Oh, yeah...

...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

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

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

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

Please insert hilarious penis joke here.

Normally, I can't stand Skip Bayless

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

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?