Second Hand Sloan

Surf's Where?
Originally uploaded by link5001.

Way back in the days of olde...

I finally went on my first surfing safari of the summer, here at the end of it, with Phillip Johnson. It was pretty dang dead out there but it was pretty fun anyway. Well, aside from the 15 year old girls that waded around us and annoyed the poo out of us.

My pride in my family name finally got to me about a month ago when, on a whim, I searched the internet for the long lost answer to the great question of Sloan. Where did I come from? Disheartened after a day of no answers I decided I'd just email Frank Sloan of "The Sloan Connection" with some facts about the generations of my family that I knew about and see if he knew anything.

After a month of communication and searching, I'm happy to say that good 'ol Frank did his homework!

He traced me back to the (probably) Scottish man, John Sloan, who was born about 250 years ago. He imported himself and started procreating in what is now Moore County, NC. So you see, I'm pretty "old school" to North Carolina.

So...don't call me a yankee transplant...or any of that garbage...
PURE BREED BABY!!! WOOOT WOOO!

Now to nibble away obnoxiously at a pop tart for 32 minutes!

Don't Mind Me, Just Crouching Here...

And at long last your eyes, slowly starving from lack of update, get to feast themselves on this, my latest post. Before opening up the sicknasty poo box of wondrous delight I have for you in this entry, I thought I might take a moment to remind you that you can always find something mildly entertaining to read through the links section on my page. Several of my friends and relatives keep good stuff up, but most of them update less often than I. I mainly speak of my cousin David who updated for the first time in 4 months last week. Rumor has it that he may have even updated again since then. Keep your fingers crossed.

Earlier today I was reading about how movie and tv stars that reach "super" status feel like they should get special treatment. Russel Crowe has, yet again, beaten someone up because they failed to connect his call to Australia in a Hotel. J Lo at one point insisted that everything in her dressing room be white. The once "sweet" Usher demanded that the red carpet be clear when he walked down it earlier this week, forcing other stars arriving at the same time to take the back door. To these people I have a simple question.

WHY DOES YOUR LIFE SUCK SO MUCH THAT YOU THINK YOU'RE THE BEST THING IN IT?

Being a film student I get a lot of people asking me what I want to do with it when I get out of school. I get a lot of "Do you want to be a producer" or "Going to be a big director??" which is all well and good. Most film students probably want this, but I have very little desire to work in an industry where your biggest assets are you biggest pains. Some of these actors wouldn't even show up to set some days...unannounced...and made EVERYONE on crew waste time and cost the studio so much money. I can't stand arrogance so I don't believe showbiz is for me. I'm waiting to see what God puts up in front of me as far as my filmic education goes, until then.

I DON'T WANT TO DEAL WITH ARROGANT BUTT LLAMAS

If feet came off would you still dace with me when I was having mine dry cleaned?

A Man With A Diamond Nose Will Kill Your Secret Agent

Drink it.
Originally uploaded by link5001.

I just added a couple of pictures, the one above being one of them, to my Online Photo Album. If you haven't checked it out recently you should.

This is going to be yet another boring post as Caswell has drained the lifeforce out of me with it's tireless schedule. Not too much to report, I have to get mad crazy working on the slideshow and there are only 2 weeks left after tomorrow. Then I'm home for a week where I'll be visiting the dentist and then leaving for UNCdoubleyew.

I'd also like to report that Jacob Jackson is a pansy pants for writing that horrid comment on my last post and not signing his name to it.

Pansy.

"...and for an entire day the child was forced to travel, only by Irish jigging ...."

The Abandoned Palace of the River Watchers

Rock, Rock On!
Originally uploaded by link5001.

Imagine the joy of seeing this every time you walked into your room. Now you have a small idea of what it's like to live in room seven here at Caswell. I personally am a little creeped out by the fact that PA looks a WHOLE lot like the DJ mannequin from the Pizza Inn I go to back home. It's cool though, as long as he continues to "Rock Hard" and never let up.

Since my posting has slowed to a crawl as of late, I thought it might be nice to do a different kind of update that should both confuse and delight. I'm going to briefly cover some of the things I've meant to talk about and haven't gotten around to talking about. Starting...now!

I pretty much hate the front right projector in Hatch. The other two projectors don't give me much trouble but If the one on the right is actually working, boy does it. I'm not trying to be a "Complaining Norman" (I just made that one up!) But the receiver for the remote is covered up on it or something and it won't cut off from the booth, so I end up having to walk all the way to the stage and stand on the corner of it to turn it off. But it's not just that simple either, I have to press the off button and point about 45 different times before it'll actually recognize the remote. Which, of course, leaves me on stage looking like a nimrod, usually in front of a rather large crowd.

Speaking of feeling like a nimrod, I've discovered that Yam has a secret hobby of making all those safety conscious individuals who ride in his assembly van feel like one as they attempt to put their seat belt on. Not once...but 4 times in one day, within the span of 30 minutes, did I get in his van and
start putting my seat belt on only to hear him say callously, "Don't have to put your seat belt on." This has actually been happening every time I've ridden with him since the beginning of the summer. At this point he usually only gets to "Don't hav...." before I wail in disappointment of myself and throw the belt away.

...Sometimes he lets me click it just to be mean...

I have a horrible habit I've picked up from somewhere of saying "wang dang" rather than just "dang." Wang dangit! That makes me mad! Hopefully I'll be able to kick it soon, if not I apologize to you, my listener.

I had planned on doing a ghost documentary that would far surpass the one my sister did in College, just for the heck of it, sometime while I was down here. Sadly I don't know if I'll be able to fit it in now, but I'm going to do my best to shoot it next weekend. Keep your fingers crossed that I'll actually catch some ghost footage and sell it to the government so they can cover it up and pay me 3.4 million dollars. If you do and I actually get it, I'll take you out to Carrabbas.

...or at the very least give you a reloadable Wal*Mart gift card...

This weekend is the weekend of the annual Caswell Classic Golf Tournament. This is basically a couple of people who can actually play golf (Yam) getting the staff to play on teams so they can totally destroy them and get a golf ego boost. OK, maybe not. That's Tommy who likes to beat the weak and laugh at them mercilessly, and there are some dang good staffer players. I get to go and take pictures and video which means I get to laugh at the bad people as they whack holes all over the course while pretending that I wouldn't be doing the same thing if I were playing. WOOT!

Is it bad that I want to smother the trees in hot cheese and pretend I have the prize winning broccoli at the fair?

Put Your Face in the Cheetos and Say You're Sorry

Poppop! Ziz-wing!

Sorry for the hiatus, but as I've said before, tis a busy busy place this Caswell is! Now for my update:

It is common knowledge that mankind will always find a way to amuse itself regardless of the consequences of said amusement. It is also fairly obvious that some survival instinct lies dormant inside all of us and occasionally, when it can surface, it gives us a feeling of being close to completeness. One of the ways we reach that objective of satisfying our need for competitive survival, without all the nastiness of death and suffering, is paint ball.

For years, as an adolescent in middle school, all I did was hear about my friends play the game of painting balls. Now, sadly, I stand (or actually sit) before you, a nineteen year old first time paint ball veteran. Jacob Jackson got a surprisingly large group of male staffers together to play this past Saturday. I'll take you through the entire process for me, step by step.

1. Get paint ball gun.
Now, call me crazy, but the idea of shooting hard balls at one another at a speed of around 275 mph seems like something that one might not enjoy after one good try. Because of this I didn't want to up and buy an $80 gun from Wal*Mart. Instead I had to find one to borrow, the man himself, Jeffery Shearin, hooked me up with his brass eagle which is, as it turns out, horribly inaccurately named as "The Eradicator." You're more likely to eradicate yourself with it's accuracy, but I'll attribute it to my poor marksman skills and perhaps too low of a velocity for now. After all, one game is hardly a fair chance for the gun to prove it's worth. THANKS MAN!

2. Get geared up.
Who knew the most expensive part would be the stuff that blows up and disintegrates into nothingness? We all had to get paint balls and from the sound of things I was going to need a lot. I stocked up on 1200 at a cost of around $30 before heading out. I used about 300 during the two games we played Saturday, mostly due to my cowardice in the first game, but oh well. At least I have plenty more.
Of course no paint ball game would be attemptable without proper head protection and clothing. For head gear I got a black full coverage mask from wally world. SWEET looking mask, but being the smart one I am I decided to give it a custom paint job with the cheapest spray paints available. After 5+ hours of work I discovered that my paint didn't bond to the plastic of the mask as it started pealing off. Fortunately I was able to get some clear coat and salvage what was left. Now I've shamelessly told everyone I was going for the "battle damaged" look. They don't believe me but they pretend to make me feel better.
For gear I wore Nic's thin sweat pants with camo duct tape over all the orange patches.
...what!?!?...

3. Get air.
For those of you that don't know, a paint ball marker (gun) requires compressed CO2 in a tank to eject the balls. The only place around here that sells said CO2 happens to bear striking resemblance to what my vision of "mini hell" would be. Jenny's Pawn in Shalotte is full of more death inducing weaponry than some third world middle eastern countries. Add to that the fact the Jenny, what with her emotionless face, seemed to be capable of pulling any one of them out and shooting it for no reason, and you got yourself one danged creepy place of business. I did a little scoot in and out of there.

4. Location. Location. Location.
Where do you play paint ball in nowheresville NC? Apparently in the woods next to some fairly populated apartment complex. We parked next to them and trudged off down a dirt road, past a manmade pond, and to a mud filled, overgrown mess of land. I hope Mr. Man in boat didn't get hit by one of the zillion balls that got shot out there before and in-between games due to the complete lack of attention span that the mens staff have. Aside from being very itchy and not having permission to play there, it was a nice place. Plenty of cover for me to shiver in fear behind.

So there you have it. Now how did it go? Let's just say that I found myself chanting "These are your good friends from Caswell, they are in no way VietnaGerman soldiers taking aim at your head." You'd be surprised how much paint ball guns sound like real gunfire from a distance. I didn't fire a shot for 45 minutes because I just kept moving from bush to bush. Then I fired a few, hit Kyle in the hand... the ball DIDN'T explode...and then panicked as my team leader got popped behind me (with an "OWWWWWWWWI'm out!") just before Josh Sullins pegged me from the side. You know how they tell you it doesn't hurt so bad?...HA! Well, it really doesn't hurt much at all, but it SURE leaves a nasty bruise. Especially when you're hit with Josh Nelson's tournament grade gun that he accidentally turned all the way up because he thought he was turning it all the way down. Yikes! 300+ mph=Black and Blue.

I also got hit in the junk in the second game...figures...

Above it all, however, it was a FANTASTIC experience and something I hope to do many times more in the future. Stay tuned for striking images of me in full Camo, (never thought you'd see that did ya kido?)

"In other news, Iraq was liberated by a flock of VietnaGermans at around 4:30 Monday afternoon..."