| i live in las vegas. i work for an airlines company and i go lots of places.
consider this an update. | comments: Leave a comment   |
| I wake up at 5:30, after a full nights sleep, ready for the day, only to find that the day isn't quite ready to begin. Daylight was in its infancy, that purple haze that clumsily turns a desert white hot in a mere hours as soon as the sun grows it's rays, and let's face it, most people in this city are just going to bed.
I laid down for two more hours, pretending to sleep and reading a book off and on. Eventually, I rose from bed and showered, slipped on my black dress pants and a black Gap shirt with tiny cobalt blue/purple stripes gridding their way towards my waist. I combed my hair. I brushed my teeth. I wiped my ass and smiled into the mirror and the mirror told me today my shit don't stink.
I took Morgans car back to the airport, feeding three hours worth of quarters into the parking meter, and making my way through the early morning maze of travelers, attempting to find this mythical "meeting room." I asked an old chineese lady who barely spoke any english, but she could point and I followed her finger, found the sign in table, and sat down with 25 other people in meeting room five, next to 25 other people in meeting room four, and so on and so forth.
One of those mass hiring seminars began and inside everyone's heart eyes rolled. They're telling you things about the company, making it sound really good, like you won't be doing a job, but you'll be having a blast. We fill out some forms and some airline snack food is passed out. Afterwards, the recruiter asked everyone to stand and present themselves and why they would like to work here, along with what they did at their previous job. 19 people's names were called and led out into the hallway.
The six of us remained, figuring that we were getting cut and they were off to bigger and better things, as if the job interview contained a log ride and we were all missing out on it. Eventually, the lady came back in and told us that we were ready for one on one interviews. We filled out forms, made copies of drivers licensces, high school diplomas and everything you can name.
My name was called last, and a football coach looking fellow led me to a small room where three people sat at a table and I occupied a lone chair facing them as if I had committed war crimes and must answer to the hague. The questioning began and they took turns, asking for specific examples of Jonathan Christian Reames at work. They said things like, "If we don't know who Jonathan Reames is by the end of this interview, chances are you wont make it." I think I gulped a lot in this interview, but I answered honestly, every question, figuring I wouldn't give them bullshit, rehearsed interview answers.
Afterwards, the same wiry man came out into the hall where i was waiting and led me to a different interview room. He turned around and looked somber and this is where I expected the thank you for applying and we will get in touch with you as soon as we can spiel. His mouth opened and different words came out of his mouth. He grabbed my hand and shook it and said congradulations. He said welcome to southwest airlines.
I was led to another room where I was given a form to take a drug test before monday, and they fingerprinted me and ran my motor vehicle record. Five of us were hired today.
Within a few weeks, I should be in training, and a few weeks after that I will have unlimited free flight benefits on southwest and 90% off tickets from other airlines. I think this all might just work out after all. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| I used to live in southern Arizona amongst a jagged landscape of bony mountains that spined high above a town that sat on a hill so high one could see for over thirty miles. The weekends would come and we'd load our backpacks and vanish into the cliffs and precipices for days on end, emerging with a mixed smell of sweat, campfires, and dust.
I'll never forget the day we were climbing down an old, dried waterfall that tumbled to the stream in the draw of the mountain. Slowly, I'd lower myself, ledge to ledge, tempting god and fate and the random weather patterns to prove something to myself. I dropped to one of the ledges, maybe half way down, and landed next to a rattlesnake that was approximately three feet long, coiled up and moving slowly. It raised its head, but its tail did not rattle, as if he knew that I would never hurt it, that I thought it was one of Gods most amazing creatures. I moved slowly, attempting to crawl down to the next level without stirring the black banded creature, and he watched as I left.
I radioed up to my friends that they should find a way around that particular ledge, and they walkie-talkied me back saying okay. Before I finally dropped from the rocky platform, I looked at him one more time, and a little rattle gave way. It was one of those days were there was a mutual appreciation, where one can look the devil in the eye and dab there toes in the lake of fire and walk away changed, with a greater knowledge of how good and evil collide and how beautiful the world really is.
Huachuca Mountain, from some distance
Sierra Vista/Ft. Huachuca AZ, as viewed from above
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| | Current Music: | Death Cab- Plans | | Subject: | Missoula | | Time: | 06:44 pm |
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| It was summer, but cool outside and you were talking to your mom on the telephone. She was inquisitively asking where we were, how our journey had progressed and if we had gotten tired of each other. You told her we were in Montanna, and that the state was beautiful. I listened to you talk and wished we could take this sky with us, lock it away in one of our bedroom closets and look at it whenever we needed to see the face of god.
We crossed a bridge, a very tiny one where a little stream meandered through some taller grasses that grew on it's banks. I looked at our atlas and told you that this is where the Missouri river begins, and you probably were thinking about New Orleans, and how we missed it on this trip. We didn't know it, but our chance for that city would be gone forever for two reasons: we broke each others hearts and the city was destroyed.
The interstate was glorious as we traversed the grassland. Thunderstorms formed in the rearview mirror miles and miles away, in the mountains that led to Idaho. Ahead, the sun shone and there was a breeze and we listened to Bob Dylan, on our way to Yellowstone National Park.
We were so happy then, perhaps at our happiest. There was nothing that could stop us and we felt that feeling only a teenager could feel while sitting on the beach for the first time finding their first vacation crush. Had I known that we were soon to end, merely under a year away, I would've camped out for the rest of our lives. Each river that we crossed slowly carried us further apart and we had no idea. At some point I should've looked at you and said Rebecca, please make me turn this car around. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| This is a story for those crystal eyes of yours. I drove out passed the airport to watch a plane leave this city and imagined myself tearing across the blowing tall-grass and latching on vehemently to the wheel that would take me to the undercarraige. The state would be a conveyor belt and my eyes would be peeled for your city to come around. I'd find a tarp or an emergency parachute and down I'd come, watching my shadow cover acre's, hoping it'd shield you from this particularly hot day and give you shade.
I'd land beside your open passenger door, and we'd leave our skins and broken hearts in a trash can at some gas station and go explore every country dirt road and jump into every pond and lake. Flowers would be picked and hands would be held and lives would be regained, spirits recovered, and this time we'd do it right, as if the very planets existence depended on our happiness (and it does).
State lines would be crossed and interstates would stretch until we couldn't drive any further. We'd evolve gills and keep driving. We'd start life anew, an underwater city where there would be no fears of floods or food shortages. When we'd kiss, oxygen bubbles would float to the surface, breaking beneath passing sailboats and letting everyone aboard know that our hearts are true. We'd make friends with fish and coral reefs and everything in between.
Or I'd hope you'd just catch me when I jumped out of the plane. Or, I'd just sit there and watch the plane leave. Maybe I'd just keep doors locked and keep my hands on the steering wheel and shift the gears to take me away from the airport. Driving home I'd whisper in your direction of a love so deep and true that can make the sunset and the stars appear.
I'd watch the plane travel beneath the one I'm wishing on, the bright one, up there, and maybe at the same time, you're somewhere in college town, outside and alone with an empty bottle looking up at the exact same moment, wondering about oceans, vacancy signs in front of hotels, and how close a silly boy is to going on an adventure, stowed and tucked beneath the wheel of a 747 that links our futures inseperably together. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| The highway stretches on. It goes over hills, around trees and across bridges with creeks flowing underneath them. I'm looking out the window at these half-second streams, flowing graciously through the Flint River Basin, finding themselves spilling, eventually, into an ocean as vast and larger than the human imagination.
I spend most of the trip looking at maps, obsessed with water and where it goes, wondering how does one become Huck and Tom in a modern world with dams, regulations, and bridges. I wouldn't know where to begin building a raft anyway. I can begin with a map, though. I can begin with a finger tracing little blue lines across counties with my mouth whispering secret desires of escape and freedom.
We're going through towns with histories proclaimed proudly from the tops of court houses that once hung blacks on the front lawn. Americus- Est. 1819. Quaint shops draw tourists in to buy various items unearthed at the Andersonville prison. It's to the North East of the city, and the creek that flows to the stream that flows to the river that flows to the ocean doesn't stink of shit and blood and urine. No more poverished soldiers place their lips in the mirk, drinking from each others torment.
I'm tracing the map, predicting with startling accuracy the exact distance to the next town, county, interstate, picnic table, creek, or rest stop. I panic when one is off. Sometimes I want to cry at you, oh beautiful state. Sometimes I want to cry for you, oh beautiful state.
The highway goes on, even though we're not holding hands. We're not glancing at each other over hills, across creeks and over bridges. You're not really talking either, just being beautiful and singing along and smiling for no reason. Instead of opening my mouth, I'm looking out the window at these half-second streams, flowing graciously through the Flint River Basin, finding themselves spilling, eventually, into an ocean as vast and larger than the human imagination. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| We stood at the end of the driveway staring at the sky, watching a cloud in the night, illuminated electricity blue by the moon behind it. I told her the best feeling in the world is right before a storm hits; the air is charged and humid and the tiny hairs only god can see all stand up in unison, displaying allegiance to the all powerful rule of nature.
Lightning flashed, casting everything in a deep blue light for what was no more than a quarter of a second. I told her that there was no thunder, that the lightning must be shooting up, instead of down, and that it was composed of alpha particles which creates more voltage than regular, standard lightning. She said she saw it, the skyward thrusts reaching towards outerspace and beyond, and just then, the slightest thunder rumbled from above.
I wondered if I should call the airport, to let them know that the lightning was shooting upward, and that it had a more positive charge. They could warn the airplanes not to land here, or fly above and ruin this sacred moment by a firey crash.
It felt like the end of the world and we were the only people on earth left to watch. It felt like starting over, alone and unafraid. I suppose it felt like hope, to see the storm come into view through the planeless sky. I told her that there was no greater feeling than this, and bit my bottom lip, wondering if she understood, curious to figure out if she even knew me at all. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| It's the shower and the water is everywhere, dripping down your hair, over your eyebrows, beading and falling to death in a drain. The hands you're trying not to look at, they're pressed up against the wall, bracing for the impact and preparing for the numbness, the heartache and the despair.
This isn't really a cleansing ritual, not anymore. This shower, it's not about salvation and it's not about change. It's not about shedding, molting, reinventing, or determination. It's about getting wet. It's about humiliation. This shower, it's about standing there naked waiting for the hot water that's punishing your body to run out. It's about how long you can stand the cold once the steam subsides.
Later, a quick swipe of the glass reveals the face that only fog can hide in the darkest of times. The future could reach out and grab you at any moment. It could pull your eyes so close to the mirror. It could clutch your throat until your vessels constrict and every fiber that create's those blue irises turns blood fucking red and explode. Tomorrow could take it's naked hand and slap you in the face so hard your lip could bleed. The unknown could grab your head and smash it into the faucet or take that razor next to the sink and make you really fucking pretty.
These are things that you accept when you stare at yourself for long periods of time. These are the things temperature change and water bring about. This is about drowning in your sleep at your most wide awake moment. This is the murder of your spirit and the slaying of your soul. Tomorrow, it's a fucking pipe dream, and all that water that knows more about you than any girl ever has follows it down those tubes and steams the fires of hell.
Your knuckles, they're still white when you start to get dressed. Your lips bleeding when you snap out of it. Worst of all, you're still naked and standing there, staring yourself in your bloodshot eyes. | | comments: 4 comments or Leave a comment |
| I'm wearing a bright red hawaiian shirt with green and blue flowers randomly patterned across the material and a ten gallon cowboy hat with a pure white bird feather poking out of the side. It's early, but it feels late, and it feels the kind of late where you just dont want to be there anymore, where you don't care to see anyone or anything ever again. It's the kind of late where the building may burn down, but instead of running out, you just hold on to a bottle of 151 rum and croon old country songs to the beat of the flames.
I'm wearing a bright red hawaiian shirt and this incredibly rich lawyer is telling me how good I look in it, how he's never seen me where bright colors, and that it goes with my new haircut. He asks for a Jack Daniels and a coke, and he tells me he would like a squeeze of lime on the side, and the sick feeling washes over me that he would like me on the side, that he would like any boy on the side right now. He tells me he likes a squeeze of lime, but his wife probably doesn't know he's really into fruit.
In the background, two fake lesbians are arguing about their fake relationship. In the background, the owner is trying to balance a conversation on his cellphone, a business, two conversations, and getting laid that night. In the background, Dick Dale kicks the reverb in on the guitar and goes to town. In the background, the clock only says 9:45.
In the background, depression sets in.
There's a moment, a lull in time where I've got a second, a half-minute at most, and I grab a cigarette even though I don't smoke. I walk outside and cross the median to the fountains that sprayed green just last week and light and puff on cancer and listen to the birds singing about how they want to fuck each other silly and lay eggs. One of the customers sees me and begins a drunken walk over, shuffling like a zombie, head hanging to the side, feet dragging across the street and a little bit of spittle on the edge of his chapped lips.
You're hoping for a semi-truck in the right lane he's crossing. You're hoping for an asteroid, a plane crash, a falling coconut, but he's getting closer and closer, determined to ruin my one fucking moment of peace I've had the entire day. Damn fucking determined.
I toss my cigarette into the fountain and run by the zombie and a moment passes where he registers what just happened. By the time he turns around, I'm in the door, and I'm wearing a red hawaiian shirt that's brighter than the mood I'm in. Drunken people hug me and tell me that they'll love me forever, conditionally, if they can just have one more drink. They all tell me how much they love me, but this isn't real at all. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| It was Highway 14 and it didn't seem to have a purpose. The road wound over the flatness of Wyoming and we held hands and did little things to pass the time, guestimating how far away the mountains were and playing games with the clouds.
Every few minutes we'd pass a house with some rusting farm equipment outside on the lawn as if it were an underfunded historical marker reminiscing of better times, or we'd pass a car, usually with someone tapping their hands on the steering wheel or eating a snack; like us, they were doing anything to break the tedium. But it was a beautiful tedium. We broke the monotony by holding hands and we guessed how far away the mountains were.
She pointed to the large building on the left and asked me why all of those planes were sitting around outside of it. They appeared rusted and gutted, smaller jets from friendlier skies and simpler times and I told her that I thought it was a graveyard, or a nursing home for airplanes, or really anywhere things just wound up dead or dying. She grabbed my hand and smiled, looked into my eyes and said 33.6 miles away. The mountains were that far.
****
We came to a small town with one stoplight and turned left. It was a Sunday and businesses were closed and we felt like the last people on earth. She was digging through the backseat, making a sandwich and digging through the cooler when we passed the sign that said population 50. I read it aloud but she didn't hear me. Instead of repeating it, I told her that we just went through the smallest town I'd ever been through. She said she doubted that and she squeezed my hand three times and bit into her ham-sandwich.
40.7 miles outside of Cody, Wyoming, Rodeo Capitol of the World, we made it into the mountains and held our breath as we drove into a new world of mystery.
****
We came into a canyon with brown historical signs informing us that the walls were made of rock that was 3.2 billion years old, and numerous fossils have been discovered right where we were. I thought how it was funny that this ancient site, this testament of time where life could have originated or ended, was stripped bare of people, that they congregated and settled miles and miles away, except for the 50 that called the base home.
I kept hoping we'd round a corner and a big stegosaurus would block our path with a little yellow road sign that read "dino crossing" directly in front of it. Like a three year old boy, I flipped through my mental index of species, wondering how well a T-rex would weather this unforgiving climate, or analytically reasoning if velociraptors could climb and use their big toes to move up sheer rock.
Or maybe this was a rain forest, and the same cataclysmic geologic catastrophe that eradicated these thunder lizards was the same one that uplifted all of these mountains, making it arid and dry and that much closer to God.
Or maybe it was a giant lake, or an ocean, and sharks as long as trains glided effortlessly through the canyon, eroded by currents and the driving force of salty ocean water. My giant sharks, they ate plankton of course. My giant sharks ate plankton and seaweed and plants, because the world was perfect back then.
****
Up the road and through the canyon a little ways, we peaked and crested the top wall and came to a little roadside park nestled into the side of a curve. It was on the side of the road with the canyon on it and one day erosion or God would send it careening 400 feet below. In the meantime, we stopped to use their restrooms while the stream meandered, downcut, and sliced into the rocks below.
A park ranger was giving a class to tourists about geology and how the waterfall that was down the path is relatively new and young. It didn't look like anyone was listening; the kids were staring at the green pants and brown hat, dreaming of the curious future that bared the title "ranger;" the adults were watching the kids, certain that on this very trip one of them would climb the safety fence and nose-dive into the torrential waters far below; and the elderly, they just fanned themselves, silently complaining of the heat. I felt sorry for the ranger, that nobody was paying attention to him. Park Rangers are always nice people because it's a law of the universe. This person, probably number 36 out of 50 from the town below, came from a long ancestry of caring people. People that lived in these mountains and fed giant sharks lettuce.
I asked him if there were dinosaurs here and he said that they were all around us. He said these mountains contained secrets, the keys to unlock the mysteries of the universe and prehistoric past. I really enjoyed the concept of mountains having the ability to keep secrets. These mountains had kept secrets for 3.3 billion years. Later, in the car, passing some free-roaming cows that never knew the dangers of giant sharks, I told her that when I died, I wanted to be fossilized in a mountain instead of being buried. She asked if I had any secrets and I told her that if I did, I want the world to know in 3.3 billion years if the sun hasn't exploded yet.
We crossed the divide and grass and trees and hills replaced the craggy, brown canyon we had just been through. We rolled down the windows and counted cows and I asked her to figure out how far it was to Gillette. She said 93 miles and I looked at the gas gage and smiled. I blew and kiss into the mirror and told the dinosaurs to never reveal their secrets, not to anyone for anything.
We followed highway 14, purposeless and curvy and steep right through the Big Horn Mountains and straight into the future. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| Some nights thinking about you is like trying to handle a bad memory, like it were broken glass and the only gloves I had were thin, surgical, and latex; clearly the wrong tools necessary for the job at hand. At one point, I thought I had cleaned up the broken pieces from the floor, the big ones that look jagged and pointed, and I threw them away, and I dealt with them accordingly. Yet, ever so often, there is the tiniest shard, seemingly naked to the human eye, that gets under my skin and grinds away at my insides with each and every aggrivating heartbeat. There's never any blood, and the wound appears clean, but I assure you, infection is growing and running rampant. My immune system is weakening, my lungs and head are equally cloudy and medicine and doctors are far too costly for a disease of which there is no cure.
I struggle with recollection and sorting facts, confusing the times I felt the most alive with the times I wanted to die. The sun would cradle and warm the other side of the planet, and my arm would slip into the nest between your breasts and your belly button, smooth skin for smooth sleeping, and it felt like angels in heaven were encircling us the whole night. I never closed off my smile and opened my eyes realizing these satyrs, ugly, nasty and snarling, were writing and scripting to the finest detail a screenplay of classic disaster. But this is the way it has to be, struggling and sorting through the facts, confusing the times I wanted to die with the ones I felt alive and figuring out which one is assigned all of the regret.
I never thought in a million years that I'd be as lifeless as everyone else. I couldn't fathom in a thousand thoughts that I'd be as hopeless and lost as the rest of humankind. Out of all of the bad memories, the worst are the ones that have made me so fucking ordinary. I'll never be set apart. I'll never be the lone hero. With my eyes open and my mouth closed, I'm a prisoner of the past. That's something you just have to deal with. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| Let's start with From First to Last shall we? Eh? yes, yes? Apparently, these boys were too young to realize that there a.) has already been a Motley Crue and b.) the aforementioned Motley Crue does a better job at glamming it up. Chalk this band up to yet another group in girls jeans and eyeliner desperately and painstakingly embarrassing themselves on a nightly basis. I did enjoy one or two songs, scattered about like life preservers through their atrocious set, but for the most part, I was bored and went and bought a six dollar beer.
Anticipation held the audience captivate as a small cheer erupted while Rise Against's banner was elevated high above the Roxy Theater's stage. The band took the stage without some flashy introduction song ripped off from a Tarintino flick (Cough Cough, ala TTHW). They simply strapped on their instruments, and rocked the fuck out. The band decidedly "punked it up" last night, playing more of their fast paced, anger inducing medleys and drawing largely from the Revolutions Per Minute CD. Throwing one or two songs from Unraveling in for good measure, and punctuating the set with the best of Siren Song of the Counter Culture, Rise Against performed superbly and it was perhaps the best I have ever seen them.
Finally, Bad Religion raped some assholes. They were tearing it up on stage, playing for well over an hour with all the oooooohhhhh's and ahhhhhh's included. As the show opened up with the new Sinister Rouge, the pit became a frenzy of torn t-shirts, fat guys with nothing better to do but throw their weight around, and me, somewhere underneath all of the rest. Bad Religion delved deep into their repitoire, pulling out the title track to 1989's Suffer and a myriad of other earlier songs. The skate anthem "You" was the direct cause of an intense fluctuation of crowd-surfing, 16-year old shirtless skater kids, while the radio friendly 21st Century Digital Boy surprised fans all over the theater.
Riding home, I told my friend Jeremy in the car (after passing a mr. adam toomey in Madison GA at the Pilot Gas Station!) that its sad that BR and RA took From First to Last on tour with them. There has to be so much pressure to open for two of the best bands in punk rock while being cheeseball screamo guys trying to over compensate for whatever they're lacking. Terrific Show. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| Last night I made the trek to Athens for a special purpose. Though Rebecca is entirely worth the 96 mile drive in and of herself, it takes a little mmphh to get me going up there on a night when both football and WWE Monday Night Raw grace my television screens. So what could have provoked this random field trip? What intrigue dotted the question mark ever-circling that brain within my head? Was it a concert, was Michael Stipe holding a press conference? Did the Georgia Bulldogs schedule a random game?
No. I needed to know something. Something more severe than anything I have ever learned. A threat more deadly than any danger I heard of in Military Intelligence School. I needed to know how to protect myself in case a Class IV Zombie outbreak caught the ill-prepared United States by surprise.
Max Brooks, author of The Zombie Survival Guide, gave a very detailed lecture on what to do in case "the dead should rise." Pulling a man from the audience, we learned the proper swing action and stance one should use for close combat in an open area utilizing a Samurai Katana blade. We learned how to use a machete to let a zombie decapitate itself should you be trapped in a small hallway. We learned the importance of bicycles and avoiding hospitals and police stations and gun shops. We learned to keep hope alive.
Buy this book. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| | Current Music: | Three The Hard Way- It Ends Today | | Subject: | song tra bong | | Time: | 11:11 pm | | Current Mood: | ![[mood icon]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/mood/nolegs/amused.gif) amused |
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| http://www.purevolume.com/threethehardway
here is a rough cut of a song off of our upcoming CD. we havent mixed and mastered it yet, so the drums and vocals are a little loud, but you get the idea.
feel free to click on some of the pictures and peruse the purevolume site as well. old school hardcore mother fuckers. | | comments: Leave a comment |
| | Current Music: | Cradle of Filth- Nemphetamine | | Subject: | CD Release Party 1 | | Time: | 08:12 pm | | Current Mood: | ![[mood icon]](http://l-stat.livejournal.com/img/mood/nolegs/excited.gif) excited |
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CD Release Show October 16th, Augusta Georgia, Hangnail Gallery, 8:00pm
with special guests The Decrepits, Sick Sick Sick, and the bad boys of rockabilly, The Three Bad Jacks. Come one, come all and show some love. | | comments: 1 comment or Leave a comment |
| Well, as usual, the birthday sucked. Brad and Julie bought me dinner at Vallarta's and then I went down to the Tiki Bar where Jeremy showed up, and sat around and talked. I told a lot of people about it, but i guess everyone has better things to do.
It does beat having a birthday in Kuwait though, thats for god damned sure.
There was some independent movie premier last night at this trendy little bar, so I'm sure everyone went there.
Rebeck came up and that was way mondo cool. anyhow.
on a scale of 1-10, B-day 22 was about a 4. Surprise. | | comments: 4 comments or Leave a comment |
| | Current Music: | Zao- The Funeral of God | | Subject: | Let's Talk | | Time: | 11:57 am | | Current Mood: | amused |
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| He taps me awake and I'm on his couch, hungover.
Right when you wake up, and the television is on, and the news anchorman is talking into the camera, he could be saying anything. A meteorite crashed into Madison Square Garden, killing millions in the city. He could tell me that the stock market has just crashed and people in expensive business suits are diving into a concrete swimming pool from their high-rise office buildings. He would say, and now for a tragic story. He would say, our eyes are on America, thank you and good day.
He taps me awake and I'm on his couch, hungover and the anchorman is talking. This is where I should've been listening, watching with precision eyes and fine-tuned ears and hanging on everyword, but I'm hungover.
Later, we climb into his new car, a 1971 Pontiac Catalina, that can only scream, "this car is so Brad Owens," at the top of its lungs. He and I, Brad, we're what you would call the best of friends and we dont bother opening the doors on the cropped-top car, we just jump in the sides and he says we're going to see some friends of his that work at a radio station. The car roars to life and quiets to a purr, the car is shifted into gear, and with our hair blowing and the wind in our face, we can't help but feel wonderful.
So he tapped me awake and I was on his couch, hungover, and now we're at a radiostation, WNRR, "winner," AM 1230, and we're talking politics and what not with Brads friends. And we get offered a job. We get offered our own talk radio show. We're on the air from 3-4pm. We have complete creative control over the show, "Politically Motivated with Brad Owens and Jon Reames."
I'm hungover and sore from lying on his couch, unshaven and smelling like death and rum, and I have a new job. | | comments: Leave a comment |
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