Tales From America's Test Market

Word? Word.

2011-07-15T19:03:00.000-07:00

It gets quiet here at night. Sophia is usually down by 7:00, and Jen not much later these days. I roam around the house in the evenings alone, fighting sleep the same way I used to when I was five years old.
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It finally happened after fourteen months. She squatted, her lower half hidden by the layer of suds floating on the bath water's surface. The act may have been hidden, but I saw that now familiar look of concentration followed the smile that accompanies completion. Bath time was over so I could fish the brown-snake out and flush it. I had been expecting and dreading it for fourteen months, but in the end it didn't hurt at all.
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I applied for an internal position that I thought was well outside of my grasp, and shockingly got an interview. I trimmed back my ("soulful, indie-rock") beard, busted out my fancy pants, and went to talk to a VP who was also a VIP about the possibility of becoming an AVP. I felt strong about the interview at first, but as 24 hours passed I was certain I had performed so poorly that he would contact my current boss and suggest she terminate my employment.

As is often the case, the truth is found in the middle. I didn't get the job, and made some mistakes (which he was kind enough to discuss with me a few days after the announcement was made about the position), but in the end I had at least made a showing for myself. I learned a lot, and have mostly contented myself with the knowledge that my next interview will be substantially better because of this one.

Still bummed though. The job was amazing, and it would have been huge for the family. Next time, Mr. VIP. Next time.
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Playing Scrabble this week I scored 167 points for the word yuletide. This is something I'm very proud of. Two triple-word scores with just one word, y'all. Mark it.

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2011-06-01T18:59:00.000-07:00

We sat outside in air the temperature of our own skin, losing track of where our bodies ended and where the soft evening began. The breeze, occasionally reminding us that we weren't really connected to the currents, smelled of freshly laid mulch and ruffled the frayed cuffs of our shorts.

There was no conversation. If asked, we'd smile and explain that words between people who have been together this long are no longer needed, but the truth is we've just run out of things to say.

2011-03-29T08:02:00.000-07:00

It happened in a psychiatrist’s office.
“Can I ask you a question?” she asked. “Why are you even at _____?” and she named the place where I work.

I should stop here to add that I don’t know this woman, and have never been in her office. You see, I’m a fat guy; A fat guy who’s currently in the process of getting approval for bariatric surgery and one of those steps is to meet with a psychiatrist. I didn’t know anything about this woman other than what I've learned from sitting in her office:

• The waiting room had an unused feel to it. The shelves were dusted, and the magazines arranged neatly, but you got the impression the room was rarely used. Maybe it was the way the children’s toys in the corner were put away a little too nicely. Plus, it hadn’t been vacuumed recently, further adding to the forgotten vibe of the room.

• She had been a panelist on the Oprah Winfrey Show back in the mid-nineties. There was an autographed 8X10 glossy framed beside a signed form letter from Oprah thanking her for being part of the show.

• She was a force of nature. As I was sitting in the room, first filling out the initial paperwork and then beginning on the first of my three assigned personality tests, she came in through the door. Her voice was a cannon that blasted the stuffy air out of the room and hid the thin simper of her assistant’s soft rock radio. Wiping at her nose with a wad of tissues, she called me “Steve” and welcomed me to her office. “Come on back, come on back! You’ll finish those up after we talk.” Then to her assistant: “Sonya, he’ll finish up after, OK?” as if she hadn’t heard the booming instructions when they were shot at me.

We went back into one of the offices where between sniffles she explained that she didn’t see many patients these days and mostly worked with litigators serving as an expert witness. “I do maybe one or two of these bariatric cases per month lately” she explained. “I like to do them, of course. I’m just really busy.”

The conversation was fast and easy. I had never been to a psychiatrist before, but went into it with the thought that I would be completely open and as forthcoming as possible. We chatted about general addiction, my past, my daughter, and the back and forth came naturally. I felt like we were both enjoying the discussion. She was quick-witted and personable, sharing antidotes from her own past here and there when appropriate.

Interruped briefly for a nose blowing break, talk turned to work. She knows some people who have worked at the company I work, so was familiar somewhat with the environment. I explained that while not passionate about the work I do, I enjoy doing a good job and see myself as a constant that people can depend on. I could tell she didn’t like the answer.

“Look, it’s really none of my business. I don’t even know you and I’m not your therapist. Still though…Can I ask you a question? Why are you even at _____?”

She knew the answer before I did, but she waited for me to say it.

“Because I don’t know what I really want.”

We chatted some more about going back to school or changing careers before the rest of the answer came to me: “I think there’s something missing in me. There are people that I know who are creative and successful, not necessarily money-wise, but successful with what they do. They all seem to have this drive inside that pushes them to do what they love. I don’t seem to have that.”

This wasn’t groundbreaking. It was no epiphany. It was something I had considered previously before pushing the thought away. This was the first time I had really said it aloud though. It all boiled down to “I don’t know what to do” or, worse: “I don’t want to do anything”.

My newfound one-time-only therapist didn’t settle down on that topic though, and so we touched on childhood and moving around and she drew parallels between my father and I which while maybe not flattering, were again not groundbreaking material. It was a really great conversation. At the end of the day, there are only a few people who don’t enjoy talking about themselves to someone who declares it all fascinating material.

We stood, shook hands, and as we stepped back out into the waiting area where I would have to finish my personality tests, she declared me a delight to her assistant who said “Oh, that’s wonderful!” before discussing the rest of her schedule. I sat back down in the chair I had left 55 minutes before, and started on my tests with something bothering me just slightly about the experience. It wasn’t until I was walking to the car that I realized what it was.

It’s a cliché now, a man sitting in a chair at a gentleman’s club getting a lap dance on a Tuesday afternoon, thinking that the girl rubbing against him has really come to like him over time. In the face of all that skin, it’s easy for some to forget that she’s working and that when you ask for one more dance she’s thinking how she’s one step closer to paying rent on time. I knew guys like this, especially in high school. They’d come back from the clubs they’d managed to get in with Polaroids of them paired with Destiny or Chablis, smiles wide on their faces. They’d talk about how she even stuck around for a few minutes after the dance was over and really seemed interested when they described the car they were going to buy next month. (“She told me to go back and I can give her a ride in it!”)

I realized, putting my key into my compact car (so normal it’s nearly invisible), that in my way, I was very similar to these guys. Here I was enjoying a talk with a bright woman who was being paid (well, I might add) to be interested. Whether or not she was actually pretending wasn’t the point. She was good enough at her job that I forgot she was making rent money while I was busy being engaging.

Don’t misread me; I’m not so cynical that I’m directly comparing the two professions. I’m just saying that when money is exchanged, intentions are clouded. Just because she gets you hard doesn’t mean she’s in love, and just because she helps you find insight doesn’t mean she finds you interesting. It’s a job.

Driving home, I decided it didn’t matter. I wasn’t less engaging if she made $250 out of the deal. I’m a charming motherfucker.

I also decided on that drive that I would write about my time with my single-use therapist who had her fifteen minutes of fame with Oprah.

See? I do want to do something.

You Know, The Shriners?

2010-10-29T18:55:00.000-07:00

I don't remember how I found the place initially, but I'm guessing it was because of the banner that read "JOBS JOBS JOBS" hanging out front. People in town didn't know the actual name of the business, but if you told them you worked at "JOBS JOBS JOBS" they would smile in recognition.

It was a series of folding tables - sturdy metal frames with particle board tops laminated in fake wood grain. Stained by years of coffee slopped from Styrofoam cups, they stank like the ashtrays sitting at each telephone. The phones themselves as stripped down and basic as the rest of the room, were black with gray buttons, their cords tangled on the floor.

The sales goal for the night was written on the bottom right hand corner of a small dry erase white board with each of our names listed above. We would fight over whose name was written in what order even though it held no bearing. Everything was a competition, and nothing was given up lightly.. A notch was made by each name as sales were made. $32 sale was one notch, $64 was two and so forth.

On the phones, my first name was always Frank. The last name would vary.

"Hello, Mr. Washington? My name is Frank Stevens and I'm calling with the ______ _____ Shrine Temple Number 53, you know - The Shriners? How are you this evening? Great! The reason for my call is you were kind enough to help us send 6 underprivileged children to our annual variety show last year and we were hoping we could count on your support again this year..."

We always said "you know - The Shriners?" because we wanted the person at the other end of the line thinking of the guys in funny hats and the little cars at parades. We were told this was preferable to the fact that our contracted client was actually an African American community organization.

I was consistent with my numbers, but I never got the really big sales. I think there was one time where I sold a $128 package, but for the most part they kept the big ticket leads for _______. He would hunch sullenly over his phone, mumbling into the receiver so quietly you rarely heard him until the receiver would go back into the cradle and he’d exclaim “YEAH FUCKERS!” ruining two other potential deals in the process. He would jump up, his chair tottering on the two back legs until they finally settled down on all four, and run to the board to mark himself four slashes for the sale.

We were children, and we acted like it.

I was too young to drive when I first started working there. Some of the other guys drove cars or lived close enough to walk, but I had to be dropped off and picked up each night. My mom would complain that I smelled like smoke, and I would patiently explain how everyone there but me was a smoker, scared she would catch a whiff of Marlboro under the four pieces of Big Red I would be chomping on.

Occasionally a few girls from our school would get hired on, but the constant smoking or our childish leering meant they'd rarely stick around long enough to see two paychecks. We were a core group of four or five teenage boys, with a rotating cast of characters who never really made the cut.

We'd work from 5:30 to 9:00 each night, and a few hours Saturday morning, running through the sales script for whatever organization had hired us out for their event. It was always for the kids though. Economically disadvantaged, disabled, disenfranchised, whatever.

"Hi, may I speak with Mr. Donaldson? Hi, this is Frank Griffin calling for Special Heart for Special Children. How are you tonight?..."

We would walk to the grocery store that anchored the strip mall for snacks during breaks. We'd stop at the drug store for drinks and cigarettes. We'd spend our paycheck at the sports card store, and fight over who got the better rookie cards. We'd brag about the girls we'd been with (or lie about the girls we'd been with, at least in my case), and talk about the beer we were going to drink that weekend until one of the owners would come out of the office in the back and yell at us to get back on the phones.

I don't remember the exact process of how it all came to an end. One day we had a meeting where the tearful woman who ran the shop explained check kiting to us, a term I had never heard before. She explained that we would have visits from the FBI and that they were there to just review her books and that we as the sales group had done nothing wrong. We continued to make our calls, but the two agents in the back office dampened the mood.

No one had been getting rich off the backs of underprivileged kids, she had just been trying to pay bills and cover payroll. Shockingly, the half a dozen teenage boys they had on the roster hadn't been enough to generate a living for all those involved. Instead of seeing it as a lost cause, she scrambled to keep things afloat.

The parent company that she worked for said they were going to work with her and she would be able to avoid jail time if she cooperated fully with the FBI and their internal investigation. She complied on all fronts, and they promptly took her to court. I had left the job by the time she was sentenced but I'd heard that she'd pulled some sort of weekend only jail time for awhile.

A few years later, I was working the counter at a gas station in Utica, Ohio when a lady came in and asked for a pack of Salem 100's. I looked up to see it was her. We chatted for a minute in the awkward way people do when they would really be anywhere else instead of rehashing the past. I asked about her family, and she asked about mine. She started to leave, then stopped and said:

"I'm sorry. I always felt like I let you down. You're just a really good person...a good guy, and I kind of fucked things up for everyone."

I felt this overwhelming desire to tell her I wasn't great at all. I wanted to tell her of all the shitty things I had done just that week alone. I wanted to make up even worse stuff just so she wouldn't feel so bad. I didn't know where this accountability to me had come from, but I was uncomfortable with the label - unhappy to be seen as a person good enough to warrant this kind of naked apology.. I opened my mouth to say some of this, but she smiled and stepped out...the bell above the door cutting off my words.

Soundtrack

2010-05-24T13:37:00.000-07:00

A few weeks before Sophia was born, I started an iPod Playlist for the delivery room. I asked Jen for her input and she said "None of that arty horseshit…this is about me" or something to that affect. So, I started through our library looking for things that Jen would love and that wouldn't be horrible for me. After just an hour or so I had 115 songs which I thought would be more than enough to get us through a night in the hospital. I shuffled them up and dumped them on my iPod.

Even by Jen's account, the pregnancy was fairly easy. She had her share of exhaustion and the usual side effects, but had largely been able to avoid the more serious complications that are common. Still, at over 40 weeks, she had been experiencing a few days of feeling really rough and convinced her doctor to see her a few days earlier than their scheduled appointment. After two hours of examination, ultrasounds, and stress tests, Jen's doc told her to get her bag and check in to the hospital at 8:00 that night. Jen cried in relief, knowing that very soon she'd be feeling better…one way or another.

I'll spare you all the push by push replay, but there were a few things worth noting. First, Jen was amazing. From the very beginning until the moment we watched Sophie gulp down her first air conditioned breath, she was perfect. Also, the staff we worked with was great. Jen's nurse laughed at our jokes (we always have jokes), got down to business when needed, and was Jen's champion the whole way. Also, she got down with the Prince that was playing on the iPod.

And that takes us back to the Playlist. We had the music going in the background as we sat in the darkened room watching Jen's contractions on the monitor ("Ooooh, daayuuum…that was a biggun"). It started with Manchester Orchestra's "I Can Feel a Hot One", but then despite the fact that I had shuffled the songs, it mostly went from artist to artist playing songs in blocks alphabetically. We cruised through lots of "B Bands" (Band of Horses, Beck, Ben Folds, The Beach Boys) and then the Garden State soundtrack. We napped through The Mountain Goats and Mojave 3. The nurse came in to get things busy about the time The Postal Service started playing. The moment Jen pushed for the first time, "When Doves Cry" filled the room. Jen finished with the first push and we looked at each other, laughing at the absurdity of giving birth with Prince as the soundtrack. "Pop Life", "Raspberry Beret", and "I Would Die 4 U", one song after another Jen pushed and then we laughed (yes, she had an epidural). The nurse boogied (though professionally) and we talked about how our Twin Cities based friends would be home-town-proud. The assembled grandmothers in the room were less interested, standing on the sidelines with shaking hands clutching their cameras.

Finally the Prince wound down to be replaced with REM, and on Jen pushed. I kid you not, toward the end, with Sophie starting to appear, "American Girl" by Tom Petty was the song playing. And then, finally, Sophie was pushed/pulled into life on the outside. I cut the cord (symbolism be damned), and she was placed kicking and fussing on Jen's chest all the while Wilco's "Please Be Patient With Me" played softly in the background. We toweled off her little arms and legs, alternately amazed and terrified of her, and everything else faded into the background.

I know it might be a little obsessive to pay that much attention to what music was playing and at what time, but a lot of strong memories I have are linked to the music that was playing at the time.

I remember I was sitting in Tyson Downey's CRX in a parking lot outside of Kroger in Brazil Indiana and he was telling me about a song he had heard for the first time. When the weather was just right you could pick up a station out of Indianapolis (not without some static, of course) and this Indy station had promised to play this new song again before 10:00. We sat there in the car chain smoking, our talking stopping as each new song would start to play until they finally played Radiohead's "Creep" and my world got a little bit bigger.

I remember the moment I realized my first marriage was over and a song called "Kerosene Hat" by Cracker was playing in the car. I rushed to turn it off as I drove no where, not wanting an awful moment to ruin a great song for me. (It didn't. I still love that song.)

And I remember walking the streets of Carbon, Indiana when I was probably 13 and coming up on a house that was playing Frampton's "Do you Feel Like We Do". We sat outside on the sidewalk listening to it in the summer night and I remember thinking that it was the best song ever written.

Good and bad, a lot of my memories are wrapped up what was on the radio, and I don't think that's unique at all. Still, I have to admit a pure personal pleasure in being able to tell Sophie one day that she came into this world while listening to Wilco. Since she's a captive audience, I plan on spending lots of time with her in front of the turntable as soon as my mother in law vacates the area that has become partially my den and partially Jen's craft room. I bet Weezy is glad Grandma Helen has been here to protect her so far...

The Whigs - LIke a Vibration

2010-02-22T17:07:00.000-08:00

Just because it's so dang good.

Random Notes

2010-02-17T18:22:00.000-08:00

I'm a fan of the seasons, but my short attention span keeps me from liking any of them for more than just a couple months at a time. Just about the time I start really yearning for warmer weather, winter takes a giant white shit all over my hopes. So, I shovel the walks and listen to the sound of our furnace catching its breath for 45 seconds in between cycles and keep hoping.

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Tonight we were straightening up in the kitchen and I was going through some paperwork, shredding dated bank statements and the like. As I was cleaning things out I finally disposed of the remnants of the Paperwhites out a pot we had set aside. For those unfamiliar with the plant, it's a winter blooming bulb that has tall slender stalks and white flowers that grows in a pot of stones with a bit of water. It also smells like a giant pile of buttery ass. I was never more happy than when I got to cut them back and walk the clippings immediately out to the trash.

So tonight, I empty the pot into a plastic bag, planning to salvage the gravel, when everything slides out in a solid mass. The individual pieces of gravel are practically tied together with a slick white root structure that looked so much like a snarl of tapeworms it actually creeped me out.

Horror movies should be written about this plant. It's what should have crawled under the skin of the wayward hikers in The Ruins. It's what Indiana Jones really should have been afraid of instead of snakes. I pray to God Jen doesn't want that evil spawn in our home again next year.

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I've decided Facebook would be more fun if people would be completely inappropriate with their status updates from time to time. I'm a total voyer so I don't even get upset with the mundane posts from some; I'm usually on board to see whatever it is you're up to. Still, it'd be nice to see something like:

John Doe...

...is pooping.
...is celebrating some "Afternoon Delight" with a giant sandwhich.
...got caught picking his nose today by another motorist when driving home from work.
...listened to Whitesnake today and loved every second of it.

Not that I'm personally going to open myself up with embarassing posts, of course. I just think you should.

A Bit of This

2010-02-01T13:28:00.000-08:00

Hi. How you been?

The Antlers Part I

Jen and I headed to Akron Saturday night to see The Antlers play. It was at a place called Musica, and it wound up being a really cool spot. We met up with my cousin Johnny who is always down for something new, and leaned against the back wall of the venue (for Jen's sake) to watch the show. Jen and Johnny were both good sports, but weren't in love. I, on the other hand, was. I'm a sucker for what The Antlers do, and they sounded amazing.

There was a couple standing beside me that looked to be in their mid twenties. She, a little pixie of a thing, and he a dead ringer for a young Thurston Moore. After the show was over, I immediately turned to talk to him.

"Anyone ever tell you that you look like Thurston Moore."
"Yeah, I've gotten that a few times."
"Yeah well, I'm going home and telling everyone that I saw The Antlers with Thurston Moore, ok?"
"I wish I were Thurston."
"Yeah, who doesn't?"

We stood around and talked for a few. Turns out his name is Mike and he drove in from Cleveland to see the show. We chatted about Shoegaze, why people bother coming to shows if they're just going to stand around and talk during the set, and how it's a shame Spiritualized peaked so long ago. It's rare finding people that dig the same music I do, so it was cool to chat. It would have been cooler if he actually had been Thurston though.

The Antlers Part II

Technically, this was the first show for Weezy. After it was over, Jen told me Weezy started kicking up a bit after the band finished their opener "Kettering" and kept it going for awhile. According to the good folks who post baby facts out there on the interwebs Weezy has been able to hear for a couple of weeks now, though it most likely sounds something akin to what you and I would hear when swimming underwater. Still, I was excited getting her out to her first show already (especially since I'll have to wait so long before we can do another one together).

Then, the new inexperienced father part of me kicked in, and I worried that it'd be too loud for her. I called Jen's doctor's office to ask if it'd be an issue. I could hear the nurse's smile in her voice.

"Just keep her out of the mosh pit and she'll be fine."

Sophia Jerky

While reading about umbilical cord care I got a little grossed out, and was telling Jen about it the other day as we were riding around in the car. Just the idea that it basically turns black and rots off is disturbing. I've read that it can be a little stinky, and then eventually it just falls off, leaving a cute little belly button behind. It creeps me out that we could be changing her one morning and "Pop!' off it goes onto the floor where the dogs pounce on it like so many Honey Nut Cheerios.

Jen doesn't like it when I read.

Presents

2009-12-25T18:15:00.000-08:00

It started with an unexpected call from Jen's doctor last Monday night. I had just made it back out to my car after giving up on Best Buy for a last minute gift for Jen when I saw Dr. Cummins' name come up on my Caller ID. It was almost 7:00 in the evening, and I was too surprised by her call to be concerned.

In the next ten minutes she explained to me that the last round of blood tests Jen had done came back indicating an increased chance that the baby would have Downs Syndrome. The first round of tests we had done put our odds at 1 in 1500 or so, but the more recent results brought us down to 1 in 200. She explained that it wasn't time to panic, but she wanted some additional tests done. Resigned to a Christmas in purgatory, Jen and I settled in, trying not to count the moments until the specialist's office would call to schedule the follow up testing.

Tuesday was tough. We knew enough to know we shouldn't be too upset, that results like this are common, but we were regardless.

Wednesday, Jen got the call and learned that they could squeeze us in Christmas Eve if we could be available. We could. We were certain that we'd have to wait a week to be able to speak with the doctor about the test result, but at least we'd get the process started. Plus, if the kid cooperated, we'd be able to find out if it's a boy or a girl.

Thursday morning, the Ultrasound Tech Jill explained some of the things that she'd be looking for, and to our relief explained that we'd get to meet with the doctor after they had a chance to discuss the results. As she worked, Jill pointed things out along the way. She told us immediately that the brain looked perfectly developed. She pointed out the kid's pinkie fingers had three bones, not just two which is a common sign of Downs. She told us enough good news that we were able to relax and just enjoy watching the kid wiggle around on the screen. So much wiggling, in fact, that she had a hard time keeping up with the twists and turns.

She agreed to not tell us what the gender of the kid was, but rather write it down in a card Jen brought along with us and had us look away when she headed south with the camera. A few minutes later and we were finished and in the doctor's office where he confirmed everything Jill had said while she worked. Relieved, we headed out to finish our separate days.

So, Christmas morning, after opening the few presents we bought for each other, we sat down on the love seat, A Christmas Story playing quietly in the background, and opened our card together. There was an arrow pointing to some indiscernible smudge with white text "IT'S A GIRL!" I saw it before Jen did. I said something, but now I don't remember what it was. Then we read the card.

"Merry Christmas! It's a Girl! Congratulations! Have a wonderful Holiday! Sincerely, Jill ____"

The Merryman Family Holiday Letter

2009-12-18T12:52:00.000-08:00

Dear Friends, Family, Misguided Internet Trollers, and Virtual Stalkers,

Nearly 365 days have gone by so quickly that it's difficult to believe. It's true that years seem to get shorter the older you get, and I have to admit that I think it's crap. The tendency is to look back over a year when it seems to have passed too quickly and review what you've done, but that's not always the smart thing to do. Especially if you haven’t done anything. As a family, our accomplishments were meager:

Otis played a lot of fetch. Also, when he thought no one was looking, he ate a lot of poop. Rarely did we get to witness it, but we’d often be confused by the lack of waste in the yard when picking things up each evening. He views his buddy Lucy as a big furry Pez dispenser, and he's buying what she's shoveling. We know this is happening, yet somehow we’re able to be surprised when he has a gastrointestinal disaster and winds up at the vet hooked to IV's.

Lucy has found a consistency in her day-to-day life over the years, and rarely does she veer off track. So, while the act of barking isn't anything new to her (any more so than my mentioning her barking in a yearly Christmas letter is), she has refined her approach to the act, and has added lots of new items to her list of things she's barked at. Such items include a rabbit, fluttering leaves, a cartoon hamburger, imagined intruders, and CGI dinosaurs. She managed to work in this barking all the while serving as a mobile buffet line for Otis. We're proud.

For Jen and I, things were status quo for a big portion of the year, and we take a certain amount of pride in being uncommonly common. We lost and gained weight. We started and stopped exercise programs. We bitched about noisy neighbors and dreamt constantly of escaping our house. We yelled at dogs. A lot.

We watched a ton of movies. Some of them weren't all bad (Paper Heart, Away We Go, Up, Anvil: The Story of Anvil, Doubt, Milk, Friday the 13th, etc.). We both are lucky enough to have jobs that we don't completely despise, and as a result, made it to work more days than not. We made a lot of messes and cleaned up a good portion of them.

Then, because things in our lives were too quiet and pleasing, we decided to try getting pregnant. Within just a few months Stephen's super virile sperm knocked the dust off Jen's aging eggs, and immediately our little DNA omelet started to grow and take form. Seamlessly, we became those people. We displayed Ultrasound photos. We read books and articles about childcare and learned to avoid crack cocaine, cold cuts, beer bongs, and over-easy eggs. (Actually, Jen had to avoid those things; Stephen helped himself to most, if not all, of the above.) In short, we became the recipients of indulgent smiles and polite questioning from the people we annoyed with our happiness. Fortunately, we were so secure in our thinking that everyone was as fascinated with the process as we were that we took all their indulgence at face value.

And so that brings us to the last member of the family…the mass of baby shaped cells Jen calls "Bean" and I call "The Kid". Out of all of us, Bean’s had the most interesting year. In five months The Kid crawled from the primordial ooze of Jen's uterus and developed into a clump, then into a tadpole, into what now appears to be a black and white smudge with a giant head (if the pictures are to be believed). It's funny to think that the one person in our family who accomplished the most can't even work the remote control.

It’s annoying if you really think about it. It’s like having to listen to the rich kid from school read their “What I did on my summer vacation report” on the first day of class and go on and on about Paris while you look down at your two paragraphs detailing the joy of making your own Slip ‘n Slide with a water hose and a large sheet of plastic you found on a construction site.

I can imagine the kid being in the womb, saying things like “Today I separated my heart into four distinct chambers and swam a few laps around the pool. So, ah…whatcha been doing to stay busy these days?”

One day we envision this open letter being full of information about Jen and my many work promotions, lottery wins, and a list of everything that our kid can kick your kid’s ass at. We’ll regale you with tales of Stephen’s many arm-wrestling tournament wins, and Jen’s new rock band’s touring schedule, but for now this will have to suffice. We may not be interesting, but we’re happy. That’s good enough.

All sarcasm aside, know that we love you (well, most of you - there’s no way of telling who’s actually reading this thing), and we hope that you have a very Merry Christmas, a Happy Chanukah, a rip-roaring Kwanzaa, or whatever it is you and yours get down with. Stay in touch. We like it when you do.

Love,Stephen & Jen

Wisconsin Bound

2009-11-22T18:45:00.000-08:00

Jen and I are getting ready to hit the road for another trip to Wisconsin. When she makes the trip solo, we have her fly into Chicago, but when I'm tagging along we always drive it. It's just easier with the dogs and not needing to worry about renting or borrowing a car for the week.

I always complain about the trip, but the truth is I like being on the road. Even when the drive is as uninspiring as rural Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Wisconsin. There's just something about the hum of the car, music on the stereo, Jen asleep in the front seat, and the dogs curled around each other in the back.

But seriously, there is nothing to look at. The sky and the ground seem to be the same shade of gray, and the trees long ago gave up their leaves. It's all wavering lines painted down the sides of the highway, and cigarettes exploding on the pavement, tossed by the cars who lead us across state lines.

She'll bitch about my music, and I about hers. We'll snack from a bag Jelly Belly jellybeans and groan every time we get stuck with one of the buttered popcorn flavored ones. We'll make as few stops as possible, but the dogs usually require a quick jog around a truck stop parking lot while we dodge piles of shit left by travelers who didn't bother cleaning up after their dogs. I'll sing to stay awake, and Jen will ask "Are you OK?" if she thinks I'm drifting. It'll be good to be moving.

---

I love best of lists. While I have no plans of doing a full list of my favorite albums from 2009 I thought I would mention a record here or there. Instead of a half-assed review, I thought I'd just tack on a snippet of lyrics and leave it at that.

While I'm fickle and my opinion changes all the time, I think my favorite record of the year was "Hospice" by The Antlers.

"There's a bear inside your stomach / The cub's been kicking from within / He's loud, though without vocal chords / We'll put an end to him"

Old Habits

2009-11-10T17:57:00.000-08:00

Greg's words limped from his mouth, smelling of Dewars and the Benson & Hedges menthols. Feeling fine, he let one butt fall to the ground, and immediately reached for the shiny gold and green pack in his shirt pocket. He fumbled with the pack intentionally for a moment, drawing Lisa's attention to it, letting her see he wasn't smoking generics like he used to when they first met. She did glance at his muddling fingers, and when she did, he snuck a glance at her chest thinking she wouldn't notice.

"Jesus, Greg. You're such a boy." Lisa muttered, turning her back to him and stepping further out onto the sidewalk, further out into the rain. Rain is a strong word for this, she thought as the mist swirled around her, making everything damp but not quite wet. It had been doing this since she crossed the state line and didn't seem to be showing any signs of stopping.

"Sorry, Love. Old habits."

"Growing old is getting old." Lisa muttered, turning back to him.

"What's that?"

"Nothing."

Greg felt he had missed something, but he missed lots of things when he was around Lisa. He ran the fingers of his left hand through the black milk of his hair, tucking its length behind his ear, and then ran his hand over his face, wiping across his closed eyes and down over his mouth. He opened his eyes to find her watching him and flashed a smile at her. It was his smile, the one that only she would recognize. Lisa smirked and shook her head.

"You're drunk."

"Working on it, yeah." He let his eyes close again and leaned the back of his head on the cold brick wall behind him.

He's just like this city, she thought, watching him waver in the thin streetlight glow. He looks so good from a distance, but when you get up close it's all burger wrappers in the streets, cigarette butts collected in the scrub grass alongside stop signs, and everything smelling of spent batteries. From the sky though, it's just an orderly series of golden glowing squares stretching to the lake. It's a special kind of punishment to get fooled by what you see, she thought.

"The Chinese were the best at it, you know."

"Hmmm?"

"Calling something by a real nice name, especially when it was for something more terrible than you could imagine. A good old fashioned verbal bait and switch."

Greg managed to tip his head forward towards where Lisa stood. It was the sound of her voice breaking with anger and sadness that brought him back to the stoop, his cigarette, and his ex-wife. Not saying anything, he waited.

"This is the 'Frame of the Furrowing Eyebrow', Greg. That's what the Chinese called it. They'd strap you to a bamboo stand, leaving you to kneel for hours while they tighten the slats that went across your fingers, toes, balls, and neck. Nice and slow, just a nice steady pressure until pieces of you start to give out under the weight of it."

Greg dropped his eyes to the pavement between his feet, and followed a crack that ran from the tip of his dusty boot to where she stood wiping the last of the dozen tears she let herself cry. They stood, listening to the highway rumble and the sounds of Wednesday giving up to the threat of Thursday.

"C'mon Leece, let me buy you a drink."

"Yeah, sure. Just one."

Last of the Porch

2009-11-07T12:27:00.000-08:00

It's an amazing fall day in Columbus. Radios and televisions this morning were awash with reports of an Indian Summer, and like a lot of people I tossed on a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and headed outside. Jen and I puttered around, working on small projects we had been putting off with her recent sleepiness, my constant laziness, and the cold snap that sent us indoors. We got some dead flowers trimmed, potted plants disposed of and their baskets put away for the season, and I took a broom to the collected cobwebs around our front and back doors.

Now, we're on the porch. Jen suddenly has plans for other projects ("Maybe we should trim these hedges today.") and I agree to all of them knowing that it won't be too long before she runs out of steam and ideas. These days she's still good out of the gates, but not much for stamina.

Out of necessity, cigars are an outdoor vice for me, so this may well be the last good day to sit on the porch, have a beverage and a smoke. The sun warms the lawns, and the winds are strong enough to kick leaves out from under the hedges, rattling them down the street sounding like children playing tag in tap shoes. Planes come and go from the airport, but I've barely noticed them after living here the first month...they're just more background noise, part of the constant hum that surrounds the condo.
---
We proctored an SAT Test this morning, a job that allows us to pick up a bit of cash, help out one of Jen's coworkers, and gives me four or five hours to sit and read. It's a fun gig for me, because I get to roam around from room to room and watch kids as they stress over bubbled answer sheets and scribble furiously in the margins of their test booklets. They're all so young, and trying to figure out who they're going to be, but as I watch them I imagine that I already know.

It's easy to pick out the ones that will have too much fun in college. It's also pretty simple to see those who will have too little. The girls are all straight-haired and pony tailed, and the boys are all casually and carefully rumpled. I make up little stories about some of them as I half-heartedly scan the room for cheaters. None of the stories I come up with for them are very nice though, so ashamed I stop and go back to reading.
---
Jen and I have had a couple of doctor appointments, and they've gone well. We got to watch the twitching fussing fetus for half an hour on the flat screen in the doctors office as they took dozens of measurements. Jen cried when we saw him reach for his nose. I found myself groping backwards for my chair, not wanting to take my eyes off the screen where she just kicked away from the prodding ultrasound wand. A few days later, in another office, we heard the electronic chugging train of her heartbeat, and we laughed as everything became even more real.
---
Fortunately, Jen has forgotten the hedges and suggested a walk. I'm down with a stroll around the woods, so it's time to throw on some jeans and go see the sun while we still can.

I Will Go To Congo

2009-10-13T11:04:00.000-07:00

I went for a walk today at lunch at the park across the street. It's a nice little 1 mile loop through the woods, and it's a good way to get out of the cubicle and avoid fast food.

Today, I headed out onto a short boardwalk that leads to an overlook of a little meadow at the center of the park. There I found this carved into the wood:

Stop the war in Congo!

Here I was, thinking I just wanted to take a walk during my lunch break, but now...now I'm thinking I might head to the Congo and see what I can do about this situation.

It's amazing to think that a person, somewhere out there, had the belief that if only they were to get a pocketknife and spend a half hour carving someone might come along and end a lifetime of brutality in Congo. Well, that person was me!

They'll write songs about my lunch-time walk once I've fixed Congo! The city of Westerville will be thrust into the center of global politics, and we'll all mythologize the person who had the foresight and wherewithal to deface my favorite Metropark! Congo, here I come. Watch your ass, cuz I'm packing heavy.

Closed Circuit Future

2009-10-09T14:57:00.000-07:00

I can't remember if it's been raining for days, but it feels like it. It's that slow, cold, purposeful rain that soaks through tree bark, and slows everything that ducks and hides from its drippings. I stepped out the door this morning, and immediately smelled the worm holocaust on the sidewalk. Having finally given up going deeper into the earth to hide from the rains, they stretch bloated and dying across parking lots and walkways.

Fall showed up big over the past two weeks. Normally, I'm on the watch, studying tree lines for blotches of yellow and red, but this year the season snuck up on me. Today I noticed the orange along the highway, rich and full as any Bob Ross landscape, and it seemed to be even more noticeable against the dishwater skies.

I've been distracted, to say the least. I've been sitting back watching the cliches shared over the years by parents become a welcome truth. I'm smiling more. I often can't remember what I was working on the moment before. I'm thinking 529 accounts, nurseries, and how old a person should be before they sit down to listen to Kid A.

I've become nothing else but these disjointed thoughts mixed with panicked calls to my insurance provider.

I posted the picture of Smudge, but if it weren't for the doctor's guidance, I literally wouldn't have known the baby's head from its ass. People asked me later if I cried when I saw the heart flickering in glorious black and white, but I didn't. I stood amazed thinking that it was beating just like I had always imagined a hummingbird's heart would.

Jen and I held hands and looked at the screen, and when the doctor stepped out to let her get dressed, we held each other and laughed. Call us victims of our generation, but in some ways the pregnancy wasn't real until we could see it on television.

With all of the recent change, I find myself shutting down in some ways. Until tonight, I've not had the focus to sit and write anything. Instead I've spent hours surfing the web reading about what's going on in my wife's body, or looking at Ramones onesies (hells yeah!), or watching The Big Lebowski for the 400th time. I plot and plan, but do nothing constructive. Yesterday, I got a nice box of new records, so I know I'll be in the den a good part of the weekend lost in all the No Age goodness sent my way.

I'm just waiting. I'm waiting for this suburban life to become amazing. I'm waiting for everything to change, and for the first time, change really is coming.

Cutest. Smudge. Ever.

2009-10-06T16:32:00.000-07:00

Baptism

2009-09-18T18:27:00.000-07:00

Fall is, without question, my favorite time of year. After months of muggy Central Ohio soup, Summer finally throws in the towel and heads south. Leaves are starting to fall already, but they're mostly from the small trees, weak of constitution and exasperated with the last two months of little rain. True Fall change is still to come.

We went for a walk tonight and caught up on the day while I studied the woods and fields for changes. The tall grasses and weeds that thrived in baking sun seem to be wilting and shrinking in the cooler air. The meadows, usually exploding with life, seem tired and shrinking, letting you see more of the tree line beyond. Sleepy blackberry bushes choke out all ground cover but the Poison Ivy which slithers invincible through hillsides and fence rows.

As we were heading back to the car, we watched a little kid chasing after the ducks that had made their way up onto a large flat grassy patch. Watching the ducks reminded me of when I was a kid in Indiana. We lived on small lake, and each winter the ducks would swim quickly in a circle keeping the water from freezing over. The colder it got, the smaller their circle would get, until eventually the ducks would give it up and head for shelter amongst the dead rattling cattails and allow the cold air to seal the surface of the water.

I would sometimes go out onto the ice with a pick and break off sections of the ice, trying to give them more room to maneuver and avoid the neighborhood dogs that would come over to grab them out of the water when they swam close to the edge.

One morning, while breaking up the ice along their swimming hole, I fell through the surface. The water wasn't deep, and barely reached my chest, but my feet immediately sunk into the mud. Locked into place by unseen silt, my entire body heaving with the sting and shock of water, I felt every sense firing all at once and my brain went a painful copy-paper white. It had to have been only seconds, but time stretched and mattered little in the midst of the experience. Finally, through some magic automation of nature my lungs filled themselves with air, I pulled my feet out of the mud, and moved toward the bank.

When I was seventeen, I went on a trip to Israel and was baptized in the Jordan River. This was the place where Jesus was baptized by John the Baptist and it was to be an honor to share in that collective experience some 1,995 years later. Looking back on it now though, I imagine the minister who oversaw my baptism hoping to instill the same feeling of wonder and newness that I had that winter Indiana day. In truth it came nowhere near that moment of pulling myself out of the mud, awkwardly holding the pick axe with numbing hands, and remembering to breathe. In that moment, my winter coat soaked and slick with ice, I was alive in a way I had never been before.

Tonight, Jen and I kept walking along the path, smiling at each other and watching the kid run after the ducks. After voicing their honking displeasure, they took to the air to avoid the child who laughed and continued to run toward the lake's edge after them.

Parent in the Hood

2009-09-11T17:01:00.000-07:00

The hours spent in Cubicle Land buzz drunkenly like a fly, sleepy and slowed by winter air. Time has somehow stretched and I live a hundred lifetimes between 6:00 AM and 5:00 PM five days a week.

I was really bad at my job last week, and am struggling to make it right. I'm having a hard time staying focused these days.

One night, a few weeks ago, I was sound asleep as any rational (read boring and old) man would be on a Thursday morning at 3:00 AM, when I heard the sound that I've feared for months. Someone was coming up the steps. Not just walking, but running. Big bounding thumps that pulled me out of my sleep. Burglars. Burglars who will hold me at gun point and take my records and whiskey. Burglars who were giggling and laughing all the way up the stairs. Giggling? I was trying to put it together still when she jumped up and down on the end of the bed laughing.

Jen.

"It said yes!"

"Huh?"

"It said yes, the test said yes."

She laid it on my chest and I fumbled for my glasses so I could see the digitized word "YES" on the little display panel.

I hadn't really thought about how I would respond at this moment. When I had pictured it, I had always imagined that I would be conscious and not fighting the confusion that sticks with me for a good 45 minutes after waking. In my mind I had pictured me telling her that I love her and that she's amazing and all those things that would come so naturally with such good news. But my reality is usually less than ideal. Instead, the lone thought that came to mind was "I have so much I need do." Then: "Crap, I bought a two pack of those tests. What am I going to do with the other?"

We discussed it over the next couple days and decided to keep our news a secret for the most part. We would tell some immediate family, but otherwise wait to tell everyone else. Within 24 hours of telling our secret, it had literally made it to Baghdad and back.

Some people suck at playing guitar, or driving, or being polite. Other people suck at keeping house plants alive or not talking during a movie. My family just happens to suck at keeping a secret. What you gonna do? So, as a result, everyone knows that Jen is in "the family way" much earlier than we would have preferred. At least that's what we tell ourselves.

You see, we're the couple that can't wait for Christmas morning to open presents. We are the king and queen of immediate gratification. We've never waited for a thing in our lives, but still we tell ourselves this is something we would have kept under wraps. I don't buy it, even though I'm the one selling it. It would have happened sooner rather than later, regardless of how indignant we are now.

And so, immediately it seems, we've changed. We go for walks each night at our favorite metro park and talk about how we're going to handle what's coming. I get the impression that Jen is less freaked than I am about certain things. There's a strange contentment that's come over her, and while I'm normally the laid back one, she's saying things like "Millions of other people have done it. We can't screw it up that badly." Yeah, that's what she thinks.

Jen's at work tonight shuffling parents around the school's Open House, and I'm doing what I do when she's not around. I'm up in the smallest of our three bedrooms (the room we refer to as "The Den") listening to Wilco, drinking a whiskey, and churning out a couple of words here and there.

It's really the first evening I've had on my own since she broke the news to me, and I just realized as I was writing this out, that I'm perfectly content about what's to come.

Labor Day Blues

2009-09-07T17:55:00.000-07:00

I love having a Monday that feels like a Sunday. I slept in until I knew Jen would be getting antsy for some company. Sure enough, just as I put on my glasses she rounds the corner and pounces. We hung out there for a few, talking about what we wanted to do for the day. I really wanted to see Halloween II this weekend, but could tell from Jen's noncommittal response that it might not be happening. So, I opt for Plan B. After breakfast and some quality time in front of the tube, I head out.

First order of business was a haircut. I'm painfully overdue. So, I head up the road a piece, get out of the car, walk to the door, only to find it locked. Shit. So, I head directly across the street to a Sports themed haircut joint. First, I don't care that much about sports. The one sport that holds my interest long term is hockey, and I sure as heck don't want a hockey-inspired do. Second, they do the whole shampoo thing before they cut your hair. For a guy who doesn't care much for physical contact with strangers, it's a painful proposition. But, such is the state of my hair that I consider it. Lesson learned from my first stop though, I stare into the darkened waiting area and see the silent plasma screens that confirm that I won't be getting a mullet today.

I give up on a haircut, stop by Blockbuster only to leave with some popcorn and no movie, and then head out record shopping. First stop is Singing Dog Records. I pull into the garage and park and walk to the two blocks to the store before realizing hippies must believe in Labor Day too. Fucking hippies. So, back to the car and over to another garage further up on campus so I can check out Used Kids Records. They have some great stuff, but I'm being really picky and only leave with a Mudhoney / Sonic Youth split 12". I figure I'll hit Magnolia Thunderpussy on the way home, but they too are closed. I give up.

I hate it when people say "In this economy" (because we're always in "this economy", you douche bag), but for real...In this economy you would think more people would be heading off to work if they could. This is the US of A and I couldn't get some freaking manscaping done or buy a copy of the No Age record I've been coveting for months just because it's the wrong Monday of the year to try to get shit done. What's gone wrong with this country?

Have You Seen Me?

2009-09-04T16:36:00.000-07:00

I looked up in the rear view mirror and made eye contact with Jen. We watched each other through the three inch tall piece of glass, smiling, until the light turned green. She went home and I headed to the grocery store to load up on grilling supplies for my family that's coming in on Sunday.

It's been a different kind of week, I'll say that for it.

I haven't been on here much lately for blogging purposes. For the two people out there who have been dying for an update of what I made for dinner or what record I sat around and listened to, I'm sorry. (Veggie omelet tonight, and Paul's Boutique as of late.) I've actually been on a bit of a tear doing some "real" writing.

I start lots of stories. I have lots of quick ideas that don't grow. This time it's a bit different because for the first time ever I have a beginning, a middle and an end already. That's unheard of for me. Now all I have to do is show some intestinal fortitude and connect the freaking dots. That's the tough part for me. My brain is so lazy. I love to do the fun scenes but all the connective tissue is a chore and I struggle with it. I'm trying, so at least there's that.

Jen is already asleep on the couch, and Otis and Lucy are sprawled out on her and beside her respectively, and I'm sitting here watching part of the Isle of Wight Festival on television. I think it's time to head upstairs, put my wife to bed, and do a little work on my budding novel. See you around.

The Dancing Dog

2009-08-15T20:27:00.001-07:00

Right out front, let me just offer a quick word of warning. This little story is not for everyone (anyone?). I'm sure you're a very nice person, and I'd like you to keep thinking that I am too, so if you ever have trouble dealing with distressing subject matter, just skip this one. I'll be boring you to death with notes about how listening to music on vinyl is way cooler than CD's before you know it.

If you're still with me at this point, well...As a wise man once said: "Let's do this thing."

There are a lot of things Angela doesn't remember about being young, and mostly she's grateful for it. Occasionally there would be a flash, strong and clear, but mostly she was just left with an uneasy feeling that there are things about her that are just outside the reach of her memory, so instead of pictures of what things were, she's left with an uneasy déjà vu. Then there are the things that she had spent the past thirty years trying to forget. Memories, years since scabbed over, can still be so easily torn open to bleed out, reminding us of the people we were and the things we had grown accustomed to.

In the end, when the memories got out of control and took over, the thoughts always came back to her father. The houses and setting changed every year or so, but it was the never ending string of rules and enforcement that remained constant.

Her remembrances were snapshots, overexposed to the point of washing out white, and beginning to yellow around the edges: There were hide-and-seek games that ended violently after running through the back yard laughing, forgetting that her father was sleeping after working third shift. There were afternoons spent playing with her cousin Jack in her bedroom using stage whispers so as not to draw attention to themselves.

She remembered playing with the Hot Wheels cars that had been her birthday present and getting the tires of a white tow truck caught in the forest green shag of the living room carpet. The truck wouldn't come free, so she quietly clipped away the tangled threads with fingernail clippers. For the next two months her breath caught in her throat when she noticed the shortened stubble of the trimmed carpet, praying silently that her father would never notice it. It wasn't until they had moved the following summer that she completely relaxed about it.

Every birthday memory was followed by guilt of the money spent on her.

Every game she won was dreaded because he might think she was showing off.

When she sat and thought back on her childhood though, none of the memories stood out for her more than the ones of Stanley and the house on Maple Street. When her father walked in with a 6 month old Blue Doberman, Angela jumped up on the couch forgetting momentarily the rule against putting her feet up on the floral cushions. As an aging puppy, Stanley already seemed to be a giant. His thin skin twitched nervously over rippling muscles, and he ran around the living room with his nose to the floor sniffing everything out in one continuous snort. When he got to where Angela sat on the couch he immediately buried his wet nose in her armpit. She couldn't help giggling even as she remembered herself and quickly adjusted in her seat to let her legs hang off the end of the couch. Instantly, Angela and Stanley were friends.

"Stan the Man" her father called him when on the rare occasions he paid any notice of the dog. Stanley responded immediately to the new moniker, running to his side to get petted or to go outside and work on the rusting Mustang that lived in the narrow driveway. In the evenings, when friends would come over, her father would talk about what a badass Stanley looked like, but that he was going to take some toughening up before his attitude matched his appearance. Her father's buddies would sit around the living room in a cloud of smoke listening to music while he would hold court, telling them all about the plans he had.

Angela liked it when he had friends over, because it meant she was safe for as long as they sat there on the couches in the living room. She would have to be careful and not be a pest, but if she sat quietly as they would talk and smoke she could see her father laugh. When he was feeling especially friendly, he would motion over to her and have her walk the smoldering joint they were all sharing over to his friends that were sitting too far away to reach from where he sat. She loved this responsibility and would walk slowly over to pass the joint on, careful not to let ash fall to the carpet. In his first few weeks in the house, Stanley picked up on the mood in the room while her father was entertaining and would curl himself into a tight ball on the floor and snooze, lifting his head occasionally when the laughter grew loud or he heard his name.

A few accidents happened while Stanley got used to his new home, but her father took them in stride. It was a couple of months after Stanley joined their family though, that he got into the trash. Angela found the soup cans that had been licked clean and the ignored tissues spread across the kitchen floor and quickly went to work cleaning quietly as her father slept. When the last of the coffee grounds had been swept up, she looked at the dog as he sat in the corner watching the commotion and thought that she had just saved his life.

"You're a lucky boy, Stan. You have no idea."

That evening though, something Stanley had ingested didn't sit well with him and he vomited a multicolored sampling of the family's trash onto the carpet. Her father was out of the chair immediately to land a kick to Stan's side. The dog yelped from the impact and then again as he smacked into the wall. Staggering for a moment, Stan made a run for the kitchen to get out of harm's way but was followed. Angela ran to the bathroom for a rag to clean the mess with, thinking that if she could show her dad that the carpet was ok he wouldn't kill Stanley.

Her father didn't kill Stanley, but afterwards Stanley no longer responded to him when he called and started avoiding him altogether. When he would go out to work on the car, or weed the front flower beds, Stan would find a spot as far away as possible along the fence and keep watch on his surroundings. Like Angela, Stan seemed to only relax when her father was out of the house.

"Fucking dog must be an idiot, Ang. Never comes when he's called. Never barks at strangers. All he wants to do is be with you. You guys deserve each other. Two retards in love."

Stanley and Angela spent their days on their own while her father slept in the room at the end of the hall. They would hide away in her bedroom and play as quietly as they could. Ang would whisper to him for hours, telling him secrets. She told him that she didn't like her cousin anymore because he had taken one of her dolls and put it up in a tree in the backyard, too high up for her to reach. She even told him about the carpet, and asked him to nap on the clipped spot as often as possible to block it from view. For the most part Stanley slept while she talked, but that never bothered her. It was nice to have someone to tell secrets to.

Over the next few months, Angela's friendship with Stanley started to grate on the nerves of her father, and he took to striking out randomly at the dog when it walked too close or didn't immediately jump up and move when he walked into the room.

"Keeps the fucker on his toes. Lets old Stan the Man know whose running shit around here." he would say, settling back into his armchair after flipping through the channels to find a Kung Fu movie on Nite Owl Theater. "I have to keep all of you in line in this house. If I didn't knock the shit out of you from time to time, you'd be twice the spoiled little bitch you are already."

That would be the end of the conversation for the night as he would sit back to watch Bruce Lee tear through droves of ninjas. He had been going to karate classes for years, and had become obsessed with the art. Sometimes, he would get Angie up out of bed after the Late Late Movie just to make her stand in the middle of the living room so he could throw spinning kicks over her head.

"If I hit you with one of these kicks, I'd fucking shatter that little nose of yours, sweetie. If I did it right, little splinters of bone from your face would shoot back into your brain and kill you right on the spot. Don't move now…you don't want to make me hit you." Angela would stand there, trying not to shake, afraid that if she wiggled too much his thick calloused heel might connect with her face and it would be all her fault.

Two nights a week, he would leave the house to go workout and train, and on the off nights he would lift weights in the garage and spend hours stretching. In the wide doorway between the kitchen and living room he had rigged a pulley and had a six foot length of soft cotton rope. He had tied a noose that he would loop around his ankle, and then threading the rope through the pulley, would pull the opposite end to his chest bringing his foot high into the air. He would stand in that doorway for what seemed like hours pulling his leg into the air to stretch his muscles. "I'll be kicking your ass like fucking Bruce Lee,"

he'd say. "I'll put my foot through the ceiling of this dump before I'm through."

When he was stretching in the doorway it meant you couldn't go past him to get to the kitchen, as not to throw him off balance or break his concentration. Angela once remembered her mother walking out the front door and going around the side of the house just to be able to get dinner started.

Out of all the scabbed over memories, one had been picked at and picked over more than any other and it never really stopped bleeding altogether. It had been almost a year since her father had brought Stan home. Angela woke up, confused at first by the late afternoon sun, and then slowly realized she must have dozed off. She scanned the room for Stanley, knowing he would need to go outside, but he wasn't in the room anymore though the bedroom door was closed. Quietly she opened the bedroom door and walked down the hallway to the living room to see what he was into. She was scared, because Stan was her responsibility during the day, and she would be in trouble if he had gotten into the trash again.

When she walked into the living room, Angela saw Stan with the rope around his neck, his back legs dangling limply three feet off the floor. Her father glanced at her over his shoulder smiling, and yanked the rope a few times, jerking the lifeless body into the air, his limbs flopping as if pawing at the air.

"Lookit your buddy dance, Ang. He's fucking dancin', aint he?" He jerked at the rope again, pulling Stanley even higher into the air as she turned to run.

For the rest of the day, Angela hid in her room. At first, she bunkered under her bed, but when the light began to fail she got scared in the shadows and climbed up on the bed to burrow under the covers. At dusk she heard her mom come home from work, followed by the muffled tones of conversation. Before long, her mother opened the door to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed.

"Sweetie, Stan was a bad dog today and he can't stay here anymore. Do you understand?"

Angela nodded, sniffling back new tears.

"Your dad's gone to take him back to Mr. Reed so he can live there from now on. If you're really good, and don't upset your father, maybe we can take you to see him sometime, but you have to be really good." Her mother's stare let her know this wasn't a discussion, but rather a speech.

Things that Angela thought could never change did change over the years. Her father passed away a young man, wasting away from a cancer the doctors had yet learned to fight, and her mother eventually lost the Holocaust Survivor look that she had developed over the fourteen years of her marriage, but there wasn't much of a connection between the two of them anymore. They didn't talk. Angela always equated it to war buddies that had seen the worst of things together, leaving them with nothing of any consequence to say anymore. Angela left the house the day she turned eighteen, and didn't talk to her mother for over four years.

There were happier times as Angela went on to college, but in the back of her mind the memories of what happened in that little house on Maple Street never really left. So many times they gathered a steam that always seemed to explode with the thought of Stanley. She would wake up, first in the small apartment she shared with three other girls she went to school with, and then in the house she rented with her future husband, Derek, searching the corner of the room for Stanley and hoping he was sitting there waiting for her to wake up and take him outside.

A few weeks after graduation, Angela called to tell her mother that she and Derek were moving out of state and asked if she could come over to say goodbye.

"Sure, honey. Come on by whenever. I'm always here."

Armed with a four pack of wine coolers Angela remembered her mom drinking when she was younger, she went to get reacquainted with the stranger she had once lived with. It was an hour drive, and she realized that she really knew nothing about her mother at all anymore. It had been four years, and to Angela it felt like she had lived four different lifetimes while she was away. She could pinpoint four different people that she had been during this time as she learned and got older, and knew that her mom must be going through changes of her own, changes that she hadn't been there to see. Not knowing what to expect made Angela nervous.

She could tell her mom had been drinking the moment she met her at the door and immediately decided that was for the best. Since it appeared her mom had graduated from wine coolers to vodka, Angela quickly opened one for herself and tried to keep pace with her mom's intake.

It was awkward, but the booze helped, and it wasn't too long before they had made it past the feeling of being old friends trying to get over a falling out, to Angela listening to her mom reminisce about the past. She tried to remember the things that her mother talked about, but for the most part came up empty. There were so many months and years that she had simply shut the door on. Good memories and bad were wiped clean and left with a comforting gray that she wasn't too disappointed to have.

Her mom talked about the house on Maple Street and about how her father had almost lost an arm when his Mustang came off its blocks and crashed to the driveway. She reminded Angela how the neighbors always had to come over to cut their grass because her father could never get the mower to work. As she poured another tumbler half full of room temperature vodka, her mom grew silent looking off to a spot above Angela's left shoulder.

"Mom, do you remember Stan?" Angela asked pouring vodka for herself, the wine coolers gone.

"Yeah, Stan the Man was your buddy alright. He was practically your shadow there for a year or so," she said. "You guys were practically twins."

Angela hesitated, but only for a moment. "You know, I saw Daddy kill him. I don't know if he ever told you that, but I did."

For a moment, the old look was back in her mother's eyes. Exhaustion and fear and boozy detachment came flooding back into her face, hardening it and seeming to pull it tight. She turned, looking Angela in the eyes for the first time that night and smiled brightly.

"Yeah honey. I know you saw him dance." And then she started to laugh.

The Low End

2009-08-04T17:57:00.000-07:00

I was about 16 when I got a single ticket to see The Frogs, Swervedriver, and The Smashing Pumpkins at The Newport Music Hall in Columbus. I was off to the left of the stage, and when the Pumpkins finally came out, D'arcy took up residence in front of me. She drank straight from the bottle, and I was immediately in love.

Ever since then, I've been drawn to strong women bass players. There's just something about them that pulls me in. I'd take any of them up on the chance to hang out and down some beers over road stories. In no particular order, here are a few of my favorite female bass players from some of my favorite bands.

D'arcy - Smashing Pumpkins

I hear she's a farmer now of sorts in Michigan or something like that. Seeing them play Mayonnaise live was the highlight of my young teen life.

---

Kim Gordon - Sonic Youth

Simply one of the coolest people to walk out on stage. I dare you to try to take your eyes off her. Even though she's dropped the bass as of late, she has to be included.

Kim once said "People pay to watch people believe in themselves". You're goddamn right.
---

Debbie Googe - My Bloody Valentine

On the rare occasion they play out live, they hand out ear plugs at the door because the wall of sound coming from the stage is too much for most people. Concertgoers who pass on wearing the plugs have been known to stumble out of the club early, vomiting. Really. RAWK!
---

Nikki Monniger - Silversun Pickups

Somewhere between modest and painfully shy, Nikki brings a touch of small town class to the stage. When I saw them on the last tour she sang "Creation Lake" and seemed completely taken aback by the applause like she had forgotten we were all there to see her.

---

Kim Deal - Pixies

Very few bands actually change the face of music. As far as I'm concerned, the Pixies changed everything and Kim wasn't just a background player.
In a band that changed the face of music, she was a member who changed the face of the band.

Porch Stuff

2009-08-02T13:10:00.000-07:00

The petunias are a bit past their prime. The remaining blooms still try to keep the intensity of early summer going into August, but the leaves have gone brown and even the soil they're planted in seems tired of the heat. There are five little pots of them that are arranged in a tiered planter sitting beside me.

The pots were originally for herbs that I bought. I thought it would be nice to be able to just trim off herbs when I wanted, so we went out looking for seeds, cheap terracotta pots, and organic soil. After upgrading from terracotta to different colored glazed pots, I commenced to plant. Nothing grew. Nothing. Five pots with herbs, and not a single green leaf survived. So, Jen took them over, put some flowers in them, and now here they sit between our two wrought iron chairs.

Out front we added a bird bath, a bug candle, and we drag out a little round table from inside to set our drinks on. As I sit here now, Jen is fussing over one of the hanging baskets and dripping water on my ankles as she empties the watering can.

Usually, it's Sunday mornings that find us out on the porch, but this morning the air was stagnate and muggy, so we kept to the indoors and watched "Coraline". Now, a breeze has blown the heaviness out of the day, and we've moved outside. For a tight packed little neighborhood, it really is pretty quiet here. There's no real sense of community that I've ever felt here, but we're also hermits, so that could be totally our fault. Sometimes, someone walking by will stop to talk to us about a break in or something else bad that's happened in the neighborhood, but no one just stops to chat.

When we first moved here, there was a large woman who lived on the corner that would provide some entertainment. She had a big raspy voice that was accustomed to the strain of shouting orders. If you happened to be outside when she would go into a rage, you could hear her even though she was indoors. When she brought the yelling outside is when the real entertainment started though.

"I TOLD THAT MOTHERFUCKER HE'S NOT ALLOWED BACK IN THIS HOUSE, AND I COME HOME AND THERE THAT MOTHERFUCKER IS! I DON'T GET NO RESPECT AROUND HERE. NONE!"

I miss her.

We bought this place around six years ago because real estate is always a good investment. We walked into it with nearly 10% equity with no money down, and I was feeling pretty smart about it. Now, $40,000 upside down in the home because of the market and the foreclosures, we're trapped. If it weren't for this property, we'd have a place out in the country out near my brother. If it weren't for this property, we'd be living in St Paul and I wouldn't have nearly so much trouble finding someone to see Wilco with me. If it weren't for this place we'd be living downtown so we could walk to dinner, drinks, and exhibitions. If it weren't for this place, we'd be in Wisconsin where we'd
be close to friends and would have someone we trust to watch our children.

We're making the best of it for now. In the meantime, at least there's the porch, the breeze that sneaks around the corner of the house, and a smooth Sunday Merlot buzz.

Discount Degas

2009-07-31T18:45:00.000-07:00

I sat in on a web seminar (a "webinar" for those of you down with the system) the other day. It was about team building, and honestly it was just something I needed to be able to say I did when it came time to talk about such things with my new boss. It was an hour of pain. The woman leading the course was out of Jersey and talked in anecdotes and illustrations in a practiced way that let me know she was on autopilot.

Overly chipper, she was the kind of girl who constantly reminds the people around her that she's "crazy" in a way that only the truly boring have mastered. Margaret Thatcher once said something like "Being powerful is like being a lady: If you have to say you are, you aren't." It's the same for people who try to cultivate eccentricity. If you're working hard at it, you're just not that weird.

Anyway, the entire presentation derailed the moment she dropped William Golding's name. In the midst of a Q&A about "difficult" work situations, the presenter is suddenly talking about Lord of the Flies.

"This is a book wasted on children. It's not until you're an adult that you can really see how it is the best book ever written about leadership and the mechanics of a team. It's the perfect team building novel."

The snob in me refuses to accept the reference. Here's this amazing piece of high school required reading that is a blueprint for human nature and the creepy corners of our souls, and yet what she walks away with is how the story can be turned into an illustration of getting along with difficult coworkers.

It's like a Matisse print in the conference room. It's hearing "I've Been Loving You Too Long" at a Monster Truck Rally. It's opening a Faberge egg to uncover a peanut crusted turd. It's...Well, you get the idea.

Keep art away from Corporate America. Sneak it in, keep it hidden for yourself, but don't let them see it and don't let them appropriate for their own use. I'm just sayin' is all.

Singing Dog Records

2009-07-24T18:28:00.000-07:00

Through some creative budgeting I found myself with a spare $100 to drop on some new music. Armed with my budgetary guidelines and a Post It Note with scrawled purchase ideas, I headed to Singing Dog Records Monday night. Jen and I had been in there looking for a shirt for her the week before, but I didn't really get to spend any time going through the racks. Now, I would.

I walk up to the guy behind the counter to ask about a record I had seen the week before but wasn't on the racks now. He digs under a pile and pulls out a Radiohead bootleg for me to look over. We chat about sound quality for a couple of minutes and then he starts laying things down on the counter.

"Here, man. You're probably going to want this too. We sold out so fast the last time..."

He was talking to me like I shopped here all the time. I don't. He acted like we'd chatted in depth about the music that's important to me. We hadn't. A bit amused and a bit insulted by his presumption I looked down at the fresh copy of the new Dead Weather double LP he had put in front of me. Knowing the record was on the Post It Note in my pocket, I picked it up and tucked it under my arm with my Radiohead record.

"Oh, and here." he said laying a 7" single on the counter. It only took me 3 seconds to realize it was the new Modest Mouse numbered release before I grabbed it and added it to my stack. I hadn't been in the store 5 minutes and already this guy had spent almost my entire wad for me before I even started going through the racks. Realizing I had met my match, I quickly walked away before he unearthed something else he knew I couldn't live without.

The new Wilco record and some old Dinosaur Jr later and I'm heading back up towards the counter where a little old lady has taken a chair by the door.

"Oh Jeff, I haven't heard The Animals in so long. I remember when this song came out. Could you check to see if you have that for me on vinyl."

"Sure, Mary. Just let me take care of this gentleman first." he said nodding in the direction of a young kid in baggy jeans. "What can I help you find?" he asked the kid.

"I'm looking for the new Kanye on vinyl."

Mary spoke up immediately. "I love his new record! That's my sad record right now."

Smiling to myself I looked over at Mary. She was pushing 70, with long straight gray hair and teeth so black I thought her mouth may be full of ink. She played with her cane, bouncing it on the dusty floor between her feet while nodding along to "Girl Named Sandoz" from The Animals.

We chatted for a moment about the records I had put on the counter to pay for. And she told me she needed to hurry home so she could catch Silversun Pickups on The World Cafe.

"They're so good live, I just can't miss it." she said. "You know, they're coming to town soon."

I wanted to hug her right there on the spot.

Jeff came back to the counter where I paid $102.36 for my fix and I headed out the door hoping that it's not too long before I got to see them both again.

Damaged Americans in Flight

2009-07-18T10:46:00.000-07:00

There's a not so new idea that airlines are again considering. With the economy being what it is, and airlines being the one industry that it's seemingly impossible to make a buck in, they are again considering charging passengers by the amount they weigh. Just like carrying extra baggage or shipping heavy items will cost you more, now it will cost you more for the Ben & Jerry's you just couldn't step away from.

There's solid logic here. It costs more money to carry my butt across the country. I require more fuel to to haul across Arkansas than it does to transport my daintier counterparts, therefore I should pay more. If only fat people could stay away from Hometown Buffet, they would get to pay less just like everyone else. I get it.

I do also get that food can be an addiction, and that sometimes a person's weight can be outside their direct control. (It's cool, scoff away skinny people.) Some people need help managing the reasons behind why they eat. I believe that the same life events that send people to drugs, alcohol, sex addiction, religion, anorexia, or many other things that victimize them, can also send you to the Pizza Hutt with shaking hands.

Plus, there are people who are just outside the norm. They do things differently than "normal" people, and they shouldn't escape Corporate America's close eye. With that in mind, I'd like to propose some additional charges for fellow passengers who have proclivities that may not be socially acceptable.

Smokers

You stink a little. I know you think you don't. I know you don't smoke in the house. Still...I'm just sayin'.

Don't get me wrong, I used to smoke and I loved it. I loved everything about it. Now though, many years removed from my addiction, I have to admit that I stunk too. It comes with the habit.

Because your smell will be an annoyance to the people stuck sitting around you, you should have to pay each of them $10.00. This will not be an airline fee, but rather an agreement worked out amongst armrest sharers.

The "Flying is a Party" Person

We all like to drink, but you never want the party to stop. You're generally fun at the airport bar before it's time to board, but no one really wants to be stuck sitting beside you on the plane. You have the propensity to get loud on long flights, and you tend to get sick in the tiny closet toilets leaving them smelling worse than usual.

Because of your inability to cope without assistance from the major bottling companies of America, you should pay an additional 33% "Handling" fee.

Homosexuals

Us straight people don't get it. First, with Lesbians, what's the draw? Everyone knows sex isn't sex with just girls involved. It's simple physics. With Gay Men, it's just gross. Butts are not natural places to express love. It's just dirty and abnormal...not at all like good clean anal sex shared by straight married couples.

Add the fact that you are all damned to hell, and I do not want to share a flight with you. Who knows when God will strike His vengeance upon you? I don't want to be there when it happens.

You're allowed to purchase tickets (at twice the normal rate) but should not actually be allowed on the flight.

Parent of a Crying Child

I know you and your family have shit to do and places to go. I get this. I don't expect you to drive across the country when you want to see grandma. I'm not heartless. Still, I cannot pretend I wouldn't rather be chewing glass than listening to your kid bawl his/her heart out for three hours straight. I'm sure you're nice people, but seriously.

In order to fly you should have to pick up the bar tab for everyone within 1-10 rows of your location (in both directions), and buy the first round for everyone in rows 11-15. It's the right thing to do.

The Witness

Just because I'm stuck on a plane with you doesn't mean I should be subjected to your beliefs. I really don't care, and am pretty sure that no one else on a Monday morning flight to Minnesota cares either.

If you want to share, you must do so from a special section of the plane that is populated by other people who want to share their beliefs too. You will pay double, and you'll consider yourself fortunate.
---

I think it's only fair. Add these charges, and I won't complain at all about the humiliation of standing on a scale and watching the price of my ticket jump through the roof. I'm sorry to all the gay alcoholic smoking religious parents of crying children out there if I came across as harsh. I just don't want to get stuck picking up the tab for all of us.

Father's Day Idiocy

2009-06-21T19:19:00.000-07:00

This morning I was going through the paper on the porch (as per our normal routine) and turned to the Metro section. Metro is where you can get some local issue writing, plus the Obituaries. I don't know why, but I always scan the Obits. I don't always read them, but I look at the pictures, and if a face grabs me, I'll see how their family managed to condense their life into a little paragraph.

This morning, I flipped to the back of the Metro section and found myself staring at two pages full of photos of men. I was astounded by the number of deaths, confused why they all seemed to be men, and shocked by how many of them were black. My immediate thought was, if you are a black man living in the city of Columbus, you need to get the hell out. Run man, run! What are you still doing here? For the love of everything holy, don't you see what's happening to your people in this town?

"Holy shit!" I said to Jen. "Are there any black men left in Columbus?"

Jen looks over from her puzzle to the pages I'm holding out for her to see. "Um, those are Father's Day tributes."

"Oh. Of course they are."

Rest easy, African American men of Columbus. You're safe. I'm an idiot.

Indiana

2009-06-17T13:13:00.001-07:00

As soon as the guitar started playing I was thinking of Indiana.

I remembered the cold brown of the corn fields with their trimmed stubble poking up through the gray Indiana ice.

I was climbing a thin swaying evergreen tree. I was high in its limbs, and went to reach for the next branch above me when I saw the Blacksnake coiled around it waiting for a bird. I backed down the tree frantically worried that the snake would get scared, loosen itself from the limb and fall on me.

I lived on a lake and we would swim for hours, doggy paddling with cigarettes clenched between our lips, trying to keep them from getting wet.

In Farmersburg, all the big Oak tree's trunks that lined Main Street had been painted white. It was to fend off a particular bug, they said. It always made me think of Tom Sawyer and his fence.

Teenagers, snorting well-timed bumps of crank, chain smoke in their cars and call out to each other as they drive by one another. The local rock stations refuse to play anything but CCR and Billy Squire, so we all listen to cassette tapes of Alice in Chains over and over.

Jesse and I would hike out to the meadow near my house. There was a little pond in the center of the clearing, looking like a mirrored pupil in a large eye. We'd pour gasoline on the water and then light it with a flick of a cigarette butt so we could see the water burn.

I was thirteen when my brother gave me my first beer. I took minute sips when I thought someone was looking at me, but otherwise focused on trying to get the nasty taste out of my mouth. After an hour, it had gone warm, but still I walked around with it, choking down small swallows here and there.

I was in the seventh grade, and somehow found myself holding hands and walking with Mindy Jackson. I spent the next ten years trying to recapture that feeling.

Cat had heard voices, but I didn't know about it until the sod had already stitched itself together over his grave. We stood around the tombstone talking, drinking. We went home and stood around the garage talking, drinking.

I went back once as an adult. Boys I had once known were now playing pool in the bars I visited. Girls I had once wanted to know didn't recognize me, or if they did, they pretended not to. It was OK, because I saw people that I pretended were strangers too. We drank draft beers and told each other we should do this more often.

Weekend

2009-06-14T15:19:00.000-07:00

My wineglass must be broken. Every time I reach for it, it's empty. I don't understand.

Jen just said "I've got to stop being such a bad Buddhist. I've got to have something to teach our kid. I mean, if they're not going to have the fear of hell to keep them in line, what do we really have?"

We tried a caramel au beurre salé (or in my language a "Salty Caramel Crepe") from "A Taste of Belgium" at the North Market this afternoon. Yes, please.

Every year we get a few ants on the floor of our pantry. I put down a couple of ant baits, and within 24 hours they're gone. They are timely ants, but have weak constitutions.

Jen sees me typing, but keeps talking. I really don't mind for the most part.

The hummingbirds are fighting over the feeder in the front yard.

Made a big dinner tonight: Italian Herb Crusted Grilled Chicken, Stuffed Shells, and Steamed Asparagus. I don't cook often, but enjoy it when I do.

I haven't had meat (that I don't know the exact source of) for several months. Friday, Jen and I go out to dinner, and she had me try her meatloaf. I was chewing for a few delicious seconds before I remembered and had to spit it out in a napkin.

This morning we sat out on the porch for a few hours drinking coffee, me with the paper, Jen with her book. After a week of pretty intense humidity, this weekend has been perfect. It was impossible to be outside and be in a bad mood.

Really looking forward to TrueBlood tonight. The first season was a lot of fun, and the books are good fast reads. Can't wait to see what they include from the books, and what they change for the new shows.

The woman across the street burps loudly and spits occasionally.

We went out for a walk Friday night and encountered a man peeing in the bushes alongside the trail. His young daughter was ahead on the trail waiting for him where he thought she couldn't see him. Classy.

When I was a kid, my mom and grandparents would sit around and talk about the different birds that came to their feeder, and I thought I'd die with boredom just listening to them talk. Today we saw an American Goldfinch, and we both got excited. I need to write a horror story, listen to some Sonic Youth, or read a Chuck Palahniuk novel to try to regain some cool credits.

Sonic Pants

2009-06-10T18:08:00.000-07:00

Got to sit down and listen to the new Sonic Youth tonight. I've only had one full listen through, but I already know it's my favorite album of theirs since "Washing Machine". I wonder how objective I can be right now though since it seems like ages since I've picked up something new. Around 11:00, I ran out to pick it up during my lunch hour and couldn't wait to get back home and listen to it.

Along Cleveland Avenue there has been a pair of jeans on the shoulder of the road for the past few days. Today, on my way back from record shopping, I saw a guy walking along the road stop and pick them up. He clenched his cigarette between his lips and held the heavy wet denim out in front of him as if trying to decide if they'd fit. After just a moment, he stuffed his hands into the pockets, and after finding nothing, dropped them back on the paved shoulder. I don't understand how there always seems to be assorted clothing along roadways. All over the city it seems there's random button down shirts in gutters, single shoes collecting water in highway medians, and socks strung out in the grass beside stop signs. Who are you people and why are you leaving your clothes all over my town?

It makes you wonder how bad things are though if you're going to go digging in the pockets of soaking wet street jeans.

Our Redneck Past is Nipping at Our Heels

2009-06-10T05:11:00.000-07:00

It's easy to forget the way that things were (and, for some, the way things are). I get the extreme pleasure of sifting through the occasional Property Deed during the day, and came across this little gem of a restriction. The snippet shown below is from 1939.

70 years may seem like a lot, but it's just a blink.

My grandparents were already working their family farms at the time this document was printed. Hewlett-Packard was founded this year. Grapes of Wrath is published. Billie Holiday records "Strange Fruit". "Gone With the Wind" premiers. Oh, and this community-minded homeowner does his best to make sure his family land isn't tainted.

70 years may seem like a lot, but it's just a blink.

Sorry for the blurry reproduction, but the original was old. The text reads: 1. Neither the said lots, nor any part therof, nor any buildings which may be erected thereon, shall be sold, rented, leased or otherwise conveyed to any other than white persons.

Keep It Simple, Stupid

2009-06-06T10:16:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I wish I had more refined tastes. I can easily feel outclassed by people who prefer driving a car that's a jumble of letters and numbers ("Have you seen the new BMW M6?") or can talk about the smoky notes in their single malt scotch. My cars have always been named after small ineffectual animals and my whiskey of choice tends to be standard black label fare. It's not that I harbor resentment for people who can appreciate fine wines or who refuse to smoke a cigar other than the Cubans their friend at the airport smuggles in for them, because I really don't. I'm no class warrior. I just think that no one likes to feel outclassed, and I'm no exception. Sometimes it makes me wish my tastes were more complicated.

The counter point to this is that sometimes my simple tastes are a blessing. I can find Cohibas or Arturo Fuentes at any tobacco shop (not to mention some finer gas stations - fancy!), and my Toyota Corolla is cheap to buy and maintain. And, unlike the newly departed David Carradine, I do not need to have my hands and genitals bound, be gagged, and locked in a Bangkok closet in order to enjoy a random Thursday night. Again, if that's what you enjoy, I couldn't be more supportive of your right to seek pleasure in the way you see fit. I'm just glad I don't have to be burdened with the accouterments that come with such habits.

Plus, I'm lazy. All of the implements and planning and staging seems like a lot of work. Add to that the risk of being found hanging naked in a hotel, and that pretty much takes me out of the running for such activities.

I'm thinking simple is good right now.

But you got to hand it to good ole Dave. He was out there at 72 years old, doing his thing. He was working on a movie during the day and indulging in what I've decided is a nightlife that requires way too much energy and planning for this 30 something. I hope wherever he's at now, he's winning Emmy Awards, acting in celestial movies, and that there are plenty of ball gags to go around.

Places To Be

2009-06-03T11:50:00.000-07:00

Last night I got so hot I still don't think I've cooled off. The room was large, and stuffed with a hundred and fifty people. The corporate issued air conditioning struggled with the crowd. I was standing around waiting, sweating, breathing in the air the person standing beside me just exhaled, and making a list of all the places I'd rather be:

A windswept field.
The walk-in cooler at the Pizza Hutt in McKinney, TX.
Flipping through the racks at Magnolia Thunderpussy Records.

There was a girl in a mini skirt and a super tight top walking through the room. Really? I thought. You're going to go interview at a bank today, and that's what you pick?. The girl in question stepped up on the riser to speak with the HR representative, and in her elevated position revealed the black boy-short underwear she was wearing. I immediately looked away, not wanting to be the kind of guy who gets caught looking at the kind of girl who would wear that to an interview.

A bar. Any bar.
Standing in front of my fridge with the door open.
Getting a virtual enema from the big fountain in Easton.

You can tell the sales managers a mile away. It's the walk and the nearly visible haze of aftershave rising from their shoulders like gasoline fumes. The pronounced strut didn't entirely fade in 1979, and they use it to communicate that the room belongs to them every moment they're in it. A nervous kid with a look in his eyes that tells you this is his first interview asks where he should sit. "Anywhere you want, tough guy. Pick a chair you think you can hold down. As long as you can remember your name, we'll find you when we're ready for you."

On the porch with my wife, talking about nothing.
Breathing the overwhelming air inside a walk in humidor.
Half Price Books.

I got home and the air conditioning was off because of the nicer weather earlier in the week, but now the upstairs was a sweatbox. I flipped the switch on the thermostat and went out to sit on the porch with Jen while the house regained its sanity. She's worried because I'm worried and she's trying to get my head screwed back on straight. We chatted for a while, and I told her about the skirt and the heat, but forgot to mention the sales manager guy. I realized I was being a prick, and finally asked her about her day. We talked for a few more minutes while watching the birds at the feeders, and then she bribed me with an ice cream cone from DQ. I stopped making my list of places I'd rather be.

Mix Tape

2009-05-29T11:57:00.001-07:00

I had been thinking about doing a music post for awhile, but it's really not that great unless you can hear what I'm hearing. So, I decided to put together a mix tape just for you (yes, you). Pretend we're both fifteen and there's all kinds of things I wish I could say to you, but I just don't have the guts. So instead, I sit down with my dual cassette deck, and let drug addled artists do it for me.

CLICK HERE to download the 24 track collection I put together. You'll be taken to Sendspace. If you've never used Sendspace before, here's what to do: At the bottom of the page (under a bunch of ads), you'll see a file link calld CD.zip. Click on that, then simply save the file, unzip, and listen.

If you like a song, you should really consider buying the album. Click on the song name, and you'll be taken to Amazon where you can add it to your cart. With a handful of exceptions, these are independent artists and they could use the gas money. I'm just sayin' is all.

1 - Letter From Home - DJ Shadow
"Everything went wrong."

I've put together a few mixes in the past couple of years, and like beginning and ending them with Letter From Home (I & II) the same way DJ Shadow opened and closed his album "The Private Press". The two tracks are a frozen moment in time for this family, and we don't get to hear nearly enough. They set a great tone.

2 - The District Sleeps Alone Tonight - The Postal Service
"I'm staring at the asphalt wondering what's buried underneath."

Ben Gibbard, known for his work with Death Cab for Cutie, worked on this project and I really like this stuff much more than output from his "steady job". Musically, I could imagine them opening up for 1988 era Pet Shop Boys, but the writing is so smart it makes me shake my head at times. It's a real pleasure to just sit and listen to this entire record, but this opening track kicks it off in style.

3 - Like a Vibration - The Whigs
"My reputation is hanging around my neck. It's hanging around in bars."

Three piece rock and roll from simple Southerners that doesn't sound small town. The Whigs are just a great loud rock band. Go see them live.

4 - Squares - The Beta Band
"So, miles and miles of squares. Where's the feeling there?"

This is a band I love when they're in a mix. To sit and listen to a full album is difficult for me because they're a bit too hypnotic. By the end, I feel groggy and slow as if I slept way too long. We were given the ability to bob our heads to a beat because the Great Creator knew this song would come along.

5 - In My Room - The Beach Boys
"But I won't be afraid."

One of the most beautiful songs ever written. Ever.

6 - Get it Together - The Beastie Boys

"The phone is ringing. Oh my God."

I always associate classic Beastie Boys records with the time in my life when they were released. When "Ill Communication" hit the racks I was having lots of fun and I still get a taste of that, even in my cubicle.

7 - Strange Desire - The Black Keys
"I don't wanna go to hell, but if I do, it'll be cuz of you."

There are two bands in this mix that a particular friend turned me onto, and this was the first. The Black Keys are two guys from Ohio who have amassed critical acclaim, sold more than a few records, and still drive their own van to gigs. Beautiful stripped down blues and a fierce live show. If you like this, go buy everything these guys have done.

8 - V.F.W. - The Dead Milkmen
"We're all veterans…"

When I was in the fifth grade, a bunch of my friends sent off a mail-order form and weeks later received their black and white Dead Milkmen shirts. I was so jealous, but didn't have the money for one of my own. We would spend our winter recesses under one of the work tables in our classroom listening to "Big Lizard..." quietly so the profanity wouldn't be overheard and get us in trouble. The Dead Milkmen were my first exposure to punk and they still give me the feeling of naughty joy that I got the first time I heard them tell me that we're all veterans of a fucked up world.

9 - Send a Little Love Token - The Duke Spirit
"You should read these words I bet you never heard."

When I think of my favorite music, The Duke Spirit don't come up for some reason. Every time one of their songs is played as part of my shuffle I'm reminded how good they sound though, and will usually have to go listen to the "Neptune" record from start to finish.

10 - Handlebars - Flobots
"I can hand out a million vaccinations or let 'em all die in exasperation."

Our local independent radio station (WWCD 101.1) played this song, and I was on iTunes downloading it that night (at the time, the album hadn't been rereleased in its current format, and owning a copy of the CD would have set me back $45). I liked it so much that I sent it or played it to everyone I could. The world is a better place with Flobots tending the light at the end of their own particular tunnel.

11 - Exchange - Massive Attack
"_________________ ."

When I was a young, a bunch of us kids would be packed into the back of my Aunt Elta's station wagon and we'd go to Lake Hudson near Granville, OH to go swimming. They had old fashioned speakers (you know, the ones that looked like megaphones) that they would play music through when not making announcements. The music they played was restrained, picked because it wouldn't be annoying or offensive to anyone. This song reminds me of those 1960's instrumentals that Lake Hudson was so fond of. It's all about lake water, the smell of popcorn, and learning to swim.

12 - What's Going On - Marvin Gaye
"Right on, baby."

I didn't come to like Marvin until I was an adult, but it's music that I wish I was nostalgic about. I would love to be able to tell you a story about how my mom turned me on to Marvin when I was just a kid, and how it sparked discussion about where this kind of music came from, and how we came to hear it all the way out in rural Ohio. But yeah, that shit never happened.

13 - Paper Planes (Remix for the Children of Adrock) - M.I.A.
"No one on the corner has swagger like us."

Chris Wilbourn, Heiruspecs MC extraordinaire, told me about a song that he couldn't get out of his head. (This was a year or two back, long before Slumdog hit the screen). I had recently sent him some Flobots stuff, and he returned the favor with the album version of M.I.A.'s Paper Planes. A couple days later I picked up the album and a remix disc and immediately latched on to Adrock's version.

14 - You or Your Memory - The Mountain Goats
"St Joseph's Baby Aspirin, Bartles & James, and you."

I worked with a young law student who first played The Mountain Goats for me. It took some time for me to come around, but once I did I was hooked. This is by far my favorite album they've done, and one of my favorite songs off it.

15 - Oh, Me - Nirvana
"I don't have to think. I only have to do it."

A few weeks ago, Sound Opinions did a show where they shared their favorite live albums of all time. Nirvana's MTV Unplugged in New York made their list, and it makes mine. Originally a Meat Puppets tune, the version played here is the absolute highlight of the record. I remember being so broke when this was released that I had to go through my CD collection to find stuff to trade in just to get enough cash so I could buy it. I don't think I listened to anything but this record for three months after that day.

16 - Punk Rock - Mogwai
"Do you understand what I'm talking about?"

A 1977 recording of Iggy Pop lecturing on the beauty of Punk with master instrumentalists Mogwai setting the tone. God bless Iggy Pop. God bless Mogwai.

17 - Trunk Fulla Amps - Self
"Like Glen Danzig…MOTHER!"

"Self" is actually one dude recording music using nothing but toys. Seriously. Listen, and you'll hear it. The crunchy guitars are made of plastic and marketed to 8 year olds. The keyboards are kiddie Casios, and there's plenty of tinkling, blurping, and beeping provided by a literal army of toys. Add profanity laced finger pointing, and I'm hooked.

18 - Ode To LRC - Band of Horses
"The world is such a wonderful place."

Beautiful rock music created by vocal clinicians. I love this band, and really hope they tour again soon so I can go see them.

19 - JC - Sonic Youth
"All the men want a charming whore."

I love Sonic Youth. I know they're an acquired taste, and many of you have already decided if you love or hate them. Because I love so much of what they do, it was really hard to pick a track to put in here, so I thought I'd go with one of Kim's songs that I thought was a bit more accessible than some of their other stuff. No one creates a wall of sound like SY.

20 - Wolf Like Me - TV On the Radio
"My heart's aflame, my body's strained, but God I like it."

Critics seem to love these guys, which I find odd since they're hard to classify. If you ever take the time to try to figure them out, they wind up surprising you at every turn. My wife hates the vast majority of the music I love. Chances are, the more important an artist is to me personally, the more she hates them. It's instinctive, and never malicious, but it always hurts in a way she'll never really understand. TV On the Radio have the dubious distinction of being the band she hates more than anyone.

"Who are these guys?" she'll ask.
"TV On the Radio".
"That's the worst shit I've ever heard. They make me love Sonic Youth."

21 - There's No Secrets This Year - Silversun Pickups
"I'll tell you a secret."

I understand all the complaints people make that SSPU are too derivative of Smashing Pumpkins and My Bloody Valentine, I just don't care. I love big warm fuzzy guitars. I love strong female bass players. I love noisy freakouts. SSPU gives me all of this without fail.

22 - Handshake Drugs (Live) - Wilco
"I was buried in sound."

I had "Yankee Hotel Foxtrot", and had listened to it some, but it never grabbed me in a big way. A friend that I talk music with every time we get together kept rhapsodizing about how amazing Wilco is, and I'd have to admit that I just didn't get them. I saw that PBS was going to show an Austin City Limits episode taped shortly after the release of their "Sky Blue Sky" album, and I recorded it. That performance opened my eyes, and a big part of the discovery was "Handshake Drugs". Nothing is more fun than a chipper song about scoring.

23 - Videotape - Radiohead
"This is one for the good days."

Funeral ready.

24 - Letter From Home (2) - DJ Shadow
"It look like everywhere I go I draw heat. Period."

You're damn right.

What's In a Name?

2009-05-27T16:36:00.000-07:00

I know I usually act like I'm twelve years old, and a lot of things are funny to me that maybe shouldn't be, but the other day I came across a man by the name of Major Johnson. (Major was not a rank, it was his first name.)

I swear on everything that is good in this world, the dude's legal name was Major Johnson.

That is all.

Bike Commute (A Cellphone Camera Pictorial)

2009-05-26T18:41:00.000-07:00

Merryman 3.0?

2009-05-26T13:20:00.001-07:00

After seven years of off and on conversations, and then several months of more intensive conversations, Jen and I have decided to try our hand at starting a family. A lot of people would consider this very personal, and might not discuss it until the pregnancy is firmly rooted in the second trimester, but we're not those people. While I have been told certain parts of our life together are off limits (at least in terms of blog fodder), Jen agreed pretty readily to let me talk about this. I think she was OK with my discussing it because she's so excited by the possibility. For me, I'm just happy being able to communicate that I'm getting laid.

I know all the reasons having kids is not discussed with outsiders during the planning stages: It might not be able to happen. Either Jen or I could be fundamentally flawed in some way that will send us running to the Foster Care system, robbing our own stunted genetics of their chance to scar some new life. Or, we could lose the child, something I can't even begin to understand how people cope with. Then, you're left with the conversations and awkward silences. Still, I've never been one to shut up when I should, so here we are talking about it.

I've told you all of that, so I can tell you this: I went out at lunch today and entered into a rite of passage millions of parents-to-be have undertaken. I picked up a copy of "What to Expect When You're Expecting". After five minutes of flipping through the book, I've decided having kids is definitely not the way to go. This is less a book of what you can expect, but rather a list of all the shit that can go wrong. And way too much shit can go wrong. It's amazing children are ever born in this world.

It's even more amazing to me who is able to have kids in spite of all the hidden dangers and conditions waiting in hiding for barebacking couples everywhere. Crackheads are squeezing out more kids than they know what to do with. Hillbilly cousins have trailerfulls of the little buggers. And I know there are twelve years olds that pull off successful pregnancies all the time, but that doesn't mean much. I've seen "Are You Smarter Than a Fifth Grader" and am well aware there are things kids are capable that I, even in my mid thirties, am not.

I'll spend some more time with the book before making a final judgment, but I'm leery now. In addition to all the lurking disaster awaiting us, I realize now that my reproductive skills being compared against those of crack heads, incestuous country bumpkins, and preteens, and it might be more than my fragile ego can handle. If they can do it, and I can't...well, let's not think those thoughts.

I'll let you know how it's going once we hit the second trimester, I guess.

Lucy Loo & Otis Too

2009-05-19T17:40:00.000-07:00

It's early, but things are already winding down here. The dogs are curled up at the foot of the bed, snug in their cliche. Jen is already asleep, though the sun isn't down yet. The dogs and I were keeping her company while she read, but after satisfying my Facebook addiction for awhile, I find myself still sitting here, not sure what I really want to be doing.

We've been taking the dogs for walks more. Uncivilized beasts, they are. Otis is really decent for the most part, but Lucy is non stop work. To take her out we have to gear her up. Loaded with a shock collar (save your judgements) and a Gentle Leader, it's still all we can do to control the twelve pounds of fury tethered by a cute pink leash. The Gentle Leader is great because it keeps her from pulling the entire time we're walking. The shock collar is great because she gets a small zap when she barks. With it, she still barks some. Without it, she flies into a fury of barking and high-pitched squealing at the sight of flailing children, bicyclists, joggers, and chipmunks.

Our walk begins next to soccer fields that accommodate up to 8 games to be played at once (flailing children), and it's on a bike trail (bicyclists and joggers), and chipmunks are a epidemic everywhere you go (you get the idea). It's a perfect storm.

I don't know what we'd do without the battery powered taser attached to her neck. The collar might seem cruel, but trust me...walking her without one is much worse for all involved, including Lucy.

Seasonal Winds

2009-05-16T06:37:00.000-07:00

The wind played with the hem of her dress, pulling it back tight against her. The shape of her legs, wiry and slim as cattail reeds, stood out in the folds of black fabric like engorged veins, pumping blood from her pelvis into the loose earth where her feet were planted. She was connected to her world in ways I had prayed for.

She didn’t move when I asked her to move, just kept looking at me, seeing a new piece of me that had been hidden until just this moment.

Now she knows, I thought. Not that she knows everything, but she knows enough. Enough to make her want to run. I’d want to run. I’d want to be anywhere but here.

I saw it. There was a loosening of the tension in her face, and her hands fell absently to pull the fabric out from between her knees where the wind had gathered it. I knew she had decided whether or not she was going to stay, but did not know what her answer would be.

I felt the sun on my balding head and caught small breaths of her soap in the racing wind.

I was unable to remove my eyes from the end of her dress, flapping in the wind like an overenthusiastic tail on a falling kite.

This, That, and The Other Thing

2009-05-15T10:55:00.000-07:00

This

If you're not going to wash your hands after using the rest room, do me a favor and just rub your balls on the door handle on your way out. Stop screwing around and just do it up right.

That

Several weeks ago I was listening to the best radio show ever created (This American Life) and there was a piece by Dan Savage. Dan is a sex columnist, author, and he puts out a weekly podcast that I just recently started listening to. I downloaded one episode of the podcast, then after listening to it, went back and downloaded all 90(ish) available shows, and have been listening to very little other than that. As a result, my brain is a wee bit oversexed but I'm laughing and learning, so there's that.

The show is basically a series of voice mail messages left for Dan that he responds to "on the air". Sometimes he'll call the caller back, and other times he'll just rant by way of response. The show is funny, sad, disgusting, and ultimately enlightening. While it obviously focuses on sex, the most interesting thing the show reveals are the secret lives we're all working so hard to hide from each other. Callers are anonymous, and with that freedom comes an honesty that we almost never see in the "real world". From the young Mormon man who is struggling with coming out to his family who will most likely disown him, to minions of people calling to try to learn the origins of their particular kink or fetish, the level of honesty is shocking. And when the callers fall short of total candor or are unable to be honest with themselves, Dan is there to drag them kicking and screaming into the light.

Yesterday, I listened to Episode 53 where a 61 year old retired man called in because he felt guilty for using escort services to satisfy certain needs. It wasn't because he was ashamed of paying for sex, or because of the lack of a partner in his life. The man felt guilty for putting what he described as "extremely gorgeous looking guys" into a situation where they had to have intimate contact with him because he is extremely unattractive. He felt bad for putting people in a situation where they would have to touch him.

I'm just left thinking that so many of us are working so hard to keep our secrets, that we're missing out on a greater truth: None of us are that different from one another. When we hide what we are, our secret lives build pressure that eventually has to escape. Our judgments, our inability to laugh at ourselves, and our fears of being weird keep us from being who we are. I wish "real life" was more like The Savage Love Podcast. I think we'd all be better off.

The Other Thing

This past winter, we put up a bird feeder. Sure, it was a bad time of year to put it up, but we figured finding good eats would be tough for a bird, and we'd try to help a brotha out. We had three birds show up (that we actually saw) in a three month period. We talked to birds we saw nearby, and told them that they could take as much food as they want at Merryman Manor, but they never did.

Spring came, and while they did show up more often, it was still sporadic at best. Then, about two weeks ago, the tide turned. Our postage stamp sized front yard has become a buffet of the highest order, and Jen and I are addicted. We sit out on the porch, watch the birds in-between paragraphs of our books and sips of coffee, and we joke to each other about being the type of old married couple that sits around and watch birds.

Mmmmmmm...Birthday

2009-05-14T10:38:00.000-07:00

Jen had a birthday yesterday. This is what I was doing by 11:30 in the morning.

Bring Out Your Dead

2009-05-09T19:00:00.000-07:00

I believe in ghosts as much as anyone who's never seen or experienced one can. I want them to be real, but I'm not at all certain that they are. I wish they were, though.

I've known lots of people who say they've had experiences, but I normally chalk it up to bullshit. Still, every once in awhile, I'll have a conversation with someone that I've already come to like and trust, and they'll tell me about an experience they've had. I still can't say I believe the stories, but I do believe that they believe them.

I was talking to a friend about this earlier today and it got me thinking about this haunted tour of New Orleans that I went on. It was a walking tour of the city that set out shortly before dark. Our guide was a medium and worked for a company who was contracted to come out and investigate hauntings. She told us stories about working on the shoot for Oliver Stone's JFK and how they had trouble keeping night security staff because they were tormented by a presence.

We walked around the city, and even spent some time in a haunted hotel room and then a lobby that used to be a holding area for incoming slaves. At one point in this former slave holding tank, she asked us to focus, hold our hands out in front of us, and see if we felt anything. I walked around, trying as hard as I could. What I did feel was the heavy atmosphere of the history of that room, but I had no flashes of the past. My arms tingled with lack of blood flow, and when she saw me wiggling my hands she spoke to me and said that she could tell I felt something. I didn't correct her.

For me, it almost doesn't matter if they're real or not though. It's the stories that come with them that's fascinating. It's the horror of life, the sudden unfairness of death, and a soul refusing to accept the natural order of things that draw me in. Like any tale, a hint of truth will enhance it, but it doesn't make or break it for me.

I've been accused of not believing in ghosts because I'm an atheist, and having to accept the existence of ghosts means I would have to redefine my beliefs in other spiritual matters. Again, I call bullshit on that. First, I've never been afraid of my many glaring contradictions, and can't imagine this would be any different. I would have no trouble hanging out with the Ghost of Christmas Past and still saying I don't believe in God. Second, I don't mind being proven wrong from time to time. You show me the face of God, and I'll be the first one to let you know I was fucking up.

Ghost stories are my favorite though. Other supernatural tales are fine. I like zombies, vampires, and werewolves, but when it comes to spookiness and stories that make me look over my shoulder as I'm reading, it's all about the ghosts.

So, if you know where I can find one, holla at your boy. Jen and I are ready for a road trip. But, if we drive all the way out to the middle of nowhere for nothing, you're buying us beer.

Close Enough

2009-05-09T06:01:00.000-07:00

I got up to the third floor by using a tiny stainless steel box of an elevator, and followed the signs through the dark hallway around to the left. As I rounded the corner I could see a new sign again saying "Suite 300" with an arrow pointing to the left and I started to think I was walking through a cork screw maze. Finally, after a mile of stained carpets and struggling fluorescent bulbs overhead, the door stood open before me, welcoming me inside.

I smiled at the receptionist and she said "You must be Steve." I let her know I was, and took a seat after being told it would be just a few moments before my interview would start. I looked around the room, thinking it could use some paint and a fake plant or two at the very minimum, but reminded myself that this is a small company and they're probably getting by on whatever they can. That's when I noticed the sign at the end of the receptionist's desk:

Welcome Stephanie Merryman!

I smiled to myself, and settled in to wait. After a couple of minutes, I got bored and thought I'd chat up the receptionist. She let me know that she had been there for a year and four months and really enjoyed the work there. She was eating leftovers from their Cinco de Mayo potluck the day before, and I could hear occasional crunching as her head dipped behind the high counter. The room smelled of the corn chips scattered on her paper plate.

After several moments of chit chat, Laurie, the receptionist said "Oh my goodness!" She stood, opened a drawer that contained little letters with tabs on the back of them, and started changing "Stephanie" to "Stephen". I continued to smile.

Spring

2009-04-30T07:30:00.000-07:00

The trees are filling in with green, giving the woods back their mystery. Gone are the winter days where you could look a hundred yards through the trees before the brown of barren tree trunks merged into an impenetrable wall blocking your sight. Now, saplings and branches, heavy with thick wet leaves steal the view just feet from the trail, making us feel like we're hiking through soft tunnels that sway with our passing. Last year's most stubborn and brittle leaves still cling to the highest branches, but are now starting to be pushed aside by new buds. One by one, they give up and release their grasp on their branches, falling into Spring.

We went for a walk last night, chatting here and there, but often just listening to the birds that have returned. A Red-headed Woodpecker flew up out of a bush near the trail, startling us both with his size. Jen paused to pick up a snail, and after looking him over, moved him to the side of the path where he wouldn't get crushed. We walked on, knowing that the storms would roll in the following day, forcing us inside.

They Got Jokes on the Bike Trail

2009-04-30T05:35:00.000-07:00

This guy has overseen many of the miles I've ridden. You can find him along the trail just north of the underpass of 161 on the south side of Westerville.

He's handsome, talented, and I'm proud to call him a friend.

I, Bike Ride

2009-04-18T08:36:00.001-07:00

I know where the missing neighborhood cat is.

I see single mothers sneaking cigarettes on their balconies in the early morning hours before their children awake.

I break all the spiderwebs stretched across the trail.

I can tell you how many times a couple indulged in safe sex in the Cooper Park parking lot by counting the discarded condoms.

I can tell you about coming out of a patch of trees to find the sun pulling itself over the horizon.

I know all about the chubby people sweating and gasping through their winter weight because I am one of them.

I can tell you that there are at least 7,542 rabbits between Easton and Westerville.

I can show you where young couples sneak into the woods to sit and be together near the river.

I miss the graffiti painted on the trail that told everyone "Kyle is gay!"

I know that there are an inordinate number of shitheads who drink Bud Light Lime and smash their empties on the pavement.

I see ducks swimming in streams not much wider than their own bodies and they seem just as happy there as they do in the largest of lakes.

I can show you where Jen and I found the tiniest snake trying to cross the trail, and how I prodded him out of traffic with my sunglasses.

I know who doesn't bother closing their blinds.

I hate that my bicycle seat has started to squeak because while I can't help looking like a fat guy on a bike, I don't want to sound like it too.

I know what bush he hides behind to sneak phone calls.

I like riding by the animal shelter at dawn and hearing that even there, with all the bored tenants waiting inside, the early morning can bring silence.

I know that the old man in front of me didn't used to have to walk alone.

The Past is My Future

2009-04-15T12:25:00.000-07:00

They say real change isn't possible. We may make minor adjustments, have opinions that grow or shrink with our perspective, but at the core we remain who we have always been. Some would say that we remain what we were always meant to be.

For those of you who know me, you know I'm far from healthy, but I'm working on it. One of the more recent changes I've made was getting more picky about where I buy my meat (insert meat joke here…then insert a meat insertion joke behind it…then insert a meat insertion in the behind joke), and how the animals are treated during their short delicious lives here on Earth. So, last night I head over to The North Market to pick up some chicken and fish. Things were much slower on a Tuesday night than they are when I normally go on Sunday afternoons. At North Market Poultry and Game I got to speak with the guy behind the counter a bit about their farming methods and products, and it was evident immediately that this guy was passionate about what he does.

"OK, that's two chicken breasts split. Anything else, man?" he asked.

"Yeah, do you guys have any ground turkey?"

"Sure do, but it's frozen. Is that cool?"

"Well, what about this ground chicken here?"

"Dude, you've never had the ground chicken from here?"

"Nope."

"Dude, you've got to get this. It's so delicous as burgers, and you can use it instead of ground beef. Plus, it's cheaper than the turkey. Bro, get the chicken."

"Sold."

I liked the guy immediately. He was totalling my order and asked me if I needed eggs. I did, and he grabbed a dozen from the cooler.

"Dude, have you ever had our eggs?"

"Nope."

"Oh man, you're going to love these. You know, when you're baking or cooking or whatever, you can use any eggs you want, but if you're going to just sit and eat an egg…this is the one you want to eat."

His eyes lit up as he talked about the eggs, and it would have been funnier to me if he hadn't been so sincere. He was excited about what they had to offer, and he wanted me to be excited too. Here he was, some guy in his mid to late twenties, long scraggily hair, eyes a bit glazed, letting me know there are "every day eggs" and "special eggs". I had no idea there was such a thing as a "special egg".

He reminded me of characters from another time in my life. I was immediately transported back to being in school, in some stranger's house with two sacks of marijuana sitting on the coffee table in front of me while the dealer talked.

"This is good daily smoke right here. Dependable and smooth. The other here…well, it's more of a weekend smoke. You need to make sure you don't have anywhere to go for awhile if you're going to smoke that."

I always wanted the weekend weed, but never could afford it. It always bugged me that this was the case, and I told myself that when I got older and I had more money I'd only smoke the "weekend weed". That time never came, and I stopped smoking years and years ago.

So, this morning, I stood at the fridge wondering if this random Wednesday was a big enough occasion to indulge in a "special egg". Fuck that, I decided. I'm a middle class white male living in a condo I'll never be able to sell and I spend my days in a cubicle that I can't see over the walls of. I'll never indulge in "weekend smoke" and will have to find other indulgences. If that doesn't rate Special Eggs on a Wednesday, I don't know what does. I may have traded my weed for eggs, but in the end I don't think there's that much difference in the two. I'm such a different person than I was back while I was in school, but I still want the elite purchase.

I cracked two beautiful brown eggs into a Pam covered skillet this morning and felt special.

Bike Gang Bitches

2009-04-14T13:52:00.000-07:00

I have this program on my blog that notes when someone visits it. It also tells me where the person is from, and how long they were on my site. It's always been cool to me when someone stumbles across my little page and decides it's interesting enough to check out, even if for just a few minutes. Let's be honest, most of the shit here isn't interesting in the least if you don't know me…and even that's a stretch. Most of it's a bit boring.

So, you can imagine how cool I think it is that I now have a regular West Coast reader. Whoever you are, Mr/Mrs California, it's nice to have you along. You can stand proud with my Ohio, Indiana (thanks to Facebook), random Canadian, and steady Minnesota readers.

The other funny thing is that this service I use also tells me if the person came from a search engine, and if they did, what they searched to find me. In addition to band names that I've used (Dead Confederate, Miniature Tigers, etc) and the thing I wrote about the recent death of Lux Interior, the biggest referral to my site has been Google searches for, and I quote, "Bike Gang Bitches".

At what point in your life do you ever sit down and say, "I need more information about Bike Gang Bitches. Where should I look?" I did my own Google search for Bike Gang Bitches, and while I won't go into detail, I will say that I'll never be the same. I can only imagine people's disappointment when they come to my site expecting to be blown away by the massive volume of Bike Gang Bitches material, only to find a blog about me listening to records and washing my dogs.

After seeing some of the other sites out there, I'm disappointed with myself.

So, if you're reading this, and you're not ashamed to be known, drop me a comment to let me know you're around. I'll try to accommodate any reading preference you might have, even if that means including more info on angry half naked women on motorcycles. It'll be tough on me, but I'm here to serve.

My Wife and the Roach

2009-04-09T10:25:00.000-07:00

Last Halloween, Jen and I did some shopping in one of those Halloween USA stores that pop up in strip malls each September. We picked up a couple of things for her to wear to school, and spent twenty-five hard earned cents on a fake rubber cockroach. Jen quickly admitted that it creeped her out, even though she knew it was fake. In fact, she had a hard time reaching into the bag to pull it out. This, of course, gave me an idea.

When she found roach waiting on her phone when she reached to grab it the next morning, she screamed. I found it on the soap in the shower soon after, and laughed. She found it in the fridge on her favorite salad dressing, and screamed. I found it the next day when I was pouring cereal into a bowl (she swears she washed it), and laughed. This continued, off and on, for months.

A few days ago, I came across the roach, neglected and waiting for some fun. I found a small container of grapes Jen had packed for her lunch, and nestled him into place amongst them so she would come across him later that day at work. She called me that afternoon laughing.

Then, the roach disappeared. I didn't see him for days. Until, that is, the day the following picture was taken. She said she opened it, placed him in with his head poking out, and then sealed him in with a bit of super glue. She's a good wife.

Excuse the blurry pic, but you get the idea.

C'mon People, This Job is Difficult Enough

2009-04-06T06:08:00.001-07:00

Winter's Return & Spring's Training

2009-04-06T05:23:00.000-07:00

The rain from last week had brought the earthworms out of the soil, and they lay stretched across my parking pad and sidewalk, bloated, drowning, and stinking. Today, the local news said we're expecting snow, and I imagine I'll get home tonight to find white crusted earthworms scattered across the pavement.

The cold weather is supposed to stay a few days just to make room for more rain by the end of the week, so immediately my hopes of bike commuting are gone. Ah well...it's early. The actuality of Spring will finally catch up with the calendar, and when it does, I'll be ready.

Spring was in effect this weekend at least, and we milked it. Saturday we had to go do SAT testing in the morning. I managed to finish reading No Country For Old Men before the first half of the test was over and had to run out to the car for my backup book (another stupid vampire book in the series I can't stop reading). After the testing, we headed to my brother's house to hang out for the afternoon. We wound up taking a hike through their local park that afternoon (that's my brother in the first pic, looking like he's ready to strangle mother nature and curse the sun) and heading out for lunch afterward. It's painfully obvious to me how much worse of shape I'm in than I was just last fall. This fact was demonstrated yet again when we went hiking the next morning down in Hocking Hills (second pic). Still, I survived.

After the hike I went over to The North Market to do some meat shopping and loaded up on some dead cow at Blue's Creek Farm. They were really cool, taking lots of time to answer my questions (animals are free range, free fed, are taken to slaughter weekly and put down using a .22 or stun gun) even though the market was packed. I hit up The Fish Guys for some salmon to grill that night, and then stopped to grab a piece of baklava on my way out. Then it was more shopping before making dinner (the aforementioned salmon along with steamed broccoli and a small spinach salad) and watching The Fresh Prince of Bel Air in Seven Pounds (not bad).

This morning I had the idea of hiring Kevin Smith to come in and play me for a week since I really can't afford to take a week off right now. If he put on a bald wig, muttered sarcastically and just clicked away at his keyboard and mouse all day, I don't think anyone would notice he's not me. Wonder how much that would set me back?

Elise - The Funeral (Part II)

2009-03-30T11:37:00.001-07:00

Elise had married into the family business four years ago with the understanding she would move on once she found work of her own. The dental office she had worked in for the past eight years had closed, and she had agreed to help out around her husband's funeral home while she searched the web for a new place to land. After a few months though, Elise found herself spending less time checking the new postings, and instead working around the office freeing up her husband Chris to focus his attention to family consultations and the restoration work taking place in the basement.

In those first few weeks she spent time down in the basement with Chris learning about the restorative process, and the steps taken to preserve the appearance of life long enough for the family to say good-bye. Very little of what she saw bothered her at first, but she quickly came to learn that in order to do her job, she couldn't see the process. On the table, the deceased lost their histories and personality and became projects. They were a series of fluids, stitches, realignments and positionings. They stopped being human, and in order to work with the families she needed to do everything in her power to remember the role these bodies had in the lives of the people who knew and loved them.

During viewings and services, Elise would stand out in the foyer and direct people to the bathrooms and water fountain. She would replace boxes of tissue, show distraught families to one of the private grieving rooms, and assist when Chris needed. Mostly though, she stood close to the wall, or sat on a stool just outside the office door, and watched the family members and friends come and go while listening to their conversations and cliched sentiment. People would tell each other that the man or woman in the casket looked good, or that they had lived a full life. People said the flowers were beautiful and took turns reminding each other that funerals are for the living.

For Elise though, funerals were only for the dead. She idealized their lives, making them all moral fun-loving people. They made mistakes, but atoned for them. They raised families who may be too selfish to see yet everything that was given to them. They loved hard, and forgave quickly. They stayed up with sick children, and lay down faithfully with their spouses. The indulged in kindnesses and had a genuine interest in the well being of strangers. They left the world a better place than it was when they first arrived.

Each and every funeral she worked, Elise purposefully created these histories for the deceased because she believed firmly in another oft said cliche: "Funerals bring out the worst in people."

It was at the funeral that the first whispers of pain and disappointment were whispered amongst scorned family. It was during the viewings that people would arrive after lunch-time cocktails and start sharing intimate secrets a touch too loudly to be discreet while stealing glances at the open casket. The only way to combat the ugliness and create an environment where she could still have compassion was to invent a living version of the corpse before her that she could love.

It came naturally to her, and after a few months, she didn't consciously realize she was doing it. With a glance at their slack gray skin, entire lives would suddenly be visible to her. A few months after that, she would even find herself drained and saddened at the end of her day, mourning the loss of the life she had created.

Sunday. That's My Fun Day. My I Don't Have to Run Day.

2009-03-29T14:17:00.000-07:00

Slept in, and then stayed in bed to read for a bit. Jen heard the pages turning from the other room (seriously) and came in asking what we were going to have for breakfast. After realizing we had nothing, she left me to my book.

After I downed a a strange breakfast (a salad with strawberries and tofu), we went to go see Last House on the Left. As a kid, I watched the first one amazed and scared and disgusted. This time was different. Movies have come a long way since Wes Craven first made his grainy little exploitation movie, and that was reflected in this new version. Not much of a remake, though there are some familiar moments. The one thing I was waiting for (oral sex gone horribly wrong) was missing, but wouldn't have fit in the film. Still, having things that didn't fit didn't stop them from putting in a death by microwave. I didn't care. I liked it.

Funny thing about that microwave...Jen and I had the place completely to ourselves. No other soul shared the theater. We made it all the way through the movie until the very end when two loud older women came into the room.

"Well, the place isn't very crowded yet!"

"Where do you want to sit?"

This went of for a moment or two before Jen snapped and asked them to be quiet as we were trying to watch the last couple minutes of our film.

"Oh, sorry" they said four times each. We said "That's fine" and resisted the urge to add "Now shut the fuck up."

The ladies made their way to the row behind us and settled in with the occasional whisper. It occurred to me that they didn't seem like the key demographic for a movie like this, but was more surprised that they were willing to watch the end of the film before they had made it through the first hour and a half.

On screen, a man's head messily exploded in a microwave making Jen and I chuckle to ourselves, but it was quiet behind for the first time since the two women had made their way into their seats. The credits came up and Jen and I stepped out into the lighted hallway of our local megaplex. Walking away, I looked over my shoulder to see that the digital sign above our theater door that shows what movie is showing had changed to "Confessions of a Shopoholic".

That brought me so much joy that these two ladies were were easily 35 minutes early for their movie had their rudeness repaid by inadvertently watching some guy's head come apart in a bubbling spray.

Enjoy your movie, ladies.

We rounded out the day by getting newly purchased produce chopped and sliced and ready for the week while singing along with an old Eagles live album. I'm not a big fan of The Eagles, but Jen and I both grew up with them, and we know all the words. Sometimes, that's just what you need.

Now, we're literally sitting back to back in the den, listening to a Band of Horses record and having a drink. Soon, it'll be another salad and some bad TV. Can't wait. Really.

The Funeral (Part One)

2009-03-26T18:48:00.000-07:00

Tommy's past wasn't that interesting, so I created one for him. In my version, he did all the same mundane things he actually did, except in my version there was always the possibility of being something more. In my retelling of his past he actually had something special within him that he just hadn't managed to tap into. That is something that was sadly not in his reality.

Tommy wasn't a killer, but that didn't mean that he hadn't wished a lot of people dead. For many of the long hours he would spend behind the wheel of his semi, he would line pick out a spot on the windshield (watermark or bug remnants, no matter) like it was a gun-site, and imagine the dotted line of bullets traveling through the air, eventually finding their home in the heads and chests of passing motorists. He spent at least eight hours a day on the road, and many of them spent playing this game.

He dreamt about it other places too. Standing in line at the bank or at Wendy’s or walking the aisles in the grocery store. He could imagine the sound of bullets on bone and the rapturous roar of the gun in his hands as people ran screaming.

But Tommy had never held, much less owned a gun. He was no real threat. He was just a man bored on the road, and like most of us, wishing he were someone else.

I hadn’t seen him for eight years, but there’s nothing like a funeral to bring family around. We had never been close, so it wasn’t odd for me to stand in the corner and not make the effort to go over and greet him right away. I watched him for awhile as he spoke with the rest of the family that had gathered around upon his arrival.

His suit was a flat new blue that had most likely never even been cleaned before. I checked the wrists for hanging tags. The cut and look of the fabric made me conclude that Wal Mart had started selling suits. A thick linked gold bracelet sparkled out of the cuff of his right sleeve, and the silver of a chunky Timex poked out from under the left. He wore silver cufflinks, and the way he waved his arms about as he spoke told me that he thought they were classy.

I imagined him replaying the afternoon later that night at the hotel bar, thinking to himself that the strangers in the room must have been asking themselves who that sharp dressed fellow with the soul patch and cufflinks was. That guy had something.

When in fact, what Tommy had was a hotel bill being paid for by his sister and a 1997 International with over 900,000 miles on it; A truck that the bank was threatening to track down and take back unless some money exchanged hands quickly.

There was a lull in the conversation, and some of the family members drifted away to speak in smaller circles. I watched Tommy as he ran the palms of his hands down his face. To many, it was a sign of grief; a man wiping away sadness. I knew that it meant he had been drinking, and was not alone in my thoughts.

“Someone got started early,” someone whispered nearby.

I watched quietly as he approached the casket for the first time, crying softly to himself, looking down at his sister. For the first time since his arrival, he wasn’t making a production of his actions. I looked away and gave him privacy.

Mmmmmm...Full of Gnatty Goodness

2009-03-22T18:40:00.000-07:00

Woke up late this morning. Really late for me. I rolled over and saw the clock said 9:30 and was a bit surprised. I know, some of you are thinking that's not even close to being late, but I can't help it. The older I get the more I get pissy about wasting a day in bed. Still, I managed to stay in bed for awhile longer to put a dent on "No County for Old Men". I've been wanting to read the book since I saw the film, and am not disappointed so far.

I let the dogs out to pee, and followed along to pick poop up out of the back yard. It felt so amazing outside that I went in and told Jen to get ready because there was no way in hell we were going to stay inside on a day like today. We got ready and headed to our favorite park on the North Side for a walk. After being there for a little bit, we got lazy and sat and watched ducks and geese on the lake. Not wanting to go home yet, we grabbed some Subway and went back to the park to eat (and play around on the deserted playground for a bit).

Two stops for planting supplies later, we were home to do a bit of yard work. I tried to pull as many of last year's leaves from under our bushes in front as possible while Jen planted some little pots with flowers. I get the feeling we'll be dragging those things in and out for the next several weeks until it's warm enough to leave them out all night.

Then, I finally got to go for a bike ride. It's my first this year, and I'd be lying if I said it wasn't a bit painful. I felt every little hill, and I was pretty fucking far away from being fast, but I made it to my office and back in one piece, so I can't complain too much. Well, except for when it comes to the bugs. The gnats were everywhere and I swallowed more than my share with my out-of-shape-mouth-breathing. I even had one lodge itself into the corner of my eye and refused to get out for half a mile. Good times.

I should be able to start bike commuting some this week, though I doubt my legs will want to tomorrow. Maybe Tuesday and Wednesday though. After that it's supposed to rain.

(Behold the beauty that is my commuter bike. Equipped with water bottle and rear tire rack to hold all my work stuff. Yeah, I'm that cool.)

Jen and I finished the night by hanging out here in the den. She played around on Facebook while I listened to some records (Jesus & Mary Chain, Wilco, etc.) and had a glass of wine.

It wasn't exciting, but if I could live every day of my life like this, I would.

Blessed Urinal

2009-03-20T19:17:00.000-07:00

If the key to salvation is left on the top of a disgusting truck stop urinal, I'm pretty sure I'm fucked. I'm just sayin'.

Funeral By Numbers

2009-03-19T09:09:00.000-07:00

2 Days.
1150 miles.
6 dirty public bathrooms
1 awesome iPod Playlist.
2 breaks to walk dogs, feed dogs, pet dogs, and pee.
1 small cooler filled with
-6 cans Coke Zero (fuelled by diet colas)
-1 ham sandwich
-2 pieces Light String Cheese
-2 Light Yogurt cups

2 boxes Jelly Belly assorted jelly beans.
2 funeral viewings.
7 pairs of wax lips from Farm & Fleet.
8-10 beers.
1 Butt Sex "shooter".
1 crying, laughing, happy, and sad wife.
1 hangover.
17 hours in the driver's seat.
1 numb ass.
1 funeral.
1 graveside service.
1 family luncheon.
1 mother crying as she says good-bye.
1 return home.
4 hours sleep.

Wisconsin Bound

2009-03-14T20:57:00.000-07:00

Good news waits until the morning. It's a fact. So, when the phone rang the other night at 1:30 in the morning, I knew it was bad, even through the thick haze of sleep. Jen's grandmother wasn't doing well, and it was Jen's mom on the phone letting us know what's going on.

I'm so tired, that I decide that it's me that should tell Jen what's going on, so I talk to her mother for a bit thinking it would be best for Jen to hear it from me. I don't know why I'd be a better choice than her mother, but at the moment it made sense. Of course, it didn't occur to me until after the call was over that maybe her mom needed to talk to her too, so after I caught Jen up on what was going on, she called her mom so they could talk and cry together a bit.

The next morning, Jen's grandmother passed away. All the things you tell other people to comfort them apply here: She had a long full life, she didn't suffer, and she was a very sweet woman. She's going to be very missed by her family.

So, we head up to Wisconsin first thing Tuesday morning. There will be a viewing that evening, and then services the next morning. Seems like in order to get me to visit, someone has to die. Watch your back. I might be coming to a state near you.

A Matter of Chance

2009-03-13T18:50:00.000-07:00

Disney's War

2009-03-11T19:35:00.000-07:00

So, we basically had a gift card for The Disney Store that we needed to spend. To be honest, there's not a whole helluva lot I'm interested in from The Disney Store. Sure, I like some of the movies, and we even own a few, but normally it's not the kind of shopping I get all excited for. So, after a quick discussion we placed our little order and a few days later came this amazingly large box.

It was huge. So much goodness must lay within.

Someone took a lot of care filling this giant box with seemingly dozens of those little air pillow thingies.

The packaging stretched from one end of the table to the other. When pulled away, we were left to behold the glory.

I kid you not. The huge box, all the pillows, and a roll of packing tape, just to ship us a Blu-ray copy of Wall-E (a movie that Jen and I are both big fans of). I started laughing when I saw the box on the porch thinking "Maybe it was buy a copy of Wall-E get a free winter coat or something." Unfortunately, no. Just a lonely Blu-ray, huddled in the bottom of its enormous home, waiting for love.

Disney 1. Mother Nature 0.

The Whigs, Dead Confederate, and Trances Arc

2009-03-09T21:10:00.000-07:00

Just got back from the show at The Basement, and it was so much fun. I really dug all three bands sets which is kind of rare. I'm not that snobby really, it's just out of three bands one of them is bound to suck. They didn't.

Even though Trances Arc have one of the worst names going in Indie Rock, they were so much better than the tracks I found on line led me to believe they would be. They were a really solid live band, and it seems like they might be more at home on the stage as opposed to the studio. The same thing could be said of Dead Confederate.

DC has been touring on their album for a while now. They've done some TV (Conan) and I think they even got mentioned as one of Rolling Stone's Ten Bands to Watch (or some shit like that). They are a throwback to so much of the music I love. Their grunge hooks and garbled lyrics would get drowned in My Bloody Valentine swells and Slowdive-like phaser walls. Lots of other comparisons to bands like Nirvana or Alt-Country outfits are out there, but to me they sounded drenched in old school shoegaze. At one point, their guitarist was making scratching noises that immediately made me think of Sonic Youth, and then they went into a cover of what I think is probably my favorite song of all time, SY's Theresa's Sound World. It wasn't as good as watching Sonic Youth do it, but if they're not in town you could do worse than Dead Confederate.

Finally, The Whigs hit the stage. The Whigs are a three piece that sound twice their size. A great deal of their sound's size has to be with their drummer Julian Dorio. There were times tonight that I saw his hands come back over his shoulders and he would twist his body to get more leverage on the stick to bring it down as hard as he could. I don't think I've ever seen anyone hit like him live. When they played "Right Hand on My Heart" a (a song I've heard a little too often) and the crescendos built to the feedback freakout ending I had chills. So damn good.

Well, that's it for me. I'm supposed to be up in less than four hours to go to work. For those of you who just check in from time to time, I'm sorry this has been so music heavy lately. I'll get back to my boring cubicle life soon.

Hugs and Kisses,

Stephen

Sub Pop Saves the Day

2009-03-08T16:32:00.000-07:00

A month or so ago, I ordered a couple of 7" singles from Sub Pop. A week later an over sized package arrived from them, with a full release of The Postal Service's Give Up along with a single for a band I had never heard of called Wooden Shjps. While I was happy to get the Postal Service record (something I was going to order anyway) and I was digging on the new Wooden Shjps disc, I had no complaints, but I still really wanted what I ordered to begin with. So, I emailed Sub Pop using the Customer Service address on the website:

1/17

Hi, I got my records in the mail today, but it wasn't what I ordered. I had ordered a Band of Horses 7" and Postal Service 7" and instead got "Give Up" and a Wooden Shjps 7". Not that I'm unhappy with what was sent, it just wasn't what I had ordered.

So, in order to get what I originally sent over in order 28140 do I need to ship back the two records you sent? I'm not trying to take advantage of the situation, just want to know how to make it right.

Hugs and Kisses,

Stephen Merryman

In response, all I received was silence. So, I broke down and reordered the records I had wanted originally. I received them, and was a happy man. I spent a little more than I had planned on, but got some cool stuff in return. Then, out of the darkness:

3/5

Stephen!

I just found this over a month old email from you in my junk mail. Sorry about that! Anyway, that’s a huge bummer. I’ll send you the correct records. You’ll see them soon. Please listen to the incorrect records if you haven’t already. They are yours as a token of a colossal mistake on our part.

Thanks,Sam

Since I had the records they had missed the first round, I didn't want to get them again. So, I responded:

Hi,

Since I knew you're all fundamentally sound folks, I decided I could wait no longer and submitted a second order for the records I had ordered the first round, so you don't have to resend them. Shit happens. It's fine. If you'd rather, you're welcome to send me a single or two of whatever you think is interesting to replace it (seriously...I'm open to suggestions), or if you send nothing, we'll still part friends. I can't help it...I'm your doormat.

Love,

Stephen

Yesterday, I opened the mail to find three new records waiting for me, and they are amazing. I received limited edition colored vinyl singles for Mark Sultan (a guy I had never heard of before, but who's amazing, and No Age (which may turn out to be my new favorite band). The third was a record I already have, but I'm sure I'll get to pass it along to someone in need sooner or later.

On the invoice, Sam had quickly written "Enjoy the records. XOXO".

Never have I felt so completely loved by a company. It helps that I love so much of the music that they've released over the years (Fleet Foxes, Band of Horses, Low, Mudhoney, The Postal Service, Nirvana, etc.) but now I'm totally endeared to them as well. Great music and hugs and kisses? What more could a fella ask for?

Peace Out, Wightman

2009-02-26T18:53:00.001-08:00

Tonight, after work, I popped by a bar called The Pub to help say goodbye to Kate. Kate sits a couple of cubes behind me, and is leaving the beige farm to seek out her fame and fortune in the world of massage therapy. (No, not that kind. Or so she says.)

The Pub is kind of what an English Pub would be like if it were run by Disney. It's got all the amazing tap beers. It's got lots of woodwork. It's got men and women in kilts. It's just a little nicer than it should be. A little too shiny. You know that there's never been a tooth found on that floor, and that just kind of rules out any feeling of authenticity. Still, there were kilts.

And let's be fair about this. The men were in kilts. Most of the women working the floor wore something more akin to an "Oops I Did it Again" era Brittney skirts with thigh-high socks. Still, there were a few there that really pulled it off in a way that wasn't creepy, and to those few I am grateful...though I had to apologize to my company for being somewhat distracted.

I talked for a bit to one of my bosses and admitted I have a "Voice Crush" on Terry Gross. I have no idea what she looks like in real life, but based on her voice and her intelligence (and my imagination), she's a 10. My boss had met her, and after I explained what she looks like in my mind (50ish with blond hair who appears well put together and wealthy without trying to. Neither heavy nor skinny, and completely approachable) she told me I couldn't be more wrong. Blast it all! We dorked out together talking about our mutual love of most things NPR. We toasted Kate a few times, and two beers later it was time for me to hit the road. I had a slightly extended goodbye (Kate claimed she was inappropriately "huggy"), but four hugs later I was on the road. Quick stop for breakfast supplies, and then had to run home to let our poor dogs out who had been crossing their legs for the last two hours.

Kate will be missed. She's one of the few people in the room who really understands the disappointment of the cubicle. Not in that vague "I don't like my job" kind of way, but in a way where she works hard to keep what's really important in front of her and not letting her daylife get in the way. She's good people, and it'll be a smaller place without her.

So, here's to Kate. Best of luck.

I Hate You For Being Me

2009-02-23T08:17:00.000-08:00

I don't know when it was that I started hating people so much. You take an average person, and they don't mind other people around, hell most of them even like it. For me though, it lately seems that I have to force myself to be in a crowd. Saturday night, Jen and I ventured out to see Ben Folds, and I found myself getting angry at things that I should have been able to let go of.

First off, we get to the venue almost two hours before the doors open. We do this because the show is sold out, and we love getting our usual spot on the upper deck. There are tables and bar stools that ring the upper level, and it's a great spot to sit and see the entire stage. While you don't have the amazing view of being right up front, you get a great view of the whole band and the plusses of a seat combined with easy access to the bar and bathrooms. In short, it's where the old people go. The thing is, there are literally less than 30 of these stools, so if you want one, you roll in early.

So, I was pretty angry when a lady and her two teenage kids tried to cut into line in front of us. They had been hanging out under an awning while we got rained on, and now that they were close to opening the doors, they had come over and tried to push their way into the line. I avoid confrontation at almost every turn, but I didn't this time. We exchanged words. Bottom line is they didn't get in in front of us, but I felt like a dick. That is, until the couple in front of us befriended us and we spent the remaining half hour in line chatting them up about our mutual hatred of people. I love people who hate people.

We get in, grab our amazing seats, and set up camp. It's expected that the people who roll in later are going to crush in to your space to see what's going on, but the large woman who was insistent on laying her boobs on my lap while talking loudly to her friends from the Marketing Department was not appreciated.

An add for a local on-line school comes up on the screen. "Who's the idiot who did that in four colors? Don't they know that just triples their marketing costs?"

I'm tempted to turn my head to ask why it doesn't quadruple their costs, but am afraid of taking a nipple to the eye.

"Lost is just getting too far out there now. That show is just crazy."

Again, I'm tempted to turn to ask why the Polar Bear on a moving deserted island hadn't given her pause, but time travel was out of the question. Again, the nipple threat holds me in check.

The opening band starts to play, and it takes about three measures of music for her to decide they are not worth her time, and so turns to continue her conversation more loudly as to project over the four guys on stage trying to earn a living. She begins each sentence with "That's interesting, because..."

"That's interesting, because I knew a girl who dated the girl from that department. She said she was in charge of the equipment, if you know what I mean!"

"That's interesting, because I saw him the other day on The Daily Show and he just wasn't that funny."

Jen and I threw our nipple fears to the wind and timed some hate glances her way that eventually silenced the running conversations, which would then be picked up in the spaces between songs.

"Did you see that episode of Saturday Night Live when the guy with the hair did the...Oh, I'll tell you in a minute."

That I could live with.

Eventually, The Miniature Tigers made it through their set. Admittedly, they were not that exciting, and I found myself wondering if it was just the woman's loudness that was making me angry. It occurred to me that while she was recounting the shows she watched, the things that made her laugh, her complaining that she had to stand in once place for an extended period of time, and her telling her plans of witty Facebook status updates she planned to make over the next few days that these were all discussions that I could easily have been involved in myself.

Seriously, when she started talking about Facebook, I shuddered thinking to myself that I'll never log on to that goddamned site again. No way would that woman and I share any singular enjoyment.

When she moved her way up beside me to lean on the ledge because her hips were hurting her from standing in one place too long, I was embarrassed for her at the same time I was grateful for my bar stool. There I was sitting at a show, disliking a stranger beside me because of how much she resembled me. And the weird thing is, by and large I do like myself. So why would it bother me to see myself in someone else? We should have been buying each other shots and hugging after every song.

Thankfully, Ben and the band hit the stage shortly after and was completely amazing. I forgot about the lady and her nipples (at least while they weren't on my lap or scraping my arm) and had a great time. I loved being part of the crowd as they sang the horn parts from "Army" and served as the choir for "Not the Same". We all laughed at the same times, all got quiet when the band played "Cologne", and all left with smiles on our faces. I liked people a little bit more, and all the bitterness seemed to have gone.

Then yesterday, Jen and I are hanging around Merryman Manor watching some DVR'd Lost. Two minutes into the episode I get my bearings back and realize they are doing one of their patented "fast forward" plot maneuvers, when I open my mouth to say that the show is getting pretty far fetched these days.

Son of a bitch.

The Plague

2009-02-21T06:02:00.000-08:00

I knew I was doomed.

Jen brings a buffet of illness home with her each day after dealing with parents and students and other staff members who deal with parents and students. And that's to say nothing on my little team of six at the office who one by one have become with infected with clotted mucus, cemented sinuses, and swollen narrowed throats.

I washed my hands. I avoided touching my lips or eyes. I bathed in foul smelling generic hand sanitizer dispensed out of the over sized 32 ounce bottle I keep on my desk. I got sick. I don't know why I bothered to fight it. I should have just licked metallic bathroom stall locks at the office and been done with it.

As a result, the last week has passed in a haze. It's been a blur of getting through my ten hour days at work, getting home to eat easily prepared dinner items (veggie corn dogs are good, ya'll), zoning on the couch to some substandard reality television (which I dearly love, though rarely admit), and falling asleep between 8 and 9 in the evening, to get up at 4 the next morning and start it all again.

I haven't read much. I haven't written anything. And outside of the random kindness of my wife, haven't enjoyed much.

But today is different. Today, the haze feels like it has cracked a bit. I'm not in great shape yet, but it's the first day where you notice that things aren't all bad. I'm glad it happened today since I have to go stand in the cold rain for an hour or so tonight while waiting to get in to see Ben Folds play with Miniature Tigers.

Jen and I are spending zero money these days (and by zero, I mean none) so these tickets along with the ones I got for next month's Whigs show are going to have to last me a long time. Soon, there will be no entertainment for me that cannot be purchased with a leftover gift card from Christmas (thanks to the folks at Jen's school).

So, if you're bored tonight and in Columbus, come grab a scalped ticket off the street and come join us. I'll be the big geeky balding guy, most likely singing along from his usual post on the second tier of the LC's indoor room.

Boo Hiss

2009-02-13T09:27:00.000-08:00

I just saw Bob Dylan's Pepsi commercial. Now I'm sad.

Cool Hair, Lonely Coworkers, and My Brother

2009-02-10T17:48:00.000-08:00

When I was a little kid, it was very important to me to be able to comb my hair over to the right across my forehead. My mom or older siblings would comb my hair out straight so the tangles would be gone, but the finishing flourish was left to me and I'd get furious if they tried to do it themselves. So furious, in fact, that I remember it to this day.

---

I once worked with a woman who was recently divorced and was still having some pretty major issues with it. She told me that she had sewn together three pillows to put on what was once his side of the bed so she wouldn't feel so alone at night. I remember thinking how sad that was, and how strange that she would be willing to share this fact with anyone, much less some 21 year old kid she happened to be temping with.

She was transferred to a different department and I didn't think about her again until I saw Body Pillows being marketed. She was a woman ahead of her time. It makes me angry that I didn't see the value in the idea when it was staring me in the face. Lonely people all over the nation were ready to drop $20 for a lump of pillow that approximated a companion.

That, and they're comfy as hell of course.

---

My brother and I were far enough apart in age that we didn't have much in common when we were young. When I was playing with GI Joe's, he was getting to an age where he couldn't be seen playing with them with me (but would when no one was looking). When I moved on to bigger and better toys, he was discovering girls. While I was discovering girls, he was discovering beer. And so it goes with brothers with ten years between them.

There was one night though that stands out to me. I was probably in the Sixth Grade, and Paul would have been home on a visit from the private high school he went to in Florida. I was sitting out on the front porch of our house in Indiana, watching the clouds race by the moon. The sky seemed lower somehow, the clouds just scraping over the tops of the trees, and the moon just out of reach beyond. I had never seen a sky like that before or since.

Paul came home, and instead of going past me to get inside he sat beside me and we watched the sky together. I remember that we talked, but don't recall about what. I'm sure it was of no consequence. I just remember feeling like we were having a discussion of the kind I had seen him have with other men. It was a grown up discussion, easy and unimportant.

I've mentioned it to him a couple times over the years and he remembers nothing about it. It doesn't surprise me that he doesn't remember the discussion, or the fact that it was the first time that he talked to me in a way that didn't project the fact that I was his little brother. What surprises me is that he forgot that sky, and how the night smelled, and how neither one of us could bring ourselves to walk through that front door until we had run out of excuses and could put it off no longer.

Bad Music for Bad People

2009-02-07T19:23:00.000-08:00

I'm starting to get to that age where the artists I'm a fan of are starting to drift into the ether. For the most part, they are leaving "before their time", but it's begun. This year we've lost Ron Asheton (of Stooges fame) and I just read that Lux Interior passed away. I was never a huge fan, but anyone who grew up listening to hardcore or punk has brushed up against The Cramps from time to time, and there's something sad about his passing. An Ohio boy who loved horror, metal, and laughter...how can you not have a soft spot in your heart for that?

So, raise your glass. A true original has left us.

Wherever you are I hope the beer is cold and the g-strings are comfortable.

---

I spent a bit too much time reading Heiruspecs stuff online today while at work. Most of it took place during my lunch, so I won't feel too bad about it. I learned a few things today that I didn't know about the band, and saw some cool interviews. The funniest thing that I hadn't realized before is that they were on the soundtrack for Harold and Kumar Go To White Castle. I have this idea in my head that anyone who would reach that level of success would be rolling around in a bathtub full of money, and not actually be someone I know and have worked with. It's funny the picture you get in your head of what success is and how often it isn't synced with reality.

Felix, if you're reading this, know that I can't wait to get my package in the mail. I expect to post a full (honest) review of the album once I get to listen to it for a few weeks. Hope ya'll grace our state with a visit soon. If you want a place to stay, I've got a spot for you. And if you can vouch for the ruffians who comprise the rest of the outfit, our door is open to them as well. It's not fancy, but it's yours. Your couches and air mattresses await.
---

To wrap up this music based post, Jen and I have tickets to a couple of great shows coming up. First is Ben Folds towards the end of this month.

I saw Ben back on the Whatever and Ever Amen tour, and while it was a great show, the mix was a bit off. The bass was really heavy and tended to drown out the rest of the band. The new album isn't my favorite, but I can't wait to see him again as he always seems to put on a good show. There's just something about the guy that I can't help but love.

Next month I have tickets to see The Whigs. We saw them play last year at a CD101 show with Von Iva, The Duke Spirit, and The Whiles. They were the highlight for me, and I'm really excited to see them play a set on their own in a small setting. They're a three piece who sound much bigger than you'd expect.

There is a part of me that is just hungry for straight forward rock music. The Whigs go light on the frills and put on a straight forward loud show.

Should be a good time. Can not wait.

Marijuana Will Straight Up Kill You, Son

2009-02-03T18:30:00.000-08:00

I refuse to believe that Nancy Reagan lied to me. Marijuana kills, right? I mean sure, maybe not right away, but eventually. I mean, it's the gateway drug. Smoking a joint is the equivalent of smoking half a pack of cigarettes. Osama bin Laden is funding terrorist attacks right now one dime bag at a time, and there you sit on your couch with your laptop overheating doing nothing about it. How dare you?

So, how is it possible, that Michael Phelps smokes weed? When did he find time to train while getting stoned, stealing to support his habit, raping women, and eating pints of Ben & Jerry's? It goes against everything I've ever learned. Don't tell me it's possible that Nancy wasn't telling the truth. Say it's anything other than that.

If we know anything, it's that drug use will prevent you from performing in athletics at a high level (no way do pro athletes indulge in recreational drugs), becoming President of the United States, being a respected artist, graduate college, or from being a cop. No way can excellence and marijuana usage coexist.

Now that I've done some research though, I can't help but wonder how we missed the signs. Take this picture for example. It's obvious that he's ripped. No sober man would raid the bushes for a makeshift "Nature Hat". And just look at that awkward smile that seems to scream "I need a toke". Plus, he's holding up that medal like he's willing to trade it for for a quarter of Indiana Ditch Weed. Sad. So so sad.

Thank God he's got six medals. Hopefully he won't have to get more creative when it comes to what he's willing to trade to feed his addiction.

Armed with the facts I've been provided during the course of America's War on Drugs, I think it can be clearly stated that Michael Phelps is supporting future terrorists attacks. I don't like to call anyone out in writing like this, but his obvious hatred of America makes me feel more comfortable discussing it.

If only he could do something in a public setting that would be amazing enough to overshadow his wanton spliff sucking. If only he could pull off a feat of such amazing proportions that we'd be forced to overlook him unwinding over a bong hit or three. If only...

I'm not a smoker. I don't experiment with substances of any kind. Still, I don't know how it's possible we're still having these discussions. The fact that marijuana is criminalized floors me. The fact that the sick don't have access to it for medicinal purposes angers me. However, the fact that some dude who did the "Monkey Boy Dance" for his nation wants to relax in his own special way doesn't even phase me. If you want me on your bandwagon, call me when he's shooting heroin directly in his eye and blowing members of the dive team for $10 a shot.

Until then, smoke 'em if you got 'em, Mikey my boy. Put on some Cypress Hill, open a cold 40 oz, and roll one up. We'll get over it.

Die Hard 2, Whitesnake, and Sweet Vampire Love

2009-01-31T19:10:00.000-08:00

Die Hard 2 is coming to a silent end while I sit in bed and type this. Silent, because I just want the TV on, but don't really want to hear it. That, and Jen is trying to sleep. Hopefully she finds the clicking of keys comforting. Most times I'm a very loud typist, almost as if I'm trying to actually push the keys through the keyboard. So good luck, Jen-E-Jen.

---

The other day Rolling Stone sent me a free issue, trying to entice me back to their little mag. It's been something like a year since I let my subscription run out, and I just never bother re-upping. For the most part, they just weren't writing about music that I cared about. They've stripped down the size of the magazine, going with a more traditional size, but everything inside seemed to be about the same.

Case and point is the face that the issue they sent me that included their five star review of the new Springsteen record. Five Stars? Now there's a man I just won't ever get. Sure, there's something appealing about The E Street Band, and their big blustery productions, but it all sounds so immediately dated and (gasp) cheesy. Now, I don't know what the new album sounds like, so I can't comment on it, but with a little luck I'll make it through '09 without the experience. If they have to say that this is the best thing he's done since the 70's, my only question is "What the fuck has the guy been doing for 35 years?"

Prompted by the magazine's arrival to go check out their website, I had to see what their list said the top albums of the year were. They had my favorite album of the year (TV On the Radio's "Dear Science") listed as number one, but quickly rounded out the top ten with an outtakes album released by Bob Dylan, John Mellencamp, Metallica, and a Coldplay album that I'm not a fan of, but need to give another chance.

I realize that lists are created in order to get people talking and arguing about what should be on it and what should be off, and so I try not to get sucked in. What it does do is point out to me how disconnected I've become from so much of what is going on in music, which is a bit paradoxical since I feel more connected to what I'm listening to than I have in years. I feel like I'm getting old and crotchety, sitting around complaining about all the pseudo-punk bands, and sensitive skinny jean clad emo boys making music these days. I don't want to be that guy, but I just can't pretend I'm into Be Your Own Pet.

Screw 'em. Where did I put my Whitesnake Greatest Hits disc? It's time to rock.

---

I've been reading the Sookie Stackhouse books by Charlaine Harris like they're going out of style. They're the books that the HBO series True Blood is based on, and my love of the show sent me to the books. The first book was a bit hard to get through, because it was essentially the first season. It was kind of tough reading what I had just seen because i have the tendency to get hung up on the differences. The second and third books have been a lot more fun.

Oh, they're complete trash. They're simple, silly, over the top, a bit girly, and a pretty good time. And, like all good junk food, they go fast.

White World Blues

2009-01-28T17:31:00.001-08:00

The ice started last night. We could hear it when standing in the kitchen talking, and the dogs came in pelted and indignant. Each waited until I was standing near them with the towel to shake off, ensuring that I would get a taste of what they have to endure just to be able to pee.

As much as I hate the winter when it starts to drag, they seem to hate it ten times worse. The joy of the first snows have given way to sore paws and heads held down against the wind. Sometimes they decide it's not worth it, and turn immediately to stare into the house through the glass, refusing to step out into the yard.

On the plus side, I noticed it was almost six o'clock and there was still light in the sky. Bring it. I'm way done with winter, even if this is the first decent snow of the year.

It's amazing that the entire city seems to shut down when the Great White Death falls from the sky. I had to drive to two different Subways today to get lunch because one of them hadn't opened. Really? We're talking four inches of snow here people. I mean sure, there was ice too, but I'm no Ice Highway Trucker and I pulled it off. Not showing up ran rampant today though. My normal staff of five was a staff of two meaning I had my work cut out for me.

Bring on Spring. I'm so ready to see some leaves and breathe air that doesn't sting my lungs.

Pre-Weekend Update

2009-01-23T18:40:00.000-08:00

I'm like the king of retro right now. I'm sitting in the den (photos of the lair are soon forthcoming), and listening to Dark Side on the turntable. I got it as a gift for Christmas from my brother and sister in law, and it's nice to have around. It isn't something that I listen to a whole lot, but every once in awhile it's just good to kick back to. A month or so I heard that Richard Wright had passed away, and so went my hopes of a reunion show. I saw Pink Floyd in '94, but that was not the same band that created Dark Side, Animals, or Wish You Were Here. It would have been nice to see the boys put away the lawyers and kick out some songs old man style.

This week sucked. I screwed up at work early in the week leaving me with the rest of the week to work 12 hour days in my little box to atone for my sins. Oh well. One more week of 12 hour days should be enough to show that I'm really sorry and I'll never do anything like it ever again. Office life is not a fun life for me. I'm tired of Excel. I'm tired of statistics and projections. It's Friday and I'm tired of thinking about it.

In other news, I'm writing again, and for once it's going well over a longer period of time. It's fuckugly right now, but maybe over the course of the next few months it'll grow into a little something. I'm trying to keep my expectations small because I usually get all carried away talking about what I'm going to do instead of actually doing it. With that thought in mind, I'm going to stop talking about it.

Tomorrow is a morning spent reading while the good children of Central Ohio take their ACT, and then we're heading out to an engagement party. The good news is the party is at a bar, and I am way overdue for a drink or three. I haven't had a drop since New Year's Eve, and just typing these words makes me thirsty.

Sunday I have big plans to head out to an antique market that is supposed to have a ton of LP's. I expect it to mostly be Classic Rock stuff, but it would be nice to score some other Floyd albums or some Dylan. Expect and exhaustive boring list if I score some purchases. I know you can't wait...stop pretending otherwise.

Ohio

2009-01-20T17:57:00.001-08:00

Nothing else need be said.

Jen and Jason

2009-01-19T18:45:00.001-08:00

Sleep Deprivation and Crazy Crazy Nights

2009-01-16T06:40:00.000-08:00

I slept forever. After a week of mostly getting in four or five hours of sleep, I crashed for at least eight last night. I don't know what my deal is lately. It's like if I actually go to bed, I might miss something great. So, instead of sleeping and being able to approach the next day with a fresh state of mind I:

1 - Troll the Internet looking for good deals on LP's.
2 - Play games.
3 - Facebook.
4 - Attempt to fix our desktop PC (which I finally succeeded at).
5 - Reading.

So, it's not like I'm robbing myself of sleep in order to change the world or do something that is so amazing that I just can't stop to go to bed. No, I'll sit there doing one of the above mentioned five things, and fight sleep. I'll nod off, and then force myself to refocus so I can turn another page or read another paragraph. Not sure what my deal is.

I do know I need to knock it off next week though. I've got tons of shit to do at work and being a zombie doesn't help matters.

---

Jen and I caught the first showing of "Revolutionary Road" this morning. I'm not normally drawn to a movie with Leonardo, but I'm a big Kate Winslet fan (Little Children. Jesus, that's just good) and I will always watch what Sam Mendes does. It was a tough watch (especially for 11:00 in the morning) but it really was beautiful.

After our traditional post movie lunch of a cup of soup and half a sandwich we went our separate ways for a bit. Jen went for a haircut and I went record shopping. I went back to Magnolia Thunderpussy and picked up a few new LP's and then decided I'd check out another store called Ace in the Hole about ten minutes from there.

"Ace in the Hole" blew. I know what you're thinking: With a name like that, how is it possible it wasn't the coolest record store ever. Shockingly, it sucked.

While they did have a couple of cool first pressings of some more obscure Bob Dylan albums, the rest of the store was filled with enough 70's rock and Jam Band crap to fill three average stores. Since I wasn't in need of either of Asia's hit albums, I said fuck it and headed to Best Buy. I'm trying to shop local, so I'll keep trying some other stores around the area. Still, I was glad I stopped by there since they had a couple of discs I've been wanting.

And here I am, tearing it up on a crazy Friday night. I am really going to have to start doing more interesting shit to keep all three of you still reading. I'll come up with something soon.

Winter of Our Discontent

2009-01-13T18:13:00.000-08:00

Like the places you are all most likely from, it's cold here. I don't know the exact temperature, but I can generally judge what it's like outside by the reaction of our two dogs. I sent them both out before putting them to bed. Immediately they run to the yard, squeeze out just enough pee to ensure I'll concede they have "done their duty", and let them back in with a quickness. If I'm not fast enough with my duties as doorman, they'll lean against the glass with their front paws making small scraping sounds, and stare into the kitchen like a fat man stares at the last piece of pizza.

Mmmmmmm....pizza.

---

I've started reading "Dead After Dark" by Charlaine Harris. Actually, I ordered the box set of her books because they were used as the basis of "True Blood" on HBO which was one of my favorite shows of last year. I'm two-thirds of my way through the first book in the series, and I still don't know what I think about it. I do get the feeling that if I hadn't loved the show so much I would have given up on the book awhile ago. I'm just so ready to be blown away by something, and it's not happening yet.

---

I think it's something I've been hinting at, but I'm getting cubicle fever. It's a restlessness and it's growing right now. I've been in office environments long enough to know that the feeling comes and goes. Some times are just harder than others.

I think it goes back to my statement above about being ready to be blown away by something. I'm ready to plug into some new experiences, or new art, or something. I'm wondering if Jen's feeling the same way. I'm getting some hints that she's ready to get out there into the big bad world a bit more. I haven't really talked to her about it, so when she reads this I guess she'll let me know if I'm talking out of my ass or not.

I think the winter has a lot to do with it, now that I think of it. This last year was really our first active year being outside through the seasons and doing stuff. It seemed we were always hiking or biking or off to see something or another. Now that winter has settled in with its cigarette smoke colored skies and damp cold, we're holing up in Merryman Manor a lot more. I think we'd feel better if we just got out and did something.

Saturday Night's Alright for Blogging

2009-01-08T18:49:00.000-08:00

Jen had to get up this morning to go do Saturday School this morning, leaving me to sleep in. I woke up slowly, and decided to stay in bed for a bit. I switched on the television and was flipping through the channels when I heard something thump downstairs. I muted "Eastern Promises" and listened. Another pop, and what sounded like the back door opening. Jen wasn't due home for another couple of hours, I thought.

So, I jumped up and stood at the top of the stairs, waiting for what I was sure was the nosiest ski-masked cat burglar to go walking from the kitchen to the living room. Instead, I heard the more familiar sounds of Jen tossing her bag on the table and kicking off her shoes.

Since she was home early, and we don't care much for people, we thought we'd head out to see The Curious Case of Benjamin Button before the crowds hit. Sure enough, there were a total of six people in the theater, and I got all lost in the movie. David Fincher is doing OK these days.

After the movie we grabbed some soup for lunch and then I used the last of my Christmas gift cards at Barnes and Noble on Wilco's Yankee Hotel Foxtrot on vinyl (thanks for all the records, mom). I haven't listened to it yet (on vinyl, that is), but tomorrow I'll be locking myself up in the den to go through it cover to cover.

I tried to talk Jen in to hitting some record stores "just to look around", but shockingly, she wasn't into it. I don't understand how anyone couldn't be interested in going through every rack from A to Z looking for all the cool shit that gets put away in the wrong places. Seriously, what's wrong with her?

Tomorrow will be more of the same, I'm sure. We're kind of in this housebound stretch, and while I don't mind it for now, I find myself wishing for Spring already. I'll fend off some of the restlessness by cleaning some, and trying to run for at least two straight miles on the treadmill. I know that might not sound like a lot for some of you, but for the big boy that will be a pretty stout accomplishment.

Wish me luck.

Five Men

2009-01-06T09:49:00.001-08:00

I could feel the hair on his head reverberate like a guitar string, sizzling as though electrified, not limp and dying like the graying strands of my own. I ran my fingers through it while he slept. It was an intimate gesture I was uncomfortable with, but something I couldn't stop myself from doing. He opened his eyes, startled. My hands, buried in mounds of clean black hair, moved in their shame to his throat. I stopped them, turned, and ran from the room.

---

White rabbits shoot out from under his fingernails when no one is looking, but the moment an audience gathers he goes numb and can't lift his arms from his sides.

---

He took a small crumble of brick from Ground Zero and now it sits in his office, staring at him from the corner. Nearly 3000 souls were absorbed by the dusty composition of the stone that day. He wasn't sure why he took it from the site, but now that he has he knows he can't get rid of it. He can't put all those souls out in the alley with the eggshells and coffee grounds of his daily waste.

---

He bought a gun to shoot at the geese that shit all over his back yard, clumping the grass and fouling the wet Spring air, but the weight of the weapon scared him. Instead, he sits out on the porch with the rifle in his lap pretending he is the kind of man that could raise it to his shoulder and fire.

---

He once saved a child's life. The girl started to step out into traffic without looking and he had gotten a handful of her coat, pulling her back onto the littered curb. The girl didn't realize the magnitude of the moment, and crossed without a word when the flashing "Walk" sign threw its green neon into the air. He could only stand there and watch her disappear, wishing there was someone he could share this moment with.

31 Flavors of New Year's Resolutions

2009-01-05T11:40:00.000-08:00

I hate resolutions. They just seem so binding and inflexible. They were invented to give me one more thing to feel bad about when December rolls around. Still, I'm a sucker for the New Year./New Start idea, but really can't limit myself to just one traditional idea (dropping pounds, starting smoking so I can quit again, etc.).

So, in this spirit of self improvement, I put together this list of things I hope I get around to in the next year.

1) Buy an Indiana Jones hat and wear it to work, like the guy that Kate pointed out to me today. (Good eye, Miss Kate.)
2) Drink more, pee less.
3) Finish a painting.
4) Finish a short story collection.
5) Escape the cubicle. (Not just walking out, but actually tunneling out while search lights roam and dogs bark frantically in their bloodlust.)
6) See Heiruspecs live (and see more live music in general).
7) Keep in better touch with people and not view my past as disposable.
8) Keep my mouth shut.
9) Revisit polyester.
10) Avoid using the words "proactive", "systematic", and "counter-intuitive" in any situation or any setting.
11) Read more.
12) Buy a thinner wallet so it doesn't look like I have two New Testaments stuffed into my back pocket.
13) Eat more candy.
14) Find a situation to use the word "blissful" and actually mean it.
15) Invite the next minister who's going door to door visiting with people into my house and force them to listen to my new turntable. The minister can chose the disc, of course.
16) Eat with a spork, but not at KFC.
17) Support more local businesses.
18) Remember to take my reusable cloth bags into the grocery store instead of using their plastic.
19) Start my website with my "exciting" new business idea. (Actually, less of a business and more something that just makes me laugh.)
20) Avoid writing boring blog entries like the one right before this one. Sometimes less is more.
21) Buy a bunch of 80's East Coast hardcore vinyl.
22) Try not to get so angry at my family's politics.
23) Try not to be critical of other people's shitty taste in music. (I'll work on it.)
24) Steal.
25) Say "Snitches get stitches" without letting a lisp or mispronunciation rob the phrase of its menace.
26) Single-handedly bring back the kazoo.
27) Don't wrap up one of my staff meetings by saying "Well, it's been a meeting", and if I do, I must recognize that my soul died just a little.
28) Double my bike mileage from last year (1200 miles baby...I can do this.)
29) Complete a 5k run. (Organized or otherwise...I just wanna run one.)
30) Get to MN to see some folks.
31) Be healthier in mind, body, and spirit.

My Boredom Seeps Into My Blog

2009-01-04T17:56:00.000-08:00

Big weekend of doing a whole lot of not much, and it was just what I needed. After all the family fun of the holidays it was just good to hang out around the house, watch some movies, and detox a bit.

Yesterday was nice enough for us to get out for a walk, so we tooled around the park. Jen, her head down, focusing on not letting her nose run in the chill, me craning my neck at every turn looking for deer. I don't know what it is with me and deer. It's not like I haven't seen hundreds of them in my life, but everywere I go I find myself scanning tree lines and the edges of our surburban patches of woods for them. When I walk in the woods, I'm always on the lookout for them to the point where I'm not watching where I'm going, or I begin to veer off in the direction I'm looking. It's a bit obsessive, and I'm not sure I understand it.

So, I looked for deer. Saw none.

The rest of the weekend was just the standard issue stuff. Watched some movies (Stepbrothers, Gone Baby Gone, Wanted), some DVR'd Animal Cops (I have no faith left in human beings. Fuck all ya'll), listened to some music (I highly recommend the Fleet Foxes) and did our shopping for the week.

Well, I gotta be up at four in the morning (mourning?) to try to get in a workout before I get to the office. I just wanted to be here in case you showed up looking for something to read. Sorry, it's not more exciting. I'll make up some shit later this week. It won't be true, but it'll be better reading. And what do you care anyway? It's all about passing the time.

Hugs and Kisses,

Stephen

Computer Disasters, Vinyl Love & New Year's Eve

2008-12-31T03:27:00.000-08:00

Let's be honest, I don't know what the fuck I'm doing. I have what I think of as a small computer virus issue one day, and then the next I can't log into my computer at all. I just get this black screen and can't even see my desktop.

So, I figure, let's just get a new hard drive. I've swapped those out before, so it shouldn't be too hard. So, I upgrade to a bigger hard drive, and come home to find out that the bigger drive uses a bigger cable to connect to my motherboard, but my motherboard doesn't have any more room to accommodate the expansion. So, now I have to go back to the store to get a smaller hard drive. I'm sure that I'll bring it home, hook it up and it still won't work, but whatever. At that point I'll have all the ammunition I need to talk Jen into a small ultra-cheap laptop. We don't need anything fancy...just something I can write on, surf the web, and run iTunes through. All of my music is on an external drive, so I don't even need much memory. One of these days I'll break down and get the iBook I really want, but not during these bleak economic times.

Tonight we make our annual New Year's Eve pilgrimage to my brother's house. We'll load up the car with my over sized bottle of Jack Daniels, Jen's amaretto, our meat and cheese tray, our two other appetizers and spend the night hanging out with family. It's always a pretty decent time, if not rather sedate. Nothing gets out of hand, and everyone is friendly (they are family after all).

I don't want to beat this to death, but I have to mention my new turntable again. I love music. Love it. It's very important to me, and I can be a little obnoxious about it. In recent years though I've gotten pretty distracted by lots of other things. Life happens and rolls along whether you are paying attention or not, and during all of this music became something that was there in the background. Not that my interest in it diminished, it just changed. It was on while I surfed the web, or played games, or did dishes, or drove to work.

Now though, having the turntable slowed that down. I set up a system in my den (a spare bedroom that I've taken over with all my silly crap...I should post pictures one day). I have a padded rocking chair that I drag back and forth across the room from my Super Nintendo (Zelda still rules) and my new "listening station".

Already I'm obsessive with vinyl collecting. A friend and I once discussed just collecting our top 25 albums and then stopping, but even then I knew that wouldn't happen. Jen bought be a great little cabinet for storage and to set my turntable on, and now I want to fill it immediately. Don't worry, it's expandable...she knows me well.

The night before last we hit up Magnolia Thunderpussy and I picked up a four disc re-release of Sonic Youth's Goo and a Fugazi single for "Furniture". When we got home I couldn't wait to settle in and listen. I wound up getting distracted by The Velvet Underground and Nico (something I had picked up the week before and had not listened to yet) so I put that on first. Then, I listened to the old Fugazi single. There's something so warm and immediate about the sound of vinyl, and I love that, but not being an audiophile it's just a bonus. The really great thing was sitting down in a darkened room and just listening.

It reminded me of sitting around on cigarette burned carpet in Houston, listening to Big Star. It reminded me playing bass along with Pearl Jam in my dorm room. It reminded me of waiting for over an hour in a grocery store parking lot waiting to hear Radiohead's "Creep" be played by an Indianapolis station and being blown away, even through the occasional static. It reminded me of listening to Nirvana play their version of The Meat Puppet's "Oh Me" over and over again, just to hear the guitar outtro.

So that's my suggestion for both of you still reading this damned thing. Grab your iPod, or turn up your surround sound and turn everything else off. Close your eyes and remember what made you fall in love in the first place.

Happy New Year, ya'll.

Don't Call It a Comeback!

2008-12-26T13:45:00.000-08:00

Hi There,

How have you been? Everyone good at home? Did you have a good Christmas?

There have been giant forces at work keeping me from blogging as I had once done. First, my new job has prevented me from using any of my lunch hour for creative endeavors. Then, my PC at home got blowed up with a nasty virus of some sort. I'm getting to the point of considering buying a new hard drive and starting from scratch. This prospect does not thrill me at all, but what's a boy to do?

At any rate, things are good for me and mine. Christmas rolled by without a hitch, but this weekend is when my immediate family will get together. They're generally low stress affairs with all of us pitching in for dinner and watching my two nephews open their presents. There's the usual oddities that are always in play when it comes to dealing with your family, but they're no bigger than most anyone else's so I hesitate even mentioning it. It will be a good day, but I'll be ready for it to be over before it is. The madness of my grandparent's house always makes me miss my own quieter home.

Jen and I picked up tickets to see Ben Folds coming this April and I'm hoping to go see The Whigs sometime in March (they're great...saw them earlier this year and they are big and loud). Otherwise, there aren't that many interesting shows coming to the area which is terrible because I am so in need of some inspiration. On the plus side, the new Heiruspecs disc came out and I'm sending my cash off to Felix for that this weekend. He's going to help me out with an older vinyl disc too (my turntable is up and running and as beautiful as I had once dreamed) and hopefully some stickers to slap around the den. That I'm looking forward to. Yay Christmas money.
So, that's all there's time for right now. I really am going to make an effort to check in more often, if only in small bits. Please rest assured, if it's been awhile since I've talked to you, I miss you. If we've spoken recently, I probably still miss you...The holidays make me needy.

Hugs and Kisses,

Stephen

Thanksgiving and Everything After

2008-12-03T19:28:00.000-08:00

Normally, me and the wife would pack up our meager potluck offering and head to my brother's place for Thanksgiving. This year though, Jen's mom flew into town, and as a result we wound up deciding to kick it at our house this year for the big feast. Now, I've never cooked Thanksgiving dinner in my life, but I figured I could muddle through. I did. Homeboy cooked it up and surprisingly everything came out pretty well. It might even stick as a new tradition. We'll see.

Friday, we just stayed close to home, drinking wine and watching movies. In the past, I've always referred to Black Friday as Godfather Day since we'd stay home and watch Godfather I & II (never...ever III). But, in mixed company we settled on me hitting Blockbuster for some flicks and then surfed the couch. I started getting antsy by the end of the day, feeling like I wasn't getting anything done, but it was good to just hang out with Jen's mom and kind of reconnect a bit with her.

Saturday was straight up drunkeration. We headed out to a couple of wineries and wound up bringing a case home with us to replenish a supply that had taken a surprising hit over the previous two days. With our supplies tucked away in the racks, we ended our night with yet more leftovers and opened a few bottles.

Our last day together was spent shopping. Jen's mother very generously gave us a bit of a Christmas present early. Jen wanted curtains, so we got to go shop for those. I've never shopped for curtains before, but it was exactly as much fun as I thought it might be. My mood lighted though once I was told that there would be enough cash left over for a record player. I've picked out a very basic model that I'm going to set up in the den with a new component system. Very old school. Can't wait.

And that's that. Mom-In-Law flew back Monday morning, and I'm back at work fighting a cold and just fighting to get through to another weekend. We're quickly using up 2008, and I gotta be honest, I'm not going to miss much of it. There were high points for sure, but I think mostly it was the kind of year you have to have to make you more grateful for all the goods ones.

Hope you all had a good long Thanksgiving weekend. I'll be around...

Lord, If You've Got Lungs, C'mon Shout Me Out

2008-11-26T09:10:00.000-08:00

So, with family coming in tonight and us entertaining through the weekend, I imagine I won't be blogging much. So, I wanted to wish everyone a happy and safe Thanksgiving. If I could, I would come around and hug each one of you individually, but there's the geography to consider as well as the fact that I'm not really into touching people for the most part. But all that aside...feel loved.

Really.

Chef Shivers

2008-11-24T19:44:00.000-08:00

It's that kind of "in between" cold that brings rain and gray skies. Snow is hinted at, but never quite materializes. The rain hits your skin in the morning on your way to the car, and it becomes a part of you for the rest of the day. I went to work, in my new capacity (which is suspiciously like my old capacity), ran some errands while at lunch (coffee run, etc.) and then hit the grocery store on the way home all with a thin shiver curled under my coat with me.

Thanksgiving is generally spent with my brother and sister in law at their house. We kind crashed their get together a few years back (it is mostly my sis in law's family) and wound up getting invited back each year. When we're not visiting Jen's family in WI, we always go. This year though, Jen's mom is coming to town and we decided to keep it low key for her sake.

It was insane how much money I spent on groceries tonight. I'm only cooking for four people, but it felt like they had to restock behind me everywhere I went. I wandered through the aisles getting more and more worried that I'd exceed my cart's capabilities. Me and 400 of my neighbors listened to piped in Coldplay while loading up on yams and blocks of cheese. I managed to wade through the humanity and come out near the checkout lanes gasping for air with pretty much everything I needed. Since this is my first actual Thanksgiving dinner that I've done, I also loaded up on plenty of booze. That way, if things go belly up, we'll have an excellent Plan B.

The End of the Beginning of the End

2008-11-21T10:42:00.000-08:00

A good man once said, "It sucks when your job gets blowed up". To that I have to say, Tru dat, sir...Tru dat.

Today, the company I work for will effectively shut their doors. There will be the general janitorial duties that come with a business ceasing operations, but for all intents and purposes, everyone will be going their separate ways after today. It's sad.

Like all jobs, you work with people you really like and other people who present you with the challenge of civility. The thing is, I really liked most everyone I had regular contact with. Some of the people I met wound up becoming good friends, something that I don't have a ton of and something that becomes more important to me the older I get. I never thought that would happen here, especially when my management team operated out of the Twin Cities area. They're good people, doing good things, and I'm going to miss getting to talk to them on a regular basis. Hopefully, our paths will cross again. Preferably sooner than later.

So, raise your glasses...To better days, ya'll.

You Get What You Pay For

2008-11-20T10:30:00.001-08:00

The Major Label record companies have been struggling to find a new way to provide an old product. Part of the problem is, of course, that it's tough to sell something that everyone can get for free. The other thing that I keep hearing is that the major players have done a bad job of giving the people what they want. I think 2008 has been a pretty good (though not stellar) year for music, but I realize that my tastes run left of center. So, it left me wondering what is it that people really want? Is it the canned pop churned out by Timbaland's production factory? Is the it recycled metal of Hinder? The real answer is actually far more sinister than you might have thought.

Since Apple rolled out iTunes, the top three tracks sold are:

Jouney's Don't Stop Believing. 2 million sold.

Sweet Home Alabama. 1.46 sold.

Bohemiam Rhapsody 1.44 sold

At .99 each, that's almost $5,000,000.00 generated for these three songs. I think The People are pretty clear about what they want. Think about it. "Don't Stop Believing" is the number one most downloaded song in iTunes history. When was the last time you actually listened to this song? Shudder.

- - - - - -

Speaking of shudders...Yesterday I start to head up to the third floor of my office, and there at the foot of the stairs is a religious tract. I read it on my way up. Basically, it let me know that I'm either bound for heaven or hell. You see, I might be a nice guy doing good things in the world (petting puppies, picking up litter, holding doors open for people so they can enter the room first, etc.) but I'm bound for damnation because I was born into sin, and the wages of sin is death.

Fortunately, there's hope for me. If you don't know the path to salvation, send me your address and I'll forward over the pamphlet to you no questions asked.

After I got upstairs I found another tract on one of the file drawers. Wow. Someone's been a busy little creepy Christian.

A couple of weeks ago, Jen and I watched a documentary on HBO about organized religion and its effect on politics and America in general. It was done by an atheist woman, so the intent and content was pretty deliberate in my opinion, but it was still pretty well done. One of the things that struck home to me was a minister who basically said that Christians were the only group of people in the US that it is ok to discriminate against. They're made fun of in television. They're portrayed as bumbling and hypocritic. I felt a bit bad about that, because I've been known to laugh at some Christian bashing myself, and there was part of me that wondered why that was OK if making fun of race or sexual orientation isn't. I decided that I'd try to be less judgmental, and adopt a more "Whatever people find peace in is good enough for me" kind of attitude.

But the tract the other morning reminded me why some Christians can be fun to laugh at. It's the recruitment...that ideology that requires them to swell their ranks that sets them apart.

Would we really feel the same about other "protected classes" if they were really out there trying to get you not to just accept them as they are, but actually change your entire life to adopt their beliefs? What would you do if two gay men went door to door through your neighborhood inviting you to "Gay Classes" held Sunday Mornings or passed out flyers that were titled "Anal or Oral?" What if you went into the bathroom at your office and there was a note taped to the door telling you you should abandon all of your beliefs in a higher power or run the risk of wasting what little time you have left on Earth feeling guilty about looking at those naughty pictures when you were 15?

Tell me about it if I ask or seek out the information. Otherwise, be quiet and let me climb the stairs in peace.

Randomness Abounds

2008-11-19T12:48:00.001-08:00

When I was a little kid, I didn't have much in the way of a tough male role model. As a result, I was convinced that my uncle Curt was the baddest man alive. He had a habit of chewing on the corner of his lower lip, a habit I immediately equated with toughness. One morning, I was on the bus on my way to school and there was an older kid who was staring at me. I didn't like it, so I started chewing on the corner of my bottom lip, showing him I was a bad man and not to be messed with. The kid started laughing at me, and then sucked in half of his lower lip and gnawed on it with yellowed fence post teeth. I remember being shocked that someone would use my own "I'm tough" signals back at me in a mocking manner. I immediately decided that posturing wasn't my thing.

- - - - - - - -

The last couple of days I've started going for a walk on my lunch. Yesterday, I froze without a hat and gloves, so today I came better prepared. I go across the street to a park and walk around a gravel nature trail towards the back of the property. It's a great way to spend an hour. The deer, undersized from the crowded conditions, are used to people and run more out of habit than from actual fear. The squirrels are fat and sleek, looking freshly oiled and seem to be everywhere. They say there's a good fox population, but I've never seen proof of that, and I guess I don't expect to. There's still some snow around, though there seems to be less of it today than there was yesterday. It's limited now to the fallen limbs and trees and along the piles of leaves, but has melted in the places where it had fallen on the actual ground.

- - - - - - - - -

Jen got an automated call from her doctor telling her she had a message in her secure voice mail. She called up and listened to a voice mail that told her she was cancer free. The margins of the mass they removed were nice and clean, and she now has less than a week before the stitches come out.

- - - - - - - - -

We've been doing some things around the house getting ready for Jen's mother's Thanksgiving visit, and our decorating is finally starting to get weird enough to make me happy. First, I got Kim Jong iLL hung up along the stairway half wall on the second floor landing. They're lower than I had planned on, and not immediately visible when you go upstairs, but they looked so great there that they had to stay. We also got some other prints up including a great shot of Madonna (Jen is a huge fan of early Madonna) completely nude (Stephen is a huge fan of early or late nudity) while hitchhiking. I know what you're thinking because I've already heard it before: "I wouldn't hang that crap in my house". That, dear friend, is why you don't live here. It makes me smile every time I see it. We also got some family photos framed and hung, so our house, after 6 years, is finallly starting to look a little homey. Well, our version of homey anyway.

Christmas Dorks

2008-11-17T07:18:00.000-08:00

I know I can be a bit of a sarcastic dick at times, but I love this time of year. While you'll hear me groan a bit when the Christmas decorations come out before Halloween is over, there is a part of me that likes it. I tend to like it more as Thanksgiving gets closer, and this year I've been looking forward to Christmas even more than usual. I'm not entirely sure why, but I think our last Christmas had something to do with it.

We were total scrooges last year. There was a potential move for us on the horizon, and we told ourselves there was no reason to drag out boxes of Christmas stuff just to have to pack it all back up in the event of a move. We were collecting boxes and had even thrown some of our books into them in preparation. We didn't want to spend money on presents for each other since we were going to need every penny, so we only bought presents for our super cute and always wonderful nephews. There was no tree and nothing to put under it. We told ourselves it was fine. We're adults and don't need to spend money on each other due to tradition. We don't need to string up lights or force our dogs to wear antlers purchased from Petsmart.

We were wrong. By the time last Christmas finally came, we were both in a bit of a funk and depressed. We had fun with the family, but without our little quiet celebration with the two of us things just didn't feel quite right. So, this year, we're going to fix that.

Normally, I'm the big dork that gets us moving towards the Christmas Spirit, but it was a call from Jen this morning that got me thinking these thoughts.

Jen: Hey.
Me: Hey back.
Jen: So, I was thinking...
Me: Did you hurt yourself?
Jen: Dick.
Me: Hehe.
Jen: Anyway, I was thinking we should do the outside lights this year. And since we're rearranging stuff this week anyway to get ready for my mom's visit, maybe we could do the living room too so there's more room for the tree.
Me: Sure. What's got you all gun ho for Christmas?
Jen: I refuse to admit that it was the snow.

It was funny because the snow made me feel the same way. There were a few flurries yesterday, but they were thin anemic flakes that fell as fast as raindrops. This morning though, the flakes had fattened up, and lazed their way down into rush hour. Drivers slowed as if twelve inches of fresh powder had fallen, and the radio accident report sounded like a crash course in our city's geography. It was nice to know that in the midst of cars slamming into each other all around us because of the damp roads, Jen and I were being big dorks at the same time.

Vetern's Day Cancerectomy

2008-11-12T18:46:00.000-08:00

Yesterday I took headed out of the office around noon. Technically, I wasn't even supposed to go in yesterday, but the company I am hoping to work for soon asked if I could hang out for a bit to start work on a project, so I did. (I know that it doesn't seem to make sense that I would go in to work my job to do work for a company I don't yet work for, but in my world, it makes a certain sort of sense. Just go with it.)

So, I went to buy a coat. All of my old jackets and winter coats are three or four sizes too big, so I headed out and scored not one, but two, coats. I threw a new knit hat into the mix, so now I"m ready for winter's worst. Bring it.

After two stores, I still had some time to kill so I headed to Half Price Books over near campus. HPB isn't a place where you go in looking for a certain book because more often than not, you won't find it. It IS a place to go in and wander around for a couple of hours and get a bunch of shit you didn't realize you needed until you saw it on the shelf. That's what I did. I looked at old vinyl (the records always smell like mildew...it's comforting somehow), flipped through graphic novels, drooled over their locked collection of First Editions, and wound up spending $20 on four new books. I love that place.

Then, I picked Jen up from her office, and headed over to her doctor's office. We had been waiting for this day for almost a full month since getting the call that the mole on her chin was cancerous, and the wait was taking its toll on her. She was just ready to have the damn thing cut out, so that's exactly what they did. It took about twenty-five minutes and I got to watch them do it. Well, I watched part of it anyway. Normally, I would have been fascinated by the whole process, but it's different when it's your wife being cut. I sat at the end of the table near her feet, rubbing her ankle every once in a while, but avoiding the actual action.

I did see many blood soaked gauze squares being piled on a surgical tray. I saw the rose tattoo on the back of the assistant's neck. I saw a little half inch bleeding squiggle of cancer and skin get held to the light before being lowered into a little cup that will be shipped off to a lab for testing.

Jen was quiet for the most part, and was a trooper through the whole thing. Like I said, she was just ready for them to be done. And now they are. In two weeks the stitches come out and then we can get on with everything else. I'm not sure yet what "everything else" consists of, but I'm ready for it.

Other Voices, Other Rooms

2008-11-09T19:23:00.000-08:00

I can't believe I actually got to sleep in on both days of this weekend. That's practically unheard of these days, so it was big news to be in bed past 8:00. In addition to all the sleeping, we managed to do a few things too.

A year or two ago, Jen and I were sitting around drinking beers with her mom and going through old pictures. In the pile was a shot of Jen when she was about three years old. She is standing behind a car that sits with its door open still. Her hair is a tangled and blowing in the wind and she has on this little jean jacket thing that just cracks me up when I look at it. Her face is what's perfect though. It's not the cheesy good natured smile of a kid who loves to have her picture taken, but rather this solemn insecurity that comes through. It's heartbreakingly beautiful and I had it blown up, and printed in black and white to put on the wall downstairs.

Jen felt a bit odd having a pic of her on the wall by itself, so yesterday I went through some Merryman family photos and found one of me. It's a close up of me around the same age as Jen, and I have my goofy smile on. On the plus side, it's a sincere smile not the forced "I'm having my picture taken" variety. Tonight, I got both shots framed and will get them hung tomorrow. I was going to do it tonight, but didn't have the right wall anchors. We'll fix that tomorrow.

Today, we went to see the Andy Warhol exhibit
that's here in town. Columbus is actually the only US stop for Andy Warhol: Other Voices, Other Rooms, and we felt fortunate to have the chance to see it. Click on the link if you'd like the full breakdown of what was displayed, but the short list is an amazing collection of his print work, photographs, and a massive amount of film displayed on dozens of screens. While I like some of his work, I never claimed to be a massive follower, but it really was amazing to see the sheer volume of the man's output.

Jen and I roamed the halls of the Wexner Center, checking out old 16mm film of a man inserting a paintbrush into his rectum and then paint a portrait of Andy while Andy looked on, snapping the occasional photograph. We played in the area they had set aside for a miniature "Clouds" display. (The clouds in question being large foil pillows filled with a light helium mixture floating around one corner of the gallery.) I stood with rapt attention at every mention or performance by The Velvet Underground. We read excerpts of Truman Capote's Marilyn Monroe interview for Andy's magazine. We sat mesmerized by some of the screen tests that he shot as the subject would go from campy, to bored, to finally being upset that the process wasn't over.

Whatever your feelings about Campbell's Soup Cans, Multiple Marilyns, or Pop Art in general, it was a great way to spend the afternoon and it was good to just get out and spend some time looking at art again. We haven't done that for awhile, and just being out and about wakes you up a bit and gets you thinking. Some of it we loved, some of it we were indifferent to, but we were happy just roaming around. Plus, did I mention that a guy had a paint brush in his ass? How awesome is that? The only way that could be better is if he were a caricature artist at Cedar Pointe. "Oh, OK. You like horses? How bout if I draw you sitting on a horse? Great! Here, let me just bend over..."

---

After absorbing all things Andy we headed over to Panera for a late lunch. After rounding up half a sandwich and a bowl of soup each, we found a table near the fireplace and settled in. I was watching a guy who was sitting outside drinking from a Panera branded cup and smoking a cigarette like there was no tomorrow. He would take a hit, exhale in this lazy way where he would just open his mouth in an "O" and the smoke would just pour out of his lungs, and then immediately take another hit. There were no quick breaths of pure air in between, just this crazy sucking followed by letting his mouth hang open to let the flood of smoke rise up and sting his eyes. I was enthralled. When he lit another cigarette immediately, I thought it odd but remember thinking "Whatever it takes to get through it, buddy".

When he took three drags and then threw the butt on the ground ten feet to his right, lit a new cigarette, then walked over picked up the one he threw to the ground to take one more hit before putting it in the ashtray and then turn his attention to the new cigarette, I started giving Jen, who had her back to the entertainment, the play by play.

After a few minutes of me explaining that the guy was taking three or four quick drags and then throwing the still lit cigarettes on the ground, lighting a new one, and then going back for the grounded butts, she picked up her chair and came around to my side of the table. To the others in the restaurant we might have looked like thirtysomethings in love, but we were just both enthralled by this strange bit of madness in the middle of Upper Arlington.

He waved at kids, he smoked, he littered, he smoked his litter, he took sips of water from his cup with shaking hands, he smoked, he coughed, and then he did it all again. Sadly, just like my bowl of Chicken Noodle Soup, the craziness came to an end. Before I could get into my shortbread cookie, he had rounded the corner. We left shortly after and kept an eye out for him as we drove out of the neighborhood, but he was not to be seen.

And that's that. We came home and watched "True Blood" and I'm about to wrap up the night with a graphic novel by Joe Hill. Jen's been in bed for over an hour already and should be out cold. I probably won't be much further behind her.

Living Daylife

2008-11-07T19:47:00.001-08:00

People are funny. It seems like there are thousands of artists, rappers, musicians, and writers wandering through cubicle farms trying to keep their heads on straight so they can go home and do what they love to do. I love that.

I love that the same people who occasionally get sucked into conversations about who is banging who will go home, roll up their sleeves and turn a white canvas into something that breathes. I love that the same girl who finds herself looking forward to lunch at 9:30 in the morning will sweat on a small stage until midnight screaming what few basic truths she has discovered to a crowd of 14 people getting drunk at the bar. I love that the same guy who wore two different colored socks in the morning will go home and work on his handmade jewelry line.

God, we're all so boring and amazing.

For so many of us the people we are during the day are completely different than the ones we are at night. I normally find that interesting, but tonight I think it's just a little sad that we all can't be what we want all the time.

Of course, it's easy to have these thoughts when the company I work for is in its final weeks. The end of a position has the tendency to make me wonder just why it is that no one has decided to pay be a shit-ton of cash for writing sporadic blog entries and eating burritos. I don't do much, but what I do I do well. Someday someone will pay be to eat burritos and they won't be disappointed by my dedication.

Photos of Whatnot

2008-11-06T18:20:00.001-08:00

Tonight I took a pic of one of my screenprints that I just got framed and came across a couple of other pics that I thought would be cool to dump on here. So, without further ado...

Kim Jong iLL

Finally got my screenprints framed and ready to hang. I've wanted to have this done for ages now and think they look great. The frame is wooden with these really great ridges that don't show up at all in the pic.

Bike Trail

Hard to tell from this picture, but this is the paved trail I ride to work. It doesn't all have this secluded feel, but looks like this quite a bit along the way. One day soon I'll post a series of pics from my ride. Cox suggested that once, and it could be interesting if done right. It is a nice ride that affords views like this one below:

Additional Wildlife

My very manly dogs Otis and Lucy. This is pretty much what they do when not eating, pooping, or trying to kill each other.

The Eye

Watch your ass. The Eye is watching.

Lazyman, New Heiruspecs & Voting

2008-11-04T10:05:00.000-08:00

It's funny. After a couple weeks of not riding my bike due to bad weather, family in the hospital, and general laziness, I'm back in action. I feel like an old man though. My legs are tired. This morning I found myself wondering if I had brakes rubbing or something that would be slowing me down. No...it's just hard to pedal these days. That's what I get for not riding though. I'll ride to work the majority of this week and I should be back on point by the weekend. Really I just want to take advantage of the weather while I can.

The mornings are cold on the trail, and now that there are so many leaves on the ground even the smallest animals moving nearby sound like I'm being rushed by a heard of buffalo. Deer, just barely visible in the morning gray, become impossibly fast moving serial killers. The trash can at Cooper Park wants to torture me in its basement. Rabbits, hell-bent on revenge, dart in front of my tires, trying to steer me off the trail and into their lair where their families wait with knives and forks at the ready. That's right. Lairs. You didn't know that rabbits lived in lairs, did you? Now you do, so watch your ass.

In other news, Felix dropped a free Heiruspecs promo disk on his site the other day. Just click on FREE MUZAK , save it to your PC and drag it into iTunes for some free tunes. I was a big fan of "A Tiger Dancing" and some of their older stuff too, of course, but have to admit the new stuff reduces my interest in all things old. While it's not on my iPod yet, I listened through it last night and am digging them more and more. So, if you've ever wondered what Twin Cities Hip Hop sounds like, here's your big chance. You know me...I normally prefer my music soaked in reverb, layers of guitars, and a lead singer with a heroin habit but I'm branching out. You might want to try it too. In addition to his skills as an MC, Felix has mad skill organizing a Data Entry group. If you like what you hear, drop him a comment so he knows you're around.

I'm gonna ride home and then go participate in some Democracy. Then run home to see if Ohio is carried by my particular candidate of choice by one vote. If it happens, I'll run the streets taking credit for our collective win. Look for me, I'll be the big balding guy congratulating myself on the corner of Miller and Kelton. (I don't want to be seen in my own neighborhood.)

My Kick Ass Life

2008-10-31T10:29:00.000-07:00

So, last night I was just hanging out, pulling up directions to get to a church my cousin is getting married in tonight, when the phone rang. Who was it? Edward Fucking Norton, that's who.

Ed "Fight Club" Norton was just calling to say hey, and let me know that I need to vote for Obama. He reminded me that I don't need to sit around and wait until Election Day to do it. I can vote early in the great state of Ohio. Mr. American History X then went on to tell me where to go to have my voice heard.

My life kicks so much ass.

Now, you might be like "So what? Who cares." And I'm guessing you would be one of the millions who didn't hear from Ed Norton last night. Your jealousy is embarassing.

Random Fact About Me #452

2008-10-29T03:48:00.000-07:00

When I have a cup of coffee in my hand and I'm walking back to my desk, I have to stare at it to keep it from slopping over the side of the mug. If I'm not completely focused on the cup of coffee and my mind wanders, it's like I'm transformed into a Parkinson's patient shaking and stumbling toward my ergonomic desk chair. I might as well dump the fucking pot over my head and get it over with.

If I bear down and really focus though, I can actually make it back to my desk without burning the shit out of myself.

This morning, my mind wandered and my hand is still stinging.

I so want to be like the IT guys I see on our floor. They just march around the room, hands gesticulating while the while keeping that sweet black liquid at an even level in their cups. They laugh with each other when telling stories of a Tier 1 user attempting to access a database that has been unused for months while sipping absently from steaming mugs that say "World's Best Dad". I want to be able to sip absently. I want to know the appropriate time to transition from coffee to Diet Mt. Dew. I want to know what a Tier 1 user is.

Later though.

For now, I just need another cup of coffee and I'm going to have to direct all my energy into not hurting myself on my way back. Wish me luck.

Sleepy

2008-10-27T19:56:00.000-07:00

So, I'm sitting here wondering to myself about when a new friend can become an old friend when I don't really have many friends at all so I don't want to transition the ones I have too soon lest I tip the scales too far in one direction and be caught without a new friend and just a bunch of tired old ones that I'm a little bit sick of.

I'm going to be then.

Night.

Snooze

2008-10-27T03:39:00.000-07:00

Ahhh, the quiet life.

Jen, still trying to get over a cold and failing miserably, spent the weekend on the couch, leaving me to my own devices. I failed to get creative and spent most of the time hanging around her, fetching soup and Diet 7Up with liberal doses of cranberry juice added.

Saturday morning we had to go do ACT testing. This is something we each do for some extra spending money, and it's easy work. The supervisors are set up in individual classrooms, and I just roam around my assigned rooms, giving them breaks if they want them. Basically, I get paid to read my book in the company of teenagers. (Speaking of books, I'm reading "Heart Shaped Box" by Joe Hill. Good stuff. It wasn't until someone saw me reading it that they mentioned Joe is Stephen King's son. I hadn't realized, but now looking at his picture I don't know how I didn't see it. I'm about half through the book though, and it is really good. I've been striking out with my reading lately, so it's been fun to get into something again.) Not a bad gig. Plus, it's paying for my Kim Jong iLL frames and will finance a new creative endeavor I've got in the works.

It's strange to go back to a school though. Like the hospital, it's one of those worlds that are so easy to forget, but feel so familiar once you're forced to step back into it.

My view while patrolling the halls.

After testing, we had plans to go run around and do some shopping and then head over to my brother's place to see my sister-in-law (home from the hospital and doing well) and watch a football game that neither Jen nor I had much interest ing. She was feeling worse than ever though, so we cut our errands short and headed home. That's where she stayed the rest of the weekend.

I watched some slasher (Hatchet, Mr. Brooks) movies, played Dr. Mario with the infected one, did what cleaning I felt like and headed out on Sunday for our weekly supplies of frozen whole wheat waffles and Coke Zero. Jen slept on the couch both Saturday and Sunday, so I fell asleep each night watching reruns of the US version of The Office.

Big times, kids. Big. Times.

A Few of My Favorite Things

2008-10-22T03:58:00.001-07:00

There are a few things that I'm totally hooked on right now and I thought I'd share. In no real order of importance:

Toilet Ink - Jen and I kind of have his and hers bathrooms. Mine is in the hall close to the extra bedroom that we use as a den. One of these glorious creations will be spicing up my throne post haste. Not 100% sure which one I'm getting yet, but pretty sure that it will be "The Hot Seat.

TV on the Radio - I've loved this band since I stumbled blindly upon the "Young Liars" EP and they are consistently good. The new album is amazing and totally worth picking up. I don't know if it's as good as their previous album "Return to Cookie Mountain", but this is a bit more fun and funky, and not quite so dark. If you want to hear what they do, but don't want to pay cash money up front, check out their free live set on the The Interface - Live Feed podcast from iTunes.

This American Life - I'm a bit of a Public Radio / NPR geek. It's OK, I'm fine with it. It's the news I listen to when I'm in the car, and entertainment for me when I'm running around on the weekends. Specifically though, This American Life is hands down the best hour of radio you will ever hope to find. For those unfamiliar, each week there is a theme for the show, and each week they explore different perspectives of that theme from (generally) three or four different people. The topics range from topical (the Mortgage Crises episode was brilliant beyond words) to emotional (coping with death, lying, etc.). The different views or approaches to a subject can be in the form of a book reading, interviews, stand up, or journalistic style reporting. Often, the experience is moving. Again, iTunes has the show available for free Podcasting, so don't be shy. Go subscribe. Fall in love. Then, go to their website and give them a few bucks. It is Public Radio after all.

Urban Medium - I know I've sung the praises of UM here a few times in the past, but I love them so I'm going to do it again. I FINALLY got the cash together to get Kim Jong iLL framed. I placed the order and dropped them off last weekend and will hopefully have them back in the next 3-4 weeks. Now, they have a new Charles Manson / Hello Kitty print that's pretty amazing. I'm gonna have to see if we have room for that too. On it's own, it wouldn't be a hard sell, but she is giving up a substantial chunk of wall space for the three prints I'm already getting framed. Not sure that she wants to live in a UM gallery.

Rue Morgue - I've been picking up this magazine at the bookstore from time to time and it's always been entertaining to me. It's an amazing collection of all things horror in all its art forms. Specifically though, this year's Halloween issue is fantastic. Filled with lists of best ever gore films, reviews for novels and video games, and just fun reading over all. If you don't mind stills of nude people impaled on giant poles, this magazine is for you (or maybe just me).

True Blood - Alan Ball, the genius behind Six Feet Under (my favorite television show of all time), is now giving us vampires in rural Louisiana. Lots of blood, sex, death, and black comedy in a show that imagines life after vampires have come out of the closet. Jen said it best: "I can't wait for this show to be over so we can buy it and watch it all again."

2008-10-21T05:23:00.001-07:00

Good Morning,

Got in to work this morning and about an hour in my system crashed leaving me unable to access the program I need to be productive. Because it's so early, the Helpdesk isn't in yet and I'm left on my own to figure out what to do. I figured I'd check in with my 2.4 faithful readers.

It's always interesting to me when I get pulled out of my world and reminded of all the things taking place around me that I'm not aware of. I drive past the OSU Hospital and James Cancer Research Hospital at least a couple of weeks without so much as a glance. It's a strange little world there, but with my recent visits it's a world I'm getting used to. I've memorized my way through the maze of hallways to get through the main hospital to the wing my sister in law is spending her days in watching daytime TV and going for short, stubby-legged walks. I watch her smile and thank everyone who comes into her room, from the stressed nursing staff to the volunteer coordinator who rambled in to drop off the hospital's television guide and information package.

My job is to hang out for a few (while not making her laugh - the incision kills her when she laughs) and then try to drag my brother out of the room for a few. Sunday he let me take him to dinner, but last night was just a walk around the courtyard.

The courtyard is a big green open space surrounded by the U shape of the hospital and parking garages. It's where patients circuit the walkways and family members sneak cigarettes despite the recorded voice reminding everyone that the entire property is smoke free. The courtyard is where chemo patients come to vomit between their feet while trying to get some fresh air. Mothers and daughters hug each other near the tables set up and fathers bring bags of cheap Chinese food from the food court located near the visitor's parking garage. All the while, leaves the size of dinner plates float lazily back and forth like a sheets of paper blown off a teacher's desk.

---

Strange thing happened the other night. I get in the elevator behind a rather large woman who is dragging around an IV stand. Her bald head is kept warm by a handkerchief she has knotted and pulled over her, and she smiles as she asks me what number I need.

"Eighth floor, please." I say.

"Ah, eight. Good number. I just want to know what happened to the sixth floor."

I smile politely, not quite sure what she's saying, but follow her eyes to the lighted display above the door showing us what floor we're on. Sure enough, there's no sixth floor.

"Hmmm." I said. "I didn't even notice that."

"Yeah, it's pretty strange." she replied.

"Well, it is a research hospital. I bet that's where all the action is. And since they're hiding it, it's either really good stuff that happens there or really bad."

The elevator stopped at the Fifth floor, her stop. She was chuckling to herself.

"Well, I'm going to go find it. I'm on a mission. I'll let you know how it goes. Have a good one."

"Good luck." I said as the door closed.