christmasjones

livin' the life of a true rockstar eh? lol.

it sounds like quite the experience, though I can only imagine what you must have felt while standing at the SS Headquarters. It's amazing when you go to places that are so steeped in history that you can literally feel the weight of what went on there and it makes you feel awkward and perhaps uncomfortable for a myriad of reasons...

Sounds freakin' amazing man. I'm glad you had a good time. I'm keeping my eyes open for rich texans that will take me to strip clubs and bars for free

An epic adventure for sure Glad to see you back...

Believe me, I have been there. There is some small comfort in knowing that what you have been through before will prepare you for the times to come. I hate calling myself a victim or a survivor in any instance and prefer the term of 'warrior' - it fits me better I think...

I'm happy you're able to find strength from within. I am in a similar situation, accept its not with friends...its with my career. My family has been long gone from me for a while, except for my mother.

At any rate, is Coby your son or just a relative? If he's your son, congrats, I have one of those as well. His photo is in my attachments folder.

and by hammering away at your novel....you mean sg chat. btw. you're a sick, sick man.

none of that, sir. none of that.

my e-peen is bigger than yours.

Amsterdam in the summer sucks

I went there in December, sure you couldn't walk around in shorts and a t-shirt, but there were NO crowds anywhere. And even the really popular coffee shops (like Barney's) had sitting room inside, which was nice. The only line we encountered the whole time (and this was a weekend!) was at the Anne Frank House.

I totally fell in love with the city, but I imagine being there in the summer would make me want to rip my head off.

One tip to other potential travelers to Amsterdam: get lunch in the University of Amsterdam cafeteria. It's fast and cheap

Oh, man. Let it out.

Buy me a shot?

something that inspires me:

Virginia Woolf

GREEN
THE POINTED FINGERS of glass hang downwards. The light slides down the glass, and drops a pool of green. All day long the ten fingers of the lustre drop green upon the marble. The feathers of parakeets their harsh cries sharp blades of palm trees green, too; green needles glittering in the sun. But the hard glass drips on to the marble; the pools hover above the desert sand; the camels lurch through them; the pools settle on the marble; rushes edge them; weeds clog them; here and there a white blossom; the frog flops over; at night the stars are set there unbroken. Evening comes, and the shadow sweeps the green over the mantlepiece; the ruffled surface of ocean. No ships come; the aimless waves sway beneath the empty sky. It's night; the needles drip blots of blue. The green's out.

BLUE
The snub-nosed monster rises to the surface and spouts through his blunt nostrils two columns of water, which, fiery-white in the centre, spray off into a fringe of blue beads. Strokes of blue line the black tarpaulin of his hide. Slushing the water through mouth and nostrils he sings, heavy with water, and the blue closes over him dowsing the polished pebbles of his eyes. Thrown upon the beach he lies, blunt, obtuse, shedding dry blue scales. Their metallic blue stains the rusty iron on the beach. Blue are the ribs of the wrecked rowing boat. A wave rolls beneath the blue bells. But the cathedral's different, cold, incense laden, faint blue with the veils of madonnas.