The Prince of Cats's blog: "my first blog"

I take some paper on my hand, And with a pencil draw a man The dream of what I'd really, really like to be. A man with courage in his brow, Who's licked his doubts and fears somehow, A warrior of great nobility. But who am I? Just a wandering kid. A cipher on the wall, not even brave at all! And where's my dream like his that I would fight for? And where's my cause like his that I would die for? And in his eyes he's not a afraid Because you see he's got it made The dream of what I'd really, really like to be. A brave and noble, fiery youth. Who's not afraid to die for truth. Who's tall and straight, but best of all he's free! But who am I? Such a fool as I am. A cipher on the wall, not even brave at all! And where's my dream like his that I would fight for? And where's my cause like his that I would die for? But still the paper's in my hand And every day I sketch that man Who knows the truth and what life's all about! My conscience says I should be him I guess I could at least begin But chances are I'd probably strike out.

BLOOD FOR ODIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!(a funny blog post) A friend of a friend lives in NYC and participates in the SCA [Society for Creative Anachronism]. He's stereotypical Viking, 6'7" tall, LONG blonde hair, about 350 - 400 lbs of solid muscle, and looks every bit of it. Well, he was going to a meet in full getup with long cloak and battle axe and sitting on the subway... hunched over leaning on the axe with the cloak pulled over it so he wouldn't scare anybody. Lo and behold some little punk comes up... MAYBE 5'2", 120 lbs soaking wet, and brandishes a knife saying "GIMME YOUR MONEY!" Naturally the guy sits there... somewhat befuddled at the balls of this punk. "GIMME YOUR *bleepin* MONEY OR ELSE!" and the guy stands up... and up... and UP. Raising the battle axe over his head, screaming at the top of his lungs "BLOOD FOR ODIN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" At this point, the fellow passengers learn the true sound of terror. Not a scream, no curses, just a simple little "urk" as the guy leaves a wet spot as he's bolting for anywhere but here. A couple weeks later our friend is at a club in the men's room, doing what all guys do when they've had a bit of ale, and looks over and at the next stall is that SAME PUNK! Up for a bit of a laugh, the guy leans over, and quietly whispers in the dude's ear "Blood for Odin". The cops catch up with him a couple blocks away... screaming bloody murder, running like the hounds of hell are after him, with his pants around his ankles