BFTD

Yes, back from the dead in more ways than one. Most notably, I’m reviving the blog, and I’m doing so because I pledged to in exchange for friendship. Though that was over a month ago, and while plenty of events occurred between the time the promise was made and now—I’ll definitely be writing about those occurrences here, including one that pertains to the title of this post—there was still more than enough time during that stretch to get this going again. And I don’t want to make any more promises about continuing the blog, though I should since I’m supposed to be writing anyway, but I’m going to try my damnedest to post on a somewhat regular basis.

So. Before I write about the things that occupied my time and headspace in the past month plus, a brief recap of just some of the major life events since my last post:

I got two more teaching jobs, including fulltime work at UW-River Falls, where I had my own office and the first inklings of job security. The students were great, and while the materials I had to work with were somewhat regimented, I still had the freedom to bring in additional lesson materials and tailor the course work and class time to my teaching style. Then Governor Walker stripped the UW system of $300 million dollars, which put a nearly 20% gaping hole in River Fall’s budget, so all of the adjuncts in my department were let go, including me.

Kate and I got married. It happened while I was still teaching, and she was still at her first major cooking job, as a sous chef at a farm to table restaurant. Neither of us were making too much money, enough to start paying down our student loans and build some savings, so we kept the wedding simple, getting married at City Hall in Minneapolis in front of family and a few close friends before trekking over to a bowling alley owned and operated by a local brewery, where more of our friends joined us. My mom had a great time—she even high-fived my dad after scoring a mark—and decided to recreate the reception in Illinois, where extended family and hometown friends could come and celebrate.

Then Kate and I bought a house in St. Paul, which turned out to be a mini culture shock, because St. Paul is much different than Minneapolis. The most notable part of the home-buying process occurred when, a week before our purchase was scheduled to close, I found out that River Falls would not be renewing my contract for the following year. The only school that had work for me was in Mankato—about an hour and a half south of the Cities—and it was only one class, which would have paid me $5K over a four-month period. Not enough money to afford a mortgage payment, utilities, student loan payments, and other basic expenses.

So I got a job at a mortgage company. The husband of a former co-worker of Kate’s worked in the industry, and I had had several conversations with him whenever Kate’s restaurant had employee parties where spouses and family members were invited. Prior to going to grad school, I spent three years at a now-defunct mortgage company, so he and I had that in common. When I got word that my contract wouldn’t be renewed, I called him up and asked if he had anything for me. He did, but it was entry level in skill and pay, which didn’t matter to me at the time; I was desperate. Even so, I started at an almost identical salary to what I was making as a teacher, I didn’t have to drive around the state to work each day, and I was only working half the hours—none of which had to be worked from home, which meant when I was done with work, I would be free to do other non-work related things. Like writing.

And for a while, I did write. I just looked at my writing folders from 2015 (when this occurred) and I wrote a lot of words. Same in 2016. 2017, not as much, and I’ve concentrated on writing and playing music more in 2018—something I regret not keeping up with, though I have been unable to stop coming up with new songs since I started up again. I did get a story published in 2012, and I was a finalist for a writing competition in 2013—the year I got the teaching job in River Falls, where I averaged 80 hours a week between working in the classroom/at school and planning/grading at home, which led to me producing the least amount of writing since before I went to grad school. Even though I haven’t been writing as much this year as I did the past three, I’m writing more than I did when I was at peak teaching capacity.

Plus, I recently got a personalized rejection letter—most are automated, unless the editors actually liked what you wrote—from a pretty big magazine for a story I submitted two years ago. They said that each issue since I submitted it (spanning the release of six issues), my story was put into the maybe pile until ultimately they decided there wouldn’t be room for it in the magazine and it wasn’t fair to keep me wondering about its future with the publication. The rejection letter was almost as long as the story I wrote: that is almost unheard of.

Honestly, that rejection letter gave me a glimmer of hope, that I shouldn’t give up on writing. I think getting back into blogging could lead to me maintaining a regular writing routine. I still have stories to tell and love seeing where the process takes me. I don’t want to look back after another five years and find myself feeling regret for not sticking with it, the same way I did with my music sabbatical. I’ll keep you posted. And here’s hoping that the next post doesn’t take another month+.

Stress: Mid-semester, End-of-quarter

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

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

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:

1. The Passage by Justin Cronin *READ*
2. The Stand by Stephen King
3. Lonesome Dove by Larry McMurtry (making its 8th consecutive appearance on the annual to-read list!)
4. The Tin Drum by Gunter Grass
5. Great Expectations by Charles Dickens
6. Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson
7. Independence Day by Richard Ford
8. Lay of the Land by Richard Ford
9. Rock Springs by Richard Ford
10. A Multitude of Sins by Richard Ford
11. Oh What a Paradise it Seems by John Cheever *READ*
12. The Stories of John Cheever by John Cheever
13. Forty Stories by Donald Barthelme
14. Demons in the Spring by Joe Meno
15. The Lazarus Project by Aleksandar Hemon
16. A Farewell to Arms by Ernest Hemingway
17. Light in August by William Faulkner
18. Franny and Zooey by J.D. Salinger
19. Cat's Cradle by Kurt Vonnegut
20. Welcome to the Monkey House by Kurt Vonnegut
21. Not that You Asked by Steve Almond
22. Driving Mr. Albert by Michael Paterniti *READ*
23. The World According to Garp by John Irving
24. This Boy's Life by Tobias Wolff
25. In The Heart of the Heart of the Country by William Gass
26. If Rock and Roll Were a Machine by Terry Davis *READ*
27. Mysterious Ways by Terry Davis
28. Borrowed Voices by Roger Sheffer
29. Fakebook by Richard Terrill
30. Night Birds by Thomas Maltman
31. Throw Like a Girl by Jean Thompson
32. The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen
33. Wind by Leigh Allison Wilson
34. Cavedweller by Dorothy Allison
35. Notes from the Underground by Fyodor Dostoevsky
36. Crime and Punishment by Fyodor Dostoevsky
37. Unaccustomed Earth by Jhumpa Lahiri
38. Namesake by Jhumpa Lahiri
39. A Good Scent from a Strange Mountain by Robert Olen Butler
40. 1984 by George Orwell
41. Animal Farm by George Orwell
42. Times Arrow by Martin Amis
43. The Slide by Kyle Beachy
44. Tooth and Claw by T.C. Boyle
45. Dancer by Colum McCann
46. Going After Cacciato by Tim O'Brien
47. The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien
48. Sonny Liston was a Friend of Mine by Thom Jones
49. The Kandy-Kolored Tangerine-Flake Streamline Baby by Tom Wolfe
50. Close Range by Annie Proulx
51. 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

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

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?

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!

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

Two questions

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

How did Elaine get to the East River so fast?

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

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

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

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

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

Paradigm shift in sports writing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fifteen steps to insanity

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

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

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

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

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

Dad: The director is filming a commercial.

Me: What director?

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

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

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

Me: Buttons too small?

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

Me: I guess so.

Dad: Love you.

Me: Love you, too.

???

Grow Up

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

Here are actual phrases and snippets from football commentators:

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

I rest my case.

Four plus months in south Minnie

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Here's what I do worry about:

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

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

A Little Late in My Rememberance

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

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

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

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

This signaled it was time to go home.

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

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

Comcast Blows Goats

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Community

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ah, man. Can’t you wait your turn?”

“No, this is happening now.”

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

“Don’t leave me alone, Glenn.”

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

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

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

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

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

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