Got Mashed Potatoes

I ate a piece of Dove chocolate today. The inside of the wrapper told me to "Be true to yourself."

What the hell does that mean?

Does it mean I've been cheating on myself? If so, I want to know who with, because that's one lucky son of a . . . .

Why do companies try to sway me by uttering such vapid devotion to cliched principles that never had any meaning? Better: why doesn't someone finally tell me to not be true to myself? I've been true for almost 28 years now, and look where I am . . . . Maybe it's time to start lying to myself. That's it! That's what I will do: from this day forward, I SHALL LIE TO MYSELF!

And none of you will stop me.

The next chocolate read: "Live your dreams." This is just utter nonsense. If I truly were to live my dreams, then the following would happen to me (in no real order -- dreams don't have much order, do they?):

1.) I would be a porn star.
2.) I would be able to fly through a low valley.
3.) I would be able to open up my elbow and peer down my forearm to see the inside of my hand.
4.) I would barely escape a dusty video arcade in West Virginia.
5.) My tenants would kill me with knives and firearms.

And that, folks, is at least three reasons not to "Live your dreams."

Dear Usher,

Hasn't it been about enough now?

Don't you think you may have taken this all a bit too far? I remember way back when, you were the "hot new star" with all sorts of talent. And a real "nice guy" image, right? Then you tried acting. That didn't work out so well.

Then you became the sultry, soul singer. This earned you "credibility". And finally, you submitted your most recent work. I recently saw a video of the popular single from this work. It contained the following lyrics:

Up in the club with my homies,
tryna get a lil' V-I,
but keep it down on the low key,
'cause you know how it is.
I saw shorty she was checkin' up on me,
from the game she was spittin' in my ear
you would think that she knew me.
So we decided to chill

It's been about enough, don't you think? This is your big hit, and that's the best you can do? Come on, now. There's a time to take the fight to the other man, and there's a time to call it a day. The above lyrics, my friend, I faithfully submit as evidence of the latter premise.

Listen, you had a real good run. Hell, you sold millions of dollars worth of albums, T-shirts, concert tickets, trinkets, condoms, and who-knows-what-else. It was a real good run.

But now is the time to go away. I don't mean for this to be harsh. I just mean it's been enough. I don't want to hear anymore about how "conversation got heavy, she had me feelin' like she's ready to blow!" And I've heard about all I can take about how you "gotta keep it real now, 'cause on a one to ten she's a certified twenty, but that just ain't me."

It's all a bit ridiculous, isn't it?

You've passed into that stage of celebrity in which you looooooove yourself, right? It's too much, don't you see? You're almost completely unintelligible. You're the drunk on the corner, the incoherent mumbler in the parking lot, Crazy Uncle Eddie, a self-parody without knowing it. It's time to stop.

I realize you won't be pleased with my urgings. Nevertheless: take a look in the mirror -- the best of times has come and gone; you can only go down from here. Take my best wishes as you encounter this most pressing dilemma. Know that, through that confrontation of thy self, I will remain--

Sincerely yours,

-wrf

If I place the Easter candy wrapper back in the basket,

"...it puts the lotion in the basket..."

doesn't that save the garbage all in one place, so when the all candy is eaten, I can simply empty the entire basket into the garbage?

Why must I walk to the garbage, over and over, with each candy that I consume? They are small candies, but there are many of them, making many trips.


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No-Longer-Very-Dear Editors,

A quotation from your front-page article today:

"The eight-person jury - three white men and five women - took slightly more than a day deliberating before they brought back the verdict..."

Was it just poor reporting that caused you to omit the race of the women on the jury? You obviously thought it was important we knew that there were three white men on the jury. Curious!

More curious, your decision to include, next to the article, a rather one-sided article on how some think this verdict will risk police diversification efforts. You included stated article with no definition of diversity, merely the assumption that it is highly valued. How highly valued? Enough so that the only quotation you pulled out of either article and placed in boldface was this:

"I believe that it is a blow to diversification, and I think that's very important to a municipal police department, especially here in Milwaukee." - Arthur Jones,Former Milwaukee police chief.

Surely you can understand how defenseless readers may get the strong drift that JS -- an organization whose editorial board cuts its teeth writing strongly-worded missives on the distinction between the news department and itself -- values diversity to such an extent that even discrimination ought to be tolerated in its promotion.

Or maybe you can't understand that.

Humbly submitted,

Season 4, Episode 3

Rudy tries to wear a spring dress to an autumn party. The episode is tolerable until maybe 12 minutes in, when Rudy retreats to her room, and music kicks in: "It's Not Easy Being Green" -- sung lyrics and all; this wasn't just an instrumental. Worse: the entire song plays out as Rudy mopes around her room. So bad, the viewer blushes for shame.

It's such a kicker, too, because it came on the heels of an all-time great episode, Season 4, Episode 2, when Sondra and Elvin announce they are renouncing their Princeton educations to run a small business.

There's something unforgivable about the musical interlude, when used in television. Baywatch used to do it every episode, but at least with that, viewers knew it was strictly for T&A. This was just horrifying, stupefying. Unbelievable someone approved such nonsense.

It was 6:30 Thursday night when we drove over the Hoan on the way to watch the game, all of us ready, in some way. Fresh from a shower, empty for food, new cotton against our skin, as ready as the passivity of fandom allows.

We crested the Hoan bridge and saw the white car parked on the wide shoulder to the right. Another car drove ahead of us, to the right. It passed the parked car first. Another car drove farther ahead. We slowed, as the other cars had. And as we turned, like the others had turned, we saw him standing there, outside the shoulder, on the short, thin ledge between the cement abutment and the sky.

He stood dark and dirty, tall against the night, with dark hair and two days' beard on his cheeks. He looked down, like a factory worker checking production, like a fan in the grass seats peering at the stage, like a teacher chalking out a never-ending math equation, like a man pondering all the good times.

And what gave us hope as we drove on, hands searching for a cell phone somewhere under the seats, in a purse, or glove compartment, or jacket pocket, was that he held his hand on the rail next to him. He didn't just stand and ogle at the abyss below, watching it ogle back. His rough, calloused hand held the rail for support, keeping himself standing, upright, for at least the short time we could look and rationalize and hope that he was too.

My cd player died the other day. In truth, I killed it.

Every now and then, a cd would get caught in the back, and I'd have to jigger it out after an hour or two of poking, pulling, and very patient prodding. This happened again the other night, and a it was a good cd caught back there. A good 'un. I just didn't have the patience anymore. That, and the damn thing simply would not come out. So I ripped it out.

Cd lives; player dies.

I remember buying it, going to the store with my friends, thinking we'd split the cost, then finding out that it would just be me. That's fine. Other than a broken neon sign, it was my first "big purchase" of college. A bit unnecessary, but it turned out to be a fine purchase.

It held 60 cds, which made it great for parties we threw, but then . . . no one ever liked our music . . . . But then, that never really bothered me, so I guess it's a wash. The music was good for me and the people that mattered. I used to put in these programmed acoustic sets to get me to bed. Later, my soon-to-be-wife would fall asleep learning to like Bob Dylan. I remember laying on my bed one night, with one long song on repeat, over and over, until I could find a way to relax. I remember sitting on the bed, coarse live music pulsing out of the speakers, waiting to have a conversation neither of us wanted to have. It provided the music to nearly all my drum sessions from '96 forward. It had been carried, climbed over, dropped and protected.

The crazy thing is how I never would have thought, standing in Best Buy that day, that it would end up dying all the way up here in my attic on Indiana Avenue, far from its roots but still full of good music and all the solace and bombast that can bring.

"I know I'm not all there, but I'm getting, getting, getting there."

The two main reactions I get when people realize I have this is:

1.) "You have a blog?"

Understandable. This person has heard of web logs, maybe read a few. They're surprised that I -- this person they know -- is part of this cult organization. They're perhaps disappointed and curious all at once.

2.) "Am I in it?"

And I could be real coy and say something like, "You'll have to read it." But the bottom line is . . . yes. Just about every good friend, girlfriend, meaningful acquaintance or family member has been chronicled -- in some sort of way -- here. And could be again. When people learn this, there's a sense of shock or betrayal, but I think that's unfair. Mainly because I never release a real name unless it's something innocuous (or entirely positive). But also because I'm not out to "get" anyone.

So the answers to all your questions are "Yes".

The most disgusting place on the planet is not a ghetto, Iraq, Bangladesh, Siberia, the local dump, or . . . you name it.

It's here.

I once heard they don't even clean between guests' visits. They don't even change the sheets. And normally, that wouldn't bother me so much. But in all their advertising, Sybaris bills its service, essentially, as an upscale place to get laid.

And they're not even changing the sheets.

So I'm sitting here, Nolan with his bottle, Ranger with his treat, and me with my braunschweiger sandwich, or, what my friend Adam Topper calls "spreadable meat". And there's all sorts to say, more drum fill than drum beat.

* * *

Somebody ought to tell Dave Matthews (and his band) to stop releasing so many Goddamned live albums. Because when they actually get together to record a studio cd of new music, they stand up and show they are still a pretty good band.

* * *

The new Weezer album cannot be released fast enough.

* * *

The new Brendan Benson is here.

* * *

Rumors say one Mr. Neil Young is on a new label and has a new album out next month, although no title has been set. Other rumors say Neil is only doing one-spot shows all year; no touring.

* * *

Speculation now says Richard Ashcroft's new album -- and perhaps career -- may be on indefinite hold.

* * *

The thing about Cheerios is that no matter how hard I try to keep the bag shut and then clip the box tight . . . . By the end of the bag, there are always a couple cheerios at the bottom of the box, between it and the bag. And I always wonder how these loners, these runaway cheerios get out of the bag and hide down there at the bottom of the box.

* * *

What I get out of a lot of people -- and it's probably because people are so Goddamned political about everything these days -- is that they don't understand how I -- I -- could be a fan of X Band or Musician while also retain the views I hold. Or better yet: how I could be a fan of X and a fan of Y, because they don't have the same political opinions. And that argument is so ridiculous, I try not to even bother with the idiots -- the absolute raging fools -- who espouse it. Because:
a.) Who goes to musicians for political education or news?
b.) When has any musicisn been consistent on a political belief?
c.) Why does politics have to be attached to music?
d.) Could it have been the melody, not the message?

* * *

Speaking of which, you can all run over to Danny's House to listen to him whack those crazy people by the name of PETA, question my first name (perhaps a coming post for wrfarah.blogpsot.com!), and speak some sense about the number of beers we can all drink without getting silly.

* * *

For the record, there are very few jobs available in the Milwaukee area whose shift is from 4-12 with free parking. But that doesn't mean there are none . . . .

* * *

Nolan's getting pissed. Second Lunch is over, there's no more milk left, but he looks like he could go for some more. Time to go downstairs and try the swing.

I hate, hate, hate, hate, hate, hate my job.

Well, not really. Actually, I enjoy my job and the money it brings in. I enjoy the work I do. I take pride in it. I do a good job. I like my co-peons. I like the location. I like the free parking. I like my cube.

So what is it, you wonder that I could hate so much?

What is left? Or rather: who is left?

I made a decision earlier, this week. I took a stand. It was in the coffee aisle:

I will no longer accept the TAR that they call coffee and serve in styrofoam cups at my place of business.

No offense to my employer, who pays my bills, causes me stress, and serves me such poor -- albeit free -- coffee. But I've had enough. There is a time to sit back and accept a package of free dog shit. And there is a time pull out a big, black marker and write "RTS" on said box.

RTS, dog shit. RTS.

So at the time of this great decision, I could choose the Jewel Value brand, some other big name brands . . . . And then it struck me: this is not about getting the best buy. This is about bringing quality to the workplace. Like Ron Wolf brought sanity back to the Packers, like Moses brought his people to the promised land, like Hitchcock brought order and sensibility to the screen . . . so shall I bring quality to the second shifters.

Yes, indeed. I passed these big-name brands: if I'm going to bring coffee into work, I'm going to bring the best. Freshly ground. In the fancy bag with the ribbon. Hazelnut. Hand-roasted.

And let me tell you, friends, when I brought the coffee out on the floor of the call center, heads turned. Hazelnut wafted into the air. This was not our regular, smells-like-someone-just-burned-a-tire, slop. No. Quality had come to second shift. I was holding it.

Oddly enough, my neighbor-cube-rep decided she'd had enough also. She'd brought in quality also. Hear what they say about great minds. She trumped me, however, bringing cups -- real, glass cups. No more styrofoam for us. No more taste of cheapness and pollution right up against our lips.

It was a day to stand up, to pay more, to instill jealousy, and to drink real coffee, damnit. Kids are in college, studying business right now, wondering what it will be like to work in the "real world". If only they knew the real struggles.

Jack Johnson's new cd is even better than his last two.

Working second shift is like practice at getting old.

When I got my English major, I had to take some class that made me buy a book I never read. But in the book, the former owner had left a picture. It's a picture of a young couple, early 20s. The girl sits, smiling in her guy's lap. He sits there, unsmiling, holding his hands around her waist, looking into the camera. I don't know who they are, but I keep the picture up by my desk. I often look at them and wonder at the way they look at me, something sinister and naive all wrapped together in their relaxed intensity. There's no way it could be repeated.

Don't ever get Ritz Chips. The first few are a bit airy, but OK. Then as you keep eating, you realize there never was any taste. It was air the whole time.

Spite is one of my better qualities. I can spite people like no other. I take pride in spiting them. I can long-distance or long-term spite someone. I can look forward to it for months, and then when it happens, keep a straight face, just to let that person know -- just so they know. Right now I'm looking forward.

Orange Julius will forever be mall food. I don't know why. Wouldn't it taste good at the beach? During a movie? Out of the soda machine? Maybe we need Orange Julius machines.

Oh yeah -- that 13-year-old's site I spammed? She already erased it, otherwise I'd link to it. Damn. I was at least hoping for some sort of response. It really is a terrible site. There's not a single coherent sentence.

"Here's the man with teeth like God's shoeshine. He sparkles, shimmers, shines."

My wife is a great cook, but last week she made spaghetti with turkey meat but didn't season it right, so it tasted like having a big turkey dinner in the middle of a bowl of spaghetti. I called it Thanksgiving Spaghetti.

I just spent 30 minutes spamming a 13-year-old Japanese girl's blog comments. But it's such a terrible blog, I don't feel so guilty for spending so much time on such a pointless and cruel activity. Really. This blog is beyond horrific. And I spammed her good.

I should probably go to bed now.

There was, of course, a huge advertising push last month, to buy your girlfriend or wife a teddy bear for the romantic holiday. I saw print ads, read internet notices, and heard radio spots for these things. And in all the hubbub, women are portrayed as just loooooooving these little, wittle, bitty, baby, teddy, weddy bears.

Who are these women who want a teddy bear for a gift?

What does that say about you, about how far you really haven't come, that you are excited about a fucking stuffed animal for a gift? You women in the ad -- you're like 30. Seriously. What. The. Hell.

The problem is -- I've met women like this. I once met a woman with a teddy bear collection. A fucking teddy bear collection. In her home. She named them. She spoke to them. As if they were people. Conversing. With her.

Yeah.

And it wouldn't be so much of a problem if women didn't rule the culture. But they do! They rule us all! Women outnumber men in the work world and in colleges across the US. They perform better than men in almost every conceivable category of human measure. Men? We've got athletics, the priesthood, and prison population working for us. Nice. Way to go, compatriots.

So, women run the culture, and a segment of women -- grown, intelligent, capable -- want a teddy bear for Valentine's day. So I asked my wife -- partly out of fear, partly curiosity:

"Would you . . . do you . . . uhhhh . . . ya want one of those damn Vermont, uh, you know?"

"A teddy bear? Huh? You're getting me a teddy bear? What the hell for? Take it back. I'm not your child! I don't want a teddy bear. Who do you think I am?"

Sometimes I need that reassurance that I married the right person. Whooo! Close one!

• I love Cheaters. It's the trashiest show, but it trashes the trash of society: those who cheat. As a test of psychology, almost every "caught" person reacts the same: surprise/shock, denial, "you don't understand!", shame/attempt to run away, contrition, "You know I love you." My favorite episode is when this chick has Cheaters catch her good-for-nothing- boyfriend screwing their babysitter. At first, when the camera crew comes in, the boyfriend is going through the described cycle of emotions, but the babysitter -- she's beaming, hands on her hips, eyes gleaming, proud of herself. "At least I know how to please him!" she chortles. Then the boyfriend turns around and says, "What are you talking about? You were just a cheap piece of ass." The babysitter's face sinks like she is in seizure: "What?! But you! You were my first, and you said you loved me! Oh my Goooooood!" Priceless.

• Of all Neil Young's fazes, only in the 1980s can I choose a favorite song: "No more". It's just brilliant. It's about drugs, creativity, losing your spark, and it has a bass line that just hums along.

• I feel a real sort of sick triumph over all the people who have told me (and it's usually women in their mid- or late-20s) so passionately: "I want a child!" They didn't tell me they wanted a marriage or a boyfriend or a stable career or even some common sense. They wanted a child! And they couldn't just say it -- they had to belt it out. And they didn't want a baby or a kid. They wanted a child! Why triumph? Because they just didn't know what they were asking for. And all they really wanted was the cute smiles and pretty baby clothes. They didn't think about the kid peeing right up in the air while you try to change the diaper. They didn't think of teaching the kid any morals, or how to handle him or her when she comes home with cigarettes in the fourth grade, or how they'll respond when he or she tells you that you wouldn't understand. They wanted a child!

• It's time to come clean to my merry band of wrfarah.blogspot.com readers. I'm a Star Wars geek. Yes, I'm one of those people who visits websites like this every day and can describe the plot of the next movie in detail, win games of Star Wars Trivial Pursuit, wage a spirited argument on whether or not the dark side really is stronger than the light side of the Force, and confirm how I'm taken off of work so that I can go to the midnight showing of Return of the Sith on May 19th. There. That felt better. Now the secret is out.

• I've been approached to ghostwrite an autobiography recently. "Now, Will -- just to let you know. There would be a lot of sexual episodes to include." OK, I said. I can handle that. My current book is full of sex. "And also, Will -- just to let you know. They would all be homosexual in nature." Well. That sure would be different from what I'm writing now. You may want read some of my current stuff to see if I'm appropriate for you, I say. Updates to follow.

• Nolan's sitting here, dressed in flannel, listening to Neil right now. People tell me you have to have him listen to baby music and wear those outrageous baby outfits my wife is always buying. Those people are wrong.

• I finally fell the other day. I always fall on the ice once per winter while running. I was pretty sure I could make it through this winter without . . . but alas. Good twist of the knee, too. I walk like an old man now.

• There was this moment on talk radio yesterday, in which the guest host claimed that justice was being served, that it wasn't a hate crime, that they really were looking for a badge. And it was the first time when it was clear the caller had the host in a bind, when he said: "You really wouldn't know, would you? They're all cops that did this. They know what a hate crime is. Of course they're going to SAY they're looking for a wallet, not just looking to beat the crap out of a guy because he's black and he came to a party full of white people -- with white girls. Of course they're going to say that. And what, the district attorney, he believes them. That's like asking the fox to guard the chickens. And you, you wonder why there's a problem in this town."

• Just for the record, I really don't want to go to work today.