Monday, July 26, 2010
Friday, June 18, 2010
The Fresh Karate Kid of Bel Air
So we're halfway through 2010 now, and many horrific things have happened in these short six months, further proving that we are indeed living in the last days.
We had devastating earthquakes in Haiti and Chile, while Tiger Woods returned to playing only 18 holes again. We watched the ocean bleed thousands of barrels of oil into our precious ecosystem, while at the same time catching "Bieber Fever."
We lost a Golden Girl named Blanche, a Lost Boy named Corey, and a black boy named Arnold. The world was introduced to a useless piece of shit called the iPad (which I still think should have been the name of Apple's answer to the sanitary napkin, and perhaps the means to stopping BP's oily menses.)
But perhaps the biggest abomination ever put forth on this planet in the first-half of 2010, is the remake of the cinematic classic "The Karate Kid," featuring Jaden Smith as -what the fuck?- Dre Parker???
They couldn't even keep the LaRusso name alive, could they? I mean, they should of gotten Ralph Macchio to revisit his revered role of Daniel. What the hell would he be busy with these days anyway, "My Cousin Vinny Part II?" Plus that guy was playing the role of the Karate KID well into his 30s. That's the beauty of Ralph Macchio, he's ageless...like Gary Coleman...in rerun syndication.
God, how I wish it was the Summer of 1984 again. I remember it like it was 26 years ago...because it was about 26 years ago. Kindergarten had just let out, half-shirts were all the rage (like LaRusso and I wore at that time, yes there is photographic proof) and there was a buzz around a little movie about a teen transplanted from the docile streets of Jersey into the cutthroat neighborhood of suburban Reseda...a little ass-backwards, but thats okay.
I remember my mom piled all the neighborhood kids in our big red rapist van and took us all to go see this highly-acclaimed film called "The Karate Kid." It was probably the greatest cinematic adventure I had ever been on. But not because it was a brilliant film...and not because we all enjoyed watching some PG-asskicking...but because as soon as the movie let out, I became Daniel LaRusso.
I had the good fortune of being named 'Daniel' just as the character in the movie was. And as all the kids I knew around me saw that film, they too, would hail me as their local Karate Kid. And not only did I embrace it, but I ran with it.
I would show the kids how I "painted the fence" and "sanded the floor." I "waxed on" and "waxed off" all over the fucking place. I even had my mom buy me the same exact "Miyagi-Do" headband that LaRusso rocked in the movie from the San Jose flea market...and I rocked it just as well...everyday. I even perfected the Crane Kick, so much so that I crane-kicked a cactus in our front yard and embedded a long-ass thorn straight through my shoe and into my big toe. Yeah, I cried. But you know what, Daniel LaRusso cried, too.
Halfway through the summer a new kid moved to the neighborhood. A rather generic looking fellow with dusty hair and freckles all over his face. I remember he was playing in the front of his house all by himself, so I did what any warm-welcoming peer would of done to a new kid on the block...I threw a rock at his fucking head.
When he turned around and looked at me, I stood there, stoic, in my headband, with my hands on my hips in front of the summer sun. He asked me what my name was.
"Daniel..DANIEL LARUSSO."
Jeremy was his name, and as soon as I introduced myself, he became a disciple of mine. He wanted to learn karate. And me being The Karate Kid, I would teach him.
I wrote out daily lessons for Jeremy and we practiced every single day for the rest of that summer. Some of these lessons included scaling the tree in my front yard in under 10 seconds, hanging upside down from the monkey-bars while getting tanbark thrown at him, and blocking every swing of a whiffle-ball bat at his body. Most of these exercises I would never participate in myself, but subjecting Jeremy to the lessons of his sensei was crucial to his training.
One of the more extreme lessons was pouring obscene amounts of salt into a glass of apple juice and making Jeremy chug it down. The lesson involving the consumption of dandelions might of been a little overboard as well, but it was all essential to molding a superb martial artist.
By the end of the summer he was no longer a student of mine, but a guinea pig that would take any direction from me as long as my name was Daniel, and that I wore the headband of the Miyagi-Do dojo. Making him look directly into the sun through binoculars was probably a bad idea, but it was the last lesson of his training, and thus my student became my equal. He still didn't have the headband though...he had used his mom's raggedy-ass housecleaning kerchief to showcase that he was indeed an achieved martial artist and karate master!
The first day back to school, Jeremy and I found ourselves sitting next to each other in the same first-grade classroom. It was perfect! We talked karate all day in class and practiced katas at recess and lunch.(We also started a teacher-student regiment in the art of Breakdancing, but that's for another blog entry.)
The first couple of months of the new school year went by pretty smooth. We staged choreographed karate battles at lunchtime for all the kids to see and fawn over. Jeremy surprised everyone when he successfully landed a front-flip off a lunch table...at my domineering command. The poor kid could of probably fucked up his face beyond repair on the concrete had he not landed the flip, but he'd rather risk the pain than compromise the loyalty to his Sensei LaRusso.
It was right around this time when one fateful show-and-tell session ended up in the demise of mine and Jeremy's martial arts partnership. The asshole's name was Dwayne. And he pranced into class one day in FULL MARTIAL ARTS regalia. The douchebag was wearing a gui, the offical uniform of a karate student. And for show-and-tell he amazed the classroom with all kinds of chops and punches, roundhouses and sweeps, kicks and blocks. This motherfucker was good, and trained...properly. I'm sure he could of probably drank TWO glasses of salted apple juice if he wanted to. He also could have probably kicked my ass if he ever challenged me to a real karate battle. And he did just that.
There I was at recess, with my lame-ass headband on, trying not to show my utter fear for this real karate expert named Dwayne. No one was at my side, not even Jeremy. He had joined the rest of the kids in the crowd behind Dwayne, wowed by his superior skills...what a fucking Judas.
"C'mon Daniel, let's see what you got."
"I only use my karate for self-defense." I replied choking on my own throat.
"Well defend THIS!"
He took a chop at the side of my face and connected. It was the first time I had ever been on the receiving end of a blow by anyone besides my brothers. And for some reason when its a stranger swinging at you, it seems a whole lot more dire than when a sibling throws a punch at you in the comfort of your home; where mom could put a stop to it with a simple wail. But this was different. I was experiencing a foreign sense of danger...a new threat that had never been provoked upon me. I really was Daniel LaRusso...but not the ass-kicking LaRusso in the All-Valley Tournament, but the LaRusso in the beginning of the film that gets his ass handed to him by a merciless hothead in a skeleton costume...with no Mr. Miyagi to aid me. The kids behind Dwayne egged him on.
"C'mon faggot!"
Dwayne thrusted a kick at me. BAM! I sanded the floor and blocked that shit! It was now what they proverbially refer to as 'on.' Here comes my first fight, ready or not I was about to be engaged in full karate combat with my "Johnny." Come on Daniel, you're The Karate Kid, put him in a body-bag!
Dwayne then reached for my headband and tried to yank it off. And for some reason I felt that if I lost the headband, I would lose my Karate Kid status and wouldn't stand a chance in this schoolyard brawl. I tried everything I could to keep his paw off my headband, and he was relentless in his pursuit of removing it. He finally got a clutch of the tied end of the headband and just when it was about to rip off my sweaty head, a Miyagi came to my rescue.
I looked up and saw Jeremy, my student, viciously pummeling the shit out of Dwayne's head. Dwayne fell to the ground and Jeremy mounted himself on top of him. The other kids crowded around and cheered as Jeremy, fully abandoning any sort of martial art technique, beat the shit out of Dwayne as he was pinned to the ground. Blows from every angle were landing upon flesh and skull while Jeremy snarled in anger and ferociously used his fists as hammers, driving nails into Dwayne's cheeks and forehead. I'll never forget the sound of Jeremy's knuckle-bones smashing against the meat of Dwayne's face...it was the most beautiful melody being conducted in the violent schoolyard ballet, taking place right there before us kids.
And right as Dwayne began to cry out in lovely pain, Mr. Deja, a third grade teacher, ran over and separated the two kids from further battle. Both were rushed into the office by the the burly Mr. Deja and all of us kids were left in a silent dustcloud of bewilderment. It was probably the first fight we had all collectively ever seen, and thinking back, there was an aura of disturbance amongst us kids. I remember not fully realizing what I saw took place in front of me, and being kind of haunted by the images of Jeremy, a peer, reacting in the most instinctive and animalistic way I had ever seen up to that point in my life...and it was all for his sensei.
Later on, karate-expert Dwayne and I became friends over our love of the movie "Breakin' 2 Electric Boogaloo." We recited lines and copied many moves from the movie throughout the next couple of years.
Jeremy ended up moving away a month later without anyone even knowing. One day we were playing outside, and the next day I found myself knocking on the door of his empty house. I often wonder what happened to Jeremy, and if he still practices Mendez-Do Karate.
Maybe he hates this latest incarnation of The Karate Kid as well. Or maybe he's catching Bieber Fever while reading Gary Coleman's obituary on his iPad. Or maybe he just continues to kick ass under my tutelage...and drinks salted apple juice for nostalgia sake.
We had devastating earthquakes in Haiti and Chile, while Tiger Woods returned to playing only 18 holes again. We watched the ocean bleed thousands of barrels of oil into our precious ecosystem, while at the same time catching "Bieber Fever."
We lost a Golden Girl named Blanche, a Lost Boy named Corey, and a black boy named Arnold. The world was introduced to a useless piece of shit called the iPad (which I still think should have been the name of Apple's answer to the sanitary napkin, and perhaps the means to stopping BP's oily menses.)
But perhaps the biggest abomination ever put forth on this planet in the first-half of 2010, is the remake of the cinematic classic "The Karate Kid," featuring Jaden Smith as -what the fuck?- Dre Parker???
They couldn't even keep the LaRusso name alive, could they? I mean, they should of gotten Ralph Macchio to revisit his revered role of Daniel. What the hell would he be busy with these days anyway, "My Cousin Vinny Part II?" Plus that guy was playing the role of the Karate KID well into his 30s. That's the beauty of Ralph Macchio, he's ageless...like Gary Coleman...in rerun syndication.
God, how I wish it was the Summer of 1984 again. I remember it like it was 26 years ago...because it was about 26 years ago. Kindergarten had just let out, half-shirts were all the rage (like LaRusso and I wore at that time, yes there is photographic proof) and there was a buzz around a little movie about a teen transplanted from the docile streets of Jersey into the cutthroat neighborhood of suburban Reseda...a little ass-backwards, but thats okay.
I remember my mom piled all the neighborhood kids in our big red rapist van and took us all to go see this highly-acclaimed film called "The Karate Kid." It was probably the greatest cinematic adventure I had ever been on. But not because it was a brilliant film...and not because we all enjoyed watching some PG-asskicking...but because as soon as the movie let out, I became Daniel LaRusso.
I had the good fortune of being named 'Daniel' just as the character in the movie was. And as all the kids I knew around me saw that film, they too, would hail me as their local Karate Kid. And not only did I embrace it, but I ran with it.
I would show the kids how I "painted the fence" and "sanded the floor." I "waxed on" and "waxed off" all over the fucking place. I even had my mom buy me the same exact "Miyagi-Do" headband that LaRusso rocked in the movie from the San Jose flea market...and I rocked it just as well...everyday. I even perfected the Crane Kick, so much so that I crane-kicked a cactus in our front yard and embedded a long-ass thorn straight through my shoe and into my big toe. Yeah, I cried. But you know what, Daniel LaRusso cried, too.
Halfway through the summer a new kid moved to the neighborhood. A rather generic looking fellow with dusty hair and freckles all over his face. I remember he was playing in the front of his house all by himself, so I did what any warm-welcoming peer would of done to a new kid on the block...I threw a rock at his fucking head.
When he turned around and looked at me, I stood there, stoic, in my headband, with my hands on my hips in front of the summer sun. He asked me what my name was.
"Daniel..DANIEL LARUSSO."
Jeremy was his name, and as soon as I introduced myself, he became a disciple of mine. He wanted to learn karate. And me being The Karate Kid, I would teach him.
I wrote out daily lessons for Jeremy and we practiced every single day for the rest of that summer. Some of these lessons included scaling the tree in my front yard in under 10 seconds, hanging upside down from the monkey-bars while getting tanbark thrown at him, and blocking every swing of a whiffle-ball bat at his body. Most of these exercises I would never participate in myself, but subjecting Jeremy to the lessons of his sensei was crucial to his training.
One of the more extreme lessons was pouring obscene amounts of salt into a glass of apple juice and making Jeremy chug it down. The lesson involving the consumption of dandelions might of been a little overboard as well, but it was all essential to molding a superb martial artist.
By the end of the summer he was no longer a student of mine, but a guinea pig that would take any direction from me as long as my name was Daniel, and that I wore the headband of the Miyagi-Do dojo. Making him look directly into the sun through binoculars was probably a bad idea, but it was the last lesson of his training, and thus my student became my equal. He still didn't have the headband though...he had used his mom's raggedy-ass housecleaning kerchief to showcase that he was indeed an achieved martial artist and karate master!
The first day back to school, Jeremy and I found ourselves sitting next to each other in the same first-grade classroom. It was perfect! We talked karate all day in class and practiced katas at recess and lunch.(We also started a teacher-student regiment in the art of Breakdancing, but that's for another blog entry.)
The first couple of months of the new school year went by pretty smooth. We staged choreographed karate battles at lunchtime for all the kids to see and fawn over. Jeremy surprised everyone when he successfully landed a front-flip off a lunch table...at my domineering command. The poor kid could of probably fucked up his face beyond repair on the concrete had he not landed the flip, but he'd rather risk the pain than compromise the loyalty to his Sensei LaRusso.
It was right around this time when one fateful show-and-tell session ended up in the demise of mine and Jeremy's martial arts partnership. The asshole's name was Dwayne. And he pranced into class one day in FULL MARTIAL ARTS regalia. The douchebag was wearing a gui, the offical uniform of a karate student. And for show-and-tell he amazed the classroom with all kinds of chops and punches, roundhouses and sweeps, kicks and blocks. This motherfucker was good, and trained...properly. I'm sure he could of probably drank TWO glasses of salted apple juice if he wanted to. He also could have probably kicked my ass if he ever challenged me to a real karate battle. And he did just that.
There I was at recess, with my lame-ass headband on, trying not to show my utter fear for this real karate expert named Dwayne. No one was at my side, not even Jeremy. He had joined the rest of the kids in the crowd behind Dwayne, wowed by his superior skills...what a fucking Judas.
"C'mon Daniel, let's see what you got."
"I only use my karate for self-defense." I replied choking on my own throat.
"Well defend THIS!"
He took a chop at the side of my face and connected. It was the first time I had ever been on the receiving end of a blow by anyone besides my brothers. And for some reason when its a stranger swinging at you, it seems a whole lot more dire than when a sibling throws a punch at you in the comfort of your home; where mom could put a stop to it with a simple wail. But this was different. I was experiencing a foreign sense of danger...a new threat that had never been provoked upon me. I really was Daniel LaRusso...but not the ass-kicking LaRusso in the All-Valley Tournament, but the LaRusso in the beginning of the film that gets his ass handed to him by a merciless hothead in a skeleton costume...with no Mr. Miyagi to aid me. The kids behind Dwayne egged him on.
"C'mon faggot!"
Dwayne thrusted a kick at me. BAM! I sanded the floor and blocked that shit! It was now what they proverbially refer to as 'on.' Here comes my first fight, ready or not I was about to be engaged in full karate combat with my "Johnny." Come on Daniel, you're The Karate Kid, put him in a body-bag!
Dwayne then reached for my headband and tried to yank it off. And for some reason I felt that if I lost the headband, I would lose my Karate Kid status and wouldn't stand a chance in this schoolyard brawl. I tried everything I could to keep his paw off my headband, and he was relentless in his pursuit of removing it. He finally got a clutch of the tied end of the headband and just when it was about to rip off my sweaty head, a Miyagi came to my rescue.
I looked up and saw Jeremy, my student, viciously pummeling the shit out of Dwayne's head. Dwayne fell to the ground and Jeremy mounted himself on top of him. The other kids crowded around and cheered as Jeremy, fully abandoning any sort of martial art technique, beat the shit out of Dwayne as he was pinned to the ground. Blows from every angle were landing upon flesh and skull while Jeremy snarled in anger and ferociously used his fists as hammers, driving nails into Dwayne's cheeks and forehead. I'll never forget the sound of Jeremy's knuckle-bones smashing against the meat of Dwayne's face...it was the most beautiful melody being conducted in the violent schoolyard ballet, taking place right there before us kids.
And right as Dwayne began to cry out in lovely pain, Mr. Deja, a third grade teacher, ran over and separated the two kids from further battle. Both were rushed into the office by the the burly Mr. Deja and all of us kids were left in a silent dustcloud of bewilderment. It was probably the first fight we had all collectively ever seen, and thinking back, there was an aura of disturbance amongst us kids. I remember not fully realizing what I saw took place in front of me, and being kind of haunted by the images of Jeremy, a peer, reacting in the most instinctive and animalistic way I had ever seen up to that point in my life...and it was all for his sensei.
Later on, karate-expert Dwayne and I became friends over our love of the movie "Breakin' 2 Electric Boogaloo." We recited lines and copied many moves from the movie throughout the next couple of years.
Jeremy ended up moving away a month later without anyone even knowing. One day we were playing outside, and the next day I found myself knocking on the door of his empty house. I often wonder what happened to Jeremy, and if he still practices Mendez-Do Karate.
Maybe he hates this latest incarnation of The Karate Kid as well. Or maybe he's catching Bieber Fever while reading Gary Coleman's obituary on his iPad. Or maybe he just continues to kick ass under my tutelage...and drinks salted apple juice for nostalgia sake.
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Reset Beard
I think it's about time to grow a Reset Beard again.
What is a Reset Beard, you ask?
A beard so gnarly, so feral, so grotesque that it just screams "I'm dropping out of society for a minute." (Or "I am the 20th hijacker.")
I've done this three times in my beard-capable life. And although I'm still lacking the testosterone levels necessary to grow a complete, non-patchy, fully-connecting beard...I still am able to grow some sort of thatch upon my cheeks and chin.
Imagine me sitting on a stool in front of a fan with spirit gum slathered on my face. Then place a stockpile of pubes (because that's what i do with rogue pubes, i stockpile them) in front of the fan and hit 'on'...that's kinda what my Reset Beard looks like.
I grow it to not care. I know this sounds ridiculous, but something about wearing a unkempt beard means you look the part of someone who doesn't care. And after carrying that image for awhile, guess what, you begin to not care.
At least that's how it is for me. I'd like to say I'm taking a cue from Brian Wilson or Rivers Cuomo, both have gone through beardly phases, except the by-product of their Reset Beards are landmark albums. As they stayed out of the sunlight of society, holed up in their rooms with tin foil covering their windows and hair blanketing their jaws, they created the most incredible songs of their careers...I, on the other hand, just don't pay a bill something.
The part I cherish most about the Reset Beard is not the actual beard-wearing itself, but the time when it comes to actually 'reset.' Shaving the beard off, becoming new... where old undergrowth withers away and dies leaving fertile soil for new life. It's the closest a man (and some Eastern European women) can get to starting over. And I don't know...it just seems about time to.
I've got hair that grows out of my fucking face. Beards are weird. Whats weirder is that ZZ Top's Frank Beard is the only member of the band WITHOUT a beard. Way to be ironic Sharp Dressed Man.
What is a Reset Beard, you ask?
A beard so gnarly, so feral, so grotesque that it just screams "I'm dropping out of society for a minute." (Or "I am the 20th hijacker.")
I've done this three times in my beard-capable life. And although I'm still lacking the testosterone levels necessary to grow a complete, non-patchy, fully-connecting beard...I still am able to grow some sort of thatch upon my cheeks and chin.
Imagine me sitting on a stool in front of a fan with spirit gum slathered on my face. Then place a stockpile of pubes (because that's what i do with rogue pubes, i stockpile them) in front of the fan and hit 'on'...that's kinda what my Reset Beard looks like.
I grow it to not care. I know this sounds ridiculous, but something about wearing a unkempt beard means you look the part of someone who doesn't care. And after carrying that image for awhile, guess what, you begin to not care.
At least that's how it is for me. I'd like to say I'm taking a cue from Brian Wilson or Rivers Cuomo, both have gone through beardly phases, except the by-product of their Reset Beards are landmark albums. As they stayed out of the sunlight of society, holed up in their rooms with tin foil covering their windows and hair blanketing their jaws, they created the most incredible songs of their careers...I, on the other hand, just don't pay a bill something.
The part I cherish most about the Reset Beard is not the actual beard-wearing itself, but the time when it comes to actually 'reset.' Shaving the beard off, becoming new... where old undergrowth withers away and dies leaving fertile soil for new life. It's the closest a man (and some Eastern European women) can get to starting over. And I don't know...it just seems about time to.
I've got hair that grows out of my fucking face. Beards are weird. Whats weirder is that ZZ Top's Frank Beard is the only member of the band WITHOUT a beard. Way to be ironic Sharp Dressed Man.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
iConverse
You know it took me a minute, but I've come to realize I am no longer a part of today's youth. At 31 years of age, I'm bracketed in that lost generation right in between "cool" and "out of the loop", teetering between the two constantly on a daily basis. And it's only a matter of time before the seesaw becomes end-heavy with "unhip" and I become...my parents. Shit.
And I'm realizing it all starts with communication. Not necessarily the obstacles of everyday cross-generational communication, but the execution of communication. I simply can't hold a conversation with anyone under 25. And not for reasons of content, but for reasons of comprehension.
Marbles. That's what's in their mouths. (Along with whatever flat-packaged gum and/or energy drink is trendy for that week.) It is becoming harder and harder to understand what young people are saying - scratch that - spewing out of their mouths. I find my side of the conversation is usually flooded with so many "What?"s and "Huh?"s you'd think I was Lou Ferrigno with a faulty cochlear implant. (I know, this reference precedes even my generation.)
Maybe in my old age I'm a little dull on the uptake, but it seems like today's youth diarrheas their words out of their sphincter-like mouths. The easiest way to imagine this (without the scatological metaphor) is to think of a run-on sentence without any punctuation whatsoever. Then add a mumble, an absence of annunciation AND inflection, and there you have it: lexicon of the youth circa 2010.
And I don't blame the educational system; I don't point my finger at the parents; and no, I'm not even going to shit on the media... this whole breakdown of youth communication can be blamed on...
The iPhone.
Well not the iPhone per se, that was for dramatic effect... just the "i" in general. Today's youth is the iGeneration. These kids have not really known a life before the internet. They don't know an existence without a cellphone. They cannot recall a time where information wasn't so instant. They don't remember when there wasn't a little box that can hold your entire fucking music collection in your hip pocket. And that's why they don't communicate...
THEY COMPUTE!
And as fast as they compute is as fast as that data leaves their mouths. These bastards talk the way they text. They don't converse, they send and receive messages...verbally! Today's youth even emotes in the limited manner an instant message would allow one to emote. (Haven't you heard a kid say "LOL" or "OMG" out loud?)
And thus, frustration is spawned upon Ol' Gramps Daniel. Now I know what my parents must of felt like when they used to tell me I talked in "Rap" and they couldn't understand me.
LOL!
And I'm realizing it all starts with communication. Not necessarily the obstacles of everyday cross-generational communication, but the execution of communication. I simply can't hold a conversation with anyone under 25. And not for reasons of content, but for reasons of comprehension.
Marbles. That's what's in their mouths. (Along with whatever flat-packaged gum and/or energy drink is trendy for that week.) It is becoming harder and harder to understand what young people are saying - scratch that - spewing out of their mouths. I find my side of the conversation is usually flooded with so many "What?"s and "Huh?"s you'd think I was Lou Ferrigno with a faulty cochlear implant. (I know, this reference precedes even my generation.)
Maybe in my old age I'm a little dull on the uptake, but it seems like today's youth diarrheas their words out of their sphincter-like mouths. The easiest way to imagine this (without the scatological metaphor) is to think of a run-on sentence without any punctuation whatsoever. Then add a mumble, an absence of annunciation AND inflection, and there you have it: lexicon of the youth circa 2010.
And I don't blame the educational system; I don't point my finger at the parents; and no, I'm not even going to shit on the media... this whole breakdown of youth communication can be blamed on...
The iPhone.
Well not the iPhone per se, that was for dramatic effect... just the "i" in general. Today's youth is the iGeneration. These kids have not really known a life before the internet. They don't know an existence without a cellphone. They cannot recall a time where information wasn't so instant. They don't remember when there wasn't a little box that can hold your entire fucking music collection in your hip pocket. And that's why they don't communicate...
THEY COMPUTE!
And as fast as they compute is as fast as that data leaves their mouths. These bastards talk the way they text. They don't converse, they send and receive messages...verbally! Today's youth even emotes in the limited manner an instant message would allow one to emote. (Haven't you heard a kid say "LOL" or "OMG" out loud?)
And thus, frustration is spawned upon Ol' Gramps Daniel. Now I know what my parents must of felt like when they used to tell me I talked in "Rap" and they couldn't understand me.
LOL!
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