Happy Halloween.

The ghouls are coming out, the vampires emerging from their lairs, the werewolves from their dens, and the mummies from their crypts. Don't forget Barbie, Mario and Pikachu who are emerging from Walmart. Also, don't forget the countless amounts of french maids, catholic school girls and oddly promiscuous nuns from "Adult" stores. Yup, we certainly know what halloween is all about.

Anyway, I'm not really in the mood for any kind of bashing of halloween (it's my favorite holiday and I still see things wrong with it) because my jacket smells like cigars and I need to clean the grease off of me. See ya later.

Andrew

"I removed my drive-shaft and my tranny-fluid flowed all over the ground when I went to get a beer!" and other idiot mechanic quotes.

I have my father's hands, and I mean that in niether the genetic nor the homocidal sense.

My father gracoiusly offered to give me his old pinto (well, half anyway) if I agreed to put in all the labour involved in bringing it back into working order. He would buy whatever parts we would need, while I would put in all of the time and effort (it being Wednesday, I have put in a total of 26 hours of work, and I started on Monday). Basically, I would start at seven in the morning, wait in the shop for the frost to disappear (the weather has been great, in fact record breaking, but we still have shit loads of frost in the morning-- that's Canada for you), then make my way out into the yard to start tearig pieces off of the car. What I needed to do the first day was get the old engine removed (we are going to put in a new one). So basically I spent the entire days on my knees and on my back. Reading that sentence alone makes it seem like not such a bad thing. I should, however, describe the area of town I am working in.

I am working in the yard of my father's sheet-metal shop. A place where they make duct-work, ventelation systems, crap like that. A place where location isn't a high priority. The shop is situated in probably the seediest part of the dirtiest section of the asshole of the red-light district of our city. As I worked, I watched hookers, pot-heads, druggies, drunks, homeless people, crazies and dysgruntled old bitches walk past all day. I got to watch cops break into a house and bust some bootleggers, watched a dysgruntled old bitch break into that very same house about an hour later, and all sorts of great, fantastic things that make me love the world I live in.

I wanted to take some pictures of me working on the car and post them here but I figured that would be something someone does on a gay web-journal... so... I really wanted to take those pictures.

My dad's a good guy. He showed me how to do everything because, well, I don't know shit about cars, engines, are other really big loud machines (oh, hadn't I mentioned that yet?). He also likes to point out the obvious. Once I have varified that I understood the instructions and got to work, he would then start telling me what to do, all over again. Ah well. He's paying, so he gets to say and do whatever the hell he wants.

I was listening to the most fucking coolest guy ever on the radio. His name is Tom something... he has a really gay last name that you just aren't sure how to spell and it doesn't stick in your head either.

Ah well, I really have to take a piss so I'm cutting this short.
Andrew

"Daddy, when I grow up I want to be a hobo living between the logs on the beach."

I hate when people say, "My name is , and when I get older I plan to be successful." Well duh! Do you think that when I was younger I wanted to be this guy with a cynical attitude and the need to insult people for cheap laughs? No... not really. I wanted to be a fireman. And a space man. Oh, and a cowboy. Atleast that's what I told them to say when I walked down the aisle to get my highschool diploma. (Someday I'll digitalize that video so you can see that I'm not lying... it's sad, really.) Since when did people plan to be successful? Either you are successful and manage to do everything you wanted to do, or you aren't. You don't just become it. You are born successful. Or you're not.

Sound like bullshit? Probably. But, like all my arguments, my bullshit ends up being worth its weight in gold (that's a lot of gold). Hear me out.

We succeeding isn't a goal, it's a lifestyle. Some people don't plan on being gay in the future, they just are. It's the same with success. We don't make it, and it doesn't make us. We are success and success is us. Now, before you start thinking I'm some gay motivational speaker, I'm not. Not everyone has success in their blood. Now, when someone doesn't have success in their blood, it doesn't mean they are failures (well usually it does, but you'll see where I'm going with this... I promise). It means they are simply not the right people for today's requirements. The requirements, of course, are decided by the ruling class, aka the majority. If the majority is a bunch of schedule-driven busy-bodied workaholics with a need for efficient german sex twice a week (no more, no less), then so be it. If that's the case, then down with spontaneous easy-going party-people with a love for passion (whenever, wherever). The human race doesn't need them.

The human race's needs are, of course, decided by the ruling class (aka you know who).

So, in this fast paced work-world, the easy-going lover is forced to adapt or die, like any other species facing extinction. Being the easy-goer he is, willing to "go with the flow", he'll probably adapt. Then we are all SNAFU'd. Ain't nature grand, folks?

So, by today's standards, these easy-going lovers would be failures, or unsuccessful. Sure, some of them may be able to sell a piece of their grungy wall-paper to the smithsonian and pass it off as DaVinci's lost work, but for the most part these guys (and gals) are pretty fucked over. If the situation were reversed and these easy-goers ruled the world, anal-retentive time-keepers would be the ones clinging frantically to the edge of the gene-pool. God, I hate this planet and every dumb mother-fucker who thinks they own it. Give the place to me for a day and I'll show you just how thin the line is between mass extinction and mass suicide.

Time to change my depends,
Andrew