Pac-Man World Champion

So, there's this movie coming out called "A Fistful of Quarters" about video-gaming culture. Featured in the film is Billy King who "supposedly" holds the world record for Donkey Kong. The movie sets up a heated match between Billy and another guy who claims he can beat him. Anyhow, Billy also is the self-proclaimed king of Pac-man. I think Borat should interview this guy. Just too darn funny.

Wes

Music

Hey, everyone. I am ready once again to stretch my musical awareness (which usually means some minor purchases on iTunes). So, if you have any ideas how I should spend $20 or so, let me know.

...

In other news, Ingmar Bergman died this week - film maker and philosopher. His most famous film is The Seventh Seal, which involves a medieval knight playing chess with death:


Anyhow, I've been co-leading a bible study on Revelation for our church, and - wouldn't you know it - this weeks study has us looking at Revelation 8:1 ... about the seventh seal. Clearly this is true evidence that history is now nearing its fulfillment.

Anna and I watched The Seventh Seal not too long ago ... actually, I think I was the only one to make it through that one. I remember being bored at times by the heavy imagery and overt philosophy, but I loved the overall message. In short, it is about the triumph of love and faith over despair, death and disbelief.

Wes

I'm exercising my brain again...

I started working a week or so ago. Turns out there's a research company here in the 'boro partially owned by our pediatrician. They have dozens of studies going on, and have hired me to work mostly from home, 10-15 hours a week. That means recruiting patients via phone, internet searches for new studies, remote data entry, etc. I remember the basics, but of course, every study is different, so I'm just trying to get settled in at this point and learn each protocol. Many of the other staff have young kids as well, most of whom I've met. They are super-flexible and have been great to work with thus far. Best of all, I think this means we can replace this nasty kitchen carpet sooner than later...

~Anna

Le Deluge

Before le deluge ...


Our neighbors slowly detest us in deep places for le deluge released upon the streets ...


A snapshot of some bargain shopping ...


Wyatt calling for reinforcements ...


Le deluge carries away many small items ...


But what about the furniture "le deluge"?

DeLorean

No more cheap shots about DeLorean's. Apparently they are hip again - according to this article and by the one parked down on eastern Griffith Ave.

Wes

Garage Sale

We're having a garage sale ... and in order to give you some indication of the madness these things produce in Owensboro, I'm going to keep a running blog:

It's 6:55 am, and even though we advertised a garage sale for a 7 am start time, there are already six or seven cars outside. People are parking in front of the drive way already. Weather is crappy, but Gran says that should lead to serious buyers if they do show. Like the fact that there is no clear class distinction ... Geo's and Volvo's parked right next to each other.

7:56 am: selling lots of small stuff; no major furniture pieces have moved yet. I put up some signs for further advertisement only to discover there is a garage sale ten houses down the street. So, I checked out the other sale ... we definitely have better stuff. I also put up a sign across the street from the other garage sale. I feel like I'm back in Tijuana bartering.

8:52 am: The cars continue to come. It's not quite Field of Dreams, but we're getting there. I stepped out to get groceries from the farmer's market - hoping we would sell at least one antique by the time I got back. No luck. Lots of nibblers ... come to think of it, garage sales do seem a lot like fishing.

9:48 am: Anna's mad at me. She can't believe I sold an area rug for $15 (it was priced at $30). I told her it needed to go. She thought we got robbed. For an area rug that had stains all over it, I don't think so. People to come. I'm piping in some Miles Davis to the garage to lure the masses into some easy consumption. A good reason to have a garage sale: to meet your neighbors, including young couples who enjoy some of the same things you do. It's getting hot outside ... armpit hot like only the south can get. Now it's really starting to feel like a garage sale.

10:47 am: I just loaded up our old kitchen table from Pasadena ... $65. It wasn't even for sale, but a family stopped in and said they needed something to fit their new kitchen ... said this table was perfect for it. Anna is getting delirious. She tried to feed Zoe (the dog) Wyatt's yogurt by mistake. Wyatt has been trouncing in puddles and getting day-old grass-clippings all over him. No one will even look at the nicer pieces of furniture. Well, some very quiet, meticulous man did look over one piece for about five minutes. But, in the end, nothing. I think people love the idea that a .50 cent item will fill the last little niche left in their personal storage of satisfaction.

11:47 am: Feeling depressed ... or, at least, unsatisfied. I sold my two collegiate chemistry books (intro to chem and organic chemistry) for $1.50. I believe I paid over $100 for each of those text books. Information is so worthless anymore. No one cares about my high school wardrobe. I figured at least a few of the super-baggy shirts would still be in style here. Wrong. The garage is empty, and people are mostly window shopping now - lazily floating by and looking over the furniture like tired old buzzards. Why is no one buying the furniture! I think we'll have to load up the truck and the van again and dump most of this stuff off at a consignment shop or Goodwill. I think I might just leave everything on the driveway overnight; maybe some possums can use the stereo receiver.

1:25 pm: I took an extended break to trim my hair. Apparently, I didn't miss much. Although, we do think someone swiped a cross with a bible verse on it. There's just too much to say about that right now ... I feel like I waited for Jesus' second coming, and it didn't happen. The euphoria is gone. All that is left is the hard work of picking up the pieces and the sobering reality that I didn't make millions.

3:16 pm: A new type of shopper emerges. Steady. Patient. Not prone to senseless, competitive buys. Hoping the masses have left behind something they may want. These new shoppers know we are desperate. I just unloaded a Sony receiver (great for "home theatre" I wrote on the box) that could have sold on eBay for $50 or more. This guy got it for $35, and I threw in an audio cable. It was a good exchange. The sun is bright.

Woodworking Advice, Please!

I, Anna, am determined to build an art table. I want a table to work on that I can keep in the house and will house my paints, fabrics, wire, tools, and found objects in a neat, sleek way. I need a table that I can leave a "work-in-progress" out on, but not have to look at when we have company for dinner. I need a cool table with a removable cover a couple of inches deep and some significant storage area. Here's the general idea I've got so far:

25" deep, 29" tall, 58" wide, and about a 3" deep split-top cover on 360 degree hinges to hang at the sides of the table when not in use.

So, how do I do this?? Is it even possible? What do I use? I thought about MDF, but am afraid of splintering it. Keeping in mind it has to fit with a more modern style decor...I'd love to hear any ideas from those of you in the know.

Frisky Business

At approximately 4:50 pm on Friday, July 20th, this white feline committed the serious offense of voluntary bunny-slaughter. Authorities are seeking any information in connection with the case and believe that the cat prowls the 1800-2200 block of Griffith Avenue.

Although local authorities have yet to apprehend the suspect, they continue to work with Wes, Anna and Wyatt Kendall who witnessed the murder first hand.

"I was mowing the lawn," Mr. Kendall said, "preparing for a barbecue on our property that evening. While working my way towards the back half of the property, I stumbled upon a baby rabbit, which I mistook at first for a very large mole. But, upon realizing it was a fuzzy bunny, I immediately thought of Wyatt, my son, who loves animals. So, scooping up the bunny into my hands, I proceeded back towards the house. Calling out to Anna and Wyatt, I first noticed the feline encroaching upon our yard, but I thought nothing more of the intrusion."

Mr. Kendall went on to explain that his family took great delight in observing the cuddly little creature; Wyatt especially enjoyed the show, although he never did realize it was a rabbit but instead continuously made the sign for "bird."

During this brief animal exhibition, Mr. Kendall claims he accidentally dropped the bunny rabbit some four feet from the ground. Upon landing on the concrete, the rabbit withered in shock and pain, but both Mr. and Mrs. Kendall claimed that the rabbit was not dead. Their son had no comment - preferring to make more signs for "bird" and "doggy," which of course led the authorities on a wild goose chase all over town.

Mrs. Kendall went on to explain the rest of the tragedy.

"I was already crushed and bewildered at how my husband could let the rabbit slip from his hands. But what I saw next is something I will never forget. It makes me shudder just to recall the memory. Wes was seeking to nurse the rabbit back into some form of life - stroking its head and gently prodding it to move through the grass. At first the rabbit didn't respond, but then, maybe after a minute or two, the rabbit began to crawl and then wiggle its way forward. It even took a few minor hops true to character. But it was all just a bitter cruelty. Wham! From out of the flower bed, that cat pounced upon the rabbit, swooping it up into its mouth with two quick flicks of its paws."

"I, of course, was horrified. My son witnessed all of this, no more than three feet away. I turned immediately away from the bloodshed, covering Wyatt's face and trying not to think too long about the rabbit's left over kidneys lying somewhere in the yard. That rabbit should not have died, not that way."

Authorities also spent a good deal of time thoroughly pressing and questioning Mr. Kendall. "I don't think they honestly believed my story at first," Mr. Kendall explained. "They thought I had killed the rabbit and buried him in the garden. Never. You know I went back to mowing the lawn after the shock wore off, and you know what I saw? The mother rabbit. That's right - searching aimlessly and confused. I have to live with that. I have to try and sleep with the awful reality that I somehow set into motion events that led to this bunny's death. Let me tell you, that's not an easy reality to live with. No, I didn't kill the bunny, but I helped; and I will have to suffer that painful truth for the rest of my life."

If you have any information regarding this crime, please contact McGruff the Crime Dog.

Cats, Dogs and Horses

Cats, dogs and horses ... that is what was raining upon Owensboro last night.

We got about three inches of rain in under an hour last night here in Owensboro. Anna was at home. I was at church in a ministry meeting. Literally we live just over a mile from the church, and it still took me about ten minutes to find a route home.

But, the storm front broke our heat wave, and it is now a serene, clear, refreshing summer day. The proverbial calm after the storm.

Wes

Home Gardening

Perhaps the best argument for a home garden:


Wyatt has enjoyed many raw, green veggies this summer: sugar snaps, zucchini, tomato, cucumber, and of course, peppers. Kids don't like vegetables? I don't believe it.

~Anna

Holiday

I found this short story I had written a few years back - during my seminary days in Pasadena. It was a common thing then, as it is still now, to do a lot of my processing on concrete with definite lines and the clear reality of misses and makes.

The story is an exaggerated experience I truly had. Pardon the language in it, but for anyone who has spent time around a basketball court in the city, you know I could have made it more raw and rough. The story is titled "Holiday." The setting is a bright and sunny Martin Luther King Jr. day when our society is in half-motion, not knowing whether to celebrate, mourn, speak of the good achieved or criticize the ongoing realities of racism.

I hope you won't find this story condemning of anyone but myself. Truly. I wrote it as an indictment of my own smug indifference to the reality of inner city struggles and injustice. It tries to deal with the irony and tragedy of how King's dream for civil liberties and equality of race has born a holiday that has perhaps caused deeper division and isolation between blacks and whites.

It's also about the great tension I felt throughout my time in California regarding individuality and public space. No space in Los Angeles is ever truly private, which means people have to work hard to carve out their own identities. And communal places - like parks - are rarely truly communal (except for pockets of community ... the Latino gathering celebrating a birthday, the two young artists riding their bikes).

And, like I said, this is a story that still convicts me. It convicts me of the stereotypes from my own story. It convicts me of my own indifference to King's legacy and the way I used public parks as personal therapy rather than community awareness. It makes me realize how much I feel entitled to my own space and time - and woe be it if anyone or any social situation troubles those spaces or times. 'Nough said. I hope it speaks to you.

Holiday
by Wes Kendall

I went to shoot baskets at a park this past Monday. Actually, it is not so much a park as a collection of recreation – two playgrounds, some open ground, benches for parties, nice tennis courts and a decent basketball court complete with lights. I went in the early afternoon on Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day, and I was hoping to find a game going – to ease my mind by running my body down. I wanted to reduce time down to simple actions: dribble, pivot, run, shoot.

No luck. There were two groups of kids and two fathers– split evenly by family on the two goals. Not only was there no game, there was no place for me to shoot: the worst of all scenarios.

Just off the court kids were playing on the playground and a homeless man sat upright on a bench about thirty yards away from the basketball court – apparently he was drying off his clothes while the sun was out in splendor.

I walked over towards the homeless man, stopping three benches short to lock up my bike and await the first departure from the court. It was clear I might be waiting for a few minutes, so I began to dribble up and down a slab of concrete. I dribbled down towards the homeless man. He was shirtless, and he reeked of concentrated body odor. But that was the only sign of life; he was silent and motionless. He could care less about the brief dribbling exhibition I was providing. The only person who noticed was the father of two boys who were playing a game of one on two: father vs. sons. “We’re about done here,” he called out to me as I dribbled nearer to the court. “Oh, that’s okay, I’m just having fun watching you play your kids,” I said with a smile of hospitality. I dribbled away, growing anxious to get my shots in, and then I started dribbling back towards the court.

It was then I noticed a young woman approaching. She was young, a light skinned African-American woman with short afro hair, a white tank top and denim jeans. Out in front of her, two young boys of similar skin tone came running off the sidewalk of Del Mar. They were delighted to be at the park, and I figured this mother was also excited to take her boys to the swings or maybe to the slide. The thought also crossed my mind, “Ah, it’s the mother of this man and two other boys. That’s quite a family.” I overestimated. She wasn’t connected with this man; nor did she have any desire to be maternal at this moment.

She came suspiciously towards myself and the homeless man – seeming to seek out company in this unoccupied space. “Hey, lady, I’m just here to shoot some baskets,” I said to her subconsciously as she approached. She ignored my body language and sat directly behind me. I was seated now – dribbling methodically between my legs. I was itching for the man and his boys to leave – to give me an escape before I had to talk to this woman.

She must not have been up for conversation either, though. She took out a brown bag – hiding a treasure of malt liquor. “You boys go play,” she commanded, “I didn’t bring you to the park to sit. Go and play over there,” pointing to the playground. She had come to cast her children off and to seek comfort in a bottle. Occasionally, she would pull out her cell phone and make a call only to get no response. She left a message. She drank some more.

By this time, I had begun to think of the tragedy of this woman ducking her social responsibilities as a mother. I grew even more disgusted by some anonymous black man – leaving his bastard children underprivileged from the start. And finally, I grew leery. I feared this woman was going to latch onto me as a life preserver in her drowning world. She haunted me as a manifestation of both pity and plight – especially since she seemed to make direct efforts to plant herself in my vicinity.

When the two boys and their father stopped shooting, I thankfully took their spot on the court. I took the opportunity to focus my attention on ten jump shots from each elbow. Then ten free throws. I was out of shape, and my initial efforts immediately fatigued me, and I tried to muster up the determination to make eighty percent or perhaps ninety – trying to figure out the right balance between will and grace.

Just as I finished my ten free throws – only going six out ten – this woman walked over towards the courts. She passed behind me as I blew two easy lay-ups. My legs were shaky, and her encroachment made my fingers lose their control. She finally came to a rest at a bench just off the court. She was now facing me – bottle in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

All that I could figure was she had something to ask me. I wished she would and get it over with. I had just missed five more shots – each looking more cautious and jittery than the last. Finally her two boys broke the silence. They were yelling at each other, and then I heard one boy cry out, “MOOOMMM! He said f--- you!”

“Darriel, you stop that right now or were going home,” she said in a harsh tone but her body was indifferent. I couldn’t believe my ears, and a mother and son nearby stopped in unbelief as well. The woman went on to look at her cell phone when the boy went off again, this time even louder, “MOOOOMMM! He said f--- you again!!”

“Darriel,” she shot back,” “that’s it. Next time we’re outta here.” But she made no movement all the while. She sat lazily staring into space, sometimes resting her eyes on me or the mother and her son.

The first time Darriel shouted I was too shocked to respond. After the second time, I needed no further proof. My mind was made up and ready to cast judgment.

Little did I know these boys who bounced so gleefully into the park were already filled with profanity, but sure enough. And what did the mother care? She only cared that they broke some public ethic. People like me might be offended so she had to speak with some severity, but it was clear her chastising ultimately would have to fall back into her own lap. It was all just an act. She could care less about what her boys did – to scold them would be the same as scolding herself. This wasn't a day to teach. Her boys were just some menace – some nuisance – to her holiday. She had come to the park to forget her problems and unload her responsibility. She wasn’t going to leave that park until her bottle was empty.

“Deadbeat,” I thought. I missed two more shots. “Damn.” It wasn’t worth it anymore. Her presence irked me. I wanted to yell out at her – tell her to throw the bottle away. “Lady, I know you’ve probably been dealt a lousy hand, but you’ve got to take care of your own. What are your boys going to think if they see you drinking your problems away?

"And you’ve got to watch your mouth around them; they’re what five and six years old? And don’t even get me started about doing all this on Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. Day. Lord knows what he would think, but I know what I think: you’ve got to have more self-respect. Pick yourself up.”

In reality I didn’t say a word. I was just shooting baskets one after another from all around the perimeter. Made one. Missed two. My legs remained cemented to the ground; sweat began dripping into my eyes. Missed another badly. I usually like to end on a make, but not today. That was it. I was ready to go. So I went over to the bench with my bag, put my ball up and unlocked my bike. I took a long drink from my water bottle, put it back onto the bike and climbed up into the bike seat. I started to peddle away, but I had to pass her to leave. I had one more chance to tell her how I felt. “What a waste,” I thought. But I said nothing. It was my holiday, too, you know; I didn’t need her problems.

Amusing Ourselves to Death - Take 2

“There are two ways by which the spirit of a culture may be shriveled. In the first – the Orwellian – culture becomes a prison. In the second – the Huxleyan – culture becomes a burlesque …

“In America, Orwell’s prophecies are of small relevance, but Huxley’s are well under way toward being realized …

[He goes on to reinforce his earlier argument that television - as a medium - is inherently a means of entertainment. Therefore, as public discourse involving commerce, religion, politics and education have become ever more reliant upon television (and the internet), our society has been reduced to a vast amusement park. Believing this, he continues ...]

“What I suggest here as a solution is what Aldous Huxley suggested, as well. And I can do no better than he. He believed with H. G. Wells that we are in a race between education and disaster, and he wrote continuously about the necessity of our understanding the politics and epistemology of media. For in the end, he was trying to tell us that what afflicted the people in Brave New World was not that they were laughing instead of thinking, but that they did not know what they were laughing about and why they had stopped thinking.”

-Neil Postman,
Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business

Amusing Ourselves to Death

On lunch break this afternoon, I finished Neil Postman's Amusing Ourselves to Death. Written in 1985 in response to George Orwell's 1984, Postman's book is an analysis of what television has done to our culture - specifically how it has watered down (if not eliminated) true public discourse in religion, politics, education and beyond.

If you watch any television, I think you should read this book.

Wes

Montreat, NC

Last week, I traveled to Montreat, North Carolina to serve as an adult chaperon for a Presbyterian youth conference. Montreat is an historic retreat space, nestled into the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina about 10 miles east of Asheville. It is perhaps most recognizable by the singular stellar personality of Billy Graham who resides in Montreat most of the year now. In fact, when Billy Graham's wife died recently, the funeral service was held in Montreat's Anderson Auditorium - the very same auditorium where I worshiped with over 1,400 youth for five straight days.

Montreat is exceedingly beautiful with a fresh stream pouring through the center of the camp. All around the beautiful land, though, there is ample evidence of yuppie-ism flowing - typical I suppose of Presbyterians who have traditionally ranked behind Episcopalians in the "richest Denomination" award. It was not unusual to see throngs of youth groups traveling less than a mile by van from their rented houses to the worship area two or three times a day - bypassing the opportunity to walk along the creek shaded by many firs.

There was another duality present in the place. Close to Asheville and within a mile of Black Mountain, Montreat is a bit of California in Appalachia territory. But, then again, it is where Billy Graham resides, so it has been greatly shaped by more conservative and traditional Evangelical and revivalists perspectives as well. And, in fact, I found myself frequently thinking Montreat serves as a great example of the overall diversity within the PC(USA).

Besides those rather abstract matters, the week was full of what you would expect from adoloscent overload - lots of crazy skits, tons of singing and almost no individual time. Introverts beware: I am not sure Montreat is the place for you ... better to take your back pack and hike the Appalachian Trail. You may not get to worship where Billy Graham lives, but you can find yourself close to God and all the beauty God endowed upon us.

Wes

photo courtesy of David Rencher at lumis.com

Wes and Anna Simpson

A big thank you to Danielle, who pointed us to this fantastic opportunity...

Our Little Cherubim

New Furniture

A week and two days ago, I had to come home briefly to grab my Book of Common Worship: Pastoral Edition, a suit, and some other odds and ends for the funeral service of Betty Jean Cooper (Anna's paternal grandmother). Josh Albers, a friend in Owensboro, happened to call during the brief time I was home - inquiring as to whether we would still be up for swapping some furniture. Thankfully (and wisely), I said yes, which ended up in this acquisition:


We gave them two end tables we had received from my step-mom as she frequently gets furniture from her work (moving and shipping company). After a long day of driving and the disorientation of trying to get so many things in order, it was good to feel and see community at work that day.

----

Then, today, Anna and I loaded up the boy just after his morning nap and went out to brave the 90 degree heat. Our efforts were not in vain; at a used furniture store, we stumbled upon this sun chair. Actually, Anna had seen it about a year ago (almost exactly a year ago). Waiting one year eventually won us an $8 bargain as the item was on sale (plus inflation!). Anyhow, for the time being, this chair and that table are filling a space next to our kitchen that has needed something for quite some time.


Wes

Led Zeppelin - Going to California

I can't stop listening to this song right now. Love it.

Wes

Betty Jean

One week ago yesterday my grandmother, Betty Jean Cooper, passed away. Drew and I worked together to come up with a photographic collage of sorts that would pay tribute to the amazing woman that she was, a feminist way ahead of her time.

The collage mainly paid homage to her adventures in her first 10 years of marriage to my grandfather, before they had a family. Included were the following photographs of her on her very own Harley (with three other female friends) and riding with my grandfather on his bike. They traveled literally all over North America, just because they wanted to. The war was over; they were enjoying life together. Also in the collage were her leather helmet, Harley Davidson riding belt, and goggles. A truly amazing woman, for more reasons than these.





~Anna

Vacation

Sunset on the 4th of July ... who needs fireworks?



Wyatt getting some more time in the pool. I taught him the art of water basketball.


Wyatt with Aunt Amy.


Instead of buying new rims ... I took the poor man's route and repainted the ol' cheap plastic ones.

Vacation

I really like this picture of Wyatt and Zoe. Wyatt just loves Zoe the dog.


All week, Wyatt has been going around collecting "baa's." That's a little Pistol Pete right there!


This is me about to enjoy Marvin's.


This is what I had to digest : (

The boy fascinated by dirt.

A 1st on the 4th

I did not see a single firework explode in person this year on the 4th of July, which is definitely a first for me. I could have watched some on television, and I could have just as easily traversed a few miles up to the top of a nearby cemetery in order to catch the high altitude brilliance. But, for whatever reason, I didn't need that this year.

What I did enjoy today was some great time with family, and a wonderful hour in the field with Wyatt. As a storm front moved in and thunder clouds swirled in dark masses, I had the delight of attending to my son's rapt attention and marvel as I explained to him that there was water in those clouds. Wyatt these days is fascinated by water - specifically the type he can swim in - so when I told him the gathering darkness above us was full of water, he was both delighted and overwhelmed.

Wes

Go to Town

It's been six years since I graduated from college. Last month, I found myself reunited with a good friend from those days - LaDow - when I traveled up to Chicago, and we both blurted out a few times, "Crap, man, it's been six years," or "can you believe it has been six years?!"

Well, mentally I try to pretend that no time has passed since then, but the more I come back around these parts, the more I can't get away from Father Time who seems to have grown wider and taller - creating an imposing force to my attempts to make my early 20's seem conviently close to my later 20's.

But today I told Father Time that he could go down town, buy a pogo stick and, well, you know. Meanwhile, I was going to eat a GCB and cheese fries. Okay, okay. I wasn't that brave ... just a 1/2 GCB.

Marvin's is a college eating establishment, which is to say that once you take it away from the nastalgia and mystique that has developed through the years, it's really nothing all that special. You could make Marvin's food in your own kitchen for half the cost. But, really, you can't because you clean your grill at home and at Marvin's I don't think they've ever cleaned their grill and that is precisely where that extra level of flavor comes from.

So Marvin's special is the GCB. For who knows how long, Marvin's has been serving up industrial burgers (thick 1/2 pound chunks that end up more like bricks than patties) on plain-jane white hoagie rolls cut in half. American cheese slices end up plastered to the burger and sticking to the wax paper. Then to top it off, garlic salt douses the top of the hoagie rolls.

The cheese fries are also ordinarily simple and extraordinarily good - simple school fries in a basket with gellatanous cheese oozing through cracks and onto the same paper. Very similar to Steak 'n Shakes' cheese fries only the fries and cheese are both more endowed and generous at Marvin's. Although served with a fork, you'd be stupid to eat them that way. First of all, Marvin's is no where near that elegant. Secondly, you'll only curse yourself for breaking the natural chain of fries in fingers to face.

I use to eat a whole GCB (about 3/4 lbs. of beef), cheese fries and a Coke about once every other week in college. To top it off, I would order a side of cheese or ranch dressing to dip my GCB into. I'd eat it and then succumb to waves of pleasure and guilt, sickness and satisfaction, the same experiences any other ingested material of such toxicity would illicit in my overtaxed biological system.

"How did I ever do that," I thought to myself today - enjoying my jr. size frat-tastic meal. And I also found myself doing what I am doing now - trying to critique and capture the meal with my head as well as my gut. Maturity is the ability to do stupid things with a critical mind. But the vain glory of youth is the ability to do stupid things that your body can still forgive and that your mind need not critique.

Wes