Not an assignment.

I started this as the autobiography and realized it didn't quite fit the guidelines. But I was halfway done, so I'm posting it for shiggles. I've heard a few things about this from news networks, so here's my little part.

January 25th
The morning finally wakes him. He had slept in. The man begins his day by opening his eyes; the apathy of sleep still heavy in his mind. He carelessly rolls off the aged mat onto the floor and rises to his feet. He is careful not to wake his fiancé's family during the walk to his drawer. As he dresses for his job, he glances around the room. He is a modern man, but this living arrangement does not reflect it. A cramped two room apartment contains an entire family and the woman he loves. He had hoped to spring her from this life and bring her family out from poverty when he entered the university. Not long after enrolling, tuition bills began piling and loans mounted. To help off-set the debt he sought employment in any form, so he was hired as a part-time driver by a middle class family. They were nice enough and the pay allowed him to further his education. Soon enough he graduate from Cairo University School of Law. His masters diploma is still hanging above the drawer. Yet he had no wasta, no connections into the privileged life and therefore lived with the masses. That was five years ago. Today, he and his future family are hungry.

Making his way from the alley to the peculiarly empty street, he shakes his drowsy apathy and realizes this is the day. The streets have not been this calm since before corruption engulfed his country. He changed direction and hurried his pace. Tensions between the government and citizens have been snapping in the recent weeks, and the revolution in Tunisia has heightened Egypt's security. He and many friends have discussed their views, discussed what should be done and agreed their government cannot provide it. Soon enough he enters a small hardware store and walks to the backroom. The room is filled with familiar faces, all of them angry. He hears one voice over the others, "They are taking the internet, our communication away!" "They are afraid" another face speaks. “We are the ones who are frightened, we are not killing the government, they have been strangling us!" More voices launch into the air. Finally silence comes over them and the man asks, "What has happened?"

The sun is now setting, and throngs of people are in the streets. Facing them are police officers, prepared to shoot rubber bullets. One woman walks closer. Bullets are pelted into the crowd and trucks mounted with water guns are unleashed on the masses. Men are running, shouting, and cameras volley the shooting with their own shots. The hectic scene climaxes and the police retreat, leaving the protestors incensed. The man from the morning is now in front of a camera. Realizing an opportunity for perhaps a national audience he seizes the moment and thrusts his emotions out. "We will not be silenced! Whether you are Christian, whether you are Muslim, whether you are an atheist, you will demand your goddamn rights, and we will have our rights, one way or the other - we will never be silenced!"

Egyptian Revolution Jan 25th 2011 - Take what's Yours! from JoeChaban on Vimeo.

This could very well be horribly inaccurate, but revolt is happening. Egypt is rebelling and by the time most people read this, the plan to protest after Friday’s prayer will have occurred. So far reports are that millions of people will join the protest, could be less, could be more.

The Autobiography of.. Joe Kennedy?

"This varmint belong to you folks?" Joe thought the sheriff looked rather smug with satisfaction. "Him? That's old Luke Evans from across the river, he's always drunk these days. But who ain't?" Replied Al. "Good law abiding people, that's who." The Sheriff said puffing his chest out a bit. "And you'll do nicely to stop your business in this town, Mr. Connor." Joe noticed Al's eyes quickly glance towards the boat, the Sheriff had evidently noticed, too. "I know these are tough times," a dangerous smirk creeps its way onto his face, "So I'd be willing to negotiate a price for a little rule bending."

"You hear that Evans? This straight laced man of the law thinks he can stiff arm a couple of city boys like us." Al, always the agitator.

Now Joe had been in quite a few of these confrontations. A local cop or two would see money to be made and try to bully their way into the bootlegging business. But it's rather hard to bully a bigger bully, Joe had always thought. A sheriff, on the other hand, was something new - something exciting. And Joe knew Al would be hankering to try him out.

A sterner look presented itself on the Sheriff, "I've watched you two for a while now. I know what you are, I know what you do."

"Great! No surprises then!" Al flung out his right hook and landed it square on the the sheriff's jar. "Giddy up Joe, let's go!" Joe raced behind his partner and jumped into the boat. The engine let out a howl and took off just as the sheriff collected himself.

Joe could tell this is what Al lived for. The adrenalin, the rush of life. Joe knew this was only a step in his life. And one hell of a step it's become. The boat's front kicked up as it picked up speed. "Woooo! How about that?!" Al was clearly enjoying himself.

The ride was bumpy, but they were out of harms way with the shipment intact. Another day, another adventure for Joe Kennedy.

Peer Review: Group Two

Katie Arrivas - Your Observation post took me right back to high school in the first two paragraphs, sans the Jamba Juice. I felt the writing introduced me to your surroundings in a very familiar way which helped me understand the tone and atmosphere of your observations. I honestly thought it was a good read and I enjoyed it. Maybe one area of improvement could be to add more depth. The read felt a bit hallow, but for the idea of the post being observations I didn't feel there was a problem with it at all. Your description post was very on topic and very descriptive of his traits. While he's obviously he subject for the post, you say "he" many many times in your post. Any variation on this would help, I think even if you added his name a few times the post would be much smoother.

Kimberly Thomas - Your description post: Thank you for sharing that. Sharing from the heart is always tough, and you absolutely nailed it. Before I knew I was in your group, I read your Observing the Countryside and thought, I like this person. The computer isn't always a place someone would admit to being at all the time. You then talk about outside.. and long story short, you've done one hell of a job.

Nicola Simmons - The significant other post was beyond adorable and also a left me a bit inspired by your child. I'm sure you've read through the post since and found a few grammatical errors which could be easily fixed for next time. Try not to be like me and send your posts in with 5 minutes to spare.

A quick note, I apologize if my critiques are lacking this week. From here on out, this group will have my full attention. A few things were hectic this week and excuses, excuses. Point being, next week I'll be done well before 11:58 pm with much better posts for all of you.

Family: Dead or Alive: Variation 2

The on deck circle can be many things to a batter in baseball. It’s a place to ‘get your hacks in’ and mentally prepare yourself for the ensuring battle. Today that war would be exemplified on both the batter and pitcher. For today they were playing at Yankee Stadium. This was a game for the scouts, to evaluate the players and see who had the talent to make it to the Bigs, where fame and fortune awaited. Jerry is well aware of the stakes while he swings two bats around in the on deck circle, watching the at-bat unfold.
“Strike one!” Jerry hears the ump bellow. His breaking ball is working well today he thinks to himself. “Strike two!” again the umpire yells out. Boy, that curve ball is going to be tough to beat. He watches the pitcher during his windup, ready to walk to the plate anticipating the strike-out. The hurler snaps the ball over to first base, trying to catch the base runner off balance. This gives Jerry an idea, watch his elbow in the delivery, it may dip and tip off the curve. Carefully this time, he studies the pitcher. No dip in the elbow, but the pitch was a straight sailing fastball which sped above the swing of the bat. “Strike three!” The umpire barks to the delight of the other team. Two down, one on. I can beat this guy.
Jerry hustles to the plate; takes two more practice swings, each one deliberately timed for the curve ball. He digs his back foot into the box and glares out towards the pitcher. With this game, Jerry could change his life forever. The pitcher begins his delivery. No elbow dip. “Strike one!” The fastball lived up to its name. Resetting, Jerry zeros onto the ball. The wind-up, and the pitch. The elbow dipped! Jerry takes a mighty rip at the ball with bad intentions! “Strike Two!” He missed the curve. That was it, his golden opportunity at stardom sank faster than a line drive. The sparse crowd “ooh’d” and “aww’d” at the pitch that embarrassed Jerry. He took a moment to gather himself, Three strikes, three outs. That’s baseball. One more chance. He chokes up on the bat ready to become Rod Carew, a notorious contact hitter. Jerry hears the catch shuffle his feet. The pitcher kicks his leg up, no elbow dip, and releases the pitch.
Once the scouts left the stadium after the game, Jerry walked up to home plate. His day ended one for four with three ugly strike outs. The scouts didn’t even bother talking to him. He digs into the box, now in his work jeans and t-shirt, and relives his moment. Jerry again sees the pitcher in his wind-up “He kept his elbow level” he says to the empty stadium. He imagines the fastball coming in faster than ever, closes his eyes and takes the swing. Jerry had slapped the ball to right field. The very short right field, and it carried up and over the wall for a homerun. He trots the bases just like he had done earlier, a hero in the first inning. When he reaches home, no teammates are waiting for him this time. Instead he walks off the field, ready to continue his life.

A Childhood Kitchen

The smell of cookies -- no brownies-- wait! No, that’s the smell of cheese crisp making its way through the house! I think to myself, “Cheese Crisp for breakfast? What a country!” I thank my second family The Simpsons for that quote and scurry towards the kitchen table ready to be supped and nourished. My sister cracks the oven open to check on the tortilla of cheesy goodness. She decides the crisp is not yet ready. In any case, there’s milk to be poured! My eyes watch the liquid fill the glass, alas she never fills it to the top like mom does. I’d do it myself, but pouring milk requires finesse and height to reach the counter. I posses none of these skills. Being of no use to my sister, she shoos me away and I scamper to the kitchen table.
The smell! That cheesy smell! Just one bite, that’s all I need. I can’t take it anymore, my sister is obviously torturing me for some stupid big sister reason. So I devise a plan. Wait for her to leave and take one tiny nibble, no one would know! My eyes go shifty as I scout the kitchen for her. She’s left the room momentarily. This is my time to shine; I dart to the oven, pull the door open, reach into the stove for the cheese crisp, and… “Aaaaaaarghh!”
My plan was so foolproof, but I forgot the glove! These shortcomings only occur in my favorite cartoons, yet here I am screaming in agony over my now roasted hand. The pain is unbearable! Where is my sister, why isn’t she flying to my aid? This was her master plan all along. To lure me in the oven to be rid of me once and for all while she gets to become a spoiled only child!
I feel as if I’ll pass out from this pain , when after what seems like an eternity my sister finally arrives. I cling to her begging for any sort of help, an amputation will do at this point. She briskly walks me to the bathroom sink and runs my scorching hand under the cool water. I meekly ask, “Am I going to be able to keep this hand?” My sister gives out a small laugh and replies, “from the looks of it, I’d say so.” She then dries my burnt little finger and places a power rangers band-aid over it.
Finally we sat and enjoyed a shriveled up cheese crisp, like I always wanted.

The Inn called Abacus: Writing prompt #3

The restaurant is empty, I've come to regard that as business as usual here. How they manage to stay open is a mystery to me. Since I arrived five minutes late I'm the first from the group to arrive. I politely ask for four seats. No need for menus - our orders are practically cooking before we arrive; we come so often. For me it's orange chicken with egg drop soup. It's the best anywhere in my opinion. More often than not, the host seats us at the one booth in the entire restaurant that squeaks. What we did to him in our past lives eludes me. He dyes his hair red for some odd reason. Normally I wouldn't notice the color of a waiter's hair, but red hair looks strange on an Asian man to me. The restaurant itself is small, average in every way. Oriental paintings dot the wall, and local sports heroes adorn the bar scene. Soon I'm sitting, careful not to touch the table and unleash it's dreaded squeak. My favorite worker walks over to ask where my friends are. She's incredibly nice and often protects us from grumpy waiters with red hair. I talk to her for a while about school before they finally show up, late due to invisible traffic, presumably.
She asks our orders and we inevitably reply the usual, despite vowing to try something new this time. The group has time for greetings and we all rip off a few immature jokes like pros before our soup and wontons arrive. Most of us don't finish before the lunch is ready. Steamy, hot, delicious lunch. An occasional story or joke is babbled out by someone, but food is the priority here. Refills can be sparse but today the pitcher of water is left with us. We're moving up in the world now. One by one we finish our plate or throw in the white napkin and ask for a box.
After a meal at Abacus Inn is a favorite time of mine, where tea time rules and shits are simply not given. Our conversations range wildly here. Anywhere in the nerddom kingdom they may roam. My personal favorite is the classic, "What if Pokemon were real?" However, most of the time everyone picks on the favorite "superhero" of a friend, Batman. We only pick on him because we love him, of course, that and he can't defend himself well from jests. The receipt is placed on the table to stop his pain. With fortune cookies! Oh, the glorious reverence we possess for these bringers of future occurrences! Also we enjoy to know how to say "cook" in Chinese - it's zuo cai.
Once the bill is payed with our ten percent off members-only-super-deluxe-happy-time cards, our adventure at this Inn called Abacus draws to a close. We settle for one more immature joke, and part ways. Abacus Inn waits for us for another day.

He is ten years old: Writing prompt #2

He is ten years old. Brown hair, amber colored eyes, and missing most of his teeth. He is and always will be, my boy.
This love for him is not without obstacles. They are often characterized by 2 a.m. wake up calls, obvious attempts at brown nosing for attention, or just a literal brown nose. And despite his very own bed, he still finds his way onto mine every other night, leaving me precious little space to call my own. Though all is forgiven when he snuggles with me, followed by a prompt fart and swift exit through the door.
The backyard is his domain, and all who enter his domain are subject to his will. This could be anything from a game of tag, to an angry outburst of yells. But he always means well and makes it even by looking so damn cute.
One week ago, a veterinarian found a large amount of cancer inside of him. We're told he has one to three months remaining. Everyday the disease makes itself horribly apparent, and every night he struggles in his sleep. We take him for walks that he loved so much to try and reinvigorate him and remind us of what a wonderful companion he is. Soon he is battling for air and his pull on the leash has stopped, but his little nub for a tail keeps rhythmically wagging.
His daughter, Indy, which some of us grudgingly accepted, (cough, cough, Mom) was constantly by her father's side throughout her life. Always letting out a demon yowl whenever they were separated. As of late, she's rarely with him. I think she knows something has gone wrong, and I'm terrified at the prospect of red fern.
His joyous exuberance for life acts as a reminder for everyone, whether they be family, friends, or the always present delivery guy, to loose yourself in the moment and be a kid, just the way he lives his life.
Ten years ago I named a small puppy Apollo, and for the next one to three months, he will be my puppy.
In another ten years, his life will seem like a cameo in mine. Just another perpetual story of a boy and his dog. But right now, he is my snoring best friend.

"There is an idea of Brandon Riddle; some kind of abstraction" -American Psycho

For every class I have to answer a "Who am I" type question, I manage to think of the song Sweet Dreams.
Anywho my name is Brandon Riddle, legally it's Mills but that should be changed shortly. I strongly dislike writing about myself if I can't sensationalize one or two things, but I have a feeling that may be frowned upon here. So doing the best I can, here we have it; I follow rule 32 and enjoy the little things, as well as the show Archer. Unfortunately for many people, I have a knack for making immature jokes. That's not just blurting out "That's what she said" at opportune moments, but also using Pokemon, Star Wars and other nerdy references whenever possible.
Generally I keep my "about me" post short and sweet because I'm really a boring person. It's my ideas which somehow manage to keep friends around. That sounds like a liberal statement but it's more or less accurate.