This has to be one of the best walks in the world.
To the left and right the ocean pulses with life - waves, boats, people, and creatures. Ahead, couples stroll holding hands, children laugh and play.
The sun is bright, yet delicate in the morning hours of the day as it tickles your face.
The air is ripe with the smell of freshly deposited seaweed on the rocks, with a tinge of fishiness. A sublime combination.
You can't help but smile as a gull cackles in the distance. You can picture it throwing it's head back as it ends its laugh.
Voices of men are muffled in the background as they talk about what pole and line they are using and what their biggest catch has been.
The railing is smooth, yet encrusted with the salt that is ever present in the air. It leaves your hand feeling soiled, yet clean at the same time.
The simple life.
This is the jetty life.
As the water licked at its side, the boat continued to deteriorate, bit by bit.
The water was calm and serene and the boat just continued to rust. The paint was chipping off the slowly, revealing the metal below, ready to be turned red by the salt water. The rivets were starting to become loose. Their pressure had begun to release, allowing water to seep into the bottom of the boat ever so slightly. It needed to be emptied every couple of days.
It had seen a lot during its years. It had seen all the fish hauled over its side, the crabs collected in trolling traps, stains left from birds flying high overhead - even faded footprints from those who had ventured to sea in it.
It mostly sat tied to the dock, drifting as the tide passed it by everyday - rising and falling like an old pair of lungs - slow yet steady.
Many didn't use it anymore - for newer boats with engines were out skipping over the water, yet this boat hadn't been forgotten.
Every sunday, the new generation of the family came charging down the dock, hopping in, laughing and giggling, tied up in their life vests, clutching the sides with their tiny hands.
Even if they weren't as old as the boat, they still felt mature beyond their years, pretending they were captains out at sea, setting sail for an adventure.
Thursday, February 24, 2011
The summer had been quiet, quaint, sun-drenched, and delightful. But the clouds on the horizon bring with them ferocious winds that howls between the dunes, shake flagpoles, and whip sand with such force it makes you back away.
This is a storm that only happens once in a lifetime.
Fisherman know it is time to turn around - as boats begin pouring into the harbors and docks, being tied down as best they can.
Shops on the coast boarded their windows. Vacationers quickly left the scene, not wanting to be responsible for the damage caused by the storm. Even some year round residents quietly packed their cars and drove inland.
This was going to be a glorious storm. The kind where you couldn't really do anything but witness in awe - standing at the sliding glass door, watching the wall of black approach.
The sun is completely blotted out, but the lightning illuminates the sky, bright enough to burn your eyes. You jump every time the thunder rumbles, even though you know it is coming. You don't need to count after the lightning strike - you know where the storm is. Right over head. The roof of your house knows too, but is fooled just like you are, jumping and shuddering at every thunder clap.
Water pours down the windows in sheets. It's not like it's raining out, but like the windows are under water with a swift current passing over them. The rain pummels the roof. You don't hear droplets - it just sounds like your radio is turned on, full blast to nothing but static. It isn't annoying, it isn't numbing - it's hypnotizing.
The red dirt is seeping from the ground, unable to absorb anymore water. The tide is rising quickly, encroaching onto the beach.
You look to the street but you aren't quiet sure why. The town is dead. You know it is. No one is out - no cars pass by, not lights are on anywhere else. You know where everyone is - waiting, watching, feeling the storm as you are.
You can taste the ozone. It's pouring down outside - on the other side of your walls and windows, yet it seeps into every crack in your house, finally finding and invading your nose. You get drunk off it's thick, dank aroma.
It just won't end, as you stand at the window, attracted like a moth to a flame. You watch as the water continues to rise. You feel the house continue to shake. The air is becoming colder by the moment, raising the hairs on your body.
Nothing feels certain at this moment. You feel tiny. A speck. Insignificant to the elements obliterating the shoreline outside your house.
Yet at this very moment, you feel the safest you have ever been.
Wednesday, February 23, 2011
I know I'm about a year late on this - but I'm a sucker for this song.
It was our official "anthem" to my senior year spring break tennis training trip in college.
God I love it. Uplifting and powerful.
Everything was muffled. Everything was dark. He only knew what direction was up. He didn't know what was below or to his right and left. His ears were ringing in the back of his head - fair in the distance. The only noises he could make out was the blood pumping through his heart and the slow wheeze of air as it left his lungs.
Night dives had always scared him - the lack of visibility, the creatures that emerge - the darkness that encases you. Tonight it was worse.
He had reached 80 feet and began probing with his light. Hoping to catch something in it's rays. The wall of the reef, fish, coral, anything. To his alarm, the current was stronger than the dive master had said - it quickly tired him out and pulled him away from the wall of the reef - into the black of the open ocean. He was exhausted, breathing hard, beginning to panic.
That's when it got worse. Breaking a basic rule, he started swimming with his arms, in frantic sweeps, trying to find the wall and the rope that would guide him to the boat. Flailing in the dark, his light slipped off his wrist and floated away from him, up towards the surface.
He was in the abyss.
He stopped - he was blind and deaf. All that he heard was the echoing of his breathing in his chest and his heart thumping in his ears.
He breaths were becoming more erratic - scared and labored. His mouth was becoming more dry.
That's when it happened. It began getting harder to breathe. He had to draw the air from his tank.
He was out of oxygen.
Everything flashed before his eyes - his life, his family, his job, how stupid it was to dive alone at night, if his body would ever be found.
He sucked with all his might for his last breath, pulling everything he could from the depths of his tank and began his assent.
He was 80 feet down, with one breath, unable to rise faster than the bubbles he was releasing from his mouth to remain pressurized. That was the worst part - having to let out air in order to surface.
You were supposed to sing or hum - he whimpered. The wheezing of the air seeping from his lungs was all he could hear in the darkness.
He rose slowly, unaware of where he was - if he was close or when he'd run out of air. It wasn't long before his lungs began to scream at him. Burning. Churning. Quaking. He could see red speckles creeping into the corners of his eyes.
Then, a strange thing happened. As he continued to wheeze, his lungs began to feel more full. The higher he went, the lighter he felt. His lungs still burned, but less. As he rose, his lungs grew - the pressure on his body reduced - allowing for the air inside to expand.
His eyes had begun to tear. He looked up in desperation, hoping to see surface. All he could see was the glimmer of the bubble stream guiding him up.
His lungs felt like they were about to burst when his head broke through - within 50 feet of the dive boat.
The regulator fell out of his mouth and he gulped.
The surface had never tasted so sweet.
His parents had always told him it was a gift. When he was a baby, the spirits had sauntered from the floor of the ocean to bless him, touch him, give him guidance.
He had grown up in the mangroves, covered in sand and fragments of shells washed up on the shore. Oxygen was what his lungs needed, but water was his home. Many say he was lucky to have survived the flood during the year of his birth - that it was a simply luck that his crib had flipped and created a pocket of air while his house flooded. His parents found him, floating on his back, soaked, but alive. They knew it was the work of the spirits.
He was the provider for his family. He was a fisherman. The shorts he wore were his family's gift to him - they had saved for a year. Touched by their generosity, he had vowed he would provide for them, nourish them, take care of them.
The water was his home, the creatures their sustenance. He had never failed them. He would dive. He would catch fish. He would return to shore, hands full, ready to cook, sell, and provide for his family. It was a day to day process. No money was ever truly saved, but they survived - day by day.
After a recent series of storms - the fish had disappeared. Gone into hiding, shaken by the thunder, startled by the lightning. His family had grown hungry. He had grown hungry. Diving was no longer easy for him. Rather than his lungs clawing his insides for air, it was now his stomach for food. Hunger always beat the need for air.
They had provided him with so much. Given him so much. As he floated there on the surface, his lungs burned and his stomach seared - it was a struggle to even tread water. Thinking of his family, he took one final deep breath.
Below him he saw a flash of silver through the pillars of light breaking the surface above him - darting under some coral.
With a few elongated kicks, he descended.
He would not fail his family.
Friday, February 18, 2011
It was the kind of day that the sand was cold - but not cold enough to deter you from going barefoot. He didn't care if it was still March - the sand was that perfect texture. The wind had sucked the moisture from it and fluffed it as it swept across the the dunes - held together by the long, elderly roots of the grass which swayed on top.
The sand was the perfect consistency - the kind that if you were to run, your feet wouldn't stick, but would skid and slide, almost "squeak."
He may have been alone, but he was enjoying himself. Work had kept him from the beach for some time. Stuck in an office, looking over papers, faxes, answering phones. He was miserable - to the point where he learned to accept it - take it as part of his own life.
It wasn't until this weekend that he realized how much he missed the outdoors, when he got in his car for no reason, with no plan, and just drove - ending up at the shore.
He had expected some storm clouds, but none were in the sky as far as he could see. Light puffs were all the frequented the vibrant blue. No rain, no storms, not even any real wind - just the simple exhausted gust every now and then.
Without realizing it, he found himself looking in a tide pool that had collected a quarter of the way up the beach. He eyes scanned for movement - but he couldn't see anything.
He wasn't disappointed at the vacancy of the pool - but instead he smiled.
The memories of his summers on the shore had flooded his mind as he saw his reflection in the ripples of the water.
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
It took nearly a full year to build that boardwalk. Each nail was driven by hand - held between weather fingers. Fingers with cuts, bruises, rough patches of skin. Tan skin. They worked out in the sun all day - hoping for a passing cloud, praying for a coming storm.
Their shovels bore into the sand. It was never ending. Once they passed a couple feet, the sand began to cave in, becoming wet at the water line, turning to mush, filling itself in. A bottomless pit. The sand got heavier the deeper they went - more water to lug over the should - more effort to make progress. Each shovel deeper, the hole would fill twice and much.
Their breaks were short, worthless, barely useful. The boss would holler at them if they took too long, if they looked miserable. He wanted "strong bodied - abled men. Me who wanted to be there," he'd say. No one wanted to be there. They needed the money.
Driving wood into the earth was no one's priority. Hammering it together was not their pastime.
The tar stuck to everything. Their skin, their clothes, their hair. It smelled. It burned after sitting in the sun for too long.
All this work and 50 years later, the wood was splitting, rotting, covered in algae and moss. The boards creaked as people passed overhead - the legs shook as waves crashed into them.
Having not lasted long, their work seemed pointless.
Yet, it didn't matter to the two young children running between the beams, playing tag during low-tide.
The labor of those before them had become their playground.
She held her breath and dove. Dove for all she could. For all she was worth.
The water was her home, her peace, her sanctum. She was at ease there. Calm. Collected. When she was under, it was her world, her time, her energy.
It had been a rough week - the weather seeming to play off the emotion. As the days grew heavier and longer, the skies grew darker and thicker. As tempers flared, the lightning burned the sky and the thunder shook the atmosphere.
The coastline had become black. It rained almost everyday, the clouds hovering over the ocean, not far from the beach churned and pulsated, waiting for the right moment to erupt their fury on the island.
She had finally had enough. Had enough of home, of people, of him. She grabbed her board and ran towards the waves that were eating away at the beach, taking large swaths of sand back into the deep with every crash.
They chased after her, screaming for her not to go in. It was too dangerous. Too dark. Too unpredictable.
The moment she entered the water, the clouds knew it was their time. They surged toward the coast, riding a cold sweep of air, erupting as they charged - throwing down rain that pounded the waves below. When she looked up she had to squint. Sitting on her board, she had to stop and take a deep breath.
The waves were becoming larger and she was becoming increasingly smaller.
She held her breath and dove. Dove for all she could. For all she was worth.
Below it was silent. The water swirled around her, the bubbles from the waves above teased at her hair. The rain no longer sounded like the heavens falling, but a steady drum roll on a snare drum.
She was at peace, in her world.
Her lungs burned as she stayed below. She didn't want to surface.
I was simply born a boy. A man now I guess if you want to be politically correct - but, I still feel like a boy. Young at heart, playful, still somewhat immature and often times extremely shy.
What does being a boy mean exactly? Well, to be stereotypical, it means we do "boy things." I know, how can I describe what being a boy means by saying we do "boy stuff?" Well, give me some time and I'll see what I can chalk up for you.
I think at the base level, the foundation of the whole discussion is that we like doing not very smart things.
To put it bluntly - boys like doing stupid shit.
Have I done my fair share? Of course I have. Don't believe me? Well...let's see.
There was this time in high school that my friend had inherited some potassium permanganate from his brother (which he had bought via ebay). PP as I'll call it is extremely flammable - burning as hot as magnesium (5000+ degrees). But...it isn't that easy to light. To light it takes a while, unless you use a chemical reaction. Something in suppositories causes the PP to ignite immediately, but, being in high school we didn't have any, nor did we have the cojones to go and buy some. So, we used gas. In the middle of the woods. In the heart of autumn. Not our brightest idea. We placed the PP (which is a powder) in a soda can and soaked it in gasoline and lit it. We waited, and waited, and waited and nothing happened. My friend wanted to add more gas, so he did...by pouring it on top of the open flame. Before we could yell "nooooo" the fire had travelled up the stream and into the gas can - at which point my friend threw it, spiraling, shooting flames everywhere. It being the middle of autumn, all the leaves on the ground were perfect tinder. For the next 15 minutes, the three of us were running around, stomping and peeing on whatever we could. That, in short hand, is how I almost burned down North Adams.
Still not good enough?
Well, have you ever almost killed a kayaker by filling a two liter bottle of dry ice and rocks, hoping to sink it so when it burst a giant white bubble would erupt out of the water? I did. The damn bottle didn't sink - it just kept bobbing on the surface until the kayaker was within ten feet of it. Of course, then it exploded, shooting shrapnel everywhere. No, the man in the tiny plastic boat was not happy.
See where I'm going with all this?
Have I launched water balloons at houses in the middle of the night with a giant sling shot? You bet your ass I have. Was it fun? Yup. Was it hysterical when we'd let go and listen for the loud "thud" letting us know when we had hit our target? Mhm. Did we feel bad the one time we launched a balloon and we heard glass break? No not really. Did we feel bad when the lights in the house came on and the sky light was punched out? Maybe a little...
Was it ever in my best interest to agree to eat ludacris wings at the Chicken or the Egg? Absolutely not. Why would I put myself through that? To be totally honest, I'm not really sure. These wings are by far the hottest things I have ever eaten. And I enjoy hot - at a level beyond most people. Things wings are certainly edible, but it's the after effects that are the worst. You can eat these wings, down a cup of milk, eat some break, have a chocolate milkshake, and you'll be fine. The true horror comes about 20 minutes later - conveniently when you're on the drive home. Your body hits the purge button - from the bottom. And unfortunately this isn't the kind of purge you can hold in and control. You better hope you get home quick and hit no bumps - otherwise you're going to have a problem on your hands.
Did we almost kill ourselves every weekend we went camping on boy scouts? Of course. It was always a toss up, whether it be knocking over giant dead trees and almost being hit, lighting things on fire, trying to make explosives, or going sledding on not to safe slopes/cliffs. Exhilarating? Yes. Dangerous? Yes. But always fun.
My brother and I love fireworks. We shoot them whenever we can - which boils down to buying them whenever we can. Sometimes that means going to NH to get them, or relying on our uncle to somehow "acquire" them in NYC. Have I almost hit myself with one (a roman candle)? Sure have. Have we ever shot them over houses in a residential area? Duh. But, we're smart when we do it. As smart as two mischievous brothers can be.
So, is there a point to all of this? Of course there is. Boys are dumb. In the sense that we get a rush from doing stupid stuff. Every guy loves it to some level.
But...
I would never do something this fucking dumb (as awesomely epic as it is)
These are the kinds of idiots that make myself and my adventures look bad.
Friday, February 11, 2011
(Yes, this is a real photo. It's a technique called High Dynamic Range)
There were footprints surrounding her eyes. Age has begun to creep into her life, allowing for crows to reside under her pupils. They weren’t the bad kind of wrinkles, but the kind that smile at you. They were warm, inviting, and experienced. Life had not been simple for her, yet she didn’t allow for it to seep into her personality. She came to a land where she was unaware of how to live, how to speak, how to breathe. The green pastures and hills of her home disappeared and were replaced with large towering skyscrapers, staring down at her tiny little body. The colors were drab. Barren. Monotone. She had wondered for years in her hand-knit little dresses, clutching onto her mother or father’s hand, trying to stay afloat in the surges of people rushing through the streets. It helped that many people spoke her language, but their accents might have well been a different language to her. She didn’t know her new home. She didn’t know where Harlem was, or Broadway, of Brooklyn. Her house was tiny and cramped. The air was stuffy, the little window in the corner of the room barley let any light in, and the room itself barely fit her parents and herself, let alone the other family they shared the space with. As she grew, she adapted. She learned. She survived. The city quickly became her new home. She learned how to look at it for what it was. It wasn’t just a place, but a living, breathing thing. The chatter of those wondering the streets below was her home trying to speak to her. The hiss and rush of air from the vents in the sidewalks was its breath.The cold marble exterior of its buildings was its skin. As cold as the surfaces were, it was there for the touch. It didn’t hide from her. It was there for her, when she needed it. When she was old enough and the time came, she could not drag herself from her home. She had become enthralled and entrapped by the concrete and crowds. Her life continued in the avenues and streets. Her orange hair grew long and wavy, soon attracting the attention of many men. She felt like she was cheating on her city when she selected her husband from its crowd. She was always dedicated to her home, now she was focusing on someone else. A family grew, rooted under the asphalt they walked upon every day. Their children embraced the city, their home, growing as she did. Looking into her eyes now, the wrinkles surrounding them her avenues, leading you to her eye, her soul, her inner city.
Now, I don't know if he is any good during games (I'm assuming not), but the following quarterback is very impresses when it comes to trick "passes."
Why do I hate on UConn's QB? Even if I love their basketball and tennis teams? Well, just because he is good with plenty of time to fart around with a football, I would assume his "on field" mechanics and decisions during a game are rather poor.
Let's be honest - if he were better, he'd be at a school known for football. Not at UConn.
Anywho - the kid's clearly got skills and he's very enjoyable to watch.
Ok, I know I said I'd get back to writing...cut me some slack. I have, a lot in two days compared to my usual "one and done" method of stories on this blog. But, I saw something that is going to change the game. Change the world. Change people's lives.
It's jaw dropping. It's inspiring. It's amazing. It's a miracle.
Hell, it's science. I just wish we had it sooner!
**Warning: Graphic Content** (But I promise it is worth it)
As he waddled down the road, he missed his mom. Of course he did. He had been in school for a while, but it was still short enough that everyday around 10:30am, he missed home. It never really occurred to him on the way to school that in a few hours he would be miserable.
Instead, he would usually count his steps. Or listen to his neighbors as he walked softly past their homes. Sometimes, he'd stop and try to catch the occasional bug or persuade one of the local alley cats to come over to him for a scratch. He had thoughts of stopping to see what his mother had packed him, but he always managed to suppress them. As good as pudding would be for breakfast, he knew he would just be sad later in the day when he would finish his bologna and cheese sandwich to find he had no dessert.
He was happy today and he had decided he wasn't going to get sad. No. Not possible. Not today. No way.
A). It was grilled PB & J with bananas day. His mom would sneak it as his lunch sometimes, knowing it was his favorite - but today, he smelled it seeping through the creases in his lunch bag.
B). It was a bright and sunny day. Recess would be outside! He and his friends had promised (pinky promised) to play tag on the next sunny day. No one in his class could out run him, although he would occasionally slow down so he could have the pleasure of chasing people.
C). It was Friday! Not only was it the weekend tomorrow, but it was the guessing jar today! His teacher always had a new jar filled with candy every week and on fridays, everyone in class would get to guess how many pieces were in it. The student with the closest guess would win it. He studied all week. Counting every visible candy when he had a free moment in class. This weeks prize was pretzel M&Ms and he had counted 174 of them.
He got a sudden itch in his nose as he was walking and as most young boys do, he put a finger in his nostril and spun it around.
It relieved the itch, but he felt something up there. Digging a bit deeper, he eventually pulled his hand out, with a trophy on the end. It was a big one.
He stared at it and giggle. He never understood why people always told him he was "digging for gold." It didn't look anything like good. It wasn't even yellow. It was more green than anything. His friends were such dumbies.
He continued walking, rubbing his hand and prize on a towel hanging off a clothes-line on the side of the street.
It was a special spot. One day, they had sat there, happy in the moment, drunk off each other's company. They giggled, they smiled, they looked at each other with something else.
It may be in the past, but something will call them back to that spot. Maybe at different times, maybe together - it's not certain, but they will surely return.
It was a memory that hopefully will not be forgotten - under that large willow tree during the end of summer, as it burned off brightly during the nights, fading into the vivid reds and oranges of autumn.
It was a single moment in time - something they will share forever.
It was a sublime moment - two perfect people, sharing an evening together, reunited after some time apart.
The water lapped at their feet as they sat together and looked out over the lake.
The smoke drifted up from the smoldering grass, into his nostrils and deep into his lungs. It burned. It wasn't hot. It wasn't even warm.
The air held a dirty haze - burnt and contaminated. The snow on the ground, still around after the blasts radiated a stone-ground mustard hue. This wasn't the cause of fire. It was the cause of gas.
It was hard for him to see, as he lazily trudged forward, eyes squinted, arm held above his face, trying to block the light from his tender pupils. His ears were ringing, blood oozing out of the right. His gas mask had been blown off during the initial blast, leaving him vulnerable.
Around him, men lay strewn amongst the stumps and twisted fences. Arms and legs stuck out of the dirt like devilish signs, pointing the way to more casualties.
The trenches were still caked in mud - the bottom being as deep as 4 feet. Who know what was below the dark surface, suspended in the goo.
His lungs burned for oxygen. Clean air. The mustard gas was seeping into his system, taking control.
Some people have talent. I believe I do with images and words. People are either born with talent or they build it. I don't think I was born with it, but acquired it over the years.
I am always amazed though when I see someone with immense talent - regardless of what it is. Knitting, painting, singing, swimming. If you are talented in something, I will give you credit. I may be jealous, but I'll certainly be the first to acknowledge your ability and skill.
This man's talent is indescribable. What's he do? Mold and shape glass. Eyes, to be specific. To be honest, I didn't even know people still used glass eyes - apparently they do and this man is one of the only, if not thee only person on the planet who still makes glass eyes by hand.
How do you learn a craft like this? I have no idea, but its amazing. Until this video, I literally had no idea how glass eyes were made. Call me niave, but I figured some machine in a factory was cranking them out. His artistry is breathtaking. What first started as sand, really does look like eyes, right down to the details in the cornea and pupils.
It's also wonderful to see this man not give up on what he is passionate for and continue on with the tradition that seems to have been passed down through his family.
I know who I'm going to if I ever have an accident...
I don't know why they would have released this video a week earlier, since it is a Super Bowl commercial, but whatever, it's pretty awesome none-the-less.
I'm also showing it to you since people will be talking about it a lot this week/weekend, so enjoy it now, before it has been widely seen!
He took one final breath and he neared the edge and leapt high and far into the air. Hopefully he'd make it to his target. Better yet, he hoped he passed hist target.
Of course he had done this a couple times, but this time, he wanted to show his friends how tough he actually was. He chose the highest point and made his way up there, wondering if it was the smartest of ideas on his climb.
Nope, it wasn't, but at least it was going to be fun.
He had justified wearing shoes just in case the water really was that hard. His friend sat below, waiting for him to scale his goal.
It took him a moment at the top, not only to catch his breath, but also to steady his nerves. As he looked over the edge, all he could think about was that scene in Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Not exactly the image needed at that particular moment.
He sucked it up, took one final breath and he sprinted towards the edge, leaping as far and high as he could.
Looking down was his first mistake, "Fuck, this is a lot higher than 35 feet..."
It was a weird feeling in the air, falling, arms flailing. Time seemed to go by super fast, with everything around him moving in slow motion.
He didn't even feel the water as the bubbles exploded around him.
Damn - wouldn't it be awesome to have super powers? Seriously, stop and think about it.
Everyone knows my loves of Spider Man, the 50+ actions figures (they're not fucking dolls), the stacks of comics, books full of trading cards, the spandex costume. Hell, if I could be anyone, it'd be him (fantasy speaking of course, otherwise I'd b Grohl, but that's another story).
But, what if you had a power. One singular, little power - what would yours be?
Would you conform? Would you want to fly? Become invisible? Have stretchy arms, be able to burst into flames, read peoples' minds?
I mean, realistically any power is possible, especially if you leave it up to your imagination. I thought about it today at work and I think I figured out the power I would want. Now, I know it's a little out on left field, but work with me, I think you'll eventually warm up to it...
If I could choose one power and only one, well, I would want to have the ability to turn my pee into gasoline.
Yeah, you read that right. You're eyes haven't deceived you, I said it, and I know it sounds weird as shit - simply because it is.
I won't defend it. Well, ok, maybe I will.
Think about it - endless gas! No more $3.44 a gallon. No more wallet pains as you fill up your tank. Go home, chug some water, wait....BOOM instant gas. I guess not exactly instant, but pretty quick I should say. You could even monopolize it - make some dough on the side. Drinking water costs $0.00 but you could sell it for even $2 a gallon and you'd still be making bank. Would it require you to drink a lot of water...well yeah, but that's besides the point.
For all you hippies out there too - guess what? It's extremely sustainable! Yay for trees.
If you felt ambitious enough, you could attempt to fight crime. And I said attempt since I think if you tried to pee on a bank robber than light it - there is a good chance you'd be shot by the time you shook, zipped up, and struck the match. I'm just playing the odds though. Maybe you'd be fast enough. Who knows.
What if you don't want to use your powers for good? Hell, become a super villain! It would depend n the size of your bladder, but corner the oil/gasoline market! Undersell them out of business! Muhahahahahahahahahahahahahahah (evil laugh).
To be honest, when it comes to super powers, I'm not picky. I'd take just about anything. One power I wouldn't want to have though? Super strength. People would always be asking for you to help them pick stuff up. That's got to be why the Hulk is always so pissed off all the time - everyone just asks him to help them move.
