Got Mashed Potatoes

They changed the billboard on northbound South Lake Dr. recently. I run that strip just about every day so I notice these things. It used to be a big, smiling, fat guy who was supposed to represent "real" -- real, meaning TDS Metrocom is a real phone alternative because they got big, ugly guys like this who do work for them. Whether or not this is just an ad campaign, or if TDS simply subcontracts out to SBC like most other small-time phone alternatives . . . I don't know. Or care. All I know is big, fat guy's been replaced by this:

"i'm thinkin' italian"

Underneath this fun-fonted slogan and to the left is a picture of a chicken parmesan sandwich -- ah, yes, the food of romance. The McDonald's logo is prominently, if not obtrusively, shown below. And to the right, is this beautiful young woman. She is holding her trendy cell phone, as if she's calling YOU, guys. Her hair is pulled back so the lighting fully reveals her unblemished skin. And she stares at me -- directly at me all the while I pass her -- with that expectant gleam in her eyes, as if I'M the one she's called. As if she's abridged her speech from "thinking" to "thinkin'" just for ME because she's in a FUN mood, and she just can't wait for me to bring home some lusty, romantic McDonald's. And this, according to the Mickey-D's folks, is for every guy who passes by. This is for you! She is seated below the camera, you see, as if she is there before you, on her knees, begging . . . . If only you'll bring home that McDonald's chicken parmesan sandwich for her, she'll unzip . . . .

"OK, you took it too far, now, Will. It's just a silly advertisement, and there you go, taking it too far -- like you do! You do! You take things too far. You read too much into things. It's just a stupid ad, why do write about this stuff?"

Well, it's my web log, and I'll cry if I want to.

See, there's a lot of things I don't know about. I could not explain to an elementary science class why the sky is blue. After nearly fourteen months of marriage, I do not understand my wife's love of shoes. I do not know which cools faster -- lava or magma -- or why. I don't understand either major political party, or anyone who vehemently supports them. I do not understand Marxists. I know nothing about oil painting. Cars? Ha! My chances of effectively changing a tire stand at about 50%. Without the owner's manual? 10%. Technology? Ha-HA! Trained monkeys could write a program before I could. I love reading maps, but blind men get lost less often. Accounting, physics, sociology, geology, endocrinology -- all these things are great mysteries to me.

But I do know this:

There is not a single woman on this great earth of ours who will:

A.) get THAT excited around
B.) perform sexual favors upon
C.) think highly of
D.) (choose all of the above)

ANY guy who brings her McDonald's for dinner.

Speaking for my former life, when precious few women paid me any attention, as well as for all my comrades who still struggle to find meaningful companionship in a world of fast-food chicken parmesan, I say: Fuck you, McDonald's. Take your crappy chicken parmesan sandwich, your pretty girl, her cute smile, and her Goddamned cell phone . . . and shove it.

I was running the other night . . . because I've been running at night too often lately. And I was just starting, so I was strong. And I turned right, following the local Catholic high school out to KK. And as I'm going, I saw this guy ahead of me, walking in the same direction. I knew with the traffic up ahead that he wouldn't hear me coming, so I started trying to run on the fallen leaves . . . the crackling to announce my arrival. But there weren't many leaves on that side of the street, so I knew it would be dicey.

I came upon him, and I moved right, onto the grass, and at the last second, he hears me, and whirls -- a karate move, raising his right elbow high in a pirouette -- while shouting out that spontaneous "Whoa!" that's usually reserved for theaters and haunted houses. And then the recognition: his eyes relax and his face all the sudden sinks just a tad, an exhalation. I couldn't help it: "Sorry about that," I said, really feeling bad for the guy. I mean here he is, five-ten, 230 pounds, 39 years old, and I've taken away his dignity in the snap of a stick.

I posted this quotation a while back:

"There was someone out there operating in a new context. They were being lifted into unknown areas, deep pathologies. Was the cortex severed? They both felt a silence beginning to spread from this one. They would have to rethink procedure. The root of the tongue had been severed. New languages would have to be invented."

E. McNamee, 1994

Eoin McNamee's an Irish writer, and Resurrection Man is his book about the violence in Belfast. I took a class on Irish novels a year ago, and the first day we talked about RM, we focused on this quotation. I could tell the class had begun to slow, lose its momentum, of late. We must have spent 15 minutes on that quotation.

Victor Kelly essentially becomes famous because he's a gangster who has raised the level of violence. People aren't just getting knocked off, shot down, or taken out. They are being slowly tortured, their span of pain becoming a measurement of humanity.

And this quotation nails the whole thing: one of Kelly's victims has had his tongue severed at the root. This was shocking, all agreed -- in the book, in my class. The professor went on and on, how this violence was a form of communication, that Kelly was illustrating his intense hatred for Catholics, as well as indulging in a form of play-acting, in which he would emulate mobster behavior he'd seen on television and in films. The rest of Belfast saw Kelly's work, and withdrew in a frightened, shocked realization -- by upping the ante, Kelly was forcing them to "rethink procedure". He had gone way beyond what they were used to, so procedure was useless. The rivals would have to invent "new languages" to communicate on Kelly's level.

Now I agree -- all well and good. Makes a lot of sense. I like it. This is one of the key passages in the book. Easily the most recognizable. But we stayed on that point forever and ever, and we never ever pointed out the literal meaning of the words. There is a perversity attached to the literal meaning here: a man's tongue is severed . . . new languages would have to be invented . . . yet the man is dead. Is it too difficult to understand that -- while the concept of invention was not introduced as an effect of the crimes -- the invention of new languages follows the description of the crime? This is a clear authorial choice -- it's called syntax, the ordering of language. I'm pointing out the obvious here, I know that. The man is without a tongue; new forms of communication are necessary; the man is dead.

My professor, a good guy who needs to rein in his Marxist leanings, didn't even understand my point: "But that's not what McNamee wants you to focus on; he's talking about the communication between warring societies and the effects of violence."

My unstated response: You're the one pointing out the obvious. McNamee wrote a passage in which the connotative meaning was more evident than the denotative meaning . . . yet you managed to ignore that . . . refused to see its brilliance even. It's this ignorance that's dangerous to the study of literature. Because by scratching off one side of the coin, you've destroyed the entire piece's value. By refusing to acknowledge the literal meaning, you've made it impossible to draw any conclusions of meaning regarding the perversity of a dead man utilizing new language and the disintegrating humanity in Belfast. You've not even hinted at the implied impossibility or the inherent contradictions that the statement holds for the city, its people, and the prospects for peaceful communication.

And, call me crazy, but I think that's the point of Resurrection Man.

"Make the sweat drip out of every pore."

I taught a pretty kick-ass lesson today to my seventh-graders. Stuff that evokes pride and delusions. Yeah. But the honest-best part about it was that the room for improvement will be easily acknowledged and filled.

So the review meeting went better than expected. Gotta admit: it's contagious seeing someone else's enthusiasm for their own work. I should really start to work on something to look forward to. These damn poetry and short fiction contests are killing me . . . wait four months for a "no-thanks" or two months for "Thanks, but no $ for you!"

Ranger's chompin' on his bone so frickin' hard right now, he's drowning out the music behind me.

There was a woman in class tonight . . . in her late forties or early fifties. Doing a career change, entering education . . . secondary, I think. She's big, there's no getting around that. OK, I should have deleted that, because that's an unnecessary pun that rips her, and that's not why I'm writing this . . . . But I'm too tired to delete anything right now. (Except for that.) And she stood up to present her group's poster. My group was to her right, so we could see this five or six inch tear in the side of her pants . . . and her belly press out against her sweater. And, man, I felt absolutely terrible for her. I still do. I remember having friends who would probably rip her for that. But I just kept thinking about how she would, someday soon, be facing high schoolers, a whole class of kids who don't give a damn about her up there. I mean the runner in me comes out all confident, like "you gotta get active," and that's fine, but . . . that's not gonna help her right then, not tonight, not right now. Because, she was honorable, you know? She presented their poster well, with a little style, some flourish -- she didn't mail it in; she's trying. So that made it all the harder -- knowing she deserved better, but that she'd be confined to teaching kids who wouldn't give a damn about honor or effort . . . or that she'd be analyzed to death by some idiot on his web log with too much time on his hands. And that's a fucking shame.

Every time I change the bed I think of a girl I dated in college. She helped me change the bed once. I appreciated it because it was a pain changing a bed bunked four and a half feet in the air.

I think of the Smashing Pumpkins song I played over and over one night after she had dumped me . . . weeks and weeks earlier. Said she would call and then all the sudden so much time had passed. And then she did eventually call . . . on my birthday, complaining about my attitude. And that was one of those Sixteen Candles moments, in which I, ought of pure desire to not act like a high school girl full of fluff and self-importance, couldn't bring myself to tell her that I had attitude because she dumped me, then ignored me until calling me that day, that day wondering why I was such a touchy, emotional asshole.

I was fast then, still breaking ground, running new mileage, heavy miles, racing like there was so much time in front of me, still willing to take risks during big races. What pisses me off, writing this is it comes out so melodramatic and imagistic, like I'm using "big races" as some sort of crappy metaphor for something else. But that's really literal. I mean nothing else. Running was the best part of that year.

She called me the next fall. I wanted to talk to her like pilgrims wanted dinner. (See, when I try to be literal, I'll intentionally crack that.) But I spoke clipped generalities while my new roommate maintained that quizzical look, as if he wasn't listening. Later, much later, I thought I'd been too hard on her. Should have at least been personable. But how do you trust somebody -- how do you even have a conversation with them -- when you know they're going to take it all back to their friends for disection?

This was nothing visionary. Stories like that happen over and over on every college campus in America. Freshmen girls huddling together like cows loaded onto the truck. Guys walking around parties like attitude was currency. No one extending a single, meaningful limb. Every one of them afraid -- yes, even the cocky ones -- mostly on levels below conversation, thought, that subtext of mirror; you press your hand against it, you see the reflection of it in the mirror. And there's that space between, that you just can't get to. But it's always there.

"Misspent youth, fakin' up a rampage."

I ate a lot of mashed potatos the other night. I mean a lot.

The problem with favors is when the one who asks is disappointed with the result. And that really sums up my struggle for tomorrow, which is otherwise stated as -- how do I put a positive spin on a book I couldn't . . . promote. Just like I couldn't finish that sentence. This book, buried in it somewhere, had heart. I think. More accurately: I hope. What I worry about is that I may want it to have heart more than it actually does.

And now I have to advise the author on how to fix things . . . when I'm not sure I'd take the time myself. No. I know I wouldn't. Would he even? So is it worth my time? Either of our time? Ah, fuck it. It's done now. Maybe I'll say something that will spark a change, and then his book will get published before anything I spew sees light. That would be something, anyway.

I ate a hell of a big breakfast this morning. Brunch really. It was big.

And this -- reviewing work -- is supposed to be my job. Part of it, anyway. So I should be taking this better. Then again, I could think of a hell of a lot of things I could be doing better right now, like, school, job, what is beneath me right now, etc.

My wife is gone for the next few days. I know this kind of thing gets cheesy on diaries, logs and the type. But I do miss her greatly.

There's a man who walks around GE Medical in his own haze. It's like he witnessed some tragedy 30 years ago that permanently opened his eyes wider. They aren't as wide open now as they were right after it happened, but they're still dazed, thinking instead of seeing. And he sort of drifts through the halls, as if he was carrying a full cup of hot coffee that he was afraid of spilling over, so he walks extra slow, extra careful. Except the only thing he's carrying, of course, is himself. I see him every week or two. And you can't miss him, with his white hair combed up in a duckbill do that makes me think maybe he's been struck by lightning or stuck his finger in a socket . . . but no, he really combs it that way. I've never heard him speak, but I know he's a mumbler. I imagine the other workers -- the real guys, mind you, the factory guys, not office jags like myself -- treat him like a war veteran or patient, but I'm not really sure. There's nothing I'm very sure of at work.

"Why don't you stay behind?"

An unfamiliar voice on the radio condemned every union, picket line.

A woman behind me sidestepped questions about a first date.

I spoke too long during a poetry discussion.

The traffic eased up.

We ate dumplings and chicken for dinner.

A woman left class early; it is impossible for her to avoid attention.

I woke early. At my field class, a boy falsified his height with over-long black jeans that looked like they were vacuuming the floor.

An uncomfortable silence was tolerated for more than four hours.

A bill has to be paid.

The voice on the radio refused to let the caller address his point before hanging up.

It's time for a walk.

"You ask me about the idiosyncrasies of philosophers? . . . There is their lack of historical sense, their hatred of even the idea of becoming, their Egyptianism. They think they do a thing honour when they dehistoricize it . . . when they make a mummy of it. All that philosophers have handled for millennia has been conceptual mummies; nothing actual has escaped from their hands alive. They kill, they stuff, when they worship, these conceptual idolaters. . . . Now they all believe, even to the point of despair, in that which is. But since they cannot get hold of it, they look for reasons why it is being witheld from them. 'It must be an illusion, a deception, which prevents us from perceiving that which is: where is the deceiver to be found?' - 'We've got it,' they cry in delight, 'it is the senses! These senses, which are so immoral as well, it is they which deceive us about the real world."

- F. Nietzsche, Twilight of the Idols

tenor struck down across Nietzsche’s back,
clinging to a stranger’s neck,
brought down beyond years
and good
and evil,
zarathustra’s truth:
a curse wrought out over time,
trampled and swatted
with his own cane
by Nazi’s,
his sister,
the colonialist,
and philosophy,

all forgetful of his love,
gifted to a friend after
a summer of instruction,
his words meaning more
than his glances,
his loneliness lost
along translations of
the dawn discarded
for notebook
scribbling about will
and power,

glorified in America,
where they mispronounce
his name, like giving
a speech while chewing
caserole, blaming
the archeologist for
treasure they
cannot open,
but taking his liberty
in their clamor
for quick
summation.

So I finished with Symbols of Power a couple days ago. Still have some clean-up editing to do . . . which I'll comment on at a later date, I'm sure. But the feeling, now, is relief. No more excuses.

In the meantime, my current English class is on poetry, which has me writing more, mostly out of spite, one of my better motivators.

"We were striking terms, and circumspection was needed. I must answer in our old language, our only language, allusive and teasing, that with conspiratorial tact declared nothing and left the past apparently unrevised."

J. Updike, 1965


"Odd the way her grammar occasionally lapses while at other times her speech is fancy, as if she's preaching at a corner."

W. Trevor, 1994


"The smirking man smirks in order to show that he's in on the joke, so he can indulge in the fun-loving-hitman fantasy without an overload of embarrassment. . . . I smirk and smirk and smirk . . . and I feel just as stupid, powerless, and guilty every time. . . . The whole city's got this fucking smirk."

A. Shakar, 2001


"There was someone out there operating in a new context. They were being lifted into unknown areas, deep pathologies. Was the cortex severed? They both felt a silence beginning to spread from this one. They would have to rethink procedure. The root of the tongue had been severed. New languages would have to be invented."

E. McNamee, 1994

The problem with doing something good for someone is the movie Pay it Forward. It wasn't enough, this idea of random giving, was it? No, someone had to go and make a terrible movie about it, something that cries out to you to give, that lops a full teaspoon of sugar on top of fruit loops. And that kid. Now Spacey and Hunt, I can see. They're older, out of touch, removed. But that damn little kid from the scary movie was in it. He sure energized his career with that one, didn't he? Crying all over the screen, then dying. Oops, no spoiler warnings here! Fucking Pay it Forward. That's a slap at film.


Here's why people fall out of touch. One or more of three reasons.

Reason (A)

Remember in high school, when they taught you how to take notes that were so organized you sat back in awe of the very straightness of the:
I.
A.
1.
a.
(i)
(a)
-
*
II.
A.
B.
1.


Beautiful, isn't it? God knows what one section of any topic could have eight further subsets. Probably the Civil War. All those bodies. Well, I guess I'll get back on topic, and start with reason number one, or

(A) The boring summaries. "How are things?" Look at that fucking question. Three words. How. Are. Things. More, like "How broad can you get?" Ask a shitty question, get a shitty answer: "Oh, OK. Things are moving along with the job. Weather's been really nice lately." When they get to the weather I want to jump over the bar and smash every single bottle just to make him shut up. Does he really think I care about the weather (or traffic, or office politics, or old stories we both know the ending to) where he lives? My God, the back of the sports page shows the temperature and precipitation for his city. And I'd rather read that than get depressed hearing it from him.

So people talk in broad, boring generalities. After a while they start wondering, "Who the hell WAS that?"

(B) They don't care. Meaning, OK, let's see if they asked a specific question, like, "So what'd you do this week?" I would answer: "Well, I taught a lesson for a couple hours to seventh-graders. I had some bullshit to do for this women's college I attend. Basically I rerecorded my speech about how some picture I took of myself defines me as a reader. Then I had a two-day seminar about substitute teaching. The sandwiches they provided were good. There was a pretty girl with freckles and a red coat and blue underwear with a tag sticking out that you could see when she leaned forward. She had a long name. I brought my notebook. I wrote poetry connecting skin and dyed hair to coastal landscape. It wasn't very good, but then it was better than actually taking notes."

All I'd really get for that would be: "Oh. So you'll be subbing soon, huh?"

(C) The unstated understanding: "The friendship was never that great to begin with. So we're both gonna let it die."

Ah, yes, the bitter, difficult reason. Maybe it's too easy to say this. Maybe not.

But they're three real possibilities. And we're all guilty of at least one of them.

That's all I have for today. Not that great, as I can see from paging backward. For someone with something real to say, try Sarah Hatter. Wonderful Sarah Hatter, who more people should read.

Only our clothes belong in Sanford. This we both know, standing in the lobby after awkardly figuring out that yes, that guy was a valet, and he would park our car for us. We can't sit and wait yet, as another couple is taking up most of the room on the small, vinyl couch that blends in with the wall. The hostess greets us, Jess sits, and I stand out of place, slumping on and off feet that don't stay still.

The couple is seated. I sit. We wait, Jessica hoping that everyone eating will do the right thing at least some of the time. It's like a first date without the nerves, us here, spending money we don't have, wearing clothes like cloaks and speaking, consciously, as intelligently as everyone else.

They seat us. There's red wine that sticks to the back of the throat. The menu is like a car wash combination choice. The woman sitting next to us has long abandoned tact:

"Don't look at me like that!" "You're being COY. You know. COY. The WORD. You know what it means." "You can't GET seafood that's fresh in Milwaukee. You've GOT to go to Tokyo. In Tokyo you can eat in the afternoon what they catch in the morning. THAT'S fresh." "You're being evasive. You heard me. You're being coy and evasive." "Oh, I've had this before."

We smile and try to talk through this . . . but sometimes it's more fun listening.

Salad with cornmeal, salmon in a circle, and elk arranged like art. We listen to the regulars talk about how it was superb as always; Jim gives advice on the rice that's not rice, not pilaf, but ___; and Jessica is full before the main course.

Eventually the place thins out; we stand up tentatively in our fancy clothes; Jess reminds me to tip the waitress well; we leave the woman and her coy, evasive, unfortunate husband to themselves; and we walk out into the cool night of the city.

they’re assembling ahead of me,
tubas and trombones,
bass to the sides,
snares in back,
pop and american pep between the trees

i enter the park where no one knows my name,
pick-up trucks turning in
front of me,
biceps of the linemen flex and unhinge,
like triggers,
traffic stops as the trumpet loses
his hat crossing the road

i run through the falling leaves,
crowd pulsing behind me, ahead
men in canvas hats unload
long boxes and beer cans,
exhaust and gunpowder,
gasoline endings

I run over
bass drums and backfires:
dodging the falling
colors, shots begin,
loudspeaker announcements,
last names and anthems,
positions and pathos,

ahead of me an orange duck disappears
over open water,
an imaginary bottle
exploding without fizz,
the crowd roars,

i run on,
bullet to clay,
rubber to grass,
legs blending into night
as the stadium glow fades,
the ducks above water,
form lost,
falling leaves

i run on,
clashing bodies and whistles,
orange sparks before,
by water,
they are consumed

You died alone, on a cold, dark highway,

While we opened folded clothes and drapes,
removed rubberbands from newspapers,
or slept.

The priest forgot your name,
a blessing made from fake faith,

the woman in front of me,
long brown hair fanning out,
reminding me of
prom queens and leadership.

I think of your river water
and dipped girls,
sinister smiles
that no one saw,

the loneliness of memorization
staved off on a bicycle
stripped for speed,

a stress fracture you walked away from,
leaving us in weather,
our words to ourselves.

I watched you struggle under the heat that day,
your arms twisted and jagged,
everything we learned thrown down,
like the bodies drawn away by ambulance,
not so different than
bodies in church,
strangers in prayer,
hand in hand.