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The best of times are had with friends.
 

In 2012/2013, Proof and Proving performed around Philadelphia as a three piece: Brian (me) on vocals/guitar, Justin Stevenson (One Win Choice, Man About A Horse) on mandolin, and Rene Ropac (Astpai) on bass. Though we had all first met in the early/mid-2000s via our past touring punk/hardcore bands, the three of us – all living in south philly and no longer touring at the time – coalesced over drinks, great conversations, and fun times.

5-18-2006 show with Giving Chase, Metroplex, The Gun Stays, Thru It All, and One Win Choice at Circle Thrift in Fishtown, Philadelphia

5-21-2007 show with Giving Chase, Breaking The Forth Wall, and Astpai at KSet in Zagreb, Croatia

Oct 30-Nov 1, 2009: Fest 8

As that trio, we played some great shows and made some fantastic memories before we all went our different ways – as each eventually moved out of the city.

In that time period, and as a way for us to improve our chops, we live-tracked a practice in my basement. Portions of this album are from that session, while the live tidbits are from one of the shows we played at the legendary Ray’s Happy Birthday Bar.

Last year, as I was moving around files for another recording session, I stumbled across our basement and Ray’s recordings. These recordings, which were never really meant to be an album, were too fun to not share (also, before this album, this lineup of Proof and Proving, with Justin and Rene, only ever had one song released: a cover of Sam Hall, which was on The Philly Rock Comp: Vol 2 put out by 502 South).

I look back on these times fondly, and wanted to share some of the good times I had with such good friends. As a nod to our practice space and caliber of shows, the album is affectionately titled “South Philly Basements“.

And lastly: A special thanks to our boys in Welter for, among many other things, adding gang vocals to the last track on the album!




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In 2007/2008 Maria Teicher and I started the artist collaborative named The Art Is Not Dead. The name we landed on came from lyrics I wrote around 2007, from a song titled “No, It’s Just Different” (Here’s a video of me performing the song in Bruck an der Leitha, Austria in 2008). Around that time we consistently heard how dead art was, and from the vast amount of creative talent from people we’d met in the last few years (as well as from a historical context), we disagreed. We truly desired finding a way to not only bring those people together, but help them any other way we could.

Therefore, The Art Is Not Dead started as a small indie record label and creative exhibition space (in south Philadelphia, which started in 2009 and ran until 2012). We were looking for an artist community within the city we resided, and set forth to find and tie into it (or build it). There’s much more of an expansive history behind all of this, but we’ll save that for another day. Let’s jump forward a few years…

After much planning throughout 2014 and 2015, we decided that in order to scale up and provide a larger impact in Philadelphia and for its exhibiting artists/musicians, we needed to incorporate into a non-profit organization. This confused many of our peers, to which we explain thusly:

Maria and I provide our services for artists for free or at-cost. We also both have our full time creative endeavors, full time jobs, and the typical perils of life. We’d like others to provide similar services to what we provide, but it’s hard to ask someone else to do it for free – nor should they (unless they’re crazy like me and Maria!). For example: If a recording engineer is good at his job, why should he take away time from his schedule that compensates him for his quality work in order to help out a Philadelphia band? Instead, what if we could, as a non-profit, pay that same recording engineer their going rate (or potentially a lower rate if they wanted to donate some of their time), so that the band receives assistance with the recording of their album AND the engineer is justly compensated?

What if we could provide more than just what Maria and I personally could provide?

So with the direction of incorporating as a non-profit, much was done throughout the first half of 2015. Business planning, meetings with small business professionals and lawyers, writing articles of incorporation, writing bylaws of organization, filing other necessary State and Federal paperwork – it was a tremendous undertaking. For us, and the vision of what The Art Is Not Dead could offer artists, musicians, and creatives – it was a task worth tackling.

On May 28, 2015, we received the acceptance of our incorporation within the state of Pennsylvania – the first completed step in the entire process of legitimizing a non-profit. For the purposes of this, I want to reflect on what has happened in the one-year since that moment. In the year since we incorporated with the state of Pennsylvania, The Art Is Not Dead has…

We’ve come a long way over the years. There’s still an exciting road ahead, and we have some wonderful things in store throughout the remainder of 2016 and beyond. Thank you all who have been part of this journey, from encouraging words to sweat-equity. We wouldn’t have gotten this far without your participation and enthusiasm.

The art is not dead, no, it’s just different – at least it is to me

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April 26th 2016:

As I prepare to go vote in the democratic primaries, I decided it’s perfect timing to share this short essay I never posted. The following essay was written immediately after I voted in 2015’s Pennsylvania elections (gubernatorial, etc), on November 4th.

If you’re reading this and reside in PA and are registered with your party and it’s still April 26th 2016 – GO VOTE! And no bullshit excuses, because the only thing worse than “just one vote” in a world of potential corruption or “choosing between the lesser of two evils” (or whatever rationale) is the fucktard that oh-so-conveniently hides behind such an excuse. People who don’t vote (yet are capable; an important distinction) are assholes, and don’t deserve the voice they use to complain about why they choose not to vote.

And as one last attempt: if you’re on the fence about voting, then there’s a possibility that a cartoon could help you decide. Here’s something I whipped up last night for such a person:

Give A Hoot

___________________________

November 4th 2015:

As I walked back from the South Philadelphia Senior Center, my local voting place, I saw a black woman in late 30s-40s hanging Tom Wolf for Governor door hangers on the side across the street from our home. She already hung one on our door, as well as the other doors on our side. I wanted to tell her “I just voted”, to see if she’d ask me for whom; and even if she didn’t I would offer that it was for whom she is hanging these for.

Instead, I just took the hanger off, unlocked my door, and walked in, while keeping the door open (but screened door closed), as it’s an unusually beautiful day – given the frigid weather as of late.

I walked through the living room, then dining room (though they’re not really separate rooms, as any row home resident knows), into the kitchen. As I put the political hanger on our fridge with a magnet amongst the other political hangers I hear a conversation start up outside across the street.

Before talking about the conversation, I think it’s important to acknowledge the differences in political “junk mail” our door step has seen. From Wolf: it’s essentially just “Vote for Wolf; polls open 7am-8pm”. From South Philly Democrats: it’s “vote democratic: 201, 202, 204; or push button #2”(straight ticket democrat). From Corbett: it’s an appeal to second amendment rights, and Corbett’s record versus the rights-stealing Wolf. I appreciate itemized breakdowns over generalities, but only when it’s not fear mongering nor propaganda.

Anyhow; I hear my elderly south Philly white neighbor across street start to, seemingly aggressively, talk to the lady passing out the Wolf door hangers. He says, “I already voted” in a stern voice. As I thought, “I wonder for whom” and “boy, does he sound angry; this can’t be good,” the lady politely says “Oh, I’ll just take this from your door then. Thank you for voting.”

He responds “yeah, I already voted; and so did my youngest son. We voted for Wolf.”

She sounded a bit taken back (so did I, frankly), and replied a quick canned response about the change Pennsylvania needs from someone like Wolf.

He agreed, then started to open up with why he voted for Wolf, and how he feels just terrible for the state’s teachers. His voice continued becoming more welcoming. They then started to have a short-but-specific conversation about issues they have and see with the state of Pennsylvania.

Although south Philadelphia leans democratic, I live on a street where I’ve heard neighbors complain about “jungle monkeys” encroaching into their neighborhood, from what “should” be their east-most barrier of Broad Street (our block is east of Broad). Given that sentiment, I was afraid for the lady hanging door hangers when I heard a neighbor sternly say, “I already voted”.

I enjoyed the experience that I witnessed so much – and how my initial perception was, thankfully, wrong, that I decided to start typing in a Notes document in my iPhone what had just happened. As I’m now wrapping up, I look outside in time to see another neighbor take the Wolf door hanger off his door angrily and through it to the ground.

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My wife, Maria Teicher, and I founded and run a 501(c)(3) arts non-profit based in Philadelphia. Among our objectives is one to support emerging and mid-career artists living or exhibiting in the Philadelphia area. As such, our online presence is focused on promoting artists’ work as well as sharing tips and tricks; and at times giving some much needed motivation and encouragement.

Maria recently posted a very famous Kurt Vonnegut quote that speaks to the importance of the arts:

KV

 

After seeing that she posted this I went to our bookshelf to leaf through a specific book: Like Shaking Hands With God – A Conversation About Writing, by Kurt Vonnegut and Lee Stringer. The book, published by Seven Stories, is a series of interviews between Vonnegut, a veteran writer of several novels at the time of the interviews, and Stringer, a new novelist who had recently published his first book. Like Shaking Hands With God is a book in which Vonnegut gives honest and razor-sharp insight to Stringer about creativity, life, and humanity. This book was a great one for me, as Kurt Vonnegut is one of my favorite writers, and I myself am a member of the creative community (musician, writer, etc).

When I returned the book to the shelf, I saw a book I had recently spoken with a colleague about: Enough. True Measures of Money, Business, and Life by John C Bogle. This book’s introduction starts with the following:

At a party given by a billionaire on Shelter Island, Kurt Vonnegut informs his pal, Joseph Heller, that their host, a hedge fund manager, had made more money in a single day than Heller had earned from his wildly popular novel Catch-22 over its whole history. Heller responds “yes, but I have something he will never have…enough.”

All of John Bogle’s books are tied to the financial world. While I am not a financial-book aficionado, this introduction was such a beautiful welcoming to what would become my favorite book by him.

John Bogle is the founder and former CEO of The Vanguard Group, the company I have worked for since 2006. Though no longer CEO, he still is the head of the Bogle Financial Market Research Center within Vanguard. He still publishes books, interviews regularly, and continues to make an intimidatingly large impact on the financial arena.

Among the perks of Mr. Bogle continuing to be on Vanguard’s site is occasionally spotting him walking around campus or in the cafeteria, being able to receive copies of his book and to have him autograph it, and to be able to have conversations with him.

On November 24, 2008 I received my copy of Enough. I was able to briefly meet Mr. Bogle to obtain his signature on my copy. In doing so, we struck up an extremely short conversation, in which he asked me what I do outside of work. I said that I was a musician and had recently returned from a tour. I had stated it in a way that I recall feeling somewhat ashamed – akin to the way a teenager might feel if they said to their parents that they “want to be a musician” when they grow up. His response caught me off guard, and stuck with me over these years. He said that being a musician is something I should be very proud of, and that I was contributing to society through culture, and how that was extremely important.

Autograph

 

Our interaction likely only lasted 30-40 seconds, but it stuck with me. For the hours afterward, I wasn’t the business professional who played music on the side – I was a musician who played an important role in culture.

Encouragement goes a long way, whether it’s an empowering quote or meme, or quick conversation in passing. Granted, I understand that I will not be the biggest musician of all time, but the act of creating is immensely rewarding itself; and in a world where creatives are continuously told to ‘grow up and get a job’, hearing Mr. Bogle’s feedback had the same positive and uplifting response as the Kurt Vonnegut quote Maria posted on our page.

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I very often lose faith in people, as a whole. They tend to be greedy, unrepentant, pestilent, and self-serving. This morning seemingly started in that vein.

I saw what looked like a parking ticket on our car’s windshield (a car we never drive because we don’t trust it). We live on a heavily monitored street that is permit-only parking beyond two hours. Our car has been there about five months. What is under the windshield wiper is not a ticket, but a note; soaked and bleeding ink from last night’s storm. The note reads “I broks your tail light so sorry”.

 

Awesome. Wrapped inside the folded note was a business card that, seemingly ironically, said “We Got Your Back”.

 

I walk around back, and indeed, they did get my back – a busted tail light and some dent damage.

 

 

 

I brought the note and business card inside and rested them on a paper towel to dry, and went back into the drizzle weather to re-start my commute to work by walking to the subway.

My rides home from work have been less than relaxing, namely due to the shittiness of those with whom I share the ride with back to Philadelphia. This typically puts me in an unpleasant mood after work, and supports my loss of faith in people. So it goes.

After I got home today, I called the number on the business card. I explained why I’m calling and the guy right away started apologizing. He kept saying he’s sorry, and how it was an accident, and how he wanted to make it right by getting a new taillight and either replace it himself or get a mechanic buddy of his to do it. He even insisted on stopping by to apologize in person, and did so about 15 minutes before I started writing this out. The guy was genuine in his apology. He was honest enough to leave a note under our windshield to let us know that he is the one who did the damage (someone else, months ago, backed into the front end of the car, smashing the front grill; and did not leave any note).

Sure, there’s still a dent left un-addressed, but I’m not going to split hairs about that. This guy went above and beyond. He made sure to do right by me, and in the process he had lessened my loss of faith in human beings. Meeting solid people in life has become such an occasion that I feel the need to write about it, especially when it could have gone in such a different direction. 

This guy did wrong and fessed up to it. This guy got my back.

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Although I went to high school in an area that was no stranger to heroin, I was largely oblivious to those who used it. Any of the symptoms that I now know as tell tale signs of usage I would chalk up to being tired, or the use of some other less-demonizing narcotic. It was only around tenth grade or so that I heard the term “dirthead” in a heroin-specific identifier. Until then, I never even thought of that drug being in that town or county of Pennsylvania.

 

I have learned over the years that it’s common nature for some (such as myself) to be oblivious DURING the moment, and see only a skewed version of what’s happening; but in hindsight it can be painfully obvious. It’s something that I closely associate with logic of the black swan theory – a concept I’m intrigued about so much that I loosely wrote a song about it.

At any rate – growing up, I didn’t realize those around me who were on heroin were on it. Living in Philadelphia, on the other hand, I have learned. Though not specific to heroin, there’s the terrible skin, the skeletal frame, the glazed over look. Specific to heroin are the sways/nods – the falling asleep in place (or who knows, maybe I’m wrong now, and these are signs of other things). I’ve seen it on the streets and on my commute, though it’s usually just in a quick passing. Today was different.

My work commute is the 105-minute bookends to my work day. Going to work, this involves me walking from my house to the subway, taking the subway for four stops, walking a few blocks to the train station, taking the train for about an hour, catching a shuttle, and walking into my workplace. Very little happens on the walk to the subway and on the shuttle ride to my building. The excitement, if there is any to be had, is on the subway or the train. This morning was uneventful. A coworker who sat in front of me on the train was slightly younger than me but balding. That was the only observation I had of the morning commute.

Coming home from work I called into a meeting, read and wrote some work emails, and screwed around on Facebook for a second before arriving at 30th Street Station, one stop before mine (Suburban Station). A woman got on and was talking somewhat loudly, especially given that we were in the QuietRide car. As she sat and chatted behind me, I saw a reflection of a disheveled woman whom I wished would shut the hell up.

She continued to seemingly aimlessly talk, though I didn’t make an effort to listen in on what she was actually saying. The train moved on and approached Suburban Station before coming to a stop, as another train had yet to depart the track we were on. For some reason my ears began to focus on what the woman was saying.

She asked what appeared to be the ceiling of the train “Have you seen a blue bag? A duffle bag with straps?” She then looked around at the people in the car. I was very thankful that I was watching her through a reflection. She asked again. No one responded because it made no sense. She just got on one stop ago, then started asking if anyone had seen her bag. She then said “Wifi doesn’t make it to the second floor. You might need to take the elevator to get to it. Do you understand?”

Again, no one replied.

She sat down, and within ten seconds had fallen asleep.

Less than a minute later the train started to finally move, and I heard gasps behind me, and the conductor loudly say “MA’AM! MA’AM!”

She replied “Oh…I’m sorry! I’m so sorry. Thank you for waking me up. I didn’t want to be that person that spills all of their prescriptions on the ground.”

What I’m guessing happened was that the jolt of the train moved her, and she dumped the contents of her clear plastic bag all over the floor. Pills everywhere, small 10mg sized pills. The conductor tried to wake her to pick up her contents.

The train stopped. By this point I am standing and watching her pick up her pills and put them back into her baggie (not a prescription bottle). The doors open, and anyone who was closer to her than me nearly sprinted to get off of the train, including the conductor. As I walk up closer to her, I see that her dark sweatpants are salt-stained around her butt, a sure sign of her urinating herself at some point in the day. As I walk by her, she asks people who are still seated, “Is this the last stop?” Being mindful of my steps, I see a pill that I’m sure she will miss because of how far it rolled away from her.

I get off of the train and the conductor, whose shift just ended, is trying to explain what the conductor starting his shift is getting into. I walk up the stairwell I often talk about via social media that homeless people use as a toilet. There’s a fresh pool of urine at the bottom, but my mind is still caught up in what had happened on the train.

Tangentially, I write short pieces about the things I see on my commute. I started using a funny hashtag “#SEPTASPILLS” just for this purpose. While most of what I post on social media relates to the absurd and gross, they are parts of a larger essay I plan on writing eventually, where I plan to start to highlight the positives and interesting elements as well as the absurd. In particular, I am enormously grateful that my commute involves me walking by a polka accordion player, various violinists, a blind tenor with a beautiful voice, and many singers with acoustic guitars. While some performers are more frequent and predictable than others, I always know I’ll see at least three performers during my commute to and from work.

After getting off the train this afternoon, as I walked towards the Broad Street Line City Hall stop, I walked by a guy playing acoustic and singing. He’s newer, in that I’ve only started seeing him in the last couple months on my commute. He’s got a great voice, and plays guitar and sings with passion. Most of the guys who do this perform covers, and so does this one. Today he was playing something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. I was thinking to myself, “Oh, well, he’s older, so maybe he’s playing an acoustic version of a 70s or 80s song”. As I walked away from him, repeating the words of the chorus he just sang as I tried to figure out what that heck it was, I saw that he was balding too. By the time I got on to the subway, I realized that the guy was playing a Weezer song; and that the guy was very likely my age.

On my commute to work, a balding coworker is my perceived junior. After a day of work and a somber and depressing happenstance on my commute home, a balding singing guitarist is my perceived senior. I can’t help but think that I’ll see more in this once I’m further removed from the moment of it.

 

 

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Among the many, many interesting Philadelphia interactions I’ve had in my life, this is one of the more interesting ones – with an unusual Philly music history spin.

Always on the search for broken down cheap Ibanez guitars, there was this pawnshop I would frequent in south Philadelphia – in a somewhat shady area. The owner was a man in his 50s who was undeniably mentally handicapped. He would tell me stories of how people rip him off, and how his family stole millions of dollars from him.

He wasn’t all up there. He tried to sell me a knockoff Chinese Gibson Les Paul that was clearly a fake to anyone who knew anything about guitars, saying that he’d give me a good deal. I asked him if he knew that the guitar was a fake, and he said he was just trying to see if I knew. Right. Mental shortcomings and all, the guy was interesting to me –  as was the prospect of someday coming across a good guitar in his pawnshop.

Amongst the regular junk in his shop, one day he had a pile of sealed mace sprays haphazardly dumped into a display case. I asked him what they were and he told me they were for women who didn’t feel save in the neighborhood, and he gave me two for “my girl and my mom”.

Another time I was in his shop I asked him about this tattered old small piece of luggage that was covered in tour and concert passes from the 1970s. It was obviously from a band member who had toured with O’Jays, Commodores, and some other acts. It was covered in a layer of thick dust. When I asked him about it, he asked if I wanted it for free. I said sure, and left the shop with it. Today that piece of luggage sits in our basement music room.

BlueMagicCase

 

I went to take a look at it a bit more carefully today to see if I could figure out who owned it. After looking at the passes/badges on the luggage itself, and the small amount of contents still left inside, I was able to narrow down the original owner to one of four guys. I was able to figure the band the member was in.

BlueMagicPass75

 

There weren’t many clues inside, but they all made sense once I figured out the band. The band was a 70s Philly R&B/Soul group called Blue Magic [Here’s their Wiki page]. Within that page is the mention of their 42-week world tour, which had a ten-day stint in the Philippines (how serendipitous, considering my bloodline). Within the luggage was contents from that particular 42-week tour, including handbills, luggage claim from the flight home, a pay stub, and a girl’s phone number written on the back of a color film packaging.

BlueMagicInsideCase

 

Crazy people can be crazy. Sometimes they try to get pity from you; or try to sell you a piece of junk. Apparently, other times they give you mace for your family’s safety; and unknowingly (or uncaringly) give you a piece of music history.

BlueMagicPass
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Ingenuity and creativity were born out of necessity for me in my youth. Like many, my family did not have much when I was growing up, and whenever we seemingly did run into good times, they were both short lived and squandered. In fact, before my teens, I had learned how to drain the hot water tank in our house when we no longer had running water being supplied to it.

My socioeconomic status growing up was what attracted me to DIY culture, which was finely intertwined with the punk rock music scene in my area. Sure, there may have been times where I had a safety pin that was not absolutely necessary, in terms of utility or functionality, but I was a young teenager still trying to find where he fit in this world. For the most part, though, the times where I had what looked part of a punk rock uniform was actually entirely for purpose: like my blue JanSport backpack hand-me-down from my older sister, which was, indeed, falling apart, and safety pins were the only way I knew to hold it together.

[Disclaimer: This is before pop-punk, bright colored shirt Brian – a time in which the start corresponds to my friends’ and my immersion into the pop-punk/punk-ska scene. This was simultaneous to the fortune of me having my first job, which lead to my choice of thrift store and skate-brand clothing to be purchased with my own earned income. This is an entirely different story altogether. Unfortunately, the term “fruity booter” is also part of that same story.]

This ingenuity has come in handy in the nearly two decades since I first felt sheepish about needing creativity in lieu of spending money. When on tour somewhere near the east coast with my dirt poor punk/hardcore band, our guitarist, Ryan, had a handle break on his guitar case. Sure, a handle could be a $20 part, but finding a music shop that sold it, derailing a planned route and day (this was road-atlas-touring and MapQuest-touring days, not GPS-touring days), and shitting $20 is not something a DIY band member can easily do. We did, however, have a roll of duct tape, so I fashioned a guitar case handle out it. And it was not a sub-par handle, either. I put a great deal of thought into it, and found a way to make it nearly as functional and comfortable as one that could be bought for $20; all while sitting at a venue before a show. That handle finally broke in 2014 in LA: nine years and countless shows through many US tours and three or four Europe tours after my repair job; and four years after our band last played a show together.

RyanCase

Over the years, I have kept the DIY creativity and ingenuity close to me, as well as a keen eye on things like reuse, recycle, up-cycle, and waste. I keep these characteristics close out of both the habit of them as well as the consciousness of my impact on this world (which itself is a byproduct justification of growing up without).

Aside from cathartic release, I mention all of this with purpose.

You know how people attach water bottles to their backpack? The other day I saw a hipster who took a glass Smuckers jam jar and affixed it to his empty-looking messenger bag by intertwined wire. He also fashioned a metal electrical socket into it as a patch on the same bag.

16 year old Brian may have thought this hipster guy in his mid 30s was cool, innovative, and clever. “Fuck the man…AND soap!” is what I would agree with, in thought.

32 year old Brian thought he was an attention-seeking “Oh, look at me and how eco I can be” ass.

It’s slightly unnerving to see something that is born out of necessity turned upside-down into some level of fashion. Case in point: 1) If one can afford an expensive messenger bag they can likely afford a BPA-free water bottle with carabiner from a dollar store; 2) If one were concerned with reuse and not-needed extra expense, why wouldn’t they place their up-cycled jam jar inside of their empty bag?

It’s not the first time I’ve been simultaneously perplexed and angered by fashionable faux thriftiness. I see it in distressed jeans. I see it in “road worn” or “aged” or “distressed” guitars. I see it in fake vintage aged throwback tee shirts. “Pawn Shop Series” guitars. Trucker hats. A culture of pretending to be something it’s not.

Or maybe I’m overanalyzing it, and I need to lighten up. Maybe creativity, ingenuity, thriftiness – maybe it’s over?

At any rate: I can’t wait until Urban Outfitters copies this hipster’s unnecessary fashion; and the shelves of plastic faux mason jar water bottles are replaced by faux repurposed jam jar water bottles.

#UpThePunxJellies

Not Water Bottles
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1) I don’t know how to make lists.

2) I can’t count higher than three.

3) I don’t always finish what I

IMG_7957.JPG
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As I’m working through the process of being better at blogging, I decided to do a 2014 roll up of some gems I posted outside of my blog. Goal for 2015: post IN the blog.
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September 2, 2014

4:01pm
Woman on cell phone in train, breaking up with boyfriend. Only person talking. Among many gems being said: “It’s like we’re a thousand miles apart; one here and one in China.” That sounds about right.

4:03pm
She’s kicking him out of the house too. This rules.

4:05pm
Ahh!! And now the division of material goods! Who gets what in the break up?

4:05pm
“Before i met you i didn’t know what stress was. Ever since you i’ve been nothing but stressing and crying every five minutes.”

4:07pm
I really don’t get it. If a girl wants to break up, why should it take this long? If a guy is getting dumped, why don’t you take it and quit trying?

4:07pm
I hate people. Why doesn’t she just talk to herself via facebook posts, like normal people.

4:10pm
She got off Overbrook. Party’s over.

4:10pm
I wonder if they’ll work it out…

4:17pm
As ridiculous as this event was, i have to admit that i am both perplexed and slightly in admiration of those who give so little shits, and can openly dump their loser significant other, and have no qualms talking feelings, sex, living conditions, and problems at full volume with no regard for others, nor their judgments.
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April 22, 2014
I’m fairly certain the guy sitting next to me waiting for the train either just wrestled with unbathed junk yard dogs, forgot how to wipe his ass, or just shat himself; or some combination of the three.
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May 22, 2014
I don’t think AT&T thought this all the way through.
Duck Boat AT&T
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May 30, 2014
These actions, when on their own, are perfectly acceptable; however when they are in concert they make for an awkward interaction:

1: Walking behind a mother walking her child to school.
2: Having chapped lips, and therefore licking them.
3: Realizing your belt is too loose; adjusting your belt’s tightness.
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July 18, 2014
My wife’s (maria’s) social media manager (maria) told me that my social media director (maria) and overall social media presence are awful. I promptly fired my social media director (maria) and hired my wife’s social media manager (maria), who i hope to see naked someday. I hope that solved all my problems.

[full disclosure – Maria is my wife]

Maria Colorado

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October 1, 2014

8:29am
Call me elitist, but i don’t think those who leave a film behind on seats should us public transportation.

8:51am
It’s not an exaggeration either. There is a physical residue left behind. It’s hardened and clumped, and looks like bug droppings.

8:52am
Also, as some point, they kissed someone through the window. Or just kissed the window. Either way, there are greasy nose, lips, and chin marks left behind.

8:56am
Proof.
Septa Print
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October 18, 2014
For Maria ‘s social media talk at PAFA today, i told her she should open with: “My artist social media campaigns focus primarily on Friendster, MySpace, and AIM away messages.”

I really hope she remembers to mention site building with free tools like Geocities and Angelfire, as well as communicating with fans on ICQ.
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November 18, 2014
Yesterday evening: walked through two unique urine streams in station. This morning: wiping off dead skin flakes from train seat. This evening? I can’t wait to see.

There’s something to be said about being grateful that you only stepped in bodily fluid. I thought i stepped in feces at first, but piss? Ah, the rain just washes it away.
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