Bad Cabbage with a Side of Slaw

Stress: Mid-semester, End-of-quarter

2011-03-15T19:22:00.002-05:00

For teachers to ask for more money, better benefits in exchange for the service they provide isn't selfish. To me, selfishness would sound something like this: when I win the Lottery, I'm going to quit teaching.

This week, I'm feeling pretty selfish.

Teeth Don't Fail Me Now

2011-01-28T21:46:00.004-06:00

I can't tell you how happy I was to wake up the other morning to find all my teeth in their proper places. The night before I had had a dream so vivid and drawn out that I couldn't distinguish it from reality. In this dream my molars—both sides, top and bottom—cracked down the middle, and I had to pull them out. They were still lined in rows when I pulled them out. It simply looked like I had bridges that had split in half as a result of controlled gnashing.

At one point during the dream I thought I was aware of the dream state. Then I felt the bloody sockets where my teeth were supposed to be, felt the sting of a fresh wound, and became convinced I wasn't sleeping, that I'd have to go several years without any back teeth because I couldn't afford the dental work. The only thing that seemed out of place, that might have tipped me off to my state of mind: everyone I encountered in the dream—even people that have never been kind to me in real life, but for some reason made appearances—was surprisingly sympathetic to my dilemma.

So, yes, I was very pleased to wake up and run my tongue across a two full rows of filmy, morning-stanky teeth. Still, the vividness of the dream stuck with me all day. It got to the point where I looked up the meaning of my dream online. And being the fine educator and researcher that I am, I stopped searching for answers after the first website I cam across. Here are some of the things it told me:

Dreams involving the loss of teeth are extremely common and are most often regarded by psychologists as signs that the dreamer is worried (consciously or sub-consciously) about the loss or weakening of his or her strength or self-confidence.
Dreaming of losing some or all of one’s teeth can mean “losing it."
To be toothless in a dream can be interpreted as loss of effectiveness.

There were other interpretations, but I felt that they didn’t apply. These ones were relevant to the circumstances surrounding the previous day’s events. They made sense to me. The day before I had this dream, my boss at Rasmussen observed me while I taught. It didn’t go very well (it never really seems to). And not because I wasn’t prepared or didn’t have a specific lesson—it didn’t seem to go well because class didn’t run as smoothly as it usually does.

I happen to like teaching at Rasmussen, because (generally speaking) the students there have very specific goals, and they don’t want to waste their time and money. I respect that. My class at MSU seems like the exact opposite: (in general) they don’t care about the subject or the material, just the grade; they’re shocked by the penalties I’ve set for late work (this is college, for fuck’s sake—I had professor’s in undergrad who wouldn’t even accept late work!); and they absolutely refuse to talk during discussion, even after I remind them that class participation makes up a portion of their grades.

But this bitchfest isn’t about MSU. Even though it kinda is.

The day I was observed, it just felt off. We didn’t click like we usually do, and I thought it showed. That’s when the discouragement started pouring over me. I got down because I thought the off day represented my ineffectiveness as a teacher. Which led to a slippery slope of justification for all the reasons I should get out of the field.

Reason number one for wanting to get out: my writing has suffered. It’s not that I don’t have time to write; I’ve been making time. The problem is that when I do write it’s a whole lot of shit. I know, I know. You’ve got to work through the shit in order to find the gold, and whatnot. Easier said than done. When I sit down to write, I can’t get into the dream or find out what my characters are thinking. The only thing that cycles through my mind is why the hell it took me an entire two-hour class period to teach college students what’s a thesis statement.

Maybe it’s because for-profit colleges don’t have admission requirements, which means some of the students they “accept” might not be college material?

Maybe that’s an unfair assumption. Maybe the ridiculously low wage I earn for the amount of work I’m doing is creating a level of bitterness that serious educators shouldn’t possess.

See. Right there. That’s what I’m talking about. A real teacher wouldn’t think that. A real teacher would want to help students, regardless of superficialities like pay. Right?

I still help my students. But I also think my bitterness is somewhat justified. My work comes home with me.

I’ve begun conducting new job searches, hoping to find some full time work. A few of the positions I’ll be applying to are teaching jobs, and I think the full time status will help ease some of my reluctance toward the profession. I’m tired of the commutes in opposite directions (77 miles to the south once a week, 21 miles to the north twice a week—those are one way figures, keep in mind). It’s literally and figuratively turning me around and making me dizzy. If I only have one work destination, with one set of policies and procedures, maybe I won’t be as down on myself as I have been. Maybe in my dreams my teeth will remain intact.

2011 Reading List: So far, so good

2011-01-17T12:07:00.002-06:00

I'd say that the start of 2011 has gone well. I'm watching a lot less TV and am reading constantly. The amount writing, however, has only increased slightly from last year, which is not where I'd like to be. Hopefully I turn that around soon.

Anyway, I stated in a post a few months back that I wasn't going to buy any new books until I read a substantial number of the ones I already own. With the exception of buying and receiving some as Christmas presents, I've stuck to the plan. So far, so good.

Here's the tentative 2011 reading list I had setup at the beginning of the year. These all fall under the category of books I own or have in my possession, but haven't read. I hope to add more, once I've burned through most (if not all) of these titles:

The Passage by Justin Cronin *READ*
The Stand by Stephen King
Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry (making its 8th consecutive appearance on the annual to-read list!)
The Tin Drum by Gunter Grass
Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson
Independence Day by Richard Ford
Lay of the Land by Richard Ford
Rock Springs by Richard Ford
A Multitude of Sins by Richard Ford
Oh What a Paradise it Seems by John Cheever *READ*
The Stories of John Cheever by John Cheever
Forty Stories by Donald Barthelme
Demons in the Spring by Joe Meno
The Lazarus Project by Aleksandar Hemon
A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway
Light in August by William Faulkner
Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger
Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut
Welcome to the Monkey House by Kurt Vonnegut
Not that You Asked by Steve Almond
Driving Mr. Albert by Michael Paterniti *READ*
The World According to Garp by John Irving
This Boy's Life by Tobias Wolff
In The Heart of the Heart of the Country by William Gass
If Rock and Roll Were a Machine by Terry Davis *READ*
Mysterious Ways by Terry Davis
Borrowed Voices by Roger Sheffer
Fakebook by Richard Terrill
Night Birds by Thomas Maltman
Throw Like a Girl by Jean Thompson
The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen
Wind by Leigh Allison Wilson
Cavedweller by Dorothy Allison
Notes from the Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky
Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky
Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri
Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri
A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain by Robert Olen Butler
1984 by George Orwell
Animal Farm by George Orwell
Times Arrow by Martin Amis
The Slide by Kyle Beachy
Tooth and Claw by T.C. Boyle
Dancer by Colum McCann
Going After Cacciato by Tim O'Brien
The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien
Sonny Liston was a Friend of Mine by Thom Jones
The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby by Tom Wolfe
Close Range by Annie Proulx
Five Skies by Ron Carlson

Fifty-one. Fifty-one books, AH-AH-AH-AH-AH. Admitting that I've never read some of these books (I won't say which ones, though you could probably figure it out) is kind of embarrassing, considering they appear on high school English curricula. That's why this is the year I knock those out, in addition to some other long overdue reads.

I've already finished four of the books on this list, though three were pretty short. That leaves me with forty-seven books to read in just under eleven and a half months. What is that, like four books a month? No problem, so long as I continue my current pace. The prospect of buying new books will be acting as my motivator.

Just a quick note on my mind

2011-01-13T18:56:00.003-06:00

Right this minute I'm experiencing tiny vision. If you're not familiar with this phenomenon, it's when you achieve a level of exhaustion/sleepiness/hunger that makes everything around you look like it belongs in a doll house. Which can be cool, because you almost get this out-of-body sensation, like you're watching yourself while buttering bread or typing a blog post or wiping buttery fingerprints off the keyboard of your laptop. But it can also be a little scary, especially when you stand and discover a previously undiagnosed fear of heights. Yikes.

Turning a Corner

2011-01-08T23:13:00.001-06:00

First week teaching at Rasmussen is in the books. So far, I’ve been surprised about how well it’s gone. The full-time English professor there—as well as friends and acquaintances who work, or have worked, for Rasmussen—had warned me about what to expect: teaching there’s a challenge, it’ll take some getting used to. I was advised on how to handle both the school’s protocol and potential issues with students that could arise. I welcomed the warnings and the advice; however, all of this information sent the mercury in my anxietometer bursting through its glass casing.

I started having first-day-of-class nightmares, the ones where I show up to class and find that I haven’t written a syllabus, I’m unable to think of anything to say, and none of the students are willing to take me serious. That led to lack of sleep, which caused a major dip in my productivity, and then I became convinced the nightmares would play out in real life.

Since I began teaching I’ve gotten the first day jitters each semester. Sometimes they go away before class starts, other times they’ve receded as I commenced with taking attendance and reading the syllabus. The worst I ever had them was the first day teaching my own section of English Comp, fall of my second year at MSU. I had been stressing out because I would be teaching a class predominantly made up of freshmen at10:00 am, beginning on a Monday. Which meant that for some—if not most, or even all—of these students, I would be the first college instructor they’d be encountering, EVER.

If that doesn’t scare the shit right out of you, then you probably enjoy watching puppies being drowned by the sackful. Because 1.) I hadn’t had much experience teaching (two or three times leading a class as an intern, maybe two teaching demonstrations), and 2.) these kids (or, more likely, their parents) were paying a lot of money for me to gain on-the-job training.

I was psyching myself out of a limited (not every grad student got a Teaching Assistantship) and very necessary (if I wanted to pursue a career in teaching) opportunity. In an attempt to snap me out of this nervous funk, I kept reminding myself of these key points. But that didn’t work. If anything, it made me more anxious.

The morning of my first class, I arrived to the room and found nearly all of my students standing in the hall, waiting for me to let them in. It felt as though they were all looking down on me; none of them, it seemed, were shorter than six-five. So I fumbled for my key card and without looking up to check the time, I unlocked the classroom. The door swung wide open, giving my students and me a clear view of the previous class still in session.

The Instructor in this class, along with her students, stopped whatever it was they had been doing and gave me the kind of slack-jawed stare reserved for perverts who like to crash brisses. I apologized, began closing the door, apologized again before the door hit the jamb, and turned to face an entire class of Power Forwards. I didn’t try to crack a joke, make a face, or anything else that might have cut the tension of that moment. I did the only thing that seemed right at that moment: I went to my office.

It was just down the hall, not more than thirty feet away, within view of the classroom. Keys already in hand, I went to work at the lock. The jitters, however, had taken full effect. My palm was sweaty and my hand shook like a jackhammer. The first key didn’t work, neither did the second. Then my second attempt with the first key failed, and I almost dropped the whole set. I turned my head to see the students in the hallway still looking at me. Their stares seemed to slice through me, circumcising me at the neck. I felt my chin fall to my chest, my head detach from my body and roll behind a nearby trash bin.

The next few seconds were a blur, but somehow I was able to pick my head up, find the right key, and enter the sweet sanctuary of the English Teaching Assistant’s office. There I chuckled about what had just happened, which allowed me to take a deep breath and steady my nerves. I took another minute before going back out into the hall, finding that my students weren’t giants and that they really weren’t intimidating at all. The first day of class was a breeze after that.

In the semesters that followed, I’d still get jittery on the first day and telling myself that story wouldn’t necessarily work in calming me down. I’d get to class feeling nervous and think, “This is the day I’m going to completely shut down in front of my students.” But that feeling would soon pass once I took attendance.

This past Tuesday, however, I was a major wreck. It seemed like I was missing something from my materials, or even some understanding of what was expected of me as a teacher at this school with which I’m not completely familiar. I could have sworn I was forgetting something so basic and obvious that simply showing up to campus would make me look like the world’s biggest fool. So when I arrived to campus, I made sure I was wearing pants before stepping out of my car. They were on, and they were zipped up. No visible stains in or around the crotch: we were good to go.

And when I entered the building, I was completely calm. My heart rate seemed normal, it didn’t feel like my limbs were filled with air to the point of shaking: I wasn’t nervous. Same went for being in the classroom, talking to my new set of students. I could feel my confidence level increasing with each passing minute. The students helped, I think. They were nothing like what I had expected (in terms of attentiveness and professionalism), based on what I had been told by the full-timer. But that’s not the only reason I didn’t have the jitters.

I think I’m reaching a point where I’m confident in my ability to speak and share knowledge in front of people, without fear that someone’s going to call me out on my bullshit. Not that what I thought I was teaching was bullshit; rather, I feared that if someone tried to contest an idea I was sharing, I wouldn’t be able to justify its validity. But I realized that I am perfectly capable of justifying my ideas and that the classroom is the perfect place to discuss, work through, or explore alternatives to those ideas when someone is having difficulties—for whatever reason—grasping them. There’s no need for me to worry about something as trite as public speaking, especially since I know what I’m doing. I got this shit down.

New threat from China's stealth jet?

2011-01-06T09:04:00.002-06:00

Because nothing spells out imminent danger quite like an internal rhyme scheme. If this jet somehow leads to the next world war, I'm blaming cable news and its insistence on creating something out of virtually nothing just to be the one that broke a story first.

There, I got it out of my system for the day.

Bert's been circled!

2011-01-05T14:37:00.002-06:00

And now he's headed to Cooperstown. Congratulations, sir; you've waited much too long for this honor.

Two questions

2011-01-04T17:24:00.003-06:00

1: Have you ever had one of those really bad headaches that you know--that you're dead certain--is from dehydration (based on the fact that you've had lots of coffee--THREE CUPS!--and little water--one cup--in the course of an entire day), so you chug a glass of water, but that only intensifies the headache, so you decide to let a mouthful of water sit in your mouth, hoping that your body's tissue will absorb it, send a signal to your brain that says, "We're not dried out anymore!" and the headache will go away, but instead you forget about the water in your mouth because you're exhausted--probably from being so dehydrated--and pass out, only to be violently awakened by a dream where you were drowning in puddle water, when in fact you were choking in real life on the forgotten water trickling down your throat?

2. It's still Tuesday, right?

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

2010-12-29T18:38:00.006-06:00

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.

2010-12-28T21:45:00.003-06:00

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

2010-12-23T15:49:00.004-06:00

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.

2010-12-22T16:18:00.004-06:00

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

2010-12-18T23:13:00.003-06:00

I planned on purchasing tickets to the Wolves-Bulls game that takes place in March.
We needed--yes, needed--frozen pizzas.
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.
Green Mill pizzas are not very good, and they're definitely not worth $7 a pop.
But two tickets and two pizzas for $14? I figured, why not.
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.
I was surprised they didn't ask for video of me eating the pizza to ensure that I didn't just throw it away.
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).
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.
Kate and I made and ate the pizzas over the next few days, and we confirmed that Green Mill pizzas are not very good.
But, hey. Even when pizza's not very good, it's still pizza.
At least, that's what I tell myself after eating mediocre pizza.
Today I realized that I forgot to remove the proofs of purchase from both of the Green Mill boxes.
The trashman picked up recycling on Thursday, so those boxes are long gone.
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

2010-12-13T17:09:00.003-06:00

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

2010-12-12T19:10:00.001-06:00

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

2010-12-10T22:26:00.007-06:00

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

2010-12-08T22:28:00.002-06:00

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

2010-12-06T10:31:00.004-06:00

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

2010-12-03T12:50:00.001-06:00

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

2010-12-02T02:32:00.000-06:00

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

2010-12-01T01:51:00.001-06:00

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

2010-11-25T10:40:00.002-06:00

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?

2010-11-24T12:44:00.002-06:00

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

2010-11-22T22:39:00.002-06:00

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

2010-11-21T18:11:00.005-06:00

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

2010-11-12T19:41:00.002-06:00

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

2010-11-11T12:30:00.003-06:00

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

2010-11-08T19:03:00.004-06:00

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...

2010-11-07T18:59:00.005-06:00

...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

2010-11-06T21:32:00.001-05:00

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

2010-11-05T02:14:00.001-05:00

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

2010-11-04T04:10:00.001-05:00

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?

2010-11-03T01:35:00.002-05:00

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

2010-10-31T23:09:00.013-05:00

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.

Quick Break

2010-10-30T14:34:00.002-05:00

This has been going around on Facebook, so I apologize if you've seen it already. For those of you who haven't seen it, enjoy. I'd like to meet the person who made this Xtra Normal video and shake his or her hand. Nothing but brass tacks in this exchange. If we could all be so honest, so direct.

In other news, the kitchen's been painted. It's pink. I got duped into painting the kitchen pink. Dammit.

A Piece of Advice for Those of You Looking for Jobs:

2010-10-29T00:04:00.003-05:00

Make sure you spell the name of your potential employer correctly on the cover letter.

Today, after (another long) job search, I found a posting for a Reading Instructor at a school I thought I had applied to. When I had originally applied to this school and never heard back from them, I got pretty down. I knew some people who taught there, who I believed I was more competent than when it came to teaching. After digging up the cover letter I had sent this school back in July, I noticed that I had misspelled the school's name, which knocked me down from my previously situated position atop the pedestal of bitterness. No wonder I never heard back from that school.

Rendered completely embarrassed by the situation, I deleted the old cover letter from my hard drive and continued browsing job listings. I finished the search, applied for a position at Rasmussen in Brooklyn Park and filled out a questionnaire to become a volunteer with the Minnesota Literacy Council, then I went through the bookmarked pages to delete expired job listings. That's when I came across the new listing for the Reading Instructor at the school I thought I had applied to again. This time, however, I noticed that the listing wasn't for the same school--the first one was a community college, this one was a technical college; they had different addresses and contact info--so I applied for the position.

And you better believe I proofread every application material I wrote and filled out. Let's hope the outcome is (a lot) better this time.

As soon as I get this going again...

2010-10-28T16:17:00.002-05:00

...a roadblock develops. Actually, this is a welcome roadblock, one that I had planned for prior to reviving the daily blog. Over the next few days, I'll be painting the bedrooms and kitchen in our apartment, which should wrap up all the painting that needs to be done here. I bought the paint last week, but haven't had an adequate block of days to begin the final leg of this project. Plus, it's been too cold to be painting, since the walls need to be, ideally, at least 57-58 degrees for the paint to cover without running. And those fumes can be (a little too much) fun without the aid of a cracked window.

To date, I've painted the living room, dining room, hallway, and bathroom. We decided to follow Diana's lead and use one of Sherwin Williams's color palette, so that each room would flow nicely into the next. Here's a link to the one we used; it's called Victorian, if you'd like to reference any of the following color names. We went with Crewel Tan in the living room and the walls above the chair rail in the dining room. The wall panels below the chair railing in the dining room, as well as the hallway, are painted Decorous Amber, while the bathroom is painted Festoon Aqua. For the bedrooms, we chose Majolica Green and the kitchen will be Cabbage Rose, which Diana helped us pick out.

I was going to post pictures of the already painted rooms, but the apartment is kind of a mess right now, so I'll wait until everything's painted and back in order before I show you the finished product. With that said, I might not be posting to this blog on a daily basis over the weekend, but know that it's because I'm working round the clock to paint before we experience a deep freeze. At which time I should be posting here more than I need to/should. Hopefully.

Three Books

2010-10-27T22:09:00.018-05:00

Since May, I've gotten a lot of reading done. I had looked at my book shelves and realized that there were too many titles I hadn't gotten to, yet I was still buying books (someone's got to, right?). So I wanted to plow through as many as I could before buying any new ones--kind of like the way Bryan Johnson had setup that sidebar on his BOMM blog, where he had to read X number of books before he made any new purchases. I didn't set any specific goals for myself, but did aw-ight for a while there, getting through several titles already on my shelves. Then I moved closer to Magers and Quinn, found some awesome deals on Amazon--which led to the purchase of a new book shelf and the acquisition of another from one of Kate's family members--went to the Rain Taxi Book Fair, found even better deals on Amazon, and now I'll never need to get a library card for as long as I live.

BUT I've actually been reading the new books I've purchased, so that the ever-expanding "To-read" list doesn't get even more out of hand. Two of those books are Paul Harding's Tinkers, and Jonathan Franzen's Freedom. I didn't review either of these for the lit blog because I really didn't think they'd fit. While Tinkers is Harding's first book, it' been out for some time--long enough to win the Pulitzer--so I wouldn't have been getting the word out for that title. And Franzen's too big. His newest tome has been receiving glowing reviews from every major publication under the sun, which is why I think it's getting nearly as many one-star as it is five-star reviews on Amazon. Too much hype, maybe?

Anyway, I know I've reviewed a couple of books by writers who don't fit the theme of the lit blog--like Brady Udall and Brad Watson--but that's because those books were given to me by the publishers so that I would review them. That wasn't the case with Harding's or Franzen's books, but I thought I'd briefly share my take on them here.

Simply put, Tinkers is the story of a middle-aged man, George, on the verge of death, coming to terms with the strained relationship he had with his father, Howard. Beautifully written, the novel shifts back and forth between George's and Howard's points-of-view, while also jumping through time. From a prose and style standpoint, I thought Harding did a brilliant job of exploring how hazy memory can be, how time can play tricks on the mind, and which events in people's lives not only perceiver and stand the test of time, but can haunt them until their final days. In terms of plot--and even character, at times--this book wasn't very compelling. I think it's because it lacked concrete scenes. When there were scenes, they were fantastic. Such as how Howard acquired a signed first edition of The Scarlet Letter, or how he almost bit off George's fingers. I flew through these parts of the story because they were interesting and, unfortunately, too quick. More frequently, the novel consisted of characters ruminating or reading instructional passages on clocks or building birds nests. Again, these passages were well written, but I found myself fading during these stretches. I wouldn't say that Harding placed style over substance--there's definitely meaningful emotional weight in this story, and everything that's in there needs to be in there--I'm justing saying that overall, it wasn't my cup of tea. It's worth a read, and at 192 pages, it won't take up too much of your time.

There is no "simply put" with Franzen's novel. It's like Terry Crabtree said in the movie Wonderboys: "What he means is...it's difficult to distill the essence of a book sometimes..." If I were to give you a full synopsis of the book (which is 600 pages), it would end up being a 5,000 word plot summary. If I reduced it to a few sentences, as the book jacket does, the book would sound trite. I'll say this: Freedom is a dead-on portrait of an American family going through the ups and downs of the last decade. The world of the story--which mirrors the political and social climates of our world to a T--and its characters--who are directly involved with issues relating to the times--are so fully imagined that I got the feeling I was eavesdropping on the lives of real people. I had to know what was going to happen next; I craved to keep reading this book. Maybe I, too, am a victim of/sucker for all the advance hype it received. I don't think so. All I know is that I'll be reading his last novel, The Corrections, some time soon. Hopefully not before I get through more of my collection, though.

And now, for a little Rolling Stones. I heard about the new Keith Richards memoir, Life, a few weeks back and thought that I would eventually want to read it, but that doing so wasn't an urgent matter. Then I read the very approving Michiko Kakutani review, something that only happens once or twice a year, in the New York Times. And now I want to buy this book.

Not because it got a positive review, but because of what information the review gives its readers in terms of Richards's insight to fame, music, image, and Mick Jagger. The lines from the book provided in this review are eloquently written and have a somber, almost tragic, tone to them:

"I can't untie the threads of how much I played up to the part that was written for me...I think in a way your persona, your image, as it used to be known, is like a ball and chain."

Now I know Keith Richards didn't write this book himself; journalist James Fox is listed as a contributor. But apparently the memoir isn't just a collection of musings from an old rock star. Richards used old letters and diary entries from earlier in his career for material, as well. I'm thinking that Fox was more of a director, asking Richards questions so that the memoir remained focused, or transcriber for the book, maybe polishing up some of the more garbled responses to questions. If you've ever heard (and could decipher) or read interviews with Richards, he's got some pretty smart things to say. Of course he'd need a contributor; most celebrities do when writing a memoir. And I can't imagine Keith Richards sitting at a desk, typing on a computer. But I can see myself reading this book and probably will sooner than I get to The Corrections.

Under Pressure

2010-10-26T23:56:00.005-05:00

So this makes sense. The barometric pressure in southern Minnesota the past day or so has been comparable to a hurricane, and according to the Star Tribune these storms could be the worst Minnesota has ever seen (in terms of low barometric pressure). There have been reports of tornadoes and micro bursts, and MSP reduced the number of open runways from three to one, canceling and delaying flights. Which, along with Obama visit on Saturday, could account for the lack of jet noise the last few days.

I have a tendency to blame the weather for my mood, and I'd like to say it's been the reason I've been off these last few days. It definitely adds up. But what I find to be weird is the fact that today--when the winds were at their worst, rattling the windows like an intruder trying to break in, pushing my car all over the road on my way to Mankato, nearly shoving me to the ground as I walked from the free lot to campus back to the free lot--I perked up. No idea why, but I felt pretty good today.

That is, of course, until I got home and found out that the replay of the new Sons of Anarchy episode ran immediately after the first airing. That means I didn't get home in time to see it, because I kept my class longer than usual, because the last two weeks none of my students have wanted to talk about the assigned readings as thoroughly as they needed to be discussed, SOOOO, because because because because becaaaaause of the wonderful dick I was (to them tonight), I ended up screwing myself over, and I missed my show.

Which brings me to my point: you take the good, you take the bad, you take them both and there you have...

...syphilis

The Fall of Oh-Ten

2010-10-25T14:09:00.003-05:00

I have such a difficult time getting out of bed on days like today, when it should be colder or warmer than it is, but gray clouds, sporadic breezes, and humidity confuse mind and body into feeling every which way but right. The weather's been like this for the past three days, and I can't seem to shake the sense of being weighed down.

There's been an inconsistency with sound outside, too. On Saturday, Obama was at the U for a Mark Dayton rally, making Minneapolis a virtual no-fly zone for the better part of the afternoon. Since we live only seven miles from the airport, I usually hear planes taking off and landing. That wasn't the case on Saturday, and it cast an eerie silence over the day, like I was in a constant state of waiting. Like I couldn't go on living my life until I heard the sound of jet engines accelerating through the tropospheric barrier.

Then, yesterday, I went for a walk and could hear planes taking off and coming in for landings, but the cloud coverage was so thick I couldn't see them. Which threw my bearings totally out of whack. Hearing those planes overhead but not being able to see them made me wonder where exactly they were located in relation to my walking route. If one happened to break apart midair, I didn't like not knowing where the debris would land.

Not being able to see those planes made me question my sanity. What if they weren't really flying? What if the sound I was hearing was just in my head? Should I have asked the woman who was walking her dog if she could her them, too. (I seriously thought about it.) I had to talk myself down and realize that the anxiety was all in my head.

Maybe it's just the pre-winter jitters, or maybe I'm stressed about not hearing back from potential employers. Whatever the case, I'm not a fan of these cold, gray days.

Free Will

2010-10-24T20:29:00.002-05:00

If you've ever had Munchies, you know that they're a mixture of pretzels, Chex, cheese crackers, bagel chips; they sometimes include Doritos or Cheetos, and often have a seasoned coating. They're a perfect blend of all the snack items you could want.

In theory.

I've got a reoccurring problem with the makeup of Munchies. There always seems to be one item in the mix that's on the verge of extinction the moment you pop open the bag, (Currently, that item is Chex.) and that's the one thing I want most. Of course, it's never the one item that seems way more abundant than the others. (Pretzels. It's always, always pretzels--I mean, if I wanted this many pretzels, I'd buy a fucking bag of pretzels.)

I could just buy a box of Chex, but there's something about the magic of the mix--the combination of flavors, the mystery each handful--that makes it a welcome crap-shoot. It's like listening to the radio instead of a CD or an MP3 when you're on a road trip: you may hear a song you didn't know you wanted to hear. I'm okay with imbalance in my snack food bag's ecosystem, so long as I get a taste of something I didn't know I was hungry for.

But usually the same thing happens: I realize what it is I really want after I've opened the bag, and there's not enough of it. This same thing happens when I go to restaurants. Usually I regret getting what I got because the person or people I'm with get something that looks, smells, or (in the case where I get to sample the other dish) tastes better than my order. Sometimes I wonder if I'm in a perpetual state of wanting what I can't have. Or, more specifically, I want whatever it is I didn't choose. That doesn't seem like a very good way to go about living life. I'm pretty sure that's breaking one of the Ten Commandments.

Back on track?

2010-10-23T20:46:00.002-05:00

Okay, I need to get back into the blogging game. It seems the stress brought on by not having job security--or enough work (that actually pays), for that matter--has become the perfect excuse for me not maintaining this thing. <----Warning: that was a shitty sentence! Which is one of the side effects of not writing on a consistent basis, I'm told.

One of the reasons I haven't been blogging--aside from having the mindset that I could be doing more important things, or general laziness--is that there's not a lot of news in my life. If I posted on a daily basis, you'd be hearing me bitch about how I'm still looking for either more part-time work or a full-time job, that it seems like I've written more cover letters than I have short stories, or that I haven't been writing that much. Blah, blah, same boring shit.

I'm working on a new blog, where I bitch about commercials. Right now, I'm generating material and trying to figure out how post videos on Wordpress--they don't always work. The goal there is to get this misguided anger I have toward specific commercials out of my head so that I don't develop a brain tumor. But that could end up exacerbating the problem. I'm hoping to post regularly on both blogs, in addition to the lit blog (yeah, that's still around, too). We'll see how long that lasts...

Time to get back to the NLCS, so that I can hear fantastic commentary from Tim McCarver, such as this:

"Oswalt just came into Aubrey Huff's power slot."

Based on your articulation of events transpired, Mr. McCarver, it seems as though we were watching two very different games.

Oh, yeah...

2010-08-29T11:59:00.002-05:00

...I've got this blog. Which I don't update on any sort of regular basis. Maybe it's time to say goodbye to Bad Cabbage. There's never been any sort of unifying theme going on here and as previously mentioned, I've done a fair amount of neglecting it. Plus, it doesn't seem like much of a priority, what with trying to maintain the book blog, teaching, looking for more work, and continuing to prepare my short story collection for publication (which is a long way off). This is what I'm thinking, though: if I figure out a theme that ties the blog together, I'll move this thing over to Wordpress and start over. If/When that takes place, I'll post the address here so those of you who check the page and are interested in reading the new blog will know where to go.

I live in Minnesota, but I'm feeling California

2010-07-17T20:23:00.022-05:00

Call me a southeast-sider; I'm moving to Minneapolis. Here are the particulars of the new apartment: two bedrooms with walk-in closets; a living room and dining room that, when combined, are bigger than my current place; huge kitchen with new cabinets and a built-in…I don’t know what you’d call it, maybe a floor-to-ceiling hutch; standard sized bathroom; and so much more. Let's take a look.

The Manor.

Let me show you around inside.

Look at the windows!

Look at that archway!

And what’s this? A buffet. Sure, you can come over for dinner; we love to entertain.

This is the backyard, where our landlord has supplied the building with a grill for all of the tenants to use.

But wait, that looks like a garage. Does this mean no more scraping snow off the car in the morning, no more starting the car then going back inside to get ready for work? Could it be?

Yeah, dipshit. You know it is. Now stop acting like a dink and just show everyone the remaining pictures.

Sorry for being obnoxious. I've never had a grown-up apartment before. I'll try to keep it under control from here on out.

Kitchen with the huge built-in hutch.

Kitchen #2

Kitchen #3

Hallway

Bathroom

1st Bedroom

1st bedroom's walk-in closet w/built-in dresser (plus Kate)

2nd Bedroom

2nd Bedroom's walk-in closet w/built-in shelves (plus Kate)

If you visit, we will cook for you and have a bed ready. If more than a few stay at one time, some might have to settle for the couch or an air mattress. In any case: stop on by real soon, you here.

I can't even take a break to enjoy a movie

2010-07-14T20:44:00.007-05:00

I had one of those moments, where—during the opening sequence of a movie, the establishing shots—I forgot what I was watching. Then words began to fade in over a wash of gray-white clouds and I couldn’t decipher whether it spelled out the lead actor’s name or the movie’s title. They came into focus and I had to sound them out phonetically in my head. “THE-BUK O-FEEL-EE.”

What nationality could a person be with a name like that? Nigerian mixed with Irish and Italian? Was he the guy in Blood Diamond, or Kick Boxer? A few minutes later I realized the star of this movie was not Thebook O’Feli. No. I came to this realization after seeing an image of Denzel Washington, watching another minute of The Book of Eli.

If I have to write another cover letter, my brain will liquefy, turn to goo; it will be no more here. The move to Minneapolis takes place two weeks from today. I promise to post pictures of the new apartment soon.

Codebreaking messages from the socially inept

2010-06-29T20:28:00.004-05:00

Here's a transcript of an actual voicemail message left by my dad:

"Hey, this your [click].

It's your dad.

[pause]

Nathaniel Philbrick."

My dad's name is not Nathaniel Philbrick. It's Denis. Or Robert, depending on which government agency or bill collector might be trying to contact him. Nathaniel Philbrick is the author of a new book on General Custer's Last Stand. My dad bought the book because one of his relatives, Dr. James Madison DeWolf, was among the first four members of Custer's regiment to die at the Battle of Little Bighorn. This voicemail message was his way of telling me that he bought the book.

Eleven Stories Spent, One Still in the Hole

2010-05-03T22:45:00.001-05:00

Please insert hilarious penis joke here.

Normally, I can't stand Skip Bayless

2010-03-10T16:03:00.002-06:00

In this case, he's the lesser of two evils--the other being Milton Bradley, of course.

Good luck in Seattle, Milton. Without it, you're destined for an early retirement.

The Home Stretch: finishing that which you've started

2010-03-04T20:12:00.001-06:00

Let’s say something was riding on you making a single layup—your sanity, for instance. You make it, you stay sane; you miss and you’re fucked. No one would stand in your way, either. You’d have a clear lane to the iron. What are the odds you’d make the bucket?

Let’s make it easier: the rim of the basketball hoop is only three feet off the ground and you’re six-one. You could stand over the cylinder, this orange mouth, holding the ball with two hands. All you have to do is let it fall. Nothing but net, right? How certain would you be in your ability to make the point-blank shot? Would your limbs shake? After all, your sanity’s at stake, here.

Perhaps, while taking a deep breath, the weight of anxiety would become too great and the ball would slip through your sweat-slick palms. Maybe you panic and try to catch the ball before it falls, accidentally batting it away. Nowhere close. Maybe you let go early and because you were in the middle of a deep breath, you’re no longer lined up with the cylinder, and the ball skips around the rim. The hollow sound of iron echoing within the sphere of inflated leather, laughing at your misfortune with each bounce—have you lost your mind, yet?

Or worse, maybe your focus remains intact. You stay calm, collected: you don’t even break a sweat. Confidence level is at an all-time high. You let go, but it’s an air ball. It’s not that you’ve missed the rim. No. The ball never drops. It hangs, waist-high, suspended between your open hands and the mouth of madness.

If you go insane, how aware would you be of your mental condition? There’s a good chance you wouldn’t remember having missed the shot. Wouldn’t it be worse to have made it and remember the moment you almost drove yourself mad? Wouldn’t you replay that scene over and over again? Wouldn’t your inability to get that memory out of your head drive you insane?

Here's a question for you:

2010-01-31T16:19:00.004-06:00

When taking a digital picture, how do you get the neon lights in the background to smear across the foreground of the photo? Do you know what I mean? Have you ever seen those pictures that look like the camera person got the shakes right before clicking the fucking button, though the people in the photo remain in focus? Wow, that turned out to be more than just ah question. But you've seen these pictures, I'm sure. Most likely on FacialBook, too.

I want to know how these pictures can be taken. The reason being: I don't ever want to accidentally take a picture that turns out that way. It takes away from the focus of/people in the picture. If the subject of the photograph isn't interesting enough on its own, then it's probably not worth taking a picture of it in the first place. Those types of effects act as a photo dressing, some flitzy accessory to distract you from realizing that whatever you did the night those pictures were taken was really fucking boring. You want lights zipping past your face like that, get some glow sticks and go to a rave.

oup-ta, oup-ta, oup-ta, oup-ta, oup-ta

Seriously?

2010-01-23T15:13:00.002-06:00

Some of the remaining '85 Bears are remaking "The Super Bowl Shuffle."

For a Boost Mobile Commercial.

Lame.

2010-01-21T19:32:00.000-06:00

Fuck you, winter funk. Fuck you.

Talk Dirty to Me

2010-01-20T23:33:00.002-06:00

Late night commercials and informercials are my favorite. They're hilarious, ridiculous, and horribly produced/constructed. One that I have trouble with, though, is the phone sex commercial for LiveLinks. There's a line in the spot that says something to the effect of "It's a proven fact: talking is more stimulating than typing."

I guess the phone sex industry, like almost every other business, has been negatively affected by this internet thing, or whatever the kids are calling it these days. But instead of focusing solely on the positive aspects of the service it provides, LiveLinks decides to setup a compare and contrast between itself and its main competitor--the internet. Stu-pid. Have you ever searched for anything on the internet? It doesn't matter what you type, something sick, twisted, sexual, or a combination of the three will come up in the results. No amount of talking can compare to that.

Also, the "Typing vs. Talking" argument the commercial poses makes me wonder if LiveLinks is comparing cyber sex to phone sex. Isn't cyber sex an antiquated practice? I don't know. Maybe it isn't. I've heard things about kids today having the sexting on their phones, so it stands to reason that it can still happen online. LiveLinks should really present some stats. How many people still use chat rooms? Which areas of the brain are triggered by talking/hearing as opposed to typing/reading? Does it depend on the person? I know I've read some pretty stimulating literature (in chat rooms, too). And even if LiveLinks was able to prove that talking is more stimulating than typing, its forgetting one key factor: the other people in the chat room with whom you're communicating can't hear you cry when it's over.

Sha-la-la-la

2010-01-19T17:28:00.002-06:00

Here’s a picture of the fam on Chirstmas Eve. From left to right, we’ve got me, Reeners (Mom), Lara (little sis), Val (older sis), and Israel (brother-in-law). Doesn’t my mom look like the littlest babooshka in a series of Russian nesting dolls? She definitely doesn’t look happy here. Which reminds me of another photo. In fact, it was our first picture taken together, and just like this one, it shows how massive I am compared to Reeners. When I was born, I was three feet tall and weighed 35 pounds. The photo shows my dad in the foreground, holding me up like a trophy winning musky. In the background, you could see the doctors resuscitating my mom. Unfortunately, the photo no longer exists. The trauma my birth inflicted on her was too great to bear. It was the first time I almost killed her, and fifteen years ago—when she saw the picture hanging on my bedroom door—she snapped, ripped it to pieces, and had a nervous breakdown. The visible effects of that episode can still be seen in this picture.

She is not amused.

Time Heals Nothing

2010-01-18T10:39:00.000-06:00

Psycho Joe wants my blood. He’s angry for the way Cornelius and I ended our friendship with him. So angry that he’s threatened our lives. While traveling back to Minnesota during the Winter Break, an email popped up on my phone. It was an alert notifying me that Psycho Joe had sent me a message through Facebook. Thank God I was stopped at a wayside when I read it, because if I had seen it while driving I likely would’ve veered off the road. The subject line: long time. The message: it’s been awhile.

I left my mom’s house that day with a full pack of cigarettes for the road. From Wheaton to Rochester—about a 4 ½ to 5-hour drive—I smoked six or seven cigs. From Rochester to my apartment—two hours, at most—I finished the pack. That message really stressed me out. I figured this Facebook message was a way to strike fear into me, let me know that I’m still on his shit list.

While we were all still in college, one of our friend’s sister worked with Psycho Joe at a health food store. When we found out, I wondered if he would try to find us. At that point, I felt guilty and ashamed about what I had done, but I didn’t want him to confront me. I figured he was angry, and I figured right. The first time he talked to her about us, he said, “I want to kill Dan and Cornelius.”

I hadn’t heard from him firsthand since Cornelius and I had played another friend’s graduation party the summer after we graduated from college. Our friend’s cousin, who happens to be friends with Psycho Joe, was the party and must have told him that we were there, too. The next day, Cornelius and I both got phone calls from Psycho Joe. When I saw his number on the Caller ID, I reverted back to my teenage self and let it go to voice mail. The second the light indicating a message began blinking, I checked the message. It was ten to fifteen seconds of maniacal laughing. I erased the message and tried to put it out of my mind, though Cornelius and I would talk and stress over it for the next few days.

The last time I had seen Psycho Joe was at College of DuPage, nine years ago. I was walking up the stairs in the Student Center; he was walking down. It was a passing period in the afternoon, so the area was crowded. When we crossed paths and made eye contact, his lips curled into smile that seemed to say, “If it weren’t for all the people around, I’d shove you over the railing.”

When I got back to my apartment in Minnesota, one of the first things I did was text Cornelius to tell him about the Facebook message. He agreed with me: it was creepy. We traded messages trying to figure out what it meant and what I should do. During this exchange, Cornelius told me he heard that Psycho Joe had recently gotten out of jail. This didn’t help matters. One of the reasons we stopped hanging out with him in high school was because his behavior seemed on par with that of someone bound for jail. The phone calls years ago felt like a scare tactic. I couldn’t figure out what he was trying to do with this message. If he had been to jail, who knows what he’s capable of doing. Maybe it was a way to get his feelings off his chest, some sort of rehabilitation and he was going about it in a socially awkward way. Or maybe some horrible things happened to him in there, and now he’s looking to take out his rage on those of us who have wronged him. Not knowing was stressing me out the most. So I decided to respond to his message with, Yeah, it has been.

The way we ended our friendship with Psycho Joe has pretty much tormented me ever since it happened. We all had been good friends during our freshman and sophomore years at West; but during the second semester of that second year, we were noticing several disturbing changes in Psycho Joe that made us rethink our friendship with him. First off, he was getting really into the fact that his friend, J.J., was a Gangster Disciples legacy. J.J.’s dad or uncle happened to be a high-ranking member of the gang in the early seventies. Psycho Joe thought this was great and began associating with other people in the area that wore the GD colors and who, at the very least, acted as though they were in the gang. Psycho Joe knew how to form his hands into all the gang signs. He made Xeroxes of them, placed the pages in a binder, and one night he showed Cornelius and me the whole thing. The way he explained the numbers and which way to point, it seemed like he was trying to recruit us.

I didn’t really think that he was going to join a gang. We lived in a pretty well to do suburb, and the chances of him breaking in seemed slim. What worried me was the idea that the boredom of living in an area where kids resort to petty crimes might cause him to one-up the taggers and the destroyers of mailboxes by committing more violent crimes. I had my reasons for feeling this way.

One night at the Baja’s—this clearing along the Prairie Path where underage kids partied—Psycho Joe tossed back a mouthful of Percocets and tried to pick a fight with this Indian kid who was older and twice his size. The reason: the Indian kid had an ongoing tiff with J.J. Psycho Joe got his face kicked in pretty bad.

After that, he began bringing weapons, pot, and scripts (that he had illegally) to school. At one point, he asked me if I’d stash a quarter ounce bag of weed and his butterfly knife in my locker because he had already been caught with drugs in his. He began telling Cornelius and I about the people he was hanging around when he wasn’t with us. Usually they had some sort of gang affiliation and access to drugs that I’d never consider taking. It all became too much. We were fed up with him and came to the conclusion that we needed to stop hanging out with him to avoid the consequences of his actions.

He was no longer going to West by our junior year. Why, I’m not sure, though I’m guessing it had to do with the locker searches. But that didn’t stop him from calling us. And instead of telling him that we didn’t want to be his friends anymore, instead of trying to find out why he was on a path of self-destructive behavior, we simply stopped answering his phone calls. When we’d see his number on the Caller ID, we’d let it go to voice mail. When our parents would tell us he was calling, we’d say don’t pick it up. If it was too late and they had already picked up, we’d tell them to say we weren’t there.

I can imagine how damaging that would be for someone to go through. When you think you can count on someone to be there and they’re not, it’s heartbreaking. I know we didn’t go about it the right way, but what the hell did we know? We were sixteen and dealing with some pretty heavy shit of our own. We didn’t need the added worry of getting in trouble by proxy. We felt that distancing ourselves from him was the only choice. Still, I’m not proud about the way it went down.

Psycho Joe’s response to my Facebook message rubbed me the wrong way. It said, so what is dan dewolf up to these days? If we were sitting in the same room while he said this to me, his delivery would be condescending and filled with suppressed anger. He’d be leaning back in his chair with one arm slung over the backrest, one leg crossed over the other. He’d have a shit-eating grin on his face. I think this because he didn’t say, what are you up to these days. And because nothing in his past would lead me to believe that he’s genuinely interested in what I’ve done, unless it somehow gave him insight to my misery or it provided useful information for attacking me when I least suspected.

For years I’ve had dreams where he’d make an appearance. It’s the same situation every time. I’m running somewhere with a group of friends, though they’re people I can’t identify. We’re not exercising or anything. It’s like we’re really excited to get somewhere else. Right when the group takes off, Joe appears. He’s not visibly angry, and he’s not out for a fight. He looks broken, like he just wants answers, an apology. So I say I’m sorry. I try to tell him I didn’t know any better, and that there was no excuse for ditching him. He doesn’t accept my apology. He doesn’t say anything. When I wake up, my chest and arms feel inflated with rotten air, and I have trouble sleeping the next few nights.

I tried to sound oblivious to our past when I responded to his second Facebook message. I wondered if he would air out his grievances, allowing me the chance to explain or even apologize. But I still feared that he might do something to my mom’s house if he knew I still lived in the area. I said, “Working and going to school in Minnesota. How about you?” I can only assume he figured my response was insincere. Maybe he thought I was patronizing him, or maybe he was upset that I didn’t try to tell him off. Who knows, maybe he was upset that even responded in the first place. But he didn’t send me another message after that. There were no requests for an apology or explanation, and he didn’t take the chance to tell me I was awful friend or a bad person. I’d like to think that he’s decided to let it go, that he’ll stop carrying this anger toward us. But that might be a selfish thing to think. Who knows? He could be working on an epic response. He could be trying to track me down as we speak.

Since I probably won't get a chance to update this today...

2010-01-13T02:16:00.005-06:00

...I'm posting "Carolina" by M. Ward, which will serve as track one on my writing playlist. Other tracks include "Carmelita" by Warren Zevon and "Broken Hearts are for Assholes" by Frank Zappa.

Ah, what the fuck. Might as well post the other two songs while I'm at it. But the rest of the soundtrack will remain a mystery.

I associate this Zappa song with Coffee House--the once a month musical get-together at First Presbyterian in Glen Ellyn. When we were in high school, the Baxter brothers--along with Paul Carmody and Jason Miller, I believe the band's name was Grand Unified Theory (G.U.T. for short)---closed their set with "Broken Hearts are for Assholes" and, afterward, were promptly informed that they were no longer allowed to play Coffee House.

"Don't fool yourself, girl. It's winking at you."

It's a Series of Choices

2010-01-12T20:21:00.006-06:00

Got off on the wrong foot to start the semester. On Saturday, I realized that I hadn't added my English 242 (Creative Writing) course to D2L. When I did add it, a message appeared saying that I would have to wait 1-3 days before it would appear on D2L. For those of you who don't know, D2L (Desire 2 Learn) is an online teaching tool that allows T.A.'s, lecturers, and professors the ability to upload documents, update grades, have discussions--it's basically a way to communicate with students. Which is why I planned on using it pretty heavily this term. But on Monday, since it hadn't been 1-3 days (weekends don't count), I couldn't access my course on D2L.

It turned out to be all right, though, since I still have my Composition class blog up. I was able to post the syllabus there and I used the doc cam to go over a few handouts. The class went pretty well, but it's hard to say whether or not the first day provides an accurate picture of how the rest of the semester will go. I was pretty tired when I taught--I had been up for 22 hours at the beginning of class--and I can't begin to tell you how difficult it was to narrow down the fiction readings. That's what I spent most of the night before class doing. It's what I had spent most of break in terms of preparing for this class. I cut some of my favorite stories and others that I really felt would be accessible. Here's a list of finalists that didn't make it:

"The Scheme of Things" by Charles D'Ambrosio (it literally hurt to cut this one out; everything matters in this story)
"A Small, Good Thing" by Raymond Carver (one of my all-time favorite stories; a lesson in dramatic irony)
"Tits-Up in a Ditch" by Annie Proulx (the release of information and structure are masterful)
"The Testimony of Pilot" by Barry Hannah (one of the greatest first-person, confessionals)
"Big Me" by Dan Chaon (a story that causes the back of your head to be blown away)
"Visitation" by Brad Watson (a devastating and beautiful father-son story)
"The Smile on Happy Chang's Face" by Tom Perotta (contains enough layers to survive a Minnesota winter, in a good way)
"The Bear Came Over the Mountain" by Alice Munro (compelling; surprising and unexpected plot turns--the excellent movie "Away From Her" was based off this story. But I already had a Munro story)
"We Didn't" by Stuart Dybek (lyrical and poetic, I completely relate to the narrator's failed attempts at scoring)
"This is Us, Excellent" by Mark Richard (probably the best ending to a story that's not titled "The Dead"; the perceived image of the carnival ride breaking apart gets me worked up and emotional every time)
"Deep in the Heart" by David McGlynn (the blend of complex characters and compelling plot is a lesson in how to write a damn good story)
"Among the Missing" by Paul Yoon (lyrical sentences and beautiful images of setting, Yoon's observations are so novel and precise that you'll find yourself saying, "I never thought of it like that," multiple times)
"Reunion" by John Cheever (so much power in such a small amount of space)
"Reunion" by Richard Ford (how imitation can be done effectively and how you only need enough plot with which to hang your characters)
"Rot" by Joy Williams (it's not about explaining WHY things are the way they are; it's about HOW the characters respond to the circumstances)

I will say this: As difficult as it was to narrow down my fiction reading list, it's the most fun I've had preparing for a class. I feel really fortunate to be able to teach creative writing this semester.

Ed Micus

2010-01-11T01:00:00.001-06:00

"Get over your problems, and get to work." -Joan Rivers on happiness

2010-01-10T18:48:00.005-06:00

I'm looking forward to the start of the semester. If for nothing else, I'm hoping that being forced to stay busy will help quell the anxiety--over school, yes, but so much more, too--I'm feeling right now. There's a swelling in my chest, a feeling like I accidentally killed someone and while no one knows that I committed this crime, I am consumed with this overwhelming feeling of guilt and can't let go of it.

The obligation to leave my apartment should help me get out of my mind, and hopefully the motivation to complete all my work (on time) will return. My apartment seems as spacious as a cigar box, and every piece of furniture wrecks my back. The weather outside is keeping me in here, though I've forced myself to leave even when I haven't had a valid reason to do so.

Right now I should be working on preparing for my 8am class tomorrow, but it seems like too much. I'm almost there, though. And lately, these midnight sparks of motivation have slapped me in the face and have gotten me (momentarily) back in gear. I'm definitely in need of some slaps to the face. There's no time for wasting and bullshitting from here on out.

Student Evals

2010-01-09T16:36:00.002-06:00

I don't put too much stock into the student evaluations. Most of the ones are blank in the write-in section, and if they're all positive I assume they're just trying to be nice or that I've failed as a teacher. Still, I can't help but read what my students have to say about my performance. The winner for best comment this semester was under the section, What are your instructor's strengths/weaknesses? One student wrote: [E]asily relatable[,] but most of the time it seemed like he could give two shits[.] This pretty much confirms what I already knew. I definitely failed this semester. On several levels.

Emerging K-tard Network (Warning: this is a rant)

2010-01-08T23:19:00.004-06:00

Yesterday at 6pm, the "city" of Mankato declared a snow emergency. I know because I signed up for the text messaging service. If you don't live in or have never ventured to Mankato (you lucky sons of bitches), a snow emergency is something that absentminded city planners come up with when they're not giving themselves rectal exams.

The idea: when snow accumulation reaches at least three inches on the streets, you're not allowed to park your car on them. This way the plows can remove the snow in one fell swoop. The big problem: the shitheads that came up with this idea didn't consider (or inform the drivers) where all the cars could be moved to. Scratch that. They used to have parking on alternating sides of the street, where you park on this side of the street one night, park on the other the next--we'll call it Dre for short (wait for it). But that was when a lot of the streets were one-ways. This past summer, the shitheads changed most of those to two-ways and then forgot about Dre (there it is). It's kind of a you-deal-with-it sort of solution. A shitty one, at that.

I've let my car sit out front until I've seen the flashing light caravan of tow trucks and snow plows riding down Broad. Then it's a race to get the gear on, get outside, and move the car before I get towed. With Mankato's new we-only-tow-side-streets-after-the-snowfall-has-stopped policy, the chance of a clean break from the curb and the tow trucks diminishes. According to that article, the changes to Mankato's plowing policy have to do with budget cuts. I wonder how much the drivers of the gold Toyota Camry and the green Saturn that collided at the corner of Broad and Walnut could sue the city for because their accident was caused by 1.) the six foot pile of snow on the parkways that blocks the view of any cross-traffic, and 2.) the amount of yet-to-be-cleared snow on the streets that made braking an impossibility. How does that figure into the budget? Because that's the third accident at this intersection since December 30th.

Anyway, once it stops snowing and the emergency has been declared, I hate now knowing when they're going to clear my street. Depending on the time, I don't have anywhere to park my car. According to one of my neighbors, the Wells Fargo parking garage down the street is fair game between 7pm and 6am. Last night I decided to give that a go, but I couldn't help but worry if this was the night where Wells Fargo would say, "Nuh-uh. You can't park here." I'm basing the okay on (at the very least) second-hand intel. I parked there anyway, because just like Richard Gere in An Officer and a Gentlemen, I had nowhere else to go.

Just before midnight, my street hadn't been plowed. If I hadn't had (unconfirmed) access to the garage, where would I have been able to park for that long? This "city" is not very big, and these huge fucking plows they use clear the streets in two or three passes. Especially when no one is parked on them. What's taking so long? I know that not everyone moves, and they either plow those cars under or wait. There's also traffic. Yes, I know these things. But if that's the case, why start the snow emergency during "rush hour"? Traffic after seven on days like this is pretty minimal in Mankato. If they're willing to let the snow collect on the streets for as long as they do, why not wait a little longer? Maybe I'm oversimplifying this whole thing.

It got pretty late, close to 4, and I had two options: stay up until the plows clear the road, or wake up early to do the same thing. Either way, I needed to be out of the parking garage by 6am. My mind had shut off, so getting work done was out of the question. I decided to stay up late, so I watched a movie on Hulu. Hardcore with George C. Scott. (Damn good movie; thoughts on it at a later date.) Around 5am, I looked outside and saw that the roads hadn't been cleared. There were, however, three cars parked on my street. I couldn't stay awake any longer and went outside to scope out the situation.

The street was clear around these three cars, and there was enough room between two of them for my car to fit. I was under the impression that if the roads have been cleared during the snow emergency, you could park on the street. So I moved my car from the garage into this free space and went back to my apartment, ready for bed. Then, at six am, on the threshold of sleep, the plow came by. I separated the blinds to check on the progress. Two passes and the road looked slick and smooth. Where I parked, though, a three inch tall mound of snow outlined the row of cars. By no means was this enough snow to be considered plowed in. The outline didn't even push up against any of the car tires. If they were to tow my car, I totally would have been able to fight it. I tried falling asleep, but couldn't. Even if I would win the fight, my car still could be towed, and I didn't want to go through the hassle of reclaiming it and going to a government office on a day when I needed to get shit done before the semester starts. So I put on all my gear, went outside, and moved my car to a clear spot on my side of the street.

Sho 'nuff, the next day all three of those cars got towed so the plows could clear out the outline of snow. This was one time when my paranoia paid off. But seriously, that's complete bullshit that they towed those cars. I'm guessing the city's trying to recoup some of the cost of having to pay the plows, what with all the budget cuts and shit. I know budget cuts are necessary when the economy's in the shitter, but plowing the roads in a town that might as well be in the arctic seems like a priority to me. We shouldn't have to pay for these operating costs at the expense of our cars, our time, and our worry. The fact that it took them 24 hours to clear all the downtown streets in Mankato--Man-fucking-kato, not Manhattan or even a real city--after going through all this snow emergency bullshit is ricockulous. I'd like to go make yellow ice all over the street, but the current temperature is -15 and I fear my sidekick has already holed up inside for the evening. Fuck everything about you, Mankato.

The Class of 2010

2010-01-07T00:00:00.004-06:00

We remember Cubs baseball in 1987. Maybe not the specific details of individual games, but we remember what it meant to hear the announcer call Andre Dawson's name. It signified a good chance for runs to be driven in, for fastballs to soar onto Waveland. We remember our dads whooping and hollering the most guttural cheers when he was announced prior to the first pitch of the All-Star Game. We yelped along, too.

When we played baseball in the Fultz's backyard--usually three of us: two teams of one and an all-time pitcher, the ghost runners waiting on the base paths--we all wanted to be Andre Dawson. The Hawk. And when one of us had to settle and be Ryne Sandberg, we'd grunt, we'd complain, we'd wish we got to be Hawk. We all imitated his stance at the plate, our elbows raised above our chests, tilting the bat slightly toward the pitcher. We kept our back heel off the ground, dug the toe of our shoe into the dirt. We tried to stare down the pitcher. It always seemed to work.

When we'd crack one onto the Shamsi's back porch--our home run fence--we'd trot around the bases like we had been there before. No cheering, no clapping, no celebration. Because that's the way Hawk did it. After crossing home plate, we'd always give a curtain call. Because that's what Chicago fans demanded after he hit a home run. If we made a diving catch or pegged a guy out at home from the outfield, we always played the role of announcer afterward: "And Dawson throws out another runner! Ho-ly Cow!"

We remember Andre Dawson as a source of intimidation who was feared by the opposition, loved and respected by fans. He remember the home runs, the laser beam throws from right field, and the way he tossed his body around even though his knees were torn to shreds. He didn't need to be inducted into the Hall of Fame for us to remember him. But it's nice to know that we weren't the only ones who appreciated the way he played the game.

Out of the Blue, Into the Black

2010-01-05T01:56:00.003-06:00

In the past month, two light bulbs have burnt out in my bathroom. First it was one of the 24" florescents along side the mirror, then the overhead bulb kicked it. On New Year's day, when the sun set at around 2pm, I flicked on the light switch in the kitchen. Two of the three bulbs in my "chandelier" didn't respond. They were dead. Later in the afternoon, I tried to turn on the light in my bedroom, only to hear the all too familiar sound of a light bulb zapping out. At this point, the short list of working lights included the floor lamp in the living room, the other florescent in the bathroom, one overhead bulb in the kitchen, and the little guy in the fridge. Everywhere I turned, it seemed the lights were going out. So I did the next logical thing. I made a bowl of Campbell's Chicken and Sausage Gumbo in relative darkness.

When it comes to heating up a can of soup, I can get impatient. I don't use the stove, I prefer nuking that shit. The microwave I have is quite powerful. It's a 1000 watts of nut-sterilizing power. The only problem with it is that the turntable inside doesn't work. I don't think it's worked for close to ten years. Which means I've got to turn the soup bowl halfway through the cook time in order for it to heat evenly. It didn't fully occur to me at the time, but when I moved the bowl it wasn't very warm. I anticipated it being hot and gave it a quick touch. When it turned out not to be hot, I attributed it to the calluses on my fingers. They're thick, and I usually feel next to nothing. It's like having a layer of scotch tape over them, my own little pot holders.

A bowl of soup usually cooks in about two minutes and forty-five seconds. I grabbed the bowl with actual pot holders, gave the soup a stir, and dug in. The Gumbo was lukewarm, at best. I didn't think anything of it, just popped the bowl back in the microwave for another minute. When the timer beeped, I grabbed the bowl and did the temp test--a finger poke in the middle of the bowl, expecting to get burned. Again, it wasn't hot at all. I decided, inadvertently, to put my intelligence to the test by repeating this process for the next five minutes, while standing directly in front of the microwave. It wasn't until I crouched down and watched the bowl in the microwave that I noticed there wasn't any steam curling from the surface of the soup. That's when it finally hit me: the microwave's broke. Sharp as a spoon.

I don't know if I've ever gone without a microwave before. This is strange and bizarre territory. I'm thinking about letting it rest for a few days and firing it up again. Maybe it just got a little stressed. Works as a raised shelf/timer combo, I guess. But I think it still has some power. Standing in front of the thing for as long as I did caused some minor pain in my testicles--at least, that's what I'm attributing the source of the pain to. If they learn how to open doors on their own, I'll try to warn people before it's too late. But I won't make any promises, since I can barely see in here.

I'm on drugs! (I wish...)

2010-01-04T02:00:00.005-06:00

My back has been acting up since late November. When it's bad, it locks up and sends a jolt of electricity down my left leg. I can tell my spine's out of alignment when the pain gets this bad. If I had health insurance, or extra cash, I'd go to the chiropractor. There's one a block from my apartment. Since I have neither of these things, I take aspirin and perform a variety of exercises that I'd never do in public. Like pelvic thrusts. Nothing says pathetic like an out-of-shape twenty-eight year-old, humping the air and wheezing. And since I gots no rhythm or stamina, anyone unfortunate enough to see me do this would hurl quicker than if they had chugged a bottle of Ipecac. My moves are that fucking sexy.

Recently, though, my back pain has felt less spinal and more muscular. I think it has been directly related to the amount of stress and anxiety I've been carrying. Lots of shit to get done this semester. Lots of shit happening outside of school, too. This is where the aspirin has really come through. Bayer Back & Body, I love you. The pain dissolves within ten minutes of popping a couple of these bad boys. The reason: caffeine. That, and each pill has 500mg of aspirin in it. Money's tight, though, so I recently had to settle for HyVee brand aspirin. The differences are very apparent.

The HyVee brand has no added ingredients, which means no caffeine. I'm in pain in now, pills. How about you start working ten fucking minutes ago. Oh, and when it does kick in, it's nothing to cheer about. As pain-free as the old swab test. But the most ridiculous thing about HyVee aspirin? When you peel back the label to check for dosages, and active ingredients, there's a warning that says, "Do not take if you are allergic to aspirin." This is the generic shit, so the front label says ASPIRIN in bold, black letters. I could understand if it were a brand and the active drug wasn't easily identifiable by the name. But who needs a warning label to tell them not to take aspirin if they're allergic when the brand name is HyVee Aspirin? And under the peel-off label? Fuck you, HyVee. If I can't peel that shit off in the store, how will I be warned not to take something I'm allergic to?

I miss the Vicodin. Ran out of those little gems soon after my lower back started barking at me. They also helped me relax and fall asleep. Which surprised me because the last time I had them I felt like I was building up a tolerance for them. They don't compare to Demerol, though. Have you ever tried Demerol. Holy welcomed addiction, Batman. I could see myself getting hooked on this shit if I had health insurance. The last time I took it, my body melted into the floor like I was the T-1000 from Terminator 2.

It completely calms you down and sends you drifting into a worry-free parallel dimension. My favorite thing to do is fight the urge to sleep, since this stuff will put you down within twenty minutes of taking it. You almost feel the Demerol kick into another gear, ensuring that it knocks you out. The minute I get a real job--one that either provides health insurance, or pays well enough so I can go out and purchase it--I'm going to start getting reckless. Running on ice, jumping off the roof of my apartment, walking blindfolded into traffic: I'll do it all with the hope that I get seriously injured, resulting in a big fat script for the big D.

I know what you're thinking: why don't you just buy it illegally? Shouldn't be that hard to find. Brad from across the street probably has a pretty healthy stash. But I say no to that. I play by the rules. Plus, it's more expensive to buy it from a dealer, and you know how much of a cheap prick I am. Brad would probably give it to me for a few comic books, but then I'd have to help him act out a scene from the Dark Knight.

He'd bind my ankles and hoist me up the VFW's flagpole. I'd dangle upside-down, and he'd yell for me to laugh maniacally like I was the Joker. Then, he'd spit out a line in his best Batman voice, jump for joy--in the process, letting go of the rope--and then I'd fall, land on my head, and break my neck. If I were to survive, yes, I'd get my Demerol. But at what cost? Brad would make an extreme effort to hang out, which means he'd probably let his pet raccoons crawl all over me. And if I'm paralyzed, there would be nothing I could do about that. No, dammit. There's an order of operations to follow, here. First get health insurance. Then get injured. THEN get the big D.

New Solo Project

2009-12-10T15:50:00.002-06:00

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

2009-11-11T20:17:00.002-06:00

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

2009-11-01T18:38:00.003-06:00

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.

2009-10-26T03:06:00.001-05:00

"Phone Call to My Mother"

2009-10-19T10:19:00.003-05:00

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

2009-10-15T11:10:00.006-05:00

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

2009-10-11T22:36:00.003-05:00

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

2009-10-10T22:08:00.002-05:00

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

2009-10-09T09:10:00.003-05:00

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

2009-10-08T23:59:00.003-05:00

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

2009-10-08T01:39:00.003-05:00

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

2009-08-13T18:06:00.002-05:00

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

2009-08-13T11:31:00.003-05:00

6/9/1915 - 8/13/2009

Who knew...

2009-07-31T20:25:00.001-05:00

...Kermit the Frog was so sad.

Summer Writing Playlist

2009-07-31T12:48:00.000-05:00

Track 15:

Summer Writing Playlist

2009-07-29T00:05:00.001-05:00

Track 14:

Summer Writing Playlist

2009-07-27T12:54:00.000-05:00

Track 13:

40-year-old baby

2009-07-24T14:20:00.004-05:00

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.

2009-07-23T16:33:00.007-05:00

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

2009-07-23T13:58:00.000-05:00

Track 12:

Summer Writing Playlist

2009-07-22T22:25:00.001-05:00

Track 11:

Getting back in the groove.

The wait will soon be over

2009-07-05T17:41:00.002-05:00

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

2009-07-03T14:38:00.002-05:00

Track 10:

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

2009-06-29T18:28:00.004-05:00

R.I.P. Billy Mays

2009-06-28T12:29:00.003-05:00

1958-2009

Steve Almond

2009-06-28T12:12:00.000-05:00

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

Summer Writing Playlist

2009-06-27T20:49:00.000-05:00

Track 9:

Language Rant: read at your own risk

2009-06-26T14:04:00.008-05:00

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

2009-06-24T20:54:00.004-05:00

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

2009-06-23T22:29:00.001-05:00

by Anal Cunt

I can't stop watching this

2009-06-21T20:47:00.000-05:00

Summer Writing Playlist

2009-06-21T18:15:00.001-05:00

Track 8:

Summer Writing Playlist

2009-06-20T20:24:00.001-05:00

Track 7:

Daily Musing

2009-06-20T00:41:00.001-05:00

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

Summer Writing Playlist

2009-06-19T17:06:00.001-05:00

Track 6:

Daily Musing

2009-06-18T14:02:00.002-05:00

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.