spyglas78

Are you a Ghost Hunters fan? I am. Maybe it’s the fact that they get paid to do this stuff that I would gladly do for free. I really don’t know what it is, but I’m drawn to it like a gambler to a casino. Having said this, I am beginning to feel the opposite emotion in regards to Ghost Hunters International, or GHI for short.
The original Ghost Hunters stay in the U.S., checking out haunting plantation homes or some random outpost from the Civil War. The GHI team’s job is to investigate those places that would be a ghost hunters dream: Castle Dracula, the Blood Countess’s house, etc… Just thinking about some of these places gives me the chills.
Is that enough backstory? Good. My problem is that the GHI team investigates by asking the ghosts questions. Whether they are in Germany, Slovania, Italy, or India, these questions are posed in American English.
The question is: Do ghosts understand any language or is this just an error of miscommunication on the part of the GHI team?
Discuss.

I turned on the light
The kitchen was empty
The air was chilly
It was the middle of the night

I opened a drawer
There were prints on the table
They were unmistakable
A dozen or more

I followed them around
They took me to the cupboard
Then I looked upward
Breaking into sound

My scream took flight
The sight was beyond me
There were children of three
All vaporous and white

I fell to the floor
They sat looking down
All sad little clowns
My face grew sore

I rushed to my bedroom
They followed behind
Steps echoing in mine
I pulled out an album

I saw two daughters and a son
The children looked in sorrow
They hugged me as though
I had not killed each one

I went with some friends and acquaintances to see Wicked at the Bob Carr Auditorium downtown. We met for some dinner at TooJay’s where we met some other people that I did not know. Thankfully I got to sit right next to them and awkwardly make small talk about going to see Wicked, which I quickly found out they were not going to see with us. Oops. So, I talked about what anyone in my position would have talked about. Food. I noticed one of the girls got a side of pickles. “Oh, if you are ever in St. Augustine, you should go to this British Pub where they sell deep-fried pickles”. “Oh, that sounds good”. Finally, the checks were given out and we left. My girlfriend and I crammed into the backseat of a friend’s car so that we could all save a couple bucks on parking, which was now up to $8 a vehicle. It was worth listening to the Wicked soundtrack at full blast and weaving uncontrollably through traffic in order to make it there in time to stand in the lobby with hundreds of people, waiting for those theater doors to open.
After waiting in the bathroom for a stall, bumping into a few people I didn’t know and had to address as “you”, the doors opened to the theater and we shuffled in.
We sat down and chatted, looking at the dragon hanging over the stage and laughing at the over-the-top fans who were dressed to the hilt with their complete witch costumes on. As the show time grew closer, I noticed a few people walking down the aisle in front of us, pushing their way past the early birds who had to squish their legs up to let them through. I will call the two guys “Mohawk” and “Cowboy”. My eyes quickly surveyed the empty spaces in the row in front of us. Oh no, the two empty spots were directly in front of me. I looked around and the whole theater was filled to capacity save those two empty seats. Mohawk sat in front of me, in direct proportion to the stage and my eyes. Cowboy sat next to him. The thing about Cowboy was that he wore a cowboy hat indoors. In a theater. At a musical. And he was 6’3”. His hat was a black mountain that engulfed a quarter of the stage, sending me into an inner rage.
Mohawk couldn’t stay still. His hair would have been fine had he faced forward the whole time. A mohawk from directly behind is just a straight line that I could have dealt with, but no, he was a arm-leaning, crowd-surveying son-of-a-bee sting. I felt like taking out a machete and chopping his spiky doo like it was a dense tropical forest, but I kept my sheath under the seat and out of sight. I could have asked Cowboy to remove his hat, but Mohawk probably would have frowned when I would ask, “Sir, can you please put your hair down? Thanks”.
If this wasn’t enough to ruin my Wicked experience, I heard something horrible behind me. It was “I repeat funny lines” guy. You know, he hears the actress say “That is hilariful” and leans to his wife and says “Hilariful..Haha!!” I threw up in my mouth a few times because of this. I was tempted to grab Cowboy’s hat, fill it, and replace it, but I digressed after laughing just a little out loud. This caught their attention and then I felt like I got them back a little bit for them being such bastages.
The play ended and I loved it, despite the mountain on one side of the stage and the tall grass covering the other. The singing was brilliant, the story was fun, and the characters were interesting. The latter could be said for those sitting in my general area, of whom I wished that none of them would show up at the next musical. I clicked my heels and repeated this over and over again.

The other day, I took my lunch break and rushed over to Subway. It is right down the street, closest thing to my office to find food, but that just means every employee in office park of ten buildings wants to eat there. I had a cunning plan though. I was going to get there at 11:15. Oh, yes, this plan worked perfectly. That is, until I reached the entrance to the Subway. As I opened the glass door, I saw a strand of people stretched from the Order Here spot all the way around the Pick Your Chips stand, around a few tables, down the hallway, and piling up at the entrance to the bathrooms. It was a ‘should I stay or should I go’ moment. I reasoned that by the time I got back in my car and drove somewhere else I would be at the front of the line here, so I convinced myself to wait patiently.
I took half steps for about 20 minutes as the noisy co-workers behind me jabbered about trips to Jamaica and the Bahamas, not knowing that I was secretly envisioning them on those kinds of trips. They always appear bored and obnoxious no matter what I mentally dress them in. Palm tree t-shirt and khaki shorts. Nope. Board shorts and an O.P. tank top. Not on your life. I gave up after I noticed the peel and stick signs on the wall. I read them 50 or 60 times, repeating them over and over in my head in different accents. How would an Australian say this if he came into Subway today? Russian? Elephant man?
Finally time to order. I had time to outline my entire sandwich choice in my head so that when it came out of my mouth, it was a run-on sentence of vowels and consonants that required repeating 3 times. Did I want it toasted? Oh, I hadn’t thought about that. Crap. Okay, so I didn’t get it toasted. The girl behind me didn’t get hers toasted either. What I did notice was what she got on her sandwich. I usually am so concentrated on making my own toppings decision that I don’t hear anything else, but this time I had already decided and the toppings where flying onto my cold cut trio at an alarmingly fast pace. The girl behind me got a tuna sub. Not bad. Add some mayo and spicy mustard. Not my cup of tea. It didn’t stop there. Pour on some of those banana peppers and some other condiments that you have to specially request them to drag from the back room. After blowing off the cobwebs of the canister, the lady scooped out whatever it was and plopped it on the sub. All finished. I was disgusted and so happy that it wasn’t mine to deal with. If it was on Fear Factor, I’d eat the goat’s eyes first.
Back to my sandwich. I paid and the lady gave me my bag. I happily skipped out, passed the long line of drones mumbling about the wait, and hopped in my car. I couldn’t wait to eat, I was famished. All that line-waiting had given me quite the appetite.
I got to my desk with 10 minutes to spare in which I could scarf down my delicious sandwich and get back to the grind. I pulled open the sub and turned it over. A banana pepper? What was this gray mustard doing on my…. then it hit me. I pushed the sandwich to the side and proceeded to chug down some goat’s eyes.

The year was 1904 and prosperity had arrived in our settlement, bringing with it cars, tourists, workers, restaurants.
My family had grown up on a small farm just down the road from the town center. My father was a typical rugged farmer who appeared late in the evening for dinner and disappeared again into his room, passed out from a hard days work. My mother worked just as hard taking care of our large family of eight: washing clothes, preparing meals, cleaning the house, cleaning stables. I still remember clearly the day my father rushed into the house on a particularly warm summer afternoon. He was covered in what we would find out to be oil. He happened to be digging a small hole out back to bury some animal carcasses when suddenly the sand bubbled up and the black ooze poured out all over the ground. How he came to be covered in it, I never found out.
By the end of the summer, we had moved into a nice house in the center of town, selling the oil rights to an outside company who, in turn, gave us secure finances and basic ownership of a new town to be called “Hurston”, my father’s middle name. The people in our town were excited to be a part of the new development. They had always had great admiration for the hard work my father had put into his farm, and they knew he would put just as much sweat and determination into the new town. He did. The town grew mightily every year, bringing new faces in by train on a constant basis. That remote part of Texas was bustling with life.

I heard a deep thud that woke me from my sleep. I had been dreaming about ferris wheels when the noise entered my brain, dragging me by the hair until I broke the surface of slumber. I rubbed my eyes, turned over and turned the lamp on.
My feet touched the frozen tile floor as the noise boomed again. I could feel it in the floor. I stood up and walked to the hallway. I flipped the hall light switch. Nothing.
I turned and the lamp by my bed slowly dimmed and then went out.
The flashlight was in the kitchen, so I made my way downstairs. I found it in the drawer next to the knives. The deep thud shook my toes and sent a chill up my spine.
I clicked the flashlight on and grabbed a long steak knife with the other hand.
The sound was growing louder and I knew it had to be coming from the basement. Maybe the noise I heard was just the power going out. Could have been an inquisitive squirrel or … well, sometimes it just happens.
I turned the nob as the sound grew louder, thudding more and more frequently. As the door squeakily opened, the thudding stopped. Silence. I saw a puff of smoke in front of my face. The air was getting colder.
My feet were numb by now as I slowly side-stepped down the wooden staircase. I disregarded the twine hanging from the ceiling since it was attached to the lamp that was useless at the moment. I heard a shuffle of feet. Large feet.
I neared the bottom step and almost opened my mouth to speak. As I moved the light around the room, I caught a glimpse of something. It was darker than the pitch blackness that surrounded it. The light was completely absorbed when I tried to examine it. I could not speak. I didn’t dare speak. I stood on the bottom step. Motionless. Speechless. Cold.

The invisible beast attacks my brain
Eats my senses to dull the pain
Leaves no trail of life behind
Steals my thunder and breaks my mind

The invisible beast will eat its fill
Ride away and leave me ill
Window open and air is still
a trail of blood on the window sill

The invisible beast speaks in my ear
Its nowhere around yet I still hear
I close my eyes and see it clear
Eyes shut tight until they tear

The invisible beast needs not return
The heart inside my chest does burn
I am now a beast in my own right
And darken the hallways every midnight

I am now a Lab Rat. What does that mean? If you don't already know, don't bother asking. Suffice it to say that it is a good thing, and you should be happy for me.

Feels like Thursday, but alas, it is not. Not enough time in the day to do what I need to do. If I built a time machine to go back and make better use of my time I'd be an idiot. Why? It would take me waaaaaay too long to actually invent a time machine. And one that worked. Seriously, if I owned a time machine I'd become the laziest SOB in the world. Oh, crap, I forgot to put the trash out. No problem. Just hop in the ol' time machine and bust that out. Oh, crap, I got in a fistfight with my boss and he fired me. But wait, don't I have a time machine? Let's set it on the moment right before he called me into his office. I think I had to take a bathroom break at that point anyway. Time travel really does a number on the bowels. So, yeah, a time machine sounds nice, but I think it would create an even lazier society. Like how we use cell phones and computers to keep our fat arses planted for most hours of the day. Like what I'm doing right now. If only I could go back in time and steal the plans for the first cell phones and computers. It would delay the inevitable, but at least it would get me off my lazy butt.

i have an audition for sak this saturday. nervous? not really. aside from giving up capital letters, i've given up stress. it's not worth it. they will be making us do the same games that we are accustomed to anyway, plus i feel that it's too late to fix any little things in my improv style. it's been on the calendar for weeks, and it's finally here. seems like now that it's this week it came up so fast. time flies.
now i have to move from one apartment to the next, do the audition, figure out how to get out of debt, go to improv practice, buy furniture, save the world, eat healthy, and narrow down my search for an engagement ring. no problem!

Bored. Again. So much stuff to do away from work that my head is swimming just thinking about it. Anyway, hear are some mistakes just for fun. Can you find them all? It's not to difficult, really. There in here, you just have too find them. Okay, so not the most fun you can have on a Friday. I'm practicing my English teaching skills for next year. Hopefully kids will enjoy hunting for bad grammar. Supposably.

I'm sitting at my desk, legs uncomfortably numb from anti-movement all day. I'm noticing the vast amount of dust inbetween the keyboard keys. Trying not to think of all of it as dead skin.
You guessed it though. I'm bored. Bored. Bored. Bored. You get the picture. Do I have things to do? You bet your sweet aspen I do. Lots. Nothing work related though. I have to work on that extracurricular stuff like a ninja. Sadly, I'm a shite ninja who doesn't mind leaving up various websites on the screen as I take a 20 minute bathroom break (and, no, I'm not actually IN the bathroom that long).
I'm looking around my coffin-like cubicle for something to write about. Oh, my self-painted Van Gogh "Night Stars" pencil holder. Um... yeah... crap. Paperwork for various projects that I'm not supposed to be working on. Check. My set of giant figurines (not action figures!) in the window sill. Check. Ash, Edward and Jack all look at me with the same blank stare I give them.
Okay, it's time to start eyeing the clock every minute so that it will seem like an eternity. Love it. Drinking water from a styrofoam cup. Love it.

Leonard was framed for murder.
It was cold, bloody, calculated.
Only a completely insane person could commit such a crime.
He was tried and convicted.
His crime pushed the judge to sentence him to life.... in a mental institution.
He spent days, weeks, months, years, in his padded cell.
This is his story.

Oliver was hungry.
He cried for food but no one would listen.
He crawled to the closest chair.
He pulled himself up, steadied himself and began to waddle to the kitchen.
He zoomed down the hallway at breakneck speed.
He casually made his way through the dining room.
Finally, he reached the refrigerator.
He opened the door and bent over to see what was inside.
Something was on the bottom shelf.
He stooped lower and lower.
Something was back there.
Then he died.

I’m turning 30 in a few days. 30. It doesn’t seem like it has been that long, but it really has. It’s the age when you have the longest “life flashing before your eyes” moment ever. I’ve recounted my steps from childhood through adolescence and on to young adulthood. I can’t bring myself to say “adulthood” yet. It is rather mean and not the “young adult” thing to do.
Thankfully, my favorite actors and singers are getting older with me. There is comfort in that. I am not a Britney Spears fan or even a Panic! At the Disco fan. I love The White Stripes (they are a few years older than me) and I can’t wait to go to their reunion concert when I’m retired. It will be an amazing night. The scent of Ben-Gay will fill the air as Jack is wheeled onto the stage ever so gently, holding that same red guitar which has faded and been scratched and scraped, but still takes my breath when the opening chords of ‘Seven Nation Army’ are strummed. Opening for them would be, maybe, The Decemberists. Or I’d actually like to see The Ditty Bops in concert. Mind you, this is about 40 years from now, so those perky pale princesses would be more like withered and weathered, wrinkly widows. But they would be my age and there is satisfaction in that.
I can see myself going to a movie in 40 years, getting that famous senior discount that I’ve always dreamed of, purchasing tickets to the just released “On Silver Pond”, the latest in Johnny Depp’s later career films. After having done so many quirky characters, he would probably settle into more dramatic roles later in life - opting for the slow pace and easy accents, oh, and the modest apparel that comes with the quiet tear-jerkers. I’d be more in tune with my feminine side at the point in life, so a little drama wouldn’t kill me. I’d sit in the huge theater with my tub of popcorn and Cherry Coke (if any of this still exists), waiting for those pesky trailers to end so I could get on with it already. A few teenagers would sit behind me, throwing popcorn in my silver hair and kicking my seat every few seconds. I would watch Johnny sit on the porch of an old plantation house, tears welling up in his eyes and mine as his son steps out of a car, just released from active duty overseas. Old Johnny cracks and moans until he gets to his feet and stumbles to his son, both embrace, both cry, I cry, and the credits roll. As the teenagers fly by me, I think back to movies like “Edward Scissorhands” and “Sweeney Todd” and wonder if they ever saw those classics in their film history class in school. The night air would be cold and brisk, revitalizing actually. I’d find my car and then fly home.

Brilliant ideas hit me sometimes. This time it was too little too late. Why don't I start a book renting business online like what Netflix does with movies?

Then I found this site and I am resting in the fact that I don't have to start working on a new business venture ...

http://www.booksfree.com/

I used to enjoy Who Wants to Be a Millionaire back when it first started. It was exciting to hear that theme music and see the lights go down. The sweat on the contestants forehead would bead as the questions got more complicated.
But one day I knew the era was over when the contestant chose the "phone a friend" option. The person answered the phone and the question was read. Here is what I heard...

"Hello. Steve?"
"Yes, hi, Regis."
"Steve, your friend Tom is counting on you to help him with this question. 30 seconds. Go."
"Hey, Steve, what mountains did Rip Van Winkle fall asleep in?"
"Hmmm..."
"Come on, Steve, I know you know this one."
"(click click click)"
"Steve?"
"(click click click)"
"Ok, Tom, it's the Catskill mountains. Final answer."
"Are you sure?"
"Positive."

I finally figured out that Steve was sitting at home, typing out the question on his computer, reading what Wikipedia had to say, and then relaying that to Tom. Cheaters!

Did anyone ever consider that Santa may be lactose intolerant? I'm leaving him some soy crisps and a bottle of pomegranate juice this year. As long as he doesn't poop in my fireplace again this year I'll be happy.

I was thinking today about what my life would be like if I had been born just one day earlier. Then pessimism set in and maybe I would have thought about this same thing, but it would have been yesterday.

I remember watching Bill Cosby's "Picture Pages" and wanting a cool pen that made noises like that one.

Not until this very moment did it dawn on me that it was a trick we grown-ups refer to as "sound effects".

Oh, the innocence of youth...