...but not even I would pay $10k (and climbing) for someone's half eaten breakfast.
http://cgi.ebay.com/OBAMA-SCRANTON-PA-DINER-4-21-08-CAMPAIGN-BREAKFAST_W0QQitemZ170212526773QQihZ007QQcategoryZ39721QQssPageNameZWDVWQQrdZ1QQcmdZViewItem
In any event, VOTE OBAMA TODAY PENNSYLVANIANS!!!
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
A Good Friend...
drives out of state to help you find a shot put circle to throw in. A best friend will pull over at a baseball field when the track is taken and retrieve shot puts in the dark.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The Together Women
Every morning on my walk to work I'm surrounded by women. Women that embody the word together with their smooth, shiny hair, perfect make-up, and cobbled shoes. They never looked rushed or particularly hurried toting their lattes in their freshly manicured hands. They are the types of women that wear white pants without spilling anything, match their accessories to their shoes, and can fit everything a lady needs into one tiny purse. They remember to drop off clothes at the dry cleaners, they never run out of toilet paper, and they iron on Sundays to avoid hectic weekdays.
A good friend of mine frequently says my personality matches my hair: organized chaos. I will never be able to walk down 18th street without being weighed down by my over sized purse, gym bag, and occasional shot put. I will probably always chew my fingernails, forget dry cleaning, take three days to read the Sunday paper, and have stacks of articles on my desk. I'll wait months to get clothes tailored or dry-cleaned, leave my apartment without my keys, and forget my umbrella every time it rains.
On my way to work this morning I wondered if I could ever be mistaken for one of these together women, if by chance some passerby glanced at me without noticing my wrinkled coat, crazy hair, chipped fingernails, and scuffed shoes? But before I could give it another moments thought, I tripped and spilled my coffee with such momentum that it splattered all over my over sized sunglasses. It was then I realized that some things will just never be.
A good friend of mine frequently says my personality matches my hair: organized chaos. I will never be able to walk down 18th street without being weighed down by my over sized purse, gym bag, and occasional shot put. I will probably always chew my fingernails, forget dry cleaning, take three days to read the Sunday paper, and have stacks of articles on my desk. I'll wait months to get clothes tailored or dry-cleaned, leave my apartment without my keys, and forget my umbrella every time it rains.
On my way to work this morning I wondered if I could ever be mistaken for one of these together women, if by chance some passerby glanced at me without noticing my wrinkled coat, crazy hair, chipped fingernails, and scuffed shoes? But before I could give it another moments thought, I tripped and spilled my coffee with such momentum that it splattered all over my over sized sunglasses. It was then I realized that some things will just never be.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Grampy 04-05-08
Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
