After two months of being nostalgic and revisiting my childhood memories, I decided to go through some of my old photos from when I was around 16 or so. Amidst all the photos that I found, many of them were of Richard Madison. Since I'm sure not many know of Richard Madison, let alone what he looks like, I thought I would put together a slide show of the many faces of Richard. If anyone spots a man who resembles an older version of the boy in the pictures below, IMMEDIATELY let me know!
On a side note, during the process of finding pictures of Richard, a song came on (via my Computer) that struck a chord in me. After finding out that it was an early version of Madonna's up-and-coming single, "Don't Call Me Old" I had a brief panic attack. I remember my sister blasting "Like a Virgin" and "Into the Groove" from her room when I was younger, but never did I imagine that Madonna would still be making music at the age of 75 (or still be touring). While the song doesn't exactly sound like the Madonna I heard as a child, "Don't Call Me Old" is just such a jam that I can't get it out of my head. I have included Madonna's new single as the audio for the Richard Madison slide show. Again, if anyone sees a person that at all resembles the boy in the slide show, contact me immediately at 707-568-79583928392. Thanks again, and shake your booty to Madonna! She'd want that.
Monday, March 21, 2033
Friday, March 11, 2033
A trip to Los Angeles...
Friday morning, to my surprise, I was abruptly awakened by my close friend, Sandy. She towered over me as I shuffled in bed, holding what looked like to be two plane tickets.
"We're going to L.A. in two hours! Get up, Richard! Get up!"
As she mentioned the word L.A., I vomited a tad in my mouth. I had been to L.A. before, but it always ended with me sobbing and complaining about the heat, traffic, countless airheads, arrogant rich kids, and the air that looks like my Mother's kitchen after she burned the Thanksgiving turkey for the fifth year straight. Regardless, I accepted Sandy's offer, packed my bag full of every Hawaiian shirt I owned, and zipped off to the airport. The worst part about flying these days is definitely the mandatory manual internal inspection, or what they like to call, a body cavity search. After losing my self-esteem in the BC search room, we boarded the plane.
Upon arriving, all I could think was, "Does Richard live in L.A. now? Will I find him on my vacation with Sandy?" Unfortunately, I never spotted him while in L.A. The main reason why Sandy wanted to go L.A. was because she had called in reservations (about 6 months ago) to get a table at this club, the Slur House. When we arrived, we waited in line for around 4 hours, finally getting in as the sun went down. Sandy and I were led to our table and ordered drinks. In honor of Richard Madison, I got a tall glass of milk. I was immediately an outcast because of my choice of drink, since the main purpose at the club was to leave with wobbly legs and a slurred speech (that's their motto). Although Sandy was having a ball, I was miserable. With every gulp of milk that I drank, a feeling of worthlessness and heartache came over me. How am I supposed to keep going through life, knowing that my only true companion is out there somewhere. Once Sandy had a case of the sloppy legs and slurred speech, we headed back to the airport and flew back home. I believe the most time anyone should ever spend in L.A. consecutively should be in accordance with how arrogant and ill behaved they are. If you're a down right good soul, then NEVER, I repeat NEVER go to Los Angeles. However, if you’re the promiscuous, evil kind of person, L.A. is your calling.
Once I got back to my apartment, I immediately hit the sack. I will soon have more concerning Richard Madison and how exactly you readers out there can help me find him. Have a good week!
"We're going to L.A. in two hours! Get up, Richard! Get up!"
As she mentioned the word L.A., I vomited a tad in my mouth. I had been to L.A. before, but it always ended with me sobbing and complaining about the heat, traffic, countless airheads, arrogant rich kids, and the air that looks like my Mother's kitchen after she burned the Thanksgiving turkey for the fifth year straight. Regardless, I accepted Sandy's offer, packed my bag full of every Hawaiian shirt I owned, and zipped off to the airport. The worst part about flying these days is definitely the mandatory manual internal inspection, or what they like to call, a body cavity search. After losing my self-esteem in the BC search room, we boarded the plane.
Upon arriving, all I could think was, "Does Richard live in L.A. now? Will I find him on my vacation with Sandy?" Unfortunately, I never spotted him while in L.A. The main reason why Sandy wanted to go L.A. was because she had called in reservations (about 6 months ago) to get a table at this club, the Slur House. When we arrived, we waited in line for around 4 hours, finally getting in as the sun went down. Sandy and I were led to our table and ordered drinks. In honor of Richard Madison, I got a tall glass of milk. I was immediately an outcast because of my choice of drink, since the main purpose at the club was to leave with wobbly legs and a slurred speech (that's their motto). Although Sandy was having a ball, I was miserable. With every gulp of milk that I drank, a feeling of worthlessness and heartache came over me. How am I supposed to keep going through life, knowing that my only true companion is out there somewhere. Once Sandy had a case of the sloppy legs and slurred speech, we headed back to the airport and flew back home. I believe the most time anyone should ever spend in L.A. consecutively should be in accordance with how arrogant and ill behaved they are. If you're a down right good soul, then NEVER, I repeat NEVER go to Los Angeles. However, if you’re the promiscuous, evil kind of person, L.A. is your calling.
Once I got back to my apartment, I immediately hit the sack. I will soon have more concerning Richard Madison and how exactly you readers out there can help me find him. Have a good week!
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