afternoon. Let the internet take its sweet ole' time loading up prank videos on youtube. What did he care? He was out of here at 5 PM and he could watch videos in the comfort of his own home, sipping an Arnold Palmer.

As he watched two roommates deliver nearly fatal pranks on each other (both pranks involving fireworks and a live raccoon) the door to his office swung open and a high pitched, crackly voice screeched out:

"Hollands! I need you to write up a proposal to Belgium."

Steve shot forward in his chair and clicked on the "x" to close the youtube browser. The porn he had left open appeared in its place. After sneaking one last glance at the heavy-set redhead with nothing on but a pair of high heels, he frantically clicked the page closed and opened a spreadsheet as his boss walked around to his side of the desk.

"Uhh, Belgium, sir?"

"Yeah, we're looking to expand."

"Of course."

Steve's stomach sent a hateful bubble through his digestive tract. His shoulders slumped and he put his fingers to his forehead, attempting to smooth out the wrinkles taking permanent hold beneath his widow's peak. The Arnold Palmer was now another 20 minutes away, at least.


He stopped typing and glanced at the time.

5:18 PM.

"Dammit."

"What's that, Hollands?"

"Nothing. How's this sir?"

As his boss read the proposal out loud, Steve felt a rising resentment at the old man. There was a creeping sensation that he would cause physical harm if he had to hear the whole letter read in that high pitched squeal. Objects on his desk were beginning to look like weapons.

He began humming softly to himself, thinking of the cold digestif waiting for him at home. Good thing, too, because the leftover burrito from lunch wasn't digestif'ing too well.

"Not bad Hollands. Print it on our letterhead, make 2 copies, and send one out to this address." He handed Steve a paper and walked out of the office.

The paper had numbers and letters scribbled on it. Steve never contemplated the connection between someone's voice and their penmanship, but he swore his boss's handwriting was as shrill and piercing as his voice.

Steve wanted to rip the paper into pieces. Instead, he made a few copies (his boss had a way of losing things) and put one in an envelope. He shut down his computer, grabbed his coat and walked out the door. There was a mailbox in front of the building down the street, so he'd drop off the envelope on the way home.


He bounded down the four flights of stairs and out into the bright sun. He sometimes wished he had a job with summers off, but he always savored the moment he left his office and felt the warmth of the summer sunshine envelop his body.

He walked down the street, and as he got close to the blue metal box, he thought about the last minutes at work. Why had he gotten so upset when his boss asked him to do a simple task? It took an extra 30 minutes. He hadn't done any work since lunch, and the work his boss was asking for was a cinch. Why did he let it affect his mood so drastically? Was he that desperate to get to his drink? Did he have a problem?

Maybe he was over thinking it.

He opened the slot on the mailbox and reached for the envelope...which he had left on his desk.

"Dammit!"

He slammed the lid shut and kicked the mailbox, breaking his big toe.

"Son of a shit!"

-end part 1


I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

Sports Teams? Ehh...Not a fan.

Take Me Out To The Ballgame

Sonny: Mickey Mantle? That's what you're upset about? Mantle makes $100,000 a year. How much does your father make? If your dad ever can't pay the rent and needs money, go ask Mickey Mantle. See what happens. Mickey Mantle don't care about you. Why care about him? 

Calogero: [narrating] After that, I never felt the same way about the Yankees.

Much like Calogero in A Bronx Tale, there was a point in time when I was passionate about my sports teams. I used to be a Mets fan. I can admit that publicly now. They were the first sports team I ever liked; they were the cause of my earliest, greatest sports memory (even though I was asleep during the infamous grounder); they had some of my favorite players in any sport ever; and they were the cause of many a' heartbreaks.You may wonder if these heartbreaks are the real cause for the abandonment of my once beloved team, and I would have to admit that the Mets' collapse in the 2006, 2007, and 2008 seasons certainly didn't help (watching each collapse live at Shea stadium DEFINITELY didn't help) but those miserable failures are not the major reason for my decision to no longer root for sports teams.

I'm not mad at the players, mind you. I agree with Sonny that we shouldn't idolize these guys (or girls) and that in general they make way too much money, but that's our fault as consumers. We keep buying the tickets and merchandise (and cable tv packages) at the outlandish prices, so they are simply making what they are worth. If we put more value on education and health care and things like that, people in those fields would get paid more. Pay is associated with the value we put on whatever service is provided, so we can't blame the players for making stupid amounts of money. If we want to make a change, we can't keep investing our time, money, and energy on loyally rooting for them. They don't care about us, why do we care so much about them?

That being said, I still root for individual athletes. I don't idolize them by any means, and I haven't bought any merchandise in a long time, but I like specific players and I enjoy when they succeed.

And I still love watching sports. In fact, I'd say I enjoy sports more now than ever before. I'm not mindlessly attached to some franchise that doesn't even have the best interest of their team in mind. I'm no Red Sox fan, but hearing former manager Terry Francona talk about the owners ordering him to sign "sexy" players would be stomach turning IF I actually cared about the team. If you're a Mets fan, you know how maddening it can be to follow the moves of a losing organization. In fact, science says rooting for a losing team is bad for your health (note that the first picture in that article is a Mets fan). I'm sure you know people (or maybe you are this person) who lose their minds when their teams lose. Their entire day is ruined because some guys they never met played better than some other guys they never met.

Sports are businesses. Some teams are run well, some are not. I'm a...wait, excuse me...I used to be a Dolphins fan. I suffered through watching Dan Marino try to win games with no running back or defense, then I watched one of the league's best defenses try to win games with Jay Fiedler/Chad Pennington/Chad Henne/Insert Horribly Mediocre QB's Name Here. It's not worth the heartache rooting for these teams when the guys running the franchise either don't care or simply don't know what they're doing.

Pictured: Morons

Everybody hates on Lebron James because he left Cleveland for Miami. First off, just looking at it big picture-wise, you wouldn't choose living in Miami, Florida over Cleveland, Ohio?! Stop it. But let's look at it in basketball terms. You play for the Cavs, a notoriously awful team with no championship history. They've had 7 years to build around you and the best they could do was bring in Shaq-Fu the Ancient; when that doesn't work, they bring in Antique Jamison as your one-two combo. Every team in the league wants you. Miami is a relatively new team that has one championship already. They have one of the best coaches in NBA history as an executive. The guy who single-handedly won their first championship is still on the team and is one of your best friends in the league and life in general. They are trying to bring in a third All-Star and continue to build the team around you. Cleveland has Anderson Varejao.

We would all leave.

He didn't do it for the money; he took less money than he would have made elsewhere. People say he should have tried to turn the team around. He did. Look at the Cavs before and after Lebron James to see what he did for that team. He can't sign teammates himself, although they might have been better off if they let him.

So he did what any one of us would have done: throw a very tacky tv special announcing his departure. Okay, that was ill-advised, but it raised a million dollars for Boys and Girls clubs, and if Lance Armstrong has taught us anything, it's that if we raise money for a good cause, people will forgive us for any negative acts we may have committed.

People slander him for joining a team with a proven superstar in Dwayne Wade. Every NBA champion had at least one other great player on his team, from Jordan/Pippen to Bird/McHale/Parish to Magic/Abdul-Jabbar/Worthy to Bill Russell and all those short white guys to Olajuwon/Smith/Big Shot Bob Horry. Even Dwayne Wade had a still-somewhat-agile Shaq. Those guys were just lucky enough to start their careers on a team with other good players.

I don't blame Lebron for going to a decent franchise. Should we blame a lawyer for choosing a firm with a proven track record over a shady firm with no clients? Wouldn't you choose to work at a successful company over a failure? That's all sports teams are: companies. Corporations. They are looking for the best dollar value; sometimes that means getting players and coaches that will win a championship, sometimes that means getting the cheapest talent available. There is no loyalty from players towards their teams because there is no loyalty from owners towards their players. Therefore, why should fans have loyalty towards any team?

I learned early on that owners will do whatever makes them the most money, despite what the fans want. I was never a huge hockey fan, but I did enjoy going to Whalers games in downtown Hartford. That didn't last too long, as the owner decided he could make more money in North Carolina. I know people who are still heartbroken about it.

Then there's the name and uniform changes. One of my favorite NBA teams just changed their team colors and name to the historically awful New Orleans Pelicans. Very intimidating. Honestly, though, if I spent money on merchandise for the New Orleans Hornets recently, I might be a little upset. Keeping up with teams is too difficult. The Hornets actually started in Charlotte before moving to New Orleans in 2002. Then, after Hurricane Katrina, they played their home games in Oklahoma City and were known as the New Orleans/Oklahoma City Hornets for 2 years. They came back to New Orleans, and soon after, the Seattle SuperSonics became the Oklahoma City Thunder. Now the Hornets will be the Pelicans, and the Charlotte Bobcats, who started as an expansion team a few years after the Hornets left North Carolina, will become the Charlotte Hornets, but they will keep the history of the Bobcats while the Pelicans maintain the history of the original Hornets.

Why should I (and how can I?!) become emotionally involved in all this?

I'm simply going to enjoy watching the best players compete against each other. I'm not going to hate some player just because he always beats my favorite team (unless it's Tom Brady or anyone else on the Patriots...they are cheaters and they screwed Hartford over, so I can still spend some time and energy hating them). Instead of hating on players just because they always win, I'm going to enjoy watching them pull off plays like this. The things these players can do is nothing short of miraculous, and as a sports fan in this day and age, you should simply enjoy watching instead of flipping out when your team can't stop them. Some people legitimately wish harm on athletes because they play on a rival team. What sense does that make? I can understand hating a player or coach for being a genuine asshole (see: Patriots) but just for being talented?

Another thing that really caused a downhill spiral in my fandom is the prevalent use of performance enhancing drugs in sports. More specifically, each leagues' hypocrisy towards drug use in their sports. Drug use can't be as rampant as it is without some complicity from the people running the leagues. Even if they are not complicit in the drug use, they mostly look the other way, except for a few highly publicized cases. But those who get caught, even Mr. CheatStrong himself, are just scapegoats. There are obviously much bigger problems than one or two individuals in each sport (cycling is the worst offender of all sports) yet in each league, we see a few suspensions and maybe some harsh words from the commissioner. There have never been drastic changes.

Baseball, for example, has yet to remove the taint of the so-called steroid era. As much as Dark Lord Bud Selig and the Holier-than-thou Baseball Writers of America try to disparage the players of that era, they had no problem building careers off the popularity that era brought the MLB. Watching the McQwire-Sosa home run race is still one of my best memories in sports, along with watching Barry Bonds tie and then break the home run record. I am by no means exonerating the players, they should face serious ramifications, but they were only effects of the problem, not the cause.

I still love watching sports, but I'm not emotionally invested in any teams. I am more emotionally invested in the New Britain High School baseball and football teams because I know the coaches and work with some of the kids. It's a cliche, but sports at that level are more pure, especially with the guys I know. However, I still enjoy watching pro sports more than any other level. Pro sports teams are the most fun to watch because they are the most talented, I just don't care about them anymore.

Especially the goddamn Mets.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

My Totally Real, In-No-Way-Fake-Or-Made-Up, Absolutely True Story

Prodigy - You Can Never Feel My Pain

Today marks 20 days since I sprained my ankle and I think I've finally reached a turning point in my rehabilitation. I started physical therapy this morning, something I would do every day for the rest of my life if I could afford it, and it really helped, physically and mentally. I realized I have a decent range of motion and that the pain has significantly subsided. It can still be very painful at times, and the boot they gave me has made my calf extremely sore, but plain and simply, I need to suck it up and get back to livin'.

The worst part about this whole ordeal is the mental struggle. Ok, the pain really sucks, but that's obvious. I didn't anticipate how frustrating it would be to still be liming 3 weeks later. There are times when I feel normal, and then I walk and realize I'm still not there yet. I actually had a dream the other night where I woke up (within my dream) and discovered that the whole incident and the following weeks were just a dream. Then I woke up (in reality) and realized it all did happen, and the mental anguish was much worse than the physical pain. 

But as I said, I'm on the road to recovery, and eventually I'll be stronger than ever. What else can you believe, right? 

My biggest gripe with the whole situation is the monotony and repetition of my story. It's bad enough that I can't walk on a slightly iced over parking lot without seriously hurting myself, and that my decrepit ankles can no longer support my old, fat ass, but repeating that story day after day, week after week, is just unbearable. So, in the spirit of the honesty-deprived nation that we have become, and kind of always were,  I've decided to come up with a much more interesting story to gain fame, money, and of course, the sympathy of the fairer sex. Here are just a few stories I'm going with from now on that are much more intriguing than slipping on ice in the parking lot at work:

-Landed on a polar bear while helicopter skiing in Alaska and had to kick my way free.

-Tried to save the world from a maniacal, egotistical supervillain and couldn't nail the three point landing.

-Sprained it putting a boot up your ass...it's the American way!!

-That son of a bitch Paris mistook me for Achilles.

-Tried a darkside grind into a kickflip backwards boneless. Totally had it until I started to chickenfoot and ended up shifting.

-TRAMPOLINE!!! OH MY GOD WHY WOULD ANYONE GO ON A TRAMPOLINE?!?!?!

-Jumping from a bridge to a hovercraft chasing gangsters whose diamond heist I stumbled across during my visit to New York for my uncle's wedding.

-Literally anything other than what actually happened.

Anyhoo, I am feeling better. Thanks to everyone who sent their well wishes or has helped me out in any way during the last few weeks. I truly appreciate it.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

Toy Soldiers and Real Life Heroes

Elzhi - Life's a Bitch

Some time starting in middle school, I unknowingly practiced lucid dreaming (I say unknowingly because I didn't know there was a name for it). Most nights, as I lay in bed trying to fall asleep, I would envision the following scenario: a group of bad guys with machine guns had taken over Kennelly School and it was up to me--and some of my friends--to stop them (obviously this scenario was inspired by the 1991 classic Sean Astin film, Toy Soldiers). By repeatedly envisioning this scenario on a nightly basis, after I fell asleep, the scenario would often play out in my dream. I can clearly remember the masked men taking over the auditorium and several classrooms. I remember using my knowledge of the building's layout to come up with a plan to save everybody. I remember almost wanting it to happen in real life just so I could save everyone. It never occurred to me that some of my friends and classmates, or even myself, wouldn't make it out alive. With lucid dreaming, you have some control over the events in your dream, so I would always be able to save every last person inside the building.

No matter how often I dreamed it, however, I never actually thought there was a possibility it could happen. That all changed on April 20, 1999. The events at Columbine High School brought the nightmare of school shootings to life. There were monsters in the real world, and sometimes those monsters attack the most helpless among us. Several school shootings and various other mass shootings have followed in the years since, assuring us that Columbine was no fluke.

On December 14, 2012, we were reminded once again that true evil does exist, and it can strike at any time. But this time, the location of the shooting, the age of most of the victims, and the lack of any real connection between the victims and the shooter made it that much more nerve-wracking and earth-shattering.

In the thirteen years since Columbine, mass shootings have almost lost their shock value. We aren't surprised to hear about another one every 6 months. This year alone we saw shootings outside of the Empire State Building, at a movie theater in Aurora, Colorado, at a Sikh temple in Oak Creek, Wisconsin, and at a mall in Portland, Oregon. Portland happened just three days before Newtown.

But something is different about the events at Sandy Hook Elementary School in quiet Newtown, Connecticut. The age of the victims makes a difference. These were little kids and their teachers; lives cut short by a mentally disturbed young man with a high powered assault rifle.

Despite all of this, we need to remember that there is more good in this world than we often acknowledge. There are true heroes out there, and they are ordinary people who act extraordinarily when the situation calls for it. At this point we've probably all heard the stories of the heroes of Newtown. It took me a long time to read up on everything because it was simply too much too handle. Also, there was a lot of misinformation and exaggeration immediately afterwards, which was a disservice to all of the victims and their families. There's no need to embellish the stories of the heroes involved in saving numerous lives. Heroes like Victoria Soto, the 27 year old teacher who died shielding her students from the bullets of an assault rifle. Heroes like principal Dawn Hochsprung and school psychologist Mary Sherlach, who both died rushing at the gunman in an attempt to take him down. Heroes like Ann Marie Murphy, whose body was found laying on top of several children who she died trying to protect. Heroes like Mary Ann Jacob, who luckily survived after hiding 18 children in a storage room and barricading the door, so intent on protecting them that she would barely open the door for the police once they eventually cleared the scene. Or like all of the other heroes and innocent souls who lost their lives that day.

I never died saving my school in my dreams. Nobody died. In real life, heroes often give their own lives. At Sandy Hook Elementary, six adults made that ultimate sacrifice. It takes very special people to do such a thing. But we already knew these people were special...they were teachers.

And if Hollywood has taught us anything...

it's that teachers...

are absolutely...

AWESOME!

In interviews with family members of the adult victims, almost every story stated that the victims, "died doing what they loved." That's a powerful sentiment and one that I hope someday (in the very distant future) describes my final moments. The statement says a lot about teachers; it indicates that teachers have an implicit understanding that they may have to one day sacrifice their lives for their students (anybody who has corrected 40 research papers in a week will tell you that teachers are ALWAYS sacrificing their lives for their students). It may not be something that teachers think about very much, but I bet that most would agree that an accepted responsibility of any teacher is to protect their students at all costs.

I don't know how this tragedy will affect our schools, our children, our country, but I'm hoping that seeing the worst can bring out the best, and not just for a few days or weeks. Unfortunately, it took less than two weeks for another atrocity to occur, as a gunman in new York set his house ablaze and preyed upon the firefighters trying to save his life on Christmas Eve, so maybe we haven't reached rock bottom yet. I don't know how we will improve as a country, or as individuals, but I'm hopeful that we can. Let's remember the actions of the heroes. These were not actors in a movie, these were real people who gave their lives. Let's remember the outpouring of support that the grieving families, and the entire town, received after the tragedy. People mourned for the innocent victims in places as far away as Pakistan (which, considering the US drone attacks that kill scores of young Pakistani children, brings up an interesting debate about America's penchant for selective mourning, but that's a topic for another article...I'll also leave Chicago's 500 homicides in 2012 for another discussion). There is good in this world, but we need to show it and acknowledge it more often. I feel that people truly want to be good, and they want to see the good in others, but we too often wait for tragedies to show our love and support for our fellow human beings. Let's show love constantly. People come up with these ideas like "26 acts of kindness", and that's great, but kindness should just be the norm. We shouldn't have to be reminded to be kind or have to put some kind of quantitative measure on the amount of kindness we express. 

But I'm all for baby steps. Let's start small. Take the challenge. Make the effort. Maybe that will encourage kindness to take root and spread to the point where bad guys with machine guns in schools only exist in the highly imaginative mind of an adolescent boy who watches too many movies. We need to remember that heroes like Lauren Rousseau and Rachel D'Avino are real, but we should strive for a country in which they don't need to sacrifice their lives for us to recognize their heroism.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.