Got Mashed Potatoes

After the wedding we took the dog to Perrot State Park to camp. The campgrounds were empty. Our site was to the left, facing an open area over a bog. In the distance, three mountains loomed in the shape of steps. We canoed through the inlets of the Mississippi, holding steady where the river joined -- just beyond an overpass where a train constantly ran. We set a fire. We ate hot dogs without any ketchup. It's things like this I worry about forgetting.

CD of the Week: Freedom
Film of the Week: North by Northwest

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CFTP: page 37.

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I went to the grocery store after work on Tuesday. I got my stuff and got in line. There were seven of us in line -- pretty long line for 12:30 am. Finally a second employee opened up the line next to us, and that great thing happened, in which I was the next up in my line, but every fucker behind me cut me off as I went to go to the newly-opened lane. So I got back in my line, the slow line, and every single one of those fuckers got out of the store before me because I had the slow checker. It's like this woman was inspecting each product before she scanned it.

I bag my stuff and walk out, and everything slows down in the lobby outside. There's this tall, blond woman, and her eyes are wide open and wet. She's not looking at me, but she's also not looking at the guy she's with. They stand together, but they face different directions, like they are embarrassed. And as I walk through the automatic doors, it's as if she's going to collapse on the ground and hold her hands against the knees of her blue jeans. It's all she can do to keep it together until I leave the store so she can fall apart.

It's wedding season, folks. Thus, we have . . .

My Top 10 Reasons Weddings Suck:
1. Because five times out of ten, you only know 1-5 people there. How much fun is that, watching a bunch of strangers have fun?
 
2. The creepy photographer. Where do these guys come from? And why do they act like they're capturing something for CNN? They're always running around like they're missing something . . . as if they didn't have a schedule. They're like some bad high school gossip queen, trying to put people together for a picture. And everyone, in this guy's opinion, looks great, just great, as long as you stand still, oh! lift your chin, oh! you're blocking the light!
 
3. All that drama. It's one day. One day. 1. But the bride's mother is on crack, she's so freaked out about anyone ruining her daughter's perfect day. It's enough to tire out a marathoner, just watching these women.
 
4. That crappy cardboard roller that holds the white sheet the bride walks in on. This is such a great metaphor for the whole day. This crappy thing -- that's obviously just a cheap piece of cardboard -- is what holds this supposedly regal item together. And the ushers can never get it right, can they? They're always bobbling it or fumbling for it. It's always getting stuck under the dress; someone's always looking really concerned about it. And it means nothing, doesn't it? All that money and all that time to put together this big, beautiful ceremony in which everything's just perfect -- perfect. So perfect that the bride -- this paragon of beauty and sociality -- walks in on her own special carpet . . . held together by a crappy cardboard roller.
 
5. The Dollar Dance. Who's the cheapo that thought up this one? You're telling me the bride and groom aren't getting enough dough, that they gotta come after guests for more cash, just to dance with 'em?  And there's always that dated humor of guys dancing with guys and vice versa, but for the dollar dance, suddenly everyone finds it hilarious.
 
6. The ultra-conservative minister's speech. Yeah. On the day that these two people who love each other, on the day they have designated as the day they will join together as a family -- why not just bust out with a 15-minute sermon on how impressed you are that they chose the traditional route of marriage during a time in which so many other people are "trampling" on the sacrament of marriage? Yeah. Because I'm sure that's what these two people were thinking when they got together. I'm sure they said to each other, "First of all, I think I would like to marry you because you're a heterosexual, and that form of marriage is the one which honors God." Then, you know what, minister? How 'bout you follow that little ditty up with one about how demure and respectful the bride should be toward her husband at all times; how she should always wear decent clothes that will not offend him. How 'bout you toss that big old log on the fire for everyone to listen to? Because that'd be just classy.
 
7. The God-awful music. Why does it never change? What is it about weddings, that people have to hear the same damn songs? Why do people start getting -- not just angry, but -- pissed off if "YMCA" or "The Chicken Song" doesn't come on? What is it about these damn things that gets people so stuck in their boxes? Why are they so close-minded to hearing anything (God-forbid) new?
 
8. The pictures that take forever. Do they really need 5,300 pictures? Really? Because I know newlyweds. And, yes, they do typically have 10 - 15 pictures of themselves around the house. Yes, tacky -- I know, but that's a juicy post for another day. But do they need 5,300? Does it have to take hours and hours? And why are they taken between the ceremony and the reception? So you're gonna make 200 people wait 3 hours? Listen, all I want to do after that ceremony is drink. Eat and drink. But instead, there's all that sitting around, waiting for the wedding party, as if they were a rock and roll band. And it's not like they were out there creating photographic masterpieces, either. Which leads us to . . .
 
9. The picture of the bride and groom hiding behind a tree . . . and then . . . mysteriously finding each other! Whoo! That was a close one! Thought I lost you there! Cause this happens all the time, you and I getting dressed up like we'll never be dressed up again, and then running out in the woods to get lost between trees. Whoever thought of this picture ought to be taken out back and shot. Because now creepy photographer guys everywhere are shooting this corny shot. But that's not the end of it, is it? Sure on the wedding day, I'm the guy sitting back on the bench saying, "That's a ridiculously stupid picture." But then two months later, there I am in their house, looking at this same idiotic thing, framed for all time. Fuck you, creator of the hiding-behind-the-tree picture.
 
10. The receiving line. Again, the creator of this waste of everyone's time needs some form of torture to atone for what he or she brought upon the world. Here's the great irony of the receiving line: EVERYONE HATES IT. Everyone. The bride and groom. The wedding party. The parents. The guests. Everyone hates it. Everyone. Yet we all have to go through it. Fucking ridiculous.

CD of the Week: Burden Brothers's Buried in Your Black Heart

DVD of the Week: George Romero's criminally underrated The Crazies

"So how was work?"

"After 1:00, I sat and looked at the clock for three and a half hours."

"Oh?  Me too."

Regular readers of wrfarah.blogspot.com will remember a rant I gave last fall for why U2 has peaked.  A fine post, if I do say so myself, and one I still affirm.
 
So we're sitting there at dinner this week, celebrating my little sister Jessica's 16th birthday.  Being further removed from 16 than I am from 116, I asked mom what Jess wanted.  She wanted a U2 cd and a Sinatra cd.  Two choices that prove to me she's gonna turn out OK.
 
So she opens up her cds, and my brother Jon immediately starts ripping her U2 cd.  For the record: my opinion on U2 has not changed since my previous post.  In fact, it may have sunk further, now that news has surfaced that their sole recording of 6 months of studio work has been stolen.  I could go on and on about that one . . . but that's another post.
 
My brother, in his most snickering tone, say, "Ha! The Edge! What a terrible guitarist!"  And I'm thinking, "Huh?"  The Edge may be a lot of things.  We can rip him for his pretentious name, for you name it.  But for his guitar work?  Uh-uh.  I've read a lot of things about U2, and I've read nothing but praise for The Edge's work.  Moreover, I've always enjoyed his work.  So I take this issue up with Jon, giving him a cheap shot about one of his favorite bands, Dream Theater.
 
After much arguing and raised voices -- stop.  Let's explain something about Jon, first.  He's got to be right.  The only time he will not say he's right is if he's in complete ignorance of a subject.  Then he won't as much admit he's wrong; he'll just slump off with a comment like, "So?"  But this time, I wasn't interested in any easy compromises.  In fact, after a good deal of arguing, I said to him, "You know how when two people are arguing, they'll look for some common ground, because people naturally do not like to argue, and like to come to some sort of an agreement to leave by?  That's not gonna happen here.  I'm not letting you off the hook for saying Dream Theater is more influential than U2.  That is nothing but idiocy."
 
Thus, my brother's argument:
1.) Edge is a poor, boring, derivative, contemporary guitarist.  Against my assertion that Edge is a talented guitarist, Jon said, "He relies too much on his pedals."  To which I said, "Do you even know what pedals are used for?  Have you ever seen The Edge play?  Have you ever picked up a guitar?" To which Jon, a keyboardist, said: He plays guitar every day (a lie); and he has seen The Edge play (lie #2).
 
2.) Dream Theater is a more influential musical force than U2.  I'm not even wasting my time, refuting this argument. Rather, I will simply state: if a group of musicians from a cross-section of genres of music were brought together in a room to listen to such a statement, laughter would fill the room.  Or as I said Sunday night: "Jon.  Jon.  You're embarrassing yourself right now.  Just stop.  Stop."
 
3.) U2 is not a revolutionary band because they are a pop band.  No band that gets on the radio can really change music.  To answer this absurd assertion, I merely stated: "But Jon -- you're in a pop band.  You play pop music."  This is the underground highbrow's greatest argument against importance: popularity.  And Jon's bought into it.  To live this philosophy would mean his band would -- if approached by a record label -- have to turn any offer down. 

I gave him plenty of opportunities.  I told him, rip U2 for what they deserved to be ripped for.  But I would not merely sit there and listen to him crap on a fine musician.  One doesn't have to like another's music to respect him.  Maybe we all just need someone to tell us we sound ridiculous sometimes.  God knows I do.  And so did Jon.

Last year at Summerfest, Milwaukee's big 11-day music and drunk festival, I was sitting with some friends listening to this opening act for Jonny Lang, I believe. And it was one of these opening act bands in which there is a band, but really it's all built around one guy. Probably called something like The Jim Danfield Band -- real creative.
 
So we're sitting there waiting for the show, and this guy's going into his last song, but he's talking so much that the song is just never gonna begin.  And he keeps going on and on about how this song is for us.  This is the song for us to sing when we want to stick it to the bossman.  Yes.  When the bossman's gettin' me down, this is the song to sing.
 
Of course what this boob didn't know -- or think to observe -- is that he was singing to a crowd of Mercedes-driving, red wine-drinking bossmen.  Sure, there was your random GenX idiot like me in the crowd.  But the vast majority of people were making $50,000 or more. And congrats to them. Nothing wrong with a little $50,000 or more a year. He just made a mockery of himself, dancing around up there in his tight jeans, with his raging, curly-mullett, and the token trucker's cap, thinking we were still a blue-collar factory town, everyone paying union dues and getting laid off every other week.
 

And so we return to the ever-popular twice-yearly feature.

So no more visits to the plasma clinic?

Unfortunately, no. I really did intend to return after I got my job in February. It was one of the few practices I disliked just as much as I enjoyed. Strange, I know. Just as much as I liked BS-ing with people who I'd never see again, I disliked the prospect of feinting; that drained feeling, getting home. And while I never did feint there, the last four or five of my visits didn't go well; it would take me much longer to fill up my container. Then there was that incident with the bleeding afterward. Plus I had to get up so damn early to make it there. So, yes, my clinic adventures seem over.

Your wife is so cool for how she handled your neighbor. / Your neighbor's a complete bitch. / I have an idea for what you should do to your neighbor . . .

Agreed. As I was telling my tenant yesterday, we never intended to be fence people. We didn't grow up, thinking, "Wow, I really can't wait to fence out whoever I'll live next to." But this fence was easily the best $1,202.00 I have ever spent. The tenants noticed the difference too. Apparently Angie will still say 'hi' to them, but it will be a muted, ashamed 'hi'. Ah, yes, the shame of being fenced-out. Am I basking? Oh, yes. I bask.

Why don't you post about going to the women's college anymore?

Ah, sweet revenge! And here I was, basking. I get this question all the time, and I gotta say it's the worst one to answer. I don't go to the women's college anymore. I'm not going to be a teacher anymore.

You know how some teachers talk all passionately about how they were "born/meant" to be a teacher? Not me. To be sure -- I'd love to teach. But around January, a great temp job I was to start fell out, thus screwing my schedule up and screwing our financial situation. I just didn't want the tension anymore. It's so much easier bringing home money every week.

The other great thing about this job is that I can go to it and leave it. I don't bring it home with me. With teaching, I know I wouldn't be able to write. There's just no way, with all that lesson-planning. Right now I have until 3:30 pm every day to run, write, whatever. The funny thing about it, though is that everybody at my job acts like they hate the job, that it's just something temporary until they start doing what they really want to do. And the whole time I sit there listening to them, thinking how it's not so bad to me, and that as long as I can have those hours before 3:30 pm . . . why would I go anywhere?

I don't get your poem entitled "XXXXX"

Sorry. I never claimed to be a good poet. It's just something I do in between books. It's a nice short endeavor to keep me fresh. My poetry is very far from what is popularly published today. It's a pretty good indication of what I like to write, but it's very narrow. Really, all my poems try to do is capture a complicated moment. Usually. It's not something to try and "get".

Your links aren't very interesting. / What's the logic of your links? / Who's Big Stupid Tommy?

Send me some better links. The links are there for when my post sucks. You're supposed to just stop reading, turn to the right-hand column, and find something else to scratch your itch. I don't know who Big Stupid Tommy is, but he's pretty damn cool; I found his site one day and added it. Matt Miller interests me because he comes from the left but is willing to find a center. FARK and How Stuff Works are full of great stuff. Running-Log is really just for the convenience of some of my readers. I'll try and find more links.

Do you have more than three readers now? You never mention that anymore.

Yeah, I know. I lost a reader in February, but picked up several more along the way, so I've lost count . . . but really, the joke got old.

Got any more Gmail invitations?

More than I know what to do with at this point. Let me know and it's yours.

I think this site has jumped the shark.

You may be right. I only wonder what that says about you.

You seem very angry / naive, politically.

We've got a system in which there are only ever two choices, two ways of doing things. And I'm supposed to be satisfied with that?

Did you really send that letter to Spin?

Yes.

Will you put comments on your site?

I still don't see the point. Sorry. Hey, at least I have email now.

I've never heard someone comment about Milwaukee like you do.

I don't know if that's a positive or negative statement, but I think I know what you mean. When I was in school here, adding an English major to my degree, there was this guy who had a really positive attitude about what it was like to live and write in this city, and I think he was onto something. City life is not just New York. At some level, a writer ought to look at his or her city as a unique conglomerate -- its divided people, its history, its geography. So many people here talk about how they want to be somewhere else, and they don't see all that they have right in front of them.

How's the new book coming?

It's proving to me all the time that this is the best project for me right now. Page 13.


Thanks for the feedback.

Have you ever had something happen to you that won't let go? Whatever it is, it happens, and it becomes the thing that you think about every day when you wake up. And more. This thing has happened, and as much as you try, there's nothing you can do to change anyone's mind about it. No matter what you do. And let's say, for the sake of good drama, that you try lots of ways to change someone's mind or affect the outcome of this thing. So here you are, waking up to this new reality every day, and life goes on with or without you, so waking up that way gets to be the same. But it's still there -- even though you're used to it -- that feeling of something having been changed, something no longer the way it was. And not for the better. Years pass and it's easier to forget about the nuances. But that abruptness of change? That hasn't gone away. It's only settled into cynicism. And if it's investigated too thoroughly, so that all those nuances come to memory again, that sickening, nauseating sensation will return. And it will feel just like it did on the first day after.

The build-up of this, as well as how to respond to such a dilemma, is essentially the story of my third book, dreamed up more than a year and a half ago but started today, entitled Claims from the Pit. It's a first-person and s-o-c present tense novel that I've mapped out in ten chapters, shooting for around 300 pages or so.

This is about all the detail I'll go into with the book, mainly because this book, more than anything else I've written, or will write, is -- while composed for audience -- undeniably unpublishable. It's dark, challenging, and not about running. (Although I did make several characters runners -- can you believe I almost made them basketball players, just to try something different? What do I know about basketball?)

I'm more jacked about writing this book than I have been about just about anything else I've worked on. Which is strange, I know -- a lot of people would say that I'm wasting my time. Maybe, who am I to argue? But every time I open up the document and get to thinking about what the book is going to say and how it's going to say it . . . I can't help but get excited.

It's also nice to have a big project to work on again. It's been 18 months since I finished my last first draft of any fiction, and more than two years since I began a new book. Coming to that blank screen isn't easy. But it's worth it.

I realize reading about a book you don't know or care about is not interesting reading, so I'll try and not mention CFTP too often here . . . even though it's going to be on my mind for the majority of the next few months.

It's high time for me to get back to the computer on a daily basis.

The last week or two has been spent:

Getting a Fence.
Yep. That bitch next door is fenced out. And while there have been no real comments from our northerly neighbors about the fence, I sense a distinct, palpable hatred emanating from their direction now. See, before, it was mostly just annoyance. After our little backyard confrontation, perhaps this turned to dislike. But now? Now that we've turned them into people who have been fenced out? Now it's hatred. And I'm loving it.

Of course, putting up the fence didn't go without a little tussle. According to the fine men of Milwaukee Fence, when they had to cut down part of a tree branch of my neighbors, which had grown into our property and got in the way of the construction, "Mark" flipped out. So these people, who seem perfectly OK having their upscale garden parties while a helpless squirrel screams out of hunger in its trap right next to them while they have their tea and cakes, freak out about part of a tree branch. Yes. These are those kind of people.

Jessica and I decided to buy 25 pounds of squirrel food and distribute it along the property line. There are squirrels coming from other states to eat on our property line now.

Getting a Job.
I can no longer rip on myself for being a contractor. So I got that goin' for me. You know the thing about orientations? How when one's coming up, perhaps you get this idea, this crazy idea, that it will be informative and interesting and helpful? That idea is hogwash. If I were a wizard, and I could physically manifest that idea, it would become hogwash. Hogs would wash in that idea, looking at me, saying, "What a fool you were, Wizard, to think this idea of yours were any better than what for us to roll amuck in?"

Lots of Gardening.
I'm not sure why. Perhaps with the fence up, Jess and I felt the privacy necessary to spend several hours in the back yard digging in the dirt. So we were out there last weekend with the dog. And the dog, all the sudden starts to *go* on the lawn. Me, I'm OK with this. He's a dog -- that's where he goes. But Jessica, she wants a green lawn. She wants him to go in his spot. So she yells at him to stop peeing, and she grabs his leash, but he starts walking -- still peeing -- in a different direction. Then it looks like he's set there. Jessica goes back to her gardening, then quickly notices the dog's still peeing on the lawn.

"Ranger, stop it!" The dog stands there, having held it mid-stream, with this guilty, annoyed look on his face. Then -- with not a hint of hesitation -- walks straight up to my wife, who's back concentrating on the plant in front of her -- lifts his leg, and pees on her.

I couldn't believe what I was watching. The whole rest of the day, no matter what the conversation was on, I kept coming back to, "Holy shit! The dog peed on you!"

they take it up
off the shelf, boredom
like boys trying out bats

they open it up
pit it on a pedestal
or theme park dunk booth

they joust with religious pens:
never an enemy
like a friend

and there is no loneliness
like self-importance,
the equivalence of
those who stand and wait
and forget
they stand

In the "Sometimes the Bandwagon's OK" department . . .
Film of the Week - Spiderman 2

In the "It's Starting to Feel Automatic" department . . .
CD of the Week - A Ghost is Born