Whitman

Whitman walked down the hall in between the men and women, through them even, but don't tell them, they'd never believe you. It's not that Whitman is/was a ghost, it's that Whitman was Whitman, and no one held any inkling of who or what Whitman was.

Sarah was crying, Whitman noticed. She sat there, in the middle of the hall, nested near the center floor closets, right between the water fountain with the chewing gum on the spout, and the other fountain that only spouted warm water. She wiped her tears on the sleeve of her pink hoodie, then wiped her running mascara with a tissue she picked from her purse. Whitman urged to ask Sarah about her troubles, but no one ever heard Whitman. He could yell until his voice cracked, but no one had ever heard him; not since that night.

It was a night Whitman replayed in his mind like the sun rises once a day, and even revisited more often than celebrating anyone's birthday. He could hear the men with knife-knees stalking their way up the stairs. The window was nailed shut, the door was only wooden, and the rest of the children had stopped screaming long, long ago. In fact, he had smelled burning meat earlier in the evening, shortly after the screaming ended. They were all out, and Casey had been killed when she returned from the grocery store. Whitman saw it through the window. The meat she had bought was still outside, thawing on the sidewalk, next to the bloodstain that used to be Casey.

Sarah ushered herself up from the ground, swung her purse around her shoulder, and like everyone else that day, walked past Whitman. Her tears had stayed, and a smile had won over her expression. Whitman turned around. Sarah was in the arms of her boyfriend, Chaz, or Chad, or Bill; one of those.

Whitman let them go, and continued down the corridor, persuing the attention that he never hoped to need, but now desperately desired. It was the only way he was going to transition from obscurity to memeory, reaching existence, and abandoning it as soon as he arrived.

Fake Muscles

Looking back on the Gregg Valentino documentary, the man is still full of shit, refusing to admit what his true errors. Steroids did not make his arms erupt, it was the synthetic oil Synthol, and he refuses to cop to it. Steroids will allow your muscles to grow to their full potential within the confines of their expansive, but limited fasicles. It gets into your blood.

Synthol is metabolized after its injection into the muscle itself. It is a fatty acid. Synthol provides size as does steroids, however, it will not give definition. It's like loading a water baloon with cow eyes.

He made a mockery out of something I love. He paid the price, physically, financially, legally, and he now looks like an overgrown midget with camels for arms.

The documentary was subpar, revealing nothing new, and very little truth. Damn you, TLC.

Garth Marenghi's Darkplace.

Currently watching Garth Marenghi's Darkplace. My humor has not been tickled by any series as much as this since NBC cancelled the tragically underrated Stark Raving Mad.

Darkplace came out in the 80's and is cheesily bad, thus cementing its place in the cheesiest, and I dare say greatest decade in the history of the 1970's through the 1990's.

Less Talk, More Squat

Currently watching a documentary on Gregg Valentino. He used to have world record holding arms. Once again, it focuses on demonizing steroids, which when abused, are lethal, but like anything else, when used in moderation are subtle, but effective. Look at them as to eating cake. You eat a little bit of cake, occasionally, there isn't much to worry about. You eat an entire cake more often than not, of course trouble stirs.

I've been lifting weights, seriously, for almost three years, ten years overall. Myself, I've never messed with anything that can't be bought in the open. I drink my protein, take my vitamins, use green tea pills and glucossamine with msm. I eat what I want, but I know what I eat, and how much I eat. It is not enough to know what food I am consuming. I need to know where it came from, how it was raised, any little detail. I have noticed great changes not only in my body, but in my health. My mind, on the other hand, its the same bear trap for decadence and culture it has always been.

I do not consider myself a body-builder because I don't have the time, but when I am weight-lifting, I am in another world. I am in a pleasant domain where all my worries are beyond my attention, and happiness comes when I can barely breathe because my last three reps tore my breath away from my lungs.

Gregg Valentino abused steroids, and his arms went from spectacular genetic abnormalities to to absolute sludge when they exploded, yes, literally exploded.

Recently, I had the pleasure of spending time with Gustav Badell, an award winning bodybuilder from Puerto Rico, who will once agian be competing at the Mr. Olympian in Las Vegas. He was well-mannered albeit a tad short-tempered. I asked him about any experiences he may have had with steroids, though he'd already discussed this in an article in Flex magazine a couple of years ago. He spoke about his own tampering with them, but it was short-lived because he wanted nothing more to do with that lifestyle. People that sell steroids are linked and cornered with the same dealers that sell cocaine and angel dust.

Mmmmmm. Cake.

Gerald's Streak

There are few times when Gerald will ask for help, but they usually involve him soiling his trousers. Luckily, his six year old niece is still naive enough to accept lollipops and power rangers dvd's as payment for the deeds.

The last prostitute Gerald hired ran screaming and cursing out of his house, dark streaks dripping down her backside as she jumped in the cab that almost ran her down.

It's Dead Around Here

It's been a lonely Friday.
Even my shadow had better things to do.

Lifeless Trek

It was not a long walk, more of a slow death. There was no sun, no moon, and clouds never existed in this part of the world. There was a sky, or at least, something to point up to, a place that my hands could not reach.

There were no turns, twists, meanderings, or transitions. I could spin myself dizzy, stumble and wind up exactly where I started.

Room For One More

My best fiend's girlfriend is having their baby right now. My best friend is becoming a daddy this night.

No one take this night away. Just - just shut up. Let them enjoy it.

Sunday for Mrs. Aptree

Mrs. Aptree was not a vile woman, never spat at the birds, never kicked the sand into the sea, though, to tell you the truth, there's bit of a second side to that view altogether.

Mrs. Aptree walked more than a mile to get to her local store. The store with the fruits, spices, and the special kinds of onions she liked with her turkey and ham. Baked, though, none of that instant-sliced nonsense. The whole damn bird.

The watermelons were best at the middle, Mrs. Aptree had learned long ago, in her younger times, when she joined her mother at this same store. And while the store has gone through many changes itslef, expanded things, the truth remained that the best watermelons were the ones in the middle.

The first melon: Too many bumps
The second melon: Shell is all wrong

Mrs. Aptree slid over to lift the third watermelon. Her hands trembled just a tad when she raised the fruit, but she kept it in place, until she looked down and see a gigantic emerald flashing it's unexpected brilliance at the old woman.

It was an awe-inspiring thing, was this emerald, in the middle of the store with the spices and chicken. Ms. Aptree had only seen in them at the bank, lastly on the anniversary of her mother's funeral, when she visited the bank to speak, in the confines of their vault, to her dead mother, and rearrange her jewelry, which contained emeralds, but they were for flash and style, small things that fit on clothing. This, this emerald would have to be double bagged, no doubt, in order for someone to leave with it from the store. One bag, it would certainly tear through, scratch on the pavement of the parking lot.

Who Had the Grooper?

Attended my first body-building competition. Much more interesting than I thought, and much funnier than expected.

Highlights include: Monstrously oversized men in tiny pink panty-tights.
Mr. Greenwood let's you know what he thinks.
Met Gustav Badell. Heard he was an ass, thought he was cool.
Some of the most gorgeous, and a few of the most
frightening,questionable women I've ever seen.
Met Randy Couture. Very cool, very nice fellow.

ATE AT HOOTERS WITH RANDY COUTURE AND GUSTAV BADELL...

Borning Morning.

Typing this while working at an inservice from work. This has been the most boring morning that I can recall since all the roosters across the street from my home, that loved cawing at five-thirty in the morning, mysteriously exploded.

Re-modeling

Just looked at my revised site. It frightened me. I'm worried.

I'm Proud of This One

Going to be playing with this site, now.

Batman I Did