Save A Horse, Shoot a cowboy...

What can I say about Cowboys?

What are they exactly???

Doesn't the word "Cowboy" seem strange to you?

For myself, it conjures up disgusting images of half-man/half-cow creatures. A cloven hoofed, cud-chewing man-beast with unsightly udders dangling from his filthy front-area.

That's right...FRONT-AREA!!!

I would imagine them to be gentle monsters though.

I hope that flesh-eating cows aren't that common.

That wouldn't be pleasant at all!

The word Cowboy makes me cringe a bit. What are they? Why are they? WHO are they?!

These strange individuals who have the gall to proclaim themselves "boys of the cow!"

These boot wearing, skoal chewing, wrangler jean loving, stetson smelling people who sing with irritatingly warbled vocals about dead dogs and truck-driving ex-girlfriends with revenge on there minds.

My own father has proclaimed himself a cowboy at times. He (much to my dismay) wears wranglers, owns various pairs of boots, and occasionally (and randomly!) screams, "YEE HAW!"

I find his views of being a cowboy somewhat skewed though, since he also sees himself as somewhat of a Native American.

Yep...a red-feathered Injun!

How do you call yourself a cowboy and also call yourself an Indian?

Isn't that somewhat of an oxi-moron?

If I HAD to make a guestimate of what a real, TRUE cowboy was, I would instantly picture someone fairly ANTI-native american, in the sense that...errrrrrrrr (how do i say this delicately?)...well, they KILLED most of them back in the day!

Cowboys, to me, are the guys that wrangled up the native american's and forced them into reservations. They are the guys that shut the native american's up! These are the BAD guys!!!

I personally like Native American's more then Cowboys. They are definitely an endangered species to this country called America. Isn't it funny that Native (by Miriam's standard) means:

{a local resident: especially a person who has always lived in a place, as distinguished from a visitor or a temporary resident}
or
{belonging to a particular place by birth}

Which just peeves me more about how we came about BEING...AMERICANS!!! (I am saying AMERICANS with gusto and bravado-like I am proud!)

Yet, we are JUST Americans. We are not NATIVE American's.

Most of our ancestors came here from foreign countries, hoping to find work, opportunity, freedom and CHOICE....some came because the potatoes were bad.

Woah, that got serious real fast!!!

Back on track...Cowboys.

Not a fan.

I don't really understand them. I don't like country music, I don't like Kenny Chesney or Brad Paisley and I most certainly do not like taxidermied animal heads mounted on my walls.

That said, I don't HATE them. I can't really get up enough gall to truly hate ANYONE. I can, however, find them highly annoying to look at. I can't stand the sight of them!!

Nuff said! That is my rant for the moment. Cowboys irritate me!

Followed

I must say that I am very excited to have three followers.

Who cares if one of them happens to be myself!

Why shouldn't I feel the need to follow myself?? I'm a pretty cool person!

I must say though, that I have an AWFUL sense of directions, so while following me, we are bound to get lost one or more times before we arrive at our final destination.

I can barely manage my way from my bed to the bathroom sometimes. I get lost that easily.

It's just so hard though. Walking 5 feet from my computer desk and making a left into my bathroom can be a tough thing to do. Sometimes I feel an urge to continue straight and head to the kitchen. Sometimes I veer right and walk into the wall. Other times I aimlessly wander around, wondering what my initial intentions were and why I am meandering about my home.

Sometimes I find myself outside, staring at the sky and listening to the birds chirp and tweet. I have no clue what lead me out there. I am just THERE.

Traveling is not my strong suit though. Some people were born Navigators. They know where they are at all times. They know the precise location including the latitude, longitude and approximate temperature in degrees fahrenhite of the spot they are in. They are THAT talented.

I, on the other hand, have no idea where I am at most moments in my life.

Being lost isn't fun to me either.

I panic. I freak out. I often find myself randomely in a strange city, not sure how I got there. Unfamiliar with it and completely clueless as to get back home. I have had to call family members several times to rescue me from these situations.

Bottom line here: Watch yourself if you continue to follow me. I get lost. I daydream and dawdle. My head is always in the clouds. Following me can only lead to trouble. But, at least it's an adventure!

It also feels really neat having people "follow" me.

From now on, I am always going to feel like I am being watched.

I am going to see eyes peering out at me from every bush I pass. I am going to hear my name whispered at random moments. I am going to feel your presence lingering near me at all hours of the day!

You know this is only going to lead to something very bad. I am going to wind up becoming a paranoid schitzophrenic. It's my destiny.

My new theme song will slowly become...

"I always feel like, somebody's watchin' me!!"

Oh well...such is life! We'll see what happens!

Have a fantabulous day my 3 followers.

The Luck O' The Irish

Yeah, So I was just sitting here thinking about leprechauns. I have always wanted to catch one. I think it would be really fun. Especially since I am half Irish.

Well, at least I THINK I am half Irish.

No one really knows much about one part of my family, so we just SAY we are Irish.

My name pretty much defends the Irish background though.


Ryan Patrick Kelley.


I sound like I could be a member of Michael Flatley's Lord Of The Dance team. Which I could. Since I have such an amazing gift in clogging.

Of course, I would never look as amazing as Mr. Flatley, with his fantastic smile, chisled Irish Abs and of course...his FABULOUS jazz Hands. Let me just say how much I admire a man who can pull off embroidered velvet pants and headbands. That pretty much makes him the coolest man alive in my book.

Where was I headed????

Oh yeah...Leprechauns!!!

They are pretty much the awesomest little fellas you can find. Despite the fact that some UNBELIEVERS call them "mythical"....

Mythical my ass!

Those tiny guys EXIST!

TRUST ME!!!

Anyways, I was thinking of how fun it would be to actually catch one. Hopefully, I would grab onto it's pot o' gold first and then get to converse with it. Catch up on all the Irish lore that I have missed out on during my 28 years on this planet. I'm sure there are countless things a leprechaun can tell me. How to scramble up rainbows like spiderman, how to keep the buckles on my shiney leather shoes sparkley, how to deep fry shamrock. All sorts of Irishy tidbits.

I think the leprechaun could teach me a few things about Irish Jigs too.

Not as much as Flatley...but probably a decent amount. I might even show him a few pointers.

Hopefully, the Leprechaun I meet isn't too mischievious. I want it to be fun and whimsical, not Warwick Davis circa The Leprechaun horror series. I prefer my Leprechauns friendly...not hungry for my blood.

I imagine him to have a cute green outfit on, a red beard, red eyebrows, green eyes, black shoes with buckles and a crazy-wild crooked smile. :)

His name will be Mick O'Blarney.

I don't know why. I just thought of it...and I think it's great.

Anyways, we'll see what happens. If I find my leprechaun. You will be the first to know. Keep your fingers crossed and your shamrocks watered.

Attack Of The Nusing Home Zombie Women

So, I was sitting here, staring at my computer screen, ruminating over my life and the various situations and events that have turned me into the person that I am today. I think of all the incredible people I have met and the thrilling adventures I have been on...mainly in the books I read. I was looking back on my life and started to realize that I am no longer a spring chicken-even though I have no factual data on what exactly a SPRING chicken is. Is it a chicken that is born in the spring? Does is spring up and down when you approach it? Is it's favorite season spring? I have absolutley no info on what that means...but, I say it anyways.

Since, I am getting older, I am realizing-with intense terror-that I will one day, most likely, wind up in a nursing home.

The idea of spending my final days confined to a room with some random stranger who smells like urine and decay scares me a lot. I try to remind myself that I myself will smell like pee and old flesh too...but, I like to think of myself as the kind of person who wouldn't let that happen to himself. I can't imagine squandering away in my own waste. It makes my eyes practically bulge from the sockets....probably because they want to explode from my head and seek out a younger, fresher, more youthful head to plant themselves in.

Turning 28 was a big eye opener for me. It made me realize how I truly do not enjoy birthdays anymore. I hate them. They don't get me excited or happy...instead, they are like an ugly reminder from God that time is running out and I haven't done much to brag about in this dull life of mine. Every year now is like losing a year. It's not exciting or eventful.

It's the countdown to death!

I know what you are thinking...28 isn't old. But, really...it is! When I was 16 years old I used to look at people who were mid-twenties and think, "Jeez, that's a LONG way off!" and now, here I am...ready for my daily suppliments. It's sad that one day you are living it up, 16 years old, partying with yourself in your bedroom, reading Fear Street books and dancing to Britney Spears and then the next day you are 28 years old...reading Fear Street books and trying to decipher the meanings behind Britney Spears' new song, "If You Seek Amy". SOOOOO much has changed, can't you tell??


The fear of nursing homes was only intensified for me after my grandmother was "retired" to one several years ago. It was the dingiest of places you could imagine. It looked like a hospital in a early 80's horror flick. With all white walls and white, dirty floors. The moans and groans of the patients was horrifying to me. I could hear a woman screaming, "Whhyyyyyyyyyyyy!?" over and over again and it still sticks with me to this day...I understand where she was coming from! I would be screaming like that too just for the smell alone.

My poor Grandmother, who has since passed on, was just about the cutest little woman you could ever picture. She was this feisty Italian firecracker! In the years prior to the dementia and altzheimers setting in, she was the toughest woman I have ever known. Her most common response to questions asked of her would either be, "Shove it" or "Who cares"...She was a spitfire of attitude and I loved that about her more then anything else! It was very hard for all of us to come to terms with her gradual downward spiral into the dementia...but families deal with these issues all the time, and we did it the best we could.

It was always best to take one or more heavy duty anti-anxiety pills before entering the "home" to help take the edge off. I tried everytime to put myself into a "zone" of sorts to lessen the traumatic occurances around me.

I would think of gumdrops and fairies, or unicorns and lollipops. Or a unicorn with a lollipop for a horn. That would be interesting. Going to my happy place was always helpful during a trip to the NH (nursing home).

Anyhooo, rambling...

My most horrific nursing home memory happened while I was with my cousins in some sort of "entertainment" room of sorts. It was more like a white room with a 13 inch tv in a corner and scattered folding chairs strewn about in a half hazard way. Super comfortable and UBER-chic!! Very Martha Stewart...If Martha lived in the ghetto as a crack addict with no sense of style.

I was standing outside the room staring in at whatever was going on when I hear the groaning of several patients behind me. I turn to see my cousin, several feet away, staring at me with wide eyes. For some reason, I always see this moment in slow motion.

Her mouth forming a perfect "O" as she screams, "Nooooooooo!" and "Looook Ouuuuut!" as the claws reach for me.

I hadn't noticed the gang of shambling geriatrics cornering me. This was my mistake.

Never let your guard down at these places!!

They are danger zones for elderly gang wars. You think those arthritic fingers are contorting into those shapes for no reason...but, truthfully, they are throwing up gang-symbols!

By the time I had noticed the group of elderly African American women batting there toothless gums at me, it was too late.

I was trapped.

I was cornered.

They were surrounding me!

There was NO escape!

All of the zombie movies I have seen were suddenly made real as several gnarled up hands groped at my petrified form, the unkempt fingernails digging into my flesh like the talons of a hawk gripping into a frightened mouse. Suddenly, Michael Jackson's 'Thriller' video wasn't so fun to me.

The groaning and grunting intensified. The ogling eyes glaring at me from beneath far-t00-large glasses turned my blood cold. The smacking of the lips and gums grew louder. My heart pounding so hard in my chest that I thought it would explode right out of me! They tore and pulled at me. A tug O'war over my meek innocence. I know not what they sought, but I have an inkling it was my soul. Either that, or just my blood. Either way, it wasn't looking good!

I came to my senses and struggled away from the drooling hoards of zombie-women. I turned as I fled, gazing glassy-jaundiced eyes, sagging skin, and one or two snaggle-toothed mouths. I wondered briefly how awful it would be to be gummed to death by elderly folk. I still to this day wonder what the obituary would have read. "Boy 18, mauled to death by a group of 90-something year olds at nursing home" That wouldn't have been cool.


I remember looking down and seeing blood pouring from a fresh wound in my arm where one of the assailants had slashed me with her claws. My first thoughts were that I had been infected. I knew that my time would be coming soon and that the transformation from youthful 18 year old to flesh-eating elderly zombie would begin shortly. I just didn't know when.

To make a long, rambling story short...I don't trust those nursing homes. They let the old, dangerous people loose and keep the sane ones strapped to beds and left to moan and groan.

My transformation from normal boy to geriatric monster has been taking a bit of time...but, i'm sure that the infection is still coursing through my bloodstream. It'll come out sooner or later.

Tanning

So, for some odd reason I feel like starting out my blog by talking about the interesting world of deep-fried human flesh: TANNING!
Why is it, that we, as human beings, feel this strong need to char our flesh for vanity purposes? Don't get me wrong, I have been there...I have DONE that. We all have our slip ups. I have a tendency to get very pale and fish-like in the fall and winter months and sometimes have felt the need to add a splash of color to my skin.

Personally, I think this is where things get a bit unfair. For a guy, our only acceptable coloring option is via sun/tanning. We, for some reason, are not allowed the luxury of slapping bronzers and cremes/creams (??) on our faces to add a healthy look. If we do, we are made fun of. We are demoralized and stripped of our masculinity. So, in a harmful attempt to keep from appearing too "white-faced" in the cold months, we run to the nearest tanning beds in our areas when desperation consumes our minds. Well, it's not so much of a "RUN" as it is a slow, inconspicuous, creep towards the salon. We do our best to appear unnoticeable and coy. We make no small talk with the always teenage-girl behind the desk (seriously, is it always the same girl? does she ever age?), not wanting to draw unwanted attention to ourselves for fear of someone shouting, "FREAKY MAN TANNER!" at us as we stumble to room #14 nervously.

Some of us wear hats and tilt them low over our faces in a hapless attempt to hide our identities. We do this inadvertently yearning to feel like a celebrity avoiding the paparazzi. We do this to get closer to our inner Michael Jackson. We want to wear the full on surgical mask, but we don't have the balls.

We nod quietly and never make eye contact as the bored salon-girl rambles to us about how to use the bed. Just the thought of someone telling me, "HOW TO USE THE BED" gets me nervous. It's so perverse! It's So wrong! So...unnatural! We should always, instantly just innately KNOW how to use "a bed"!!!!

When we are finally left alone in those cubicle-like rooms we ALWAYS rush to undress. It's always frenzied, crazed and manic. In my mind, I am thinking the bed is going to turn on before I get in it. Like this would be the end of the world! I personally don't get down to my undies. I always wear a pair of shorts and...oddly, I leave my socks on. I have this odd phobia of contracting some form of planters warts anytime I am barefooted in strange places....so, I would rather leave my socks on then walk around that cubicle sock-less. Strange, YES...But, that's just me!

The first time I ever went tanning I was 17 years old and prepping myself for Prom. My mother told me how pale I looked and that I needed color in my face for the photos and to compliment my lovely date. I hesitantly walked myself over to the local gym near my home that also had tanning beds in it. I had never tanned, but I wanted to seem mature and knowledgeable so when asked if I knew how to "use the beds" (what did I say!?) I decided to fib and proclaim, "OF COURSE!"

The salon-attendant left me to my own devices in the cramped quarter and I had to guestimate what was what. It seemed pretty simple. Get your clothes off and get in the tomb of ultraviolet cancer rays. I peeled off my clothes and laid them all gently on the chair next to the bed. I nimbly sprayed the "baby powder" deoderant under my arms and switched the "Hits Of The 70's" cd in the disc-player to a "Hits of the 80's" one.

I took a look down at the bed and saw a spray bottle in the middle of it and was anxious to get whatever lotion or accelerator might be contained within it onto my skin. I sprayed away, starting at my legs and working my way up. Spritzing quickly and efficiently. I barely had time to notice the bleach smell wafting up to my nostrils before I had pulled the trigger onto my face. I was soaked in CLOROX!! My eyes welled up in tears, my nasal cavity was filled with the flames of hell, and my lungs were instantly clogged with noxious vapours.

But, the best part about it...I still got in that bed.

I used the green (not for long!) towell that was already laid out and wiped my bleach-soaked body off and hopped in that bed! I didn't want to embarrass myself further by having to explain the bleach to the employees and, fearing the loss of 5.95 (that was the price at the time) I took the 15 minute risk of frying my flesh, which was now coated in an extremely harsh chemical.
Needless to say, I burned my skin...Pretty bad! I was lobster red and had actual welt-like burns covering my chest. I wound up getting extremely ill that night as well.
I threw up, was feverish and almost wound up in the hospital.

So, my first attempt at a tanning bed went swimmingly....how would it fare for me years later???

8 years later...

So, I am older and wiser at this point. I have lived and learned. I am an independant adult living with my mother. YES! I am so cool! I practically oooze awesomeness!

I find myself in a similar situation, worried that my skin is too white for a wedding I am attending. I decide to randomely stop at a tanning salon in my area while out and about. The awning outside the building said, "Tanning and Wellness" So I felt like I was in good hands.

Little did I know the kinds of hands I was almost in.

I walked up to the door and pulled the handle, thinking it was like every other door in the universe and would open when you pulled it. Nope. No opening here. I notice a little sign mounted on the door saying, "Ring bell to enter" so, being the good human that I am, I follow the instructions. I am confused at this note and curious as to why I would have to ring a doorbell at a tanning salon, especially one in my almost rural town of Chester.

I start to turn around to head down the steps back to my car when a tiny, wrinkled Asian face peers out and asks, "What You want?" in a rather loud, heavily accented, DIRECT manner. I jump a little at the forcefullness of the woman's question. I am not used to being spoken to in this manner. I am used to SPEAKING to people in this manner, but CERTAINLY not being spoken to in it. Afterall, remember, I was royalty in a past life. I do not respond to commands...I do the commanding! :)

After hesitating a moment, I pull myself together and point to the sign and say, "I just wanted to tan". The woman eyes me up and down with her sharp, judging eyes. "Drivers Liscence Preease!" She demands, still eyeing me up. I feel like she is performing some sort of laser surgery on my joints...that's how focused she was looking at me. I naively hand over my ID with no second thoughts. Why would they need my ID to tan??

After handing me my ID back and a brief moment of silence she exclaims roughly, "You come in now!"once again startling me with her audacity and tone of voice. I stumble inside after she opens the door and glance around the strange room I am now inhabiting. There are shower stalls lining the walls. Literally, lining the walls!

I am confused. I want to tan, I do not want to shower. I am clean. I have cleansed. I have used ZEST! I have no need for sudsing and showering!

I stand there in awe of the stalls and a strange understanding flows through me right when "SHE" flows down the stairs. I can't say what she was wearing, since I really can't remember, but I just remember her being an older woman (probably in her 50's) and having nails as long as Freddy Kruger's knife-fingers. She meanders down the stairs into the shower-stall room at me, like a cat hunting a mouse. I start to tremble. I know where I am! This is a sexy-time parlor!!! This is the kind of place men come to get "Happy Endings" and I am now trapped...Confined...imprisoned! This rush of complete understanding comes too late as the woman runs her long, multi-colored nails up my arm.

"Helllooooooo...What you here for?" She asks, her L's sounding more like R's.

"Ummm, I saw the tanning sign outside and really need to tan...I have a wedding...it's coming up...I'm really pale...I just want to tan" I say, stumbling over my words nervously.

"Ohhhhhhhhhh, you say you want the tan?" she purrs, the claws raking my arm up and down. I fear them scratching me. I do NOT want to contract Hep-C.

"Yes, I just want to tan. I am really pale and my face needs color." I say again.

"You suuuuuuuuuuure, that's all you want????" She asks suggestively. This time, her hands are actually rubbing my arm in a seductive manner. The claws have retracted. She is going in full-steam-massage mode. I need to act fast!

"YES...Tanning is all I want! Real tanning! I JUST want to tan! That's it!" I say. I am scared to death of this woman and her touchy ways. I feel like Adrian Monk. I want to bathe my body in purell!

Suddenly, her demeanor changes. She shifts into another person. She goes from 'Memoirs Of A Geisha' to 'Valley Girl' in the blink of an eye. She slouches, loses the accent and rolls her eyes.

"Ugh, how long do you want to go in for?" She says in a completely different voice.
She is annoyed.

"10 minutes" I say quickly.

"That's 15 dollars" she states matter of factly.

"That's too much for me today, I'll come back later!" I say and quickly rush out the door.

I run to my car as if I am being pursued by a masked killer. I can feel her hot, fetid breath on my neck, her rake-like talons slicing across my back. I think I may have even screamed as I drove off. I know I may have even urinated in my pants a little.

I headed home in shock. I had just been to a sexy-time massage parlor with no clue of what was going to happen!!!

The funny thing is that I know several guys NOW who have been to this place and have expressed how enjoyable this place WAS (it has since been raided and closed by police-much to the dismay of lonely, horny Chester-men. I am one of the few who is scared and mortified of being touched and massaged in sensuous ways.

I could have been killed in that place!

Anyways, these are two experiences at tanning salons. I have rambled long enough. I hope you take heed the next time you decide to stop in at a tanning salon. You might wind up with a not so "happy ending"

A Little About This Blogger...

Hello!
You lucky, lucky web-surfer! You have somehow stumbled across my completely random blog. Although, I would like to think of it more-so as fate bringing you into my oh-so-charmed life. Maybe the higher power has felt a need to bring my meaningless life-experiences in your life for some unknown purpose. Maybe you will read my stories and find some sense of inner peace or prosperity. Maybe you will find a new calling in life! Maybe you will fall helplessly in love with me and wind up stalking me night and day. Whatever the reason, it matters no more....YOU HAVE ARRIVED!!! WELCOME!!!



I have to give ample warning that my life is anything but exciting. I spend my days either lounging around, doing what I please or staring at a computer dutifully editing wedding photos. I have to confess...Sometimes both at the same time. There are few surprises in my life, and when they DO happen...they are BIG.

When life hands me lemons...I cry.
I don't make lemonaide because It usually cramps up my hands and irritates my carpal tunnel syndrome. I can't stand the hand pain, so I would rather just just not make the lemonaide and put the lovely yellow fruit on a platter and stare at it's sunshiney splendor.

Aside from the randomeness of the lemon analogy...I should move on to a little bit about myself. The personal stuff. The nitty-gritty, dirty facts about my fantastic self.

First off, My face is ever so handsome. It looks as if it were carved from the finest of flesh-toned marble and smoothed over by the very hand of God. There is not a blemish to be seen. My eyes are blue, and extremely intense. People can stare into them for hours...entranced...As If I have some vampiric powers. Which I do.
My teeth are straight and white. They actually sparkle. I have turned down several colgate and crest commercials (not to mention the less famous AIM offers) for fear of the obscene public attention I would receive.
My hair is the color of Chocolate and as soft as silk. People are constantly petting me as if I were some sort of lap dog. It's an incredible feeling actually...to know what the life of a Pomeranian might be like. The fabulosity of my hair, eyes, skin and overall BEAUTY is magnanimous!!!

That was a joke. Hopefully, you understand that I said all of that in jest. I am just a regular person. With regular hair and regular eyes. I have regular skin that occassionally breaks out and gets oily. What can I say...My sebum production gets a little crazy and I have to switch cleansers! I'm only human!

I am in my late (I am actually quite punctual, so I find this slightly offensive) twenties and haven't had much life experience. I have always been quite attached to my family. I currently reside in the same home as my mother. I get a lot of Norman Bates references aimed at me all the time, but I shrug them off. I would never stuff my mother and put her in a rocking chair! That would involve FAR too much hard work and I have absolutly zero taxidermy skills required for something of that nature. I love my mother, but I don't love her enough to wear her clothes and become her. Sorry mom.

I work in Photo editing. The great part about this is that I do everything from home. My bedroom has become my own personal LAIR. Almost like my own Bat cave. My own fortress of Solitude. My own private Idaho! The only downside is that It's quite small, lacks gadgets and weaponry, has no crystal decorum or holographic father in it, and definitely has no male-prostituting Keanu Reeves hanging about. DAMN!
The editing is fun. I get to stare at happy couples getting married and help make them look pretty. For some reason, seeing this exuberant joy all the time has somehow managed to make me feel even less special. I always feel special though. Short-Bus special. The kind of special that needs training wheels and possibly suspenders.
Anyhoo, work is not my forte. I was meant to be a leige of some sort and I feel cheated in this life that people expect it from me. I know, in my previous existances, I was handfed grapes and fanned by servants and never, ever lifted a finger for work-purposes. I know that I was highly doted upon and looked after by all those who loved me.

There are many little factoids about myself that you will come to learn, slowly, over a period of time that I cannot give approximations to. Hopefully, you will grow to love and adore me...if not, that's too bad. I am very loveable. I am like a teddy bear minus the claws and sharp teeth. So, give me a hug and know with certainty that you won't have your spine yanked out or your face chewed off. I'm not that kind of bear.

To be continued...