I have come to the conclusion, after reading through some of my posts, that I ramble. I will have to make a concerted effort to be more to the point. Unless, of course, I'm using the post to organize my own thoughts, which is usually the case. Hmm. So, really, you're all just going to have to deal with my rambling. Okay then. Nevermind. Forget I ever said anything.
On the beat box: Norah Jones - Sunrise
Waiter: "And what will you be having, sir?"
Tyler: "Oh, sorry, one second, let me have a look at the menu..."
Tyler: "I'll have two servings of the Jessica Biel. Can I have some extra napkins as well, please?"
Waiter: "Certainly, sir. As you wish."
Ohh, if it were only that easy...
On the beat box: My Chemical Romance - House of Wolves
Name the movies. Don't cheat.
"Do we actually have to throw hard-earned dollars on a counter and say, 'Please, please, Mr. Merchant of Death, sir; please sell me something that will give me bad breath, stink up my clothes, and fry my lungs'... Friends, let me tell you about another bunch of hatemongers that were just following orders; they were called Nazis, and they practically wiped a nation of people from the Earth... just like cigarettes are doing now! Cigarette smoking is the new Holocaust, and those that partake in the practice of smoking or selling the wares that promote it are the Nazis of the Nineties! He doesn't care how many people die from it! He smiles as you pay for your cancer sticks and says, 'Have a nice day.'"
"Well, there's this passage I got memorized. Ezekiel 25:17. 'The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the iniquities of the selfish and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he who, in the name of charity and good will, shepherds the weak through the valley of darkness. For he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers. And you will know I am the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon you.' I been saying that shit for years. And if you heard it, that meant your ass. I never gave much thought to what it meant. I just thought it was some cold-blooded shit to say to a mother fucker before I popped a cap in his ass. But I saw some shit this mornin' made me think twice. See, now I'm thinkin', maybe it means you're the evil man. And I'm the righteous man. And Mr. 9 Millimeter here, he's the shepherd protectin' my righteous ass in the valley of darkness. Or it could mean you're the righteous man and I'm the shepherd and it's the world that's evil and selfish. Now I'd like that. But that shit ain't the truth. The truth is you're the weak. And I'm the tyranny of evil men. But I'm tryin', Ringo, I'm tryin' real hard to be the shepherd."
"Well, you look nervous. Is it the scars? You wanna know how I got 'em? Come here. Hey! Look at me. So I had a wife, beautiful, like you, who tells me I worry too much. Who tells me I oughta smile more. Who gambles and gets in deep with the sharks... Look at me! One day, they carve her face. And we have no money for surgeries. She can't take it. I just want to see her smile again, hmm? I just want her to know that I don't care about the scars. So... I stick a razor in my mouth and do this...to myself. And you know what? She can't stand the sight of me! She leaves. Now I see the funny side. Now I'm always smiling!"
"One time my cousin Walter got this cat stuck up his ass. True story. He bought it at our local mall, so the whole fiasco wound up on the news. It was embarrasing for my relatives and all, but the next week, he did it again. Different cat, same results, complete with another trip to the emergency room. So, I run into him a week later in the mall and he's buying another cat. And I says to him: 'Jesus, Walt! What are you doing? You know you're just gonna get this cat stuck in your ass too. Why don't you knock it off?' And he said to me: 'Brodie, how the hell else am I supposed to get the gerbil out?' My cousin was a weird guy."
"Choose life. Choose a job. Choose a career. Choose a family, Choose a fucking big television. Choose washing machines, cars, compact disc players, and electrical tin openers. Choose good health, low cholesterol and dental insurance. Choose fixed-interest mortgage repayments. Choose a starter home. Choose your friends. Choose leisure wear and matching luggage. Choose a three piece suit on hire purchased in a range of fucking fabrics. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you are on a Sunday morning. Choose sittin' on that couch watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing game shows, stuffing fucking junk food into your mouth. Choose rottin' away at the end of it all, pissing your last in a miserable home, nothing more than an embarassment to the selfish, fucked-up brats that you've spawned to replace yourself. Choose a future. Choose life...But why would I want to do a thing like that? I chose not to choose life. I chose somethin' else. And the reasons? There are no reasons. Who needs reasons when you've got heroin? So why did I do it? I could offer a million answers, all false. The truth is that I'm a bad person, but that's gonna change, I'm going to change. This is the last of that sort of thing, and I'm cleanin' up and I'm movin' on, going straight and choosin' life. I'm lookin' forward to it already. I'm going to be just like you: the job, the family, the fucking big television, the washing machine, the car, the compact disc and electrical tin opener, good health, low cholesterol, dental insurance, mortgage, starter home, leisure-wear, luggage, three-piece suite, DIY, game shows, junk food, children, walks in the park, nine to five, good at golf, washing the car, choice of sweaters, family Christmas, indexed pension, tax exemption, clearing the gutters, getting by, looking ahead, the day you die."
On the beat box: Cat Stevens - Wild World
This, my friends, is a double post day. I know, its fucking unheard of. There should be parades in the streets and hookers on every corner. Sorry, I don't have the resources for those things. But I have a question that I need to discuss with myself, so you'll just have to indulge me. I discovered, today, that someone who is supposedly a friend to me is being dishonest. Not that the person is being immoral. As far as I'm concerned, you can be a sinner or a saint. I don't care. Each person is what he wants to be. Who am I to judge a choice that is not mine? Sinner or saint? Irrelevant. But why are people two-faced? I believe it is because they think it is a quicker way to a goal. Ruthlessness never hurts when you're competing. Most people must resort to being ruthless when all other attributes even out. This implies that the victim is otherwise their equal. Why, then, would one be ruthless towards a person half their age, whom is not even playing the same game? I mean, if I'm playing Battleship, I'm not going to throw a brick at someone else across the table if their board has a funny little man with a mustache and a black top hat. Its just not productive. So why would this occur? Maybe the person doesn't realize that not everyone is playing the same game. A disastrous mistake if you ask me. I think I'll go along with it. For now. I now know that the person is not, in fact, a friend to me. Good thing he hasn't been seen as a friend for very long anyway. As it goes, no skin off my teeth. If, however, the player decides to sit down at my game of Battleship, he will have quite another matter to deal with.
In regards to my last post... I guess self preservation does, occasionally, suit me.
On the beat box: Jack Johnson - Banana Pancakes
...to the boredom. Everythings the same. Same as it was a year ago. Different setting, maybe. Same result. Same stagnant feeling. Not working toward anything. Not that I don't want to. Just can't figure out what to work toward. Most things are boring. I feel like I need to be riding off the edge of a twenty-foot cliff on my snowboard, or be held in the arms of the most beautiful woman on earth in order to feel alive. Small setbacks are everywhere. And when small setbacks are everywhere, they add up and turn into one monstrous hurdle. And when that hurdle spans a year and more, the light at the end of the tunnel seems to get dimmer and dimmer. A third or so of my life is over. What do I have to show for it? Nothing material, that is certain. And although this is the least important of many things, material growth is society's most common measuring tool. Creativity is another, though far less recognized. I have little of this either, or at least have not yet discovered my medium. I have met my share of goals. Most of these have resulted in a maturity far exceeding a great many of my peers. A maturity I sometimes dislike, or wish I had not acquired. Sometimes I feel that I avoid situations because I can see the possible outcomes before I ever get involved. Sometimes I wish I would get involved anyway - if for nothing else than to mix things up a bit. But I can't. Self preservation is a marvelous thing. When it suits you. And doesn't it suit everyone, in the end? We shall see.
On the beat box: Kevin Spacey - Beyond the Sea
It has come to my attention that some of you may have been offended by my "Starbucks Applications" post. Thanks for letting me know. Have a nice day and go sit on a pole. :-)
On the beat box: Tyler Price - Get Off My Nuts
(Its a new one I just made up. I would probably get a record deal for it if I were from the ghetto.)
I've been toying around lately with the idea of joining the military. I know. Me. Who always said, "Oh, hellll no." I believed I wouldn't be able to deal with all the prick drill sergeants who just want to scream at you and make you feel like a puddle of puke all day long. Except, when I really think about it logically, they aren't doing it just because they like making people feel that way. They're motivators. The thing they care about most is making you the best soldier you can be. Because they're in it for a career. They have a vested interest in recruits becoming badasses. They don't care if you hate them. In fact, if your hating them makes you work harder, then they love the fact that you hate them. Thinking logically, I can understand where they're coming from. And knowing this, I can definitely put up with someone screaming at me. So yeah, thinking about the Army. Special Forces, Green Berets. Because, if I'm going to do it, then I'm going to do it right. I know, Green Berets don't fuck around. In fact, its one of the most rigorous training regimens on earth. But that's exactly why its where I want to be. Here's a quote I found recently that hits home on the subject: "It must be remembered that one man is much the same as another... and that he is superior who is trained in the severest of schools." So if I'm out there with my ass on the line, you'd better be superman.
I've done some research in the past few days, and even qualifying for Green Beret training is not easy. Not by any means. But its definitely within reach. It'll take a lot of preparation to even have the chance. But I can do it. I know I can. The question is, do I really want to? Is this really something I want to do, or is it some weird quarter life crisis thing? Do I feel like I haven't done enough with my life and I have to make up for it? Maybe. Have I taken advantage of the opportunities my country offers without giving anything in return? Absolutely. Do I feel guilty for it? Sure, a little. But its not just these things. This is the first time in a very very long time that I have been excited about the prospect of a career. I think I would be really, really good at it. Its right down my alley. It sounds like a great opportunity.. that is, except for the part where there's a distinct possibility that I could get killed. Then again, statistically I have a higher probability of dying each time I get into a car.
Am I ready to leave everything I know behind to pursue a course of action such as this? I don't know. Am I able to put my friends and family through the worry that the next time they turn on the news they'll see a picture of me on the screen with the headline, "Military training exercise goes wrong"? Because they'll probably never really know what would have happened to me. If I were killed, it would probably be in some Afghan cave with twenty-five Al-Qaeda bastards suicide bombing my ass. I don't know...
But, to be honest, I can't stop thinking about it. Finally I figure out that there's a job out there that really interests me, and I can't decide if I can even seriously think about trying to achieve it.
Life's funny that way, I guess.
On the beat box: The Used - The Taste of Ink
Starbucks. Great when you get what you order. Extremely fucking frustrating when you don't. Imagine this scene:
I walk into a Starbucks one gloriously snowy morning looking for a tasty cup of wake-the-fuck-up. Now, I'm not extremely picky when it comes to coffee. Sure, I like it a certain way, but I try not to confuse the idiot baristas with a "132 degree-fat free-soy-something-or-other" order. What I ordered was pretty damned simple. I used to serve Starbucks coffee products, so I have first-hand knowledge of just how simple it was. "Grande vanilla latte. Multigrain bagel with cream cheese." The cashier gives me a bag with my food order. I pay. I stand by the bar to await my coffee order. "Grande vanilla latte," says the barista. "That's me, thanks." Now, I like to let my coffee cool off a little before I indulge. So, as it were, I was a couple of miles down the road when I sipped. Not one iota of vanilla flavoring. In fact, I don't even think there was much milk. Mostly espresso. Like, chemical burn your throat espresso. Dammit. I get back to the office, and I'm looking forward to digging into my bagel to help salvage my drink fiasco. I reach my hand into the biblical paper bag, and what do I pull out? A multigrain roll. A ROLL, people. A small, very bread-y ROLL. And look, how nice, they included the cream cheese. Someone give me a rope, I'm going to go hang myself.
I'm wondering if there's a yes/no check-box on the Starbucks application that reads, "Are you at least partially mentally handicapped?"
If you don't check "yes" then you don't get hired.
On the beat box: Roots Manuva - Witness (1 Hope)
Well I have received very little in the way of donations for my new charity. So I guess this can mean one of two things. Either my blog has a horribly small following, or my charity's cause isn't a good one. Its gotta be my small following...
NY is good. Cold. But good. Very small friend base as of right now, but hopefully that'll change over time. Not that I'm going to have millions of friends up here, but a few will be nice. Heading to Honesdale this weekend to drop off some stuff and pick up one or two items. Will see a couple of friends while I'm there. Not sure how long I'll be staying, but probably not long.
Not much else for now... will check in later.
On the beat box: Eminem - Sing for the Moment
So here I am. The end of day one in New York. I was pessimistic. I didn't think it was going to work out well for me. I figured I would end up hating my job, quitting, and being forced to return to Gainesville with my tail between my legs and with nothing more in tow than additional life experience of a failed attempt at normalcy. Second verse, same as the first. Except it doesn't feel that way. I know, its only the end of the first day - a bit early to be making that call. But I feel good. Its hard to explain. I haven’t felt this way in a very long time. I mean, I’ve felt good. But I haven’t felt good. I haven’t felt good about any situation I’ve found myself in for as long as I can remember. But this situation feels good. Sure, it isn’t perfect. I’m basically living in someone’s sitting room and sleeping on their futon. The conditions aren’t as cramped as I had feared they would be, but they aren’t too far off. Its not exactly a fabulous lifestyle. After day one, though, I feel good.
As a side note, I hate razors. Electric razors, straight razors, disposables, vibrating ones – you name it, I hate it. Why? Because I have to use them on my goddamned face. There is nothing – and I seriously mean nothing – like scraping your face with the sharpest blade imaginable until the coarsest hair this side of a porcupine’s quills is cut off at the skin. Electric razors are almost worse. Instead of scraping your face with an unimaginably sharp blade, you’re rubbing your face with a rough metal screen. About seventy percent of the hair pokes through the small holes in the screen and is sheared off by the mechanical blades. Approximately twenty-eight percent of the hair pokes through the metal screen and is not sheared off by the mechanical blades, but is caught by the edges of the holes through which it is poking and is violently and unceremoniously ripped out of its moorings by the very act of rubbing yourself with the fucking razor. And to top this off, about two percent of the stubble doesn’t penetrate the metal screen, and so is left standing long and proud upon the face, a very real monument to the true idiocy of the act of shaving. I’m sure some people would say, “Hey buddy, try shaving your scrotum,” or “My labia don’t like razors either, but you don’t see me bitching about it in my blog.” Well let me say that I have used a razor on my nether-regions, and it is nothing compared to the horror that is the after effects of using a blade on my face (I don’t have any labia to run a razor over for comparative purposes, so ladies you might have an arguable point here). After shave balm might not make the situation worse, but you would be better off applying Neosporin to an amputated leg. I guess what I’m trying to say by writing all of this is that I really don’t like shaving my face. But I have to. I dislike facial hair. I’ve tried various looks involving landscaped growths and I’ve liked none of them. So I’m forced to shave. I have to.
I will be mailing out official donation forms for my new charity cause. I now require that laser hair removal procedures be performed on my face. I do not have the money to pay for this. Please donate to the charity. I promise, a child now suffering of starvation will soon pass into a euphoric sleep forever. Give your money to me instead, so that I may never have to undergo the sick and inhumane act of shaving ever again.
On the beat box: John Mayer - Freefallin'
Alright, so maybe it wasn't a blowout. Maybe the Gators didn't quite separate themselves from the Oklahoma impostors as much as I would have liked. Maybe that lends a bit of credit to Oklahoma. Or maybe I'm just drunk and giving too much credit where none is deserved (true; drunk, that is). Supposedly the most prolific scoring offense in division one FOOTBALL HISTORY... my anus. Yeah, thats right. My. Anal. Orifice. The highest scoring and supposed best offense in college football history couldn't score more than 14 points against the Gators? Get the fuck over it, people. The Gators held the Sooners to less than half of their previous low score for the season. I will restate the absolute obvious. What happens when the Sooners encounter a mediocre defense? They lose. What happens when the Sooners encounter the Gators? Feeding time.
Now, just because I'm a cocky motherfucker, I will further validate my previous post concerning the defensive points allowed for each team. I will state now that the statistics that I uncovered were deadly accurate when compared to the title game.
I stated on Tuesday that before their one loss of the season, Oklahoma allowed 18.3 points per game. After their one loss, they were allowing an average of 29 points per game from opponents. These two figures combine for a season 23.8 points per game allowed by Oklahoma. Remember that number.
I also stated that the Gators allowed 12.5 points before their loss to Ole Miss, and after their loss allowed an average of 13.0 points per game from opponents. These combine for a season 12.8 points per game allowed. Remember, if you will, this number as well.
Would anyone like to recall the score of the National Title Game? Gators 24, Oklahoma 14.
Compare this score with the statistics stated above. In the National Title Game, Oklahoma allowed 24 points, just 0.02 points above their season average. Need I say more? The Gators allowed 14.0 points to Oklahoma in the National Title Game. This, just 1.2 points over their average of the entire season.
Both teams gave up almost exactly as many points as they had previously set a precedence for.
If I ever find myself the coach of the most prolific offense in the history of the game (which I most certainly will not), I would expect that offense to score more than one point over my opponent's season average of points allowed. Especially if my fans talk as much trash as Oklahoma's do. Although, I guess most of Oklahoma's fans don't have the IQ to figure out how to back up their own arguments. Especially when those arguments are completely unfounded and irrational.
The proof was on the scoreboard, for all to see. The proof was in the crystal football, held on high by Tim Tebow, for all to see.
Two words:
Go Gators.
On the beat box: We are the Boys of Old Florida
Quick post here regarding the upcoming National Title match up between Florida and Oklahoma. I've been doing a little research of my own this morning and have come up with some interesting numbers. Several supposed football experts have actually compared Florida's and Oklahoma's seasons, saying they have some very similar characteristics. These experts argue that both Florida and Oklahoma were dealt losses during their seasons from which they then rebounded significantly. The Sooner nation is very proud of the fact that they are the only team in history to have scored sixty or more points in five consecutive games, and that these five games came after their one loss of the season. Let me shed some light on the reality of the situation. Please note that these stats do not take into effect variables like home/away games or strength of schedule.
Before Oklahoma's loss to rival Texas, the Sooners were scoring an average of 2.5 points for every point scored against them by opponents. Since their loss to Texas, this ratio has declined significantly to 2.04 points for every one allowed. This is an almost 20% decrease in scoring efficiency after their so-called "rejuvenating" loss. These numbers combine for a season 2.2 points scored for each point allowed.
The Gators, on the other hand, started their season scoring 2.8 points for every point scored by opponents. After the loss to Ole Miss, the Gators significantly improved their scoring efficiency to 3.8 points per point allowed. This is a near 30% increase. These figures combine to for a season 3.3 points scored for every point allowed.
Oklahoma allowed 18.3 points per game before their loss to Texas, and a whopping 29 points per game since the loss to Texas, almost a 40% increase in points scored against. The Gators on the other hand went from allowing 12.5 points per game before the loss to Ole Miss to allowing 13.0 points per game after the loss, less than a 5% increase.
The results as far as I am concerned? Sure, Oklahoma can put up big numbers consistently against teams like Texas A&M and Oklahoma State, but they also get scored on a lot, which translates into having a soft defense. What happens when they encounter a somewhat strong offense and a mediocre defense like the Longhorns? They lose. What happens when they encounter the Gators? Feeding time.
I am no mathematician, but I believe someone much more intelligent than I can combine these numbers with other variables, like strength of schedule, to find a sort of equation. I am positive this equation would show mathematic proof of exactly how badly we're going to tear apart the Oklahoma Sooners on January 8th.
Of course, in two days we wont need such an equation. The proof will be on the scoreboard for all to see. The proof will be the crystal football, held high in the hands of Tim Tebow, for all to see.
Two words:
Go Gators.
On the beat box: Bob Marley - Reaction
Alright, so I know this isn't exactly breaking news, it happened a couple of months ago, but oh my god Kelly Slater is a FUCKING MACHINE. Every time I think about it I just can't believe it. The guy won his 9th World Surfing Title in 2008. Let's think about this for a minute. NINE.
Lance Armstrong won seven Tour de France titles. Tiger Woods has won seven PGA money titles. Dale Earnhardt won seven NASCAR Winston Cup titles. These guys are legends in their respective sports. The best of the best.
Seven seems to have been the magic number. Key phrase: "have been".
Not that seven was ever my lucky number. In fact, I wore the number nine throughout my entire soccer career. By choice. Nine was, and still is, my lucky number - if you really want to call it that. Not to say that I'm any cooler than I've ever previously been (which is actually pretty damned cool if you ask me) for having worn the same digit on my shirt as Kelly currently has world titles.
In fact, I hope there's a new magic number next year.
Have a look at the picture. Looks to me like Kelly thinks he's already halfway there.
Ten, anyone?
On the beat box: Jack Johnson - Rodeo Clowns
So, I'm adding this page to my Facebook profile. Inspired by a good friend of mine. Not the most comfortable of things for me to do, but no one ever learned anything about themselves by walling themselves away in comfort. Maybe I'm just daring myself to still be as open as I am now, while the page is semi-private. I'm up to the challenge.
On the beat box: Dire Straits - Sultans of Swing
Looking forward to getting out of Gainesville again. Don't get me wrong, hanging with family and friends for the holidays has been great. But there's nothing like being around people you wish you were around more often to make you think your life needs a change. Of course it needs a change, just can't happen right now. Looking forward to being near NYC. Looking forward to receiving paychecks again. Looking forward to being able to go snowboarding again, even though the hills in New York are NOTHING compared to the towering spires of Colorado..jpg)
Not looking forward to starting over - again - in an entirely new place. But hey, you gotta put in your time. Especially if its a road to your goals. Not looking forward to living in a one bedroom flat with a coworker. Sleeping on a couch for the next four months isn't really something I had a hankering to do. There's that pessimism again. Can't help it.
I'll basically be in New York City. With good people. Making money. Boo-yah.
Trying to convince myself? Maybe.
On the beat box: Cartel - Say Anything (Else)
I've been having a debate with myself off and on for the past year or so. The debate has grown to encompass many things, but the main issue at hand seems a relatively simple one: am I happy? Considering the length of time this aforementioned debate has spanned, I think one thing is obvious: I have not been able to settle the argument for one side or the other.
Maybe that is an answer in itself. If you think you're happy, but aren't sure of the reality, are you indeed happy? Of course not. So I guess I've got my answer. One thing I am positive of, however, is that I'm not unhappy. I know, I sound like a worrying mother hen in between long stints of antidepressants who can't decide whether to laugh or cry. Now, I'm not saying that there aren't a lot of things that I'm unhappy with. I know, seems cloudy, right? Well hopefully it'll clear up as I write. That is, after all, the point.
Quick summary. I'm not happy. I'm not unhappy. I'm stuck somewhere in the warm, fuzzy, cold, hard middle of it all. There are many things that I am happy with in regards to myself and my lot in life. There are also articles to the contrary. I think the path to happiness might be to increase the number of things I am happy with, and decrease those instances of unhappiness.
In direct contention with this thought is the lingering feeling that there will always be things about my life that I am unhappy with. There will always be those things that no matter how hard I try, I will not be able to change. Such is life. I will have to learn to accept those inevitably unchangeable articles; and even more than just accept them, I may have to grow to be happy with them. How I do this, I have absolutely no idea. I'm hoping this knowledge comes with the experience of living life. It is a good thing, I think, that I do not believe my life contains a great number of these unchangeable objects.
Re-reading the post so far, I think it has taken on a tone that I hadn't intended. I will take this opportunity to restate the fact that I am not unhappy. Not in the least.
I am extremely happy with my own personality. I know I am intelligent. I love my sense of humor and my ability to make people around me laugh, assuming of course that they aren't just laughing at me. Maybe they are. I am no stranger to making a fool of myself - in fact I think I do it quite often. I am extremely reliable. These are just a couple of the almost infinite number of things that I am happy with in myself and in my life.
I tend to be pessimistic. I'm a bit of a cynic. I fail to follow through more times than not on my own endeavors. I am tired of moving from place to place and back again with nowhere to settle. I would like to have a meaningful relationship again. These are a few of the things that I am not entirely happy with. These are the things that I will need to work to change.
I think maybe the purpose of this post is to be a starting point. A recognition of the fact that there are things about myself and my life that I would like to change. Things that I need to change in order to evolve into the end-game person I would like to be.
I would like to be able to ask myself the question "Am I happy?", and without hesitation, answer with a resounding "Yes."
Actually, I would like to not have to ask myself that question at all.
On the beat box: Tom Petty - Refugee
Hmm. Well, this being my first blog and all, I'm not sure what I'm supposed to say. Maybe I'm not supposed to say anything. Yeah. Thats it.
I've always known about Blogging. Or at least knew it existed. I've read a few. Never consistently. Seems like a good outlet though, and maybe a good way to hash out thoughts. Not entirely sure if I want those hashings-out to be broadcast to the world... but then again, who reads these things? Hmm... I'll give it a try. Comfort zone departures are always learning experiences, after all.
On the beat box: Thriving Ivory - Angels on the Moon
