Is it ever too late to start over? Is it ever to late to forgive? Is it ever too late to find someone? Is it ever too late to begin? Is it ever too late to be early? Is it ever too late to relive? Is it ever too late to ask for help? Is it ever too late to believe? Is it ever too late to find God? Is it ever too late to lose Him?
From the onset of the Reality Show boom, I recognized their disgusting nature. I immediately spotted the blatant themes of greed and selfishness. Those who do not mind being exploited by the show's producers and those who display shameful conduct and attitudes for the sake of money or publicity do not receive either my attention or sympathy. However, there are those, such as the criminals caught on reality show's like The First 48 who are having their dignity taken from them without their consent. This is WRONG!!! Punishment for breaking the law is incarceration, probation or whatever punishment a judge or jury determines will fit the crime. To strip one of his or her dignity simply for the sake of television ratings that amount to profits is disgusting, shameful, and exploitation at its worst. Airing the story of these criminals goes way beyond humiliation of the accused. The family of these criminals must now bear the burden of public shame and humiliation so that John Q. American can be entertained and television moguls like Rupert Murdoch can further line their pockets at the expense of others. I do not object to shows like America's Most Wanted, that air the crimes of uncaught perpetrators. Once caught, there is no need for anyone to profit from their activities I will continue my boycott of exploitative, reality shows that fill the public's thirst for watching the failings and shame of others. I would rather be up-built by the programs I watch.
When comparing Q.V, an "industrious metropolis" to say, Nashua, NH, a "Monied Burb", I notice immediately the ratio of Whites to Blacks and other races. The monied burbs are predominantly white, whereas 46% of the population of Queens Village is Black, 25% is Hispanic and 33% is White. Whereas the Burbs have a "highly educated" status, nearly a quarter of the population of QV lacks a high school diploma and over half lack a college degree. The median income in the monied burbs is somewhat higher.
When I saw you this morning with tears in your eyes, I knew what had to be done. The coldness crept into our lives through the cracks so I bought a new caulking gun.
Since the day that you left I can honestly say, my life is increasingly sadder. There's only one thing that can lift me up... a fiberglass extension ladder.
They're singing the Home Depot Waltz, Past the hand tools, the nuts, and the bolts. They dance down the aisle, look upward and smile, And price: Some new ceiling tile
All the pictures and things that remind me of you, I tossed in my new garbage can. The way that life spins round and round makes me think... of getting that new ceiling fan.
The house is so dark and so cold since you left; I'm overcome with desperation. What I need to brighten and warm up my life is a mag-light and new insulation.
They're singing the Home Depot Waltz, Get some Spackle to patch up the walls. A gallon of lacquer, perhaps a weedwacker, and a rake... To use in the fall.
I'm not the same fella that I used to be, I've become older and wiser. now the grass ain't so green on this side of the fence... it's time to go buy fertilizer.
My credit card's maxed I don't know what to do, I've gone broke after only one week. but just one more stop is what I have to make... Cause my lawnmower's starting to squeak.
They're singing the Home Depot Waltz, Get a handsaw and 3 two by fours. A gas powered edger, a twelve-foot tape measure, And paint... To use for the door.
With some 50% of all psychologists specializing in either the Clinical or Counseling divisions, it is no small wonder that before my eighteenth birthday I had already had intimate dealings with both. By the time I entered high school, my mother’s depression had snowballed into full-blown schizophrenia. It was then that I was introduced to the world of Clinical psychologists. They were now at work trying to figure out what was causing her mental illness. Was it related to her Thyroid operation? Was it related to the grapefruit-sized tumor removed from the base of her skull? Was it due to her husband’s constant verbal and emotional abuse? Was it heredity, seeing that both her mother and eldest son were mentally ill? Sadly, thirty years later, the cause of my mother’s illness remains a mystery. While I was attending high school, my mother was turned over to the wonderful world of psychiatry, complete with its barbaric shock-treatments and mind-numbing drugs. For an adolescent like me, this was emotionally overwhelming. I began to hate my father, blaming him for my mom’s condition. I thus began rebelling against his authority, and then all authority. I started drinking alcohol, doing drugs, and fighting (not necessarily in that order). My grades reflected my attitude, and I started getting into serious trouble in school. It was then that I was introduced to a Counseling psychologist at my high school. It was in her office that my tears poured out, and it was there that I voiced my anguish and unloaded my burdens. The counselor’s advice now seems trite and elementary to me. To a dysfunctional, fifteen year old kid, however, her counsel struck a deep chord, and made a world of difference. I was convinced that I needed to keep separate the things going on at home and the things in my own life. I learned that my mother’s problems, my father’s problems, and my brother’s problems were not my problems. I had to go on and work toward my goals without letting my family issues impede my progress. My goal ever since has been to protect my own sanity. Years later, I sought the help of a different counseling psychologist to help me deal with the loss of my father. Those sessions were short-lived, however, because I never truly felt comfortable with that particular psychologist.
You got the nerve to ask me how I'm dooin'; You say I look like somethin' that the wind just blew in. The things you say. they really got me stewin'
I'm tired of the garbage that your mouth keeps spewin', Why don't you go crawl back into the womb you grew in And ask your mother hey mamma how you dooin'?
The bible says that god will only let a few in, What makes you so damn certain that he will let you in. And if he did.. would you say "how you dooin'?"
I think we should pray... Pray for the day... When no one will say.... HOW YOU DOOIN'.
Your bookie said to you that your horse was a shoe in, It finished in last place and now you are a-ruein'. All of a sudden you feel trouble brewin'.
Now you find that your investments aint a-crewin'. You're left with nothin' so you sit home boo-hoo hoooin" So how'd you like it. if I said, "how YOU dooin'?".
You weren't careful with the girl you were a-screwin', Now there's a newborn baby that you are goo goooin'. For palimony... and custody she's suein".
I think we should pray... Pray for the day... When no one will say.... HOW YOU DOOIN'.
Just like a heard of cattle when they are a mooin', They know that in a minute you'll be bar-b-que-in'. Their hips and shoulders they know that you'll be chewin'
Back in Paris all the French are parlevouin', In South America the rebels are a coup-in'. In New York City... they all say, "how you dooin'?"
I think we should pray... Pray for the day... When no one will sav.... HOW YOU DOOIN'.
I...... I hear your motor running I...... I see trouble's coming. Trouble comes in several ways, in different shapes and sizes. It last for days and often stays and never compromises
I...... I know that you're real cunning I...... know its for me your gunning. I hear the cries and realize your prophesied demise I stare bug-eyed, no where to hide, and become paralyzed.
There's trouble in Paradise, (beware of talkin' snakes) There's trouble in paradise, (its all for Heaven''s sake)
I..... I feel your body burning. I..... know its for me your yearning
It stands you up it sits you down it bends you over backwards. Demands your time, will tantalize, will likely leave you mangled.
There's trouble in Paradise, (Look out for talking snakes) There's trouble in Paradise, (It's all for heavens' sake)
Why must it seem,like we're swimming upstream? There was a time, we were a pretty good team. But now that I find, I find you're leaving me behind, You say that you tried, but that was only a lie.
And now you're off with the tide; and your sails are opened wide (Well, you can kiss that baby good-bye)
We should be, like lovebirds in a tree Instead of two ships, that were passin', on the sea. Now I feel deaf, dumb and blind, cuz I can't recognize, The wools pulled over my eyes, I can't see through your disguise.
Now you're off with the tide, your sails are opened wide. (So you can kiss that baby good-bye.)
We really need, there's something we all need, let me tell you, just exactly, what we need. Time we need time, and maybe we will find, the solutions, on which we, all agree.
Now don't cry and wonder why, when you're left high and dry. (Just kiss that baby good-bye!)
I close the door behind me, take a deep breath, and take two steps down into a peaceful courtyard. Looking to the right I see the vacant park benches where the old folks sit when it’s warm enough. There’s nobody outside on this dank, April morning except one courageous squirrel and a couple of hungry robins looking for their breakfast. . I say “hello” to my neighbor, a grandfather from Sri Lanka whose 5-syllable name I can never remember. Turning to my left I see 88th Ave, a curved road lined with maple trees and cars of every color including my black Buick. The trees are now suddenly filled with green leaves. When did that happen… last night? I walk past my car, cursing the damn bird that dropped a giant turd on my windshield. Taking a shortcut through the 2-story buildings that make up my co-op development, I chuckle at the sight of a “No Trespassing” sign. Ha, I’m finally not a trespasser. I hope somebody stops me to ask why I’m on private property. My destination is my mom’s house on 219th Street, the house I grew up in.
Queens Village has been my home for 37 of the 44 years that I’ve been alive. The streets and houses within its square blocks serve as a photo album filled with snapshots of my life. Another shortcut takes me past a row of green garage doors. I spot John Gunther’s old apartment. I notice the window of the tiny bedroom where I stayed for two weeks when I got kicked out of my house. This shortcut lands me right in front of my brother’s house. I had lived there for fourteen years until I bought my new place in February. I wonder how my nieces are, if there’s any mail for me, and why I haven’t yet started up the motorcycle that I’m keeping in his garage. Mom’s house is only four blocks away. I’ve decided to take the “scenic route” so I can see the old neighborhood. A middle-aged man is walking back from the store with his Sunday paper. An old, sickly-looking man is walking an old, sickly-looking dog. Technically, this is New York City. You wouldn’t know it from this morning’s tranquility. Even Springfield Blvd., a main road, is unusually quiet today. Passing by the chain of Mom & Pop stores brings back many memories. It also accentuates the subtle, yet obvious changes that the neighborhood has undergone. Neil’s Drug Store, Charlie’s Deli, Malley’s Candy Store, Downey’s Bar and Sam’s Cleaners are now a bodega, Nail Salon, Real Estate office, Laundromat and another bodega. What’s wrong with this picture? What happened to this place? Am I the only one left?
While feeling that the neighborhood has lost its charm and character, I continue down Springfield. People aren’t looking me in the eyes when I pass them. Moreover, they seem surprised when I offer a greeting. Throughout my walk I’ve been noticing new houses, all bland, square, brick structures with no personality or character. Our Lady of Lourdes (my old school) doesn’t appear to have changed at first glance. Something’s missing… The schoolyard’s empty… Where are all the kids? Why isn’t anybody playing stickball, football, hopscotch, or just riding bikes? I think of all the fun I had in this schoolyard. I remember the games, the fights and the random mischief. The big church has not changed on the outside either. A few people in jeans enter it, followed by three gray-haired ladies in dresses. The Q-27 drops off some more churchgoers, and then lumbers by as I make my way down to Jamaica Ave.
When I was a kid, going down to Jamaica Ave was called “going to the Village”. There was a certain “flavor” to the Village that I can no longer detect. The once magnificent Queens Theatre, for example, has been abandoned for years. In the early 70’s, the town united to protest the changing of the theatre’s films to porn. They not only stopped showing porn, they stopped showing everything. It remains boarded up to this day. Woolworth, Kitty’s Pizza, and Winter’s Ice Cream Parlor have been replaced by a 99-cent store, a Car Service, and one of those storefront churches. The city actually did a nice job restoring “the Plaza”. What was once a seedy hangout for druggies is now a tidy, memorial park dedicated to local war veterans. The once familiar flavor of the neighborhood might be gone, but it appears to have been replaced with an assortment of new and exciting flavors.
Queens Village has become enormously multi-ethnic. On this particular day, I pass by Haitians, Jamaicans, Filipinos, Puerto Ricans, Indians, Portuguese, Chinese, Koreans, Mexicans, just to mention a few. I like the diversity. Still, I sense something is a tad askew. On my walk, I couldn’t help but notice how everyone seems to be on his or her own little mission. Nobody seems to have time to deviate from what they’re intent on doing. Despite being crowded, I see little interaction between neighbors. As I watch the Village come alive on this day, I daydream of organizing a big Multi-Ethnic Festival on Jamaica Ave. It’s time to put QV back on the map! Let’s get everyone together and bring back The Village! I turn right on 218th Street. Here are more brick boxes. Disgraceful! Can they make these houses any more hideous? A few homeowners are out doing yard work. There are a couple kids riding their bikes on the sidewalk. Ha! We never had to wear those stupid looking helmets. The snapshots of my childhood continue to present themselves. I pass the old homes of old friends, teenage hangouts and our old football field next to the library. I pick up the plethora of advertisements from mom’s stoop, walk up the driveway, take out my keys, and go inside the house of my childhood
Something in my personality prevents me from getting excited about future events. In 3 days I'll most likely be on a beautiful, tropic beach. I know I should be stoked, but I've actually given the trip very little thought. I have not packed, have not made a list of supplies or other things to bring. In my mind, until the plane touches down in Nassau, I am not excited. What the fuck is wrong with me. Part of the fun of a vacation is the anticipation, the planning, the daydreaming. I deny myself of pleasure by being skeptical that everything will go right. I feel that there are too many things that can prevent a trip from being successful. What nonsense!!! That's it! From this moment on, I am EXCITED!!! I'm going to the BAHAMAS!!! I'll be swimming in turquoise colored water! I will be walking hand in hand on an exquisite beach with my beautiful girlfriend. I'll be watching the sun come up. We'll be watching the sun go down. I can't wait!!!
In comparing the two essays: Shrouded in Contradiction by Gelareh Asayesh and An Identity Reduced to a Burka by Marayati & Issa, I found a big difference in approach and attitude. "Shrouded" is one woman's struggle with the mixed emotions of wearing traditional Islamic garb. Asayesh longs for the days when women in Tehran could choose what they would wear. She is somewhat rebellious because she does not like being told she must, when the men can wear what they please. In "Burka", the authors are taking a defensive stand against western perception and stereotyping of Islamic women, especially when it comes to wearing "the veil". "The press tends to view Muslims...simplistically", is their claim. They resent the Western world's "obsession" with the "the veil" and the misconception that the only reason Muslim women wear their religious clothes is out of obedience to the powers that be. Throughout the Islamic world, however, the opposite is true. Some Islamic nations such as Turkey view it as rebellious. According to Marayati & Issa, more importance should be placed not on what a woman wears, but "by the dedication, knowledge, and skills she brings to the task at hand". Both essays are educational for a person unfamiliar to the stories behind the Burka and hijab (Islamic covering). "Shrouded" is simply one woman's peeve, and an and the other is more of a rant filled with a brief historical lesson and hostile defense against stereotyping Muslim women.
When the medical examiner asked me if I wanted an autopsy done on my dad, I declined. I already knew what killed him. Stress was the cause of death! The man was carrying the world on his shoulders. His oldest son was mentally ill and a gigantic pain in the ass. His wife became mentally ill at a time when he needed her the most. He was the only one of his 4 brothers taking care of his elderly mother. I am so afraid of all that happening to me. maybe that's why I am not married and have no children. I hate stress and am deathly afraid of it.
Chang-Rae Lee wrote about the problems facing a Korean Immigrant family in New Rochelle. His mother, despite great efforts to learn how to communicate in English is traumatized when she accidentally orders ox-tails in her native tongue. It made me realize how insensitive I and other "Americans" can be to the plight of foreigners. Lee understands why that may be, but reflects on his mother's frustration and fear about speaking in English. Essays like this and those by Naylor, Tan, et al are helping me to be more aware of the feelings exprienced by those struggling to fit in to a society that I've always been comfortable with.
As I walked to the store with my friend's 13 yr. old son, I said very little, but listened very much. When I did speak, it was with the thought of teaching, correcting and encouraging. Would I communicate the same way with my brother, mother, co-worker, or professor? Of course not! Throughout our days, we speak to various people. Young, old, male, female, rich, poor, etc...Should we speak the same way to everyone? I believe NOT. With each audience comes a different objective. Am I trying to: Teach? Empathize? Persuade? Impress? Amuse? Entertain? Acquiesce? Since words have power to influence, they should be carefully crafted in respect to their target. It would be foolish to speak to everybody in the same fashion.
It was delivered promptly, wrapped it aluminum foil and still hot. $4.95, not a bad deal, I guess. I let it sit a while, then put it on a plate. I took it with both hands and tore one end apart from the other, as cheese was acting like some sort of delicious epoxy. I took a bite, tasting the dough and a slight accent of garlic. I pulled my mouth away, taking some of the main ingredient with it. I reminded myself (as I always do when I eat this particular item) to check my teeth for the green residue that always seems to get lodged between them. Too bad Popeye the Sailor didn't live long enough to experience this delicacy. He just ate it straight from the can. But Italian Affair mixes it with cheese and garlic and bakes it in Pizza dough.
If the world, or big parts of it, did not thwart the Nazi threat, where would it be today? War, because of the world we live in and the place in time we are, is a necessary evil. Most wars are avoidable and unnecessary, the result of greed, imperialism, or just plain insanity. Nations, therefore, need to defend themselves, and governments need to protect it's citizens. Personally, I wish there were no wars at all. I happened to be born at the perfect time. I turned 18 in 1978. Vietnam had just ended and there was no imminent threat. No need to draft. No need to enlist. You certainly wouldn't find me enlisting in order to fight for something I don't believe in, nor understand.
Naylor came to understand the word "nigger" in different ways. When young the word was spoken among blacks casually and could be positive or negative. Although the word was spoken in front of her dozens of times, she claims to have never "heard" it until it was used as a slur against her in 3rd grade. Naylor writes: "Words themselves are innocuous; it is the consensus that gives them true power". By itself, a word such as nigger should have no lasting impact. If a group unitedly agrees (consensus) that it is derogatory, then , when slung in a harmful way the word gains "power". Interestingly, Naylor is not an advocate for ousting the word from our syntax. She reasons that it would still be on the "white mind" regardless. She also believes that use of the word among blacks, when used within the "rules" of language, renders the negative aspect of it "impotent". In Naylor's view, her black peers have "transformed" the word "nigger" to where it represents the complexity and varied nature of black people. Coming through loud and clear, however, is the negative impact it could have on someone not understanding the true nature of the expression (as she sees it).
Looking back at photos of my youth, I looked like a thin kid. For some reason, I developed a little hang up about being fat. A kid named David McDonald once made a comment about me being pudgy and I felt like crying.. Later, this kid, Anthony, a major ball-breaker who had a derogatory nickname for everyone, would call me Blobert, or Blob, or Blobby. I hated that! Now, I look back and laugh because, let's face it, it's funny as hell. At the time I would cringe. To this day, I am very aware of my weight and the size of my belly. I'll say I'm fat, others think I'm nuts.
These two pieces center around the term "nigger", (which for the time being I am allowed to say). Both writers have specific occurrences where the word is used as a hurtful slur. Both were rather young at the time and both were affected in a profound way. it's hard to compare the two works, since Cullen's is a very brief, poetic account containing no background or reflection. Naylor reasons that the term has been transformed by her black peers to represent the uniqueness and complexity of the black people she knows. Naylor also seems less bothered, experiencing more confusion than anything. Both works, do show the poignant emotional effects that words, when meant to scar, can have.
So far in my English class, we've heard from, Black men, Jewish women, Native American men, West Indian women, Indian woman Latin Women, African woman oh I forgot...Shelby was a white man, and so was Paul Theroux but I can't relate to any one of these authors. At the same time I can relate to all of them. They are all human beings with mother's, lovers, vises, and opinions. I am benefiting from the assortment of writers. It helps us to get along as neighbors. I didn't like Theroux, he sounded pretentious and bitter. I want to be able to understand everybody.
i'M WHITE, AN YES, i CAN'T DANCE. If I've been stereotyped, it happened behind my back. Of course there is some truth to many stereotypes. As time goes on, and generations come and go...so do the stereotypes. Generalizing is closely related to stereotyping. It is dangerous, IGNORANT even, to generalize. Jews are cheap! Blacks are lazy! White people have no rhythm. Asians can't drive! Women belong in the kitchen! Irish people are Drunks! Polish people are stupid! Italians are into Organized crime! Germans are Nazis! Men are insensitive! Within every group, culture, race, genre, whatever... there are those who have these qualities and those who don't. It's a slippery slope to stereotype, especially in this age of "Political Correctness"
I finally got to view Dog Day Afternoon in it's entirety.
What was all the fuss about? A cinematic masterpiece, that's what. Amazing performances by an intense and convincing Al Pacino as Sonny Wortzig, and John Cazale as Sal, his accomplice. Based on a true story, this film has you riveted to the screen, using New York City, or more specifically, Brooklyn as a 'Best Supporting Actor'.
From it's compelling direction, to it's hysterical dialogue, Dog Day leads you through a maze of emotions-drama, comedy, and the timeless social issues as police brutality, gay-rights, and the human desire for 15 minutes of fame. My only problem with the film was the uncharacteristic act of Sonny to betray his friend and partner. The real-life Wortzig, as I later found out, protested this inclusion as being false to the story.
Regardless, this film has certainly stood the test of time and makes one yearn for the days when a film could prosper on a diet of great acting, an interesting story, and great directing.
If you asked me a year ago what I'd be doing in 5 years, I would have have said "more of the same". At this time, my goals have changed dramatically. I have a new partner who I would love to spend the rest of my life with. I have a new career path, Nursing, which I've just begun to pursue. I have a new home, a Co-op, that I've just moved into and have just begun to decorate. So, in a nutshell, in 10 years I hope to be a competent and caring nurse, living in comfort and good health with my loving wife, spending our time off traveling to new and exciting places.
"Irrigation Technician" is a fancy title for a Sprinkler Guy. Early spring is the busiest time for any Sprinkler company. It was at this time I got hired by the biggest one on Long Island. The man who hired me said I was overqualified but I told him I was willing to start at the bottom and learn this "skill". My first day was spent assisting a guy whose name I have successfully forgotten. He was a total bullshit artist, a horrible driver, and just an all-around moron who didn't know his ass from his elbow. Our job was to do spring start-ups. We were given what seemed like a hundred customers and had to clear the sprinkler heads of the grass that had enveloped them. You had to check every "zone" so you'd run the sprinklers and make adjustments, or replace broken hoses and heads. There was incentive to charge the customer for replacing broken heads, so this asshole would purposely break them.I requested another partner. So true is the expression, "be careful what you wish for". The next guy was a total douche bag. I conveniently forgot his name. Let's just call him Dick. Well, this Dick must have thought I was just off the boat or something. He gave me no consideration or respect. Had no patience, and worked a hundred miles per hour. I remember getting soaked on a cold, March morning. It was the first job of the day. Usually a normal person would stop and get a cup of coffee, but since this Dick had a cup on the way in, we didn't stop. Being the passenger means going where the Dick wants to go. Upon completing the first job, I told Dick to take me back to the shop. "But we've got a lot of jobs to do, man", Dick uttered. "No, YOU have a lot of jobs to do, Dick. Just drive me back, OK Dick"? Back at the shop I told the guy that hired me that I had had enough of working with Dicks, had enough of the irrigation industry. He offered me a job running the supply room, again saying that the labor part was beneath me. This time I couldn't have agreed more!
My co-worker and I were talking about how fast time goes by. Then we started comparing our personal, physical evidences. He's got dark spots on his inner thighs. I've suddenly got a skin disorder, just had a bunion removed, and both of us have lingering hand injuries. Although we laughed about it, it's sobering to see yourself as "getting old". At least Stan has a legacy, his four sons that will carry on the Jones' name. When I die, it all ends with my selfish ass. I guess I'll keep myself so occupied that I won't have time to think about such a depressing subject as growing old and dying
Until a year ago I thought I had all the answers when it came to God. I had great faith in those beliefs until the religious organization which taught me those beliefs was exposed as being wrong about a lot of things and intolerant of criticism. What I believed...---,,,God created the earth and everything on it in preparation for human life. The first two people were perfect until they willingly disobeyed their Maker, forcing him to enforce his promise to punish them if they did (He governs himself with his perfect justice and righteousness). God withheld from himself his ability to see future events as this would make meaningless his gift of free will. When the two sinned, they became imperfect, and that genetic defect was passed down to all their offspring. God would allow time for humans to conclude that they are incapable of prosperity without the guidance of their Father. That's why He allows suffering. Upon their becoming defected, God put in place an arrangement by which man would be released from the bonds of sin and death. He promised a Messiah, or Anointed One who would make everything right again. Jesus Christ fit the description given long before he appeared, spent 3 years teaching and showing off his miraculous healing powers then died as a perfect man (Jesus did not inherit the defective gene since he was not the result of his parents having intercourse) Therefore, his death can be considered an equal exchange for the perfect life that Adam lost, just as God's people of the past, the Israelites offered blood sacrifices at the temple. That ancient Jewish arrangement is said to have foreshadowed the Messiah's sacrificial death. By heeding his commands and imitating his way of life, anybody from anywhere has the opportunity to receive forgiveness for their sins and redeem themselves to God and receive future blessings. What are those blessings? That's where the Bible can be interpreted differently.
Man,I used to hate when my father used cliches. It was probably because they proved he was right and I was wrong. I now, as an adult, find myself tapping into his old treasure chest of cliches. Why? Because they stand the test of time. "Haste makes waste" will always make sense. And until they stop making them, "a penny saved is a penny earned" will endure. Stereotypes, on the other hand, are fleeting. They're accurate for a generation or two, but then then become irrelevant. Polish people are dumb? Not the ones I know! Black people eat fried chicken and watermelon? Who doesn't? Women are bad drivers? Orientals too? A six course meal for an Irishman is a 6-pack and a baked potato? Stereotypes are bullshit! Cliches are where its at!
I believe a man spends 9 months trying to get out of the womb, and the then spends the rest of his life trying to get back in it.
I believe that human life begins at conception, but a person can choose what they want.
I believe where there is a design, whether it’s in a wristwatch, the universe or human anatomy; then it’s logical to conclude that there must be a Designer.
I believe that the best things in life are free.
I believe that the Bible is open to interpretation, yet there are some teachings in it that can only be explained one way.
I believe it takes a man at least 30 years to understand women, if he makes the attempt.
I believe life is a gift from God and we are owed nothing.
I believe that no race, nationality, or culture is superior to any other, just different.
I believe a person should be judged based upon their character and integrity-things inside.
I believe microwave ovens kill the life that exists in your food.
I believe what two people do behind closed doors should be kept behind those doors.
I believe laughter is the best form of medicine. (and it’s free)
I believe the reason that bad things happen to good people is not due to fate or destiny, but is a result of simply being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
I believe humans have no business being up in the air.
I believe you can and should find humor in everything.
I believe sex between people of the same gender is unnatural.
I believe my mother has smoked approximately 480,000 cigarettes in her lifetime.
I believe women have the ability to contribute as much, if not more to human development and social progress as do men (and they smell better doing it).
I believe the media and the entertainment industry are setting horrible standards for beauty, ethics, relationships, morals, and basically every other important human element.
I believe honesty is the best policy, but like morals, is an endangered species of sorts.
I believe any two people, as different as can be, can find desirable qualities in one another, grow to love each other, and then and only then be considered “soul mates”.
I believe the only thing we have to fear is fear itself.
I believe that Jesus Christ actually walked the earth 2000 years ago.
I believe that power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely.
I believe Jesus Christ was credited with the greatest quote of all time-“Do unto others what you would want others to do to you.
I believe organized religion is at the root of the world’s problems, especially its disunity.
I believe an idiot is someone who never learns from their mistakes or those of others.
I believe nobody’s perfect, therefore, nobody has the right to judge someone else.
I believe people who live in glass houses should not throw stones.
I believe that stereotypes lose meaning with time, but clichés will stand the test of time.
I believe young people are foolish to close their ears to the advice of someone older.
I believe there are only a handful of generations left, and that’s being generous.
I believe belief in a Creator can be explained logically, as opposed to theories about a Big-Bang and an accidental, freakish occurrence.
I believe there’s no stronger bond of friendship than the one made as children.
I believe humans should depend more on nature than on man-made concoctions.
I believe there are few things worse than a hypocrite.
The last few days have been spent packing up all my worldly possessions and moving them to a new home that I recently purchased. It's quite sobering to see everything you've come to own piled up in one room. Through the years I have thrown a lot of stuff out because I hate clutter. 'Outta sight, outta mind" There wasn't a whole, helluva lot left. I'm leaving a lot behind as well. I've been living in the house my brother owns for 14 years. I'm moving out of necessity, and it's a bitter/sweet feeling. Because my brother and his family are religious fanatics, and chose to defect, it was mutually agreed that I should go. Strange indeed, the situation is. A grown man sneaking his girlfriend in and out so that nobody from the "congregation" suspects my immorality.
