Here is a part of  the  memoir that fallon wrote for her college composition class. I am posting some of this story on dude sweat because it is a rather touching story and I enjoyed reading it. It is even about some of you!

That faultless uplifting high speed chord progression of “You’re Not Salinger. Get Over It” by The Wonder Years is what every pop punk band strives to deliver, just asking you to get off your feet and punch the wall closest to you out of complete bliss. The epic build up of “So chin up and we’ll drown a little slower”‘s bring you back down to earth only to blast you off again in a grand mix of marvelous goose bumps and completely satisfied smiles from ear to ear. You’ll want to jump around like a goon regardless of your current setting. The close makes you realize your petty small town sucks from tip to toe, therefore it’s time to pull all your friends together and escape. It captures the carefree, liberated pop punk spirit within you that is currently restrained by the lousy hick town you reside in and makes it so completely obvious that you’ve been missing out on everything that is life. So you get away. You absent yourself from every constant streaming complaining mouth that only brings you down, every trivial annoyance that only pulls you further into the depths of utter unhappiness, and metaphorically start living. That’s when you meet the type of people that alter your life forever. The dirty, artsy, do-it-yourself, intimidating kids with an absolute “no care” attitude on anything and everything become your only family. You are home. This is the kind of song unforgettable memories are made to. And many a memory I did make to that very song during the summer of 2008.

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Something after the jump…

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I am going to california for a week with my family.

some of the things we are doing:

Climbing half dome at yosemite national park.

it stands at the elevation of 8,842 ft.the hike is about 17 miles round trip.

it can take anywhere from 10-12 hrs.

the climb is done with rail road ties and cables.

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the flume trail

Carved into the side of a steep granite spire overlooking Lake Tahoe, the Flume Trail begins at Spooner Lake State Park. The first section is a 1,100’ climb that tops out at Marlette Lake at 8,157’ and follows the same path where wooden square-box flumes once delivered water to Virginia City in the late 1800s. Keep a sharp eye on the trail – on one side are boulders the size of Volkswagens and on the other side is a 1,600’ bumpy drop to Sand Harbor.

Type: Mountain biking

Distance: 26.2 miles round trip

Elevation Gain: About 1,000′

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ANNNND

revisiting the redwood forest!

i just figured i would let you all know what i will be up to for a few days!

see ya when i get baaack!!!

<3!

I still check bearathon’s myspace from time to time, and the other day there was a gem of a message.

It goes like this: “i saw u have josh kemble from dogwood in your friends list. they are one of our fellow christian rock bands. have u got a chance to see josh and dogwood play in concert?”

Me: “I dont know who that is. christian rock bands are funny.”

Him: “cool cool yea it seems like they are still popular in the christian music scene. anyways i was wondering which bands do u think we sound like? which of our songs u think we should push for radio play?”

I’m starting to think this dude is pretty cool.

So I reply, “kick god in the face hail satan”

Here’s where it gets good. His response, “After reading our lyrics, people label Makeshift3 as a “Christian rock band.” Bands are labeled all the time. However, so many people ask us “Why can’t Makeshift3 just be a regular rock band so you guys have a chance to get big like other bands?” But what exactly is a regular rock band? All bands focus their lyrics on various themes, which means there can’t just be a “regular rock band.” Rage Against the Machine sang about politics making them a “political rock band” yet not all their fans are politicians. Blink 182 often sing about girls making them a “girl rock band” but not all their fans are girls. Korn sings about child abuse making them a “child abuse rock band” but not all Korn fans have been abused as children. Godsmack is involved with the Wiccan religion making them a “witchcraft rock band” yet not all Godsmack fans are witches. As you can see, any band can be labeled as something so examples can go on and on. Since some of our lyrics involve Christianity then we must be a “Christian rock band” but not all Makeshift3 fans have to be Christians. We’re sure you own CD’s of bands with which your personal beliefs differ. All we can hope for is maybe one day more bands won’t be denied a successful career based on their personal beliefs.”

WHAT A FAGGOT

http://www.myspace.com/makeshift3

Terrible shit

So if you saw the newest South Park, you know that they sort of just made fun of Kanye the entire episode. I don’t know if I am supposed to enjoy South Park? But I love it. So does Charlie. I also love Kanye. He ain’t no DBC though.

Here is Kanye’s response to the episode: (more…)

Welcome back to the internet, Mike Burch. I started writing a book. It isn’t one continuous story. It is some sort of collection of stories, ramblings and whatevers.
There is only one little bird that I see perched on his branch. He has a little corncob pipe in his mouth and he’s smiling at me and I’m smiling back at him and I know he loves me and I know he knows I love him too. It’s the perfect day for catching, so I catch some Z’s and he catches some bugs and worms and leaves and goody treats that only a real bird could love so dearly. When I awake the bird is still right where I left him, waiting for me to wake up and sing him a song.
“I can’t sing,” I tell the bird.
“I can sing,” the bird tells me.
So I sit down and tune in my ears and I listen hard because I know I am about to meet the real bird below the ruffle on his head, behind the smile with the corncob pipe and the black silk ascot tied neatly around his neck, falling softly on his breast.
He sings. He sings for a long time and all I can do is listen and wait and dream. I dream about the little bird in the black ascot with the corncob pipe, and I dream about the trips we will take across the cosmos.
“The sights we will see. Aren’t they magical?” I ask the bird.
He doesnt reply because I’m dreaming and he’s still singing. The grass is sweet, and the sky is blue and cloudless out here in the stars. No cats to scratch, and no dogs to bark. There’s just the grass and the sky and the no clouds and the stars and this bird and me. He sings and I dream. The perfect duo, we live outside of time, always travelling. We know the reality and we know the truths, but still we travel the cosmos, singing and sleeping and dreaming always. A handsome bird and a stupid boy with nothing better to do than stare at birds and listen to birds and sleep and dream just lay there, traveling through space. The boy has nothing better to do because he knows what there is besides birds and pipes and ascots and singing and the stars and the grass and the cloudless sky. He knows everything else there is in the world, but still all he wants to do is listen to the bird and look at the bird and sleep and dream, because there is nothing better than the little bird with a corncob pipe smiling at him ever so lovingly as his black silk ascot blows gently across his breast.

Inside a globe, the brain, the mainstream propaganda device of a sheltered, cracked mind, wooden gears turn and split, crack and break the thoughts of a wooden man, a clockwork solider of the ancient years.

His thoughts spill out –

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Blinky, desperate, hard-pressed, and faltering; steady-driver, wide eyed mark of no faith. No blank intelligent creation, no dogma fathered down the cheeky throat of this traveler of time.

We are the messed up children of a fraught scared nation, chilled by icy death-hands of the corporate bagmans cultivating out life in some hapless and homely prison cell. It is just enough to fog up most of our glasses, but not all, and that’s when the real trouble bounces out of everyone’s heart, and smacks, tears, rips, bites, claws by the nail, tooth and bone at the prison walls, and the dimly lit parking lots. Wherever we can fight back, however hard it is, it is never hard enough, and never long enough, to support this true feeling of boredom, and lack of life-luster.

Freedom is burning in my heart. Staunch and ready to break the bound collars, the centuries of futility that man has wrapped around my neck and left me, kicked, bruised, beaten, lying in the rubble of greatness.