This is flippin' awesome. Check out this site: www.gizoogle.com.
To see this site "Gizoogled", click this: http://sites.gizoogle.com/?url=http://www.neilgolemo.blogspot.com/
Holla at ya boy!
Sunday, February 27, 2005
Wednesday, February 16, 2005
This concept of "Wuv" confuses and infuriates me!
I love the Conversational Candy Hearts. Yeah yeah yeah, the trite-ness of having sweet nothings and pop-phrases compiled into single letter abbreviations and mass-printed "catty-wompously" onto thousands of heart-shaped candies is intriguing to say the least. The possibilities for pondrance are endless! However, my love has more to do with their taste. I don't know what it is, but I love the taste. They're probably the coolest thing about Valentine's day.
They're kind of like Cadburry Egg's, Mallow Pumpkins and Candy Canes. They're sort of a seasonal delight. If they were around for the whole year, people would probably think they suck. But, since you can only get them for 2 or 3 months out of 12, they're a delicacy.
On Monday, I went over to Danielle's after class for a V-tine's day party/ Chocolate Fest. I sampled her wares: chocolate-dipped oranges and strawberries, chocolate bars, kisses, and, of course, chili. Delicious, Danielle, tasty to say the least. However, when I reached into the dish with the conversation hearts, eager for this year's first taste of that bonemeal-and-earwig honey -chalky goodness, I found that my lips, instead of curling into a smile, had squeezed and contracted into a pucker. These weren't sweet?! but Sour! I felt so let-down.
It was 3 o'clock on Monday before I realized what day it was. I saw people in their S.A.D. (singles awareness day) shirts, and heard friends complaining about their bad luck at being single upon a day like today. I heard people complaining about the "commercialism" of it all. How V-tine's day was invented by the Greeting Card companies. Perhaps.
But upon reflection, I'll give you my day.
I slept late. Did a little homework. Had a great class. Candy and friends at Danielle's. Then I went over and had my weekly face-time with two of the biggest Bad-Asses I know. Jack Bauer and Myles Werntz. I came slightly hungry and ready for this season's episode of of 24, and I left satiated, pumped for next week and with a plane ticket to El Paso in May. Southwest thanks you, Myles Werntz.
On the way home from the house of the big brother I never had, I began to wonder about what a nice, pleasant and quaint day I had just enjoyed. But as a single Tiger on the prowl, how could this be? Its game-day and I'm riding the pine.
I loved Valentine's day growing up because it was a chance to give everyone a Valentine; a chance to let everyone in my homeroom, as I dropped my ALF Valentines into the shoebox on the edge of their desk, know that I thought they made my life, time better spent. My dad takes flowers to the girls in his office. My mom sends me a little care package. I call my sisters and tell them I love them. How can such a day be bad?
Myles fried me some eggplant. I am loved.
But as for the commercialism? There is a bit. I, myself, have always liked Valentine's Day better when I was single. I hate being expected to do something simply because of a day. You can't force romance. And who wants a love like that anyway?
On my way home from Myles's, I drove in front of the Waco Tribune building just in time to see the night watch-man do his rounds outside. I saw him ambling along, awkwardly, his poor belt straining into his waist like a rubber-band on a water-balloon. "He's not very romantic", I thought. But he's like me, maybe. That's the kind of Love I want.
Who wants a Love like a muscle-ly armed Arnold Swartzenegger Green Beret protecting your heart? Arnold Swartzenegger is too high maintenance and not at all realistic. I want to love like an overweight security guard. Perhaps a little unwieldy and top-heavy at times. Maybe I'll spill a little spaghetti sauce on the front of my uniform and won't notice it. But I get the job done and you know I need the job as much as the job needs me. A little unromantic? At times. But, among all things, its true.
Like the candy hearts, its not always so much a matter of quality, as it is of taste.
PS, a special mix CD to the first person who can give me where I stole the title of this post from and their address!
They're kind of like Cadburry Egg's, Mallow Pumpkins and Candy Canes. They're sort of a seasonal delight. If they were around for the whole year, people would probably think they suck. But, since you can only get them for 2 or 3 months out of 12, they're a delicacy.
On Monday, I went over to Danielle's after class for a V-tine's day party/ Chocolate Fest. I sampled her wares: chocolate-dipped oranges and strawberries, chocolate bars, kisses, and, of course, chili. Delicious, Danielle, tasty to say the least. However, when I reached into the dish with the conversation hearts, eager for this year's first taste of that bonemeal-and-earwig honey -chalky goodness, I found that my lips, instead of curling into a smile, had squeezed and contracted into a pucker. These weren't sweet?! but Sour! I felt so let-down.
It was 3 o'clock on Monday before I realized what day it was. I saw people in their S.A.D. (singles awareness day) shirts, and heard friends complaining about their bad luck at being single upon a day like today. I heard people complaining about the "commercialism" of it all. How V-tine's day was invented by the Greeting Card companies. Perhaps.
But upon reflection, I'll give you my day.
I slept late. Did a little homework. Had a great class. Candy and friends at Danielle's. Then I went over and had my weekly face-time with two of the biggest Bad-Asses I know. Jack Bauer and Myles Werntz. I came slightly hungry and ready for this season's episode of of 24, and I left satiated, pumped for next week and with a plane ticket to El Paso in May. Southwest thanks you, Myles Werntz.
On the way home from the house of the big brother I never had, I began to wonder about what a nice, pleasant and quaint day I had just enjoyed. But as a single Tiger on the prowl, how could this be? Its game-day and I'm riding the pine.
I loved Valentine's day growing up because it was a chance to give everyone a Valentine; a chance to let everyone in my homeroom, as I dropped my ALF Valentines into the shoebox on the edge of their desk, know that I thought they made my life, time better spent. My dad takes flowers to the girls in his office. My mom sends me a little care package. I call my sisters and tell them I love them. How can such a day be bad?
Myles fried me some eggplant. I am loved.
But as for the commercialism? There is a bit. I, myself, have always liked Valentine's Day better when I was single. I hate being expected to do something simply because of a day. You can't force romance. And who wants a love like that anyway?
On my way home from Myles's, I drove in front of the Waco Tribune building just in time to see the night watch-man do his rounds outside. I saw him ambling along, awkwardly, his poor belt straining into his waist like a rubber-band on a water-balloon. "He's not very romantic", I thought. But he's like me, maybe. That's the kind of Love I want.
Who wants a Love like a muscle-ly armed Arnold Swartzenegger Green Beret protecting your heart? Arnold Swartzenegger is too high maintenance and not at all realistic. I want to love like an overweight security guard. Perhaps a little unwieldy and top-heavy at times. Maybe I'll spill a little spaghetti sauce on the front of my uniform and won't notice it. But I get the job done and you know I need the job as much as the job needs me. A little unromantic? At times. But, among all things, its true.
Like the candy hearts, its not always so much a matter of quality, as it is of taste.
PS, a special mix CD to the first person who can give me where I stole the title of this post from and their address!
Tuesday, February 08, 2005
Count your blessings, instead of sheep
Sometimes I laugh for no reason. Sometimes I'm in a library. Sometimes I'm by myself. Sometimes I'm walking. Sometimes I'm eating. The laughs, they come. They well up within me like so much gas when you're sitting next to a pretty girl. Can't fight it bro, it'll only make you sick. And no giggle or silent nod mind you, but my full, throaty, devil-sounding laugh. I don't know why. But for the longest time, such has always been the case.
It was my inclination to write about all of the possibilities that could be, to lead you, the reader, down a primrose path of the potential this and that. But I know why it is.
I am blessed. I say this with a resigned smile. I'm not jumping up and down, nor am I broken down and bent in self-flagellation. I say this with as much confidence as I have that I'll draw my next breath. I am blessed.
I think I've lived a charmed life. Born to amazing, loving, God-fearing and incredibly intelligent parents who literally wanted nothing more in the world than to have a baby boy, I was an answer to their prayers. They tried for years after having a miscarriage, and I, quite literally, received the early nomer of their "miracle child." I was given all I could hold. Then I was given more.
I have an older sister, a younger brother (and best friend/young man who will always be my #1 fan) and a little sister, who amongst everyone else in the family, is probably built the most like me. An entertainer, wise-ass and my own personal cuddle-buddy and foot-warmer.
If that wasn't enough, The Lord felt like he had to let the WORLD know I was blessed by delivering me from Cancer when the chances were not mine. Apparently the Sky-writers were sick that day.
Sometimes I laugh for no apparent reason. No joke in my head. No deja-vu of a Simpson's episode. Sometimes, I dance too.
I have all I need. I've known the sweet torture of the pain that comes with a chemo-infusion. There is a scent of a particular antiseptic cleaning product, that to this day, makes me nauseous. But those only served as the stand-up base-line to the Coltrain trumpet of my jubilation tip-toeing and splish-splashing its way through my life. Without the base, I wouldn't see the trumpet in my mind... I'd only hear it. Base, trumpet, cow bell: blessings all.
I've known of love with the capital "L." And, I guess I've also known what its like to lose it with a capital "L."
But to be honest, the hurt that comes with not talking to Erin is nothing compared to the warmth I get when I remember the sensation on the ticklish part of my heart when I heard her voice. I knew what it was like to smell her on my clothes. To hold the most beautiful woman I've ever seen before or since, and kiss her in the middle of an Airport, for any Texan to see.
Even the thought of never talking to her dissipates as smoke from a candle at the thought of the woman she is becoming, the good she'll do, the people she will touch. I do not worry about Erin. Few things are so strong as her.
Sometimes I laugh for no apparent reason. I cannot escape my joy. A smile cannot leave my chubby cheeks. I cannot walk in front of a mirror without seeing the 11 inch scar upon my abdomen -the flesh healed- and knowing of the favor I enjoy.
At one time I could have told you a story about the pressure of this knowledge. But really I was selling you yesterday's paper while pointing at the date. I knew better. I am Jonah. If I screw up too bad, there's always the whale.
Its 6:20 AM. And I'm laughing for no apparent reason. But appearances are tricky things.
It was my inclination to write about all of the possibilities that could be, to lead you, the reader, down a primrose path of the potential this and that. But I know why it is.
I am blessed. I say this with a resigned smile. I'm not jumping up and down, nor am I broken down and bent in self-flagellation. I say this with as much confidence as I have that I'll draw my next breath. I am blessed.
I think I've lived a charmed life. Born to amazing, loving, God-fearing and incredibly intelligent parents who literally wanted nothing more in the world than to have a baby boy, I was an answer to their prayers. They tried for years after having a miscarriage, and I, quite literally, received the early nomer of their "miracle child." I was given all I could hold. Then I was given more.
I have an older sister, a younger brother (and best friend/young man who will always be my #1 fan) and a little sister, who amongst everyone else in the family, is probably built the most like me. An entertainer, wise-ass and my own personal cuddle-buddy and foot-warmer.
If that wasn't enough, The Lord felt like he had to let the WORLD know I was blessed by delivering me from Cancer when the chances were not mine. Apparently the Sky-writers were sick that day.
Sometimes I laugh for no apparent reason. No joke in my head. No deja-vu of a Simpson's episode. Sometimes, I dance too.
I have all I need. I've known the sweet torture of the pain that comes with a chemo-infusion. There is a scent of a particular antiseptic cleaning product, that to this day, makes me nauseous. But those only served as the stand-up base-line to the Coltrain trumpet of my jubilation tip-toeing and splish-splashing its way through my life. Without the base, I wouldn't see the trumpet in my mind... I'd only hear it. Base, trumpet, cow bell: blessings all.
I've known of love with the capital "L." And, I guess I've also known what its like to lose it with a capital "L."
But to be honest, the hurt that comes with not talking to Erin is nothing compared to the warmth I get when I remember the sensation on the ticklish part of my heart when I heard her voice. I knew what it was like to smell her on my clothes. To hold the most beautiful woman I've ever seen before or since, and kiss her in the middle of an Airport, for any Texan to see.
Even the thought of never talking to her dissipates as smoke from a candle at the thought of the woman she is becoming, the good she'll do, the people she will touch. I do not worry about Erin. Few things are so strong as her.
Sometimes I laugh for no apparent reason. I cannot escape my joy. A smile cannot leave my chubby cheeks. I cannot walk in front of a mirror without seeing the 11 inch scar upon my abdomen -the flesh healed- and knowing of the favor I enjoy.
At one time I could have told you a story about the pressure of this knowledge. But really I was selling you yesterday's paper while pointing at the date. I knew better. I am Jonah. If I screw up too bad, there's always the whale.
Its 6:20 AM. And I'm laughing for no apparent reason. But appearances are tricky things.
Thursday, February 03, 2005
The boy in a bubble.
The people in Times Square move along so mechanically. One could tell the tourists apart from everyone else by how they gawked at the millions of bright lights, the huge Coke bottles and the monstrous Cup of Noodles sign. And they were right to do so, these are amazing things, Back to the Future II-esque things. But even they, with their cameras and "don't mess with Texas" shirts quickly learned to shuffle along, fall in line. If you gawk too loudly at a limited-edition Superman #23 with Wonder Woman, you're a nerd. If you squeal because you found that "I Love Lucy" purse that will perfectly match those checkered heels you bought because they reminded you of the vitaminamin episode, for some reason, People will think you're odd.
New York is a beautiful city, even in the winter. And yes, at 12 degrees Fahrenheit, a bit chilly. But I never felt cold until I saw the ten-thousand-plus people on one square block each acting as if he or she were the only ones there.
I once read that communication is the key to life. Not food. Not water. Not Chicago Cubs tickets. Communication.
Without communication, we are merely boys and girls in bubbles, trapped inside our own hairy, or not so hairy, bubbles; shackled within the fortresses of our skulls. So, if one was to think about it, he or she would realize that we, to other people, are only what we communicate, or even, as the case may be, what we DON'T communicate.
So back to Times Square. How is it that people can just turn themselves off? Standing there, watching people move along like blood cells through capillaries, I began to wonder about the people walking by me here and there. That girl has real feelings, needs and wants. That man needs love and acceptance every bit as much as I do. I wonder if one of these people is related to a Circus person. Do any of them have a third nipple? That one! Inny or Outy? So many secrets to be known if only we could take the time to get to know them. But instead, we are doomed to walk along, eyes straight ahead.
If you smile at anyone you're either A) a child molester/homicidal rapist, B) on Ex. or some happy little derivative, or 3) recently escaped from a mental institution.
Now, I'm not talking about making best friends with every person on the subway. But why is it that we turn our blinders on to the beauty that is in every person's soul? Thanks to Christ, our bubbles are no longer dark, like bowling balls, but clear and bursting with color, like marbles! I don't understand how people can have the blank "I don't get the joke" look as their default faces when we've been told that the Kingdom of God is at hand.
We talk about showing kindness to our fellow man. But how many times do we fail to return the smile of the fella next to us? Once again, I'm not saying we should all take to the streets wearing "Jesus Loves You" sandwich boards and handfulls of "Billy Graham doe too" balloons, unless you wanna. But all I'm suggesting is that we just be mindful of what's around us. Let us not live our lives only behind doors. If we spend a little time outside of our heads, gawking at the beauty of our neighbor's soul as we would at a '05 Mustange or Minolo Blanik's, letting the world fill our senses, I think you'll be surprised that it can taste good and top off the tank.
If every choice is "Love" or "other"... Choose Love.
New York is a beautiful city, even in the winter. And yes, at 12 degrees Fahrenheit, a bit chilly. But I never felt cold until I saw the ten-thousand-plus people on one square block each acting as if he or she were the only ones there.
I once read that communication is the key to life. Not food. Not water. Not Chicago Cubs tickets. Communication.
Without communication, we are merely boys and girls in bubbles, trapped inside our own hairy, or not so hairy, bubbles; shackled within the fortresses of our skulls. So, if one was to think about it, he or she would realize that we, to other people, are only what we communicate, or even, as the case may be, what we DON'T communicate.
So back to Times Square. How is it that people can just turn themselves off? Standing there, watching people move along like blood cells through capillaries, I began to wonder about the people walking by me here and there. That girl has real feelings, needs and wants. That man needs love and acceptance every bit as much as I do. I wonder if one of these people is related to a Circus person. Do any of them have a third nipple? That one! Inny or Outy? So many secrets to be known if only we could take the time to get to know them. But instead, we are doomed to walk along, eyes straight ahead.
If you smile at anyone you're either A) a child molester/homicidal rapist, B) on Ex. or some happy little derivative, or 3) recently escaped from a mental institution.
Now, I'm not talking about making best friends with every person on the subway. But why is it that we turn our blinders on to the beauty that is in every person's soul? Thanks to Christ, our bubbles are no longer dark, like bowling balls, but clear and bursting with color, like marbles! I don't understand how people can have the blank "I don't get the joke" look as their default faces when we've been told that the Kingdom of God is at hand.
We talk about showing kindness to our fellow man. But how many times do we fail to return the smile of the fella next to us? Once again, I'm not saying we should all take to the streets wearing "Jesus Loves You" sandwich boards and handfulls of "Billy Graham doe too" balloons, unless you wanna. But all I'm suggesting is that we just be mindful of what's around us. Let us not live our lives only behind doors. If we spend a little time outside of our heads, gawking at the beauty of our neighbor's soul as we would at a '05 Mustange or Minolo Blanik's, letting the world fill our senses, I think you'll be surprised that it can taste good and top off the tank.
If every choice is "Love" or "other"... Choose Love.
Tuesday, February 01, 2005
Takin a bite of the big apple (Part 1)
Me: "How is it that you can lead 40 men with guns through a forest at night using nothing more than a magnetized needle and a palm-sized map, but we can't go three blocks in this damn city without getting lost?"
Bennie: "I don't know... but a compass would help..."
I went to New York City for the first time this weekend. It was my brother's Yearling Winter Weekend at West Point, a weekend where the majestic United States Military Academy puts on her best for her Yearlings (sophomores) and they, in turn, spend as much of the weekend as possible away from her wanton grasp and escape to the City.
I flew into Newark, took a bus to Grand Central Station where I met Ben, wearing his big, brown, BCG's (Birth Control Glasses, because supposedly no Army man has ever managed to get laid while wearing them). We embrace, I laugh at him, and we figure out that we want to go drop off our stuff at our hotel room. We get on the Subway, take it North-ish and start to walk to wrong way. Eventually, we figure this out and turn back to find our hotel.
Hotel 31 turned out to be a gamble that paid off big time. I made the reservations and paid for it all online through Expedia (dot coooooooooom!). We strode on in and announced "reservation for Golemo, G-o-l-e-m-o." A nice looking man in a red suit and greased mafia-style hair started typing away at the computer. I instantly start to make fun of my little brother.
I grabbed his glasses, put them on and engaged in some tom-foolery.
"Hey, my name is Ben." I said with a mumble. "I listen to punk music and decided to the most punk thing I could think of and signed up to kill people at West Point. Also, I have no sense of equity, so if you flick me in the ear, I'll respond by making sure you'll never have children."
Nice looking, red-suited, greased hair guy started to laugh and then looked at us and said, with a look of surprise, "you're funny."
"Thanks for noticing."
So we got our cards and walked up to our room. It was a shared bathroom, no frills type of place and totally awesome. The room was barely twice the size of the bed. There was a sink and a dresser with a 13-inch TV on it.
We both immediately started to flop on the bed, Grandma's house-style. Then Ben turned on the TV to the Spanish Channel and we started to watch one of their prime-time soap operas. I started to make up my own dubbing for it.
A man dressed all in black with a ski mask was talking to a volumptuous, dark-haired, beauty with his hands open before him.
"Jes, I know you are tired of hearing this Lucinda, but you must, by now, have learned how to make a proper bag of the popping-corn!"
"Oh, Rodrigo!" She sighs as she backs away and puts her hand to her forehead. "You know I hate the popping-corn! Ever since father -oh I cannot describe it, -I dare not! For it is too painful!"
"Jes, Lucinda, I know all about your pa-pa. He died during the lawn-mower accident! But it was not your fault! And more importantly, what does this have to do wit the popping-corn!?!?!? Come, let us make sweet love and cut to loud commercial a moment before you are completely disrobed."
"No!"
"Jes!"
"No!"
"Jes!"
"Salright!"
Commercial!
Yes, we're funny guys.
Then I realized I was hungry. So we called my buddy Jordan's (Blog write Boof) wonderful fiance', LaRae who just happened to be living in Manhattan, working for the man and preparing a home for Jordan and herself for their future. Sigh. Anyways, she calls us and gives us directions. We see a huge comic-book shop and, of course, get distracted, turned-around, and lost. But to be honest, with Ben, such is always fun.
Eventually, after walking half a mile in the wrong direction in really cold weather, we show up, numb and rosey-cheeked at the LaRae's. She took us to a place called Playwright's. Excellent food. No joke. De-Lish!
Then, LaRae showed us around Times Square. We saw tons of stuff! It was awesome and inspired a post I'll publish soon. (It's sort of deep) But here was the most the thing that was awesomest. The Dook. Thor's Hammer. Odin's Raven. Whatever! We fricken met SPIDERMAN! The Webslinger himself! Okay, it was actually a semi-homeless man who made the costume himself and was charging people $7 a picture. But I'll tell ya. It was the best $7 Mama Golemo's baby boy ever spent!
I immediately called a friend to let them know what they were missing.
"Dude. Spiderman. Times Square. Me. Bennie-hanna. Awesome!"
"Neil, are you excited?"
"Heck yes I'm excited! What the flip would YOU feel in a situation like this?"
Hang up.
I'll finish this story later. When this medication wears off. Until then, I bid you Adieu.
Bennie: "I don't know... but a compass would help..."
I went to New York City for the first time this weekend. It was my brother's Yearling Winter Weekend at West Point, a weekend where the majestic United States Military Academy puts on her best for her Yearlings (sophomores) and they, in turn, spend as much of the weekend as possible away from her wanton grasp and escape to the City.
I flew into Newark, took a bus to Grand Central Station where I met Ben, wearing his big, brown, BCG's (Birth Control Glasses, because supposedly no Army man has ever managed to get laid while wearing them). We embrace, I laugh at him, and we figure out that we want to go drop off our stuff at our hotel room. We get on the Subway, take it North-ish and start to walk to wrong way. Eventually, we figure this out and turn back to find our hotel.
Hotel 31 turned out to be a gamble that paid off big time. I made the reservations and paid for it all online through Expedia (dot coooooooooom!). We strode on in and announced "reservation for Golemo, G-o-l-e-m-o." A nice looking man in a red suit and greased mafia-style hair started typing away at the computer. I instantly start to make fun of my little brother.
I grabbed his glasses, put them on and engaged in some tom-foolery.
"Hey, my name is Ben." I said with a mumble. "I listen to punk music and decided to the most punk thing I could think of and signed up to kill people at West Point. Also, I have no sense of equity, so if you flick me in the ear, I'll respond by making sure you'll never have children."
Nice looking, red-suited, greased hair guy started to laugh and then looked at us and said, with a look of surprise, "you're funny."
"Thanks for noticing."
So we got our cards and walked up to our room. It was a shared bathroom, no frills type of place and totally awesome. The room was barely twice the size of the bed. There was a sink and a dresser with a 13-inch TV on it.
We both immediately started to flop on the bed, Grandma's house-style. Then Ben turned on the TV to the Spanish Channel and we started to watch one of their prime-time soap operas. I started to make up my own dubbing for it.
A man dressed all in black with a ski mask was talking to a volumptuous, dark-haired, beauty with his hands open before him.
"Jes, I know you are tired of hearing this Lucinda, but you must, by now, have learned how to make a proper bag of the popping-corn!"
"Oh, Rodrigo!" She sighs as she backs away and puts her hand to her forehead. "You know I hate the popping-corn! Ever since father -oh I cannot describe it, -I dare not! For it is too painful!"
"Jes, Lucinda, I know all about your pa-pa. He died during the lawn-mower accident! But it was not your fault! And more importantly, what does this have to do wit the popping-corn!?!?!? Come, let us make sweet love and cut to loud commercial a moment before you are completely disrobed."
"No!"
"Jes!"
"No!"
"Jes!"
"Salright!"
Commercial!
Yes, we're funny guys.
Then I realized I was hungry. So we called my buddy Jordan's (Blog write Boof) wonderful fiance', LaRae who just happened to be living in Manhattan, working for the man and preparing a home for Jordan and herself for their future. Sigh. Anyways, she calls us and gives us directions. We see a huge comic-book shop and, of course, get distracted, turned-around, and lost. But to be honest, with Ben, such is always fun.
Eventually, after walking half a mile in the wrong direction in really cold weather, we show up, numb and rosey-cheeked at the LaRae's. She took us to a place called Playwright's. Excellent food. No joke. De-Lish!
Then, LaRae showed us around Times Square. We saw tons of stuff! It was awesome and inspired a post I'll publish soon. (It's sort of deep) But here was the most the thing that was awesomest. The Dook. Thor's Hammer. Odin's Raven. Whatever! We fricken met SPIDERMAN! The Webslinger himself! Okay, it was actually a semi-homeless man who made the costume himself and was charging people $7 a picture. But I'll tell ya. It was the best $7 Mama Golemo's baby boy ever spent!
I immediately called a friend to let them know what they were missing.
"Dude. Spiderman. Times Square. Me. Bennie-hanna. Awesome!"
"Neil, are you excited?"
"Heck yes I'm excited! What the flip would YOU feel in a situation like this?"
Hang up.
I'll finish this story later. When this medication wears off. Until then, I bid you Adieu.
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