Got Mashed Potatoes

Whatever went away, I'll get it over now.

2009-06-23T20:48:00.000-07:00

It's not that there's nothing more to say. It'll just have to come in a different way.

Thanks.

People Pretending to Care and Have Conversations

2008-04-01T00:38:00.000-07:00

Well, it's NCAA basketball tournament time, and I guess the title of this little missive pretty much says it all for me. Around these parts, people are whiny and downcast because the Badgers got embarrassed by some skinny kid from a small school that they didn't know about.

The thing about college basketball is that no one really can keep track of all these kids. It's impossible for anyone with any sort of responsibility in their lives to dedicate the time and effort to read and watch all that one must read and watch to understand and speak knowledgeably about college basketball.

Sure, it's better than the pros. Of course. They actually play hard. And fast. The fans are more excited about it. It's sports in which the competitors truly press for it all game long.

But enough already. I don't need to make casual talk with some lady who doesn't even know where to find North Carolina on a map. You put some money in a pool. You picked some teams, and you're watching ESPN. Congratu-fricken-lations.

The Unfinished Ever-Changing Picture

2008-03-27T00:03:00.000-07:00

He's still the same kid.

He still has the same smile. He will still surprise us. He will still learn, grow, change and do great things we could never predict.

It's not that the experts are wrong. They've just drawn a blurry, unfinished map to the way he sees the world. A map, not a wall.

I don't know how hard it will be, how much work it will take. But I suspect it will be tough, and I don't think there's a way to make this easier without sugarcoating it.

But he's still our Jack. He will still get so excited that he crouches down, clenches his fists and seems to almost explode because he's sharing that secret grin with you.

12162432486482

2008-03-26T23:29:00.000-07:00

If you watch the movie, "The 'Burbs", there's a striking moment when Corey Feldman is describing his neighbors: he describes 'Art' as the fat guy. Looking at him now, sure, he's a little bit overweight, but fat? But I'm sure back in the 80s, that was fat.

I think that the expansion of the American waistline -- why did I lapse into that cliche? Let's just be blunt: I think that the fattening of America can be linked, symbolically, to the change to how soda is distributed. In the 80s, there weren't so many glass bottles anymore. It was a lot of cans. People were pretty slim. Then sometime during the 90s, we were introduced to the "big gulp" top. I remember people being surprised and a little bit excited about this -- it was a little easier to get more soda down one's throat faster! Now, if you come across a can, it's a surprise when it doesn't have a big gulp top. But I don't see too many cans. Soda seems to mostly come in 16 oz plastic bottles. At restaurants, large sizes (64, 80 oz) dwarf this. People are ordering buckets of soda.

I'm not making some grand statement that if we all just stopped drinking soda, we'd be slim again. But we seem to have gotten used to getting fat.

Talking About New Life with The Boy

2008-03-06T22:44:00.001-08:00

I'm not sure why my wife tried to climb this mountain . . . .

The Wife: Your Aunt Amy is going to have a baby, so you are going to have a new cousin. And your buddy, Jack, will have a new brother or sister.
The Boy: Where the baby now?
Wife: It's in Aunt Amy's tummy. And when she has the baby, it will come out and be your cousin.
Boy: AUNT AMY EAT BABIES?!
Wife: No, the baby is just in her tummy. Then it will come out and be Jack's brother or sister.
Boy: AUNT AMY EAT MY BUDDY JACK AND SPIT HIM OUT?!
Wife: No, Aunt Amy doesn't eat babies. You can see her this weekend and talk to her about it. She might show you the baby she has in her tummy.
Boy: AUNT AMY GONNA EAT ME?!

Let's All Just Step Away from the Revolution

2008-03-05T23:42:00.000-08:00

I think we've all taken it a bit too far with the word, "revolutionary". Everything is revolutionary these days: mp3 players, coffee makers, bras, pens, shoes, siding, and the list goes on and on. I heard an awful song lyric the other day about starting a revolution of love. Maybe it was Lenny Kravitz. Sounds like something he would write, doesn't it?

But as trite as that is, the straw that broke this camel's back was my Lean Cuisine dinner tonight. Sure enough: it included a "revolutionary" grilling plate to use in the microwave.

I think I have a pretty good idea of what a revolution is. It's dark, bloody, awful, and forever changing. Thank God, my Lean Cuisine sandwich was none of the above.

Keeping Up with Our Shadow

2008-03-04T23:35:00.000-08:00

The Green Bay Packers were always an embarrassment to me. I associated them with one image: my father on the floor of the living room, slapping the carpeting with his hand, lamenting our awful predicament. Because for nearly 25 years it was almost always an awful predicament.

That all changed in 1992, my sophomore year of high school. The newspapers were excited about the new GM and Coach. And they thought that the team might finally have a real quarterback.

I began seriously watching games then, and reading the paper during the week. I watched games in the living room of our new house with my dad and grandpa. The Packers began playing well for the first time in my life. I remember the excitement of Chris Berman on the postgame shows. My dad stayed up late to watch those shows even though he knew exactly what had happened during each play of the game.

I graduated high school and entered college, and continued watching games, this time in my dorm room with my roommate. It was my first introduction to aggressive rival fans from the other side of the state. I had never had any thought of that team until that first year. As years passed, I watched games at our college house with friends. I remember an older friend of ours who had graduated, but was still in town, would come by on game days. I always thought that made it a little better when he just showed up unannounced and watched with us. I probably haven't seen him since the '98 season, but I still miss him not showing up for games. Win or lose, it was communal. And we all had something worth cheering for again. And behind the whole team, there was someone to believe in, making it all happen. After the team won the Super Bowl, I walked outside and kissed the cold, Wisconsin ground. Everyone should be a winner once in life.

There was a coaching change in '99, and I began watching games in my new apartment with a friend. It was a tougher year, but worthwhile. I graduated, moved back to Milwaukee, and started a job.

My grandpa was no longer with us to watch games. There was another coaching change, and I watched with my sister and my dog at her house, back in Milwaukee, and occasionally at my dad's. I lost my job, then watched at our new house with my girlfriend wondering why I spent so much time watching football, reading about football, and wasting my life on football. We got married, and we watched as the team came so close, then missed.

We moved again and I watched at my new house. There was another career change for me and another coaching change for the Packers. I had been back in town a half-decade by then. My kid was born, we got a new dog, and I watched with my boy and the new dog. I still liked going to my dad's house and watching with him every once in a while. There was no more carpeting to slap; they'd gotten an addition with hard tile heated floors.

But it wasn't just living rooms and family or friends. Each year I would make two or four trips to Lambeau and sit in our seats next to strangers, watching the team play. I saw the great games, and some bad ones too. I slapped hands and screamed with strangers. I heard all sorts of debate over whether they had a chance, whether he still had it, or whether they should move on.

Throughout this entire period, I had picked up running, gotten good at it, just missed my chance at the State meet, began college racing, raced the fastest I would race in my life, began writing, slowed down, finished three manuscripts, stopped running, gained weight, lost it, began running again, got my consistency (and some of my speed) back, and put writing on the back burner.

And finally, this year, he did it -- he had the greatest season any 17-year veteran had ever put together, proving time can be beaten back.

Some people say that it's a good thing, or that we're making too much of this. They might be right. It's a game that will keep going along with constantly changing characters. A month or so ago, one of my friends from another state berated a group of us Wisconsinites for devoting so much of our time to football. He derided us for wasting our lives on a game.

I didn't say this to him, but I pitied him for that comment. This whole time he thought it was just a game. This whole time he just saw what happened out there on the field, not believing it was tied to anything outside of it, or anyone watching it. To him it was only rules and numbers; not tradition, community or symbolism. Maybe you have to grow up in Wisconsin to appreciate it.

The season will start again. Brett will move on to something else. And we'll continue to watch. But everyone who has followed it together for all these years from place to place, through tough times and great times, will know that something important has passed. This one person -- who throughout this entire time has never stopped -- has tied so many improbable events, experiences and people together into an era that is over.

Ham and Mushrooms

2008-02-29T23:21:00.001-08:00

Anyone who knows me -- even at the level of mere acquaintance -- knows that I dislike ham and mushrooms. And I can't figure out how that happened.

To me, my tastes are very reasonable. I've chosen two foods -- two out of the vast pantheon of edible items -- not to eat. Everything else is fair game. And it's been this way for almost my entire life. Early on I didn't go for olives, but that faded.

And sure, there are still foods I'm not crazy about. My mom always used to serve warm, cooked peas, straight. I wasn't a big fan. Peas themselves are OK. I like 'em cold as part of a salad. But on their own? Eh. I'll eat 'em. I just won't be so excited about it. Ham and mushrooms are the only foods I refuse to eat.

That is to state that -- if I'm at a fancy dinner party where they only serve ham as the main dish . . . yes, then I'm only eating appetizers. I don't think I should have to suffer through a dinner I'll hate. I've rejected two things on the planet. That's it. Nobody should take offense to that. It's two things. What about all those people who carry around a list of things they won't eat? And it's never a simple list, is it? It's got all sorts of clauses like, "anything creamy" or "anything tomato-based".

One of my co-workers got pizza with shrooms on it once, and another co-worker told him I wouldn't eat it. The first guy said, "What -- is he some sort of picky eater or something?" TWO THINGS! THAT'S NOT PICKY! And the guys at work are always getting pizzas with either ham or shrooms on them. Come on -- what ever happened to good old-fashioned pepperoni? Who thinks of pizza and gravitates to mushrooms? When did a slimy, stinking, mud-like vegetable become enticing?

What blows my mind is that so many people remember these two things about me. I don't remember what most people don't like. Everyone I meet seems to know that I hate these foods. Every once in a while, someone challenges me, saying I'm closed-minded, that I probably haven't tried ham or mushrooms in years and am holding out purely on memory. So I always will test in front of them. I have no problem proving that I still find them disgusting and that I'm just a consistent person.

My issue with ham is that it's got this awful, salty flavor. People invariably ask me if I eat bacon, and I do -- that's completely different, crispy and tasty. Ham brings on retching. Then I get the Canadian bacon question. Folks, Canadian bacon and prosciutto are just other words for HAM.

Mushrooms, I can take two different ways:
A.) They are not food. They are fungus, and not for human consumption.
B.) They're disgusting and horrendous. If forced to choose between a slice of ham and a half-bite of shroom, I reluctantly choose the ham every time.

Then I have to hear the nonsense about how mushrooms don't have any flavor. If that were true, WHY ARE THEY USED IN COOKING AT ALL? I can always tell one someone slips shrooms into spaghettis, lasagnas, or casseroles. I'll do my best to eat around them or push them to the side, but sometimes it's just not worth the effort.

I guess that would be my version of hell. Not necessarily a banquet full of ham and mushrooms. A banquet full of food I like, each dish infiltrated by ham or mushrooms, Satan laughing at me from the corner, little bits of ham and mushrooms stuck between his teeth.

Just imagine the speed, it's just what you need.

2008-02-27T23:25:00.000-08:00

The wife and I got sick on February 3, and have been ever since. Just this week we got better. Mostly anyway. It's amazing how much I began to value health once it had been absent for so long. I began wondering what it would be like to have heavy chest congestion and coughing in June.

I missed so much running, but for the first time didn't miss it. I think that was just because it's also been crappy weather outside ever since we got sick. Also, I lost my appetite and haven't really put on any weight even with the layoff. It's a joy to run again, but my whole training calendar seems pushed back 7 weeks even though I only lost three.

I bought some great beer from Bell's brewery. It's a double cream stout. Beautiful, full and tasty. It's like the brewer put cake in a bottle. Bless him.

The Brewers season is gearing up, and I for one can wait. February is too early to be talking baseball. Plus, I just don't see them winning the division. Too much has to fall their way. We won't be getting season tickets this year. Too expensive and too much of a commitment. But we'll go to some games. I got a little frustrated with the seating options. You're either paying practically nothing for a crappy view, or you're paying with your vital organs for a decent seat. There's no in-between.

I'm listening to snippets of the new Joggers album right now, and it's so good that I can't even describe it. They are the best band not from Portland to come out of Portland.

I recently bought 100 sci-fi 'classics' -- let's emphasize those quotation marks -- for $37. It's really hit and miss, and I find myself apologizing for the 1950s filmmakers. I don't know what happened in the 70s, though. All that made-for-TV crap.

Buddy Miles, one of the Band of Gypsys, just recently died, which is a shame. He was a terrific drummer with a lot of style.

I think I'd better get organized fast, or this year is gonna blow by me.

And that is the end of a quick and terribly scattered post from someone who hasn't posted in a long time. I'll have to do this again some time.

Once Again Into the Fray

2008-02-11T23:36:00.000-08:00

My Dear Mr. N-----,

If I believed in drops in the bucket, I would consider the matter of voting one of more importance than a menial task such as, say . . . combing my hair.

Seems ridiculous? But then, combed hair is considered to be an important part of the presidential process. Integral even. If you don't believe me just read any major news outlet's review of a presidential debate: they always spend plenty of time or space on how the candidates looked. Did they look presidential?

And when I think about it more, I realize that I'm not really voting for McCain, Clinton or Obama. I'm voting for the people who vote for them. In fact there was a little article in the paper today that one of these delegates was a 21-year-old college student who had never voted in a presidential election before. Yet here he is, a 'super-delegate', they called him, taking calls from the Clintons and John Kerry, among others. He's among the best and the brightest in the democratic party, they say. And I wonder how it's possible for a person who's never voted before and who has so little life or political experience to be considered for such a position. The only result I can come up with is that he is not the best and the brightest. Political parties do not even desire to enlist the best and the brightest. But I bet he's excellent at following directions. I bet he was a hell of a multiple-choice test taker in his day. I'm sure he's quick with slogans. And I can tell you he already looks the part. And that's exactly what the political parties want -- loyalty without a whole lot of thought.

I watch these great ads about changing this and changing that, but they don't tell me how they're going to do it. Nobody ever asks me to sacrifice. Everybody wants to give me something (tax cut, guaranteed health care, an end to war, etc.) . . . presumably so I'll give them my vote. It's all a little too reminiscent of life on the animal farm . . . hearing the pigs in the other room, dressed all in human clothes now, and not being able to tell whether they really were pigs or humans. As a kid I loved politics. It's all the same snorting now.

Everyone tells me I have to vote for change, and the logician in me snaps right back in his chair and thinks, "Bush ain't on the ballot, folks -- we're guaranteed change no matter what happens." Would I not vote out of spite?, you ask. I guess it depends on how motivated I am when I get up in the morning. Either way, with or without me, Wisconsin will have chosen.

By the way, I'm surprised to hear such virulent democracy coming from your (former?) communist pen. I guess I'll take that as a sign of healthy progress. Who knows, in 10 more years you may become a certified Libertarian. Eh, maybe not.

Anyway, I wish you good health and bright days in the golden land west of the St. Croix, and hope to remain--

Yours Truly,

Best of 2007

2007-12-30T22:16:00.000-08:00

So it's that time again, and I remembered that I forgot to do this last year. I didn't buy much music last year, so here's my five favorite discs:

Best of 2006
5. Neil Young - Living With War
4. Chin Up Chin Up - This Harness Can't Ride Anything
3. Pearl Jam - Pearl Jam
2. Tom Petty - Highway Companion
1. The Hold Steady - Boys and Girls in America

For 2007, I have:
Caribou - Andorra
I have to listen to this one again. It's a nice, pop album without being too cloying.

The White Stripes - Icky Thump
This is one of those albums I respect, but don't find very listening to very often. Doesn't bear many repeat listens. Kind of grates. It's very rough, and sounds like they're trying awful hard. With that said, it's a rocker.

The National - Boxer
This is very downbeat, and is a grower. It's very earnest.

Ryan Shaw - This is Ryan Shaw
Nobody's got a better voice than this guy. Amazing.

Les Savy Fav - Let's Stay Friends
They're that band that nobody knows who can crash a battle of the bands competition and blow every band away. People can never be ready for these guys.

The Bees - Octopus
I can't figure out why people have forgotten about this band.

Neil Young - Chrome Dreams II
Through the bouncing around, there are real stalwarts here. This is one that will float on by -- that people will forget about. But years down the road, this will be the sleeper from the later years that keeps getting play.

Modest Mouse - We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank
Probably my favorite of the year. I saw them in November and had forgotten how good this album was. Not for everyone, but right up my alley.

Radiohead - In Rainbows
I'm really not a true believer, not some diehard, Radiohead nut. There are aspects of this band I generally dislike. But this is a beautiful piece of music. Damn near perfect.

Spoon - Ga Ga Ga Ga Ga
I couldn't not put this as #1 because I kept coming back to it more than any other album. Very simple and direct, but also catchy and outspoken.

Best opening track: "Don't Make Me a Target", Spoon
Best 2-song sequencing: "Fly Trapped in a Jar"-"Education", Modest Mouse
Best track: "Reckoner", Radiohead

Best music purchased all year: A tie between two Chin Up Chin Up records -- their 2004 debut, "We Should Have Never Lived Like We Were Skyscrapers", and their 2005 follow-up self-titled EP. They are criminally overlooked and ignored.

Best Popcorn Movie: The Bourne Ultimatum
Best Film Movie: The Kite Runner

It was a good year. Time management is still a rough spot, though. I would have liked to have run more. In 2006, I averaged 34.9 miles a week. In 2007, it'll end up being 26.4. I kept the consistency, but never really maintained a long enough string of 40+ weeks to ramp up workouts and get in better racing shape. I'm at 35 right now, so hopefully that's a good start for '08. I would like to do another marathon, but '09 is looking like a better opportunity with the kid in school more. But, who knows? If I get in good shape with time enough to plan a nice, 12 week cycle . . . anything could happen. And that's what I love about new years. Not "New Year's", mind you -- new years. That built in idea we all have that we can start all over again. It's partially bullshit to think there's nothing on the slate -- but that's OK. It's better to not think about how hard it will be. Otherwise, we may never begin.

Til the Time is Right

2007-11-30T00:33:00.000-08:00

I was on a night run last week when a '1st' occurred. When you've been running 16 or so years, there aren't as many firsts as there used to be. I was just jogging along old Superior Street here in good old Bay View -- you know, "the friendly south side", they call it. And it was dark out -- and cold. So cold -- and of course I was underdressed -- that I was running fast with fists clenched to stay warm. And as I approach this parked minivan with only its parking lights lit, I hear the minivan 'lock up' upon my approach.

I've never thought of runners as intimidating, but I guess everything changes when the light goes down.

I thought, at the time, that I would like to explain to the person that I wasn't a threat, but now I think it was good they locked up. I think carjacks would be cut down significantly if people just hit the locks. What's so hard about that? And what carjacker wants to shoot the person through the window, ruining the car, getting blood everywhere? And of course they'd still have to move the body to drive it. It doesn't make any sense. Lock up, then drive away. It can't be that hard.

That's why I can't stand the horror movie cliche in which someone is being chased, and they're too afraid to think coherently. And they run -- and don't they all run like pansies? -- until they trip. Then they keep tripping, because that's convenient, isn't it? That hasn't been done before.

I guess what I want is a horror movie in which the people prepare really well, don't make any mistakes, and avoid all the silly cliches....but still the bad guy gets in. Now that's scary. Not people being stupid and getting stabbed. People playing it smart and still getting it.

You Might Think You've Seen The Coolest Thing, But This is the Coolest Thing

2007-11-03T00:52:00.000-07:00

Of all time:

The Apple Girl

2007-11-03T00:44:00.001-07:00

I know I've talked about this before, but it bugs the absolute fuck out of me that this ex-girlfriend I had like . . . more than 8 years ago didn't want to hear my rant on hypocritical gender values in the post-feminist era.

Really, I just had an issue with the whole medieval concept of the guy laying down his cloak over a puddle so the woman could walk over the puddle without getting wet.

What bullshit sense does that make? You're telling me that the water won't soak through the cloak and get her feet wet anyway? Come on.

That's all I really wanted to say, and she couldn't entertain me. Right then I knew -- not just that we wouldn't last together, but -- that I disliked her fiercely. I wasn't asking for give and take. Just hear me out.

When You Take Your Grandmother to Her First Packer Game in 30 Years

2007-10-27T00:18:00.000-07:00

On the walk in: "Why are we walking all this way? I would have paid these people for parking! This is such a long walk. You know I'm not that young anymore?"

During the National Anthem: "Grandpa always cries during this song."

When the crowd boos as the Eagles are announced: "Oh COME ON! Let's be good sports now! Really. That's just shameful. Do they really boo like that?"

On their chances, repeated once per quarter and throughout the fourth: "Oh, damnit, they're going to lose! Damnit, they're going to lose! I just know it!"

Answering my question as to whether she wanted anything to eat: "What? HERE? We're not eating here. We'll go home and eat Grandpa's food. We're not eating this junk."

On other people eating the food: "Look at that. Look at him eat that. Everyone's eating like that. They can't make their house payments, but they can come here and stuff their faces."

On the girls next to us: "How many times are they going to get up and walk past us?! That's the seventh time they've gotten up and walked past us! Unbelieveable! You come to a game, and you don't watch it -- you're always UP!"

On the woman in front of her: "This woman in front of me is drunk. She keeps talking to me. She's drunk. I don't know what to say to her because she's drunk and I can't understand her. She seems to think we're friends. I wish she'd turn around. She's drunk."

Many people in the family have told me that she had a great time. After all, they did win.

New Release Tuesday

2007-10-27T00:12:00.000-07:00

It's always a great feeling to have a new Neil Young release in stores. I make sure to go to a store to get mine, these days. I still do plenty of Internet shopping, but some bands are worth a new release Tuesday visit to the music store.

It's a strong album by Neil, and I say that for just one reason. Most people reviewing the album know that it's cobbled together with old and new stuff. My ear tells me there are three different sessions on this disc, covering 20 years, different players, not to mention some additional production and mixing for this release. And while I agree that it's sort of a lazy release, the fact that it works is what's most important. And the kicker is: if people didn't know it was cobbled together, it would be getting raves.

I think he's cobbled together worse albums -- "American Stars and Bars", "Hawks and Doves", "Are You Passionate?" are three that come to mind, and I like all those albums. But they don't work quite as well as this one. As Neil puts it, "They just keep on comin in a long, long line. I'm a Believer."

Time for Pimento

2007-10-27T00:04:00.000-07:00

The thing I don't understand about all cracker advertisements is how the cracker people always want to portray these things as if they are so 'versatile'. Then they proceed to show the viewer all the hundreds of ways one can use the crackers. And the thing that's got me chapped is how it's never a simple presentation. They never show somebody with his hand digging into the bag and then stuffing the things in his mouth. They never show a simple cracker with melted cheese.

But we get plenty of shots of cucumber with a tomato slice, topped with a perfectly-placed dollop of sour cream. There's crackers with three different cheeses, with the cheese cut into triangles and angled just perfectly so the viewing can see equal amounts of each type of cheese. They've got the dollop of cream cheese with a sprig of mint -- a fucking sprig of mint -- offset with a garnish of pimento. I just want to know who has the time to get that fucking pimento in place so it is equidistant from the mint and the edge of the dollop.

Go Back to Wrigley, You Yuppie Chicago Scum

2007-09-20T00:27:00.000-07:00

That's what I say.

What other conclusion can I reach after encountering boorish Cubs fans during a non-Cubs game at Miller Park . . . just so they could cheer against the Brewers and be general cockmouths about everything.

But Michael Hunt really says it best.

I laughed so hard when the Brewer fan sitting next to them -- fed up and not about to take any more shit -- rose from his seat, grabbed that stinking Cubs hat, and threw it onto the field.

Selling Out to the Tanning Salon Girls

2007-09-15T00:21:00.000-07:00

I don't mean to be a dick about this, and I sure don't mean to come off half-cocked. But this has been bothering me for some time now, and I think it's high time I made mention of it:

What the Fuck has Happened to Leinenkugels?

I went to school a few miles from the brewery, so please believe me when I state I mean no disrespect. I've had more Leinies than the great majority of people walking the earth. I remember my first, sitting on the porch of the green house. I remember the discontinuation of their Ice beer, and realizing how this was a good thing -- this was a family brewery ditching the trends and coming back to its own. I remember touring the store, buying my Red shirt. I remember one of the greatest beers I ever tasted -- then called "Leinies Limited" -- at a friend's house after a hard race. I remember the great seasonals they put out throughout the year. This was a hometown brewery to be proud of.

In those days, my bread and butter included:

Original
Red
Honey Weiss
Northwoods
Autumn Gold (autumn seasonal only)
Winter Lager (winter seasonal only)
Creamy Dark (came a little later, but still a staple)
Auburn Ale
Maple Brown Lager (may have been just an autumn seasonal, not sure)
Bock (think it was just a spring seasonal, but I could be wrong)
Big Butt (spring seasonal only)

Of all those great beers (OK, 'Original' is average at best, I grant you), here is what is still available today:

Original
Red
Honey Weiss
Creamy Dark
Big Butt

They've pillaged their own stock. When you go to the Leinies website, they have an FAQ section in which they 'explain' why all those great beers are gone:

"We constantly look at our family of brews to determine the best mix to satisfy our loyal Leinie fans. We know that everybody has a favorite beer. (The challenge is how many different styles can the physical brewery brew in a given amount of time to quench the taste preferences of the market.) Sometimes we have to make a tough choice to discontinue a certain brew in order to be able to keep up with the demands of some of our most popular beers like Leinenkugel's Honey Weiss, Berry Weiss, Sunset Wheat, and Red Lager. Don't worry, we'll still continue to come up with new brews like our upcoming summer seasonal to be introduced in April 2007."

I realize that a lack of sales undoubtedly is to blame. But it's still a damn shame.

Northwoods - there's no good reason why this nector of beauty is gone, but that schlock of crap, Berry Weiss, is brewed year-round.

Autumn Gold - this was a real sleeper. It always seemed to be available for just a month or two. Nice, rich flavor.

Winter Lager - this, to me, was the flagship. This was a dark to fly a flag by. This was a pride beer. A beer like this could only be brewed by a small-town brewery. Or so I thought.

Auburn Ale - another sleeper with some surprising flavor. Real interesting character.

Maple Brown Lager - I heard Jake L. on the radio ripping this beer as kind of a bad experiment. That was too bad. Sure, it wasn't a beer-after-beer lager, but it was good. Had a sweetness that wasn't too obvious.

Bock - admittedly, the lesser bock when compared to the Big Butt. But that's no reason to kill it. I alway thought it was cool that such a small brewery could put out two kick-you-in-the-pants bock beers.

At some point in time, Leinies was bought by Miller. I don't really know if that's good or bad. From a distributing standpoint, it should be good, right? The thing is . . . I look at their offering right now . . . and I can't escape the conclusion that they're catering to the non-beer drinkers now. I humbly submit my evidence below. Aside from the five stalwarts -- Original, Red, Creamy Dark, Big Butt, Honey Weiss (with which I have no complaint) -- here's the lineup:

Berry Weiss - This one's been around a while, and they've finally created enough groundswell among the wine cooler crowd that it's no longer a seasonal. I guess I just always assumed that Honey Weiss was the chick beer. I don't know how anyone can handle any more than six ounces of this thing. Why not just melt a couple popsicles in a cup with some booze?

Light - This has been around a while. Never had one. What's the point?

Sunset Wheat - This is pretty good. But it's a ripoff of the Blue Moon Belgian White. It's a blatant, uncreative attempt to cash in on someone else's good beer.

Summer Shandy - Again, a pretty good beer. A real burst of lemon. Very drinkable. So much so, that this feels like another target. This smacks of playing to the wine cooler crowd. "Let's brew another beer that college girls will drink!" I guess I'm being pretty hard on Leinies here, because I genuinely enjoy this beer. But is this really the same company that brewed Winter Lager?

Apple Spice - They fucking did it again. Another obvious beer. Above I mentioned the Blue Moon company. They were bought by Coors, and changed all their beer names to kitschy marketing-friendly titles, such as "Havest Moon" or "Rising Moon" or "Full Moon". The ultimate triumph of the label over the brew. Well, Apple Spice isn't that different to me. This is yet another beer that's so overdone, so over-the-top with fruit flavor, that it's not even a beer anymore. It's a fancy label that girls fresh out of the tanning salon will pick up on their way home. Whatever happened to subtlety?

Oktoberfest - And this is the kicker. They did it -- they tried to jump on the Oktoberfest bandwagon. Pathetic. Who do they think they are, brewing an Oktoberfest beer? I thought Oktoberfest beers were supposed to have more alcohol and more flavor. This has a slight bit more alcohol than the typical Leinies, but flavor?

I can no longer ignore the fact that Leinies has been leapfrogged by brands such as Lakefront or Berghoff. I think only two or three of the current Leinies lineup are worthy of mention alongside a whole host of Berghoffs: Lager, Red, Dark, Solstice Wit, Bock, Pale, and Hazelnut Winter. It's difficult when the brewery you loved has abandoned its base and shot for the Zima market. But I have hope they will rebound. They are in God's country, up there in Chippewa Falls, so anything could happen.

Out of touch, out of mind.

2007-09-11T00:27:00.000-07:00

I just got an email from a friend about my old team. I went through a few years after school in which I desperately missed cross country every day in late August and September. Still do to a lesser extent. At this point, as much as I still run, I'm too far away from being in that sharp, fast sort of shape to be 'eligible' to miss it as much. Anyway, I saw some of the pictures, and read some of the captions, and I guess I'm like everybody else. You look for your part in it, and it was quite small. Just a chain link of four years that gets passed over so quickly. I left having accomplished what I wanted to do. But the competitor in me, the guy who pushed so hard that whole time, made it such that I couldn't be satisfied. When you work for something so long, you don't remember the end of it -- only all the failure and missed chances leading up to it. I look at those pictures and feel bad about how misunderstood I probably made myself. And I hope I contributed to something. It just gets farther and farther away in my mind.

***

I'm so jacked about this weather, I can't even begin to write about it. For weeks now, I've been pinning everything on September, and here it finally is. About fucking time. And everybody's trying to rain on my parade with all their "summer's over" whining, as if the guys in masks were about to arrive with the Kool-Aid. Fuck them! This is the prime time. Football. Greatest running of the year. Flannel shirts and jeans. Fresh apples. And that smell of burning leaves everywhere.

***

With that stated, I do feel bad about the poor bastards back in school. Because it's really here, isn't it? Homework and tests. Lockers and pop quizzes. Study halls and pep rallies. Chalk boards and backpacks. Ice breakers and drama. There's no avoiding it. I'm sorry, kids. There's just no easy way through it. I wish there was one. And I'm here to tell you that you can't sugarcoat it. It's really as bad as you think. So don't be ashamed. It's just starting, so go ahead: bitch about it. I don't mind -- I'll read all you have to say about your loneliness and frustration. The worst part, to me, was the fire drills. All those people filing outside. You'd think it would be OK, being out of class for a while. But there's nothing more desolate than a big crowd of people. That's why I don't know how people do it at large schools. All those voices -- all rhythm and no lead. It's enough to put anyone to sleep. So . . . long story short, I sympathize, as petty as that may be.

***

Well, finally, people are seeing things my way. Yes, for the second year in a row, I've read articles criticizing MTV -- cultural cannibal that it is -- because it holds an awards show for music videos which it never airs. Fucking liars! "Music Television." What lying bastards! And the kids just lap it up, don't they? Well, at least we're not all fooled anymore.

***

An ex-sort of friend of mine just had a kid. And this is kind of funny because several of my old friends just had kids, so it could be either of them I'm writing about (so don't get any concrete ideas, you). But anyway, I do wonder how it's going and sincerely hope that it's all going well because kids, especially at that great young, young age -- that age so far before potty training -- is a lot of fun. Sure, they don't 'do' much. But to me, they're just the top of the muffin. So you have to feel good for the parents, wherever they may be.

***

I killed someone in a dream last night. First time I ever killed anyone in a dream. That I remember, anyway. I didn't know the woman, either. Just some random, dream thief. Actually, she wasn't really a thief, but was one of a group of home invaders in this little dream. But the story kept changing. In fact, the person I strangled even changed right there at the end. I'm actually OK with the ending. They deserved it. And it was the first dream I remember in which I took control and beat some ass. But it never would have happened if that old Chinese man hadn't lost his cool. I have him to thank.

***

Everyone's waiting for it to happen, but not saying anything about it. I think it should probably happen. I'm no junkie for gossip or anything. But if it's not working, it might as well end while they're still young. That's very shallow and 20th century of me, but sometimes it's just best to hit File < Exit. Sometimes you cannot change her mind. It would be so much easier if you could.

***

I'm finishing this Lion Stout, which is a decent beer that's grown on me a bit. But it's in a really heavy bottle, which is annoying because every time I have one of these, I feel like there's half a bottle left when I'm really finishing it. The glass of the bottle is that heavy. It's a good nightcapper, but I need to start pouring it in a glass.

***

I'm just about ready to start writing again. I just have to pick a project. It really could be three different things. But I think I know what it will be. I'm starting to lean, and I'm starting to think about it more and more. So that means the seeds are ready. It won't be long now.

***

"My thoughts were so alive."

Jugular

2007-08-29T23:59:00.000-07:00

At the start of the Milwaukee Brewers' current road trip, I made the pronouncement:

"The entire season hinges on this road trip. They must win one in Arizona, two in San Fran, and then two in Chicago. 5-4. If not, the season is lost, and I'm going to the games only for the nachos."

They promptly won two -- that's right, two! -- in Arizona. And then they got swept in San Fran and lost the first to the Cubs. So -- for this cowboy -- the Brewers' season is over.

Oh, sure. They could get hot. They could still win the division, go to the playoffs, get on a role, and make their way all the way into the World Series. Here's why they won't.

1.) The Cubs won't. See, the Cubs peaked about a month ago. They were on fire. Then . . . the wheels fell off. They peaked too early. What does this have to do with the Brewers? The Brewers peaked IN JUNE. They're so far from good baseball, they don't even remember it anymore.
2.) It's not just one thing that needs fixing. The managing has been erratic, the starting pitching has been weak, the relief has been unpredictable, the hitting (aside from Ryan Braun) has been slumping, there are still some injury issues, and the trade deadline has passed. The odds of all those things improving just marginally are pretty low.
3.) The Cards are coming on just too strong. They know how to win. We don't. Want evidence of that? All this year the Brewers have been celebrating the 25th anniversary of the 1982 season. Yes, that's the season in which we LOST the World Series. Uh-huh.
4.) And here's the most important reason the Brewers are going to miss the playoffs and finish below .500: They are the Milwaukee Brewers. It's what they do.

I don't write this with great malice. I am a season ticket-holder. But I know reality when it stares me in the face. It didn't help matters when the Brewers scoffed at fate and sent us season ticket-holders a post-season ticket package. That was the day before they lost five straight, so the gods of baseball couldn't have been too amused.

Listen, I hope they do well. I hope they make it. But they won't. It's over. It's football season.

Iron River: August 2006

2007-08-28T23:43:00.000-07:00

We arrived Saturday night after taking a wrong turn. It was still light out, so we went to the local Iron River IGA and picked up groceries. Nolan ran the store, knocking over cans and picking out juice. We got back and made sloppy joes. We were careful to be quiet for the owners, who were sleeping next door that night. The cabin was old and kitschy, but also cozy. We had to Nolan-proof it a bit.

We woke up on Sunday and canoed to Hart lake before Nolan got upset. It was sparse and quiet. Afterward, we drove the triangle, north to Port Wing and Herbster, east, skipping Bark Point, passing Cornucopia, which the locals called "Cornie", and then through the Redcliff Reservation, and finally south to Bayfield. We hung out there for a while. Nolan napped, so we ate lunch at Morty's. It was a hassle, though, because the service was slow and the kid woke up with nothing to do when we should have already eaten and left by then. Out of tourist guilt, I still tipped the guy, which was a mistake. He never looked us in the eye. We left and walked around the town a bit. It was rainy. We drove aimlessly, looking for one of the many berry patches in the area, but they all seemed to be closed on Sunday. We completed the triangle, driving back west along 2. We had dinner and built a fire. Nolan got to try marshmallows and climb on the overturned canoe.

Somehow, Nolan took an early nap the next day, so we went to White Winter Winery and bought some wine that I don't remember; some great, sugary soda; blueberry bar-b-que sauce, and blueberry coffee from Michigan, which we still have. The lady behind the counter creeped us out because she asked a lot of questions, found out where we were staying, and then tried to get us to rent her place. We left and drove west to go hiking in Brule. The scenery was great, but Nolan had to check out every twig, so it was slow going. We sat down right in the middle of the trail and had lunch. We got Nolan moving again by holding Twizzlers for him to run for. We finished and left, but kept driving west to Amnicon Falls. It was buggy, so we didn't hike long. We saw the beach, and walked around the falls. Then we drove west to Superior, where we bought lobster and buffalo, but no gator. Superior was run-down, depressing. So we turned around for home. Nolan had his first shower. He wasn't a fan.

We spent Tuesday at Madeline Island, but didn't get to see too much because we didn't have a car or bike. We swam. Nolan played on the playground. I remember there being a mean kid there. We saw the old Ojibwe cemetary and walked the marina. We had lunch upstairs, and the kid was covered with ice cream.

On Wednesday, we biked through Iron River, but Jess got sick of it. I think it was hot. We went swimming in Moon Lake -- Nolan loved it, but he loved the playground next to it more. The beach was empty, but for three teenage girls who only tanned; one talked about if her boyfriend asked her to marry her. They talked like characters from a bad 80s movie. After we got back to the cabin, we canoed to Hart Lake and rowed around some more, seeing the spacious houses on the shore. Nolan got antsy, so we headed back.

On Thursday, we drove down to Delta and had breakfast at the great Delta Diner. Afterward, we drove north again, and had lunch on the shore of Superior at Cornie. It was perfect weather. We bought fudge, whitefish dip, crackers, fresh trout, fresh whitefish and cheese curds. Then sat down on the beach. It was the best lunch I've ever had. Afterward Jess took a picture of Nolan and I over the Sisikit Falls in Cornie before we got back in the car and drove east. We picked blackberries, fighting away flies, outside of Bayfield. Then we drove south to Ashland. Jessica was delighted to a Pamida, which is necessary to have on any vacation, I learned. They had two-liter bottles of expired soda for sale for 29 cents, but we passed. We kept driving south, to Mellon, finally arriving at Copper Falls. We walked the great trails and saw each of the falls. Nolan ran and ran, especially enjoying the large wooden bridge. After exiting the bridge, he found a small oak tree and shook its trunk as hard as he could, laughing uncontrollably. The picture I took of that is the wallpaper of this computer's desktop.

We woke up the next day, and Jess made blackberry pancakes . . . except used salt instead of sugar (saltcakes!). The fridge had long stopped working, so we bought ice to keep things cool. We canoed the lake and played in the back yard. Later, we went to the county fair. We saw the sheep judged and looked at some of the local displays. Nolan played some awful fair game managed by a young woman who looked like she hated us. We saw a dog performance/competition and tried deep-fried cheese curds, which were awful. We left for some fish fry, but the service was terrible, and the fish wasn't even local. But the local A&W Root Beer made up for all that with its skate-up service. We lit another fire, and Nolan kept trying to jump in the water or fire.

I went for a final run the next day, down the county highway, around Twin Bear Lake, to Eagle Lake, then back out to Muskellunge Lake, where I could hear the motorbikes leaping and snarling. As I approached the cabin, the little boy at the corner yelled at me, and the deer peered at me from atop the slight hill.

Start Getting That Hair Cut Sharp

2007-08-10T01:26:00.000-07:00

I think I'll enjoy being 35 years old. Because then I'll be eligible to be president. So whenever anyone starts bitching about politics -- because people don't really talk about politics anymore; we only just bitch about it, like clucking hens -- I can say, "Well, I'm able to run for president now, so just you look out. Don't upset me. I may do it."

The Three People in the World

2007-07-30T23:47:00.000-07:00

This is a neat time to be alive because the world can be easily divided into three parts:

1.) Those who don't give a damn about Harry Potter. I'm sorry. I imagine you either live in awful, 3rd-world conditions, or else concentrate really hard on the stock market.

2.) Those who own, but have not finished the last Harry Potter novel. You pathetic bastard -- come on! Get going! How long can you avoid the Internet?

3.) Those who have finished the final Harry Potter. What lucky SOBs we are! It's just like seeing the last Star Wars. Or finishing a novel. Or running a PR. What fun. Mostly because of the accomplishment -- of the knowing. But, come on -- admit it. It's a little fun having something over on all the # 2's of the world, isn't it?

Come on, # 2's -- we're waiting!

Minus

2007-07-30T23:39:00.000-07:00

He showed up. He ran.

And the gods were appeased.

And I am -- admittedly -- a bastard for pulling back the curtain and reminding us all that sometimes, the passage of time is unmistakably, undeniably depressing.

The Call-Out

2007-07-16T23:58:00.000-07:00

I don't remember quite how the conversation started. That doesn't matter. What mattered is that it happened. I walked into the bar, my friends were eating hot beef sandwiches and drinking beer, and the Brewers game was on. Right there, standing over the table, is when he said it:

"I could still run a sub-5:00 mile."

I didn't even know I had it turned on, but my bullshit detector started ringing off the hook. "He" is a great friend of mine that I'll call "Beavis". Beavis is a couple years older than me -- 32, I think. He's a great guy. One of the very few people I could competently depend on. Good listener. Smart. Loyal as a pitbull. But none of that matters. What matters is he triggered my bullshit detector.

See, he may act like he's still 22, but he's just like the rest of us. A little roughened by age. Not much. Just some added character. He's filled out a bit. He's not overweight at all. But one notices -- like with all my friends -- the extra weight in the face and sides. 'Things have changed,' as Dylan put it. We're not running 75 miles a week anymore. We all have jobs and families. To top it off, our metabolisms have caught up to us. My point is this: no one in our position just up and pops off a sub-5-flat mile. Sure, back in the day, 5-flat wasn't far off our race pace for 8K, so running one at sub-5:00 wouldn't have been much effort. BACK IN THE DAY.

I'm not stating that someone has to run 75 miles a week and be entirely focused on running to fire off a sub-5:00. But one must work out. They have to be real workouts: planned, organized, and with purpose. A lack of workouts is why I ran a crappy marathon last year. Anyone can pile on base mileage and get into terrific fitness. Fitness doesn't make anyone fast.

So I sat there in the bar for a moment, considering his statement. And I just couldn't let it stand out there on its own. No one else said anything, so I said: "I have $20.00 that you can't go up to the track right now and run sub-5:00 mile." Our friend (let's call him 'Bird') said he had $200.00 on it.

It has been brought to my attention by the subject of this missive, that the below statement is not accurate. He is correct. The individual never stated he could beat me, and he is, in fact, not the type of person to make such a statement. I, however, recall the subject saying something to the effect of, "Are you gonna run too?" In short, I believe this was an attempt to morph the unproven claim into more of a duel. I understand the motivation to that, because I agree he would have an easier time besting me in the mile than he would running sub-5:00. Nevertheless, retraction noted.

Beavis responded, stating how he could outrun me in the mile. This was mere smoke and mirrors. Maybe he could, maybe he couldn't -- doesn't matter. I'll give him a freebie on that one. I stated this then, and I'll state it now, right here, nice and clear: Beavis can run a faster mile than I. There. Done.

Later that weekend, as I was running with two other friends Sunday morning, working off a hangover, it came to me again: 5-flat isn't kid stuff. I wish it were. I wish that that time which I used to so easily eclipse was still just a simple four laps around the track. It's certainly not improbable. But it's not anything to bandy about over beers and hot beef. Runners know this. We know that this casual statement of unproven triumph -- this is not acceptable.

During our collegiate careers, I beat Beavis a number of times, and he beat me a number of times. We had a mutual respect. Still do, I hope. But that respect does not grant him a free pass to toss out claims of what anyone "could" do. See, this is not about me and him. This is nothing at all personal. This is between the running gods and Beavis -- the gods, who only ask, "What have you done for me yesterday?" The gods, who only care about two indisputable things: a set distance and a clock.

So I will repeat my challenge here, as it was never taken up this past weekend.

Beavis, I will see you again this weekend at the wedding. And it will be a fun weekend. But I know the town of Menomonie, WI is home to at least two suitable outdoor tracks. And I challenge you, sir, to appear at one of these tracks with me for five minutes . . . or more. I will have the stopwatch, and you should bring your spikes. I believe you'll need them.

Again: we are good friends, so I hope you do not take this personally. But I cannot ignore stupidity when it so baldly calls attention to itself. You have a debt to pay with the gods of running. Either retract your statement . . . or lace 'em up. The gods are waiting. And they are not happy with you.

Lessons Learned: Mauthe Lake, WI, 7/1/07

2007-07-04T23:08:00.000-07:00

1.) When you rent a row boat, they give you a plug. For God's sake, put the plug in the boat before you put it in the water and fill it up with your son, dog, shoes and cooler full of food.

2.) When your wife notices a lot of water in the bottom of the boat, don't say, "Don't worry about it, it will go away." It won't.

3.) If the 90-pound dog is sniffing the water and places his paws up on the edge of the boat, grab his leash.

4.) When your dog jumps in the lake and the entire lake turns around to see him towing you back in to shore, there's no real way to play that cool. Just go with it.

5.) There's nothing like lunch in the middle of the lake with the fam.

6.) There are always ways around the "Pets not allowed beyond this point" signs.

7.) While deep in the woods with the dog, if you shoo the horse flies away from him, those persistent bastards come after you.

8.) As hard as it can be, try not to think of yourself as the happy medium between the Chicago money and the Wisconsin white trash. It may be true, but it doesn't really make it any better. Probably best to just ignore the money and the trash, and enjoy the clean sand and cool water.

Go Congratulate Her

2007-06-25T00:56:00.000-07:00

It was a great weekend. I saw the Brewers win with an old friend, ran some fast miles, walked the beach with the family, and ate polish food. Half of that would have been good enough.

Stupid Stuff That Makes Us Shout

2007-06-22T23:28:00.001-07:00

I don't usually post off of links, but sometimes I just can't resist. So I might as well post them in groups so I'll feel less guilty.

This is hilarious to me. As one right-winger would say: the gay mafia has won. Whether that is OK or not doesn't really bother me. I have no opinion here. What amuses me is the headline: "There's No Way I'm Homophobic". Because we all know the way our logical minds work. They say: "Prove it, Isaiah. Let's see it. Let's see you prove you're not gay." Unless this guy starts dating another guy, I'm not convinced. You know you aren't either.

***

At work, we're prompted to donate all this money to some idiotic arts cause. I never really participate, other than in the event that -- if my team were to win -- we get to wear jeans to work for a week. My team never wins, I should add. I don't like donating to big causes or gigantic organizations. I don't know where the money goes, and it feels like dropping money on the sidewalk, not like giving. I like donating to small causes. Little people. If you do too, here's one that breaks my heart and probably yours too.

***

This is the greatest video of all time, in my narrow, humble opinion. It has all the drama and emotion of a grand epic . . . in the span of 8 minutes. It just goes to show: lions may be kings and crocs may be tough . . . but you don't mess with 100 water buffalo.

***

And this is the greatest song title, not to mention, a pretty spiffy song.

as good as clear

2007-06-13T00:35:00.001-07:00

I think if I were diagnosed with terminal cancer right now that I would drop everything and try to write out all the books left in me. Which most likely would end up with some very forced fiction. As I see things now, there's a lot of work to do. I don't really give a damn about publishing anymore. It's just such a hassle, and the books really aren't any missing link in American fiction. But I would be disappointed if I didn't get the books out of my system -- the right books. I wonder how that would feel, having written every idea. I imagine that would feel as light as air. Writing a book is just like running. Starting out is such an effort, setting out what you know and then beginning to chip away at yourself, molding yourself into this better version. It's exhausting looking at it, but I can't stop looking. I would really like to say there has been a lot of progress on my running or writing, but it's probably the opposite. I have the sense that being fully devoted to neither takes a toll. This is really the only place I can bring this up. I really enjoy being old, but one of the downsides to it are the constant weather/job conversations you have to go through. All the 'sum up'. It's exhausting, having to choose what to tell people, deciding how much is enough, what will move them, what will shut them up -- just what is it they want to hear? That's the problem I have with so many friends that live away -- "How are things in Milwaukee?" What is that? How the hell do I answer that? I don't know how things are in Milwaukee. They change every day, just like everyone and everywhere else. It's too bad it's so far away that people don't know -- that email and telephones and instant messaging and cell phones never really bridge that divide. If you're not present, the technology never really cuts down the distance. So that's how things are: I better get writing. "This is like starting all over all over again."

On Consistency

2007-06-09T21:50:00.000-07:00

Our new dog, Rufus -- he's not really new, but he'll always be new to me, as he came after my dog Ranger, the greatest dog of all time -- finally proved his worth today.

Yep. He did it too.

I couldn't believe it. I heard the scream of indignation from in the house, and by the time I got outside, there was the puddle on the sidewalk, and my wife with the hose to her ankle.

The Lions Have Won

2007-06-09T21:23:00.000-07:00

our mouths are bigger than our feet

There's something about white guys in their 20s that gets so tiresome. I can say that now that I'm not one of them. So I'm no longer guilty of too much self-importance, beer drinking and talking.

We have season tickets to the Brewers, so we're constantly subjected to white guys in their 20s. They're everywhere. My wife doesn't have much patience for them, but my past guilt helps me understand a little better. Still, I agree with her. One can take only so many jokes about meatloaf dinners and strip clubs.

The scope becomes so narrow, that it's no wonder so many of these people have such a damn hard time finding what they are looking for. They never find it at the Brewer games, win or lose. That I can attest to.

I keep coming back to what ol' TJ said about the greatest talent being to never say two words when one will do.

you can go home, but I can't go home

Rainbow Flags Between Alligator Teeth

2007-06-08T23:02:00.000-07:00

Well, it's the weekend of Pridefest here in Milwaukee, so all the gay people are proud.

Maybe that came off wrong. I certainly don't mean to belittle the proud gay folk. It just seems to me that this weekend gives the Pride a reason to be even more gay than, say, a regular weekend out to Home Depot and Target. In fact, it seems to me that it becomes a bit of a competition to see who can be the most gay. And I'm so tired of that. My only message here is:

You're gay already. We get it. Congratu-fricken-lations. Do you think the rest of us really care? You don't have to push it all in our faces.

Disclosure: I work in a call center in which . . . . 50% of the employees are gay. So I'm familiar with the Pride. I'm good with the Pride. Love the Pride. OK? But enough is e-fricken-nough. You're gay, already. We get it.

And why did you have to fucking co-opt the rainbow, huh? I want to discuss that, while I'm at it. Thanks to the Pride, any straight person with an interest in a rainbow catches themselves and thinks: "I can't wear that shirt, everyone will think I'm gay."

Now, I know where the Pride line of thinking goes: "That's the POINT! Maybe THEY'LL understand what it's like to . . ." Blah, blah, blah.

The rainbow is a result of weather. Couldn't you have co-opted something else? How about alligators? Alligators would have been a much cooler image to steal. Why can't gay people have alligator bumper stickers or fly alligator flags?

I know the Pride won't accept my alligator submission. They would feed me some line of crap about how "all the colors of the rainbow symbolize the rich diversity of the gay blah, blah, blah, blah, blah".

You stole the fucking rainbow. You want symbolism? How about tough skin? Huh? How about sharp teeth? What's wrong with that symbolism?

I just want it on record that if I were president of gays everywhere, they would be flying alligator flags and we would be giving rainbows back to the pre-schoolers.

Begging for a Broken Arm

2007-06-07T23:32:00.000-07:00

Well, hell. I had my first injury of the year. Of the last couple years. Make sense of this:

1.) I notice some soreness in my inner knee. This had actually going on several weeks. It felt kind of like an IT-ban thing, but . . . not sure. The soreness isn't bad. Not sharp. Sort of a tightness.
2.) Being a savvy veteran, I begin treating this injury with the only two remedies known to any runner in the business: ice and ibuprofen. This -- surprise-surprise -- fails to do any good.
3.) So I decide, in the interest of not wanting this injury to get worse (even though it really wasn't bad, just worrisome and not improving) that I will rest it. So I plan to take 3 days off. In the end, I go whole-hog and take 5 off.
4.) My first day back, the knee is iffy. OK on asphalt, not so good on grass, which isn't a great surprise, as it never seemed like a "pounding" injury.
5.) The second day back, the injury is definitely worse. It hurts the same as it ever did, despite the surface. Doesn't hurt enough to keep me down, but it shows me the rest did nothing. So I decide I will run the knee into the ground. No use going to a PT or doctor with a half-injury. Might as well go messed-up.
6.) The third day back, the knee is fine. The fourth day back, the knee is fine.

I love the sport, but it would be really refreshing if I could just get a broken arm some time.

All Your Enemies in Cartoon

2007-06-07T23:29:00.000-07:00

There's this woman at work, and I don't have to deal with her in any way, shape or form. But she looks . . . . EXACTLY like Ursula, from "The Little Mermaid". It's uncanny. And I know that may sound silly, since, people typically don't look like cartoon half-octopus, half-overweight women. But that's what this woman looks like. I try not to run into her.

IT GAINED STRENGTH.

2007-05-27T23:28:00.000-07:00

Shaped Like Ribs

2007-05-24T23:36:00.000-07:00

I have been told that I'm not allowed to write about why my car smells like urine after _______ drove it, so I will not write about why I had to sit on a towel on my way home from work with the windows open. Even though I really want to write about these things. I will not.

I would much rather write about some of the late night advertisements I've been seeing. Like the one for ExtenZe. Any product selling its merits on the premise that it is "real science" must be taken seriously. Ah, yes: real science. What really kills me about these ads is when the woman shakes her head at the camera while saying "make": "ExtenZe will make you bigger..." Why does she shake her head at that point of the sentence? To me, all these products have nothing to lose. What guy is going to complain that these products don't work? What if the company requires a measurement? Photographic evidence? This is free money, as far as I see it. Get a silly name; pay a brunette to wag her head in front of a camera; bam -- you're rich.

Or I could write about how I thought about attending Lollapalooza this summer. Pretty much all of the greatest bands of the moment will be there: Pearl Jam, The Black Keys, Modest Mouse, The Cribs, Spoon, The Fratellis, Chin Up Chin Up, Ryan Shaw, Ben Harper, The Satin Peaches, LCD, Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Archid, and probably some more I am forgetting. It's at Grant Park over three days in August. I'm familiar with Grant Park. It's a big, open space. That's it. I'm sure there will be a couple tents, but that's all. So I figured that I could conn the wife into going with me, at least for a day, if not the full three. She's not as much of a trooper, as far as the whole rock concert thing, but I think I can convert her yet. And I know it will be hot. But it's all for rock and roll, so who cares? And, yes, I am getting old. Granted. But I'm not THAT old. I can still kick it with the Lolla kids for another year. I know the music. That's all that matters. So I went to the website:

Only $195.00 for a three-day pass.

I will not be kicking it with the Lolla kids at Grant Park this summer. But it's not just the money that bothers me. I know the sound quality is iffy at this place. And seats are only as good as you can walk up to (or stand and wait for). According to the Lolla people, there will be 8 -- count 'em -- 8 stages of music at this thing. I don't know how you squeeze that many stages at the park without the music running together and sounding like crap. Additionally . . . they don't even have the schedule set yet. They expect you to plop down a load of cash, not even knowing when (much less what day) band X is playing. Also, what if two bands I want to see are playing at the same time? That's what I get for my 200 smackeroos? Uh-uh. Playing around on the website, I see they also have "Lolla Lounge" tickets available for a mere $1,700. Or if you're Derek Jeter, they have "Private Cabanas" for anywhere from $32,500-$75,000. I don't know what else to call this but just fucking greedy.

I would also like to write about the phrase, "Pork meat shaped into ribs," but I seem to have run out of steam. I still come back to the car: will it still smell like urine tomorrow? Will the smell fade or gain strength overnight? Oh yeah -- can't write about this.

you never die and you never grow old

2007-05-18T09:34:00.000-07:00

What I hate most in the world right now is how someone talks or laughs aloud on their cell phone or hands-free, making no attempt to be private.

Because there's always that five- or ten-second lapse in which I think they could be talking to me, so I stand there, looking at them like an idiot.

So now I try and just make it through the day without standing around like a staring idiot, and someone who actually wants to speak to me has to yell at me.

All Tooth

2007-05-15T23:49:00.000-07:00

At work, they're having some idiotic promotion in which we're going to "eliminate hunger". There are all these signs up, telling everyone how we need to eliminate hunger. Under the sign on my cube, I wrote: "But I'm hungry right now."

--

What I don't understand is how he got the name "Winnie" the Pooh. Everybody calls him "Pooh" or "Pooh Bear". How did he get to be "Winnie the Pooh"? Is a winnie a type of pooh?

--

I think the best voice in rock music has to be John Lennon. I'm not a big Lennon fan. I think it was that whole love-in, bed-in thing. Ick. But he had one hell of a voice. What in the world is cooler than his vocal on "Twist and Shout" or "I Am the Walrus"? Anything?

I think the best living voice in rock music has to be Britt Daniels of Spoon. He's got some range, and there's a lot of that Lennon edge in his voice. Just pop in "That's the Way We Get By" or "The Beast and Dragon, Adored". Spot-on.

--

I got called "Buddy" at work today. By a guy I don't work with and only see in passing. He's not a real hard worker, but he's not a loaf either. There was a funny, knowing tone to his voice on the phone. I got the whole bit about him not wanting to do any work, and how he was sort of telling me how he wasn't going to do the work I'd assigned him. Truly, I don't really give a damn whether anyone does the work I give them -- as long as it's off my plate. What was striking was how practiced he sounded. See, I know all about this guy. I know he's got this agenda, and that he's working on getting out of here and into something better. But he's still playing the game with everybody. He's still pretending he's like the rest of us, in line, digging away. I wish I could just break his chain with my shovel and tell him to get the hell out of here, we don't need you anyway, and you're cheesy buddy-vibe just creeps everyone out.

--

My favorite word lately, is "pile". I'm using "pile" all the time now. You know, as in, "That guy is a frickin pile." A pile of what, you ask? I think the listener can fill that in themselves. Everyone is a pile to me. GMAC, our mortgage company, is a pile because their crappy website was down half the day today. The guy next door is a pile because every time he mows his lawn, his grass blows all over this rose garden we just weeded. The president is a pile because he's a lame duck with no plan or ambition. The candidates for '08 are all piles because they don't have any independent thoughts. The guy at the high school who gave us shit about what door we came in is a pile because he didn't have to take it that far. ******* is a pile because she lied to everyone and still acts like it was normal. The guy at the liquor store is a pile because he gave my wife crap about leaving the dog outside. The woman in the checkout line is a pile because she is slower than molasses and won't make eye contact. You get the idea. Pile.

--

I've been slowly reading this collection of Shirley Jackson short stories that I got for Christmas, and I read one yesterday that's so good -- I mean the writing is so strong -- that it has to be one of the best American short stories ever written. It should be read in schools everywhere. She's very simple and direct in her language, and doesn't give a whole lot of description or setup. But she can create a tone like no one else. She's been here all this time. Why haven't people noticed her?

--

I think, as a concert piece, the unannounced encore is dead. The band plays for a while. Then they say it's their last song. Everyone else knows otherwise. They all walk off. Two minutes later -- not even enough time to properly enjoy a beer -- they all return. And they're always so fake-surprised, aren't they?

It's just stupid.

Either tell the audience, "We'll be back in ten minutes," or don't do an encore. Unless of course the crowd really does earn it. If they're all still out there, screaming and pounding on the seats when the venue turns on the lights and the roadies are taking apart the set, then fine. But otherwise, it's dead. It died some time in the 80s, I think, and now it's all wink-wink, nudge-nudge. And who wants that at a rock show? For Christ's sake, it's not a network sitcom. It's rock and roll.

Redlining

2007-05-07T22:30:00.000-07:00

It turns out he was right.

I got fucked. And all I can do is sit here and think about it.

What kills me is when I sat down to the computer just now, it came on, and my first impulse was to turn on Lotus Notes -- the first program I turn on at work, a program so outdated and pathetic that only my place of employment would still use it.

So I come home, and the wires in my head don't even recognize it.

When the Trees of the Field All Stand Together

2007-05-03T23:55:00.000-07:00

We typically go running at the same time every day. Most days, Nolan is OK with the idea, and gets in the stroller without an issue. There are books, snacks, and milk for him. I pull down the garage door, and we head north, up the hill of the alley. At the top, the chocolate Labrador retriever jumps and barks at us, as if it's the first time he's ever seen us get this close to his yard. We turn left out of the alley and cross the street. Crossing the next street, the ground levels, then slopes downward, giving my legs a break. I turn left for the walk, right to avoid the sidewalk bit that sticks up, then left for the next walk, and finally right on Illinois Avenue, just like the game, but without hotels. We pass the house that was for sale last year -- quite cheap too. But it didn't have a garage, and looked like it needed work. The little sign with the bird saying, "Let's do lunch" is still in the tree, from when the old owners lived there. At the end of the street, we turn left into the woods. Passing under the trees, we enter the seminary's back parking lot. We turn downhill and pass the cafeteria workers, sitting at the picnic table, enjoying their own lunch and cigarettes. We pass nuns, who smile and will say "Hi", but only if I say "Hi" first. They always smile at Nolan. We pass through the corridor of trees and stop for the traffic at the head of Bay View Park. We enter the shade, and twist in and out with the trail. We see the same downed trees, climbing vines, park benches and lapping waves every day. We cross the soccer field where the Mexican teams play on the weekends, between cookouts. The trail moves uphill, and we see the man in the middle of the field, surrounded by aluminum, trying to get tan. I see his lonely car to the left, by the road. The trees at the top of the hill stand tall, branching together, and offer their shade. My legs recover from the hill, and I try to get some momentum back behind the jogging stroller. This is where we usually see the old man in the red and tan jacket, ambling along with his cane. He sees us, and his face opens real wide -- so wide it could be a grimace or a sneeze. And he says, "So you made it out today!"His face completes the grin, and I say we wouldn't miss it. He keeps crawling along, and we pass the investment firm on the lake, its flags blowing in the wind. The trail straightens out, bringing us closer to traffic. Up ahead, the new lakeside developments of St. Francis loom in all their fast-food brick glory. We take a sharp left and run directly at the lake. I check the stroller to see if the kid is still awake, and we turn down the alley, south, watching the water slap the rocks and the orioles light from bush to bush, following us and cawing. I pick up speed, running toward the largest hill of the run. I place both hands on the stroller, and my stride shortens. I think of what I need to do when I get home. I think of what I will have to do when I get to work. I think of how I need to get faster. How I need to tweak this daily ceremony to sharpen my legs. I wonder if the kid is asleep yet. I think of what I can write in my book or on my website. I think of ways I can convey a plot or emotion, how I can string words together and together again to bring people to this place of understanding I have reached at the top of the hill over the lake . . . before I have to turn around . . . and run back through it all again.

For Rules

2007-04-30T23:54:00.000-07:00

I'm typically not fond of rules.

I had a great philosophy professor who once convinced the entire class that they were for censorship. Many students objected, noting how they believed censorship was wrong, ill-considered, and biased. He responded by saying, "So you think we should provide child pornography to convicted rapists upon the completion of their prison sentence?" Of course no one agreed, so he concluded that we were all in favor of censorship. Many still disagreed, saying they hated censorship in most other instances, that his example was just an exception to the sentiment. He pointed out that sentiment was all it was -- but by that one belief, we all were in favor of some sort of censorship somewhere.

So while I am not too fond of rules, I must admit I am for them. My example -- my "kid porn to rapists" -- which made this very clear for me . . . is this guy at work. He has convinced me that if one decides to bare-chest a shirt -- basically, to wear a shirt with no undershirt -- that that shirt requires laundering before its next appearance.

Furthermore, if said bare-chester decides he's too good for undershirts, and if said bare-chester has a fair amount of chest hair, and if said bare-chester is not John Travolta, or hell, even if he is, then I think the shirt needs to be buttoned -- at least -- up until the tie button at the top.

And if he has any inkling that the air conditioning won't be working and the call center is going to be 80 degrees, an undershirt is required.

Rules, damnit. Rules.

Politics Go So Good With Beer

2007-04-28T00:01:00.000-07:00

So much, so much to say.

Since I was gone I wanted to say that thanks to this year's Chicago Bears . . . defense really doesn't win championships. So take that, you smart-ass pundits.

At work they just moved this guy who sat by us who was a real big Jesus-guy at the same time as he was a real big gigolo. Obviously, I know him as the Jesus-Gigolo. And it's so great that they moved him because he was a real nice, friendly guy I wanted to kill because he wouldn't stop laughing. Laughing at what? Oh, at women he thought were pathetic and easy and at all the non-Jesus people who weren't lured into going to church with him. Rather than try to converse with this mental giant, I avoided him, kind of like how Walter never really said anything to Jesus. "8-year-olds, Dude." My thoughts exactly.

My current favorite Pixies song is "I've Been Tired". Not just because I have been. But because it's funny and politics does go so good with beer. "Excuse me pleeeaaase?"

I'm drinking Black Dog Ale, right now. Out of . . . Montana, I think. It's really good. Flavorful. It's a real good beer for anybody who's had too many light beers lately. This is the kind of beer that proves to the drinker -- damnit, it's meant to have taste.

I'm so into this band, Lesser Birds of Paradise, that I wish I could be their drummer. They're from Chicago, so I probably didn't do myself a whole lot of good by just ripping the Bears. It's not that the drumming would be that much fun to play -- just regular rock. But the songs are so good, you just want to play on them. They know how to produce and mix. That's a lost art. They do this harmonization on one track that's so perfectly imperfect, you'll never hear it done better ever.

It's so wet around here, that we're pretty much screwed, I think, with regard to the mosquito situation. There's so much standing water that they're just multiplying exponentially. I go running and hit clouds of these things so thick I think they'll pick me up and take me to their leader.

I'm eating my wife's strawberry ice cream dessert as I write this. It's been in the freezer for more than a week since she told me she'd chop off my balls if I touched it, so I think it's fair game. Hell, it's partially freezer-burned, so I think I'm doing a service here, taking care of some good dessert before it goes bad. Things have actually been pretty good on the home front, and I think that is mostly to do with my wife's current obsession, which happens to be Trader Joe's sun-dried tomato, basil hummus. As long as that hummus in in stock in our fridge, things are copasetic around here. But if that hummus runs out . . . let God have mercy on the soul of the poor bastard who has to deal with my wife.

"running on empty, he's coming around, has had his plenty, and when I found, that the light is blinding, the streets are clear, and reveal these findings . . . ."

Out of Jelly Belly Control

2007-04-26T23:56:00.000-07:00

I'd like to apologize to all the people at the Jelly Belly factory today who happened to be on the factory tour at the same time me and my wife and boy were there. That screaming child who wouldn't stop screaming, and was just a complete, irrational, screaming maniac, who you probably wanted to turn around and strangle because he wouldn't stop screaming was my boy.

I don't know why he screamed the whole time. I know it was a boring tour, but it sure didn't warrant such a display. I wanted to grab him and walk out, but the lady at the front said we couldn't exit the train. But it wasn't really a train, was it? It was more of like a 'tram'. And it wasn't really a tour of the factory, was it? It was more like a tour of a warehouse used by the factory, where they had installed a bunch of TVs that we had to stop to watch for 99% of the "tour". And then it kind of turned into a real money-grab at the end, there, didn't it? The way the tour ended conveniently at the gift shop.

It fairly sucked, didn't it?

But that's no excuse, I know. I still apologize. Because for as much as it sucked, my son made it even worse. But take some solace. Some day when my son is old and successful, plainly full of himself, he can come to this website and learn how his mom and dad wanted to take him to the nearest orphanage, zoo or street corner and sell him for $50 bucks one cold, rainy day in April, during the terrible two's.

Everything Hits at Once

2007-04-18T00:35:00.000-07:00

So I have this new iPod. And it has all this space on it, so I've kind of decided that I'm going to put everything I own on it. Well, just music. But believe me, that's plenty.

It has 80 gigs of space, so I can afford to put everything on it. But I don't necessarily like where this has put me, in terms of how I view my music collection.

There are some positives. I may have one of the city's best Neil Young collections. Neil alone must take up several gigs. Then there's all the Neil & Crazy Horse stuff, and the Neil and Pearl Jam stuff, and the Neil on collection albums where he's labeled as "Various Artists". It's a lot.

And other bands are also well-represented: Beatles, Led Zeppelin, Modest Mouse, Buffalo Springfield, CSNY, Black Crowes, Pixies, Spoon, Wilco, Beck, Bob Dylan, Cream, Jefferson Airplane, Nada Surf, Stephen Stills, Decemberists, Steely Dan, Smashing Pumpkins, and Pearl Jam are all well-represented, if not presented with their entire catalogs including some bootlegs.

But then the concept of "everything" kicked in, and I ended up dredging through some of my wife's music. Like her Bon Jovi box set. Some awful Sheryl Crow live CD with like 10,000 guest musicians. Her 4-CD dance music collection which is supposedly "great for working out". Her live, Loggins & Messina double-CD with these awful 10- and 20-minute songs that sound like they are in an alien language.

Then came the kid's music: some terrible, British, Bob the Builder CD. A 3-CD set of mind-numbing children's songs; each of the songs are only a minute or two long . . . but there are 45 songs per disc. Some awful Bengali chant music that never put him to sleep.

But not all this blame can be given away, I'm afraid. Yes, some of these turds are mine. For example: the Hanson CD I bought in college to use as a party closer. It's on right now. It's worse than I remembered it to be. Then there's my well-documented, hated All-American Rejects CD. There's the Justin Timberlake album that BMG sent me when I forgot to respond to their email. That one wasn't even opened because I meant to return it to them two years ago. Then there's the CD the wife and I bought for $10 on our honeymoon. It was this guy, singing Bob Dylan songs while we were at dinner one night. He was great. His CD isn't. It contains no Bob Dylan songs -- no folk of any kind. But it has plenty of '80s synth keyboards and cheesy lyrics. Here are the song titles: "Do It For You", "Brighter Day", "Don't Give Up Your Dream", "So Nice To Know Ya", "The Master's Hand", "Do It For You (Instrumental)". I remember putting it in for the first time. My wife heard it and said, "Oh. Oh. Oh, boy. Will. Turn it off."

I gotta put in some Heatmiser. This Hanson is getting into my brain. I'm can't go to sleep with this in my head or it may hardwire to my memory and kill me.

The Oatmeal Cake Shake

2007-04-11T00:40:00.000-07:00

There are rare times, at work, when I stumble upon brilliance.

Tonight's incident does not involve any remarkable gain in efficiency, or any magnificent quantity of tickets completed, agents assisted, defects identified, or products supported.

It was late. I'd had my fill of coffee. But something was . . . lacking. So I grabbed my packet of oatmeal, took up my trusted Shriners' cup, and walked to the lunchroom. And there it was: the last piece of someone's birthday cake. Avoided by the rest of second shift because of its four and a half hours on the table, it was ready for me.

I ripped open the oatmeal and emptied it into the Shriner. Then I cut the piece of cake in half and dumped it on top of the oatmeal. I added a half-cup of steamed water from the coffee machine, mashed it all up with a fork, and took a taste.

Good. But that last half of the piece of cake was eyeing me hard.

Into the Shriner it sank. I mashed some more. Added another snoose of water: Perfection. The perfect nighttime snack.

I should patent this stuff. I can't say it was the best day at work. I was too busy to get anything done, which always makes the day feel a bit worthless. But it wasn't worthless after the Oatmeal Cake Shake. How many days can one say he created a new dessert? I should be on the Food Network.

Rating the Kiddie Shows

2007-04-06T00:25:00.000-07:00

It is inevitable. At some point in time, you see enough of these things, and you can't turn them off in your head. They are built to be crack for your kids, and they end up sticking in your head too. And before you know it, you find yourself enjoying or hating these things, just like your kids (but do they ever hate them? - probably not). So here they are in my view.

The Best

Charlie and Lola
Maybe it's the British accents, but this show is hilarious. And my kid has the biggest crush on Lola, who he stares at wistfully, and calls, "La-laaa". It's pretty predictable, but always funny and British.

Sesame Street
I agree that SS pre-Elmo was great, but it's still pretty good. He does grate on you, sure. But you still got some old cast members, which is amazing. And the Cookie Monster pretty much makes the whole thing worthwhile. It doesn't matter that he does the same thing every time. He gives gluttony a good name, and it's a beautiful thing to watch his self-control break down and see him take down all those cookies.

Bob the Builder
No one will admit it, but everyone likes this show because we all love to see how they build or fix things. That's really all there is to it.

The Worst -- These are the shows I try to keep my kid from even finding out about.

Barney
Not that this one needs an explanation. It's just so sickening with his sugary voice and all those weirdo kids fake singing and dancing around. And those kids never fight, do they? They're always just getting along like the saints on Sunday. What a load that is. Even on Sesame Street, Elmo and Zoe fight over her stupid pet rock.

Rafi
Click the link and take a look at the picture. Would you leave your kid with this guy?

The Wiggles
This is the worst of the worst. I'm just going to say what everyone else is too politically correct to say: It's four gay, 40-something Australian guys dancing around in Star Trek clothes. I don't know why kids fall so hard for these guys. Beyond being mind-meltingly annoying, they rank a solid 10 on the creepy scale. These guys should be used to torture political prisoners and terrorists. Lock the prisoners in a windowless room for four hours with the Wiggles and see how they do.

There Goes the Neighborhood

2007-04-04T00:19:00.000-07:00

My little part of the city prides itself on being:
- reborn
- hip
- safe
- clean
- non-commercial
- liberal
- growing

So everyone here is all up in arms because of some recent gang robberies which targeted about three dozen small businesses around here during the last four months. Politicians are requesting more police be trained. Security guards are being hired. And everyone seems to have one of two attitudes:

1.) We're a strong community, and we're not going to take this! Let's talk tough on message boards and learn gang signs and walk the streets once a month together to show those gangsters!

2.) There goes the neighborhood. Fuck this bullshit -- we're leaving.

While I know the first premise is the right frame of thought, it's also ridiculous. Citizens can't patrol the streets or do the cops' jobs for them. And while I understand the second premise is a bit cowardly, it's also realistic. Nothing is going to stop the robbers except the robbers deciding it's not a good idea. Government and internet message boards don't hold sway.

At some point in time, it becomes unavoidable. You look around and realize you can only travel to half of the city because the other half is ghetto. You pay a tax bill the size of a small fortune. You understand the public schools are battlegrounds. You don't swim in the lake because the smell of it hits you before you can get to the beach. City officials should stop wondering why the population rolls resemble a yearly exodus. If family weren't here for so many people, we would all be fools for not realizing there is some place, many places, better.

I got a feeling, it didn't come free.

2007-04-03T01:07:00.000-07:00

It's done. Finally.

480 pages.
134,134 words.
187 hours composing.

About a month ago, I said I wouldn't post here again until Claims from the Pit was done. And thank God, it's done.

I remember doing very well on it the first year, then hitting a stumbling block. Not a writer's block, just a lack of motivation. Then I wrote stop-and-start for a long time, putting in a strong push in late 2005. I probably added less than 10 pages in the entire year of 2006. The whole time I felt guilty about not completing it. This is partially because I knew the ending the whole time. I just had to write to it (easier said than done, I found out). And then this year, the guilt caught up to me. I kept listening to this song that was about waking up. And so one night, the book woke back up. I edited for a week, and I liked what I saw, with some exception.

The first 100 pages are probably my best work to date. But then things don't quite go so smoothly for our narrator. And I don't know how readers will react to that. Not that there will be any readers. I love this book dearly. It is hard giving it up. But it alienates everyone. The whole premise of the book is that a sane person can make the decision to kill himself. And, yes dear readers, to ruin the ending -- he most certainly does.

Athenian: What of a man’s relations with himself – should he think of himself as his own enemy? What’s our answer now?

Cleinias: Well done, my Athenian friend! . . . . You have made the argument clearer by expressing it in its most elementary form. Now you will find it much easier to realize that the position we took up a moment ago is correct: not only is everyone an enemy of everyone else in the public sphere, but each man fights a private war against himself.

Athenian: You do surprise me, my friend. What do you mean?

Cleinias: This, sir, is where a man wins the first and best of victories – over himself. Conversely, to fall a victim to oneself is the worst and most shocking thing that can be imagined.

Plato, The Laws

There's plenty to bring readers in -- certain readers. There's more sex and violence in this book than the other two I wrote combined. It's meant to be very un-sexual, though. The titillation draws you in, but there's always a repercussion. That's an easy way to make a point, and I like working that way. Subtlety be damned! But I did work this strategy over and over in this book. The message is never stated, but perhaps too clear.

There's also so much happening in the book that I perhaps missed some things. It needs future drafts to better develop all that goes on. There is idealism confronting capitalism and drugs. There is friendship and language, which I need to develop more -- the idea how language changes over the course of a friendship. There's also plenty of Mormonism, nihilism, Henry Hudson, American Dream, relationship dynamics, suicide, bar life, and five different Beatles songs as world views thrown in for good measure. Adding to all that is a stream of consciousness voice meant to add some perspective and throw off the reader. Of my three manuscripts, this one is furthest from being publishable work . . . but it may say the most.

I found that it's difficult writing a dark book when things are going well for you. It's hard to 'turn off' and write to suit the novel. And to complete the book's premise, the build-up to the ending had to be just right -- I was really concerned with it coming off forced, just to end it the way I dreamed it. It needed to work and make some sort of sense.

Additionally, I can tie the writing and non-writing of the book to when my son entered the world. It is hella-hard to write after waking up a 9:AM, spending the morning watching the kid, and then working a full shift of work. It is much easier to come home and watch a move, play Railroad Tycoon 3, or watch the Internet.

With that said, these past four weeks -- about 85 hours of writing which accounted for approximately the final 87 pages of the novel -- has been so much more fulfilling than my other options. I think I'll take a month off, edit Claims, print it out and put it under my bed, and then start another.

...the time passed away with us, and also our lives passed away like as it were unto us a dream, we being a lonesome and a solemn people, wanderers, cast out...

The Book of Mormon

Jacob 7:26

Birth Control

2007-01-28T21:47:00.000-08:00

Saturday

It was more timing and luck than anything else. The boy had taken an interest in the bathroom, so the wife bought him a little throne to sit on. It plays a song when he does his business (one or two). He only recently turned two, so I thought this was all a bit premature. But then, after dinner Saturday night, there he was, sitting on the stump with his pants around his ankles, reading a book. Then he peed. The wife got it on tape. Her smile glowed.

That was before he stood up, turned around, put his hand down into the bowl, and put his hand into his mouth.

And, no, we aren't sending anything in to America's Funniest Home Videos. She turned the camera off right as he stood up. No $10,000 for us. We've got a setup without a punchline.

Sunday

My wife has had her mind set on getting an ottoman for the couch for a while. I don't know why; seems to me if we add any more furniture to the home, no one will be able to walk anymore around here. But when she mentioned that she wanted to go to some "going out of business" furniture sale, I didn't really have the energy to argue.

Plus, I like going to furniture stores. I like sitting in the chairs. Deciding what a certain piece is ghetto or not. Checking to see if a bookcase has just a cheap cardboard backing or whether they use plywood. Seeing if the drawers are dove-tailed. It's good, nitpicking fun.

When we had seen all the ottomans this place had and found none my wife liked, we decided we'd make a circle of the points of the store we missed to catch any potential deals before leaving. This is kind of our standard operating procedure when it comes to browsing at a store we both don't mind being in.

I found a nice office set we probably couldn't afford. It had drawer-pulls on the front just for decoration -- I didn't like that. Otherwise, it was nice, and as the wife and boy walked ahead of me, I took a look at some accessory pieces. It was then that I heard the crash.

Coming to the scene of the crime, I saw a salesman trying to fit a clock back into a decorative shell. Surely the results of my son, I thought. But I couldn't stop to ask how it had happened -- there was another crash. A very loud, shattering crash. I rounded the corner to witness a four-foot tall vase being saved by my wife and a second salesman from certain destruction. My son was cackling. Beside him, on the floor, lay the shards of the other vase. I guess it had been a twin set.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the fastest way to spend $524 without having to drive around back to the loading dock.

"I want to thank you for sticking around here, sir. A lot of people would have ditched out of here," the manager told me.

"I guess we're not going to Florida in March," I told my wife.

"We have the devil for a son," my wife said.

Your Teeth are All Red and There's a Little Bit About You I Don't Wanna Know

2007-01-18T22:04:00.000-08:00

There is an art to corporate speech. People are not laid off. There are adjustments made. Leverages taken advantage of.

I used to have this job in which a woman sat kitty-corner from me. And it was only a couple days into her time with us that I knew for sure: she wasn't going to make it. It was unavoidable. She maintained a blissful ignorance of any performance standards or professionalism.

And yet . . . . years later, there is much I remember about this woman.

She had to be well over 300 lbs, and she loved it. Loved it.
She always had great food at her desk, and huge quantities of it: she could take down an entire large pizza, cheese bread, chicken wings and tub of custard in one shift. It was a treasure to watch such love for eating. Plus, she shared.
She once told me: "I loooooove black women. I do. I just love black women. You see, I think it's because we keep everyone else going. We have this burden, whether anyone wants to admit it or not. We have to be the grown-ups and caretakers. I love that. I embrace it."
She went crazy for the maintenance man's strong aftershave.
She told me all about how she kicked her man out of the house "for good" because he didn't want to hear her talk about how her day went. I tried to ask why this was such a sticking point for her, and she was unapologetic: "You have to contribute to be with me, and if you can't even listen, I be DONE with you." He crawled back two days later, and - yes - she told me about the makeup sex.
I listened to her slurp down shakes and french fries while on the phone with clients . . . . at the same time as she read a magazine and browsed on the Internet.
She often told me: "I can really see myself here for a long time. I just want to succeed here so bad."
One night, she told me how she caught a ride home with a third-shift worker who openly, graphically came on to her in his car outside her house. Eventually her boyfriend chased him off, and she didn't seem to hear me when I told her she should report the worker to management.
Once, when the neighborhood pizza place made a mistake with her order, she declared that she would never order from them again, and said to me, "And that's a good chunk of their business!" I didn't disagree with her. A week later, I couldn't get her to explain to me why she was again ordering from them. "Oh, Will -- that was so long ago!. That's all over with now."
Workers there were judged on statistics, and hers were awful. I sat down with her a couple times to explain to her what she needed to do to pull them up. She told me that I should be a manager because none of them ever sat down with her.
One day I overheard her talking to her tub of custard; she said: "Oh THERE you are! I MISSED you!"
She talked about how it was important to her that her kids behaved well in restaurants. She made it a point that she wanted people to respect her family in public.

When they fired her, she was so upset that she wouldn't leave the women's restroom for nearly an hour. I still remember the management team pacing and slumping outside the restroom doors, wondering how to deal with this woman they didn't know, who was so crushed by what they had done.

Riding the Brakes

2007-01-08T23:29:00.000-08:00

After a certain age, you can never please people. At some point, people will wonder why you don't have a girlfriend. And then when you get one, they'll wonder when you'll get married. And then when you do, they'll wonder when you'll have kids. And then when you do, they'll wonder when you'll have more.

I get that all the time now. "So, are you two gonna have another baaaaaaby? When are ya gonna have another baaaaaaby?"

And then what happens after that, fine reader? You already know. We'll have one and then they'll ask: "When is the next one coming?"

No more. Got it? The line is drawn in the sand. And I'm not going to be nice about it anymore, either. I'm calling it as I see it: "Do you think the wife and I are stupid? Because stupid people don't learn effect from cause. And we're not stupid."

We know that 1+1=2 little monsters, tearing apart our house all the time and demanding attention. One boy is enough. Actually, he is like six boys in one. He is. I'm not boasting or complaining. Well, a little. But I've seen other boys. This is some kind of reptile we've got.

"But you can't just have ooooooone. He can't be an ooooooonly child. What about a buddy for him?" People say this as if they think they can guilt me and the wife into having another child. Again -- do you think I am an idiot? Some sort of happy sadist? Another one? Listen, I know my limitations once I've reached them, and I've reached them. I'm a good father, but I'm not a fool. The boy will be fine. We'll get him dogs.

I love the gremlin, but I'm not getting him wet. End of story.

Men's Restrooms and the Downfall of the American Male

2007-01-06T22:38:00.000-08:00

The reason -- to this careful observer -- why women will always finish ahead of men, is found at the nearest bathroom urinal. Regular readers will know that I often bemoan the fact that -- claims of "glass ceilings" or not -- women comprehensively run the culture. I attest -- and let me also point out that I'm really not trying to be funny here -- that the answer, the reason for this great chasm in ability between the sexes, has to do with a dirty little secret men encounter nearly every time we take a leak in a public urinal.

For the women who don't know what I'm talking about, I will explain. It is my wild guess that eight of ten times a man relieves himself in a public urinal, he encounters -- just inches in front of his face -- another man's snot. Yes, there is a large (I want to call it a 'subset', but it's really more like a...) faction of men who unload their nostrils right on the wall in front of them while taking a leak.

I'm not going to go into the action itself. I don't really have an issue with that. It's a restroom -- that's probably the best place for making some space in the sniffer. It's (obviously) the placement of this deposit that irks me. And one finds it everywhere.

It could be a brand new bathroom in a four-star hotel. It could be a noxious port-o-let. It doesn't matter: the age, upkeep, size, and makeup of the bathroom can neither prevent or encourage this behavior.

This leads me to the following conclusions, not to mention a deep embarrassment and shame for my own pathetic kind:
1.) It's gross. This is a given. More importantly...
2.) This is a mind-bogglingly lazy act. OK. You're gonna clean some house in the shnozz. Fine. THEN JUST FLICK THE FUCKING MUCOUS IN THE URINAL IN FRONT OF YOU, YOU SAP! Why smear it on the wall? It's like a dog pissing on every tree to mark land.
3.) Given the percentage of snot per urinal, a great number of us are utterly lazy and disgusting people.

The great assumption here is that women do not encounter such childish laziness on such a regular basis. Maybe I'm wrong -- I hope I am. But my level of instinctively built-in esteem for the other sex leads me to believe this is a fair assumption.

How can we compete, when we remain at a 9-year-old's maturity level when it comes to life's simplest function? They are getting law degrees, curing cancer, and running for congress. We're smearing snot on the tile above the urinal. It's no surprise that we're headed for what? -- careers in low-level "service" jobs. Where we'll probably have to clean the restrooms.

Worse Than You Would Ever Know

2007-01-04T01:15:00.000-08:00

My running for '06:

1843 miles
140 abs of steel workouts
315 days

I think about 15 of the missed days were to injury, another 15 to scheduling/weather problems, and the other 20 to a lack in planning.

***

On an altogether different note, the new Modest Mouse song is really, really good.

***

I left work tonight, wondering how many double-chili cheese dogs this gigantic, fucking ogre I'm forced to work with could eat. Eight? No, far more. Fifteen -- could he take down 15 double-chili cheese dogs in a sitting? I think so. That sounds about right. I never enjoyed that Nickelodeon television show . . . . I think it was called "You Can't Do that on Television". Just wasn't my kind of humor. But I think that if we dumped a large bucket of green slime over the ogre that he would continue mowing down double-chili cheese dogs. You might be thinking there's something noble to that, but you haven't seen the mush of chili, cheese and grease trickle down his gullet as he rips into another one.

***

I think that's enough for one evening.

Confidential to You-Know-Who

2007-01-01T17:01:00.000-08:00

Clementine oranges don't count. The skin practically falls off of them. I mean real oranges, basic oranges.

A Case for Durex

2006-12-22T22:53:00.000-08:00

To me, it's no question: The worst name for a major corporation has to be Trojan Brand Condoms. Never in the history of capitalism has an organization become so successful with such a blatant disregard for history.

OK, I get it: sex is like a war, and the Trojan condoms protect your army from disease and babies. Great. I get the lack of subtlety. My message to the senior management at TBC involves the actual choice of historic mascots:

HEY! Idiots! The Greeks broke through! They IMPREGNATED the Trojan defense and burned Troy to the ground! You not only chose the losing side, you associated your product -- an item valued for keeping something "inside" -- with the army responsible for the most infamous, ignominious military loss in the history of man!

I have never purchased Trojan condoms for this reason, and this reason alone. They could be the Consumer Reports choice for greatest rubber on the planet -- I don't care. I cannot patronize a company founded upon such idiocy. I mean, for Christ's sake: Would anyone in their right mind buy a Frigidaire space heater?

Panis et Circenses

2006-12-20T00:52:00.000-08:00

Because I'm convinced the Internet is void of a decent English translation for this song, this is the best I can make of it:

Panis et Circenses

I'd like to sing
The music lighted with the heat of the sun
I drove the flags high on the slip of the wind
I send the lions to my neighbor's backyard
But all the people having dinner inside
Are very busy with their food
Till they die

I told the man
To make of stainless steel a very sharp sword
To kill my girlfriend on the heart and I did
At 5 o'clock outside the crowded bus stop
But all the people having dinner inside
Are very busy with their food
Till they die

I told the man
To sow the seeds of dreaming my bedroom floor
The leaves will know their way to reach out the sun
And there roots keep just going down, going down
But all the people having dinner inside
That same old people having dinner inside
But all the people having dinner inside
That same old people having dinner inside
Are very busy with their food
Till they die

Name Calling

2006-12-19T00:18:00.000-08:00

It's been about three weeks since my son, who will be two in January, learned my name is 'Will', and has been calling me by name. There's nothing like being repeatedly yelled at -- "Wio! Wio! Bla-jah-duh-de-pah-buh-buh-raisins!" -- by one's own toddler. He doesn't say my name, as much as he shouts it. And it's always about something extremely important to him, such as raisins or apples or Elmo or Bob the Builder. I try to get him to call my 'Daddy', like he used to, but that's just not happening. He knows what I instinctively respond to, and he, like everyone else, is looking for results. Quickly. Immediately. Now.

Losing It

2006-12-16T00:10:00.000-08:00

It was Monday the 12th of December, last year, when it happened. I knew the situation was bad, but I didn't know it had gotten that bad. I was, not atypically, running behind, trying to get ready for work. The weekend was finally ending for this second-shifter, and I was struggling to enter the work week. All I really needed was to get dressed, pack the kid up, and go.

Except none of my clothes fit.

I knew that I was out-"growing" my wardrobe as I had closed in on a select group of pants. I had already been bluntly told by a since-fired, ultra-gay, ultra-outspoken, and (perhaps coincidentally) idiot co-worker, that I had put on weight. But this lack of available wardrobe was pure, undeniable, unadulterated proof. So I did the only thing that came to mind: I called my wife to complain. "None of my clothes fit and I'm a great, big fat guy who can't get to work because I ate myself out of my wardrobe and I'm going to be late for work because I'm such a gi-normous, fat guy!" It was one of the few times I recall her sympathizing with me. I think she pointed me to her closet where she had stowed away a Christmas gift of work pants for me. Actually, there were two pairs. It didn't matter. Neither fit.

I had apparently become a size 36 waist. I don't recall how I got into any pants, but I did make it into work that day. Later that night after returning home, I did 15 minutes of abdominals and then ran four miles at 12:30 in the morning.

A friend and I have described the aforementioned story as a "piece of crap" moment. In short, this is when one looks at himself in the mirror, and says: "You piece of crap. Look at yourself. Just look at yourself. You are a piece of crap." I ran 26 days straight after this, thinking I was losing weight, and genuinely feeling better about myself. I almost immediately began to fit into clothes easier. I was turning the corner back to fitness. God, life was good as a runner.

And then I came to my second "piece of crap" moment in less than a month. We'd recently gotten new life insurance. So, of course, a nurse was summoned. She asked questions, took blood, and, yes, brought her scale. "Please be in the 180s," I thought, "please be no higher than 189."

212

Surely, this was folly. "Is that right? Is that not calibrated correctly?" And so the nurse offered to put the scale on our kitchen floor -- a hard surface. "Sometimes it doesn't work right on carpeting," she assured me. Surely, I thought, I'll end up around 198 when this thing works right. That's . . . somewhat more manageable -- there could be no way on God's green earth that I had wheeled past the two-bill realm. Could there? It's the carpeting. I mean, hell -- I've lost weight in the last month. I've run every day. I fit into my 34" pants again.

212

You piece of crap. Look at you. Just look at yourself. You are a piece of crap. The only question then became: How big had I been -- prior to the December weight loss? Had I been 215? 220? Who knows? I then spent a lot of time, thinking about when was last time I had been weighed. After a long time, I realized it was in January of 2004 -- my last session at the plasma clinic. It had been post-holidays and my weight had been going up for three or four donation sessions in a row. I remembered being embarrassed at weighing in at 177 for the plasma clerk, who joked that I needed to get off of the Burger King. I was now desperately wishing to be 177 again. 177 was like a fading ghost -- how could I ever again be that not-so-fat guy, who still thought he was getting fat? Worse: how could I ever get back to the 160s? Lose 10, maybe 20 pounds -- doable. But to lose 30, 40 pounds? That's crazy, I thought.

I then ran another 28 consecutive days. But this time, I did something I had never done before: I adjusted my eating. I didn't diet. I hated the idea of diets. I just did what I always thought I could not do, but had a dim sort of fondness for -- I ate healthy food. I watched what went in.

I eventually decided that because I had lost an inch in December that it wasn't unfair to say I had probably been about 215 pounds. With that assumption, I lost three pounds in December. January was better, as I dropped 14 pounds. That, to me, was no great improvement because that weight should never have been there in the first place. February was tougher, as I didn't run as many days. Only three pounds lost. March got better: seven pounds. It was at this point, 27 pounds down, in early April that people first noticed I had lost weight. I lost another six in April. My mileage started to pick up, and I lost seven in May, and another five in both June and July.

All in all, it came to 50 pounds even, coming in at 165 and about a 32" waist. I wanted to drop a little more to get back into post-college shape, but it was not to be. Not yet anyway . . . . there's always next year. I learned an awful lot from all this.

1.) Ten pounds isn't just ten pounds anymore. It's really not that much.
2.) America has gotten heavy. Especially Milwaukee. At my biggest, I think most people would have agreed I could lose a few . . . . but only a few. I would have been considered skinny next to many of my co-workers. To this day, most people don't believe me that I dropped 50. To me, I knew I was getting bad when I had trouble taking off my wedding ring at night -- my fingers had gained weight! Fingers!
3.) There are not a lot of restaurants that serve healthy food that doesn't taste like cardboard.
4.) It is always possible to correct a bad habit.

There were really just two main things I did to lose the weight:
1.) Running. Obviously. But the key to my running, this time (in comparison to previous streaks of training) is that I did not become consumed with a consecutive days streak. The streak ended, and I let it go, not getting upset about my training schedule being interrupted. This was the main idea I had to embrace. The other was the jogging stroller, which took some adjustment, but I got into it -- it beat the hell out of running alone at 12:30 in the morning.
2.) Eating habits. This became key, namely because I'd never adjusted it before. I was 29, after all -- my metabolism wasn't going to let me lose weight and eat a plate of nachos at three in the morning just because I had run that day. So much thought went into turning around my eating, but it was all common sense. No bullshit diet or fad.
- I cut out most of the Eeees: MickeyD's, Hardees, Wendy's, Burger King...eees.
- I made breakfast a fixed meal of cereal, water and a banana-milk-oatmeal shake.
- I added some vegetables to lunch and dinner.
- I planned my work meals around the Lean Cuisine dinners, which are good. I don't like most other brands, but I genuinely like this one. They cook better than I do.
- I tried to cut out all forms of Trans fat.
- I made an effort to add milk and water to my daily consumption.
- I stopped eating after getting home from work late at night -- this was the hardest, but a huge help, especially with my June and July weight loss.

The big revelation to me, with diet, was that I enjoyed eating better foods. My body felt better. I still enjoy a good ol' fast food meal, but I keep it to once a week. If I have two, I don't feel so well, and if for some reason I have three in a week, I feel sick for a while afterward. I much prefer the basic schedule of eating.

With all that stated, I didn't quite get to where I needed to get to. A few weeks before the marathon, I put on three or four pounds. Right now I'm at 170, 45 pounds less than the "piece of crap" weight. I've been here for a couple months, give or take a couple pounds of normal fluctuation. I would make more of an effort to drop weight, but we Midwesterners are at that tough time of year in which the weather prevents guys who run with jogging strollers to get out as much as they may like to (I just can't submit the kid to anything less than 30 degrees). Hopefully, El Nino will help me out, but if not, I know I can get in three to four days a week, and still eat well enough to maintain my current metabolism, so that come March or April, I can get back to pouring on miles, and hopefully get to the promised land.

Losing weight is a little like getting younger again....which is crazy, because that is impossible. But that's how it feels. It reminds me of a Batman comic I read a long time ago -- I think it was Detective Comics # 600, if memory serves correctly. Batman had to use the body of some out-of-shape guy to fight crime. He knew what he was supposed to feel like, but his body wouldn't let him do these things he was used to doing (you know, beating up bad guys, swinging around Gotham, sneaking away from Commissioner Gordon). So when he returned to his regular body (I know, it was kind of a far-fetched storyline... yet memorable), it must have been such a relief to move the way he used to move. He was himself again.

The Post Which Dares You to Eat an Orange Right Now

2006-12-08T23:50:00.000-08:00

The most amazing thing my big sister Amy has accomplished in her life is that at approximately the age of nine, she peeled an entire orange, leaving the rind intact in one piece.

It's really difficult to do, and I challenge anyone to try this -- I bet no one can do it on their first try. We bought oranges last week, and I haven't been able to single-coat the rind yet. I know it can be done, but I don't know if I'll ever do it.

She's sung in front of thousands of people around the world, graduated college, taught hundreds of kindergarteners, gotten married, and had a child, but to me it all pales in comparison to the orange she took down in one peel that bright summer evening of 1985.

Cheers!

2006-12-08T23:32:00.000-08:00

Sheesh! One little post on beer, and site traffic quadruples. Who knew?

I actually had more to say, but kind of petered out at the end there, thanks to the tasty chocolate brew I was enjoying at the time.

So to conclude . . . .

The first time I remember being able to distinguish between quality was freshman year at college when I received countless opportunities to compare Leinie's Red against Icehouse. And even back at this caveman-like stage in my beer-drinking, I knew to immediately turn down the house party standby: Busch Lite. Busch Lite became like a curse between my friends and I. "Huh. Look at that pussy drinking Busch Lite." It was only years later when I saw the other side of the coin. At a grungy bar on the East side of Milwaukee, a total stranger asked me: "So how do you drink that stuff?" It was so strange, the way he asked me that, as if he wanted a demonstration. I was holding a Guinness, and resisted the temptation for sarcasm (but I really wanted to tell him I took it orally like everyone else). He'd never even considered ordering a beer he couldn't see through. I think in the great beer-drinking debate, I side with "Nurture" playing a key role in opening minds to different tastes.

That, however, doesn't mean I'm entirely open-minded. I've come to accept that I just can't stand wheat beer. I remember my first one: the Samuel Adams wheat beer. It was awful. Skunky. Moldy. Ish. A friend of mine came over and I told him all about how terrible this beer was. He took a sip and agreed. Then he opened up his cooler he'd brought with him and had me try some Hacker-Pshorr, saying, "This is real wheat beer; you'll like this!" It was like cold urine. I've sense set the great Berghoff model as my standard, and even their wheat beer doesn't do it for me. I can make it through the bottle, but I can't pretend to like it.

I've recently gotten some questions and comments on beer:

"You think the Jacob's Best sounds bad -- you should try the Jacob's Best Lite."

Wow -- I'll try and not keep that in mind. Reminds me of High Life Lite -- how can a brewer make a "light" beer of an already watery product?

"I don't really drink beer for taste. I drink for the buzz."

Spoken like a true Milwaukeean, my friend.

"You say that your beer of choice is Huber Bock? Huh?"

I refuse to dignify your question with a response.

"So Miller has actually made a decent beer?"

Yeah, it surprised me too. Wonders never cease. Of course the Murphy's Law aspect of all this is that it's just a minimal release, and we'll probably never hear of it again.

"You stole one of Dad's beers?"

'Stole' is a little harsh, I think. Consumed and recycled, I prefer.

On Beer

2006-12-06T00:08:00.000-08:00

My first beer was a Miller Genuine Draft can, enjoyed in my family's living room (at the time), when no one was home one warm summer evening many years ago. That was about near the end of my dad's MGD phase. As long as I have known him, there have been three phases to his beer-drinking:

Phase 1: The Early Years
My lasting memory is the action of opening the refrigerator and dully noticing a number of cans of Jacob's Best at the back of a lower shelf. There always seemed to be a healthy supply of ol' JB in the house. This was approximately from 1980-1985. Since I don't believe I've ever jumped on the JB train, I have found the following descriptions online:

"Jacob best is very inexpensive. Purchased at JR’s in Rochester. Nothing different from your typical pale yellow fizzy american beer. Cost was about 30 cents per 12 oz can. Drink it cold."

"We threw a rager and bought a case of this as a joke. It was watery at first, but then made me gag. Not good, but cheap. I’ll buy it for a party and let drunk people drink it."

"Abandoned in my fridge by a houseguest. Pours lemon yellow, very clear and very pale. Initially attractive white head is gone in under a minute. Dull aromas of sulphur and hot grass, sweet corn and maybe some Belgian spiciness? Hop aroma, perhaps? Flavor is lightly sweet, raw corn juice and steamed carrots, and softly carbonated Sprite. Actually, it reminds me of a sip of Zima I tried once. Body is round and light, but not watery. Semi-dry finish with grainy and sugary aftertaste. Far superior flavor to Budweiser. A beer for white Zinfandel drinkers."

Even though you may not have tried it...you get the idea. I think Jacob's Best is an accurate picture of the household during my younger years.

Phase 2: The MGD Years
A sea change arrived in 1986 with the Miller Genuine Draft "cold-filtered" ad campaign. Oh, how my pop loved to order an MGD at a restaurant! He first had to ask if they had it: "Do you carry the cold-filtered Miller Genuine Draft?" He had to give the complete description. We weren't dealing with any frickin High Life here. And he spoke it with such enthusiasm -- with absolutely no knowledge that this was soon to become Miller's flagship beer -- the new minimum wage standard for all beer-buyers smart enough to avoid Bud, but . . . that's it.

The MGD years were good to us. They marked my dad's move from cans to bottles (although he would insist on pouring it into a glass), and they saw us out of the 80s.

Phase 3: Dad Gets on the MicroBrew Wagon
I think this phase began in the mid-90s. My guess is about '95 or so. There was a little more income in the household than in previous years. He could splurge a bit. He began to notice Leinenkugels and New Glarus. Of course he went to school in Stevens Point, so I'm sure he was long aware of the joys of smaller breweries. Then again, Point's specialty beers are a bit . . . iffy, so I can understand why that didn't remain his constant from college, forward. (Nevertheless, one must note how curious it was for him to move from Point all the way down the quality ladder to Jacob's Best -- this I've never been able to figure out.) But it was his discovery of Lakefront Brewery that changed everything for him.

By God, they were local -- he could support the local brand! And they had variety! Not to mention, consistent quality from top-down!

So now when I go to the folks' house, there is always some offering of Lakefront in the fridge. And that's fine. I'm happy with the move forward from the early 80s. Lakefront is nothing to be ashamed of. Very good beer, indeed. I just wish he'd branch out a little bit. He gets so into certain beers, and he's just IMMOVABLE. I mean his mind is set on those beers. I can't for the life of me get the guy to purchase Leinie's Red or any of the amazing Berghoff varieties. I finally snuck my great beer of choice into his house several weeks ago, and I know that it's still sitting in his fridge. I know he hasn't touched it.

And I don't want to bring down Lakefront at all -- I really don't, because they do a great job. I actually love one of their beers which is not available in bottles -- the Fat Abbey. It's awesome. And I think they make a pretty good Pumpkin. I like their White Bier. But overall . . . it's not even the best beer made in southeastern Wisconsin.

But, what can I say? The guy won't be moved from his drink of choice. At this point, I would wager that phase 3 is it for my dad. I could be wrong, but if he moves into a phase 4, I think that would be like wine or brandy or something other than beer.

My first bar was at age 18 -- RC's on North Ave here in Mill City. I was also snuck into another bar that night full of punks with spikes in leather, but I don't remember much of that one, and it has long since closed down. I was also dragged to Steny's late in the night, and subsequently told: "Stay on this side of the street. The other side of the street is for left-handed hitters." Not bad for one's first night at the establishments: one bar for each year I was under the legal limit. All courtesy of my employment at one Antonio's Upper Crust Pizza, which was run by the greatest bunch of alcoholics I've ever met.

My worst hangover was my fifth year in school. It wasn't because of liquor mixed with beer or anything stupid. It wasn't because of low tolerance, or sickness. I had about 25 dark beers -- all Guiness, Sprecher or Berghoff -- over the course of an evening, then woke up on about 6 hours of sleep to run a 12-miler (I think). I made it 5 miles before slumping to the side of the road and puking. After an incredibly long and progressively slower jog home, I subsequently puked about the same number of times as beers I drank the night before. I felt bad about it because I went on this run because it was to be the last time I would see a friend of mine for a long time, as he was moving out of state . . . but I couldn't even keep up during the run. Around 7PM that night I told myself that if there was still blood in my next puke I should take myself to the hospital. Luckily, that was the final trip to the bathroom -- it was all out of me.

It would take a few more years for me to learn, but eventually I got it all out of my system. Since 2003, I can think of only one bachelor party and a couple outings with a friend named Breezy in which I drank more than two beers at a sitting. It was key for me to be able to get a handle on quantity so that I could enjoy the quality again. And I have to admit, it's nice to have more than two in a sitting, but that's only for the great once in a while now. That's why it's key to have a friend like Breezy. I recommend everyone have a friend like Breezy, and I know that's hard to envision, seeing as most of my readers don't know him. But you know his name, and that's a big start. I think it's key for people to be able to sit down and not worry about social bullshit. To just enjoy beer, music and conversation. So often during my time in the establishments, there is a call for the group to hit a meat market. It's always been my thought that if one cannot appreciate the simple pleasures of drink, song and conversation because of a delirious need to get laid, the hell with 'em. The bars are no place to meet women anyway. Breezy can appreciate a fine brew and carry a conversation -- and you don't even have to agree with him all the time. That's a real point of contention for me. A lot of friends struggle with this -- they both have to agree on anything, or if there is disagreement, they have to fight out every last detail -- a real big dramatic extravaganza. Sometimes you just have to say "you're crazy", and call it even. No big explanation. No summarization. No meeting of the minds. Just a mutual understanding set to good music and maybe a decent boxing match on TV. Aside from that, if anyone is looking for a Breezy, I recommend they find someone very open-minded, as well as laid-back. Don't pressure him. He doesn't need your guilt trip about what to do with his life, and where he lives or when he's finishing school, or all that bullshit. He's there in a pinch when needed, which is more than can be said of a lot of overachievers. He has people skills. He's more than traffic and weather. That's what I recommend you look for. And once you've found him, I recommend an establishment with character and selection.

My current beer of choice is, surprisingly enough, is a Miller brew. It's seasonal, so I'll have to pick up a bunch of it when the season ends. It's tasty. Just the right flavor balance. A real fine night-capper, which is about where I'm at . . . .

Shouting Into the Wind

2006-12-01T00:05:00.000-08:00

He probably doesn't know that I know he plays the pronoun game. Or that I count how many times he says "Well, I know" before someone else can finish their thought. He talks about what is on television. He speaks of it like he is reading a menu in great detail, making comments at each item, shaking his head in distaste at most of them, his voice becoming still and deep with the few he enjoys.

And what I don't know is he probably is well aware that I have been fed up with him. He sometimes complains in quiet, knowing that I can listen to him. Or better -- he will address me directly with his claims, saying, "You see, don't you? You see what I mean." When I tell him he hasn't said anything, he blames everyone, throwing his hands up and pursing his lips.

He doesn't know that I wonder if there has ever been anyone who would do anything for him? Like the mysterious pronoun-person -- would they? Or are they also ashamed? Do they fight him also, or are they smarter than I? Do they already know it is not worth the effort?

He was distressed when they moved the television channels. I still picture him waddling toward me in his barrel-style pants, with his list of complaints, smelling like sweat and onions, demanding service, never looking me in the eye. And all the time, I could only wonder what his ideal day would be like: a clear, blue horizon, not too hot, not at all cold, and as quiet as the empty streets around his apartment tower shared with the pronoun-person. There would be a full listing of programs for the night ahead. But then there would be news, and thoughts of tomorrow, and that would inevitably bring back that familiar sour look to his mouth.

Large Stomach

2006-11-24T00:10:00.000-08:00

Sometimes I'm impressed by him in the fashion of a spectator. Other times, I wonder what drives him. But most of the time, I'm a little bit frightened of him. Reason #634,521,898 why the Internet is worthwhile: because you will never meet these people in real life.

The People Who Sing Out Loud

2006-11-23T01:14:00.000-08:00

There are people who sing in public. And then there are the rest of us.

I remember wondering about the "other" people . . . even as a young child. I never enjoyed musicals for the very non-reality of it all.

I have found that there are different degrees to singing in public:

1.) There is the tentative singer. I remember my 4th year in college, sitting in the car with my two co-captains and our new coach. It was an uncomfortable time. Things weren't gelling. The coach turned on the radio, and Neil Young's "Old Man" came on. My roommate at the time started singing it -- but just lightly, his voice cracking because of this. It's like he wanted to . . . but didn't really have the confidence for it. Sometimes I can't remember what I wore the day before; sometimes moments like this haunt me forever.

2.) There is the "bits and pieces" singer. This person -- oh, let's use my sister Amy as an example -- doesn't know all the words to the song, or she thinks she's so hilarious that she cracks up laughing after a couple phrases. But she'll start up again if/when the song gets back to the chorus (or whatever part she remembers).

3.) Then there is the Broadway performer. The one who belts it out. The wife and I were shopping, oh, it must have been about two years ago. Maybe longer. It was some awful chick department store thing, so I was in a bad setting to begin with. And, sure enough, one aisle over ambles another couple -- the woman checking out the clothes, the guy pacing slowly behind with his hands in his pockets. And then all the sudden, James Taylor comes over the speakers, singing "How Sweet it Is (To be Loved by You)", and the woman starts harmonizing with James on the vocal. And she sings the whole song -- I mean every single word -- but that's not all. The whole time, she had this big, ear-to-ear grin on her face as she walked the aisles, fingering the clothing. It was that self-satisfied smile I remember most as she sang -- she was just brimming with confidence and self-assurance, as if she went way, way, way beyond the mere belief in the words she was singing, but that she believed her man was lucky to love her. Oh, and how she just kept singing with that sick smile on the whole time -- like the Joker's smile in the Batman comics! I remember starting to sweat and wanting desperately to vomit. To date it remains one of my worst retail experiences, all time. A bus could have hit her, and I would have sighed relief.

I don't know what it is -- is it love of the song that these people have? Love of the ability to sing? Both? But you see, other facets must be factored in -- such as an absence of tact, a faith in their own ability (or lack thereof), a favoring of a Capella, not to mention a total disdain and disregard for the happiness of strangers.

And she killed that song for me -- for all time. For all of my life I will hate that song because of that cocky chick in the dresses section of Petite Sophisticate, belting how sweet it was to be loved.

Faster than Lance

2006-11-23T01:10:00.000-08:00

This is so late in coming that I should be embarrassed, but it's been a really long time since I've been online -- that's my excuse. Nevertheless, I want to congratulate our man, Zeke, who ran just one hell of a marathon last month.

Zeke has been in the sport a long time. I got a chance to run with him for a year, and if you read his site, you'll soon realize there is a lot of wisdom there. If anyone should be coaching, it's Zeke. And if the coaching ranks are missing anyone more desperately than him, I certainly haven't paid close enough attention.

But whether he coaches or not doesn't matter because he proved he's still a hell of a runner.

Eternity Awaits All of Us

2006-11-23T01:03:00.000-08:00

I know it's going to come up and bite me sometime. It's going to be unexpected, quick, and painful. Maybe it'll be running along the ridge with the jogging stroller - maybe a wheel will pop off, and I'll steer us over the bluff and onto the rocks below. Maybe it'll be a car, a heart attack, esophageal cancer, electrical fire, on and on. But it's coming. One doesn't get this lucky without a backflip of karma. It's coming.

Grass of Leaves

2006-10-18T23:59:00.000-07:00

The boy and I went for our usual run today, out of the alley, down the street, through the seminary, across Lake Drive, and through Bay View park. The boy has been trying to change his schedule on me lately, so he was wide awake as we raced under grey skies and misty air. And raced we did. My knee can still only handle three miles, thanks to the marathon, but I can at least run those three fast.

As we dashed between the trees I could see a couple sitting on the park bench just before the trail splits down to the lake. They were embracing like only teenagers can -- with both arms holding tight and their faces locked at the mouth. As the boy and I approached them through the falling leaves to ruin their moment, the girl's fake interest in the grass and the boy's frowning eyes -- unhidden beneath the backwards baseball hat -- showed the sort of panicked, tender desperation one can only know while going through high school. And especially high school at this time of year -- with the whole weight of the rest of the year bearing down, just like the threatening clouds that kept misting us as we passed them and burned up the hill toward the next grove of shedding trees, the whole time thinking about how much farther my knee would allow this to go on.

On Snap Judgments

2006-10-17T00:49:00.000-07:00

I guess a proper welcome is in order. It seems ol' Got Mashed Potatoes has found itself some new readership. Unfortunately, now I have to go and do one of the things I hate doing, which is explaining myself. Oh well.

You see, when one begins a website -- even one as small and insignificant as this one -- he doesn't think of his wife's ex-friends finding it. And that's OK. That's great. That's what the Internet is for. Everyone gets curious about where people ended up at some point.

And really, there are no secrets here. None published anyway. But I ought to warn against taking everything here literally or seriously. Long-time readers of the site also happen to be friends, so they already know this. For example, they probably know that the last post here was just a jumble of my observations at three in the morning, all put under the title of a Pixies lyric. The lyric came to mind because I had just read a very old email, and the sentiment of the email seemed to fit a direction I'm taking in a book I'm writing, but have no desire to attempt to publish.

See -- very simple. Very banal. Quite uninteresting, I know. So there's no reason to fly off the handle, call my wife, and ask questions about fidelity. Although, I have to admit, I'm a bit touched by the sentiment. I think.

I think this whole thing could have been avoided if people just were a bit more familiar with the Pixies. So that, to me, is the lesson of the day here: let's all go out and buy a Pixies album.

And let's hope I don't have any more explaining to do. I'd much rather get back to writing about trying to run fast, new music, and the beautiful fall air that's taken over the climate.

So pretty when you're unfaithful to me . . .

2006-10-07T01:08:00.000-07:00

She refused to break up with me so I broke up with her via email, refusing to respond to her broken arrow.

I've been slouching around all week, like a guy at the fair on stilts who keeps falling off his stilts.

It's cancer's persistence that makes it so hard. Transfer that same quality to people and it just makes them look admirably desperate. Like drawing lines from word to proper definition, but running out of paper.

I'm re-reading my work, and it's better than I thought, but also harder to pick up. It's like reading an embarrasing poem over and over, and the assignment is to finish it in your own voice. I could write and write and never manage to say anything.

Someone once asked me what I could do with my major: "You gonna be a philosophist?" At the time, I corrected him, but I really shouldn't have. I should have just agreed with him and told him I was going to be the greatest philosophist the world had ever seen.

On Obstinance

2006-10-04T00:16:00.000-07:00

That little Lakefront Marathon occurred this past Sunday. It was a nice, cool day. Pretty. Dry. Clear.

I was nervous the day before and the day of. I kept thinking of how I dropped out of Pittsburgh in '99 with major knee pain (among other problems). It was the only option, but it still bothered me, having never dropped before. I had underestimated the marathon, and didn't want to do that again.

The game plan this time around -- with a very vague guess that I could put up with a 3:10-3:15 pace, was to run a very slow start, then settle into my happy 7:00 clip until 16. Then at 16, I would sort of perform a gut check (with the hope that the real race would start at that point).

Well, my friends, something started at that point. But it wasn't the race.

I got there on time, lined up where I wanted to be, and even calmed down enough to get excited about racing. I had my 666 BIB pinned front and center. All was well.

The gun blew and I opened with a slower-than-I-even-wanted-it-to-be 8:00 mile. I thought, "Great. No blown wad. No repeat of Pittsburgh. Good start." But looking around, I felt I didn't belong with all these 8:00-minute pacers. It felt wrong to be "racing" at a pace slower than what I run a "vanilla" run at. So, as planned, I slowly picked it up and began passing people. Many people; the crowd was very thick. And for the next 15 miles, I averaged a rough 7:00 clip. Never faster than 6:45, never slower than 7:15, but most of the miles were right in there at 7:00. Exactly to plan.

Furthermore, I hydrated at every stop. Made sure not to overhydrate, but I made sure to take time to get fluid in my system. I wanted no ugly repeat of two weeks ago. At 9 miles, I felt some wear in my upper thighs, but no tire. Just regular wear. At 10 or 11, I felt a twinge in my right knee. Not bad, and just enough to label it an ache. Certainly not tire. I could take aches and pains, just not the wall.

And all was well, I tell you. The crowds cheered. They laughed and sang at my 666 jersey, chanting my name (and the devil's). I was well up in the overall pack, but nowhere near the frontrunners. I was king of my own modest goals. And ahead of me -- there it loomed: mile 16. That fulcrum mile, in which the course suddenly veered into the neighborhood in which I grew up and began my running career.

It was as we turned onto familiar Bradley Road that I saw the bear. I looked around -- did anyone else see this? No? Just me? Apparently so, from the non-responses of my fellow competitors. Indeed, I was the only one to see the giant bear, who quickly grabbed me by the wrists and told me that I had to carry his refrigerator to the finish line. Not one to argue with a bear, I agreed.

And thus, crossing mile 16 on pace for a 3:04 marathon (keep in mind I fully expected to hit some sort of wall and finish between 3:10-3:15), I took the foot off the accelerator and felt everything move to . . . idle. I think if I could have made it to 20, I could have gutted out a 3:15, but that was not to be.

So just as I passed and passed so many people for the first 16, so did they all pass and pass me back -- most looking pretty strong -- over the last 10. I had plenty of time to watch it all happen because that last 10 took me 95 minutes. Yes. Slowest 10 miles . . . ever.

I did briefly think of pulling over at my parent's house, which was on the 20-mile mark. But I didn't want a repeat of Pittsburgh. So I threw out any remnant of pride, told myself to enjoy the nice weather, and tried not to think of my (at that point) screaming knee. Miles 17-26 reminded my of when I owned a Nissan Altima whose fuel injectors were dying. I could floor the gas, and . . . . nothing.

After mile 23, the course veered downhill, and right at the bottom of the hill, my calves began spasming. Unable to keep running, I briefly stopped, yelled out, then began cursing my calves. "Fucking work, you bastards!" I yelled, punching them with my fists, which were covered with dried gel. A few more punches, and the spasms slowly subsided. I started a ragged jog. All the sudden a runner passed me and said, "Good job." I said, "Not really, but . . . you too." He said, "Oh, no, I'm just a relay runner." At that point I wanted to ask him to leave, but . . . he was already gone.

So I ended up at 3:29 -- right in the middle of the pack of folks I started with at the first mile. But they all seemed so much more fresh than I. I guess that makes them the smarter runners, to be sure. But I don't regret the race. I never want to try a marathon in which my goal pace is slower than my training pace. I'd rather have to carry a refrigerator than lower my standards.

But the real way to do it -- if I ever do it again -- would be to wait until my boy is in school, so I can live by a workout schedule and give my legs the strength (not to mention the extra miles) they needed. Running a marathon on mere fitness is not recommended by this humble writer, please take note.

One complaint: although the course was amazing -- and filled with terrific spectators and tons of helpful volunteers -- the end of the race is awful. For 25 miles, the course is mostly a straight shot. Then for the last 1.2 miles -- the worst 1.2 of the race in my opinion -- it's left-right-left-right. So many turns. Doesn't make for an easy or exciting finish.

Otherwise, it was great and I would do it again. Although now it's a bit premature to say that since I still cannot run. The knee is still recovering (imagine how bad it could have been had I not done months of weight work to prep it for this race). Also, my quads and groin won't let me walk down stairs yet. I'm getting a good idea of what it's like to be old -- but it's getting better. Post-race, I was 105. Yesterday I was 89. Today I was 67. Tomorrow I might be middle-aged. Maybe Thursday I'll be running again.

There Must Be Some Way Out of Here

2006-09-21T23:39:00.000-07:00

All along, I'd thought of the marathon as I'd been taught - a 30-mile race. And I broke that up into three ten-mile races, believing that anyone with fitness could finish 10, anyone with solid training could handle 20, and anyone with dedication, intelligence, or plain talent, could race 30. I was entirely confident that I could go 20 without issue. I was tentatively optimistic I could gut out 30 by the time October rolled around.

That was all before this past Sunday's tune-up run in which I hit the wall at 12 miles, staggered for two more, got some water, and staggered four more until I had to drop under a tree near my house to keep from losing consciousness.

I remember reading an article, recently, in which a Marquette runner described Midwest runners as the toughest around because they deal with all types of weather, with little notice. He made a nice case, if you like pats on the back. But to me, playing with the hand dealt does not make one tough. I certainly didn't feel tough, sitting under that tree with my head between my knees.

It took until today for my body to recover from the strain, but mentally, it's going to be a challenge to race. There's just no reason, none whatsoever, that I should have tired at that point in the run -- all things excluded. It wasn't THAT hot, I wasn't pushing THAT hard, the layout wasn't THAT challenging, and I my diet wasn't to blame. I'd run 14 with no problem just two weeks prior.

All I really have at this point is a short taper. I wanted it this way because the original summer training didn't work out. I never got on a childcare schedule that would allow me to work out weekly. So I was stuck with just doing long runs, nothing hard after July; this should really limit me. So I'm pinning everything on a miraculous taper (and maybe some cool, dry conditions) right now.

It's what I get for running on Satan's team.

Dropping Your Anger

2006-09-13T01:16:00.000-07:00

You came to the line, and I gave you the company business.

It had been a while, so I tried to spice it up a bit. Little bit of flourish for you.

Then you played dumb, got lippy, raised your voice, and surprised both of us by feigning modesty.

I thanked fate that you came in on the un-taped line and hung up on you.

"I thank the sun despite all it's done."

I've Got a Fever

2006-09-04T00:55:00.000-07:00

Right now, I'm just sitting by the phone. See, I can't wait until the Brewers season ticket sales guy calls my this off-season. Because . . . what's he gonna say?

After all the years of losing, last year, they go .500. Even-Steven. And all the expectations were for a wild-card-contending team. Even after a so-so start and an iffy post-All Star break, just a couple weeks ago the Brew Crew was only about five games off of the wild card spot (not to mention just six and a half off the division lead).

Then my dependable boys went and shat the bed by losing 10 straight. And I don't know why I'm writing in the past tense because the losing streak is still going on. I called it too, I sensed a collapse. It was in the late-season schedule, the style of play, the half-assed managing. So we can confidently kiss this season goodnight, and I'll spend my last two games at the park looking for the nacho guy and trying to find the nearest two-fisted slobber who gets booted out of the game.

But I can't wait for that phone call from the sales guy. I bet he blames it all on injuries. Which is a load of crap because every team faces injuries. Bottom line is the Brewer's have average starting pitching, very weak middle relief, average closing pitching, sub-average batting, and average defense. What's worse about this team is they never really go for it. If they get a one-run lead, they play as if they've got it all in the bag. They never double-steal. Hell, they never steal. If second is wide open, the opposing catcher is on his knees, and we need a runner on two, they'll hold the guy on base. It's like watching one of those fake wrestling matches, except in this one, the scary guy hits HIMSELF over the head with the folding chair.

Mind you, I've got a list of complaints for when the Brewers guy calls. And I'm not accepting this "injury plague" BS as an excuse. For the complete failure this season is, I want answers about MANY things:

1. Why are Leinies beers $6.75? For Christ's sake, who do you think you're kidding?
2. $7.00 for parking? How high is it going to go? When I'm 60, is it going to be $20 to park?
3. Watching a game is like being in the middle of The Running Man (choose the book or movie). There's so much crap going on around you (promotional BS), that they've actually made it difficult to focus on the game. Of course, it's no help that the team's no good . . .
4. Have you idiots realized that half the crowd leaves after the sausage race in the sixth inning? For Christ's sake, move it to the eighth so you get a little more crowd support for a close game.
5. Why is the roof closed 60% of the time? I thought the roof was only there for potentially delayed games (rain). Now if a light breeze threatens Milwaukee county, you people are shutting the hatches.
6. This is Milwaukee -- and you can't offer fried onions for the brats? Come on. How do you face yourselves in the mirror each morning?
7. Can you stop it already with that idiotic promotion with the Palermo's pizza? The one in which the kid on the field holds the big pizza and has to catch the tiny pepperonis that the mascot throws from the nose-bleeds? The kids can't even see the fucking things as they come down! This is a shameful waste of everyone's time. I have yet to watch it and not be embarrassed for everyone there.

So, there you have it. Another season as a Milwaukee Brewers fan. Can you feel the fever?

Death Through Habitual Living

2006-09-01T12:15:00.000-07:00

My senior year of high school cross country was a major disappointment. I trained poorly for the season, and lost track of my priorities. I remember there being a few races in which I was nervous to race -- and not just the regular set of nerves. I was aware that I didn't have enough miles, so I worried about that third mile of the race. This put kind of a shrill tone to the year.

My co-captain and I tried to do everything by the book. We scripted each race the night before we ran it. We saw completely eye-to-eye on how to run the team. It just wasn't enough.

On one Friday before a meet, I decided we would do a trail run across the bluff of Lake Michigan, from Big Bay park to Klode, and then back to school by the streets. There used to be a little-known trail that could take people all the way; it's since become overgrown and lost. So we ran our run, and it was the typical Friday run. Everyone enjoyed that particular route. It was short, but scenic and challenging.

We finished the run, and after asking us where we went, our coached chewed us out for it. The trail had some dangerous footing, and he didn't like the idea of losing runners to broken ankles the day before the meet. He was right about this point; I'll never deny him that. But I pushed back at his objection, just because the team needed a fun run at the time -- a run that didn't feel like work. Just "right-foot-left-foot" for the pure enjoyment of it. To me the benefit of reinvigorating the team's spirit with a good run outweighed the potential danger.

My co-captain -- as good a guy as you'll ever run across -- eventually shut me up. I had no desire to go at it with my coach, who I would have gladly run for for another 10 years. I just wanted my point made. But my co-captain cut it all off before tempers could flair. As we walked down the stairs to the locker room, he said to me, "I know what you wanted. Don't worry about coach. You were in the right place."

That's really all I could have asked for. It's a lonely sport when you get to the third mile and everyone is separated. There are very few winners in cross country, but it wasn't the failure that got to me. If I was going to fail, I wanted it on my terms, the right way -- and I wanted people to understand why.

By an Eye that Can't be Stopped

2006-08-30T23:42:00.000-07:00

Well, I've done it. I've officially gotten old. I've paid money to a chiropractor. Jesus Christ.

I've found out that I can run real strong for 13 miles. Then my legs start to sort of call attention to themselves. It's still depressing me how far I am from being a fast runner.

Speaking of which, I will sadly miss spending the upcoming weekend with fast runners. It's too bad. I even took Friday off, was looking forward to racing . . . . but I just got out of five years of debt and need to stay that way. And it's time I painted the garage doors. Fuckin' being old and responsible.

I really feel bad for a buddy of mine who has this gigantic pile of cow shit for a boss, but he can't tell anyone about it or do anything to rectify it. It's a certifiably lose-lose situation that couldn't have happened to a nicer person. It wouldn't be quite as bad except the pile of cow shit really thinks he's the bee's very best honey.

I really like this band called New Sense. It's a dumb name for a band, but they're pretty spiffy.

We went on a nice vacation that maybe I'll write about soon. It was fun and shorter than it felt.

I think we've finally defeated this beast called summer. Oh, sure, she's got a few weeks of life left in her. But as I sit here by the open window, the wind coming through it cool and dry. Just what I've been waiting for.

I don't know that I've given adequate respect, but I should point out that my wife is one hell of a cook. Really solid with the foods. She'll say she hates it, but deep down in her culinary glands, her heart pumps the blood of . . . I guess I forgot what I was going to say, but just take my word for it that she can whip up a nice batch of whatever if you need it.

There's this great Steely Dan collection that includes this introduction by some wasted guy that's just hilarious. I haven't heard it for years, but it's a real kick that I can't get out of my mind.

Sometime during my high school years, my sister went off to New York City and came back with a New York T-shirt for me. I wore it. Then I turned it into a running shirt. It was perfect for a running shirt -- nice, thin cotton. Then one day we had a tie-dyeing day at practice, and the New York shirt was my offering. After a while, it graduated to a "pizza" shirt, meaning it was a shirt I would wear at my illustrious job as a pizza chef extraordinaire. And at some point in time, my sis made the exasperated comment about how I destroyed her gift to me. But what she was missing was that that shirt saw it all -- it moved from job to job as one of my shirts, like no other shirt before. That's not too bad, especially when I could consider all the other birthday and Christmas gifts that didn't get all that attention. And hold on to your seats for this: I bet, standing in that store in New York, my sis never could have imagined that 13 years later, her bro would be on this thing called the internet, writing about the very gift she was about to purchase. Pretty amazing little gift now, isn't it? So there's nothing to get so upset about, Fahr. I liked the shirt.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, I'm going to look out the window of my color TV.

In this land of strangers.

2006-08-22T01:27:00.000-07:00

There's this guy who's constantly coming up to my desk, and he used to come up all like a lap dog, all yippy and skippy and fresh with his hip haircut and ethnic timing. But then he called one day and I couldn't tell him what he wanted to hear so there was a pause and excuses and now when he comes around I just think of this Irish book I read in which a mom had to go to the garage, and her kid just couldn't figure out why until one day everyone started looking at him with these wide eyes, just like the eyes of this lap dog, and just like that kid who figures out his mom isn't in a garage at all, I realize everyone here is just looking for blood.

Sometimes it would be OK to ask for world peace, but receive a fish fry.

2006-08-11T22:56:00.000-07:00

It's vacation time. We're driving north. I hope I get to read a book and pick a lot of raspberries.

We rushed and rushed to we can rush some more, just to relax far away.

Maybe there will be antiques and used books. Hopefully the books will be dusty and hard.

Things are starting to cool off here. It's like seeing a city appear on the horizon out of the fog. Just have to keep moving forward. Focus . . . focus . . .

On Experiments, New Sounds, Riddance and Fair Food

2006-08-09T22:45:00.000-07:00

Well, the first draft of the cache and cookies ice cream is finished. Two batches, decent start, but definitely room for improvement. Ben and Jerry don't have to look over their shoulders yet.

I've got all sorts of new music on my plate now: The M's, The Eskimos, Stephen Stills boots, LandCarp, OlO, Os Mutantes and more stuff I haven't even opened. Still on its way to me is Heatmizer, Penfifteen Club, more OlO, and Galaxie 500.

There have been a couple instances recently in which I've really wanted to say, "Good riddance!" But this is a phrase typically frowned upon in society. And that's a damn shame. Because there's nothing like smiling while throwing the dog shit in the garbage, is there?

We recently went to the good ole Wisconsin State Fair. We're going to be taking a few years off from the fair. It's partly the humongous crowds, partly the trash element, partly the crap food, and partly the crap vendors and musicians. Add it all up, and I found myself, after a couple hours, looking around and becoming scared for Wisconsin. Because all the fair started to look like . . . . remember that moment at the end of Animal Farm, when they can't tell the pigs from the humans? It was like that at State Fair. There are all these animals. But there are also all these people eating. And they're huge. Now, let me be clear: I love splurging. I'm all for it. Sometimes it's just OK to have the brat, nachos, brownie and popcorn all at once. Go for it; have fun; live it up. But this was obscene. This was out-of-bounds, crazy. There were all these gigantic, 900-pound people being shoved around in wheelchairs because they can't walk anymore, and they were cramming all this deep-fried crap down their throats as fast as they could, and the food was dripping down their necks like . . . . well, some of the animals next to them. It was like an unannounced competition to see who could become the fattest the fastest. And the humans were gaining on the hogs. Wow.

Satan is My Motor

2006-08-09T12:21:00.000-07:00

"Here is wisdom. Let him that hath understanding count the number of the beast: for it is the number of a man; and his number is Six hundred threescore and six."

- Book of Revelation, 13:18

I recently went online to verify whether my registration for the Lakefront Marathon had been accepted. It has, and I've been given a number. The number. The number of a man. The number of the beast.

This can't be good. I was really just hoping to finish the thing, but now . . . . I'm marked. I could get struck down by a church steeple or beheaded by a plate of glass. Or maybe all the other runners will surround me, brandishing holy water, shouting, "The power of Christ compels you!"

Beaten by the third woman and a guy with a double stroller.

2006-08-02T23:37:00.000-07:00

After not racing for three years, I ran three races over the course of 17 days.

My first race back was faster than I expected, mainly because I had treated it like a workout, but then ran it with a little pride. But not enough so that there isn't plenty to work on. That last mile of the 5K was pretty weak. I don't mind getting beaten by the top woman, but not the third woman. That's not right.

The second race was only the second or third 10K of my racing career, and although I started extremely slowly, I finished 8th, and with a decent, if not memorable last push. The problem with this race was no port-o-johns at the start of the race. I spent the first three miles thinking of how I could run behind some bushes to take a leak. Took me until mile four to forget about the bladder. Funny, as bad as I had to go, I didn't until hours later.

Third race was an utter failure. Too hot, too warmed-up, too fast at the start. Completely unfocused throughout. Got passed at 2.25 miles by a guy pushing a double stroller. Yes. That bad.

Thus, the next couple weeks will be all about progression runs and two-mile repeats while I leave racing to the professionals.

Not even getting paid for the ideas that will change the whole world.

2006-08-02T23:18:00.000-07:00

While discussing my fit-of-rage subject of the fallacy of cache & cookies, and how the two became entwined when they had no real reason to be, my co-worker came up with the most astounding idea since Nutty Chicken for the Chinese restaurants.

Cache & Cookies Ice Cream.

It's brilliant. The cache would have to be the ice cream part, and would have to contain some cashews. I'm thinking mint with cashews. Then throw in some crumbled Keeblers, and bam! Gold mine for Ben and Jerry.

A day later another whopper hit me: Bob Seeger is a gold mine waiting to happen on the oldies circuit. Here's what he does -- it's so simple, I'm kicking myself for not being a manager/promoter type:

1. Get the Silver Bullet band back together. Shouldn't be tough. All they're doing now is drywall or painting.
2. Book a 2-night gig at Auburn Hills outside of Detroit. Tape both gigs.
3. Cull the best songs from both nights, toss 'em together, take a couple days in the studio to polish it a bit -- BAM! You've got a live album to promote.
4. Release it to the waiting masses. Toss out a few iPod exclusives since you just settled up with Apple.
5. Book a 4-month tour to promote the album and go on TV to get famous again.
6. Book some studio time and call some celeb friends.
7. Release a Santana-like album with new material, but dominated by the celeb guest artists.
8. Watch that puppy sail up the charts.
9. Book a 12-month worldwide tour.
10. Start bathing in all that money that keeps rolling in.

We live in a world ripe for a Seeger comeback. It's only a matter of time before someone steals my amazing idea and makes this guy enough money to buy Namibia.

Powerlines in our Bloodlines

2006-07-27T23:17:00.000-07:00

We ran through the park, skirting the bluff, when they came at us. A whole cloud of them, flitting against the wind. Dragonflies, darting here, there, overhead, between legs. Thousands of them, darkening the sky, bumping into one another, avoiding the orioles.

Sleater-Kinney broke up. It's too bad. Like wishing a friend goodbye as he travels across the country, knowing you can email and write, but also knowing you won't.

A good friend of mine once said to me -- minutes after I just finished running the best race of my life -- coming as close to creating artwork as I will ever come, probably as long as I live -- "That course looked short." I wanted to punch him, friend or not. It wasn't that the assistant coach had already verified the distance. It was that as a friend, he had that right. He could shit on something great. And all I could do was tell him to shut up.

My current favorite CD is a 25-cent EP I got from the internet. It is amazing. And at 25 cents, has to stand as one of my all-time best ever purchases.

A friend of mine recently told me I was his - "infinity roommate". Which was nice to hear, because as a roommate, I rolled about a 150 average. 50-50. Had some good ones. And some bad ones. Religious ones. Anal ones. Competitive ones. Slacker ones. Irrational ones. Quiet ones. Talkers. Lazy ones. Even-Steven. I also was 50-50 roommate. Sometimes slacking, sometimes too loud, sometimes selfish, but usually available, fair, and dedicated. And if forced to choose, he also would be my infinity roommate. Makes sense that I finally got it right with my last roommate. Too bad it was just one semester. We could have pissed a lot more people off.

At my job, we get these claims. And I put together a new template for certain claims. Let's just boil it all down and say I separated the black claims from the white claims. So what happens next? Some chick goes ahead -- after my anouncment, mind you -- and submits a black claim, but then on the documentation, states: this is a white claim. I know that I'm becoming a crotchety old man (getting ready to be a pretend old guy), but I sent that fucking thing back to her. Not because of procedure. But because she is stupid. If someone gives you black and white, and you're so stupid that you blow that, you don't deserve a job. There are bums on the street, middle school kids, and trained dogs who could do a better job.

Last weekend I heard this band segue from "Jesus is Just Alright With Me" directly into "Oh What a Night". I may be scarred for life.

I run against some sausages in a race this Saturday. Should be OK.

Fuck whoever came up with this as acceptable weather. For all you summer people: here it is. Happy now? Happy with 89 and humid? This is your idea of a good time?

I'm so desperate for sports that I'm reading, not just the Packers preview training camp reports, but other team's reports. It's time for September. It really is.

I've been listening to a lot of Superchunk, Elliot Smith, Penfifteen Club, Decemberists, Toots and the Maytals, and of course, OlO lately. Very loud and very quiet. Little in between. I think it's this weather that's doing it to me.

I just found out Glen Frey had a solo career. That's so embarrassing. I saw some of the album covers, too. THAT's embarrassing. The 80s were relentless for some people.

Further proof I'm going to be a good pretend old guy -- I have all this back pain now. And not for good reason, either. For just standing in one place for too long. Pathetic. Actually, I'll reach pathetic when I pay money to some schmuck who will crack something in 2 seconds and charge me two week's worth of salary. That's when I might as well cash in my chips.

Fat Compliments

2006-07-07T23:51:00.000-07:00

On the one hand, it's nice for people to notice I have lost some weight. It's a compliment. They're telling me they think I look good, which is nice. Warm and fuzzy stuff.

On the other hand, after several compliments, I begin to feel like Elaine's triangle artist ex-boyfriend who was a fat starving artist. At first, Elaine is shocked and impressed that he lost so much weight . . . . but then she keeps going:

"You really lost weight."

"You were huge! Like blubber!"

"I couldn't get my ARMS around you!"

And all I can really do is shrug, like the starving fat triangle artist, and say, "Yes, I remember." I was gigantic. Thank you very much.

Duel on a Darkened Track

2006-06-30T21:17:00.000-07:00

I always knew we had a track nearby. It's not like when I lived in Shorewood, with a great track three blocks away. This is better because it's about three miles away - perfect distance for a warm-up and cooldown.

I don't quite know what it was that kept me away for so long. I'd run up to it once, but never on it. Knew it was there. Wasn't sure if it was open to the public or locked up. Most likely open - it's a safe neighborhood, and I'm sure it doesn't get a lot of use. It's weird, but I think I needed to get to a certain point of training in which I needed a track before I could bring myself there. It doesn't make sense because I've spent enough time at tracks that any track should feel like a home away from home, but that's how it was.

So being the last day of my week, and in need of a light workout to finish things off, I turned South, and ran into St. Francis. I turned right at the high school. The Mariners. It was just at twilight, and the place was empty. It was just me and the sprinklers.

And the track was perfect. This is a lucky thing, a distance runner to live in close proximity to a flawless track. There wasn't even wear on lane one. My only complaint was the start seems pushed up so far -- like to the top of the key. But it's all equal after a lap, anyway.

I ran a few strides and went into my mile. It's early in my training -- what I think of as a pre-season -- so the workout was more like a splash in the face than a real wash. The first lap was a little slow, and I was slowly learning that pushing a jogging stroller five days a week is not just good resistance training. It was training me to run slowly. The second lap was better, and I approached goal pace. I ran out of the first turn of the third lap when oxygen debt hit me. It didn't knock me down or slow my pace. But it did wake me up. Oxygen debt in the third lap of a 6:00-pace mile.

That's fucking pathetic.

I was just angry with myself. If there were people watching, it would have been embarrassing. I breathed through it, and came in on time. The fourth lap went OK, as I resisted the urge to push to beat the pace, just trying to find some shred of consistency.

I added a bit more mileage and some strides, and it all went decent enough, but the great message of the workout was how utterly behind I still am. My body is shamefully out of touch with the concept of pace. It doesn't really matter how much weight I've lost or how many miles I run every week or how I feel at the end of my runs. This workout described to me the chasm of difference between fitness and strength, casual and serious.

The thing that bothers me the most, is I can sit here right now and understand how much work I have to do and what I need to do to get it done, but I know that I really don't fully appreciate how far behind I am and how much it is going to hurt. I've been running for 15 of my 29 years and I really have no conception for what it takes to run fast.

Everything Important I Can Tell My Younger Sister as She Prepares to Leave for College

2006-06-15T00:50:00.000-07:00

I've sat through a lot of graduations, and come to the conclusion that THIS is what they should thank parents for. Not for the help, support, money, direction, or kick in the pants. People should thank parents for attending those God-awful graduations and listening to all those speeches.

The graduation speech can only go so many ways, so they typically all say the same thing. The several I recently sat through were not bad. I've certainly heard worse. But they were that same exact speech, none-the-less. The graduation speech has some slight merit -- it can be mildly motivating. But they're all so wishy-washy. They all seem to lean on some phrase of poetry to make their point. They always seem to want to answer "what that four years was for". They want to encourage others to lead the next generation, yet shruggingly admit that they cannot change the world: so I guess we can have our molehill and eat our mountain too.

Here's what's important:

• Take pride in decorating your dorm room. Don't put up the typical crap. Make it you, but make it different. Spend time with your roommate, arranging it right, even if it may not be simple or easy. Too many people do what's easy. This is your living space, your entertaining space. Make it something. Besides, you're in college -- you've got the time to prioritize this. This may be the most important advice I can give you. You may want to consider closing the browser right now because if you just listen to me here, you'll have gained something.

• That butterfly-in-the-stomach feeling you get right now when you think about moving, classes, etc . . . . that's normal. Like adrenaline before a race. It's normal to be a little afraid. That only shows you're normal, and it will only help you.

• Too many undergrads flunk out because they've come from a lot of rules to a land of a lot of freedom, and they don't remember what they're there for. Leave your dorm room to study. Make studying an action, a part of your schedule away from the dorm, other people and televisions. The library is your friend. Find a floor on the library that you like -- for me, it was 1 by the government section or 5 by the film books -- and make that your place. Study on Saturday mornings. This might depress you, but remember: there are no study halls and very few idiotic classes now that you've left high school. You're going to enjoy your classes more.

• Get that responsibility stuff out of the way first. If you get into a good groove in the first month of laundry, dishes, studying, working out, getting to all classes on time, etc, it's easier.

• You're a girl, so you've got it tougher than guys. Sorry, that's just how it is. A guy doesn't think about going to rape his friend when he's putting on cologne after his shower. But five or six hours later when he's drunk and she's passed out in a bedroom it happens. This means you can't drink as much as you might want to. Figure out your limits. Carry mace. Or at least Binaca (it worked for Elaine on Seinfeld).

• Just because you room with someone or live across the hall from someone doesn't mean you're friends. This is a hard thing to accept sometimes. The great wonder though is that sometimes you do just hit it off with people who you've been randomly paired with. But don't think you have to pretend to agree with someone on something just to get along.

• One of the best times I had in school was so simple -- it was the day before a big race, two friends and I were finished with classes for the day, and we had time to kill, so we went to a resale shop. That's it. No mythical party. No great race. No insightful speech. Just an afternoon. I knew at the time that most people don't have the opportunity to fuck around at 2PM on a Thursday. You've got to take advantage of that chance.

• "Beer before liquor and you're sicker quicker. Liquer before beer and you're in the clear." Mind this little mantra. Don't think you're bigger than this piece of advice. Also: drink water while you drink. If it's a house party, they won't be offering water, so hit the bathroom once or twice to hydrate a little. It's not a failsafe, but it helps.

• Worst piece of advice I received while in college was from two people I really respected: "Once you get older, you'll look back on all the things you thought were important in college, and you'll realize it wasn't that big of a deal." This is the biggest pile of horseshit -- don't listen to condescending, minimalizing bullshit like this. Just follow this argument to a logical conclusion, and you'll realize why it is useless: "Nothing in the present is important because time fades away and you'll always grow older, move on, and develop other interests and concerns." This is the ethos of the nihilists.

• Best piece of advice I received after high school was from my grandma: "Time moves really fast after high school." Doesn't sound like advice, does it?

If I Could Hold On To Just One Thought For Long Enough To Know

2006-05-10T23:37:00.000-07:00

I had one of those moments today, in which I thought someone was going to say what I was thinking. Therefore, I started to vocalize it . . . just when they said the exact opposite of what I was thinking.

It was kind of like a Hitler-Chamberlain thing. "Oh! Oh, so THAT's how it's going to be. Oh. I see. I'm just going to go home now."

--

I got the new Pearl Jam. It's better than the old Pearl Jam. I'm just not sure yet if it's my new special cd of the moment or not.

--

The local newspaper is all up in arms about the death penalty. For days, they've been espousing these crappy editorials, just begging readers to side with them against instituting the death penalty. To my knowledge, they've made about one worthwhile point. Otherwise, though, I love to watch them squirm in agony. Liberals really do inflict self-torture with the precision and consistency of space age technology. It's a remarkable thing to watch.

--

It's that it became this big "thing". That's what kills me. It was just supposed to be some quick, casual, laid-back sort of . . . . and then it became this "thing", with invitations and discussions and emails and opinions. And now I think I'll just stay home and tap these keys and wonder at how people my age, for all their righteousness and experience, are really not that fun to be around.

the quiet earth

2006-05-05T22:58:00.000-07:00

The air was wet and cool; the sky as dark as the lake. Construction workers made jokes about the waves as protesters held their signs across the street. The wind was thick with mosquitos - great towers of mosquitos, like a scientist's drawing of electrons, ever buzzing, out of signt. The water crept over and back across the top of the elevated rock. Not one person walked on the trail. A maintenance worker cut down the weeds, holding his blade like a cue. He held it behind his body as I ran toward him, feeling a blister rub the bottom of my sole, watching the blade turn, fanning away the bugs, waiting for the rain to begin.

Community Proposal, #1

2006-05-05T00:50:00.000-07:00

All contractors who miss an appointment and do not call beforehand: must promptly arrive at the house in question with a 6-pack of dark beer and then deduct 10% off the contract price.

All contractors who miss an appointment and do not call beforehand -- or afterward: should be tarred, feathered, and forced to walk around the neighborhood, holding a sign, stating that they are useless bastards who enjoy wasting everyone else's time while simultaneously acting like a know-it-all.

Someone must stop these people.

On Living With War

2006-04-28T23:23:00.000-07:00

In case you haven't been on the internet lately, Neil Young's got a new album. It's been rightly described by many as, "incendiary". Sure is.

I like to divide Neil's work up by half-decade. Roughly, anyway. You've got the Buffalo Springfield era. The CSNY era. The early 70s. The Dark period. The fogotten early 80s. The wacky 80s. The late-80s/early-90s comeback. The late-90s laziness. And the diverse '00s.

By not fitting in, this one fits right in there with the diverse '00s. It's hard, like Ragged Glory, but without the annoying feedback; in fact, there's not much lead guitar at all. The focus is more on rhythm. It's got some horns, but nothing like on This Note's For You. It's got a singular purpose, like Greendale, but no storyline and more manageable songs. But like every other electric album he's made since Sleeps With Angels, it's rough and underproduced. That's not a bad quality, but it takes some adjustment. Neil never tries to win a Grammy for his studio work.

After the Garden - Awesome opener. Great guitar line and drums. It really stands out that this is a three-piece with the Volume Dealers. Molina doesn't drum with this much funk. Aggressive.

Living With War - Chorus really sets in. Kind of plays like a rough hymn. The horn doesn't really go, but it's different. I like it, but I guess I'd rather the chorus alternated lyrics with Neil. I can see CSNY playing this on tour this summer.

The Restless Consumer - Great lyrical track; funny and angry with a fast, insistent groove. "Don't need" -- over and over like a ritual chant.

Shock and Awe - Eh. Average rocker that could slide into Ragged Glory or Broken Arrow. I like the choral-lead vocal variety better here. The horn is kind of funereal.

Families - I'm glad he didn't overdo the sap factor here. One wouldn't expect a track called "Families" to have this much guitar. I didn't think Neil was capable of righting the two and half-minute rocker (everything he's done lately is 6-minutes, minimum), but he does it here.

Flags of Freedom - Eh. All right. Tracks like this an Shock and Awe show how hard it is to have a single-focus album. Not all the songs are going to jump out at you and shake you upside down.

Let's Impeach the President - This is the track getting all the coverage. Starts a bit slow, but really cooks during the middle, with some strategic quotations set against an even more strategic (and hilarious) shout of Flip....Flop, which gets louder and louder. There is no more obvious statement song than this. If you don't agree with his politics -- and I'm not on the bandwagon -- you have to admire the passion, as well as how clever he is. The sense of frustration and loss of possibility is palpable, and that is something that can be shared across the aisle and across red- and blue-colored states.

Lookin' for a Leader - OK. Lyrically (like everything else here) it's very pointed. This isn't a song he'll be playing three years from now (kind of like "Ordinary People"). It's melody is brought down by its repetitiveness, but it's not bad.

Roger and Out - Terrific slow track. Those two simple, little guitar lines keep coming back to you behind Neil's slow, sad vocal. Nice backing vocals near the end. My favorite track on the album, and probably my favorite song of his in years . . . .

America the Beautiful - All chorus. Crosby did this on one of his records. This strikes me as a bit cliched, but they do a nice job with it. The mix is well-done. Whoever was behind the controls was smart enough to let certain voices stand out.

This is stand-out Neil. We are too lucky to get this much quality Neil so late in his career. Look at other artists his age -- Dylan, Clapton, CSN, Stones, Eagles -- none of them are close to being as active as Neil. He could have finished up with Silver and Gold in 2000 and I would have been happy. It's remarkable. This isn't his best, of course - he doesn't have a best (except for a certain song I've written a bit about). And being as political and angry as it is, I don't think it will reach the status of some of his other great work (in terms of multiple plays). But I will say this for him: this is a younger man's album - lyrically, musically, and socially.

Checking Out at 12:30 in the Morning

2006-04-26T23:22:00.000-07:00

"Do you....hm. Do you know what these are?"

"White grapefruit."

"Oh."

"The white are $1.29."

"Oh! These are expensive. It says $2.29."

"That display says pummelo. I don't know what that is."

"Well, that's what it says they are."

"Huh?"

"Yep."

"No. No. No. I mean, you typed a code in that came up with pummelo. These are white grapefruit. Pummelo is like a big, green thing that's red inside. This is a big yellow thing that's white inside."

"Well, that's what it says."

"I-. Huh?"

"That's quite expensive to buy four of them."

"But they're NOT that expensive. The sign said $1.29."

"But the screen shows this."

"You know what? Fine. Just total it."

"Do you have a saver's card?"

"Yeah, but who cares? You want to bet whether pummelo's on discount?"

"Boy, you really must like this fruit to be spending so much."

"Is this really happening? Do you even see me standing here? Have you heard a word that I've spoken?"

"I would try some of this fruit, but that's a little too pricey for me."

"I need to get out of here."

"You have a nice night."

Like Atlas

2006-04-25T23:10:00.000-07:00

Well, Goddamnit.

Summer is here. These past two weeks -- that was Spring. I know the calendar says June, but my barometer is made of two observations:

A.) How much I sweat on a run.
B.) How many people I have to maneuver around on the bike trail.

And for some reason, the last few days has seen a leap in the number of people engaging in outdoor activities. The competitive runner in me wants to yell at them: "Where were you when it was sleeting sideways in February?!" But that's all gators under the drawbridge now.

My real issue with summer -- other than the heat (mind you, the heat is a topic for many other posts) -- is not so much how many people are out and about. It's really about how many stupid people are out and about.

I still remember the most annoying people from last summer. The wife, boy and I were in the drive-thru line at Starbucks. And in front of us sat two young women -- somewhere between 18-22 -- who seemed quite friendly with each other.

Then, all the sudden, they both turned around and looked back at us, then turned to each other and started making out. It was like they had to show us -- "Hey, see how we're lesbians? See?" And it wasn't some sort of discreet kiss. It was like they were both holding ice cream cones and using their tongues to get to this tiny bit of ice cream that was left in the bottom of the cone.

And what killed me about it is they weren't even real lesbians. They were just pretty girls without boyfriends trying to be lesbians. Real lesbians aren't as good looking as these two were -- but most importantly, they wouldn't give a damn about what random people like me and my wife thought of them. These two were obviously very concerned that we see them attempt to touch each others' uvulas simultaneously.

This is what I have to look forward to. The whole of the city's idiotic people streaming out of their homes to show the world their new summer outfits, their freshly-washed cars, their dexterity with roller blades, how cool they can be in front of total strangers. A whole world of people, desperately wishing to be cool, basking in the sun so they can look cool, paying to be waxed to feel cool, posing with their hands on their waists to act cool, staying out as late as they can, searching for all that they missed the rest of the year.

First It Steals Your Mind

2006-04-24T23:59:00.000-07:00

I recently went for a run that involved too much turning left, but just the right amount of rain. And on this run, which was not the type of run that naturally would lead to much philosophizing, one of my partners mentioned that the spector of old age could be, for a long time, dimmed, as long as one maintained a respectable weight and good hair.

It should be no surprise that this guy is in terrific shape and has a solid, brown hairline thick enough to pass for Scottish.

Not that I disagree with him. It's hard to see a balding friend and not also see the passing of years so physically displayed. It stares right at you.

But then, there's nothing more refreshing than someone who embraces his age. That's why I think I'll be good when I enter my 30s. Because in my 30s, I can pretend to be an old man, but still not be. And I think I'll be a damn good pretend old man. I'll have the opportunity to continually express my humility and uselessness, merely because I shall be old. Of course this won't work too well with my elders. But for those younger than me -- how can they disagree? Because to them, 30 will seem depressingly, shockingly old. For me, though, it's a lot of steps from 50, which is still pretty far from the next Halley's comet.

I can't wait to be a pretend old guy. I already slouch really well. I've been doing that since my teens. I complain about young people already. I already dress like it's 12 years ago. I'm nearly there! I might as well start saying I'm 30. But then that would mean I would miss 29. And 29 is a good year also. A prime number, so I'm in the prime of life, of course.

When I write posts like this, I recall reading a column in which the writer bemoaned blogs for being a grand symbol of the self-obsessed. I guess I can't argue against that, but what I think the writer missed is that everyone is self-obsessed. Sure, those with kids believe that they are martyrs and saints, just because they're doing their job. But once the kids leave the nest, these parents get to go back to concentrating on themselves. There is no one ME generation. We're all about ME.

Forgive and Forget

2006-04-21T23:00:00.000-07:00

There's not much reason to forget, if forgiveness occurs. Sure, it's probably best to forget much of what happened, but not all of it. Forgetting implies a loss of perspective, so I think when taken singly, it's overrated.

But then, it's an entirely different thing to be told to forget without forgiveness. That's like skipping dinner and pretending one is full. Maybe you can put it out of your mind for a few hours. But when nine or ten o'clock rolls around: damnit, you're hungry.

It's a catchy phrase, "forgive and forget", but it's not the repetition that's important. Forgive and forget are both FOR something. Which is why it blows my mind at how everyone sees "forgive and forget" and thinks, "Oh, yeah, just forget about it and we'll be friends again."

This has been a really long-winded way of saying, "I don't think so."

Believe It If You Need It

2006-04-20T00:47:00.000-07:00

I've been getting the urge for running fast lately. It's partly the weather and partly my shape, but I need to resist this urge. Everyone seems to want to add speed to their running, and like everything else that "everyone" does, I want little part in it. Speed is like that hot chick you see in the mall as a kid. You may flirt with her a bit, but you won't keep her. There's always someone better than you.

I remember in high school I had this great period in which I was unbeaten in final kicks. I could actually state that I had never been outkicked in a duel. What a concept, to be undefeated in a head-to-head showdown. Everyone likes to do well in a final kick. It means points, but more importantly, it's pride. Everyone's watching.

Then I lost. By a longshot. It was the end of some crappy race -- maybe an 800 -- and some bigger guy started to kick against me at about 100 to go. Just blew me away. He had a whole other gear to go to. I had my foot on the floor and the engine was just making noise. Undefeated no longer.

But that kind of thing is so false. It took me until college to realize what kind of runner I could be and to learn the value in racing a whole race, not just a decent race with a fancy finish.

So, onto more miles and miles. And I'll leave the speedwork to the cocky guys who spend all their pre-race time flexing their abs and jabbering about racing flats.

Signifying Nothing

2006-04-12T23:53:00.000-07:00

In the past week:

• I received an evil-eye stare, the likes of which haven't been seen since FDR lasered Kramer on the backwards episode.

• I dodged a long phone call with a lonely alcoholic.

• Our neighbor ripped three trees out, opening up our backyard to all the other neighbors.

• My sister turned 3 decades old. She is now officially old, grown-up, and according to the Jefferson Airplane, out of significance. But, there's lots left for her. She's only got 55 more years to wait until Halley's comet passes by again.

• My boy got beat up by a 3-year-old wench. He wanted to play and she kept pushing him down. Like 7 times. Hey, he's got that persistence from his dad.

• We got the best parking spot of all time at Miller Park. Unbelievable. The game was great, but the parking made the whole thing memorable.

Not Another Again Again

2006-04-12T23:47:00.000-07:00

The worst name in the English language, by far, is Pollyanna.

Just makes you hate the woman without even meeting her, doesn't it?

In fact, combining any two names rarely works. Jim-Bob. Billy Bob. Bobby Sue. Sueann. It's too much. Pick a name, already. Make a decision. But don't pick two. That's what the middle name is for.

Getting the Hell Out of There

2006-04-05T23:34:00.000-07:00

I took a long drive this past weekend. Much too long for someone with nothing to think about. And when I arrived, I was in the beautiful city of Minneapolis. There I got to see several friends, drink several beers, and partake in one of my very favorite activities.

I got to leave a bad bar.

I love leaving a bad bar. It must be done with style. Little bit of flourish. Some anger. Definite indignation. But I also think suffering is important. One must first endure the situation for it to be worth leaving. On the outset, our choice of establishment looked promising: we were told this place brewed its own beer, it had lots of wood and animal heads on the walls, it looked and felt like an old German beer hall, and while it was populated, it wasn't jammed with people. Things went downhill from there, which lead to some of the key necessities one requires to leave a bad bar:

1.) The beer was bad. I know it was homemade, but it was flat. Tasted spoiled.

2.) The music was awful. Despite its German ambiance, the place was pumping out bad dance music. They weren't always playing dance songs, either. I heard the Doobie Brothers put to a 1-1 beat that would have driven any sane man to suicide given enough time.

3.) The music was numbingly loud. It was during a conversation about good music that I noticed it. Mike was talking about the Yeah, Yeah, Yeahs and Bloc Party; I was talking about Frank Black and the Decemberists . . . when I noticed my voice was hoarse. This is because I had been yelling to be heard. That's when I looked around and noticed....

4.) My friends weren't having any fun either. Kyle was nearly asleep in the corner. Mike was cringing from the music. Brandon was staring into his beer like it was hypnotizing him, and Joe, Eric, Master Ash and Nick all looked like someone had punched them in the stomach.

That was enough for me. Those are the only four components one needs to leave a bad bar. I stood up and said, "I'm getting the hell out of here!" I finished my beer, slammed it down, and said again, "We're getting the hell out of here!"

It must be said with volume, anger, and desperation. Because one never knows how many of his friends will follow him out of danger. Indeed, I noticed the other Mike was in conversation with some young lasses, and two other idiot friends were on the dance floor actually enjoying the music. So I surely couldn't expect full cooperation (although I was later told that that Mike never "signed the deal" so I in fact had little to worry about). I just wanted the kindred souls with me. Luckily, that's what I got.

Others heard the battle cry, so that more asked, "What are we doing? What's going on?" -- stirrings from the slumber this bad bar had cursed us with. I said again, "We're getting the hell out of here!"

By the way, say that some time. As James Brown said -- say it loud. It's very liberating.

Admittedly, the whole rush out the door lost some of its joy when I had to rush back in to use the bathroom. But there was nothing better than feeling that cool night air hit my face as my friends stood around deciding what to do next to all the other people deciding with their friends what they wanted and didn't want. Where they should and shouldn't go. Whose plan intersected with whose and whose didn't, and how they could get it all back together again in the right place that hopefully would have good beer and better music.

I've always thought that the bar scene is about people looking for something. Mostly sex. Partially numbness. But when you're married with children, and can stand back and look at it all from a distance, the important things rise to the top: does the establishment care that I can hear my friends speaking, do they play good music, and for the love of Christ, can they serve a thick, cold dark beer that doesn't cost $8, but still slides down your throat better than the first one did?

All Those People You Knew Were the Actors

2006-03-31T23:26:00.000-08:00

Will's Diatribe on Why MySpace.com Scares the Fucking Hell Out of Him

I've thought about it and thought about it, but I always come back to: It makes people look like items on a Greek restaurant menu. You know the kind I'm talking about -- so gigantic you can't see around it. Laminated with that heavy plastic. And each page has those bright, color pictures . . . . and so many items. There are like four versions of a tuna melt throughout the entire menu.

1. It's picture-based. Anything steeped in visuals puts me on edge.
2. One can have "friends". There is a latent feel of "Who's popular, who's not." to the whole site.
3. The comments -- and this is almost to a tee -- are brief, known banter. Often meaningless.
4. One can search by high school, college, etc. THIS IS NOT A POSITIVE. To be able to instantly find out that several dozen people you once knew are still alive and annoying is unhealthy and disturbing.
5. One can assign reasons (like "looking for serious relationship") for being on the site. So whenever anyone sees this person's site, they know: "Yep, he's here to get laid." Or: "Yep, she's hunting for a ring."
6. Everyone seems to feel forced to sum up their life in four sentences. "I graduated with a degree in psychology. I love my job most of the time :). I like to go out on weekends. I'm just trying to live the best way I know how." Those sentences -- give or take a few words and some phrasing -- is on 713,491 MySpace sites. Goddamnit, people, there are more words in the language.

Add all these reasons up, and, to this casual observer, the site is responsible for converting human beings into vending machine items. Down with MySpace. Down with it.

It's Cold but not that Deep, Cause Your Legs Grow

2006-03-31T11:33:00.000-08:00

Why is it always that the most un-fun people are in charge of activities meant to be fun?

This happens all the time. Probably every CCD or church youth instructor thought of themselves as infinitely fun and exciting (as well as being a life-changing force in the lives of kids who just want to go back to bed) when in reality, they are embarrassing themselves. I see this same thing happen in the office too. All the sudden someone wants to have some "fun".

And they always announce it that way, too. As if -- to engage in pleasurable behaviour, one must know beforehand that it will be fun. Just in case they didn't already know. And there are always a lot of rules and nonsense involved, aren't there? Lot of fun, rules are, aren't they? Yeah, rules just emanate fun. Let's add more rules to everything.

But what can you do but go on?

I've been saying that a lot lately. It breaks it all down, I guess. Just, go on. I say that to my dog when I want him to move. Go on. Not leave, not scram, not get the hell out of here (well....sometimes). Just go on.

I try not to quote a lot of movies anymore. It's old, click-y, and for the most part bores me. But there are two or three phrases I let out. One is from Vacation, after Chevy has embarrased his wife in front of the entire hotel by swimming with Christie Brinkley. It's not what he says that I like -- it's how he says it: "She's ugly." This is how he describes Christie, in an effort to win his wife back. And he says it in this -- "Honey, don't be CRAZY." -- tone. So that's what I say all the time to my wife (not that I've hopped in any pools with Christie) when she knows I know she knows I'm bullshitting her.

But other than that one and maybe a couple others, I just stick with the simple phrases now. It's a world of cliches, so I'm gravitating to what is simple, clear, direct and not cliched. This is part of why I'm trying to not be apart of any planning activity in general, much less a fun activity. I make no bones about it. I am not fun. I watch these television shows where the fake reality people date, and they're always dancing or jumping off buildings or ice skating or rollerblading or boating or something grand and fabulous. And I don't do any of those things -- more importantly, I don't want to. So I've found it's best to just avoid all this nonsense.

And this is why it is great to be an adult.

Because there is no one forcing you to try something you don't want to try. You can receive peer pressure -- but at this point in my life, I just don't care. I could have a stadium full of people shouting at me. I would smile. Probably blush. But it wouldn't matter. If I'm going to do something, it's because I make the call. That freedom to be simple is a beautiful thing.