Christmas in July, Channukah in December

Things I'm doing in July:
--Moma's
--California goes to Seattle; California goes to Portland
--Japan comes to California

Mixed in all that, maybe some tattoos, some grandma visiting, some Papou breakfast, yard sale, photographs, music playing, painting reading movie-watching, maybe some running and some biking and some river-swimming, and some hothotheat and tan skin and walking with Pancho, some barn parties and some concerts, and plenty of exploring and friendmaking and learning, lots of learning.

Juniper Tree Burning is the best book I have ever read. I want to write like Goldberry Long someday, she's the greatest writing inspiration I've ever had. The way she writes that book-- I read the first paragraph and said, "This is how I've been trying to write for years, this is how I want to write." It's beautiful beautiful.

This is all I really have to say. I love the Valley. I love love love the Valley. I can't wait to live here permanently again. I can't wait.

Coolest Dad Ever? Uh, yeah, I think so.

So, it's Father's Day (on top of Bald Eagle Day, Ice Cream Soda Day, National Juggling Day, Plain Yogurt Day, and Krazy Kat's birthday).

Here's us at City Skates back in the day. I used to slide down the quarter pipe and scoot down the ramp into the snowboard shop. Maybe this isn't really at City Skates, but I don't remember. City Skates was cool. So is my dad. :P



We go to the fair and look at goats, and sometimes we pick a ride or two to go on. It's fun.


But usually we just like to hang out outside.



He's pretty silly.



But then sometimes he gets serious.



And sometimes he gets SERIOUS.


But mostly just serious. :)


Oh, and this is Choppy. He's pretty damn cool himself.

Personal Thr3e

I've been thinking about the number three a lot recently. Bad things come in threes. Three for five dollars. Country music is nothing but three chords and the truth.

I've been picking out the threes in my life a lot recently too. Don't really know why, but I don't really have to, do I? It's just a passing thought.

The first thing that made me think in threes was the trio. The nuclear family revolves around a mother, a father, and one or two children. Being an only child, I thought of this as a triple. Nobody where I look, it's three. Living in my house: Aaron, Pops, and I. I could think of it as Aaron, Aubrie, and I. In Tahoe, it's Mom, Mike, and I.

My team is composed of two Buddas and a Pancho.



In my life, there are three families. There are always more-- ALWAYS more-- but for the sake of this blog, I am narrowing it down to three. Family is what I have and where I learn my greatest lessons. The Lindsey's taught me how to fall, how to fight, and how to put raked up leaves in the compost. The family taught me how to turn the compost over and over with a pitchfork, until it is steaming and teeming with bugs. And the Family taught me to always add to the compost and, when it is rotted to stinking perfection, to use it to grow a garden.

I've been thinking about it, and I know that The Valley is my home. When I'm in Riverside, I am always listening to music. Scratch that. I am always listening to music. But when I'm at school, I especially listen to the people that I am close to. To have their words and their souls pouring into my ears, my brain, my soul, it makes life away from Home easier. In one song, Willy Tea sings, "I know you're gonna stay here, there's too much you're going to miss, but babe I'm gonna die fast if I live here like this." I think that, no matter what happens while I'm at school, I can never stay far from The Valley. Maybe I could live in San Francisco, but I doubt it. I'm not a city person. It makes me sick. Bitter. It makes my heart as bitter as the creatures' (from Stephen Cranes' "In The Desert"). When I'm in the Valley, I'm free. I can feel it in the air I breathe, the oxygen coursing through my blood. When I'm with the orchards and the rivers and with the Valley people, life makes sense to me. There's no definition. It just is. It's slow here. City life is too rushed, a constant go gO GO! and it drives me crazy. No, the Valley is definitely the place for me. The weather, the water, the wild parties and the good people. This is where I belong.

Just as three families have shaped me, three women taught me how to sing: Loretta Lynn, Neko Case, and Bethany Joseph Taylor. I used to be a horrendous singer, probably even tone deaf. I've always wanted to be a singer. In elementary school, choir was my first choice (followed by orchestra and then band-- of course I played percussion in the band). I've never been in choir or taken voice lessons. I've never been a good singer, but I know I am now. Somewhere, somehow, I managed to hit notes. The first note I ever hit was to "Don't Talk (Put Your Head on my Shoulder)" by the Beach Boys on my home from Lake Tahoe one year-- it was one of those high impossible notes, and the only reason I know I hit it was because Aaron turned to me and went, "Whoa, Budda, you hit that note!" The Beach Boys didn't teach me how to sing though. Loretta Lynn and Neko Case have always been two of my favourite musicians. Both of them are beautiful women with singing voices that give me the shivers. When I met Bethany, I thought the same of her. I've always tried to sing like Loretta and Neko, or at least be able to sing their songs, but I've never been able to do it.

Practice, practice, practice, that's all I did. I sang everywhere-- in the shower, doing the dishes, in the car, cleaning my bedroom, walking down the street and around the house and at school. EVERYWHERE, I was singing, practicing. I don't know when I officially "learned" how to sing, but I think it was around the time when The Good Luck Thrift Store Outfit started recording Ghost of Good Manners. Bethany is the first woman that ever gave me shivers to music, which is a weird thought, considering how long music has been a part of my life. I think I really started appreciating it when Aaron joined GLTSO. That's my Family, right there. But anyway, I started singing along to that album, starting playing guitar too (that's actually the first song I learned how to play by ear too), and eventually I could sing it and I could sing it well. I kept singing along to everything, and now I can sing. Of course it's not perfect. I still have a hard time hitting notes, my voice still gets wavery. I get nervous, and I still have to seek out the notes with my voice, think about my range and pitch, but I'm getting better all the time. When I can finally sing in front of people without feeling TOO nervous, I think I can officially start calling myself a singer. That's one of my goals for the summer-- sing in front of people. Get rid of my fear, get over myself. An inflated ego is what kills the talent-- I'm not going to get one, I promise to myself, I never will. I'm going to cherish this forever.







So, yes, these are thoughts on my mind recently. I know I put a lot of emphasis on threes, but these are just SOME that I have been thinking about.

Friend trios are good, but one person hanging out with a couple never works-- third wheel status. You usually get three lives in video games. Pancho only has three nails on his front left paw.

There are always three panels in A Softer World comics:



Here's three things I believe in:


Finally, three words that mean the world to me:

Peace, Riverside

It's been a good year. Great friends have been made, awesome adventures have been had, lessons have been learned. It's not the ideal location, but everyone I have met here has definitely made this a fantastic first year.

I'm all packed, except for my laptop and a couple things I can just throw into my backpack.

I'll be Home. Tonight.

So, I guess this is my last post from my dorm room. Thank God, I will not have to live here next year. Chanel, Falkirk. Jackie, dorms. Juxtaposed, I would take that crappy room in Falkirk with Chanel any day, everyday, if I had to.

Summer's here. Time to go, go, go.

I'm already looking forward to next year though. And to think I was going to transfer at the beginning of the year.

PEACE, RIVERSIDE.

Another Schedule

Seriously, whenever I get used to a schedule, I get a new one. It's alright, though. I'm not a big fan of routine. I like the quarter system, even though everything is so fast paced. I retain the information that I'm interested in, the rest is short term. It doesn't really allow for "bonding" time either, which sucks, but you have to deal.

Anyway, this is what my schedule looks like for Fall 2010.

1. Introduction to Asian Religions (and discussion)
2. The Natural History of Insects (and demonstration)
3. Environmental Economics (and discussion)
4. World History: 1500-1900 (and discussion)

My Mondays are BOOKED. I've got four classes back-to-back from 8-12, an hour break, class from 1-2, and then another class from 4-5. The rest of the week is pretty balanced: one class Tuesday, three Wednesday, two Thursday, and three Friday. Finals week is going to suck-- finals on Wednesday, Thursday, and two on Friday (the last day).

I was pretty pissed off because only one Creative Writing class was offered this quarter and it was full a week ago. This quarter is dedicated to fulfilling breadth requirements, and working on that Religious Studies minor (or testing it out, anyway). I learned about the Middle Eastern and Islamic Studies Minor today-- if I were able to use all three of my classes from the CHASS F1rst program, I would only need three more classes to get the minor. I don't know exactly what I would do with it, but I'm going to email the department later and find out more information. It's going to be a tough quarter.

But, the good news is, I only have two more days of class until my first year of college is over. That's CRAZY. Looking back, it hasn't felt like that long at all, but I know that I've felt like it dragged on forever while I was in the heat of it. I'm not a fan of the concept of time. I wish we could all just kick it and play music and make art and I wouldn't have to worry about what time the clock says it is or that the government tells me to be a model citizen or that you can't get a good job without a college degree. I don't want to have to worry about what I'm going to do for the rest of my life. Sometimes, I wish it was those times when you're born into something and you're expected to follow in your family's footsteps. Say, like, Aaron's a bard and my mom's a painter. There you go! I'd learn the trade and life would go on.

I guess Creative Writing is a trade. It's unconventional, really, maybe even stupid, but I love it. I can only imagine how different my life would be if I had to gone to UCLA for architecture or San Luis for civil engineering. I don't even know how I was considering those options-- I'm a mathtard, I never would have survived. My GPA would have been shot to hell from the start. I still love architecture and interior design, and I wouldn't mind doing some of that work sometime, but as a profession, I think I would have hated my life. Maybe not as an interior designer, but everyone does interior design, and I'm not sure I could satisfy customers with my ideas. Especially those fancy people that like everything to be neutral and uniform. Please don't hire me.

Anyway, I'm rambling. I really just wanted to post this schedule and say

TWO MORE DAYS! SUMMER, HERE I COME!

Eyes Like El Dorado : Flash Fiction Revision

*This is the revision for "Avery's First Memory." It's a completely new story, and I don't like it. I like writing philosophy and metaphysics into my stories, but they're more conceptual when I do, and not usually the kind of stories that people want to read. And so I intentionally make them simple and realistic, so people will like them. I'm not very good at making real ideas real writing, I guess. I need to work on that. But I hate when I lose passion for a story. I didn't for this one, but for 'Love Me Tender' I have lost all motivation. I have to finish it, and it has to be good, but I'm just not happy with it at all and I wish I'd never written it.

Anyway, here is my final draft my flash fiction piece.

Eyes Like El Dorado

“Piece o’ shit valley,” Amos Adams grumbled, surveying the scene before him. Beyond the golden foothills lay the putrid swamp of smog, a mixture of dust and manure from farmers’ plows and methane from bloated, festering cow carcasses. He was walking into a bear trap set by the Big Guy himself—that omnipotent hotshot, that universal fucking faggot. He was crawling into an old, dirty vagina and he’d be damned to hell if he pulled out with syphilis.

“God, Shirley better not be there,” Amos cursed. If it weren’t for Corinne and the new baby, he wouldn’t have to chance the encounter with his ex-wife.

Glancing in his rearview mirror for approaching traffic, Amos’s eyes lingered on the dense forest in the distance. He hated leaving the cool, protective embrace of the El Dorado. Her breath on his neck during their daily, passionate affairs left him smelling of pine and moss; her boysenberry kisses always overpowered the moonshine on his breath. He carried her wherever he went—her intoxicating pine aroma
perfumed his wiry beard and clung to the fibers of his long johns.

Amos took one last glimpse as the forest disappeared over the ridge. Five
minutes and he already pined for his earth mistress. He was leaving her behind—and for what? So Shirley could glower at him?; so she could bitch and moan about how he wasn’t helping Corinne and Dan pay off their mortgage, about how his beard was too long and his flannel needed patching and bla bla bla bla bla. They’d divorced for a reason and he didn’t need the sow telling him how to live his life again. He’d never even hit her, and he’d raised Corinne up to be a right proper lady, unlike her hell-cat mother.

Corinne—now there was the golden reason that brought him down from the mountain. His baby girl Corinne was married and settled down, and now she was rocking a babe on her knee. Her son Avery had the same soft copper eyes as Corinne, eyes that reminded Amos of sequoias and red clay. It was when Avery had first opened his eyes and stared up at Amos that Amos knew he’d be doing a lot more driving than he intended. No distance could separate the woodsman from his grandson.

Avery would need a man in his life. There was his father, Dan, of course, and Amos loved Dan like his own son—Dan never questioned Amos’s motives and he was always an eager hop-skip-and-a-jump from offering a helping hand—but Dan was a junior high mathematics teacher. What Avery needed was a real man, a working man, a man that could teach him how to fish and hike and hunt. Often, Amos dreamed of their first hunting trip together, pap and grandson, two men traipsing through the woods. They’d start small—ducks, maybe, or turkey—and then move on to bigger game—deer and elk and bear. Hell, it wouldn’t matter if they didn’t bag one good kill, so long as they had the pleasure of one another’s company.

And, speaking of hunting, he still had to figure out what provisions he needed for his winter trip. It was almost dear season and Amos planned on nailing a couple of young bucks to last him through the winter. He knew he needed a couple cases of buckshot, so he’d just run by the Bait and Tackle shop on his way back and stop up. There was something else—lantern propane or a couple new pairs of thermal underwear—but he couldn’t quite put his thumb on it and he didn’t want to buy it if he didn’t need it. Amos sighed. He’d have to make two trips.

Spotting a Chevron sign ahead, Amos flicked his blinker on and eased into the right lane and off the freeway. Amos had promised Corinne he’d call when he was close, and the Chevron had a pay-phone. Rummaging through his pockets for spare change, he extracted a quarter, two
dimes and a nickel. The coins clinked into the holding compartment like hail on a tin roof. After
dialing Corinne’s telephone number, Amos hunched his shoulders and drew his head close to his
body, creating a barrier between himself and any prying ears around him. He liked his phone calls to be private. After two rings, Corinne picked up.

“Hello?”

“Your mother’s not gonna be there, is she?”

“Dan wants to know if you can pick up some ice from the grocer’s.”

“Ten pounder?”

“Why are you always so hostile when Momma’s here?”

“I just like having my space, ‘sall. Forty years she’s nagged me and we ain’t been married for thirty! That woman gives me a bellyache.”

Amos heard Corinne sigh on the other end of the receiver. “Avery’s waiting for you, Daddy.”

Amos shifted his shoulders. “I’ll be there in half an hour, with the ice.”

“And—Daddy—don’t worry. Momma’s not going to be here. We’ll see you soon.”

Amos hung up the heavy black receiver and heard his coins clang into the payphone’s starving belly. With one hand, he ran his fingers through his shaggy gray curls. Amos sighed. With the other hand, he reached into his pants pocket and extracted his hand carved wooden pipe. It was already packed with tobacco. He struck a match, lit the pipe weed, and took a few puffs.

Amos thought it best to hurry along if he were going to make his thirty minute deadline. He snuffed the burning tobacco and slipped the pipe back into his pocket as he ambled to his truck. He still had to pick up the ice. Ten pounds. Besides, Avery was waiting for him.

“As he pulled out of the Chevron parking lot, Amos banged his first against the roof of truck, exclaiming, “Thank God! Shirley is not going to be there!”

Searching west and east, and all points in between.

ATTENTION CHANEL: HERE, I AM GOING TO TALK ABOUT LOST, NOT IN GREAT DETAIL, BUT I AM STILL GOING TO DO IT. IF YOU WANT TO, SKIP TO THE PART AFTER THE ALL CAPITALS ENDING NOTE. THERE, IT WILL BE SAFE TO READ.

"The best we can do is live our lives with enlightened improvisation — to be so self-aware and fearless that we can live fully in the present and redeem our every moment and every human connection."

I took this quote from this a good article I read after LOST ended, which you can read here: http://www.ew.com/ew/article/0,,20313460_20387946,00.html

Just in case the link doesn't show, copy/paste it:
(http://www.ew.com/ew/article/0,,20313460_20387946,00.html)

It's pretty silly at points, especially the author's sarcasm (sort of like Sawyer) but it did make me understand and accept the ending of LOST. Now that I know the ending, I feel as though I need to go back and watch the entire series again so I can pick up on all the hints that they were dropping. It all makes sense. Mom, you were right. They were dead the whole time and they were just trying to reconcile it. Hurley made it possible for us to see everything that was happening to them, both on the island and in the sideways reality. In an ACTION mindset, I wish the ending had been more epic-- you know, Desmond and Jack team up like "brothers" and find a way to demolish smokey and atone for the real John Locke's death. I could picture Desmond saying to the smoke monster, "See you in another life, brotha" before, I don't know, sucking him into a magic lamp like a genie or something (obviously not that, but something more than Locke being rendered mortal and Jack hurling him off a cliff). Thinking about it, though, I'm glad it ended as it did. It's more philosophical. It gives LOST fans more room to think about the possibilities outside of LOST as well.

I don't remember-- was Richard Alpert in the church at the end? And what was with Ben staying outside by himself-- does that mean that Ben is choosing to remain in purgatory, to reflect on his living actions and think about what he could have done differently? He had the invite, yet he chose to stay?

"...when you fight true evil with necessary evil, it's still evil. And evil has a cost."

I don't think Ben was evil. He was misguided, but he had a heart and a soul, and he loved. He just outwardly showed his love for himself over his love for others, and his cost was staying outside while all the LOST bros were partying in Heaven or in the electromagnetic glow or whatever it was. By the way, did you see the stained glass window in the church when Christian was talking to Jack? It was broken into six segments, with six different religious/spiritual symbols. I thought that was really good in showing that people from all walks of life-- all faiths, all cultures, all personalities-- can come together in a community and build a family. It's true, and I'm glad that they were able to put that message in there.

CHANEL!!! IT IS SAFE TO READ AGAIN!

It's well past my birthday, so I guess I can return to last week and write about it. My birthday was alright. Dios played the Barn and Joel dedicated the show to me, which was really sweet. My friends came out and I think they were all really into Dios, or at least they said they were. I'm always really proud of my friends in bands that I know, be it people I'm close to like Dios or Grandaddy or Good Luck Thrift Store Outfit, or people that are friends but that I only see a few times a year-- Silversun Pickups, Bright Eyes, Earlimart. People all over the world LOVE them, and I love them in the same way and in a completely different way, so I really love when I find out that people dig the music that my friends make. I can never quite wrap my finger around the fact that people don't really know what life like this is like-- living with "rock stars" and being friends with people who are famous, I guess, that travel all over the world. It's what I'm used to-- it's the life that I know. I still get a little bit confused when people don't know those situations though. I mean, I shouldn't, I know that it's not really NORMAL, but it's normal to me. I don't know when it's okay to talk about that part of my life to people-- I usually wait until I've established a friendship with someone, or at least until we are well-acquainted. It's hard to judge those situations sometimes, though. I don't know. It's just a thought that I have sometimes. Actually, only with one of my friends when I told them that my dad was a musician did he say, "Oh, that's really cool! I'd love to be in the music industry..." (That was HORRIBLE grammar!) It was surprising and almost relieving. But I guess it's natural for people to be curious-- I'm always curious about others' backgrounds as well. I'd like to know where someone comes from and what they're used to and the environments that they live in. People are always changing according to their surroundings, and I love observing that.

After my birthday, things have been a little weird, but I won't explain it. David Sedaris told me, "Know when it's okay to share something and when it's not." I just miss home a lot; I think we all do. The pressure's on, you know. We have to kick ass on our finals, we have to pack, we have to make moving arrangements, we have to prepare for a transition back into the lives that we once knew only to find that everything has changed. I mean, it's not going to be WEIRD, for me at least, I don't think, but there is always potential for it to be. I've been locking myself in my room a lot, being solitary and trying to finish all my projects so I can head home a week early! Things are going good so far. I've got two stories to revise, and I'm ALMOST done with one. Hopefully I can spill out this last one or I'm stuck here until after Wednesday, June 9th, instead of heading home on the 6th. So, that's what my weekend is going to be like-- again. Everyone's going home or going camping or hanging out with their other friends, and I'm going to lock myself in my room and attempt to write a short story that I don't really feel passionate about anymore. But that's what my life is going to be like, and it fits me, I guess. Writing, revision, writing, revision. I try not to focus on the past too much anymore. It's been happening too much recently, but it's really affecting my present state of mind. I need to make some resolutions. For revolution. For bandana summer. I need to figure out how much money I can set aside for tattoos this summer. And-- yes-- I am getting more and I am going to love them for the rest of my life.

Just to throw in another interesting article, I found this one: "A Link Between Creativity and Mental Illness is Very Strong"

http://health-psychology.suite101.com/pages/article.cfm/a-marriage-of-creativity-and-mental-illness-is-very-strong

(http://health-psychology.suite101.com/pages/article.cfm/a-marriage-of-creativity-and-mental-illness-is-very-strong)

I found this section of the article to be very interesting. Now, before you worry, I do not think that there is anything WRONG with me. I stumbled upon this article (courtesy of stumbleupon.com) and thought it worthy of noting in this blog entry. Even if I did have some strange mental disorder, who cares? I've been fighting this long, and I might as well keep doing it. I love breathing and looking at things. I love the beating of a hummingbird's wings in my ear, even when I cannot see the ruby-throat. I attribute my creativity (and maturity?) to the way I was raised. I think that kids with artistic parents are always a little weirder than kids without, and there's nothing wrong with that. Actually, what I want to know is where kids with non-creative parents get their creativity, where they find inspiration at such a young age to let themselves loose on paper or canvas or with musical instruments.

"Is There a Difference Between Male and Female Populations Who are Creative and Mentally Ill?
According to the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual (DSM), this study revealed that writers had significantly higher lifetime prevalence rates than controls (those without mental illnesses) for all mood disorders (80% versus 30%), for bipolar disorder (43% versus 10%), and for alcoholism (30% versus 7%).

The results of a recent study suggested that female writers were more likely than members of the comparison group (females without mental illness) to suffer not only from mood disorders but from drug abuse, panic attacks, general anxiety, and eating disorders as well. Even more interesting, according to another study, female poets were found to be significantly more likely to suffer from mental illness than female fiction writers or male writers of any type."

In other news, I've been thinking about why I hate dolphins so much. The answer is: I don't really know. There's just something eerie, something DANGEROUS about dolphins. I know they're intelligent, and I respect that, I don't want any harm to befall dolphins. I was terribly upset when the Yangtze Porpoise of China went extinct (it was reported in The Week last year). Don't get me wrong, dolphins are awesome! They can recognize themselves. I appreciate dolphins. I just have no real connection to them and I do not desire one. All of my fears about dolphins are ridiculous-- dolphins aren't really going to rise to land upon their fins and take over the world, dolphins don't USUALLY attack surfers and attempt to drag them down (they're just playing anyway, I think). My friends always get pretty upset with my for disliking dolphins. But, just look at this picture:



Isn't that the face of evil? Probably not. It's a joke. But still. I don't know why I dislike dolphins. I shouldn't, and I'll work on it. Maybe I just need to come to understand dolphins more. Maybe I need to do some dolphin research in order to fully appreciate them.

The same goes for raccoons and rattlesnakes. Actually, scratch rattlesnakes. I don't think I'll ever be able to like them.

But something I do like, something I like VERY much, are elephants. I'm not going to go into detail about it, but look at this picture:



Isn't that beautiful? It came from about a man and his elephant comrade, which I suggest you read: http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/worldnews/article-1280638/Making-splash-60-year-old-elephant-going-morning-swim.html?ito=feeds-newsxml

(http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/worldnews/article-1280638/Making-splash-60-year-old-elephant-going-morning-swim.html?ito=feeds-newsxml)

In the news this week as well, the first Muslim American woman was crowned Miss USA, and Professor Aslan talks about the myths and misconceptions that people have about women in Islam, points that we have been discussing in my Gender and Islamic Societies class with Professor Hafez. You can read the article here:

(http://www.chron.com/disp/story.mpl/life/main/7025683.html)

However, Reza Aslan sums up the dilemma of this situation (as well as a major emphasis of the course that I am taking now), with this statement:

“There has been this notion of Muslim women as a sexualized object,” Aslan said. “The idea of the harem and the veil as providing some forbidden sexuality has become totally fetishized in the Western world. And it's a completely false notion, of course. The veil is neither a symbol of oppression nor a symbol of sexuality. It is whatever a Muslim woman wearing the veil says it is.”

Having been in the Islam sequence for a full year, I appreciate Islam a lot more than I once did. I have learned much more, and am not afraid to talk about it or defend it when others who have no real idea of what Islam is about attack the faith. I do not support fundamentalist terrorists who say that they do their "work" in the name of God, and as Dr. Muhamad Ali told us, neither do most Muslims. It is wrong to stereotype all Muslims as terrorists when it is only a small percentage who commit "acts of terror."

I'm rambling. What I really mean to say is this: I'm considering minoring in Religious Studies. I have been considering psychology, and while that would be interesting, I don't really see myself leaning toward that. I've always played with the idea of religion in my head, and I love to learn about the different religions and faiths of the world. I am drawn to it. Faith is a HUGE motivation for many people in the world, and I want to understand that. For now, it is just a consideration, but I am going to try to take a religious studies class next fall (it counts for my ethnic studies class as well as my English 1C class, and if I do minor in Religious Studies, it will count as a prerequisite for that).

This really has no connection, but look at these photographs of freerunners around the world. It's AWESOME! I would love to see someone freerunning in real life. If I were tall, skinny, agile, and athletic, I would definitely try freerunning.



(http://totallycoolpix.com/2010/02/freerunning/)