Fighting, Stare-downs, and Cholos.

Fighting seems to be a natural thing. Humans across the globe and even animals participate in fighting of some sort during their lifetime. I'm not going to get into the difference of fighting and "martial arts" because I don't think you care that much. I am however reading "The Book Of Five Rings" by Miyamoto Musashi a Japanese samurai who spent his days stabbing people in the face, a good read for martial arts people. Anyway fighting, plain and simple punch kick bite scratch type shit. Why is it so terrifying yet so appealing? Recently I chose to participate in an amateur mixed martial arts fight in a cage against some dude I didn't even know or care to know. Why? I don't really know. I enjoy the challenge that fighting offers I guess. Yes I'm sure there are many reasons behind my choice to fight which I probably won't get to but I seemed to make some realizations while getting ready for this particular fight.

First of all I realized how much I liked food. I had to cut about 15 pounds over the course of about a month. I assure you this is a very small amount compared to many real fighters, not to mention normal fucking people dieting. I didn't starve myself, I simply ate more small meals with healthier food throughout the day. It worked and I dropped from 170 to 153.5 lbs on the day of the fight. But during the last two to three weeks I was the angriest version of myself that I have ever been. It sucked. It didn't matter if people were nice or mean I disliked them equally. I didn't want to talk to people, the sound of a text message made my teeth clench. I felt like I was on steroids and my period at the same time. Thankfully I've never had to deal with either of these but I assume they wouldn't be a great combination. I am sure a lot of it had to do with the psychological side of "dieting" because I was never really hungry but it didn't matter. The diet wasn't the only thing making me a grumpy douchebag, some of this was definitely caused by the stress of the fight that I chose to do. I was busy training which inevitably required me to lift heavy shit, do shit that makes me breath hard, and constantly punch people and inanimate objects. All stuff that if done hard, makes you hungry. Then I'd go home and angrily eat a salad and try to convince myself that it was "actually pretty good today."

Training to fight, in my opinion, is usually fun. It's a good workout and challenges the fuck out of your mind and body. Unless of course you actually have a fight coming up, then is sucks and is way too stressful. So for weeks I was grumpy and tired and sore and knew that it would all end with me locked in a cage with some dude who is going to try to punch and kick me in the eyes. Oh yeah if you're not familiar with mixed martial arts they like to make it scarier by putting you in a cage like a fucking zoo animal. Yes again I choose this, but I can still complain if I want to. So all the while of being grumpy, my mind is making a billion and two different variations for the outcome of the fight. All negative of course. My mind thought about every possible bad scenario from me getting knocked out with the first punch to me actually being killed in the fight. Why the hell would I day dream about myself being brutally beaten and or killed on regular basis? This seems like something you'd want your mind to steer clear of right? Not my fucked up brain.

The closer I got to the fight, the worse of an ass whooping I imagined myself getting. I thought of how my parents would react, what people would say when they saw my face and what my reply would be. I even though of ways to get out of the fight. If I get hit by a bus I'm pretty sure I can't fight. Easier option, eat all of these cookies and I won't make weight and will have to forfeit. But I couldn't pull the trigger on either. Why? I'm grumpy and scared of being destroyed by a strange dude with too much testosterone, but it's too much of a pussy move not to fight after I've already agreed to it. I wasn't worried about people being disappointed about me backing out of the fight, I just didn't want to have to tell them. So I kept eating salads and broccoli and all of that rabbit type food, kept training, and kept being angry.

With about four or five days until the fight I begin to realize how douchey I was acting toward everyone and tried to shift to a more positive frame of mind. I knew what was making me like this and I'm a somewhat rational person so I try to adjust my attitude. Now as the fight gets closer I look forward to eating something delicious. Something unhealthy and fried and possibly wrapped in bacon. I begin to think of the very little significance the fight actually has in the big scheme of my life. "So what, if I lose, I lose." My mom will still love me. And after all, it's just a fight. Something that for most people happens without warning after school, or at a bar, or at a matinee viewing of that Michael Jackson movie because someone cut in line. Either way, it is just a fight. That's what I told myself to get through the last few day, false rationalization or honesty? Did it matter?

Day of the fight. The guy I'm fighting is by all physical standards a "cholo." From my upbringing and understanding, a cholo is a Hispanic thug type character that wears flannel shirts, dark shades (often on the back of the head), Nike Cortez shoes, and either baggy shorts with long socks, or uncomfortably large khaki pants and the mandatory freshly shaved head. Tattoos are often required. Depending on who you ask, these cholos are either scary trouble makers, or pussies that dress like this to try to fit in with their misled equally uneducated friends. I say their are probably some tough cholos and some pussies with the rationbeing about 95:5 pussies to tough ones. When I say pussies I mean men who are all bark and no bite and would only push for physical altercations when they greatly out number their opponent. But pussies is much more insulting. There was really no reason for me to describe cholos but if you want a visual I'll include a picture. Just think the Joker brothers in Next Friday.



Back to fight day. I'm by myself and watching the demeanor of about 24 people who will be fighting that night. Some people are quiet and mellow, others seem to have only brought their angry eyes. That was a Mr. Potato Head joke. Something that takes place quite often at these events are stare-downs. Stare-downs are the most hilarious art form of all time in my book. This is where two grown ass men who are having some type of altercation or will soon be fighting choose their most ridiculous mean face and lock eyes with their opponent. Sometimes the stare-down can be referred to as "mad-dogging" or "mean-mugging" depending on your geographic and economic location. The funny party of this stare-down business is that there is never a real winner. In a blinking contest first person to blink is deemed the sissy who's eyes require more moisture.
Not the stare-down, blinking is allowed although many choose not to, the name of the game is intimidation. This is the human version of the gorilla at the zoo who bangs his chest and slams his fists into the dirt; the only difference is the gorilla will actually fuck you up if accept his challenge and are for some reason inside of the enclosed area. These stare-downs are also self judged, only the two people in the stare-down are really aware of who's winning and in most cases might both think they've come out victorious. Anyway I think stare-downs are the most douchey, left over monkey DNA, acts ever but I always get a chuckle out of two guys in kissing range making angry faces. No stare-down for me, lots of looking at the floor and kind head nods.


Intimidation is definitely a factor when fighting don't get me wrong. Watch an old Mike Tyson fight video and tell me intimidation doesn't work. But a stare-down alone won't always protect you from an inevitable ass whooping. A few hours later I warm up, finally calm down and get in the cage against my cholo to fight. The fight goes well, I avoid his stare-down tactics by looking at my toes, we fight, I win and my stress and fear of being killed seem to wash away. If I ever get a video I may post it.

Moral of the long ass story is that fighting is the weirdest, natural, scary thing every. You can realize a lot about yourself by having to sacrifice something, whether it's time, energy, food, peace of mind, or whatever to do achieve a goal. For me it was that I was kind of a douchebag when I got stressed and hungry. But I learned from it....and I got to punch a cholo in the face.
=)
(For the record my cholo turned out to be a pretty nice guy after the fight).

Grant

Saudi Arabian journalism and basketball shorts

A brown leather couch. The most comfortable basketball shorts ever invented. They must be made in China or Indonesia by a child with nimble fingers and a kings salary. The basketball shorts will have pockets so I can store random objects nearby and access them with a simple downward reach. A laptop and one of those rolly chairs. Lastly a puppy which will be replaced every two months with a newer cuter puppy, unless I become attached to the previous in which case I will keep the animal for an extended period.

These are the essentials to an job that I created in my head. Some type of journalist slash blogger slash worker from the comfort of his basketball shorts with pockets. No commute, no tie, no shirt, no clock, no co-workers, yes leather couch.

Normal workdays would include some or all of the following. Semi healthy breakfast on the rolly chair, reading the newspaper comics or online news. No need to get up to put the dishes away, rolly chair accessible rooms and kitchen. Comfort of basketball short which would be washed every 2-3 days depending on the current average temperatures. Pockets would contain notes on napkins and that paper on the outside of water bottles. Notes would say things like "fuck the president" and "buy milk." I'd talk loud to myself and quite to other people. My attention span would be about a 4.3 on a scale from 1 to 14. Here is a picture of a bidet full of beer.



I'd be able to write/blog/journal about any topic that interested me. Except on Wednesdays I'd have a ongoing column about activities I do to prevent boredom and or heart attacks. This column would have to be done before 10pm each Wednesday including holidays. Procrastination wouldn't be an issue because of my ample amount of free time during the week. My journals would be scattered across the board on topic choice and writing tone; they would directly reflect my mood. I'd spend approximately 4-8 hours doing "work" related tasks, writing, thinking, brainstorming, interpretive dance, murmuring, etc. The remainder of the day I would be able to spend on personal tasks such as: exercise and practice strangling other adults, fishing, cooking, shooting balled up pieces of paper into a small trash basket, and browsing the inter-web.

The puppy would be named after some person in history that invented some arbitrary object such as Johann Verheem inventor of the shake weight, or George Washington Carver inventor of peanut butter. The leather couch would be for naps, thinking, and reading. I would have also have a permanent subtly red square on my thighs from where the heat from my laptop gives me .5 degree burns. I'd address this problem and begin doing my writing a portable computer stand. The .5 degree burns would heal over time and redness would reduce.

I'd drive a '92 Toyota Tercel with fading green paint and a fully functional air conditioner, it would get 300 miles to the gallon. Showering and grooming habits would be normal. The work area would be clean and on nice days I'd write out doors stealing WiFi from some unsuspecting neighbor. Pay would be average initially but would increase when my column gained popularity amongst a Saudi Arabian royal family who find my words insightful and fully entertaining. They would double my salary in order to have all journals and blogs sent directly to their royal palace.

It is irresponsible to shoot a stranger - ask JFK or tupac.

To all my loyal reader:
I regret to inform you that this post contains unfortunate news. About two months ago I was shot twice, luckily avoiding the third bullet. I was going to a kickboxing class at Mt. San Antonio College at about 3:00 p.m. on a Saturday. With flip flops scuffing the ground on the way to the wrestling room I clutched my bag in one hand and fumbled my wrestling shoes in the other. Nothing out of the ordinary about this day, so signs of my eminent unavoidable doom. Approaching from about twenty meters was a young black male walking directly toward me. Still no sign of danger. At five meters out, this man, (probably a mt. SAC student), makes his move and draws his weapon. His pinky and ring fingers curled into a fist while index and middle finger aimed violently at my head. His thumb stood straight up initially and at the two meter range tilted to the side. At this point his thumb quickly fired forward with three short bursts.

If you haven't put two and eight together yet this mutherfucker shot me with a imaginary fucking gun. A perfect stranger fucking shot me with his imaginary finger gun for no apparent reason and kept walking as if nothing happened. To top it off he held it like they hold guns in gangster movies. The first two imaginary bullets surely hit me in the head and or chest the third may have whizzed by my ear thanks to my natural instinct to avoid invisible flying objects. At this point I'm completely confused. Did a random dude just fake hand gun me in the face? It was hard to believe but it happened. He SHOT me. Why the fuck would you shoot a stranger, imaginary gun or not, he was out of line.

I kept my cool glancing back to see him walking away with his imaginary pistol now apparently in the holster. Not even a hesitation, the shooter didn't break stride as he left me to die....or whatever happens when you fake shoot someone. I forgot about it temporarily and went to the kickboxing class. After class I walked uncomfortably to my car. One part of me wanted to see my assailant and imaginary shot gun him in the chest; the other part of me was afraid the crazy dude would have a real gun on our next encounter.

Since then, almost every time I'm walking through the parking lot at Mt. SAC I think about the strange man who shot me. It some seriousness it was a very emotional situation. It makes me laugh because the randomness of getting fake shot by a stranger is absolutely hilarious. But it also makes me mad because it is incredibly RUDE and irresponsible to shoot a stranger in the face regardless if you're using a real gun or a two finger pistola.

All in all there is no lesson to be learned but I would like to personally tell the man who shot me at point blank range one thing....FUCK YOU. This is a true story, I can't make this stuff up. It's been two months and I still think about it. So if you want to be a real asshole or leave a lasting impression on someone pull that hand out of your pocket, tilt that bitch sideways and bust a cap in a stranger. Trust me, they will remember you. As for my shooter, if you are reading this for some creepy reason, expect an imaginary machete chop right in the femur next time I see you. Bitch.

Included is a drawing of the man who shot me and a short description of his physique. Yes it is drawn on the back of a paper plate with a sharpie and yes I am a terrible artist but so what he shot me.



yours truly,
Grant

self induced A.D.D. and delusional certainty (god and meth)

I have recently diagnosed myself with Attention Deficit Disorder. My definition of this possibly make believe disorder is the inability to remain focused on any particular task for any substantial amount of time due to your hectic surrounding and life which you probably created. My personal case can not be treated with Ritalin, generically named Methylphenidate, METH for short. I'd assume that I'm not the only one with this problem. Currently I have, one...two....six tabs open on my browser. Rob Dyrdek's fantasy factory is on the television approximately 12 paces away, muted of course, to battle my attention defecation. My phone, now sitting on the couch beside me, has buzzed four times with new texts since I started writing. I have the holiest of books in the history of ever to sitting to my left, yes the bible, I'll explain later. I am also currently eating chicken and a piece of wheat bread between sentences, not because I'm poor and black, but because it is a delicious combination and easy to prepare. Situations similar to this were included in my early studies on how I developed my severe non-fatal case of ADD.

Listing the tabs from right to left: (because i can list from right to left)

1. How High Fructose Corn Syrup Damages your Body. Why is it there? Cause it looked interesting and like chlamydia that shit is everywhere.
2. Methylphenidate - Wikipedia. Of course I did some research for this blog. Plus I didn't remember the technical name for Ritalin.
3. This blog page.
4. UFC: Ultimate Fighting Championship. Because I like to watch people get punched in or around the face.
5. Facebook. Not currently logged in though, got to get my focus on.
6. YouTube - The Good, The Evil, and The Useful. This is a short video of a pretty smart dude named Sam Harris, author, debater, intellectual, and Atheist. This is where the bible came in and why I needed to look something up.

Screen-shot.



As you can see my range of attention spreads across the spectrum. But it rarely stays on one thing for very long lately. There is always some new interest that comes to me which takes me away from my initial task to something random like Shake Weight commercials. If you haven't seen them YouTube that shit immediately because they are awkwardly hilarious and I'm starting to think they aren't as unintentional as I would assume. Someone had to realize the awkwardness during production. Back to the point. I started watching Sam Harris because of a Tweet from Joe Rogan (UFC commentator/fear factor guy). From there I let my mind literally wander where ever Google/YouTube would take me.


Sam Harris said something about "faith" that caught my attention in one of the videos. He said faith is good is some aspects, but not so good the way some (many) religious people use it. Faith doesn't make sense as a delusional certainty the way most people use the word; it does however make sense in staying positive when dealing with uncertainty. I couldn't agree more and this is probably what gets me into arguments with religies (as I like to call religious people). I find it very hard to have a blind, "delusional certainty" in something that is backwards to my logic and knowledge about the world (which is limited I know). I'm not saying I do or don't believe in god, but I will definitely say I don't believe in the white bearded man dressed in a white robe that comes to most peoples mind. I must admit the beard does give him a bit of credibility though. All I am saying is I have no idea what's right and wrong when it comes to religion and too many people act like they have all the answers. You don't. If you're delusional and certain you have the answer to the religion debate, please explain to me in 3 and 1/2 sentences or less because as I have previously mentioned my attention span is iffy at best sometimes.

I will not judge your belief in god and I won't cry if you judge mine. I haven't read the entire bible or Koran yet because they are long and the writing is small but I did watch Passion of the Christ twice with subtitles so I'm pretty sure I'm a borderline expert. ADD is not always a bad thing, sometimes you go on spiritually awkward journeys via YouTube; so realize that Ritalin or Meth is not always the best option.

Now to address Meth. Ritalin, generic name Methylphenidate. They don't even change the name to try to hide the fact that it's METH. Don't let your kids become meth addicts because they won't stop jumping on the couch or watching YouTube videos of cats. Make them do something physically or mentally challenging and interesting. If you Google Methylphenidate (Ritalin) and Methamphetamine (crystal meth) you'll be surprised how similar they are.

Just letting you attention whores know it is OK to let your mind wander sometimes you might learn some shit. I will end this here so you can close one of your many tabs or windows and get back to work.

Idaho snake protected dandelions.

Little sister goes to college. The little jerk decides to make it 14 hours away at Boise State (Idaho). I used my photography skills to record the journey. 840 minutes or 50,400 seconds of mini van madness. And it begins: (cast: sister as "Chach", mom as mom, dad as dad, me).

7:30 departure.
Farmer Boys burrito deliciousness.
Chach says she's sleeping all 14 hours. I believe her.
Chach is out.

Navigation problems before the burrito is consumed.
Switch from GPS to old fashion convenient store maps, mom's decision.
Made a cell phone holder out of my hat.


Hour-ish nap. Reclining back seat.
Chach still out.
Uneventful into Nevada.
Stop for gas.
Ask surprisingly kind truck driver for directions.
My turn to drive =).
Rented mini van.
Passing slow people on a two lane highway.
Terrifying.
Satellite radio 70's and 80's classics.
Hip-hop, mom doesn't like that cussing shit.
Mom falls asleep.
So does dad.
Dance electronica interpretive dance moves.
Filmed by Chach who is somewhat awake now.

Techno music.
90 mile per hour dance moves.
No idea where I'm going.
Realization: everyone in car talks in their sleep.
Dad: says random stuff, falls back asleep.
Mom: random orders, "slow down," back to sleep.
Chach had a nightmare, yells "stop it" then smiles, still asleep.
4 hours of driving.
In Eli, a city, the armpit of Nevada.

Dad takes wheel, refreshed from nap.
Back seat boredum.
Cliff bars-0 Me-3.
Chach still sleeps.
Saw a buff cow, or a fat horse.
The wake up call:
Knowing Chach wakes up terrified for no reason, i film it.

Cabin fever.
Same road. Hours.
Almost through Nevada.
Chach Sleeps.
Welcome to Idaho.
White people.
Gas station.
Strange looks.
Upside down cross.


Black dad laughs.
White mom asks what upside down cross means.
Chach having second thoughts about staying.
Sign of black people....
KFC.
Lots of long hair (men).
Realization: long hair grown to cover red necks.
Camouflage hats, on white people.
Taco Bell, order wrong, go back.
Longer road.
Semi lost.
Back on track.
Chach wakes up.
Back seat boredom.
Going crazy.
Rebeled against being in the car for too long.
Took most of my clothes off, non violent resistance.


Mom shakes head.
Chach laughs.
Dad drives.
Clothes back on.
Country music.
Ipod.
Chach and me=2 Ipods.
1 song.
Panic at the disco "How to save a life."
Obnoxious singing duet.
Bob Marley.
Getting grumpily restless again.
Kept my clothes on.
Boise.
Best Western.
Sleep.
Food.
Pool workout.
See Boise.
Big ass river, fast moving, scary.

Saw huge dandelion, as big as Texas....on a big map.
Tried to touch dandy lion.

Saw snake.
Panicked.
Got closer to river.
Took pictures.

Chach starts climbing on rocks.
I suggest not doing so.
She is sure of her impeccable balance.
She slips.
Wet shoe dry shoe.

Chach is completely devastated.
I am still laughing.

Walked back.
Saw a giraffe.

Saw ants on top of ants.

Played in phone booth.

The trip lasted three days, two of which were spent in a van.
1,870 miles.
Ride back was much worse than ride there, 15 hours.
Miss Chach a little.
Cried a single tear.
It rolled down my cheek and hit the floor.
Grew into a magnificent oak tree.
Some details left out due to a phobia of longer blogs.
Conclusion.
Idaho is very clean.
Lots of white people.
Got a soccer ball from wal-mart.
I will need someone to pick on, while Chach learns stuff in Idaho.

The foul art of MANism.

As a young male, I constantly wonder at what age I officially become a man. The determination of manism, as I like to refer to it as , can get fuzzy with all of the contradicting traditions. Does a boy become a man when he becomes 18 and is legally able to buy magazines that he must hide at the bottom of his sock drawer? Is this transformation dictated by age at all? Mike Tyson has already disproved the voice change method and I'm sure he'll let you know if you question his manism. The African traditions make it very clear; a face tattoo or drinking the blood of an antelope that you kill with your bare hands, those are the steps to manism. But those traditions don't work well with Peta. Plus Mike Tyson is the only person that can pull off a face tattoo. (Yes, I've referenced Mr. Tyson twice in the first paragraph). One thing is certain, by the time you're done reading this, you will be much more aware of your progress to the state of manism. Women and children feel free to stop reading here, science has already proven you're brains are much smaller and the state of manism requires enormous man brains.

First thing first, to be a man you must be able to improvise and use the tools baby jesus has given you, or big jesus which ever you prefer. Rule 1: If you did not have in your possession a tissue, dirty shirt, or leaf like object (campers only), at least three times in your life, you must have held down one nostril with your index finger and exhaled violently to clear your nose breathing apparatus. It seems gross but if done correctly it is quite efficient. Hands can then be wiped on grass and or the bottom or sides of your shoes.

Rule 2, you must have watched "Back to the Future" the 1985 classic film. You must also be able to recognize Doc Brown, Marty McFly, and a DeLorean. This rule is simple and was determined by a expert panel of judges who unanimously agreed that the 116 minute adventure is essential for manism.

Rule 3 involves looks, normally a man is not judged on looks however, there are some appearance factors. To reach the state of manism one must have had, or attempted to have, a burly man beard on at least three occasions. I chose three because that's how many times I have watched Back to the Future in a 24 hour period. The outcome of the burly man beard attempt is irrelevant due to the fact that some people have an uncontrollable ability to grow patchy facial hair or a massive neck beard which is not ideal. The attempt alone is enough to push you in the direction of manism.
*Note a mustache is not considered a beard! Do not attempt to substitute a mustache for a beard to assume manism, it will not work and may cause your peers to assume you enjoy caressing small children.

The attached photo is Kimbo Slice once internet sensatioin backyard brawler, now professional fighter. Do not feel discouraged because his beard makes you look like Justin Bieber. It's a legitimate man beard.

Rule 3 This rule deals with anatomy. To reach manism, one must have, on numerous occasions, urinated outdoors. The reasons for peeing outdoors may or may not include: bathrooms were being used or unavailable, time constraints (urgent pee), or the simply fact that you have the anatomy that allows it. For the women who, against my recommendation, are still reading this, the rule does not apply to you. It applies to males only because we are higher on the evolutionary chart than you, simple Darwinism. If you happen to be of the female species and have urinated outside more than 3 times, you're gross and a truly hope it got on your shoes.
I do realize there are two rule 3's and I am ok with that because the traditional number system has no place in manism.

Rule 4 The honesty, action, and self-defense clause. The honesty portion of this rule comes into play when someone has something in their teeth, and or in their burly man beard. In manism it is quite ok to point out these incidents to the unaware party. If you feel an awkward sensation just prior to informing them you may not be ready for manism. Try saying something like this: "Excuse me sir/ma'am you have a good portion of your lunch in your beard/teeth." Due to karma, this act of manism kindness will eventually place you on the other end of the situation. In this case it is proper etiquette to firmly thank the informer. Similar rules apply when speaking to someone with bad breath.
The self-defense portion of this rule is only enforced to substitute for another previously unmet rule. Once in your life you must to look another man, of similar statue, directly in the face and then proceed to punch him in the head. This act can follow a string of curse words or offensive gestures, never a push. The punchie must be well deserving of the blow and the outcome of the ensuing fight will not limit or favor you in entering manism.

If while reading this you have had a flashback or loudly stated "indeed," you may well be on your way to becoming a man. There are other rules that may prevent or confirm your manism; but those you must figure out during your journey. To all who have already achieved this status, I solute you.

Grant.

There are aliens in Arizona and black oceans?

First of all I'd like to say fuck protesters in general. If you've protested something with a bunch of other needy scumbags just to make a lot of noise, and to try to convince people to change their mind you're foolish. Now that I have your attention, I'd like to add an amendment to that statement. If your protest involved something other than arts and crafts with a brightly colored piece of construction paper, you may get a pass. If you boycott a product in order to force someone to change their mind or just to target their beloved greed then i can understand your stance. But if you're just one of the hundreds of college kids, minorities, upset pro lifers, anti war, pro or anti gay sign holders that are doing nothing more than that, you should swallow a pitch fork covered in battery acid. What is yelling and holding a sign going to do to people who made a law? When is the last time some one said, "well there are a lot of people out there with signs we should probably do what they say"? Oh I remember, it was the 12th of never. So all the hundreds of people in Los Angels getting their Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. on with non violent protests against Arizona's sb1070 immigration law what are you helping? Even if it did come up in a political meeting, hundreds of miles away, guess what shit faces Arizona citizens have to vote on it. Not you LA protesters and especially not any people affected by the immigration law.

What I'm trying to get across here is this; protesting alone is like wiping before you poop, it makes no sense. If coupled with boycotts of products or something that will actually affect some one's money maybe they'll listen. Of course there is the more outlandish approach; in the words of Judah Uno, "If I blow up a gas station will they feel my indignation." Yes blowing something up will probably also get the attention of the people making the laws, but i will also get you 25 to life and a possible lead heart implant from a trigger happy Wal-Mart security guard. Am I for it or against it, I don't know. I'm sure they are not going to go around asking people like Steve Nash to see identification but that is not my point. My point is this, just because you can write your opinion in block letters on a piece of construction paper and stand with hundreds of other similarly skilled people in front of buildings containing fairly powerless people doesn't make you the next civil rights activist. Without other action, it makes you a fool.

My next point has to do with the black sea. Okay, not really the black sea but the Gulf of Mexico that is fairly black now with 200,000 gallons a day of oil leaking into the ocean. Shit like this happens all the time but these companies have so much money and pull that we don't hear about it. Yes this even is a little larger in scale but still effects the world in the same way. If you live under a rock, here is a link to an up-to-date story about the effects and initial occurrence BBC story>.

The thing that makes me want to kick random people in the balls is the fact that companies like BP are allowed to operate knowing things like this can happen without a sure fire plan to stop it. Yes I know there are accidents but there should be some type of policy that makes it harder for these things to happen without a 99% chance that catastrophic events can be stopped or at least have way to be stopped. Yes the oil is going to mess with a ridiculous amount of sea life, birds, and what not but it won't be the last time. Companies like this, especially in the oil industry can and have been greasing the pockets of politicians all over the world so the can continue to get rich and turn our oceans black with little regulations to stop them.

Yes this has been a rant and a tirade, but definitely not a protest. I have not done any arts and crafts making a sign and I have not stood in highly congested fool zones. These are issues that I have been hearing a lot about and this is my opinion. If you don't like it, fight me. =)

Grant W.