Seinfeld Time-Warp: an exercise in becoming self-aware

I have a tendency to repeat myself, usually when rehashing anecdotes or tidbits of useless information (which I'm full of. Don't believe me? Just wait!). I'll forget that I've told someone something and start reading from the script in my head. Even if the person has already heard the what I have to say, I still feel the need to finish so as not to develop a brain aneurysm. It's like I need to retell a story X number of times in order to fulfill a quota, the amount of which is not readily known to me. Does that even make sense?

Anyway, I've found this gaping hole in a Seinfeld episode, pertaining to its passage of time. I bring this up because the episode was on last night. I've brought up this example to several people, and I feel that by writing it down here I'll accomplish two things: 1.) it'll eat up a portion of my quota, and 2.) I can refer people to this post in lieu of telling them the same story for the 20th time. I do have a tendency to repeat myself, you know.

So the Seinfeld episode I'm talking about is titled "The Nap." Here's a brief recap: Jerry has hired a carpenter to make him some new cabinets; however, this guy needs his hand held through every step of the process, which causes Jerry to achieve a Larry David level of frustration. Meanwhile, George finds that without a midday nap, he's not able to function properly. So he asks this carpenter--Connie, Conrad, Con; whatever you prefer--to expand the space beneath his desk at work to accommodate his sleeping on the job.

Kramer can't seem to find a pool big or free enough to satisfy his need for swimming 8 million laps a day, so he begins to swim in the East River. Elaine's boyfriend has a bad back and he buys her an orthopedic bed from the Lumbar Yard. She gets offended, figuring he's "expecting a roll in the supportive hay." She gives the bed to Kramer who funkifies it with East River stink. When Elaine confronts her boyfriend about the bed, he tells her that he ordered the bed with her body dimensions in mind. Instantly, she feels flattered and asks Kramer to return the mattress, which is when she finds out that Kramer has funkified the mattress.

Jesus Christ, what a shitty summary. Good thing I don't start teaching two sections of Comp in the next two weeks.

ANYWAY, to get to my point I'll skip some of the nuances of the episode, since I haven't been concise so far. The massive time-warp occurs at the end of the episode. Elaine is trying to move the stanky mattress out of her apartment, but her back goes out and she becomes trapped under the bed of funk. She calls Jerry to come help her out. At the same time, the ticking of an alarm clock in George's work desk causes George Steinbrenner, his boss, to alert the authorities. Earlier in the episode George was trapped under his desk mid-map when Steinbrenner came looking for him and wouldn't leave his office. George called Jerry and told him to call in a bomb threat. The call to the bomb squad is warranted.

Cut to Kramer preparing to do laps in the East River, only to find that Elaine's boyfriend has told his chiropractor how swimming in the East River has worked wonders for his back, and that the chiropractor recommended it to all of his patients.

Cut to the bomb squad sawing through the desk to find out if there's a bomb in there. Then cut back to the East River where all Kramer's laps are being impeded by all of the chiropractor's patients. Including Elaine, who just moments ago was trapped under a funky mattress. That's the time-warp. The way the episode is setup makes it seem as though this is all happening in the same day. If there was a call to a bomb squad, they certainly wouldn't wait a day to show up to the site. Especially when that site is in Yankee stadium, where George works.

How did Elaine get to the East River so fast?

God, that was exhausting. Probably even more so for those of you just read it. Sorry about that. Maybe I won't need to ever repeat this or any other story, now that I know what it's like to be on the other end of them.

Bulls. Wolves. Minneapolis. March. I'm there.

So, here's a quick update on the Bulls-Wolves tickets I had written about in a previous post. I ended up shelling out the cash for two more Green Mill pizzas. They were on sale for $5 a piece at Cub, so I figured why not. That brings the total money spent on pizzas to $24. Add postage (for sending in all the paperwork), round up, and we're at $25 total.

The tickets arrived today, and I expected to see two things: a high number after the Aisle/Row heading and a low number after the price. Instead, I was surprised to find that the "Eat like a Wolf" promotion dishes out good seats. Mine are 100-level seats that have a face-value of $40 a pop. The T-Wolves website gives you a 3-D preview of your seats here (ours are section 126, row R). Not too bad.

So my point is that if you come across one of these free ticket promotions, go for it. Even if you initially toss out the required proofs of purchase, it's still worth it.

Paradigm shift in sports writing

For the longest time, I had this irrational hatred of Bill Simmons's writing. I think it stemmed from my very rational hatred for ESPN (which contains some of the most self-serving, hackneyed programming on television today). Whenever I read an article by Simmons, I'd redirect my anger that I have for his employer and apply it toward his specific work. Recently, however, I've been able to compartmentalize my hostilities, and I think that's largely in part to the fact that he can really write.

Which is kinda the point of his latest article on ESPN. (I know, I know--if I hate ESPN so much, why do I keep reading? Answer's simple: I...uh... No comment.) Anyway, if you have the time you should read his take on the new boxing movie, The Fighter. It's not just a movie review; he's also commenting on the state of sports movies and how they've had to evolve from the formulaic story lines of the last thirty-plus years. Sports movies today have to compete with the high quality sports documentaries you find on the indie screen, HBO, and (surprise, surprise) ESPN.

But he hits the nail on the head when he states that in order to compete with documented "real life" stories, fiction writers need to step it up. He compares this need for producing better stories in film to what has become the new standard in television drama: compelling, character-driven narrative (like "The Sopranos," "The Wire," and "Mad Men"). It's my belief that these shows were the result of television screenwriters needing to compete with "reality TV" for viewers. The only way these shows were going to succeed at drawing in viewers was to produce something worth watching.

For a more articulate take, check out Bill Simmons's story here.

So, let's see what's in the news.

Hey! Obama signed the repeal of "Don't Ask, Don't Tell" into law. Great news for a section of our brave soldiers who have served their country, while being forced to mask their identity. That's progress!

Of course, you wouldn't necessarily get that sense of forward-thinking if you saw the Star Tribune's website today. Check out this screen shot on their main page:

Notice anything that seems a little, I don't know, backwards? How about the highlighted subheading for this story, which reads, "Gays"? One could make the argument that on its own the word "gays" isn't necessarily homophobic. But given the fact that the word is used as a category or tag for a story on gay rights, it does appear to be about as sensitive as a thick foot callous.

I wonder if this is a reflection on the Strib's obliviousness to decency, or if the newspaper is catering to a specific audience. Either way, the use of the word "Gays" here is definitely inappropriate. And I think the Strib caught on, since they updated their website an hour later.

"Ban repealed." Why didn't they go with that in the first place?

Fifteen steps to insanity

1. I planned on purchasing tickets to the Wolves-Bulls game that takes place in March.
2. We needed--yes, needed--frozen pizzas.
3. The market had coupons glued to one of its freezer doors, stating that the purchase of two Green Mill pizzas would yield two tickets to any Timberwolves home game.
4. Green Mill pizzas are not very good, and they're definitely not worth $7 a pop.
5. But two tickets and two pizzas for $14? I figured, why not.
6. Here's what the T-Wolves front office needed in exchange for the tickets: the coupon from the market, a copy of my receipt, proofs of purchase from each pizza box, a form stating to which game I'd like tickets.
7. I was surprised they didn't ask for video of me eating the pizza to ensure that I didn't just throw it away.
8. I almost took care of sending in all the necessary documentation right away, but to do so I would have had to scan said documentation (for my own records).
9. Because I didn't feel like plugging my computer into the printer, the papers didn't get scanned and the request for tickets was not mailed.
10. Kate and I made and ate the pizzas over the next few days, and we confirmed that Green Mill pizzas are not very good.
11. But, hey. Even when pizza's not very good, it's still pizza.
12. At least, that's what I tell myself after eating mediocre pizza.
13. Today I realized that I forgot to remove the proofs of purchase from both of the Green Mill boxes.
14. The trashman picked up recycling on Thursday, so those boxes are long gone.
15. I'm debating whether or not it's worth buying two more pizzas (which would bring my total up to $28) for tickets that probably go for $10 a piece at face value.

Weirdest Conversation Ever: a fitting example as to why my dad should lay off the texting

This is an actual conversation between my dad and me that took place via text message just a short while ago. Most of my responses are just as confusing as his initial remarks because I was so taken aback by confusion that my mind stopped working correctly. Other than that, I really don't know what to say about it. Maybe someone can tell me what it means.

Dad: This is from a commercial why squirrels hate me.

Me: I don't understand the commercial/squirrel thing.

Dad: The director is filming a commercial.

Me: What director?

Dad: The director is filming a commercial featuring a squirrel who won't cooperate.

Me: Okay. But who is this director you're talking about?

Dad: I had a call and pressed the wrong button.

Me: Buttons too small?

Dad: I was making a joke referencing a TV commercial. You had to see it.

Me: I guess so.

Dad: Love you.

Me: Love you, too.

???

Grow Up

One of the reasons I love watching football is to hear the inadvertent sexual innuendo created by the play-by-play guys who are using terms relevant to the game. Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m too immature, a child with his mind in the gutter, a pervert. Maybe I’m making comments sound dirtier than they really are. Next time you watch a game, really listen to what the announcers say. I might be on to something. You tell me.

Here are actual phrases and snippets from football commentators:

• The O-line prevents any further penetration
• He sneaks in unmolested
• Sack production numbers
• Ball’s loose, ball’s out, the ball’s been stripped—anything pertaining to the word “ball”
• Anytime you’ve got a red hot quarterback, you’ve gotta run that spread
• He fires one right in that hole
• The Packers take a pounding, The Packers are getting punished, The Packers, Packer fans—anything pertaining to the word “packers”

I rest my case.

Four plus months in south Minnie

When we first moved to south Minneapolis, Kate and I asked our landlord what the neighborhood was like. He told us that it’s nice, but that five years ago it was a different story. For example, residents got mugged walking through Powderhorn Park (about five blocks away), and the convenience store two blocks from our apartment would get robbed on a daily basis. These things still happen, just not with the frequency with which they occurred in the past. Still, some even hairier shit has taken place in our neighborhood over the last month.

There have been nights we’ve heard what sounds like the crack of gunfire. We’ve passed it off as fireworks, mainly because police sirens never follow. One night, I heard three quick pops in the distance. They were too quick in procession and sounded too tinny to be M-80s or Black Cats. But again, sirens didn’t follow. So I passed it off as nothing.

The next day, a story ran in the Strib about a drive-by, six blocks away. A 12 year-old girl was shot in the neck outside of her house. She’s now paralyzed, and the outlook of her ever walking again looks grim. The reported time of the drive-by matched the time I heard those pops.

Then, while my mom was in town for Thanksgiving, news broke that four teens sexually assaulted a 45 year-old woman in front of her two children in Powderhorn Park. Afterward, three of the teens forced two teenage girls into a garage a few blocks away from the first incident and unsuccessfully attempted to rape them.

The bad news didn’t stop there. Days later, there was a story about a standoff nearby, where a man held a woman hostage for hours. Sixty police, SWAT, and EMT responded. And then US Marshalls tracked down an Iowa murder suspect to a residence in south Minneapolis. They found him hiding in a closet within the apartment.

Despite the fact that these stories make our neighborhood seem dangerous, I don't feel unsafe. I know, you're probably thinking: a man pushing six-two, two-forty shouldn't be scared. Well, let me tell you, I'm no man. And I'm a very soft two-forty.

Walking around the area, I've never gotten the sense that any moment someone's going to jump out and attack me or Kate. Plus, Kate's tough. She's a biker (of the cycling variety), which means she's got some powerful legs. And she carries a switchblade: so watch your balls, would-be attackers!

I guess there are certain times I wouldn't want to go venturing into Powderhorn Park; but for the most part, it's a very scenic place where parents bring their children to play. Which made news of the assault there so alarming to the neighborhood's residents. It was an isolated incident, and the response to the attacks turned out to be a reclamation of a park by its community. With the exception of the drive-by, all of the suspects in each respective story have been arrested. Maybe that's one of the reasons I'm not fearful for Kate's or my safety.

Here's what I do worry about:

• Kate riding her bike in the street. Not because I don't trust her ability, but because I don't trust the asshole drivers or the condition of some roads that make up her routes to and from work.
• Pitbulls. In this area there are a lot of pitbull owners, some of whom don't own big enough fences to contain their dogs. In one case, I walked by this dude's house in the middle of the afternoon to see him watching over five of these beasts. The perimeter of his yard was lined by small trees--which were bare because of the season, allowing enough of a gap for even the biggest pitbull to fit through. Four of the dogs were free to roam the yard; only one was on a leash. They all eyed me and licked their chops as I passed by, none more viciously than the one in restraint.

Why was only that one on a leash!?! Freaked me out, man.

A Little Late in My Rememberance

My dad would take me along to his best friend Steve's for Monday Night Football. I couldn't tell you what year(s) this occurred, or my age--old enough to remember images, too young to know that what the adults were smoking wasn't tobacco. I couldn't even tell you what games we watched, the teams that played. I don't remember all the names of Steve's friends who'd stop over briefly during a game. Except, of course, the regulars like Glenn, Mike, Big Boy (whose real name was also Glenn), and Stoner.

But I do remember some things clearly: sitting on the sofa behind the two recliners, which were spaced far enough to either side of the room so there was a clear view of the TV from where I sat. Nate--Steve's son who my dad told us was "special," though he always called him "goofy"--would sit next to me, unable to sit still, keep quiet, or refrain from trying to put things up his dog's butt. He'd ask me if I wanted to see him make his Hot Wheels disappear, then lift up Fifi's tail and laugh maniacally.

I often wondered about the appropriateness of Nate's suggestions. They didn't seem on the level and since Steve or my dad rarely turned around to say something--at the time, I figured they were too consumed by the game--I assumed Nate's frequent indecencies were comparable to the act of an edgy comedian. So, more often than not, I'd laugh right along with him. Sometimes that would bring about a glance back from my dad, followed by a joking remark: Hey, no laughing allowed! Then he'd pass back to Steve a medical clamp, the smoking remains of a roach pinched between its jaws.

At Halftime, Steve would break out the Nintendo and get in a quick round of Conflict or Silent Service before the game resumed. My dad never played video games. Instead, he'd roll another "cigarette" to be savored during the third quarter. Some games ended sooner than others, meaning that the outcome was decided well before the end of regulation. But whenever it was clear as to who the winner would be, my dad would stand and sing, "Turn out the liiiiiights, the party's over."

This signaled it was time to go home.

I didn't know who wrote that song; I figured my dad had made it up. But whenever I watched football from then on, I would think of those lyrics while the final seconds wound down. I'd be taken back to Steve's living room, see the woodcut of M.C. Escher's "Reptiles" that hung over the TV, and smell the burning sage scent of a lit joint.

Until 2002, I hadn't heard of Don Meredith. That's when a made for cable movie about Monday Night Football first aired; that's when I found out the connection between football and a Willie Nelson song. When I heard Don Meredith died on Sunday, I wanted to go back home and watch football with my dad. I wanted to hear him sing that song again.

Comcast Blows Goats

Last night, I couldn't get on the internet. It freaked me out. All of my cables and whatnot were hooked up properly, my computer settings were golden, and when I ran diagnostics the troubleshooting "wizard" told me that I was, in fact, connected to the internet. Says the Wiz: Your computer seems to be working, check to make sure you haven't misspelled the web address www.mnsu.edu. Go fuck yourself, Wiz. Despite receiving the everything-seems-to-be-okay message from network diagnostics, I still couldn't get online.

I complained, I fumed, I threw a tantrum. There were other things I needed to do--namely, grade twenty-some portfolio projects--but I wasn't ready to knock those out yet. I wanted to check the Blackhawks score, I wanted to post another commercial on the goat blog, I wanted to check the daily stats for the goat blog: I wanted to do anything other than grading, and I needed the internet to do that.

So I called Comcast to see what was up, and an automated message told me that they were experiencing technical difficulties, "Please call later." Really!?! That's all you've got? No, "We're aware of a problem, and we're working to fix it," some sort of reassurance that help is on the way? Basically, they we're telling us we were on our own.

Moments like these make me realize how dependent I am on the internet, a realization that doesn't occur until I don't have internet access at a time when I absolutely want it. It's like when you forget your cellphone at home and feel as if you've gone off the grid. Then I begin to wonder how we ever survived without some of our modern technological conveniences.

Here's one way: in Junior High, when my sisters and I needed rides home from school, we'd call my mom collect from a pay phone. When the automated operator would pause, allowing us to state our name, we would quickly tell my mom to pick us up and at which entrance. That way she wouldn't have to accept the charges, and she'd know where to come get us. Did not always work. Especially those times she wasn't able to pick us up and we had hung up prematurely.

After I came to terms with the fact that there'd be no solution any time soon, that I'd have to wait it out, I started grading projects at the dining room table. Kate popped in a movie and I asked her to turn it up so I could listen. Five projects in, I ditched out on grading and joined her. It had been about four hours since the internet went kaput, and Kate decided to give her computer another shot. What do know? she was able to get online from her computer. It would take me another ten to fifteen minutes to be so lucky; the signal was too weak to say the internet was back in full force.

When we verified that it had returned at full strength, Kate and I became glued to our respective screens, the movie still playing in the background. That's when I came across this article. The Strib didn't identify the outage's cause, but it did provide tips on how to reconfigure your browser settings--a helpful little tip for remaining connected through outages, so long as your not currently experiencing an outage. Anger levels began to rise.

This morning I was expecting to open my email and find an explanation for the outage, or at least an apology from Comcast for the inconvenience. No dice. The only article I could find today was this one, and it still doesn't offer an explanation. It does, however, throw a few jabs at Comast. Kinda nice.

What pisses me off is that there's no accountability for Comcast's poor service. What if I were teaching an online course--which very well could be the case next semester when I start at Rasmussen--and this happened? There's no way to be sure that it won't with this shoddy company. And my options here are pretty limited because Comcast has a monopoly in Minneapolis. Don't believe me? Check out the city's website.

At one point this morning, I imagined being interviewed on a late night talk show and that I used this platform simply for the purposes of decrying the atrocity of Comcast's "services." Since that won't happen any time soon--though I swear if I'm fortunate enough to ever be a guest on a talk show, I'll blast Comcast--all I can do is add to the complaints on Comcast's customer service line and look in to the public wi-fi option, here. Maybe I'll look into getting some rabbit ears for the TV.

Comcast, if you're listening, I'd like to dedicate this song to you:

Community

The concept of community bathrooms, it’s just very unsettling to me. I know that logistically they make sense: you have hundreds of people in one building—say, at a university—you need to have enough toilets to facilitate those people. I get it. That doesn’t mean I have to like or use them, though.

Is that the reason we have community bathrooms, anyway? Did the institutionalization of many toilets, one room begin when cities started to form? Because, to me, it seems like the antithesis of civility. You think when cavemen were out on the hunt and needed to drop some heat they squatted behind adjacent bushes? I doubt it.

If one dude followed his comrade to the trees for taking care of business, I’m sure the first guy would’ve turned to his buddy and said, “Uh, Larry; where do you think you’re going?”

And Larry would’ve replied, “Well, Glenn, I figure we could contain that which emerges from our hindquarters to one area of the hunting grounds. It’ll greatly reduce the chance of us stepping in our own messes, possibly tracking it through our respective caves. I think having this designated area will alleviate an unnecessary stress trigger.”

“I’m not stressed about it. Does it bother you? Is that why you’ve been a little off today?”

“We’re stalking saber-toothed tigers, here, and our only line of defense is a fragment of shale tied to a tree branch with twine. You never know what’s going to be the tipping point.”

“Ah, man. Can’t you wait your turn?”

“No, this is happening now.”

“Larry, you make a good point about designating an area for taking care of that which emerges from our hindquarters. But let’s look at the facts: we’ve got land as far as the eye can see to do our business, and it’s just you and me. There’s no need to make this awkward. These next five minutes, I believe it’s some well-deserved Me Time.”

“Don’t leave me alone, Glenn.”

“I’m sorry, Larry. This is the way of the caveman.”

See, kids. That’s what grandmas and grandpas are talking about when they refer to the “good old days.” Due to overpopulation and an irrational dependence on community, the era of shitting in peace has done the way of the dinosaur.

Sometimes I have to bite the bullet and find myself in one of the world’s many public bathrooms. When this happens at school, I turn to any one of my approved men’s rooms, which I call, “safe potties.” I’m not telling you where they are for one of two reasons: you’ll either have no idea where they’re located because you’ve never been to MSU, or the next time you see me on campus walking toward one of them, you’ll know what I’m about to do. No dice. These are my on-campus sanctuaries.

My most recent go-to restroom is private; there’s only one stall. That way, when someone feels the urge to “follow me behind the bushes” after I’ve already established my place atop the throne, they’re shit out of luck. It’s kind of nice to hear someone enter then quickly leave, knowing that you can finish in peace.

What I’ve found most disturbing about this particular men’s room, though, is the graffiti inside the stall. It’s typical bathroom humor—vulgar non-sequiturs, the kind of comments that one would only make under the veil of anonymity (much like Internet comments on news websites). The alarming part is the poor execution of grammar and mechanics by the authors.

Whenever I’m in this stall, I just want to grab a pen and start marking up the walls’ sentences. Sometimes trying to turn off the editor in your brain is impossible (unless I’m blogging or updating Facebook). I don’t go through with these edits because it would probably invite even more lewd graffiti. And since I’m on campus at the same time the custodial staff cleans the bathrooms, I fear that I’d get caught in the act and the janitor would blame me for all of the wall scribblings. Especially the misspelled and improperly punctuated ones. And that would be more awkward than taking a dump next to someone who’s also taking a dump.

Follow the Cop

Last night, while driving back to the Cities, I got to play one of my favorite road games: follow the police car. The rules are simple. First you find a police car on the road. Then you move over to its lane, remembering not to pass the officer—doing so can result in a deduction of up to one hundred and fifty points, along with what the county defines as “a moving violation.”

Once you’ve secured a safe position behind the police car in question, it’s time to move on to the final stage of the game: you follow it. And that’s pretty much it. You don’t want to follow it too closely because, again, there’s the whole point deduction thing.

The game never lasts too long on the highway. The reasons being that the cop either speeds away, making it impossible to keep up without receiving a citation, or the cop pulls a U-ie through the median in an attempt to snag a speeder driving the opposite direction. Occasionally the game ends because the cop slows to the shoulder to assist a stranded motorist.

Which is why allowing a cushion between your vehicle and the officer’s is a must in this game. When the cop car slows, you slow. There’s no need to get cute, here; shit can get real in a flash.

Last night’s game ended five minutes after it started. The cop had to have hit the mid-eighties on his speedometer and got too far ahead of me to even consider trying to keep up. But this brief round of “Follow the Police Car” allowed me to drive 75 for a nice stretch, and how often can you speed in the midst of the law?

Which is the main reason I play the game. I figure as long as I’m not driving too much faster than the posted limit, and the cop is in front of me, I won’t get pulled over for speeding. If I did—whether it’s by the cop ahead of me, or one hiding in the median—my defense would be that the cop I was following should’ve abided by the speed limit, too; my pursuit of the aforementioned officer would have resulted in a citizen’s arrest had I not been pulled over.

Now, I’m well aware of how invalid my reasoning sounds, and that’s because it’s quite fallacious. This “game” is something I used to play in my younger, more reckless days when I drove too fast and played out would-be confrontations with police officers in the event of a traffic stop. Sadly, I didn’t always make myself out to be victorious and after getting pulled over a few times in reality, I decided it was time to take it easy while on the road.

The closest call I ever experienced occurred back home (at least five years ago), when I went out of my way to follow a Glen Ellyn cop car. Having been tailed many times—about 95% of which result in not being stopped—I thought following the cop would make him know what it was like to have that uneasy, powerless feeling. This particular cruiser had been travelling north on Park toward downtown. When he hung a right on Duane, I flipped on my signal and allowed a little breathing room between our cars. When we reached Taylor, he put on his right turn signal and I followed suit. That’s when, it seemed, the cop got suspicious.

Instead of continuing through the stop sign, he stopped in the intersection. Which prompted me to stop on a dime and flip on my left turn signal. My legs and arms started shaking, and I definitely wasn’t prepared to explain myself. The cop completed his turn and drove north on Taylor.

I’m not sure he stopped mid-turn because of me, but the experience did prove how much of a pussy I was in the face of a potential traffic stop. Going out of your way to play the game, it’s just not worth it. And for the most part, I’ve somewhat retired from this “game.”

Last night, when the needle on my speedometer hit 75, a tiny rush prickled my arms. I thought about trying to keep up with the cop, to see how far the game could be played, my official Last Hurrah. But I didn’t. It wasn’t the thought of my close encounter that stopped me from speeding up; I backed off because my Driver’s License says I live in Mankato (not even the most recent former address), my plates are from Illinois, and I didn’t want to explain why neither of these items matches my current address. It was really cold outside, and I was exhausted from making the drive down to Mankato earlier in the day. I wasn’t afraid to get pulled over; I just didn’t want to go through the headache of talking to cop. They’re conversations are one-sided, they feel interrogating, and they don’t have that entertaining feel of a real game.

It's like giving someone a gift that's really for you

I decided to treat my students to a movie tonight. They had been so good the last three weeks—two of which were dedicated to workshops—and since they were turning in final projects tonight, I felt a well-deserved break was in order. (The fact that this movie showing fell on the same night that I’d be administering student evaluations is completely coincidental.)

It’s a good thing I didn’t tell them the movie I brought in was some sort of reward for good behavior. That is because they did not share my enthusiasm for this particular motion picture. The movie I’m talking about is called Repo Man. If you’ve never seen it, you’re only hurting yourself. Maybe Emilio Estevez, too.

The only thing I told my students before showing them this movie was that it defied most, if not all, of the rules/guidelines to writing fiction. Here was an example of someone breaking rules, yet still creating a compelling story (at least, in my opinion it does). A sad attempt at justifying me showing the movie, I know.

While we watched Repo Man, I kept an eye on my students for their reactions to plot holes, cheesy lines of dialog, and extreme moments of convenience. This is what I got: blank faces, looks of confusion, one girl shaking her head in disbelief. My students hated the movie. Instead of rewarding them, I put them through a traumatic ordeal—one that’ll require years of therapy and soul-searching in order to grasp its reason for occurring.

Think I’m joking?

After the movie, the class was completely silent. Everyone got up, quietly, and started to leave the room. No one answered me when I said, “Any questions about the Final next week?” One of my students passed by and said, “Where do you find these movies?” with a level of incredulity reserved for the truly disturbed. Another student said she didn’t feel like she was on still on this planet. Then she said, “I can’t process what just happened.” Which sounded like a pretty alarming response.

Next week, when they come to class for their Final, I’m going to have Peanut Butter Cup chocolate chip cookies for my students. It seems like the right thing to do.

My Bad

My mom and I made a delicious array of food last night for today's feast. She made/baked two pecan pies and a sugar-free pumpkin pie; I took care of the yams, stuffing, and cornbread. It all turned out good, for the most part.

Adding sour cream to almost any recipe makes the end result better. In the case of my cornbread, the sour cream ensures the loaf doesn't dry out. Last night during our marathon baking session, I forgot to incorporate sour cream in the cornbread. Thanksgiving is ruined because of me.

Brother, can you loan me a dime?

Has anybody seen this list of jobs for people who don't like people? Writer made the list, of course; it is one of the most perfect ways for an introvert to keep busy. But the thing that unsettles me about this article is the salary listed below Writer/Author. According to this list, the average Writer/Author makes $53,070. The reason this is unsettling: I don't think this figure accurately represents what the average writer makes. Or maybe I should rephrase that. I think the spectrum of different kinds of writers is too wide for them to be lumped together in this one category.

The writer working for a marketing or ad agency might make close to that figure. A journalist who has been working in the field for many years (and at a major market paper) could make that much, sure. But to include Authors in the group is where I think the disparity grows too wide. On one hand, you have a writer like Tom Wolfe who can get a $7 million advance for a book he hasn't finished; then you have a writer like David McGlynn who sold his already-written book for $500 and a box of contributor's copies. And maybe, if you add up all the advances and royalties from authors, combine that with the highest and lowest paid copy writers, journalists, and marketing/advertising/technical writers the average salary does come up to $50K a year.

My point here isn't to (poorly) display the financial injustice that plagues the American writer. What I want to point out is that that figure listed under a category that includes Author could give teens and young adults the wrong impression of how much writers make. Most authors in America have day jobs--like the "Ponzi Scheme" relationship between writer and teacher--in order to make money. Often, writing literature alone doesn't pay the bills. I worry that students might see this list and get the wrong idea about how easy it is to make money as an author or poet. Sure, it can be done, but the odds are against you. I'm glad my writing professors in undergrad reminded their classes of this constantly. I'm not so glad that I ignored them completely.

I guess it's only fair

If I'm going to reveal embarrassing episodes of Kate sleep-talking, then I should probably share mine, too. From last night:

Me: Mmm...AH-MEE

Kate: What?

Me: AH-MEE. We should get Oreos, AH-ME, and other things to put on the flattop grill. Mmm...

I then woke up and (kind of) remember Kate asking me what are the other things we need for the flattop. We tried figuring out what I was talking about in my sleep. I thought AH-MEE was a mispronunciation of my childhood word for ice cream: AH-MA-NEW. Don't ask why I called it that; I'm really not sure. Maybe I couldn't say the words 'ice cream' the way some kids can't pronounce the letter R. Kate's theory: I was trying to say Mommy. Which would make sense, since my mom will be visiting for Turkey Day. But that seems creepy, since I don't like the idea of having dreams about my mom and/or calling her Mommy. So I vehemently denied the possibility that I was trying to call out to my mom.

I still have dreams (nightmares would be a more accurate classification) where I'm working the food service jobs I held in High School. Usually, I'm working the oven at Nancy's Pizzeria. It's a conveyor belt oven that never stops and eventually, the number of pizzas coming at me becomes too much to handle. They spill over the side and land in the buckets of scalding hot water we keep on the floor to let the saucy, cheesy pizza soak in. And because my job at UPS--two years after working at Nancy's--was all conveyor belts al the time, the pizzas in this dream turn into packages. The summer before my first semester teaching, the boxes burst open when they landed in the water buckets, sending plumes of student essays into the air.

That's not what I dreamt of last night, though. I never worked with a flattop grill or served ice cream at Nancy's, and the closest thing we had to Oreos were cannoli. So maybe last night's dream had something to do with Thanksgiving. I had to go shopping today to buy the rest of the ingredients for cornbread and stuffing, and maybe the thought of doing so got me worked up to the point where the anxiety seeped into my subconscious. It wouldn't be the first time.

In the early 90's, I went with my cousin and his family to a Ukrainian summer camp in Canada. My dad had talked up the fishing in Canada so much that my cousin and I thought we would be catching our daily limit in trophy-winning fish each time we went out. He told us that because of the high temperatures and because we would be fishing from shore, the best time to catch walleye and pike would be early in the morning, before the sun had a chance to warm the water and chase the fish into deeper water. When we arrived at the camp, it was past eleven. We could see the Northern Lights above the tree line that surrounded the camp. I remember thinking it was one of the coolest sights I had ever seen. Then we all entered our cabin and saw several unraveled rolls of paper dangling from the ceiling. Each twisted strip was polka-dotted with dead flies. That was the last thing I remember before passing out. Kind of...

I have a vague recollection of talking to my aunt in the middle of the night--she in her bed, me struggling to open our cabin door. Apparently, I could not wait to go fishing because when my aunt asked me why I was up, I told her I was on my way to the lake. Not only had I been sleeptalking, I was also doing some very real sleepwalking. I wonder what would have happened had I made it outside.

Could that be what my dream last night was about? An inability to contain my excitement? I am super excited to make food for Turkey Day. And in preparation, I've been watching a lot of cooking shows on the Food Network, the Travel Channel, and PBS, though I'd probably be doing that regardless of whether or not I was cooking. Maybe I just want to get it done with so that I don't have to worry about it anymore and can enjoy hanging out with some pretty fantastic people. I'd like to think my dream was something as reasonable as that and not some nightmarish recreation of the past.

Putting a lid on it...kinda

So it's been over a week since I've last updated this blog, and there are plenty reasons why I haven't posted anything new in that time, but I feel that listing all of it would make me a hypocrite. The reason: I'm getting increasingly annoyed with some of the writers and artists on Facebook who constantly update their statuses by letting everyone know how much work they've gotten done. I'm not talking about the occasional update or the updates about upcoming shows and readings; I'm talking about those who are dead set on reminding their virtual friends a dozen times a day that they are, in fact, hardworking artists.

Maybe they provide updates on their progress--not their process--as a way to stay on track, Facebook acting as some sort of support system. Maybe I'm on Facebook too much. The problem I have with the incessant writerly updates is that it seems to border on being obnoxious. "In case you may have forgotten--and since it's been almost half an hour since my last update--I am a writer!" For some reason, it seems like an inappropriate medium for delivering such messages. I mean, isn't that what blogs are for?

Maybe I'm blowing it out of proportion, and maybe I didn't need to engage the "hide" function for those few offenders, but they really got to me, and I needed to blow off some steam. Which brings me to my next order of business: I apologize for the rant. Hopefully I can keep that to a minimum now that I've setup a new blog dedicated to ranting about one of my (many) arch nemeses. TV commercials.

You can find the blog here: Your Commercial Blows Goats

I needed a forum, separate from the personal blog, where I could let loose on the hacks that interrupt my TV stories. This way, if you want to read my blog but don't want to hear me bitch, you can still pay me a visit here. And if you do want to hear me rant, check out the new site. The choice is yours; I'm not forcing it down your throats the way Facebook sometimes can.

If you're going to be a creep, be prepared to face facts

I'm a creep. That's not news, really; I've been a creep for quite some time. Specifically, though, I engage in a practice that I'm sure colleagues and other teachers have performed but might not talk about openly. I Facebook stalk my students.

This usually occurs twice during a semester: before the first class meets and after Final's week. I look up everyone on my roster before the semester starts because I like to get a feel for who's in my class, and I check after the last meeting to see if anyone's bitching about me or my class. Side note: it's amazing how many of these students don't privatize their accounts. Anyway, I would tell myself that my FB stalking at the beginning of the semester was a way to match students' names to their faces quicker. Until last semester, while performing my FB search in one window, class roster open in another, I called bullshit on myself, realizing I could care less which name belonged to each face. Bottom line: I'm just a nosey little bitch.

That, combined with an afternoon bout of lethargy a week back, led me to conduct a midsemester FB search of my students. And of course, one of the search results yielded exactly what I was hoping no to find: a student bashing my course in his status updates. Every Monday, either before class or after, there was a negative review of my class. "Are there any justifiable reasons not to go to class a class?" read one status, posted half an hour before our meeting time. Another said, "[Name] Wishes he wouldnt have taken intro to creative writing, not one of my better ideas....." The most recent simply stated, "intro to creative writing sucks."

A story recently appeared in the news about a woman who was fired for saying nasty things about her boss on Facebook. Now I know I'm not this student's boss, and he wasn't saying anything about me personally, but it got me wondering about the limits of my jurisdiction. What if someone committed academic dishonesty and posted something about it on Facebook? Could I be like this teacher and enforce some sort of punishment? Would it just be considered hearsay? And would I be investigated for Facebook stalking if I were the whistle-blower?

This student sits along the left side of the classroom. He's in my periphery when I'm standing up front, delivering the lecture or leading a discussion. Often I see him roll his eyes, but it hasn't looked like a sign of disgust. The way he rolls his eyes--quick, and in groups of threes--had made me think it was some sort of a tick, like he had Tourette's. Maybe I'm just naive, delusional, or in a massive state of denial. But now I'm aware that's rolling his eyes in disgust, and that my Intro to Creative Writing class totally sucks balls.

It's an insecurity I've been clinging to while this whole job search has generated few job interviews and ever fewer jobs: I'm under-qualified to teach any subject at any level. This FB status, along with the student's classroom presence, seemed to validate the notion. He represented the entire class, along with every class I've taught. My mind continued rolling down the slippery slope, until I got to class. Instead of letting my insecurity rattle my nerves, I let my insecurities fire up my cruel side. I lectured, never posing questions or giving the students a chance to speak. I maintained a firm tone and didn't vary the lengths of my sentences. When it came time to discuss upcoming due dates, the discussion remained one-sided. I told them not to bother turning in work late because anyone who didn't turn in their assignments on time would receive zeros. I had gone over everything I possibly could in preparation for the next three weeks in this curt manner. It was brutally boring and completely satisfying. I had reasserted my power as the almighty Instructor.

Then I checked the clock. Only an hour had passed; the class was supposed to go another two hours and forty-five minutes. I had nothing left to say. That's when I took a breath and realized that I had misdirected my anger for what one student had said and projected toward the whole class. I was pretty sure it didn't teach that one student a lesson, and the rest of the class was probably wondering what was up my ass. So I toned it down and opened up the class for questions. They came flying from every direction, so I slowly explained everything they needed to know in order to get a passing grade in my class. Whether I took it too far while acting like a jackass, or whether ended up pussing out, one thing remains constant: when it comes to Facebook, I'm a creep.

Sleep Talkin' Woman

At Five this morning, I woke up to a very interesting situation. I was having a dream—a very lucid one—where I was driving on a highway that goes through a rural town. The speed limit reduced from something very high to something more residential, and I was in the right lane behind a semi truck. A very loud shrieking noise, maybe even a snap, caused me to slow down quickly, distancing my car from the semi, which was then sidewinding over two lanes and causing its now-malleable trailer bed to crack the whip toward my car.

The semi ended up missing me but crashed into a farmhouse at the edge of the upcoming town, and its occupants—along with the driver himself—were already on top of the truck’s hood assessing the damage by the time I slowly rolled by. The driver ratcheted something with a wrench while smoking a cigarette; they were all talking about how to get the truck back on the road. I’m that close to this group of people and also, now—for reasons I can’t explain—I’m no longer in a vehicle; I’m walking by the scene of the accident.

That’s when I Kate woke me up by talking in her sleep. She spoke very clearly, to the level where I thought she was messing with me. I couldn’t remember everything she said; she said a lot, about two minutes worth of material. But I’ve written down several lines.

Kate: So much. So much. SO MUCH…poo. SO MUCH. Kate. Kate. Kate.

Kate: What. What. What. Kate. Kate. Kate. (More chants that sound as if she adopted the persona of one or all of the clients where she works)

Kate: (I accidentally pulled part of the covers away from her shoulder) Burrrrr. What the what, yo? I’m half-cheekin’ over here, dude.

Me: (Cracking up) Kate, you’re talking in your sleep.

Kate: Uh-uh

Me: You’ve been doing it for over a minute now.

Kate: (Rolls over to face the other way) I definitely haven’t been. That’s part of the counter [work] at Jakeeno’s.

Kate: Ja-Kee-No’s shufflin’ (indecipherable, but sing-songy)

Me: Kate, wake up; you’re talking in your sleep.

Kate: No way. You’re pure evil. Pure evil.

At that point, I got up--I had to--and wrote as much as I could remember. When I got back into bed, Kate woke up and we talked about what had just taken place. She thought I had made the whole thing up; she would never say those kinds of things. This was, in her mind, my way of messing with her. Which I do pretty often, because she talks in her sleep every night. Usually, though, the words are mumbled and can hardly be classified as being words. It kind of freaked me out that what she had said was so clear and understandable.

I didn't think about at the time, not until I woke up a few hours later, but I probably shouldn't have tried to wake her. Can't that cause a person to go into shock or react violently? Or am I thinking about sleepwalkers? I'm sure it can be embarrassing for the sleeper to realize they've been communicating without knowing it, but that didn't seem to be an issue; she's a heavy sleeper and didn't even remember having the 5am conversation about her sleeptalking. (Also, I got her persmission to post this, proving she's pretty tough.) I'm wondering what she'll say when we're asleep tonight. Hopefully, I'll get to hear it again.

Mix and Match Mess

Call it consumer advocacy or some sort of good will: Kohl's won't let you buy a pair of shoes if the sizes don't match. Even if one of Kohl's employees put the mismatched pair together and slapped a clearance sticker on the box. Even if you tell them it's okay, it's not that bad, you're only going to wear these shoes a few times. They'll call someone in that department to check it out for you, but in the end they won't let you buy it. They're looking out for you, right?

I call it a conspiratorial passive-aggressive upsale of epic proportions.

Instead of getting the $30 pair of mismatched black dress shoes--which I need for the job interview/meeting on Wednesday--I had to spring for the $65 pair of brown shoes, because I wasn't about to shell out nearly $100 for the only other acceptable black pair. They had some black loafers for about $70, but those shoes either looked like plastic or like the kind a five-year-old might wear or like a combination of the two. So I went with the brown shoes and decided I'd wear khakis.

Here's what I didn't take into account with the brown shoes until I got home:

That a black belt--which is the only color of dress belt I own--doesn't go with brown shoes.

That none of my ties go with brown shoes, either.

That I don't own brown, beige, or tan socks of any kind (hopefully my pant legs are long enough to conceal my whities).

Also, the wrinkle-free tag on my dress shirt must have been meant for another shirt and accidentally sewn onto mine, because it looks like it had been stuffed in a toiletry duffel. And no, I don't own an iron.

On top of all that, I have to be in Mankato all day tomorrow. No time to shop. And when I finished shopping today, I got home to find a sale flier for Kohl's--though, upon further review, I wouldn't have been able to use the discount until Wednesday, which would end up making me pressed for time. The circus never ends.

Since my schedule's pretty full for the next three days--and since I clearly don't have much to say, based on today's post--my updates might not be so spectacular this week. But, c'mon; have they ever been?

And the painting's done...

...for now, at least. I finished up the bedroom last night, and I'm exhausted, my back is sore, and I'm pretty sure the paint fumes fucked (and, today, continue to fuck) my lungs. I already briefly mentioned the issue I ran into--painting in tight quarters, among other things--while working on the office. The bedroom, however, posed a completely different problem. Them walls done soaked up all my paint!

Either the walls in this room haven't been painted as much as the others, or the temperature in there caused them to react this way. I didn't even use an entire gallon in the office, while I used a gallon plus in the bedroom. On the second coat, when I saw that I was going to run out, I made sure to save the area behind the bed for last, since it would be covered up.Thankfully, you can't really see that the Majolica Green is lighter just above the pillows (pay no mind to the floating orbs).

Now for the issue of covering up the light spot. Sherwin Williams doesn't sell quarts of the Classic 99 in a flat finish, and I wouldn't need that much anyway. I'm not buying a whole gallon--even though another coat wouldn't hurt, if I decided to go that route. I think about the way Kate rationalized not painting the ceilings (which have some cracks along the surface), when deciding whether or not buy another gallon: if we owned the place, it would be worth putting that much more time into this project. Besides, what if another gallon still isn't enough?

So we talked about getting a headboard. Which would be awesome and is something we hope to get eventually, but right now it's not a priority. Here's my idea: I go to Sherwin Williams and ask for one or two of those paint samples that cost a few bucks each. We'll see I can pull that one off. Here are some pictures of the office/guest bedroom, painted the same color:

(Zappa poster's throwing a weird glare on the wall. Just wanted to point out that it's not another missed spot.)

College Anxiety

Let's just say that when the Dean of Faculty from Rasmussen called on Thursday, I was indisposed. Figures. My insides have a staunch record of going to war with each other at the most inconvenient times: minutes before taking the ACT, during a student conference and, most recently, after Kate's sister's wedding dinner at an Indian restaurant. These interruptions, they happen. Sure. And doesn't it seem like you completely re-prioritize your life when they occur? They always seem to cost me, whether it's my dignity or, in the Rasmussen case, a potential job.

My phone had been on silent because the night before, Kate and I went to the Parkway to watch Trekkies and I never turned the ringer back on. I didn't end up checking my phone until half an hour after my interruption. I had a missed call from an unknown number and initially figured it was the DFL calling again. They had called several times a day leading up to the election, and I hadn't bothered answering because I didn't recognize the numbers and figured a message would be left if the call was important (I found out it was the DFL by performing reverse phone look-ups online). Two things made me realize this call wasn't the DFl, though: the election ended two days earlier and unlike the missed calls from the DFL, this person had left a message.

The Dean of Faculty had said in her message that she'd like to talk to me about possibly teaching an English Comp class for the Winter Quarter and to call her back at her direct line. This was a job listing I had found on Craigslist while I should have been writing cover letters for three jobs I had been putting off applying to for nearly a week. Instead of getting those applications out there, I had decided to do another job search and when I found this listing, I jumped all over it. This position didn't pay as well as the other listings, nor was it as stable of a job. But it was a teaching position--the others weren't--and while I'm still not sure what I want to be when I grow up, I like the flexibility and opportunities that adjuncting affords at this time. Even if I can barely afford to live on the wages these positions pay.

So I called her back immediately, maybe a little too hastily. Because several problems occurred when I returned her call: 1.) I couldn't really catch her name in the message, 2.) I didn't initially know her title at the school, 3.) I didn't really know too much about the school, aside from what friends who work there have told me, 4.) I had no idea what I would say, and 5.) I was so shocked/excited/nervous while listening to the voicemail message that I must have stopped breathing, because while her phone rang I thought my heavy panting was going to blow out the mic in my cellphone.

She didn't answer; it went to her voicemail. Great, I thought. Now we'll have to play phone-tag game. Her voicemail greeting did identify her title; however, I still couldn't understand her when she said her name. I left a terse and awkwardly stressed message, mumbling her name in case I got it wrong. Should I have been surprised that she didn't call back that day? She didn't call back, which I thought was odd. I mean, she left a message for me to return her call, I returned it a half hour later--still early in the afternoon, mind you--and then nothing. Of course, I panicked about the message I had left her, replaying the tiny details that may have led to her reneging on the possibility of a phone conversation. Like I said, I mumbled her name. Maybe that had something to do with it. Or maybe she didn't like the fact that I said, "If youneed to get back to me..." which I immediately realized made me sound disinterested, so I overcompensated with an emphatic, "TODAY!" Whatever I said, I had come to the conclusion that this message was her way of testing me, a pre-interview of sorts, and I did not pass.

So I told the story to Jorge while he was over here the next day. And he gave me some advice that seemed way too logical: How about calling her again? I thought about it, but didn't want to sound too desperate or seem like I was being a pest. Plus, that level of directness has no place in the passive-aggressive state of Minnesota. But with the weekend only a few hours away, I figured what the hell. So I did and she answered (again, mumbling her name) and I spoke her name quickly and she asked if I'd be interested in checking out the campus. Whew. That wasn't so bad.

But now I'm not sure what to expect about this campus walk-through. Is it an interview? Do I need to dress up? Should I research the school? I'm going to prepare for this meeting as if it's an interview--better to be safe than sorry, right? I've been feeling good about this; really good, in fact. It's a huge weight off my shoulders to know that my applications materials haven't been total shit, that not getting interviews from all the other places I've applied wasn't necessarily my fault. That, in a way, I've been accepted, even if I'm not offered the job. But I know that come Wednesday, I'll start to freak out. Traffic will be worse than expected and I'll be late. When I get there, my palms will sweat and my voice will shake. No matter how much I try to mentally prepare myself, I'll be a nervous wreck. Something might interrupt our walk-through, causing me to re-prioritize my entire Rasmussen visit.

Broken Strings

In June, I broke a guitar string and because I didn’t have an extra one lying around or the money to buy new strings, I put my electric guitar in its case and haven’t touched it since. I’ve strummed the acoustic a few times in that time, but never for any extended lengths of time. I haven’t jammed or worked on new songs or played the typical go-through-the-motions warm up riffs. I’ve just stopped playing.

The longest I’ve gone without playing guitar was during junior year of high school. That hiatus began around early November and ended in late May, the entire length of my tenure working as a pizza maker at Nancy’s. Work and school consumed so much of my time that I never really went out on weekends or saw my friends in a social setting. I had a reason (or excuse) for not playing guitar: there just wasn’t enough time in the day. I’d have an hour between work and school, which I’d spend half watching TV and half watching the clock, agonizing how badly work would be that night. And after work, I’d have to complete my homework, or—depending on how awful the shift was—watch a movie in order to come down so I could fall asleep and do it all again the next day.

Back then, I didn’t look at playing guitar as a way to collect my thoughts, relax, or unwind. It was a chore, something that made the blues get bluer. It was after I had quit the job from Nancy’s, when I started hanging out with my friends—all of whom played guitar, especially when they were hanging out—again that I realized how far behind I had fallen in terms of playing ability. They were all better than me, and I felt this need to catch up. So I played constantly—even while watching TV or movies, which bugged the shit out of my little sister—and I got to the point where I could keep up with my friends.

While there was that competitive reasoning for sticking with guitar, I also really loved making music and playing in bands. The dream of being in a touring band, however, ended for me after college. It seemed like I had reached a plateau in my ability to play, like I was never going to get any better than I already was. I could barely write a song for shit, and everything I did write was pretty generic. I wasn’t breaking any new ground or rocking the foundations of preexisting musical genres. To put it simply: I wasn’t saying or playing anything that hadn’t already been done to death.

I haven’t come to that realization with writing stories yet, though I’ll likely reach that point eventually. But one of the ways I’m able to stew over ideas, phrasings, figuring out what I want to say or how I want to say it, is by picking up my electric guitar and playing scales or riffs or any other runs that I’ve retained in my muscle memory, so that I can focus on completing the piece of writing in front of me. I must have taken thousands of guitar breaks over the course of the last three years, while working on the stories in my thesis. It’s never failed.

This stretch of not playing guitar is the second longest I’ve had since I bought my first electric guitar in 7^th grade. And I don’t think it’s a coincidence that since I broke that string I haven’t finished a single short story, contributed any additional revisions to my collection, or broke any new ground on the novel I stopped working on almost two years ago. I’ve got my folder of start-stops, along with my rationale (excuses) as to why my writing has slowed, but thinking about all that brings the kind of discouragement that would make me slip even farther away from wanting to write. Definitely not a place I want to be.

So last week I ordered new guitar strings, and today they arrived in the mail. I unwound the remaining strings and wiped away the dust from between the pickups. The unstrung electric has a way of looking naked, incomplete. The strings give the guitar its voice; they’re what make it an instrument. Seeing them stretched over the fretboard and through the bridge is a visual reminder that this hunk of wood can be played and make music. Any time I change the strings, strip them from the guitar, I get this small flash of compassion for the thing, like seeing an animal with a missing limb. Sounds stupid, I know.

But I’m pleased to report that the new strings are on the guitar, it’s tuned up, and I’ve already gotten in some playing time. I was pretty surprised how much dexterity I had both lost and retained over the five-month hiatus. I thought I’d be worse at some scales and better with pull-offs and hammer-ons, which have frustrated me today since there has been some noticeable atrophy in my left ring and pinkie fingers. It’s going to take some time to get fully back on track; I’ve just got to keep at it.

Squirrels are Passing from Our Lives

One morning a little over a month ago, I stumbled into the kitchen to make some coffee. In that hazy state of waking up, I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary until I began pouring hot water into the French press and saw a small hole in the plastic bag covering a loaf of bread. I had double bagged this bread because it was from the bakery, and the bags those loaves are packaged in don’t keep them very fresh. Plus it adds extra protection against bugs and critters. Or so I thought.

The cone-shaped hole looked like a mouse had bore into the loaf, which made me panic to the point of becoming fully awake. I knew this apartment was too good to be true. There had to be something wrong with it, and this was it: we had mice. I inspected the loaf, hoping to find that some sort of bug had crawled through a gap in the window screen and then burrowed into the bread. When I couldn’t prove this theory true, I turned and noticed the loaf of pre-sliced, store-bought bread on the kitchen table. Its packaging had been ripped to shreds; the slices had been reduced to crumbs. All signs again pointed to mice, until my vision traveled up to the kitchen window, where I spotted a plum-size hole in the screen. We didn’t have mice; we had squirrels.

When we first moved into this place and it was still AC weather, I had installed these foam panels on either side of the window unit to keep in the cold. And in that respect, they worked great. They did not, however, keep the squirrels out. The squirrels chewed right through the panels; and after I had duct taped cardboard over the panels, these fearless, wall-scaling, window-ruining Minneapolis squirrels still kept coming back, scratching at the cardboard like dogs begging to be let back inside.

So when I saw the hole in the window screen, I knew it was the squirrels. I closed the window, then the kitchen door, followed by a search of the cabinets for any intruders. The thought of having squirrels traipsing around the apartment while I sleep made me fearful of ever sleeping again. I forgot about the coffee—it was no longer needed—I had to make sure there weren’t any squirrels in the rest of the apartment. Kate and I searched each room at least twice and didn’t find anything, so we left a message for our landlord in case he happened to look up and see a whole in his screen the next time he was in the backyard.

Our landlord is really down to earth, a great guy, but I’m kind of afraid that something’s going to happen that’ll put us into poor favor with him. Like the fact that we keep odd hours and when we walk around the apartment the floors creak. Since he lives in the unit directly below us and has a regular eight to four job, I’m worried he secretly hates us or is looking for a reason to kick us out. This is an amazing apartment, and I have this weird feeling that our living here will be more temporary than we hope.

Which is why I was hesitant to talk to the landlord about the squirrels. What if this was what cast us into the doghouse?

Of course, my paranoia got the best of me in this case. The landlord told us about how the squirrels have been a problem he’s fought for the last eleven years. He seemed more concerned about whether any of our belongings were damaged. Like I said, he’s awesome. He suggested we put a tray of rat poison mixed with peanut butter in the windowsill. And when we did this, the squirrels took the bait. The problem, here: the lethal concoction drew more squirrels to our window than we had ever seen scale the building. And what happened when we caught them in the act of snacking? They posed.

It wasn't easy to scare them away...


...and when we did succeed at scaring them, they just came back ten minutes later.

We went through almost an entire box of rat poison trays when we decided they just weren’t working. I had gone back home for a wedding—more specifically, Jenny Hartigan’s kickass wedding (which I’ll be writing about in the very near future)—and while I was home, Mama D received some advice from the fix-it dude about how to possibly get rid of the raccoons living beneath the back deck. Mothballs. Animals apparently hate mothballs, and after I returned to Minneapolis and Kate had purchased a box of mothballs, I found out why animals hate them. They smell like old people. And if there’s one thing that every being in this world can agree to hate, it’s the smell of old people. Dear fucking God, the horror.

Over the span of a week, the squirrels were no long rapping at our window. Either the mothballs worked, or all the squirrels had died from the rat poison. We were able to move on with our lives, and I tried to by finishing up the grand painting project. I only had two rooms left to paint: the bedroom and the office. I decided to paint the office first, because I had found out from talking to our landlord about the squirrels that he used that back room in his unit as the bedroom. I figured: paint that room first, get it over with in case I can’t finish it in one day, so I don’t piss him off and get kicked off. It doesn’t really make sense now that I think about it, but at the time I equated it to ripping off a bandage in one fell swoop, banking on the fact that ripping the bandage off wouldn’t open the wound of eviction.

So I got up early and had finished painting around all of the trim just after noon. I took a small break to check my email, see if maybe one of my students had sent me questions about homework and whatnot, then complete a crossword or three. Two hours later, it was time to paint again, so I unplugged my laptop and got back to it. At this point I was rolling. Not the ecstasy kind of rolling, or the ‘I’m on a roll type,’ but the painting with a roller kind. It wasn’t going as smoothly as I’d hoped because space was at a minimum. I didn’t initially move everything out of the room; it would have taken too long and caused some issues in the hall and other rooms. I just pushed the spare bed, the desk, filing cabinet, bookshelves and printer stand to the center of the room. In order to roll the area below the windows, I had to wedge myself between the wall and all the shit in the center of the room without touching the wall. My legs started to cramp in this position, and my back felt like it was on the verge of tweaking out. That’s when the world came to an end.

Just outside the office window, in the alley out back, I saw a white flash of light at the same moment I heard a zap so startling I though it had come from within my chest. The zap was followed by a hollow bang, like a large metal object had collided with an empty metal silo. A fireball fell to the alley. This all took place in less than five seconds and in that time, I thought a plane had experienced a malfunction upon takeoff and crashed into my neighborhood, ending my life as well as terminating my lease. It had finally happened: the dream apartment was no more.

Of course, my gut shot reaction was incorrect; I was fine. But I couldn’t stop shaking. The noise had been very unexpected and I had been trapped in a vulnerable position. When I finally regained my bearings and made it outside, I saw in the alley the charred remains of a squirrel, curled in the fetal position. A chorus of squirrels—all of whom started moving one way on their respective branches, then turned back and ultimately stayed in place, as if they were just as startled—began croaking in near syncopation. It sounded like they were morning the death of a fallen comrade, or maybe, perhaps, they were warning each other not to go near the live wire. Stay put, think things through, you’ll be okay, they said.

When the Fire Department showed up—the neighbors had called them—they asked what I had seen and if my power was out. I told them I saw the fireball and that my power had only flickered. I said this while keeping my hands in my pockets because I wasn’t sure if they were still shaking. They quickly left, seemingly disappointed that a plane hadn’t crashed into my building. I returned to my apartment and reset all the clocks that had gone out, then picked up my computer. I had unplugged it because I’ve heard too many friends and family tell me how their computers have gotten zapped for reasons beyond their control. Here, I thought, was an instance where my paranoia paid off.

Squirrels and electrical mishaps: you’re no match for this worrier.

TMI or NEI?

Let's say it's an issue of accessibility, but I always leave open the front gate. Could come in handy in the event of an emergency. The problem: sometimes monsieur l'homme makes a break for it and tumbles into the...uh...parkway--past the first level, we'll say, but not into the open air. He can't go far, I know this; but when I'm speaking in front of a class full of twenty-somethings about a Sharon Olds poem--which, of course, is quite sexual--well, the realization of having "breached level one" can be both uncomfortable and shocking.

Painting Update

I haven't finished painting, but this is what the apartment's looking like to date. I've provided various angles of the painted rooms to give you a sense of the layout. Please excuse the clutter.

As stated in a previous post, the living room is painted Crewel Tan. Here's the view from the dining room.

Here's another view of the living room from within the living room.

The dining room is painted Crewel Tan on the top half and Decorous Amber on the panels within the woodwork.

The hallway walls are also painted Decorous Amber, except above the doors where I ran out of Amber and used the rest of the Tan. Here's a view from the dining room.

Here's a picture of the hallway taken from within the back bedroom/office.

Here we have the Festoon Aqua bathroom.

And now, for the pink kitchen. Originally, we wanted to paint the kitchen a pale yellow, but there were no yellows on the color palette we chose. I went to Sherwin Williams and asked one of the salesmen if he could match a yellow for me. He tried, Lord knows he tried, but he wasn't able to match one of SW's yellows to the three colors with which we had already painted. Cabbage Rose had been the backup. When Kate had suggested this color, I thought it looked like a reddish clay, so I wasn't opposed to it. And when Diana (the only person I know who has a pink kitchen) had said that of the colors on this palette she would paint her kitchen Cabbage Rose, that's when the red flags should have gone up.

Pink.

Pinker.

More Pink.

I will say that the pictures don't exactly represent the Cabbage Rose color too well. The walls look a lot pinker in the photos than in person. Maybe it's the flash? What's troubling is the fact that the swatch matches the walls, which makes me think I'm more color blind than I had previously thought. At least this is a huge step up from what it looked like before--there were cracks spider-webbing the walls, which I patched before painting.

To see pictures of what the apartment looked like when the walls were painted Insane Asylum White, click here.

I'll post pictures of the Majolica Green bedrooms, once I finish painting them.