NotWhoIamWhatIdo's Xanga

I Love Beer Commercials

Wed, 26 Jul 2006 17:26:28 GMT

Why is it beer commercials have to be the funniest in the world? I mean, for example, this one is classic, it appeals to every working man's desires, the desire for fame, the desire for glory, the desire for women, and the desire for relaxation. Gotta love it.

Pondering the Thought...

Tue, 11 Jul 2006 18:17:49 GMT

Okay, so I have been out of Xanga for almost 9 months now (this site does not count), should I come back?

Heh... I'm Spiderman

Tue, 27 Jun 2006 10:16:42 GMT

Your results:
You are Spider-Man

Spider-Man		90%
Hulk		75%
Green Lantern		60%
The Flash		60%
Superman		60%
Supergirl		50%
Robin		45%
Catwoman		40%
Wonder Woman		35%
Iron Man		35%
Batman		30%

You are intelligent, witty,
a bit geeky and have great
power and responsibility.

Click here to take the "Which Superhero am I?" quiz...

I can't vouch for intelligence or how witty I am, I can't even say for myself that i have great power, but you have no clue on the feeling of responsibility.

Tuesday, April 11, 2006

Tue, 11 Apr 2006 02:10:58 GMT

Hero

He has no name. His deeds of bravery are unknown. His identity lies forever lost, securely held in the sands of time.

I see him in my dreams sometimes, but he is ever elusive, ever fading in a mist, ever retreating down a path where I cannot go. I strain to see him clearly, but the more I try, the dimmer he becomes. It is during the moments when I am least expecting it, when he is farthest from my thoughts, that suddenly his face flashes in front of me with startling clarity. As if he wants to remind me, “I am still here.” I gasp and try to study and remember, but he is gone. All I am left with is a memory of haunting emerald eyes, a firmly set mouth, a square jaw…

He was a boy once, 8 years old, laughing and eager. Perhaps he had siblings he would play with, and tease, as only a little brother can. Then he was a teenager, gradually changing from a boy into a man. When he was 18 he made a decision. Many events followed, but it was this choice which transformed him into the man that I know. He decided to devote his life to something much larger than he; to a cause that would never pass away, no matter how many men died in its defense. He became a soldier.

As he took the entrance examination, he looked up for a moment at the bowed, closely cropped heads of his fellow soldiers, intent on their work. They looked as if they were praying. He noticed the American flag at the front of the room and was vaguely reminded of the flag resting in an oak chest at home.-The flag that had draped his father’s casket. He found himself wondering if this war would bring a newer flag to accompany the old one. The sound of a slamming door jarred him back to reality. He shook his head abruptly, chiding himself for such an idea, and continued with his work.

He witnessed the horrors of war, fought courageously beside his companions, and saw many of them give their lives for the cause they all fought for: the cause of liberty.

As he prayed one icy morning, he sensed that today would come his turn to make the ultimate sacrifice. He prayed only that he might die in a manner worthy of a United States soldier. There was no questioning, no sorrow, no fear. And that afternoon, he gave up his life on the battlefield. Yet his name marks no grave.

He is the Unknown Soldier. Heroic beyond all others; his identity known only to God.

Someday I will meet this man and at last, we will all know who he is. I will have so many questions to ask him, and so much to thank him for.

But until that day I will wonder where there is an old wooden chest hidden, with two American flags in it resting peacefully side by side.

Micah Posting

Mon, 27 Mar 2006 22:55:32 GMT

I am really tired but some of you doubt my abilities to write. The other posts have been Julie, but these are my own words.

Somewhere far from here but closer than any of us would imagine, there is a great field of wheat that stretches as far as the eye can see. In the middle of this golden ocean of grain there is a giant oak tree that has been gnarled with age and wind but has grown to such a majestic size and strength it is beautiful and terrible all at once. Underneath this tree lived a community that called themselves the "Chosen". It was their responsibility to care for the field and to bring in the crop every harvest-time.

But they rarely went out, this field was known for being treacherous, at one moment it would be nothing but sunshine and calm breezes and suddenly it would become the most terrific storm that could kill by sheer force of wind. The only protection from nature in this field was the old Oak standing in the middle of the great expanse and the workers were usually very careful to stay within a short distance of the tree.

The process of harvest was incredible to behold, a worker would cut the wheat where it was ripe, would tie it into a sheaf, and then would carry it all the way back to the tree where the exhausted worker would place the bundle beneath the protection of the great boughs. At that instant, the sheaf would mold into the image of a human being, and then would begin to slowly move, and then would stand on it's own two feet. As soon as the worker knew that the sheaf was functional, he would run back into the field to where he was working before and create another sheaf.

Over time, the Master of the Field became frustrated that the vast majority of His workers would not leave the shelter of the tree. They simply lived in complacency beneath the shelter of the tree. True, there were times when one of the workers would come back from the field and would speak excitedly to those who were asleep under the tree and tell them of the rewards of working in the field. Every once in a while someone who had been sleeping would get excited about this work in the field and would join the few laborers for a time, but would often just return to the warm comfort of the Oak.

But there were three people who had been working in the fields for years without help and they gathered together and cried out to the Master to send fire from the heavens to wake up the Chosen and to bring in the harvest for once and for all. It seemed that there was no answer.

The Master of the Field tried everything to bring His workers into the field to bring in the harvest, He sent messengers to tell them that the season was growing short, He sent storms that would rock even the boughs of the tree, but the lethargic people never moved.

Finally, the Master of the Field turned to His Steward at His side and said, "Steward, send a rain of fire into the field. The Steward took an arrow soaked in oil and placed it into the dancing flames of a furnace, turned back to the field, and drew back the bowstring. As he released the arrow, hundreds of Servants to the Master ran to collect their bows and arrows and they joined in sending a rain of fire down on the field.

The workers in the field saw the very first arrow coming from the sky and wondered if their pleas were being answered. Then as more and more arrows flew from the sky, the workers rejoiced and worked all the faster as the field lit ablaze.

The Chosen beneath the tree woke to the smell of smoke and knew that something was wrong. As they saw the flames surrounding them, many were filled with trepidation. But then there was a large portion of the people who realized their blunders in sleeping away so many years and they ran joyfully into the field to bring in the harvest.

Even with the increased work force, the harvest was not coming in quick enough. The Master of the Field watched the work carefully. Then He turned to His Steward again. "Steward, send the breeze." The Steward leaned across the field and blew gently. A breeze fanned the flames and sent them faster. But now, as the flames grew, the wheat brought itself into sheaves and formed into Chosen even in the middle of the field!

Chaos grew though as the workers threw themselves into their labors and more and more Chosen formed in the field. Just as it appeared that the flames that were seemingly bringing in the harvest would overwhelm the workers in the field, a quiet rain fell across the field. A gentle, refreshing, and cleansing rain. The Chosen workers stood and embraced the water from the sky and looked across the burnt and harvested field.

It was finished.

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Thu, 23 Mar 2006 14:06:53 GMT

*xanga hijack*

Leave him lots of comments. (because he’s special) And if the unenlightened populace wants something more substantial than that in return for their e-props… here you are. Some thoughts.

----

breathe

and all the people fall

stacked like floating paper dolls

frozen faces, made-up names

curl with heat between the flames

smiling still as fragments fly

up the chimney, never die

winding wisps of smoke appear

cloudy image in the mirror

cry

when child’s eyes behold

broken pieces, melted gold

nursery toys now ashen heaps

years gone past just memories

searching desperately for time

finding only clocks that chime

staring eyes give no relief, they’re

pictures on the mantle piece

dizzy with the truth at last

life is quickly ebbing past

rest

a knock comes at your door

the sound somehow familiar

gently makes your mind go numb

death settles down to wait for one-

a friend of hers, they both combined,

a fatal dose: herself, and time

the open window brings a chill

across your face, now cold and still.

so ends the tale of life’s long fall

now, quickly, love, pick up those dolls.

----

The word “after” is really much more blessed than is generally realized. Because after you run a few times, you realize that you do get tired and after you fall a few times, you realize that it can be so very hard to get up. After you love a few times, you realize that people will take advantage of you and after you open up a few times, you realize that there are those who will stab you in the back. When you’ve driven a little ways, you understand that scenery is not always beautiful and when you’ve tried a few things, you see that even the strongest give up. When you’ve attempted to scale a mountain, you remember why you never did it before and when you’ve laughed a few times, you recall what it was like to sob.

After your heart has been broken, you discover the beauty of being whole. After your health has been stolen, you appreciate the wonder of living absent pain.

After you live a while you realize that hearts are fragile and emotions are fickle and thoughts are bewildering and promises are broken…

But only after.

So in the meantime of blissful ignorance and optimism, go do these things… and truly live. As Thoreau said, “I went into the woods because I wanted to live deliberately. I wanted to live deep and suck out all the marrow of life ...and not, when I came to die, discover that I had not lived.”

And now comment. (you know you want to)

Tuesday, March 07, 2006

Tue, 07 Mar 2006 21:05:37 GMT

Tides

Striding fast between heartless faces; he ducked his head low to evade familiar stares…

They never did understand him. He didn’t play football like the rest of guys in his class; he went on long runs alone. The tough guys said he was queer. (but they knew it wasn’t true) He never hung out with one of numerous cliques during lunch. He sat quietly at the little corner table watching people, lowering his cavernous green eyes if you looked at him. He wrote in a stained leather notebook, the one with the broken binding. No one knew what he was writing and they tried to snatch the book, but always he seemed to dissolve from their grasping hands. They sought to take it from his desk, for they knew he kept it there -in the top left hand corner- but it was never there when they searched for it. sometimes he would smile at the trees outside the window at the side of the chemistry classroom. (his smile broke hearts into pieces) The teacher often charged him with day dreaming in class, but everyone knew he was a straight A student.

he was friendly if you spoke to him, but he used terms nobody quite understood. His words didn’t rhyme but they sounded beautifully like poetry. he seemed earnest but forever spoke in riddles, they thought. Girls joked about him at their slumber parties, they said he was bashful and afraid. (but they knew it wasn’t true)He was genuine, but it bothered them that they couldn’t understand him. Many said he was just stuck up. (and they knew it wasn’t true)

Sea-turtles swim against the tide; swimming for miles till shore is in sight. Then the tide comes and bears them back, undoing all the work of endless hours. Seagulls flying above don’t understand them; they think the turtles swim pointlessly and are stubborn. (but it isn’t true)

He was forever the same no matter how much they made fun of him. No matter how many times he was misrepresented or accused he plodded on through the days, scribbling often in his small leather book.

Oddly, no matter how many years go by and the tides never change, sea-turtles continue to come back. Slowly, patiently, they paddle on.

One day he didn’t come to school. Someone said he had given up. Others said he had been expelled. (but they knew it wasn’t true) One of the tough guys strode boldly to his desk by the window and opened it. The leather notebook lay there, entirely conspicuous. But no one took it from it’s place.

He never came back. The next winter they hacked through the frozen snow and buried his notebook beneath the trees he always smiled at. No one shed a tear, but they all sobbed inside. A few days later a girl came to unearth the notebook and see what had truly become of the boy. She had wondered, months before, if he’d committed suicide. (but she knew of course, that he hadn’t) The notebook was gone. She was left grasping a handful of the soft reddish earth in her fingers, and the broken binding of his book lay gently in her palm. Instinctively she closed her hand around it. She bowed her head and wept.(and he watched from beyond, silent and content as always.)

And so we swim on through the curious tides of life, carried incessantly back.

guest post

Sat, 04 Mar 2006 00:23:13 GMT

Number 34

Her footsteps echoed hollowly on the concrete steps. She typed the code into the lock and leaned against the iron rail to wait. Pulling her knitted mauve hat down lower over her ears, she reflected on the past several hours. Lonely. (She had made the cap herself)

She hurried inside fleeing the mocking wind, up two more flights of chipped stairs, and laid her fingers on the doorknob. The number 34 on her apartment door stared at her. She paused and looked back at number 33. That’s where the old lady lived. (The one who took her cat for walks every evening) She sighed and wondered suddenly how the other inhabitants viewed her. Self-consciously she tucked her dark hair further under the cap, though no one was there to observe her coarse beauty. She contemplated; they doubtless didn’t even glance at her. She was just another number. Just another russet door in the long row of doors on the 3^rd floor.

Stumbling inside, she found that she had left the TV on in her bedroom that morning. Careless. The cheap bluish light filtered into the living room and flickered on the dingy shag carpet. The microwave’s beeping aggravated her eternal headache, and when she pulled at the handle it broke off in her hand.

“Bloody thing” she muttered, letting it fall to the floor. Her voice was tainted heavily with fatigue. (and the sound of smashing glass made her feel awake.)

The mail slot snapped and she turned eagerly towards the sound, leaving tepid leftovers on the counter. Maybe there was something today… something. She caught up the letters but quickly dropped them back onto the mat. Just advertisements and bills, as always. (And they were addressed to number 34.)

Her leg was throbbing again. Since that accident last fall it had never quite healed. But she brushed off the pain and settled down on her jade cushion to watch the drizzle outside. She shivered. The heater was out of order again. (but she was used to being cold.)

The doorbell rang shrilly and she jumped to answer it, her heart battering the inside of her chest. She clutched the cross around her neck for an instant and bit her lips to make them red. She glanced in the mirror, ducking to see herself below the cracked part where she had hurled her alarm clock weeks before. She looked pale. The bell rang again. She opened the door to reveal a man; a tall man with flowers in his hands. she gasped and smiled (for the first time in months) This must be him. but then she saw his face –confusion and surprise, not joy and apprehension. Stuttered words met her ears as he explained awkwardly that he must have the wrong …number. Mechanically she replied, dismissed it as “no problem” and watched him fade away down the hall. - To another door, a different number. She returned to the green cushion and sank down wearily. (She didn’t cry.) She was used to disappointment.

Life for her had been a lengthy trail of heartaches. Nevertheless she somehow managed to frantically cling to a extraordinary hope, an unfounded optimism. Someday she would be more than a number. Someday more than bills would slide through the mail-slot in her door. Someday, she would come to that brown entry and know that he was waiting for her.

The calendar on the wall blared passing time in her face. (She had never changed it from last year) What if she grew old and never found him? But it wouldn’t happen that way. Someday, at the hat-shop where she worked, he would come.

Suddenly the shag carpet looked a little brighter.

And on the street outside the apartment, number 33 walked her cat, recoiling from the rain under a charcoal umbrella of habit and convention.

Saturday, January 21, 2006

Sat, 21 Jan 2006 00:45:46 GMT

New York Times and the Dem'ers Strike Again... Sort Of

"At a time when the president is seizing unprecedented power, the Supreme Court needs to be a check and balance," he said. "Based on the hearing and his record, I have no confidence that Judge Alito will provide that check and balance."

Senator Patrick Leahy (D) of Vermont in New York Times

What did he say? "unprecedented power"? I would encourage the Senator to stay in his real of comfortable words because he must be forgetting that "unprecedented" means "Having no previous example," (American Heritage Dictionary) At the same time, I think that he is forgetting some things in his own record.

Leahy was quoted as being "concerned" that President Bush had signed an amendment (proposed by Senator John McCain (R) from Arizona) banning cruel and demeaning torture of detainees in the War on Terror. In light of past comments, I find this ironic.

On April 25, 2005, Senator Leahy made a press statement that had accusation-like undertones towards the Bush administration. In his words:

Secretary Rumsfeld personally approved objectionable interrogation techniques and admitted to hiding detainees from the International Committee of the Red Cross; he is one of the few cabinet members asked to remain in the second Bush term.

Thankfully, Senator Leahy is a straighforward man and he got more direct with Condi. The Human Rights Watch used a Leahy Press Release in a 2004 analysis of the Abu Ghraib policy.

In June 2003, Senator Patrick Leahy wrote to National Security Advisor Condoleezza Rice asking if “stress and duress” techniques were being employed and urging the administration to issue a clear statement that cruel, inhuman, or degrading treatment of detainees will not be tolerated.

Thank you Senator Leahy for being so up front with us! I would simply advise that you make up your mind which Bush policies you are going to criticize because if you don't pick your fights you are going to end up sounding like a comfortable pair of summer footwear.
~Micah

P.S. Did I mention that this story was given near-headline status in the New York Times?

Thursday, January 19, 2006

Thu, 19 Jan 2006 01:37:09 GMT

Going Public

If any of you ever get a chance, read "Blog" by Hugh Hewitt (hughhewitt.com). It has changed my entire outlook on blogging and is part of why I have returned to the blog arena, even if under a different name.

I want to start by laying out some slang that Hewitt uses in his book because you are going to see it on here. "MSM" refers to Mainstream Media which consists primarily of newspapers and television. This can also be referred to as "old media". On the flip side, "new media" is talk radio and the blogosphere. There are more, but we will leave it at that for now.

Abramoff's Journey

Has anybody noticed a funny looking man in the papers wearing a slightly classy hat? Of course, anybody watching news has heard about the 'corruption' that has become obvious in the "old GOP". I have had the distinct pleasure of hearing the front lines of the Democratic attack because I happen to live in OH 18, which is the House District of a certain Congressman Robert W. Ney.

From the first whispers of a possible indictment back in January, the MSM has hissed headlines at Ney at every possibility and it has gotten to the point that even his backers locally are wondering if Ney can handle the pressure. After all, he did step down temporarily from the House Administration Committee and he is being begged by the far-left to step down altogether. So should Bob Ney step down for the good of the party?

Problem is, there isn't much of a replacement for Ney in the OH 18, especially not somebody that could replace someone of Ney's influence. But that is beside the point. Let's assume for one quick moment that this ploy to discredit the Republican Party is successful in the sense that Ney is forced out of the next elections. What happens in general for the Democratic Party?

My guess is they lose seats in the House and maybe even the Senate. Shocker? Not really. The logic is simple. John McIntyre (realclearpolitics.com) talked about the Democratic dillemna on his blog.

Individual members caught in the crossfire will likely get wiped out, but the Democrats’ hope that this investigation leads to an overall voter revolt at the “culture of corruption” is probably just that….. hope. Ironically, by placing so much hope in the damage Abramoff might bring, Democrats could be blowing what otherwise is a fertile opportunity to pick up enough seats to recapture the House.

But in this computer-tuned gerrymandered environment, with very few open races, the 15-seat pick up Democrats need is only really possible if they take the bull by the horns and actually propose something, ala the GOP’s 1994 "Contract With America.” Abramoff might end up being the narcotic that lulls them into a false sense of confidence and pulls them back from making the type of aggressive move that would put them in the position for a big election day.

In the end, even if Ney gets railroaded out of town and his primary challenger wins, the Republican party can come out on top. Translation: Ney lies low for a few years then comes back and the Republican is none the worse for wear in the end. This will not serve as the "turning point" for ousting the Republicans from the House or Senate.

~Micah