Category Archives: News

Pregnant, Senior, Disabled

I feel that poetry is better read by the author. In that vein, I have made a recording of my reading my most recent piece.


Say forty preganant women walk onto an empty subway car.
The train swells in the breath of the open doors.
There are clearly not enough seats for everyone.
How is it decided who stands?
These women are coming from somewhere
– a baby convention –
and they’re already familiar with each others presence.
Ten women must stand.
These ten ogle and critique,
lower their brows in discontent.
They actively judge one another, weighing virtues
Should the women carrying twins get an automatic seat?
Does the overweight woman, 8 1/2 months pregnant,
warrant the two seats she fills?
Or have her poor long-term choices,
ostracized her from the pool?
Does the daughter of the senator
deserve to sit,
or does her fathers well-publicized extortion conviction,
exclude her from the others?
How much are the children truly their parents?
Where do we mark?
Where we do we stop listening?
How do we fit our shapes into the offered structure,
all before the next stop?

Say a group of fifteen senior citizens now board.
They are all septuagenarians, coming from their own convention.
– it was called “Aging with Dignity” –
they’re mostly women.
None of the pregnant women leave the train.
What does this new presence warrant?
Where is the line drawn in the mass transit marginalized?
The socially vulnerable, that must be treated as such,
the cool soothing prerecorded voice of an MTA agent
reminding us to offer our seats
to the pregnant, elderly and disabled.
But whose to say in what order?
What if one of the septuagenarians was deaf and shoeless?
What if one of the septuagenarians
– through the marvels of the giggle wrestling
between nature and science –
was also pregnant?
Do the pregnant yield?
Is their need greater, for they carry at least two lives?
Do the senior citizens fumble and glare and murmur,
through pruned lips and thick glasses,
carrying canes and liver spots, wearing old-timey hats,
the tensity of the crowd
the rumble of the deservant energy
of fear and survival,
thinking throughout:
“you should allow me your seat young lady,
I shouldn’t have to ask.”

Say twelve disabled people board this train.
not coming from their own convention –
though these spontaneous, unorchestrated mobs,
are undeniably like conventions –
and as they hobble or trudge or sprint onto the train,
falling over because no one has the frame of mind
to direct them to hold the rail,
others too busy focusing their harnessed energy
on convincing someone to offer a seat,
just through a stare.
Does the doe-eyed brunette,
not even sure if she’s pregnant,
but who is ready to be,
does this woman offer the one-armed myopic her seat?
Should she offer it to the old women sputtering from standing too long?
Should she exit the train altogether at the next stop,
hustling away, looking down, holding her breath,
letting the empty seat sort it self away?
Falling through seamless through the frame.
Or instead of acting,
does she simply sit and think about what she should do?
Looking, gathering, collating, ordering,
Mounting thoughts snapping like camera shutters
What if the seated few are reading a magazine,
pretending to be too caught up to notice the drooling catatonic
with the bruises on their forehead,
or what if a seated someone is struck under that sliding subway daze?
When does the mental register cling
and it becomes time to recognize your surroundings?

What if the seats become a bitter suggestion,
not demanded or struck in a tone-seeded-argument,
more like an open fist waiting expectant for the margin allowance.
These people, subjugated to this particular bus by indirect force,
with men pointing to the particular train at the station,
the vulnerable,
the pregnant wheelchair bound veteran transsexual,
who already has a seat, in a sense
what do we do if you don’t sort,
you don’t fit any definition
ones either strict as a whore
or loose as a nun
that you are not one thing
but a collection of many one things,
a pastel, a collage, a frame within a frame,
a wheel within a wheel,
as someone once said,
not a single riding rail going back and forth,
you are unique and complicated,
just like everyone else,
unscheduled, flailing, collapsing, unstable,
not passing easy through a sieve,
not passing easy between this station
and the next beep before the next announcement
before the next shuffle and the next stares
between this and every stop.


The Age of O

Q: I heard you wrote a novel.

A: Yes, yes I have. Well, I am. It’s actually a novel in seven parts. I published the first part.

Q: Where can I buy this novel?

A: Well, you can buy it on Amazon right here: Link to Amazon, Age of O Page!

Q: What’s it about?

A: Well, that’s a spring loaded question. It could be answered in many ways. It’s about a man named Gregory Facilovich who has decided to leave his wife and child at the end of the current week. For some time, he has been writing his memoirs, and over this final week he’s making his final edit. He is writing the memoirs for a specific person. Greg also has the ability to drink any amount of alcohol and never get drunk.

Q: Wait, really?

A: Well, yes. Really. For serious.

Q: This sounds boring.

A: Well, that’s technically not a question, but that’s alright. It’s not boring, I assure you. There is some exciting stuff in there. And some funny stuff, too. Some parts could be considered boring, but that’s okay, they’re necessary. Also, he doesn’t tell anyone about his ability.

Q: I don’t care about that part anymore. Did you say this is the first of seven?

A: Well, yes. Over the last two years, I wrote the first four, and am editing and preparing these others for publication. I was going to wait until all seven were done and publish it as one whole book, as I planned it, and then I realized nobody wants to read a thousand page book, period.

Q: Why did you call it The Age of Zero?

A: Well, I didn’t. It’s actually called The Age of O, like the letter, though I could see how you could think it was the title if you had only read it.

Q: Did you just write a book with the narrator being a thinly-veiled version of you?

A: No. Well, I love baseball and alcohol gets me pretty loaded, last time I checked. And my protagonist is thirty and married. I am twenty-four and unmarried, last time I checked.

Q: Did you start this ambitiously big project with no idea where it was really going?

A: Well, no. I know exactly where it’s going and how it’s going to end, and have known since (before) I started. This isn’t Lost or The X-Files. There is a map, and it’s in my pocket at all times.

Q: Why did you write this novel?

A: Well, a fairy spoke to me one day while I was living in a farmhouse, and I wrangled it into this cage and talked with it until it gave me the whole plot. You have to argue with these fairies, show them you’re serious. Also, I decided to write the novel I always wanted to read.

Q: So, I’ve gotten this far in this imaginary interview. What is the book really about?

A: Well, it would be accurate to say that this is my attempt to write The Great American Novel. It’s about experience, pain, reform, education, health, war, marriage, art and America itself. Not too sound heavy.

Q: That sounds really heavy.

A: You’d think so. But, well, at certain parts there may or may not be cowboys, explosions, shootings, poisonings, an Olympiad, holes in the earth, golfing, a wedding, extensive drug abuse and a movie. There also may be none of these things.

Q: So, this is all told in first-person from this characters point of view?

A: Well, large parts of it. The rest of the story is told through third-person documents.

Q: Now, I saw somewhere that this is set in an alternate America. What does that mean exactly?

A: Well, there are a few noticeable differences, but those are largely fictional conceits. This isn’t sci-fi or some wacky Marvel alternate universe or some dystopian zombie infested thrillride. Consider this your current, everyday America, circa 2010.

Q: Is every social institution corrupt or run by unqualified invalids?

A: Well, yes. Laughably so. I mean, really. Look around. C’mon now, let’s be adults.

Q: That cover looks sharp. Who designed it?

A: A toothless trucker I met in Culver City named Harrison Langohr. He runs a magazine called Haz-Mat. He’s an animal. And a lover of fruit baskets.

Q: Who are your influences?

A: Well, I have many influences. When I began this project, I intended to mix themes and ascetics from certain works by Mann, Ford, Camus, Tolstoy and Vonnegut. In large part, those ideas remained intact. That is, if they were beaten in the head with a billy club and fed exclusively aluminum cans and ketamine for a good five months.

Q: When is Tuesday going to be released?

A: Whenever, I darn well please. I imagine Summer 2012 realistically, but promises are meant to be broken. Or is that rules?  I am contemplating pairing Wednesday and Thursday into one volume.

Q: You do say “well” a whole lot.

A: Well, I am glad you noticed.

Q: Are you writing anything else?

A: I am in the planning stages for a novel about a fictional baseball league.

Q: Is this book even any good?

A: You can begin gathering data for your subjective opinion by reading the free preview on the Amazon page.

Q: Can I get a free copy of your book?

A: I don’t even get a free copy.

The Business in Baltimore

“Well there is this guy named Adam Jones.”

“Yeah?” she said.

“And everyone knew he was going to be really good but he was this central piece in a trade for Baltimore’s ace, this guy Bedard.”


“The trade backfired and the guy needed labrum surgery and we resigned him though because he is good.”

“So why what’s the point?”

“Someone might use their names while heckling us.”

One person did. We drove through traffic for three hours to get to Baltimore. There was a rain delay and the game started half an hour late. This worked perfect – we would arrive during the second inning.

“This used to be a smoking room.” I said.

“Oh yeah.”

She turned on the heat later that night: the smell of burning cardboard, mold-growing-upon-mold and cat farts blew through the room. I went to pull the tv out of the stand. There was no slide. I caught the tv a few feet off the ground.

“This lamp doesn’t work.” she said.

It wasn’t plugged in.

“You know how they say that purgatory is just like everything else in the world, how it all seems the same, but really, everything is just a little bit worse, but only just enough to frustrate you?” she said.


“That’s like Baltimore.”

Her description was startlingly accurate.

We walked around for half-hour and couldn’t find a place to eat after 10pm. The only places we found that night were a liquor store and two ‘gentlemen’ clubs. Apparently, down by the waterfront, there was a decent nightlife.  And we had seen The Wire: and we knew how something could be portrayed and how it could truly be.

“I have no idea where the water is.”

We also knew someone could see a portrayal and realize things needed to change. Apparently Baltimore was trying to clean itself up, or at least gain some exposure.

“This isn’t New York or Chicago or LA,” she said. “This is a real modern American city.”


There is a big brown warehouse that fares prominently over the right-field wall.

When I was a kid, I wanted to go to the field for every franchise in the major leagues. I went to Candlestick Park. I have been to Fenway. I went to the place-where-the-A’s-play. There is some shame in my family that I have never been conscious or what the American Supreme Courts defined as “alive” at Wrigley Field.

I have been to the Kingdome and Safeco countless times.

The official attendance is eight thousand. An easy fifteen-hundred are wearing Mariners gear. I am not used to seeing a mostly-empty stadium. Safeco’s attendance numbers are pretty good – it appeals to a certain crowd and it is a nice stadium – but more on that later. Typically the attendance there is above twenty, at the very least. Twenty is empty.

I wonder who roots for the Orioles. I never meet Jacksonville Jaguars fans. I never meet Milwaukee Bucks fans. Until a couple years ago, I had never met a Baltimore Orioles fan.

We had tickets for back-to-back games. The Mariners were in town, and there was a game Wednesday night and a game Thursday afternoon.

“Let’s just say in Baltimore for the night.”

And thus the hotel.

I imagine that my opinion of the Orioles, and the Camden Yard experience would be very different if I only went once. Like every baseball team, they have cute and fun between inning activities. They have the standards: the blooper real, the team trivia questions, the “guess-that-year” game, a variation on three-card-Monty (there’s involves a crab and a boat and a squid and at one point a meta-fourth-wall-breaking-hand entering the scene ala Looney Tunes.) There was a kiss camera that encouraged couples to kiss when they were on camera. Not surprisingly, no same-sex couples were featured. Although I suspect a few sibling couples were.

Regardless, some baseball was played, the intricacies and situations I will not go into here. Bottom line is that we lost both games, although the second loss was an exciting loss.

It was my first experience rooting for the visiting team at a stadium. I remembered my feelings for these people at all of my exclusively home-team experiences. I expected some minor backlash. So I wasn’t surprised when a guy called me a “faggot Mariners fan” as I entered the men’s room. I briefly considered asking them if they were coming onto me, but this didn’t seem like the crowd that would either understand irony, sarcasm and assertive  masculinity that didn’t involve  guns, hunting and/or ambiguous histories of sexual assault.

They are the Baltimore version of the “bridge-and-tunnel” club. These are the type of people that slur five words into one, and generally think of tolerance as I beat you to near-death instead of beating you to death and thus you got off easy.

On another non-linear occasion, I went into the bathroom as the crowd had really thinned out. There were two people in the bathroom before the top of the ninth. I feel like bathroom and concession lines are the true mark of attendance figures.

A man and a woman yelled each others names back and forth through the door.







There was a pause.



I asked the man washing his hands next to me if he thought it was his wife, his daughter or both.


The mystery and wonder of going to a park has fallen off for me.

There is still that immediate sensory readjustment when you can see the grass through a tunnel and then you get the view. That, will never go away.

I was writing about the differences between Camden and Safeco and I realized there wasn’t much of a point to it. So I deleted it. Safeco is nicer, yes, but they spent five times as much money on it and it was built by a “progressive-city” in a boom era. And the niceties and differences in sports and social hierarchy, and everything in our culture pretty much comes down to one thing, of course. Money. And talking about the difference sonly further highlights the amount of value and priority we grant to money.

At a bar, The Girl and I had gotten into the same dispute we always get into during the NBA playoffs – the motivation and moral management of the referees. (Go ahead and read Donaghyu’s book or look at this.)  

The refs basically want to keep the games close, the series close and the on-court product as watchable as possible. The reason that there is 162, 82 and now potentially 17 or 18 games in a season is only being discussed to make more money. The players know this – all of the veteran NBA and NFL players more-than-jocularly refer to the regular season as “the pre-season.” This why they say it only matters how you finish – because these players are ultimately here to win championships and further glory, not to entertain you. This is why Griffey sleeps in the locker room, players drive home after the 5th inning, Randy Moss quits on routes, basketball games are generally not entertaining until the 4th quarter if you aren’t familiar with the intricacies of the sport. This is also why ESPN bombards you with “breaking news” and scores to distract you in case you ever start wondering if what Phil Jackson has to say about Ron Artest’s Twitter posts is actually worth any of your time.

If they are getting played millions to win, and they know there are far more important things in life, and there is a multi-billion dollar industry devoted to keeping you tuned in – what does that tell you?

And the bitter finality and implications of that very thought dawned on me in that way that I always wanted to deny or look around my whole life when a beer man in Baltimore had a few words with me when he saw my Mariners cap.

“You from Seattle?”


“It’s a sick fucking thing what those bastards did to your Sonic’s. I fucking hate that.”

I nodded.

“I have been working here, for the Ravens and the Orioles for thirty-five years, and you know what the goddamned truth is?”

I could guess. He leaned in close.

“They are all a bunch of spoiled fucking whores and you know it.”

He leaned back.

“I am sorry about your team.”

And he walked away and I understood what he meant. He was probably a fan of the Baltimore Colts.


I was still happy. Probably because I knew everything he told me and I felt sort of vindicated in a way that I didn’t really like but helped with the retinal fact that we just lost a frankly boring-ass game.

But he was right about something. It wasn’t Seattle’s team or the NBA’s team or Payton’s team or Kemp’s team or Wilken’s team or Sikma’s team. It was my team – the fan’s team.

And I had to take ownership of that.

But I don’t think it is ever possible for me to fully reconcile the business aspects of sports versus the fandom aspects of sports. I am hooked in. I check ESPN regularly (and not just because I am still secretly waiting for a necrophilia scandal to break.)

The teams exist in the places they exist, with the games being broadcast because they are the games that can convert the most amount of money. New York, Boston, LA or Chicago wants to be in the finals to draw bigger audience numbers to increase their advertising rates for next season. They work PR better than corporate America. Then I remember each one of these teams is corporate America.

But then I remember they are spending money to open the stadium and keep the lights on and to field a competitive team, and that all of the money gets circulated around anyway. So what’s the difference?

But the difference to me is that for some reason it seems funny to identify with the Tigers or the Mets or the Steelers or any other team and to carry that as part of your identity. I carry the Mariners history as my own history. If there were thirty – or ninety – kinds of soda and they were all produced locally in each respective franchise city, would you carry that brand of soda as a part of your identity?

So this non-metaphorical brand loyalty is really just another mechanic of our economy. But we cheer and wear (and buy) hats and shirts because of a geographical history and a team history, and we share it with each other.

And every time I see my team lose or watch at a bar when a player has played in all likelihood his last game in Cleveland, I try to take a breath and keep it in perspective.

It’s just a game. And it hurts less. And then it ceases to matter.

So I don’t worry ten minutes after the game is over.

But it also makes me wonder why I spend so much time worrying and caring in the first place! Then my heart sinks when I think of all the reading I could have gotten done.

But I don’t remember that, and I don’t carry it with me. What I do carry with me are the people – the Mariner fans behind center field cheering until the last out, the Asian couple in front of us literally sprinting to the front of the fence to get a word into Ichiro, the British man who was going to his first game of baseball and his friend and I coherently explained the rules, and he was following along and cheering and yelling after the seventh inning. Even the brutish fans in the bathroom using slurs. It transcends reason, time and money, our three main utilities. It’s like a church of the willing, of people believing, remembering and reliving, a silly game or three involving balls, gloves, hoops and poles. It takes away from our comfort zone into something more or less human I guess. I don’t think money would transcend someones humanity when nothing else could.

It makes me feel like a kid to love and hate and boo and cheer for those most irrational and ultimately human of reasons. It’s never rational or conductive to fear something – why should it need to be rational and productive to love something too?

And I’ll be a happy man if I have a son or a daughter, and I get to sit them down at Safeco and explain to them: “There was a man named Ken Griffey Jr., and this building wouldn’t exist if…”

Return To Form

Sometimes I feel like I was born here. There, or here, or other places. Every place. At a time a distance seems to be cut away. And every station feels like a long station. The past becomes faded; the points and emotions don’t sting anymore. You literally feel refreshed. Did I forget your face? Parts of it. I forgot what your face looks like to you, because I cannot see you or have not seen you. It’s transitive, infinitely regressing. Do you know my face?

You knew it. It is bound to be incomplete.

I was isolated on a long dirt road for a summer. I had no car, no telephone, no television and practically no internet. I drank and I read, and I talked with the other residents. It was the closest thing I’ve had to a community.

This is not my life. Nor is it between a life or another life. There are no gray zones. I am not going to try to build a readership, or accurately predict and shape my thoughts to illustrate my grace. There is no theme – no mantra – no perspective: no marketable, tangible concept. This life, this world, these things you can reach out and touch, it was not meant to be reread and touched up to fit a standard or a demographic. It must show the ability to be surprised – because if you cannot be surprised…why go on? There are no such things as free radicals.

This happened another time. I was a world away, near a glowing screen. I forgot my own troubles, my past: effectively everything tangible and real. I was born again, every night, at intervals of 45, or 23 minutes. If I was lucky.

These roads – the actual, physical, paved roads, the streets – there are maybe a dozen I truly know. Places that I have felt actualized and comfortable, when I am not staring out the window with actual interest of the next bend or the next hill. I have spent maybe eight hours total in the district. I work around the corner – my commute is on foot. Everyone is locked inside a car, and most people tend to talk about how bad the traffic is – or worse yet the parking.

I want to say I am late to work because of the traffic. It’s not funny though, when I am late. I don’t have an excuse.

There was a large field next to the first battle site rolling down a hill and around a stream. We were walking on the treeline. I looked at her, as she walked a few yards ahead of me, and I turned back and saw a line of about a dozen cars at an intersection – a red light. I could not hear the cars. It dawned on me that this was the first time I could not see the lights of the neighborhood, or the roll of a car down the pike fifty yards away. I could only hear things men and women had organized – nothing we had created. The trees had been cut down or re-sodded. The field was cut. The cars existed in that blur of visible heat – a veritable mirage. It was quiet.

I had trouble sleeping when I first left the Northwest. Wyoming had no patter of rain to calm me to sleep. I could not hear the rain, I could not hear anything, except the humming of the pipes, or the occasional footsteps or slamming doors.

This was true as well at the house on the dirt road, at night I could not hear anything – but it was good. There was no modern plumbing or sustained self-correcting-noise of a large building. The structure itself was older than America. Cars never passed the curve on the road. I used to walk out to the bench, half-nude and smoke, and only hear the burn of the paper and the wind moving across the water, maybe two hundred yards away.

I would wake up in your basement, sleeping at an awkward angle on your short-couch. You were already upstairs with your housemates, listening to music and drinking really, really good coffee. Bacon sizzled. It turned out that your housemates – the couple – were friends with her. They knew each other. She had been to your house, been to your basement, way back before you lived there, before we knew that neighborhood. I looked on the internet, at your old house. I knew it was dated though – the bar next to our bar was still the bar it was two bars ago. And your old house had a different car in the driveway. Or you could have been out of town – it is anyone’s guess -it’s anyone’s place if they pay some money and sign a paper. Whoever lives there now (we know who lives there now) probably have no idea of what did or did not happen while you lived there, just as they probably have no idea that these words are being committed. And these gaps of discovery are the only gaps – they close in more with everyday.

It feels good knowing that you don’t know anything. You have known bad or good before, but it feels good walking out with an empty slate. When your world is free of expectation – or direction- it seems lighter and effortless. So the rush of the water in the pipes don’t keep me up at night. The clunk in her engine fades after a minute. Yes – the dust and dirt are still in the corners, but it is gray and infinitesimal, nearly near invisible. Frankly, so small it is not worth mentioning or looking for.

It is like the odd patterns I cannot place in you and everyone’s face.

What Sucks, What Doesn’t Suck – May 2010

The Sports

Eric Byrnes sucks and should die in a field somewhere (and it looks like he will.) Cliff Lee is awesome but his agent sucks. Milton Bradley sucks. Gutierrez sucks at batting. Jason Heyward, I like. Joe Mauers foot sucks. Mike Sweeney sucks at not hugging. Ichiro is a goofy bitch. Wakamatsu makes me want to throw a tire iron at my tv (as in a computer screen.) On that note, MLBTV is great, if you have a great computer. Orlando Magic suck and I now suddenly hate them for no apparent reason, Joey Crawford sucks, David Stern sucks, Mark Cuban is walking on a balance beam between awesome and death, the second round starting before the first is over sounds like a nightmare, the Spurs suck (the penises of the referees, possibly at halftime and during tv timeouts and of course before the game.) Brandon Jennings still seems like he doesn’t suck, Melo sucks, Lebron James entourage/PR machine falls into the I-don’t-really-give-a-shit realm but that kind of means it sucks doesn’t it?

The Arts

MIA sucks so much I want to throw her down a flight of stairs, that stupid hypocrite, naive hack-artist. I got a minute into her new music video for that noise-crap song and turned it off. Terrible. Just fucking terrible beyond words. New Hold Steady sucks. New BSS sucks. New Murder By Death is sweet. New Jurado sounds sweet. New Callahan live record is great. Old Sunny Day Real Estate is good. Das Racist is fantastic (Combination Pizza Hut Taco Bell.) King Lear is great. Seven Samurai is the best. Shakespeare in Love is okay. We Live in Public was interesting. David Sedaris should try fiction. Graham Greene is number one stunna.

Stuff that Matters(ed)

Arizona clearly sucks, Arizona Iced Tea is cool, Adrian Gonzalez is cool, Google sucks, Facebook sucks bags of dicks on a minute by minute basis, Iceland is the knees, buying plane tickets sucks. Not having a ps3 sucks. Working full-time while working on a novel sucks. Netflix is cool.

Current Nation Standings


2. Russia

3. The United States of America

4. Brazil (Health Minister)

T-5. Iceland

T-5. Arizona

Bottom Five Places as of News

1. Queens

2. Queens

3. Kryzgstan

4. Iceland

5.  Arizona

Individual Standings

1. Mitch McConnell

2.  Jack Nicholson

3. Jan Brewer

4. Julian Inclan

5. Ray Odierno

All standings formulated through precise data collated from winning qoutient over last thirty days, collated and divided by the cosine of winning quotient from lifetime.

Wrongington’s Theorem

Today, the sun is shining, here, on this beautiful planet, filled with people, animals, flowers, trees and commas. Today, something has happened.

Scientists and philosophers have been hard at work on a new social law, that could provide immediate and proper, indisputable restitution to any and all disputes. Today, it is finished. In three weeks, the final document will be released to the public.

Considering all the demands it would make on society – a certain clearinghouse needed to take place before it could be properly implemented. Today, How Far is Ohio, in conjunction with the Department of Humanitarian and Civil Services would like to announce that Kant has been dragged out into a field, said something bizarre advocating eugenics, before he was shot in the head execution-style. Bentham was beaten with a shovel and for the sake of creating the most amount of happiness for the most amount of people, it was recorded and distributed on DVR. It’s pretty funny when he tries to blame it all on John Stuart Mill before his skull is crushed (3:27 on YouTube posted by DepHum34.) Rousseau and Locke have been locked in (separate) rooms, and they are not allowed to come out and participate. Marx was found waiting in line for food. When asked how long he had been waiting, before he was shot of course, he tried to give us his resume. Chomsky emerged from some bushes, mostly nude and covered in mud, and rifled through his pockets spouting anarchist jargon before he ran away to go get a good spot in line at the Food Bank so he wouldn’t be late for his meeting with the Food Stamps people, because apparently he doesn’t qualify for Food Stamps. No bullets were wasted on him.

Portions of the document, reportedly over thirteen-thousand pages long, have been released to certain choice publications. We here, at How Far is Ohio, have gotten our oily hands on two of these pages. We want to help you prepare yourself for the coming totalitarian state. We have to admit we are excited, and also nervous, considering some of the content of the document.

The IT staff at How Far is Ohio totally missed their lunch to go get a scanner at Best Buy so we could share the PDF file of the document with you. (We have never needed to use a scanner before.) We totally ordered them a pizza for their troubles, but apparently they didn’t like the pizza because they are vegans. We totally ate the pizza and called them pussies, then went outside and pulled some grass up and put it in a zip-lock bag and placed it in a paper sack with an apple and bottle of well water and said their Mommies had brought them their lunch that they forgot at home. It was hilarious. Everyone high-fived and laughed at them. Then, we totally called them pussies again, so they’d remember.

Anyway, here’s the pages. Sorry we got off on that rant about those IT guys. They are a handful.

Wrongington’s Theorem

The Encyclopedia of Greece

Travel Journal

During this past summer I traveled in Greece and the Balkans with two friends of mine. As per my contract in school, I wrote an extensive travel journal of my experiences.

The above links to a PDF file, however you must click on Read Full Post in order to see the link.

Enjoy, and thanks for reading.

Also, expect more non-travel related postings soonish.