New Solo Project

I've been working on some new songs the past two weeks. No lyrics, just music. It's been my main form of distraction from the actual work I've needed to get done. The tone of these fragmented songs definitely points to the opposite side of seriousness. Which means when (if) I write words for them, they'll likely be goofy. Working title for the project: Sexual Daydream. Name of the first EP: Too Hard to Stand.

Shit

The "Shit My Dad Says" twitter account is reportedly going to be developed into a TV show. Is this a good thing? Had a premium network picked it up--say HBO or Showtime; hell, even a cable network like FX or AMC--I'd say this is definitely a good thing. But CBS has purchased the rights to the pilot. Which means no profanity. I guess it could be mildly funny without swearing, but isn't that one of the reasons it's so funny?

For those of you who haven't read this account, I highly suggest you click on the link provided above and read through; it'll definitely be worth your time. The twitter account was started this summer by a 28 year-old guy named Justin. Unemployed, he moved back home with his parents and began writing down everything his 73 year-old dad says. Hence the title.

The great thing about this account is that the Justin totally digs his dad, which evident by the minimal context provided in the bio section and the basic fact that he decided to share these quotes with world of Twitter. Dialog is suppose to convey character, and that's exactly what this account does: it paints a picture of who Justin's dad is. Cynical, hilarious, a curmudgeon, but always, always brutally honest. And I wonder if the honesty, the true essence of this 73 year-old's character, will get lost in translation when CBS suppresses the use of certain language. It seems like the potential for his character to come across as being too much like Archie Bunker or Frank Barone is quite high. If that turns out to be the case, will the show succeed in terms of hilarity and originality. And if not, will it be worth our time?

Sweetness

July 25, 1954 - November 1, 1999

My parents took me to get new gym shoes one summer--some small place in downtown Wheaton, might not be there anymore. They probably had a wide selection, and it most likely would've seemed overwhelming to a kid. Different designs, color patterns, shapes, soles, all mounted to the wall in tidy rows on clear shelves the size of a single shoe. But in the Chicagoland area in the mid to late eighties, there were only two options for boys' gym shoes: Nike Air Jordans or Kangaroos. And when the salesman presented me with each pair--the Nike's red with black trim, the Kangaroos white with a zippered pocked on the side--he said, "Who do you want to be: Michael Jordan or Walter Payton? I studied both pairs and noticed my dad behind the salesman, pointing at the Kangaroos. When I looked up, my dad's eyebrows were raised, his mouth open in this exaggerated show of excitement, his head bouncing like a spring had burst in his neck.

I knew who Walter Payton was, knew that when my dad and his friends watched him school the opposition they barked like dobermans and high-fived each other. I had seen the posters, the jerseys, and I had watched him play. But I had never considered whether or not I wanted to be like him until that day. And when I thought about it, I realized I did want to be like him. So I pointed to the Kangaroos, tried them on, and after my parents paid for them, I charged out of the shoe store like a halfback running a draw play up the middle.

Since I wasn't a very athletic kid--there was the asthma, the apathy, and I was constantly anticipating a spell of malaise--I didn't bother going outside to emulate Walter Payton. (Watch me run sometime, and you'll understand: physical activity and me mix as well as green olives and rainbow sherbet.) I didn't have the speed, the power, the strength, or the agility. But what I did have was an exceptionally twisted imagination. So I'd put on my Roos and charge the stairs just like I had seen Payton taking a hill in a poster. Occasionally I'd make my dog sit in front of my bed, and I'd leap over her like Payton trying to score on a goal-line stance. Most of the time, though, Hershie would get startled and bolt before I broke the plane. If I was downstairs in the family room, I'd barrel into the loveseat, bouncing off the back cushions like it was a d-line clogging up the running gaps. Then I'd spin away and sprint behind the couch. Touchdown! I didn't have a football at this point, and even if I did, I wouldn't have been able to spike it inside. So I'd use a cat toy or a Nerf ball that went to my indoor basketball hoop. Or I didn't have any object that could be a make-shift football, I'd just continue pretending and spike the air.

Before he died, Walter Payton held a press conference revealing he had a rare form of liver disease. He sat next to his son, crying and pleading for his fans to keep him in our prayers. Seeing him break down like that was difficult, to say the least. I saw the footage and felt the urge to cry along with him. He was always this punisher, knocking down defenders, shoving a hand in their faces. He wasn't human; he was like Superman. Guys like that weren't suppose to cry. It didn't seem natural. In the face of pressure, it seemed like Walter Payton always found a way to succeed. It wasn't until the day he died--ten years ago, today--that I entertained that urge I felt during his press conference.

On Sundays when I'm watching football and there's a commercial, I'll spring from the futon, side-step the camping chair, burst down the hall into my room, and dive into my bed to finish off the run. I'm no Walter Payton, and I'd never claim to be. But I still can't keep myself from pretending sometimes.

"Phone Call to My Mother"

The following was a writing exercise that Roger gave to the fiction workshop. The guidelines: all dialog, no stage direction or exposition of any kind, less than 400 words. I had fun writing it, but I'm not sure if I can use it for any of my stories--it doesn't really fit with anything I have. Writing something around this conversation seems destined to fail, and it doesn't stand on its own in terms of weight/significance. So I figured I'd post it here. Why not.

"Jacqueline, I’m kind of busy. Can I call you back?"

"Where are you, Mom?

"I’m at Kohl’s Super Saturday Sale. These people are vultures."

"I was in an accident."

"Great, what happened?"

"Don’t sound too concerned."

"Well, it’s very hectic here. If I don’t stay focused I’ll miss out on the best deals."

"I can tell you need to go."

"Don’t be ridiculous. Give me the story."

"I went to White Hen to pick up milk—"

"Which one did you go to?"

"What?"

"Which White Hen did you go to?"

"The one on Ogden, near my apartment. Why does it matter?"

"Oh, that one’s no good. You should go to the one on Roosevelt."

"But that’s way out of my way."

"Yeah, well the milk is cheaper there."

"Can I finish?"

"I’m just saying."

"Anyway, I was making a left onto Ogden when I got sideswiped by a Honda."

"You should have gone through the lot and went to the light. You could have avoided the whole mess, Jacqueline."

"I’ll try to remember that next time."

"Did you remember to get the milk out of your car?"

"You know, I am okay. Just in case you might be worried."

"Of course you’re okay. Otherwise you wouldn’t be taking such a tone with me. Now, did you or didn’t you remember to get the milk out after your accident?"

"No, Mother. I have not done that yet."

"Make sure you do. And soon, too. It’ll sour the car, and you’ll never be able to get that smell out."

"You’re unbelievable, you know that?"

"Why, thank you, dear. Do you want me to stop by later on?"

"Don’t bother."

"Hello? Jackie? Hel-lo."

Washing one's hands afterward does not necessarily entail that either party has reneged on his or her commitment to the other person

Here's my definition of what true love is:

A straight-faced, remark-free willingness to pop each other's unreachable zits.

Semi-Live Nude Books

I've been hardcore neglecting the book blog. Not on purpose, though. I'm feeling overwhelmed by all of my obligations: thesis, fiction workshop, teaching, Blue Earth Review, freelancing, job search. None of these items are getting the attention they deserve. Hopefully, I'm not spread too thin, resulting in poorly produced work. That very well could be the outcome on any or all of my obligations. But right now, the first victim seems to be the book blog.

I haven't updated it in a month and a half. The latest book review should have been written back in late August, since that's when I finished reading the book. But that hasn't been the case. Not just because of time concerns, but because I'm having a hard time thinking of good things to say about the book. It's not horrible. But it's not that great, either. The point of the blog is to promote books and spread the word about them. I'm not sure how to do that with this one. Every time I sit down to write the review, all I think about are the book's weaknesses.

When I started that blog, I worried that something like this would happen. That I'd read a book I wasn't into, but would have to write about it because I would have already announced it. The first few books I reviewed were ones where I was either already familiar with the author's writing, or I had already read the book before committing to review it. I'd like to say that once I sit down and force myself to write this review, I'll be able to move on and the blog will move much more efficiently. But I can't, considering my latest shameful secret: I haven't been reading on any sort of regular basis in the past month.

Workshop manuscripts and freshman comp papers have been my main reading material for the past month. And Esquire keeps me company when I'm on the throne. But I haven't been reading any stories, essays, novels, or poems. This must change. I'm well aware of how bad I've been. This week, I screw my head back on and get to work. I've gotten some review queries from authors--which means free books--and if I want that to continue, I can't neglect this thing anymore.

Singled-Out

My mom is on the Facebook, which I find both hilarious and frightening. I can only imagine the weird shit she'll say on her status updates. (Oh, shoot! My latest batch of potato salad didn't turn out too well.) Or her responses to mine. (What does boner-kill mean?)

It's super weird signing in to Facebook and seeing my mom's sole update under the Highlights column on the left-hand side of the screen. "Irene DeWolf is single." That's the sort of announcement that says, "I'm on the prowl." The thought of my mom using Facebook--the one social networking site I'm on--to pick up dudes doesn't sit right with me. There are a ton of creeps on this site. Case in point: me.

At the beginning of this semester, I looked up everyone from my English 101 roster on Facebook. I wanted to know what to expect: are there any bad seeds in my class? do any of these kids like music that doesn't suck? am I going to laugh at any of them because of the way they look? These are good things to know beforehand. How's it going to look if the slack-jawed, crossed-eye chick walks into my class on the first day, and I start pointing and cackling at her? Pretty fucking awkward. It's called desensitizing. You stare at the little freak's picture until her appearance no longer makes you laugh.

On a side note: It amazes me how many people don't privatize their FB accounts. Are they aware that creeps like me are on the internet in swarms? Guess not.

My point is that I'm not cool with my mom advertising her relationship status on Facebook. There are plenty of dating sites out there that I imagine weed out the creeps more effectively. Or, at least, those sites give the illusion that they're creep-free. I fear the day when my mom's relationship status changes to "in a relationship," only to find a profile picture of her with some dude sporting a porn-stache and a skullet.

Compromise

I don't understand the appeal of Craig Ferguson. He's never made me laugh--not on the Drew Carey Show and definitely not on his late late show. His talk show monologues are super cheesy, filled with hand puppets and jokes that grade-schoolers would roll their eyes at. I just want to hit the mute button during his interviews; they seem to go nowhere, and he's constantly redirecting the questions toward himself.

I do, however, understand the appeal of Sophia Bush. When she makes an appearance on Ferguson's show, I'm willing to put aside my hostility and watch in awe.

DeWolf Terrier

Sometimes I wonder what's stopping me from acting on impulses at inappropriate times. Case in point: anytime a poet reads at Good Thunder, I feel the urge to bark. Not like a doberman or a lab. No. When the poets read, I want to yelp like a terrier. Or any of those small, yappity little shits that obviously have anxiety issues.

After the readings, I have an idea as to why I didn't bark during the event. There's the whole social decency aspect, and the fear of being yelled at by some faculty member I don't know. But while the reading's taking place, I think, "What's stopping me from letting out a harmless little bark?"

Absolutely nothing. And don't think I haven't come close, either. Holy shit. During Beth Ann Fennelly, I almost cracked. When Bob Hicok read, I looked around and thought, "I am actually about to do this." And when Li-Young Lee was here, well, that time I almost burst into flames. But there may have been other forces at work that time.

I've never barked during a Good Thunder reading. What I find to be odd is the fact that this impulse only occurs when the reader is a poet. Though, in a similar sense, I always wanted to yell in church when I was a kid. Mainly during the congregational prayer. That would have been amazing.

Anyway, I believe the reason I want to bark during the poets' readings has to do with their deliveries. It's nothing against the poets or their work. But let's face it: many poets have that fluttery, deliberate way of reading. Not all poets, but a whole hell of a lot of them do this. You know exactly where their line breaks occur, and the end result is a boatload of downtime.

Downtime makes me antsy. Nervous. Jittery. Anxious.

ARF!

Shut In

My neighbors from across the street are watching me; they have been all summer. Every time I look outside at night, I see a red dot in their second-story window. It's a video camera, I'm convinced. I've pretended to go on late night walks just to get different angles on the red dot. It's definitely coming from some sort of dark box that's propped up on a tripod. At least, that's what I've pieced together from my recon missions. I'm guessing there's a bench or night stand on the other side of that window, since the tripod is small and needs the help of a table in order for the camera to overlook the window sill.

That damn camera's on all night, too. I've never seen a cord, so it must get some charge out of the battery. If I wasn't so worried about the reason why my neighbors are videotaping me, I'd ask them what kind of camera it is and how long the battery lasts. I could use a video camera. I've got ideas. Ideas that could find their way onto YouTube. And then...I guess that's it.

They're videotaping me in case they pick up footage that proves I'm breaking my lease. They're doing this because I'm assuming they're friends with my landlord. I recently found out that my landlord has been taken to court eight times by previous tenants. My former downstairs neighbors were the last to do it, and they won their case. Now, my landlord is pissed. He wants to get back at all of the assholes that have wronged him through misdirected voyeurism. And I'm his victim. I've been sued by a landlord before, but that jackass didn't count on the fact that one of my roommates happened to be the son of a district court judge. We ended up settling, but ever since I've become increasingly defensive and paranoid when it comes to renting.

Tonight, I don't see a red light from my window. So I go outside. It's damn cold out there right now, even for October. The clouds look like ice sheets drifting over the moon, and the wind reminds me that my wool coat won't be enough tomorrow. Get ready for the winter cold, for closed windows, and drawn shades. My neighbors blinds are down. They have no need to watch me in winter. Apparently, this is the time of year they think I don't do anything too exciting. They might be right.

Private Parts

I'm not sure how many people even look at this anymore. There really hasn't been a reason to, of late; it's just Youtube videos. But I will start writing on here again. And soon. Also, this bitch is going private. So if you'd like access, please shoot me an email (jirkface@hotmail.com) so I can add you to the list. I think I just need your email address, the one that you use when browsing or commenting on blogger. I'll be closing the doors to the general public by the end of the weekend.

RIP, Les Paul

6/9/1915 - 8/13/2009

Who knew...

...Kermit the Frog was so sad.

Summer Writing Playlist

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Summer Writing Playlist

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Summer Writing Playlist

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40-year-old baby

My sister, Lara, posted this on Facebook; I felt the need to repost it here. In the caption, she wrote that I looked like I was telling the photographer a joke. I agree, though I'd like to add that I look like I'm the only one who thought the joke was funny--like the raised eyebrows and forward leaning would eventually cause the photog to crack. Val seems unfazed and, beneath the surface, I'm sure she was a little embarrassed. I also look a bit surly. Wow, times have not changed. Enjoy.

No doubt about it: Catch of the Year.

Congratulations, Mark Buehrle, on your perfect game. What an outing. Chalk up the assist to Dewayne Wise.

***NOTE: The above video was disseminated without the expressed written consent of major league baseball or CSN. YouTube (or MLB, CSN, the White Sox, or all four) then disseminated all over its viewers by removing the video. Follow this link to see the catch on ESPN's YouTube channel (they don't allow embedding, which makes zero sense).

Summer Writing Playlist

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Summer Writing Playlist

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Getting back in the groove.

The wait will soon be over

Black Gives Way to Blue, the new album by Alice in Chains, hits shelves on September 20th. Which is also the date of their Eagle's Ballroom show in Milwaukee. I'm flipping out!

This is the first single off the album, "A Looking in View." If you go to the Alice in Chains website (link provided above) and sign up for the mailing list, they'll send you a free download of the song. I've flipped out!

I think I hurt my neck.

Summer Writing Playlist

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Yesterday, I heard this song at the Sugar Room--first time in a long time. It's one of the seven best that appear on Neil's greatest album, Everybody Knows This is Nowhere. If you don't own the album, go out and buy it.

I'm pretty sure this isn't sound advice

R.I.P. Billy Mays

1958-2009

Steve Almond

Read why he's okay with being called a slut here.

Summer Writing Playlist

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Language Rant: read at your own risk

I worked with this woman at WaMu who swore like a character in a Kevin Smith movie. Fuck this, cunt that, shitty shitty bang bang. Anna was all about expressing her feelings in a clear, direct manner. There was plenty to be frustrated, upset, and angry about where we worked. So-called "vulgar" language helped air those feelings in a nonviolent manner. I felt comfortable swearing because I knew she wouldn't mind. At the time, I was a Loan Coordinator for the Home Equity Lending division of Washington Mutual. Which means I was a middleman between the Loan Originator (Mortgage Salesman) and the Underwriter (Loan Decision Maker). And being the middleman, the blame was directed my way nine times out of ten.

One time I was working weekend overtime to help wipe out the overflow of volume in our queue. I got a loan where the Originator fudged the numbers on the application so badly I had to collect the borrowers' corporate tax returns from the past two years and figure out how much they were actually making. It took me six hours to organize and calculate everything in order to process the loan, killing my production on a day meant to catch up. Toward the end of this overtime shift, the Originator (also working on the weekend) called me and demanded to know why I hadn't gotten this loan approved yet. I got defensive and raised my voice, "explaining" how badly they had messed up, which caused the delay in decisioning the loan. (This incident would later result in my involuntary enrollment in Customer Service Sensitivity Training.) After I hung up, I buried my face in my hands, and Anna appeared over the wall of my cubicle. I looked up, and in a defeated tone, I said, "Goddammit."

She immediately winced, as if I slammed a baby's head against my desk. She waved her hands in front of her face and said, "Please don't say that. I just can't handle those words." I had just spent six hours fixing someone else's mistake and then got yelled at by the perpetrator of that mistake because it was taking so long to remedy the problem. Now I get chastised by the foul-mouth queen for expressing my displeasure? I wanted to tell Anna she was being ridiculous. I wanted to use every curse word in the book to do it, too. Then I wanted to make up new swears that were so vile, she'd beg me to use Goddammit exclusively in the future. Instead I shook my head, packed up, and left for what remained of the weekend.

I know that words have destructive power. And in the case of Goddammit, I understand the religious implications and how people of faith might cringe when I take the Lord's name in vain. But they are just words. Words made up by humans. (Sorry, Believers. But if you try to sell me on the idea that God invented language, I'm going play the skeptical card.) What if I don't believe in God and I take his name in vain? If you hear me say it, how does it effect you? I don't ever remember seeing the Commandment, Thou shalt not hear a curse word. Nor can I locate the Bible verse about hearing a curse word casts you into the depths of Hell. My point is this: people need to lighten up when it comes to cursing. When I went to Toronto on a church Serve Project, the Canadians (kids and adults) used the word shit almost as often as they used definite articles. When someone used the word crap, the Canadians went crazy. They consider crap a swear, but not shit. On the BBC, they say fuck and cunt without batting an eye. Here, that would cost a network $500K. I'm not saying we should teach swears or encourage their use. But people do use this language, and sometimes it's included in art in order to mimic reality.

Case in point: some overprotective parents in Antioch, IL tried to get Sherman Alexie's award winning book, The Absolutely True Diary of a Part-Time Indian, banned at the high school due to its use of foul language. I don't know if this in an attempt to shelter their kids, or what, but have these parents never been to a public high school? Do they not know how excessively kids swear in these places? This book isn't teaching kids anything new in terms of swearing. I can guarantee it. One woman stated that she's not trying to censor the book; however, she blacked out parts of her son's copy because she didn't want him reading it. Isn't that censorship?

I really think you should read the article (linked in the previous paragraph). The chairman of the English Department, John Whitehurst, makes a much better (and more concise) argument. For instance, that same woman makes a logical fallacy when she says "if [profanity] is part of the curriculum, the students will believe the school condones [swearing]." To which Whitehurst replies, "That is like saying because Romeo and Juliet committed teen suicide, we condone teen suicide."

We apply additional meaning to certain words through tone and context, giving them power to hurt, anger, tear down, etc. When used appropriately, yes, a curse word can hurt. When used frivolously, it's puking up nonsense. But I think kids are smart enough to know the difference. I don't think that foul language is to blame from the dumbing down of our society. When people say I sound less educated when I swear, it sounds like an excuse for their own social hang-ups. Plus, I can string together several non-offensive words to make a statement much more offensive than a swear. What's more offensive: "Fuck you," or "Get on your knees, and I'll give you something to choke on"? None of the words in the second phrase are offensive when looked at individually; however, the phrase can be seen as offensive, demeaning, emasculating, among others. Are some words more powerful alone than when used in a sentence?

In light of President Obama's Tonight Show faux pas, the Special Olympics vowed to gain pledges and set a day of awareness for people to stop using the word retard. You can read about it here. The ad campaign they ran included a poster with a list of racially offensive words with the vowels removed, followed by the word retard and the caption, "Therein lies the problem." Their point is that since this word is just as hateful as the other ones, why isn't it as taboo to use it. In the same context, Hillary Duff stars in a commercial pertaining to the use of the word gay. In it two girls are trying on clothes and one comments on the other by calling the outfit gay. Duff says you shouldn't say gay when you mean bad.

In both of these campaigns, I believe the message is good. Think before you speak, chose your words carefully, don't apply one word to another word's meaning--I'm on board. However, I don't think any words should be banned. Ever. Especially words that have multiple meanings, like the two examples in the last paragraph. Banning words doesn't solve the problem of hate, nor does it address it directly. If we all stopped saying the word gay in the context expressed in Duff's commercial, would homophobia disappear? If we stopped using the word retard, would people stop making fun of special needs kids? I don't think so in either case. One reason: words aren't the source of the problem, they're just the labels, the identifiers. Another reason: there are other words used to identify mentally challenged and homosexual people that are offensive. Do we ban all of them?

I want to make sure all ten of you (if you've read this far) realize that I'm not saying we should teach children to swear or condone the use of hateful speech. But the out of sight, out of mind approach doesn't solve anything. It just sweeps it under the rug. There should be dialogue about the use of "foul" language. A dialogue used to identify the problems. Those campaigns mentioned above are a fantastic start; however, they fall apart in the practice (banning words). We shouldn't be afraid to let high schools read books that contain these offensive words. If those words are in there, maybe the writer intended to spark a certain emotion with their use.

I guess I wrote about this because I get fired up about language. It feels sometimes like it's used as a scapegoat, the way movies and video games are blamed for violence. My argument has been long-winded and likely could have been thought out better. There's probably some generalizations in here, I got on a rant, and for these things I apologize. But I'd like to know what other people think about banning books and words. (I think Bryan Johnson may have posed this question, or something like it, in the past. I'm not trying to steal your thunder Bryan.) My hope is to get a dialogue going. Please chime in.

Boob Tube

Have you ever seen this show, "So You Think You Can Dance"? Basically, it's the dance version of "American Idol." There's a judge named Mary Murphy--I think she's supposed to be the Paula Abdul of the show--and quite frankly, I think she may be one cheer away from a complete breakthrough. Take a look at her:

This is her facial expression at all times. Even when someone flubs an arabesque, tumbles forward, and does a face plant into the cold wooden stage. It doesn't stop her from flashing that smile and telling the dancer how amazing his or her routine was. She has this habit of cheering so loudly it makes me wonder if she's convinced that this is her show. During these moments of extreme jubilation, her voice sounds like a cross between one of those beauty pageant mothers and a drunk freshmen after her first night at the bar. "Woooo! My daughter's accomplishments prove I wasn't an ugly kid. And I love tequila, Yeah! Woooo!" [sob, honk, sob]

My point: there's no way this woman can be this enthusiastic. If you've seen the show, you know what I'm talking about. It looks like a front for some deep-seeded emotional problem. Or maybe she's just trying to play that Paula Abdul role, and she's just a horrible actress.

No, that doesn't sound right.

At one point in this competition, someone's going to nail a dance routine, triggering one or several repressed memories--maybe the one when she was six, and her mom insisted she would never be a ballerina. When that moment happens--when those memories surface, and she's able to articulate them live on TV: "I was a damn good dancer, Mom! Take that"--I'll be glad I tuned in.

Until then: yeah, they got some pretty good dancers on the show.

They make a good point

by Anal Cunt

I can't stop watching this

Summer Writing Playlist

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Summer Writing Playlist

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Daily Musing

Beer Pong, Flippy Cup, Asshole--they're all ridiculous. Drinking's not a game. It's a distraction.

Summer Writing Playlist

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Daily Musing

You really need to work on your egg-breaking skills. It's not as if you're making a mess--no bits of shell in the pan, no raw egg white drizzled on the counter. But aesthetically speaking, those empty eggshells look destroyed. Giada would not approve.

Summer Writing Playlist

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Summer Writing Playlist

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Weather Advisory

Tornadoes and severe thunderstorms skipped this town. But on the horizon, I saw lightning flash behind night-clouds like strobe lights masked by stage fog. There was a concert in the heavens, muted by distance. No thunder. No rock music.

Summer Writing Playlist

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The Doors: Soft Parade

Panty Raid

Residents of a New York apartment declared war on a neighboring bar. Read about it here.

The reason: thin walls and close proximity to the apartment allow tenants the chance to hear everything that goes on inside the bar. And the bar's patrons are noisy.

The ammunition: soiled underpants?

Wow. Way to show those barflys--who are required to go indoors after 8 p.m., thereby rendering the stink-n-view completely nonexistent for them. Now, I'm by no means a smart man--nor would I consider myself a man, in terms of maturity level--but why would you, a tenant, hang up your shame for all the world to see as a way to protest a noisy bar? I'm not seeing the connection, or how they assume this is going to be an effective form of dissent. Wouldn't you just be inviting a creepier brand of customer to this particular bar? One who gets their jollies by leering at accident-soaked BVDs?

Just saying, I don't get it.

Messing with"The Kid"

Remember Danielle's post last year about that guy who emailed a picture of a spider to the utility company in order to settle a debt? If not, click here.

Apparently, he's at it again. The Sun posted two series of exchanges he had with his landlord (about pets in the apartment) and another with his Gym (about membership renewal).

The exchange with his landlord is in reference to a letter he received stating that his neighbors issued complaints about him having dogs in his apartment. Here's a taste:

The noise which my neighbours possibly mistook for a dog in the apartment is just the looping tape I have of dogs barking which I play at high volume while I am at work to deter potential burglars from breaking in and stealing my Tupperware. I need it to keep food fresh.

Once I ate leftover Chinese that had been kept in an unsealed container and I experienced complete awareness. The next night I tried eating it again but only experienced chest pains and diarrhea.

Regards, David.

Read both exchanges in their entireties here.

Summer Writing Playlist

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The (Not So) Private Lives of Mankatoans

Last week, I pulled into one of the far parking spots at the Mankato Wal-Mart. It was around noon, and most of the spaces were taken. Since the sun was out, the temperature fair, and my legs were in need of a good stretch, I didn't mind parking at the end of the lot. Two women in their late fifties, early sixties pushed a full shopping cart toward me—one was shaped like a lumpy sack of potatoes. Their car was across the isle from mine. They began loading up their trunk with groceries and whatnot, while I gathered my shopping list, coupons, phone, and keys. When I shut my car door, Potato Sack stopped the assembly line she and her friend (relative?) had going. She just stared at me, holding blue plastic bags at her sides.

This is Minnesota, and the people here are generally friendly. A little too friendly, if you ask me. At times, it borders on intrusive. Take my socially oblivious neighbor. The last time the cable guy dropped by to fix my oft-absent connection, he left the door open a crack. My neighbor took it upon himself to poke his head into my apartment and shout, “Cable guy? Is the cable guy in there?” I told him yes, he’s in here. So the guy walked right in. Didn’t ask if he could come in, didn’t ask if he should remove his shoes—this guy never even knocked. He just walked right in. He asked the cable guy to stop by his place when he was done at mine. Cable guy said, “I’ve got a schedule. You should call and make an appointment.” My neighbor looked at me, as if he was waiting for me to speak up, tell the cable guy to check his connection first. I stared blankly at him until he left.

In the Wal-Mart parking lot, I felt a little more sociable. Potato Sack had never invaded my comfort zone the way my neighbor does on a daily basis. For all I knew, she was a sweet old lady. Sweet, caring, personable—she was probably a saint. So when our eyes locked, I immediately acknowledged her with a nod and hello. She responded by squinting her left eye and curling the left side of her mouth. I couldn’t tell if she was having a stroke, or if she wanted to stab me. Either way, I began walking toward the entrance. Head down. It was after I passed her that she shared, or that I simply overheard, some personal information.

Her friend said, “Did you get everything you needed?”

To which she responded, “Yeah. Got my aspirin and shit pills. Those were the most important things.”

I tried to avoid glancing at her when I heard this. It felt like her eyes were still on me. I wondered if she said it just to see if I had been listening in. By forcing myself to not look up, I may have flinched. She probably saw it. So I sped up.

Lately, it seems like strangers I’ve met in this town have been a little too forthcoming with me about personal issues. In this case, Potato Sack didn’t divulge this information to me, directly. But she sure as shit said it loud enough for me to hear. She had to have known I was still within earshot. Maybe she didn’t care. I’d like to think it was a case of indifference. Who the hell cares if this chump knows I need shit pills. I’m just happy to know that in a few short hours, I’ll be regular again. In other cases, I think it’s something else. Sure, the I-don’t-care method is still part of it. But I wonder if there are other reasons Mankatoans feel it’s okay to reveal personal information with me.

This past Thursday, I got a haircut. Went to Great Clips, as usual. And as usual, the stylist was a chatterbox. Which bothers me. I don’t like talking to the person cutting my hair because it’s always the same conversation. She asks what I do, where I’m from, why I’m here. I smile, respond—it’s always uncomfortable. I feel like we’re both putting on a façade in order to pass the time; it’s just another exchange where both parties are going through the motions. I’ve felt compelled to bring an index card with my basic information on it to avoid this banter. But I assume the conversation is more for the stylists than the customers. They’re the ones that have to stand all day, snipping at people’s heads. Maybe it’s one way they retain their sanity.

Ever since I began going to Great Clips in Mankato, I’ve questioned the validity of these suppositions. Reason being: every stylist who has cut my hair at this place moves from the checklist of public information to how much they hate their job. They need to vent—doesn’t everyone? It’s understandable. But why me? Is it because they feel comfortable with me, since we’re likely in the same age group? I wonder if they’re as forthcoming with other customers. Maybe I’m being a little presumptuous, thinking I’m the only who gets the truth out of stylists without ever asking for it. But how often could a stylist say the same thing to each customer each day?

One woman told me how much she wished smoking were allowed inside, while cutting hair. Another told me she dreads each new customer because, “some people don’t wash their hair,” and, “some people are boring to talk to.” That last part’s a trap. Stylists will do that to you. When one complains about customers being boring, she’s telling you not to be boring. That’s when I think, Great. Now I’ve got to be on for her or she’ll screw up my haircut. With that Stylist, I ended up asking her about greasy-haired customers—the ones that don’t wash. It kept her busy the entire time, talking about how she gives teenage boys free shampoos; otherwise, she wouldn’t touch their hair. I was just glad that I didn’t have to talk. Instead, I smiled and responded with the appropriate grunts and smirks. When it was over, she asked if I was satisfied with my haircut. I looked at the chop-job she did on me and said, “Looks good.” Then I ended up wearing a hat for the next few weeks until the uneven sections filled in.

But this past Thursday—whoa, what a doozy! The stylist looked like she may have had scoliosis as a child. She lumbered across the room with the grace of a drowsy ogre. When she spoke, her tone came out punchy and very matter-of-fact. It sounded like she was attaching a duh to the end of each sentence, without actually using the word. I almost sat in the chair, when she stopped me and said she had forgotten to clean after her last customer. Sure enough, little white hairs covered the black chair like scattered hyphens. Probably a buzz job. She gave two quick swipes with her open palm and told me to sit. Most of the hair remained, but I didn’t want to piss off the person who would be holding a sharp object inches from my eyes. So I sat, and she began talking. I didn’t even say anything to start her up. She just started rattling off complaints like we were old time buddies. “I hate my job [duh],” “I’ve been thinking about taking courses in the Cities [duh],” and then, “It’s not my fault some customers’ haircuts don’t come out they way they thought they would. I’m not a mind-reader [duh].”

This, here, is another trap. Get on the customer’s good side, make him think you’re allies. That way he won’t complain if you fuck up.

Why would she tell me, a customer, that other customers have expressed displeasure with her work—possibly on this day? She must have thought that I wouldn’t have the balls to ask for another stylist. And she was right, since I just smiled awkwardly and told her how I usually get my hair cut. She grabbed the clippers and began swiping it against my head with the same carelessness she used to brush off the chair.

So I asked her, “What do you do when you can’t stand a customer?”

She said, “I flick their ears like they’ve got hair stuck to them [duh].” And she began flicking my ears. This time I smiled, and it wasn’t such a front. “Helps pass the time, too.”

She said I was all set, and I hoped out of the chair, paid, and walked to my car. I didn’t know why she was so forthcoming about her secrets. What if I stopped in again, and she didn’t remember me? What if she started flicking my ears? I would like to think I’d call her on it. But in all honesty, I probably wouldn’t. I became hyper aware of other past haircuts. Had any of those stylists done anything to my ears or neckline as a way to pass the time, as a signal to her co-workers that she was messing with me?

I checked my haircut in the vanity mirror. It’s where I always check the stylist’s job. While I’m still in the chair and they ask me if it looks all right, I fake it. Tell them, yes, it looks great. I don’t want to sit there and inspect their work. I don’t want to gain this reputation of being a difficult customer. What if they do remember me? When I looked over her work, I noticed the sides were uneven, stray hairs poked out from behind both ears, and the front was crooked. Not too different than what I usually get there. Anticipating this, I had my ball cap on the seat next to me. When I pulled it on, I noticed it fit a little easier.

Summer Writing Playlist

Track 1:

Daily Musing

Couldn't filmmakers use a touch of subtlety when incorporating product placement into a picture? Some movies seem like a series of commercials wrapped in CGI explosions.

I saw this earlier today for the first time

Self Deprecation

Because there are only ten people who actually look at this blog, because I just scanned a boatload of old pictures into my computer, and because I'm feeling a little brave, I thought this would be a good time to show you all some embarrassing pictures (potty training pics omitted). I've always hated pictures of myself. If someone points a camera at me, I try to dodge the viewfinder, or I'll make a weird face. Here are a few reasons why:

Halloween 1983. Ducks in a row, from left to right: Micah, Erin, Val (my sister), me. Now, my question for you (and you don't get to answer this, Mom): What was I dressed up as? I bet you won't guess it, since I don't think I look like what I'm supposed to be.

Same question for this picture: What the hell am I supposed to be, here!?! My dad titled this picture, "Daniel Crockett." I say the kid in this picture looks like a grade-A hammerhead. Man, could I strike a pose, though!

This is my neighbor, Micah, and me. We're at Camp Roger in Dutch-country, Michigan. Or, if you're familiar with the state, anywhere in Michigan.

All-star catcher for the Mets. I'm pretty sure the fact that I was a Met broke my dad's heart. He still talks about the '69 season. If you're familiar with the Cubs' storied past, you know all about it. If you're not aware, the Cubs barely beat the Mets to win the East. Then they went on to win their 28th World Series Championship. Anyway, this was my last season playing for Briarcliffe baseball. I missed one game that year (for a church related event) and got yelled at by the coach because we lost. Thus proving, religion destroys everyone's dreams.

This is me standing behind mine and my dad's birthday cake (we were born on the same day). I'm sporting a Mickey Mouse helicopter hat because, as evidenced in previous photos, I have what is commonly referred to as "a wicked fashion sense." Take that however you like. If you look closely at my right cheek (my wicked side), you'll notice a series of scabs. I acquired these by riding my bike into a tree...less than 48 hours before class picture day. Needless to say, I ended up going to picture retake day that year.

Now I'm going to cry myself to sleep.

Roommates

Late Summer 2003

Daily Musing

When gargling mouthwash with your head tilted back, make sure you close your eyes.  Listerine stings.  And it's not easy to flush, either.  

Daily Musing

When your team is on a power play, two minutes feels like a blink.  When they have to defend against it, two minutes seems to last as long as a full night's sleep.

Daily Musing

Holy shit!  The carpeting in your apartment is the same as Gino’s from the Seinfeld episode, “The Barber.”  Which originally aired in 1993.  Most likely it was at least 20 years out of date then, too.

Rock A Chub

In this article, I like how Bret Michaels is referred to as a reality star...who has a band.  The missing his mark and running into stage props was also amusing.

We call him Scooter

I saw this commercial twice while watching Seinfeld.  And then I looked it up online and watched it three more times.

Daily Musing

"Lost" Holes

When Ben moved the island and the remaining survivors of Oceanic Flight 815 went through the time warp, why didn’t the 2004 Richard Alpert and his tribe start time traveling with Sawyer, Juliet, Farraday, and the gang? 

Daily Musing

You forgot your only belt at home, and you've gone long enough without it.  Today marks the return of the red-orange bungee cord. 

Between Two Ferns with Zach Galifianakis from Between Two Ferns

Daily Musing

When people tell you that your clothes are dated, you pay no attention to their insults.  They’re jealous they can’t be like you.  When you go to the local thrift store and see most of your wardrobe for sale at a reduced price from the rest of the stock, you begin thinking those people may have had a point.

Daily Musing

If you’re thin and have a hole in the seat of your jeans, it’s considered hip.  If you’re overweight and your jeans are in the same condition, it’s sad and you should probably buy new pants.

Full-Scale Threat

Sometime after midnight, I decided to take a walk.  I needed to get some cash, so I headed toward the bank two blocks away.  Usually there aren't many people walking the streets of downtown Mankato at this time on a weekday--not even on Wednesday and Thursday nights when the bars are relatively full, as this is typically a prime drinking hour.  But it was Tuesday, and I didn't think anyone would be walking around.  I stepped outside, and from my stoop, it seemed like a normal Tuesday night.  No traffic.  Cars parked crooked along the curb.  Lamp posts buzzing.  It was a ghost town that had paid its electric bill in advance.  

Then a squad car crept by.  The blue glow from a computer screen inside the car lit up the cop's face.  He was eying me.  I thought it was weird, and it bordered on offensive.  I had just walked out of my apartment.  What the fuck was he doing staring me down?  

I was crossing Broad when, at the same time, three squad cars rolled into view, moving left to right.  One pulled out of the alley next to Wells Fargo, one was on Front, and the third appeared from the alley next to U.S. Bank.  All three turned right, heading toward me.  I stutter-stepped in the crosswalk, not immediately realizing that I hadn't finished crossing the street yet.  They were obviously after me.  Why?  I couldn't remember.  

The cop in the first car glanced at me as he passed.  I started to get nervous.  If one of these cars pulled over, shined a light in my face, and barked about what I was up to, would I have a reasonable alibi?  I would tell them I'm on my way to the bank, but would they believe it?  I've got no one to corroborate my story.  What if there's some huge manhunt going down in Mankato right now, and I'm the number one suspect?  They can't stop every random person they see, can they?  Considering there was only one random person walking around--me--and they definitely had the available manpower, I couldn't see what was stopping them from stopping me.  

The second and third squad cars passed without so much as a courtesy stare-down.  In this brief moment, I grew somewhat courageous.  A little defiant.  Had I been pulled over, I probably would have become belligerent.  They didn't have anything on me.  I had been in my apartment, watching the Cubs be the Cubs.  I'd like to see them try to pin something on me.  Then, two more squad cars and an unmarked Crown Vic pulled into view from the right, performing the same synchronized maneuver the last three cars executed.  If I had a tail, it would have been between my legs.

The final half block, I saw four more cop cars scouring the area.  One had its spotlight on and aimed at some bushes.  I wasn't sure if these were different cruisers, or if they were part of the original six and had circled the block.  Thinking back on it, I should have paid attention to the numbers in case I ended up in court.  This was harassment, for all I knew.  But again, the cops in these squad cars paid no attention to me when they passed.

When I got to the bank, two squads were parked next to each other in the lot, facing opposite directions.  The drivers' windows lined up perfectly; the lights on the roofs--not so much.  I could hear that the cops were talking to each other, but I couldn't make out what they were saying.  So instead of going inside the bank, I leaned up against the brick pillar and tried to listen in.  I wondered what they would say if I walked up to the passenger window of one of the cars, tapped on the window, and asked them what was up.  I didn't because I don't think cops appreciate it.  

But think about it.  It's not against the law to ask a question.  And if cops are here to serve and protect, then shouldn't they be willing to keep the public informed when something sketchy's going on?  Say, a full scale sweep of the downtown grid?

They were too far away.  I couldn't understand anything they were saying.  Since the volume of their conversation didn't extend half the distance of the U.S. Bank parking lot, I decided to go in and get some cash.  It seemed odd to me that neither of the cops yelled out or drove over to see what I was doing.  I must have looked like I had no business standing there.  Maybe they didn't even see me.  

When I got out, both cars were gone, so I decided to walk to HyVee.  I didn't need anything from the store, I just wanted to see if one cop--just one, out of what seemed like the entire force--would stop me.  That's how I could find out what happened.  Have the cops come to me.  Have them ask me questions.  Walking farther away from my apartment would increase the chance I'd get stopped.  But the rest of the way--nothing.  Yes, I saw more cop cars.  One peeled away up Main Street, another chirped its tires turning on to Riverfront.  Each time I heard an engine racing, I thought that it was time.  They were coming for me.  I even had to calm myself down, think about what I would say.  Each time, however, the cars sped past.

In HyVee, I bought a pop.  Sugar and caffeine: two worst things to have at one in the morning.  But I didn't know what else I should get, and I didn't feel like spending too much time there.  The front of the store was completely empty, except for one cashier.  He had his back to me when I stepped up to his lane.  He was counting the register.  I asked him if this lane was open, and he told me it'd be just a minute.  So I waited.  And while I waited, I wondered how difficult it would be to rob him.  I could shove him forward and run away with the drawer.  Or I could dig the bottle cap end of my pop into his back and say, "This is a stick up," or "Give me all your money."  

But if he called my bluff, then what?  Could I say, "Sorry, just kidding"?  Or if he had a weapon, I'd be screwed.  He closed the drawer and turned to me.  He said, "This it for you?"  And I felt compelled to say, "No, I'll take it all."  Instead, I nodded and thought to ask him if he knew what all the buzz was about outside.  Before I could say anything, he turned his back to me again.  I glanced at his belt to see if he might be carrying.  No gun, no knife, no pepper spray.  Then he twisted his head around, and I'm quite sure he thought he saw me checking out his ass because his whole body quickly followed.  At that point, I thought idle conversation might send the wrong message, so I paid, took my drink, and left.

Today I checked the Free Press website and found this.  Some guy in Mankato got jumped and was then robbed.  I'm sure that's what the code red was about last night.  The weird thing is that that kind of stuff never seems to happen in Mankato.  I've walked around at night several times, and not once have I felt unsafe.  Even when I've been approach by one of the many Mankato crazies, swerving on their bicycles and cackling, when no one else is around.  If anything, this place has made me uneasy because of the over-friendliness.  It seems like everyone that passes you on the sidewalk says hello.  And I've always had this attitude: I don't know you, don't talk to me.  

But last night, that went out the window.  Without even knowing about the robbery, I wanted to know why the police were acting so un-Mankato.  The system of order and consistency had been thrown out of whack, and I didn't like it.  On my way home, I walked through the U.S. Bank parking lot, and a cop pulled up to the ATM entrance.  He got out of the car and looked up at me.  I gave him the flat smile and nodded, hoping he'd ask me what I was doing out so late.  He closed the cruiser door and walked into the bank without acknowledging my gesture.  Like he didn't see me.  The cruiser's engine was still running, the window rolled all the way down.  If I had hopped in and pulled away slowly, how far could I have gotten before he noticed his car had disappeared?