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

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

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

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...)

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

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

Shit

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

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

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

Sweetness

July 25, 1954 - November 1, 1999

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

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

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

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

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