Teen Angst (more old writing)

I am not a girl. I am not an adult, yet. I am not a child. I am not white, I am not black, I am not yellow, I am not rich, I am not poor, I am not nothing. I am not dead. I am not loved. I know not what I am, but I do know w hat I am not. I am not intelligent. I am not good at math. I am not. I am not what my parents want me to be. I am not as I want me to be. I am not a wielder of slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, but I am not one who does not suffer from these slings and arrows of outrageous fortune. I am not one to dislike Shakespeare. I am not a liberal. I am not a member of the religous right. I am not normal. Apparently, I am not a real Indian, at least according to those kids in the cult of IASA. I am not one to eat like them, talk like them, dress like them, eat liek them, listen to their not music, or enjoy their not culture. I am not one to share their interests or their vices, there fore I am not Indian for I am not one to fit in their box of what it means to be Indian. I am not what I seem. I am not a druggie, I am not an alcohlic. I am not a cigarette smoker. I am not skinny. I am not liked. I am not what I'm not. I am not cultured. I am not confident. I am not sure of myself. I am not attractive. I am not gay. I am not sure of what I am. I am not me. I am not not me.

Man pursuing Awesome (more old writing)

*snick*, the gear shift slides into 4th. The revs build. The mechanical din of engine noise steadily builds, mere inches behind my head, a beautiful symphony of metal, and petroleum products. The exhaust note builds to a shrieking crescendo, as two red needles sweep upwards in unison. An accelerator pedal is depressed to the floor, the wind rushes by, the scenery's all a blur, sweat drips down my face...my heart beats...louder...and faster...my eyes water...every ounce of brain matter I possess is intently focused, concentrating on the road ahead, the cars behind, and my own car, listening to the roar of the 3.0litre Gurney-Weslake V12, feeling the road, the wheels occasionally skittering along the sometimes rough track, there isn't much r.oom for error at speeds upwards of 150 miles an hour, especially not in a 1967 Formula One car. There are no aerodynamic aids, minimal safety precautions, this is living on the edge, this is man pursuing awesome, this takes jupiter sized balls of steel. The track surface is riddled with bumps and holes, a driver has a one in three chance of dying every time he races. ... Why do I do it?...
Brake, downshift, the engine gurgles and spits, clip the apex, take the proper racing line, feel the rear end start to swing wide, counter steer, it snaps back, put your foot into it, watch the revs build, *snick* back up into fourth, *snick* up into fifth, a 12 cylinder orchestro roars behind my head building to a barrel-chested shrieking crescendo. The G-forces build as I pass 200 miles an hour on teh long back straight, The adrenaline rushes to my head, my palms sweat, my heart beats...louder, and louder...and louder. I crest the hill and feel the tires leave the ground, and the entire car is launched into the air, "Oh shit! This could go bad," The car hits the ground with an ominous thud and a very expensive sounding crack. The rear end breaks loose, "FUCK", I despearately try to regain control, fishtailing through the stretch, but its no use, the car goes into a spin the rear comes all the way aorund, "SHIT!", I clip another car and gain more speed, the car continuing to spin, once, twice, thrice, four times, "Oh shit, Oh shit, Oh shit, Oh shit!", I watch the world spin around, seemingly in slow motion as I relice what very well likely could happen. *Crack*, I hit a tree at 150 miles an hour. My nose catches the delightful smell of high-octane racing gas, oil, steel, a piston head's olfactory delight, a pleasant warmth envelopes me, "A pleasant warmth?, gasoline? SHIT!", flames erupt, brilliant orange, they engulf me..."OH SHIT I am going to die..."

The Classy Manifesto

The Classy Manifesto:

An overview of the basic principles of classiness:

Classiness is more than a philosophy, it is more than a state of mind, it is a way of life, and more; it is the ultimate goal, the motivating force in life to heighten one’s own level of classiness and to spread the way and knowledge of class to those unfortunate enough to not be classy.

Classiness, then is the penultimate manner of living, the following manifesto outlines the rules, laws and principles of classiness. It should serve as a guidebook for living one’s life and a tool to spread class to those unfortunate classless heathens.

Classiness shall always be an exclusive club; if everyone is classy nobody is classy. Classiness is on surface relative, but at its most basic and fundamental core Classiness has certain undilutible, undeniable qualities and principles that are not relative. These principles include poise, matching attire, and other indescribable but innate qualities. When spreading the knowledge of class keep an eye out for these qualities, there are those who deserve to be shown the ways of classiness, who possess these innate qualities, and there are those who do not possess these innate qualities, those who do not deserve to be shown classiness. A classy person will know when they meet someone whether they are classy or not; and whether they deserve to be shown the ways of classiness or not. A few basic rules one should keep in mind; communists, socialists, trade unionists and Frenchmen (they’re all the same thing) are not classy, or deserving of being taught the ways of class.

The following are rules to abide by:
-Martini’s are made with Gin not Vodka. Vodka Martinis are not classy. Unless you are James Bond, in which case you can drink whatever you please. For the rest of you, do not question this precept.
-Class is not trendy, it is timeless, everlasting trends may come about and try to overwhelm class but class will always prevail, always.
-Clothing must always match, and must always be worn properly; this is essential to being classy.
-Obvious pretension for pretension’s sake is not classy. However, pretension is classy when it is natural, fitting and necessary, pretension is part of classiness but it must never appear to be forced, it should always flow naturally or at least appear as if it is your natural state. Forced class is not classy; it makes you appear a fool.

Those who are classy will already know what classy is, they won’t even need this manifesto, those who are intrinsically classy are the classy, if one reads this manifesto in the hopes of achieving classiness, abandon hope now. You will only achieve a faux classiness an imitation of the ideal classiness, a state achieved b those who are truly classy, intrinsically, inherently classy. Those who achieve a level of faux class will only full those on the same level of class or below, those who are inherently classy will immediately notice that you are not truly classy.

Ode to the Small Block Chevy

A throbbing rumble. Meshing Gears. Whirring belts. Spinning shafts. Reciprocating hunks of metal. Explosions in a closed chamber. Compress, explode, expand, turn. Chemical energy into Mechanical. A big bang in a little chamber creates a mechanical piece de resistance, the invention that shaped the 20th century. And this, this is its finest, most pure masculine iteration. 427 cubes of unbridled pushrod power. No nancy boy over head cams here, no siree. No limp wristed flat-plane engines here, not enough torque to pull a twig, none of that, not here. This is 427 cubes of pure masculinity, tree stump pulling, world shifting torque. That’s what matters, horsepower is only a function of torque over time, none of this high revs no torque bullshit, not here. This is the small block Chevrolet V8, the engine that built America, 50 years plus and still going strong. This isn’t a pansy Symphony Orchestra, none of that finesse, none of that subtlety. This is a rock band, thing Queen at Wembley stadium, not the New York Philarmonic at Carnegie Hall. Now what would you rather hear? Be honest. Queen wins, every time. This engine is brown beer, It’s football and greasy food. This is engine is manly, this engine is America. This is the quiet Blue-Collar bloke in the corner of the bar with a beer who finally gets tired of all the nancy boy ruckus so he takes them out back and gives them a damn good thrashing. This is the engine that can give the best Germany and Italy have to offer a bloody good hiding. An all aluminium old school tour de force. A definite case of “Meet the new boss same as the old boss”. This is the grand daddy of engines. An all American thoroughbred, bordering on the edge of insanity.
An eight cylinder rock band, a pure explosion of power. A deep barrelled grunty exhaust note that’d make the baby Jesus cry. This is God’s engine, a symbol of all that is beautiful and righ tin this world. This is 427 cubes of baseball and apple pie.