Got Mashed Potatoes

I think that if someone is to celebrate the opportunity to get married, that person ought to at least acknowledge the divorce when the break-up happens.

More specifically, I think that if a landlord, a non-smoker, slightly disgruntled by the unsightly display of cigarette butts on his or her front lawn, makes a comment about stated butts to his or her tenant, a roommate of a known and admitted smoker, and the comment is met by the aghast claim that, "I'm getting married today!", not forgetting to imply that her wedding -- not a legal reality for the gay folk here in Mill City, WI -- was not only the Bridezilla-inducing spectacle straight weddings cause, but also an opportunity to act rebellious and defiant, especially in the face of the claim of cigarette-littering, then I think it is only fair and reasonable that when that union -- which, I shall add, was a brief 22 months long -- ends, the already-described bitch-o-rama who was once so uptight and stuffy about "I'm getting married today!" ought to just as rebelliously, just as defiantly, and just as bitchily address us -- oh, maybe when we're getting the paper some day or checking the mailbox -- by saying, "I'm getting divorced today!"

After all. If one fights so hard for the ability to use addition when solving a math equation, should not that person fight just as hard -- and celebrate just as gloriously -- when one decides to use subtraction?

Or maybe she could have just picked up the fucking cigarette butts without an attitude.

I notice on one of the sites you link to, they call this site, "Bill, not Will". On another site, they call you "Will, not Bill". You seem to refer to yourself as "Will". What's that all about?

That's kind of a long story, but every time I tell it, I'm the only one who thinks it's funny or interesting. So I think I'll just take the Beatle's advice and let it be. "Bill" sounds so quaint to me now. I wonder how the people around here would react if they heard my older friends call me Bill. But I've been called worse . . . by one of the guys who runs the very site still calling me "Bill". So I guess I can take that as progress.

1. Magloire doesn't want to be here.
2. Yet another example of a GM pissing on chemistry.
3. Mason-Simmons was not a problem; it was an opportunity.
4. The Bucks have basically said to the world: "Our #1 pick in the draft is a bust."
5. For weeks, the paper has raved about how we can run this year; so we go out and get a player who doesn't exactly specialize in the fast break.
6. Mason was a great franchise player, marketed heavily and the only guy proud to live here.
7. The Bucks have basically said to the world: "Hey there! Anybody even remotely close to their contract year? We're not gonna pay you! So start packing your bags because it's a matter of 'when', not 'if'."
8. Mason + 1st Rnd 2006 Pick + Cash for a player who was good two years ago but injured last year?!

But . . . I like Magloire's defense and rebounding. Bottom line: I hope the Bucks prove me wrong. I hope we go to the playoffs and people rave about our defense and cohesiveness. Second bottom line: Mason was right -- Larry Harris is a lying snake.

Even though our kitchen is finished, sometimes when I walk into the bathroom I miss not having the coffeemaker in there. It had the nice clock on it, and every now and then there'd be extra coffee left in case I was thirsty.

That's really all we've got for tonight at the shop. I wish I had some bit of insightful truth, something interesting, something funny. All I've got is that I miss having the coffeemaker in the bathroom. Seemed crazy at first, but now the bathroom always feels like it's missing something.

I just read some guy's blog where he talked about how he wanted to have a coffeemaker in his bathroom so he could drink coffee while taking a dump.

Yeah. You did.

It's been a rough (meaning: nonexistent) past six weeks for my running. It's really not a priority for the rest of the year, as my focus will be finishing the book. But the bottom line is, I weigh 672 pounds again, so it's time I made a little effort to get into some kind of shape. Some further musings on this (basically, I just feel like writing in bullet format now):

• I got a jogging stroller over the summer. Yeah. I'm that guy.
• It's a good stroller -- very lightweight. But one can't run seriously with one of these. I went to school with a guy named Jason Finch, a great runner and an . . . effusive personality to put it lightly. Finch would often say, when he was feeling good, "I was JAMMIN'!" One never feels like he's jammin' when he takes the jogging stroller out.
• It's hard running when you weigh 672 pounds.
• Sometimes when I zone out, I look like a drunken captain, steering this thing all over the bike trail.
• At least I'm not running with headphones. Yet.

I received easily the worst "forward" email in my history of receiving forwards at work the other day. It is so bad, dear readers, that I felt I just must share it with you and then take the podium to discuss just why it is so utterly unbearable -- truly embarrassing just to read through. I apologize in advance if you blush of shame for the writer:

I have decided I would like to accept the responsibilities of an 8 year-old again.
I want to go to McDonald's and think that it's a four-star restaurant.
I want to sail sticks across a fresh mud puddle.
I want to see who can blow the biggest bubble.
I want to think M&M's are better than money because you can eat them.
I want to drink Kool-Aid,and eat lemonheads with my friends.
I don't want to change clothes because I got a little dirty.
I want to enjoy everyday like its summer vacation.
I want to return to a time when life was simple.
When all you knew were colors, multiplication tables, and TV show theme songs, but that didn't bother you, because you didn't know what you didn't know and you didn't care. All you knew was to be happy because you were blissfully unaware of all the things that should make you worried or upset.
I want to think the world is fair. That everyone is honest and good.
I want to believe that anything is possible.
I want to be oblivious to the complexities of life and be overly excited by the little things again, like a new hot wheel. I want to live simple again.
I don't want my day to consist of computer crashes, mountains of paperwork, depressing news, how to survive more illness, and loss of loved ones.
I want to believe in the power of smiles, hugs, a kind word, truth, justice, peace, dreams, the imagination and mankind.
I want to be in the roller derby and actually believe The Three Stooges are real.
So...here's my checkbook and my car-keys, my credit card bills and my RRSP statements, my pager, my Cell Phone, my palm pilot, my fax machine and my DVD player, and last but not least my mortgage book. I am officially resigning from adulthood. And if you want to discuss this further, you'll have to catch me first cause..."TAG YOU'RE IT AND YOU HAVE COOTIES"

I finished reading the above drivel, and thought-- no, I didn't really think anything at first. At first, I got up from my seat to see if the guy who sent it was still in the office. I just had to know. Kind of a gut -- what the fuck? -- reaction. No luck. I could only throw up my arms and say, "Goddamn."

What utter despair motivates such irrational whining? Doesn't the writer know that he - he, himself and him -- made the decisions to grow up, become an adult, get a job, buy that DVD player, and move on from multiplication tables and the Three Stooges? Who is really to blame here? This is someone who MUST be a fan of The Breakfast Club, a movie in which all the teenagers, after bitching about each other for 70 minutes or so, decide . . . "It's ALL our parents' fault." Not exactly a landmark picture when it comes to personal responsibility.

The reason why I think anyone who gets sentimental over shit like this should be taken out back and shot is it's untruthful. It's a schlocky, nostalgic look back at childhood . . . as if it were some magical, blissful period of pure joy. We all know that's crap. (At least I thought we all did.) Childhood's just as hard as adulthood, and any idiot stupid enough to yearn to get back to that era ought to -- just because justice is such a beautiful concept -- actually be sent back to his or her childhood to relive the loss of innocence.

I got an email a while ago, describing a recent U2 concert in Milwaukee in which during the opening act, an enraged father answered the singer's question of how the show was going so far by yelling: "No F-Bombs!"

Apparently the singer responded by saying, "This is a rock show."

This, to me, is just one of potentially thousands of examples of a trend most Milwaukeeans would like to ignore: this is a bad town for concerts. Every time I see a show here, I'm always struck by the overwhelming crowd attitude of "Here we are now, entertain us."

I went to a U2 show a few years ago here when I overheard some dumbass in back of me state: "They better play ____, ____ and ____ or . . ." And his statement sort of petered out like that. Or what? Or you'll leave? Or you'll take it up with Bono after the show? What?

God forbid a band play whatever the fuck they want to play, not what the audience expects.

Then there was the time at the CSNY concert where we had to sit down because the old fuckers behind us could only stand during the first song. Once song 2 started, time to rest! Then there was the time Tom Petty played a new song and people complained. Then there was the time at the Neil Young show when a woman complained about Neil until security booted her. Then there was the Pearl Jam show where someone complained how Ed sang a verse of "Why Go".

The mix of young, urban liberals and middle-aged, redneck trash usually doesn't combine any similarities. Leave it to Milwaukee to bring the two groups together with their collective smugness.

I'm listening to Neil Young's TRANS right now. So anything can happen.

Or as a guy at work keeps saying, "It's the wave of the FUTURE. Wave of the FUTURE. Wave of the FUTURE." Luckily, we have a strict recycling policy with regard to the glass bottles.

Just in case I haven't made it clear -- and before I write this, I need to say that I mean no offense to the other sites that I link to -- but David Johns's site is incredible. Simple, yes. But the pictures are amazing. I guess it's partly timing. I'm so sick of reading bad sites that the natural find was a photog site.

"We'll send it out right away. Satisfaction guaranteed. Please specify. The color of skin and eyes."

Ah, TRANS.

My writing has been about all consumed by the novel lately. It's a 3-parter and I'm determined to get the 2nd (what I consider the plotted, boring) part done by month's end. I made the goal harder by finishing the end of the section before getting to it. Why does that make the writing harder? Well, I know what I have to get to, yes. But it's a major emotional point. Kind of takes me aback when I read it. I'm pretty sure I'm going to rush toward it. At this point, I don't care too much. I keep saying to myself, "I'll fix it in the rewrite." That's when it's easiest to fix anyway.

My writing is always better when I ditch adverbs. They truly are useless.

I taught Nolan to do a high-five. He loves it. Now if we could only teach the little monster to go to sleep.

The neighbor next door to us still hasn't removed the huge pile of dirt in our parking slab and put a garage in. This is the old hippie who asked us to remove a stone wall because he wanted to build a garage. 16 months ago. I'm really at the end of my patience with him. One of these days I'm gonna see him and not even speak, just start screaming and maybe throw shit in his yard, kick over his motorcycle and create a whole big incident. That's what my friend Beavis would do. Nah, I guess I couldn't do that. But I really want the big pile of dirt removed from our parking slab.

We saw the peak colors this weekend. They were peak.

I just heard there was going to be a sixth Rocky movie, so I'm going to come right out and say it: they all suck. ALL OF THEM. Maybe it's because I like boxing, because the boxing in ANY Rocky film looks shockingly fake. Don't talk to me about how great Rocky I was or how much of a masterpiece II was, or how fun III was because of Mr. T., or even how IV was OK because of how he beat the Russian guy -- they ALL suck. Over-acted, fake, cliched drivel. So quit whining about Stallone making another one: he shouldn't have made ANY one.

"And you need me like ugly needs a mirror. And day by day, this horizon's getting clearer."

Ah, TRANS.

Last week was Customer Service week, which means it was a week in which management attempted to appease its pissed-off customer service reps by feeding them greasy pizza, stale popcorn and crumbly chocolate chip cookies and allowing everyone the privilege of wearing jeans for one day.

Someone even said to me, "Happy Customer Service Week." I looked at her blankly. Was she serious? Could she have been? My God. The horror. I was removed from this potentially embarrassing situation when she said, "Now only two pieces of pizza or one small sub and a cookie. We have to have enough for everyone." I just put my plate down. Sometimes the best solution is to fend for oneself. One can only be handed manure on a plate so many times before he realizes he can drop the plate.

I'm not a customer service rep anymore, so I've got that going for me. Bottom line, though: it's hard to watch stuff like that. Being a rep is like being back in high school. At first, you want to do really well. Impress people. Move up. Then you realize they don't care how well you do, just how much control they have over you. So you lose interest in their silly rules and focus on the bottom line. What's the bottom line? Depends on what kind of rep you are: A.) you give the customer the best you can; B.) you desperately scratch to find some way to make it through every day. At some point, it doesn't matter if you're an A rep or a B rep. You develop senioritis; you just want to get the hell out of there. You don't want their crappy policies, their fake smiles or their mindless rules.

And no two pieces of pizza, small sub or cookie will change that.

The problem with success is you can't please everybody all the time or anybody any of the time. And the problem with growing up is you can't tell people to fuck off when you really want to.

In the PC, touchy-feely world we drag ourselves through, someone got the idea that we all have to be nice to each other . . . even if we're telling each other how to do our jobs. And thus, the following phrase has reared its despicable head into the pantheon of the English language:

"Friendly Reminder"

Just because one calls something friendly, does not mean that that thing is suddenly friendly. Friendly is all in how something is accomplished. Because a "reminder" is just the noun for "remind" -- defined as to prompt. "Reminder" certainly does not connote friendliness. So in the interest of better defining my position, let's replace "reminder" with something else:

"Friendly Rape"

Doesn't make much sense, does it? So what is it about reminders that makes us see the phrase, "friendly reminder" and think -- "Oh, this person is telling me I can no longer do something, but they called it a friendly reminder, so they're not all that bad"? Maybe they did threaten to fire everyone on the e-mail distribution list who violated this reminder, but hey -- it was friendly. Maybe it'll be a friendly firing.

You can see.

Barnacles on a sinking boat, still hanging on.

So wrong, though.

I got to finish this book before it depresses me. It's about all I think about now, and that's no good, with a bad ending. I am never getting to bed tonight after that many pages.

Birds vs. worms.

On home court.

You can see.

1.) A woman who cut my hair told my to use less shampoo, but better quality. She also told me not to just dump a lump of the shampoo into my hand and begin soaping my hair; rather, I should mix it in my hands, then distribute it evenly.

2.) It's better to wear a shirt under a flannel instead of just a flannel. This allows one to take off the flannel if it gets hot.

3.) When walking through a crowd of people, lead with your beer. People see the beverage, and they respect that. They will move for the beer. But not for you.

I eventually majored in philosophy. I enjoyed it. I still think about Nietzsche on an almost-daily basis, and he plays an important role in my writing. But he doesn't shampoo my hair, dress me, or get me through crowds.

The problem with coming to the computer to try to get something done in the afternoon is before you know it he starts crying, and then you've got to attend to him, but then he's crying again, and you've got, like, one fucking sentence written and it's not such a big deal, but it's disappointing, but I can't even dwell on that because now he's going for the USB cords, and for Christ's sake, he shouldn't be standing on top of that box, and I wish I just had a week off, but that's bullshit because I really need a month off, and maybe then -- no, maybe after about three months off I might have enough time to