Christmas

Seventeen weeks of planning, preparation, and perspiration

Seventeen weeks of second-guessing, double-checking, and

over-analyzing.

Seventeen weeks of worry, and hope, and laughs, and reading and writing and stress and

cramped muscles and headaches.

Seventeen weeks of running from the Blue Line to Lincoln Hall so as to never be late.

Seventeen weeks of driving GringO and The World’s Biggest Asshole mad

with my schemes and my fretting.


Seventeen weeks, waiting for this.





Plan A: 27 August 2007 – 23 December 2007

As the guy no one elected but is still the President would say, “Mission Accomplished.”

-Zeepdoggie

Mad ups to the Crunk Monk Mafia and to The GringO and TWBA for all their support. Without you...

Use the Force, Zeep

The Light Side

• The ‘Hawks are doing well.
• My pull box at Dark Tower has produced nothing but amazing comic books.
• Whedon and Cassaday’s X-Men story continues to be the best I’ve read (here’s a sample, but be cautious; this may make you like comics!), the new Thor and Atom are great, and Mouse Guard is simply stunning. If you don't like comics, check out Mouse Guard.
  
• Speaking of Joss Whedon, he will have a new show soon once the networks and other idiots give the writers what they deserve. While reality TV may seem like a good idea, that’s just because most shows aren’t written by Aaron Sorkin, Thomas Schlamme, or Joss Whedon.
• Both women I am pursuing are showing enough interest in me to keep me interested.
• I know Kung Faux.
• I am still working on the boats, and I am still loving it. I am the Deck Monkey!
  
• My co-teachings/observations are going great, confirming that all the bullshit I have put up with from UIC’s Council on Teacher Education has so far been worth it.
• I’ve made some friends that I really hope to have for the rest of my life. Crunk Monk Mafia holla!
• I have spent more time with my old friends recently than I have in the previous months, so the friends front is going very well.

The Dark Side

• I need to get serious about grocery shopping.
• I’ve reawakened my coffee addiction.
• Since both women are showing interest, I cannot just move on one.
• This might not be a bad thing, since it will force me to do the friendship first thing, which I wanted to do anyway. And it's probably best to wait until the end of the semester. But now I walk a keen edge, and my balance isn't all that good…
• The Bears are sucking like a Thai whore with a fifty spit-taped to her forehead.
• CTE’s bullshit is still bullshit.
• I still work in Hell.
• The boats won't go year 'round, and since I need the cash to woo the ladies and pay bills and whatnot, I must take more hours in Hell in order to make ends meet.
  

The dark side will always be defeated by the light side, because bad is dumb. Shitty paraphrase, I know, but fuck it, I am in a good mood for once; let me enjoy it while it lasts.

-Zeepdoggie

two posts in one day! how lucky are you? very lucky, indeed. if only gringo would get off of his dead ass and write something. -z.

Cheers, Geeks!

A few random tidbits while out at the bar with several of my classmates:

“Sweetheart, without cum, you wouldn’t be here.”

B: “J’s a good looking man! Lothario good!”
R: “Yeah. We made love on the tennis courts.”
JS: “Shit R, you said that with such conviction I won’t even think of doubting it!”

B: “Z, you are a son of a bitch, and I mean that with all due respect to the woman who raised you and could therefore kick my ass.”
J: “I fear Irish mothers.”

“I was a fourteen year old comic book geek, what the fuck did I know about the world outside of masturbation?”

Z: “What I love more than having my first impressions being wrong is having them proved right.”
S: “Someone like you totally gets off on being right, I can tell.”
Z, smiling contentedly: “Thanks, S.”

We will be teaching your children. You cannot hide.


-Zeepdoggie

There's Good, and Then Other Stuff

As some of you know, I have a new job. I needed to fill the void left by the library job, and my coworker at Hell, named Smurfy, suggested I become a deckhand on a tour boat.

It is the closest I have ever come to my dream of “no work AND pay.” Even at the most extremely busiest part of my day, which really isn’t very busy at all, it is still a joy to be there. Everyone I have worked with so far has been so cool; I haven’t been in this laid back of an environment since I used to get really, really high a number of years ago. It is a great place to work, and no, I will not tell you how to apply because I want this all to myself, dammit! If it weren’t seasonal, I would consider doing it for the rest of my life.

Which brings me to Hell. When you have one job that is awesome, and the other one is, well, hellish, it is really, really difficult to perform at the bad job. And since I need the crap job to fill in for when the good one ends, it adds this sense of helpless imprisonment. I feel like a POW; I know there is a better place for me out there, but I am fucking trapped in this hot box, my only escape being in the bonding with my fellow walking dead. Di-di mao!

And Cob is not doing anything to make it better. Hopefully, GringO will chime in on this a little bit, since it affected him much more than me. We have three registers per counter; I am sure you can imagine the layout of three registers on a rectangular counter, so I won’t go into detail. Well, when the need arises for a third register to be opened, Cob states that it must be at a different counter (we have three counters with registers). Why, do you ask? Because she thinks that, should there be a close proximity of workers to each other, they will talk to each other. So there must be an empty register between the two ringers, otherwise they might get to conversing, and possibly enjoy the work environment, and hence ruin her plan of subjugation through abysmal morale. When a customer asked me about the situation, which to him looked odd, I explained. HE said, “She must be some kind of bitch.” If I had nodded any harder, I may have broken my neck.

What Cob doesn’t understand is that the work is not the reward, no matter what you’re doing (unless it’s fucking your rich spouse; that’s a two-fer bonus!). The rewards of the job are the relationships developed while performing the work. I don’t keep working at Hell because I like lying to people to convince them to buy something they probably don’t need at nigh-prohibitory prices; I do it because I can hang out with GringO, Wheels, Rolling Thunder, Smurfy, Mel, Don, Toots McDego and all the other cool cats I work with. Even at the new job, where the work is quite easy and also a lot of fun, it’s the conversations with my coworkers that make it so great.

Cob thinks that people getting along and enjoying themselves at work will get in the way of productivity. What she doesn’t get is that unhappy people don’t work. Morale is an essential function of crew performance. In the Navy, one of the chief concerns of the captain was crew morale; when it began to head south, he’d make a point to try and improve it. Good leaders care about their crew, and a happy crew will follow a captain like that into the mouths of hell. Cob, with the social awareness of an autistic sloth, doesn’t get that; she probably can’t. She also probably can’t get laid, which is most likely the real root of all of our woes in Hell.

-Zeepdoggie

Someday No More

My Uncle Danny died recently, and I haven’t really dealt with his death yet. So I am going to force myself to do it. He was an exceptional artist, and he had the most intricate sense of detail. He did this drawing for my mum of a ram; Zeepmomma is into the horoscope stuff (despite all of my lectures concerning astronomy and stellar distances and blah blah blah I am a killjoy), and she is an Aries. I once tried to count all the lines in the horns of the ram; after three days, I stopped at one thousand. Oh, and the picture is drawn on a piece of 8”X10” paper.

He could also do cartoony stuff, too. He had this really cute drawing of his kid playing outside; it’s all wide-eyed innocence and joy, and you can just feel the love coming off of it. I saw it when I was ten, and it’s a drawing that I won’t forget.

Uncle Danny was schizophrenic, and he had a great sense of humor about it. If he was talking to somebody and you walked by, he would say, “Hey, is this person I’m talking to real?” and wink at you. I always liked to say “What person?” He had this one story that he loved to tell. He had come home from work, and sat down to watch the early evening news before dinner. In the middle of the broadcast, the newscaster was handed a piece of paper, and said, “This just in: Dan, get your shit together because they are coming to get you. You have about ten minutes before they come through the front door. Go out the cellar, because they have the back door covered. So, what’s the weather look like for tomorrow, Bill?” That’s when my uncle realized he missed a dosage while at work.

He was really short, about 5’6”. One time, while camping, he tried to hike up behind us kids to scare us. As he was ascending this hill covered in brush, he pulled on a dead tree branch to get himself up, and it broke off in his hand. Had he been two inches taller, his plan might have succeeded. Instead, he wound up rolling ass over teakettle all the way down the hill, through thorn and thistle.

My uncle was just 65; three years younger than my mum and two younger than my dad. I sit here and think about the fact that one of my best friends has lost his father, and my cousin has lost his father, and another cousin lost his mother. Of my mum’s kids, I am the only one who still has his dad.

Recently, a comics artist named Mike Wieringo passed away, very unexpectedly, at the age of 44. Ringo drew with a very animated style, during a point in comics where the goal was to be more accurate and more musclebound than the last guy. He was about clean lines and emotion. His Fantastic Four is, in my mind, the definitive look for those characters. He had created a truly beautiful universe with his longtime creative partner Todd Dezago in his books called “Tellos.” I highly recommend you read them. If you have kids, they will love the books, too.

Ringo always wanted to return to the world of Tellos, and kept putting it off for other jobs, so as to support his family and pay bills. We all do the “someday” speech. The truth that we don’t tell ourselves is simple and so hard to hear and believe: there is no “someday,” there is only today. So, today, call your mom or your dad, or both. Write the story and try to get it published. Do it, whatever it is. Every day is perfect, and every day is beautiful, come whatever may. Don't let a single one get away from you.

-Zeepdoggie

052

Today is my birthday! Yay! My mum woke me at 0442 to let me know just what was going on at that time 32 years ago. She doesn’t skimp on the details, either. I don’t think bacon and eggs will go down so smoothly now. Best stick with cereal. Cheerios, since they don't turn the milk any weird colors.

So, thirty-two… For those that can, what do/did you dig about thirty-two? It’s a cool number, all rounded and soft-looking. Cool facts about 32 are also welcome.

I’m feeling pretty good so far. 31 was bad; you’ve read some of the crap that got posted last year, you know about it. But it’s not 31 anymore! I am one better than Baskin-Robbins!

My birthday is the only day of the year where I try to think of myself in a 100% positive light. I don't feel selfish for buying myself something; I don't reflect on all the bad shit that has happened, is happening, or will potentially happen; and I try to forget all the times I was a jerk. It's a reminder of the possibility that we all start with of being good people. On my birthday, I bring that to the front of my brain.

“So what are you doing for your birthday?” I am going to my German class, then coming home. I’ll have lunch with the world’s greatest photographer, then go to work with the kiddies. After that, it’s off to Borders for my birthday shopping spree and free dessert! Then home to put the finishing touches on any homework assignments, make a phone call or two, grab one of my new books and hit the sheets.

Yeah, I know how to party.

There will be a celebration later; the Cock-Sucking Mohican is hosting a party for D and me, since our birthdays are a day (well, two years and a day) apart. It will be a good time. Hey, you wanna come?

-Zeepdoggie

Happy Birthday GringO!

Happy Birthday, GringO! He’s twenty-three, everybody! Can you believe it? All growed up, just about. And what do we have to show for it? Well, there are pics from his birthday bash! I only have two, because other folks had cameras, notably Wheels, who will hopefully share the images they have of that night with me so I can share them with you. Here are the pics that I have. Actually, the other pic is too dark, so I guess I just have the one. Aren't we cute?

But what I do have to share with you are some random quotes that came up that night that I feel I should share with you all.
And away we go!

“Everybody’s face looks Asian from far away…”

“I’m bringing my flask to work!”
“Your what?!”
“My FLASK!”
“Oh, I thought you said ‘Flash,’ like your Flash costume.”

“I am not an asshole; I am a dick, because dicks fuck pussies and assholes. If they didn’t, the world would be covered in shit.”

“He called me a Jeffersonian!”
“aHaH!”

“So, Nietzsche…”
"Yeah…those wacky Germans!”

After that, it all got really drunk.

Happy birthday, GringO! Did you get what you wanted?

-Zeepdoggie

Finals Finale!

Hello, my beloved readers! I have grand news! The semester is over! Yay! You know what that means, right? You guessed it! It means I have more opportunities to write to you, my lovey-doveys! Look at how excited you are, peeing your pants and everything!

Now some of you missed me, I am sure, and some of you could care less as to what has happened to me. To those of the former, I say, as I hold a finger tenderly to your trembling lips, "Hold your tongue, my pet. I am here, now...for you." To those of the latter, I say, "AHAAHAHAHAHA! I AM BACK, BITCHES! BORN TO IRRITATE YOU, LIKE POISON OAK FOR YOUR DWINDLING CRANIUM! AS YOU SUFFER, I GUFFAW PURE LAFFS!"

Ahem...

So I would like to apologize for completely disappearing off of the Erf to the following people: Ren (I am so your bitch) and the happy household who lives only to serve her; Tim, who I swear I will call back soon; Tom and all the other dudes I game online with; and that nice young lady who somehow got my email address and sends me naked pictures (I swear I am not making this up; sometimes God does throw a little sunshine Zeepdoggie's way); Rolling Thunder and all the other cronies who toil with me in Hell and also read this pap. To all of you, I will soon say, "Hiya!" Except for Ren, to whom I will say, "Please forgive me, O fecund goddess of acerbic wit!"

So finals went off without a hitch. I did not ask out any of my professors or TA's, as I had hoped to. Cowardice is a potent little mood-killer. But I had a lot of fun hanging out with the Dimmer Twins of Cloud and Willi, two young lads in my Deutschklasse, and with Cake-Free Katie, who is not emo, but quite bright, and MO and K and Z, who will be forming with me a writing guild where we will share our ideas and works and see if they can't put a little shine on the shit I sling to the paper that I dare call "writing."

And then there is The Project, which is coming along. There will be a post about that soon enough, hold yer horses.

So what is up with you, sunshine? Let me hear ya!

-Zeepdoggie

Welcome Aboard, Jake!

Jacob Ryan Federici, the latest member of Zeepdoggie's growing crew of grandnephews and-nieces, has joined the ranks. Pipe him aboard, and let the spoiling begin!

Seriously though, Jake Ryan? My niece's obsession with 80's movies has gotten out of control. Besides, think of how much cooler that baby would be in high school if Mom and Dad went with the most famous character in that movie.

ROLL CALL

"Evans, Josh..."
"Here."
Federici...Long Duk Dong!?"
"...sigh..."

I guess it could've been worse. I remember her being really into "Top Gun." Maverick Iceman Federici would've been okay, but imagine if she went the RIO route: that's right, folks, Goose Slider Federici.
That would be totally hott! No wait; it would be HOTTT!

-Zeepdoggie

And Jake, that Great Uncle Zeepdoggie to you! Love ya, bubba!

It's About Sports...Tune in if you like

As I was looking through my jerseys today, trying to figure out what to wear, I thought of an interesting question, which I will share with you.

If you could have any six game-worn jerseys, which would they be?

1. Stan Mikita's jersey from the 1961 Stanley Cup final game.
2. You know that shot of Walter Payton jumping eight feet in the air for the touchdown? That jersey.
3. The jersey Patrick Roy wore when he winked at Tomas Sandstrom in the 1993 Stanley Cup finals.
4. Dick Butkus's first game jersey.
5. The Golden Jet's jersey when he broke the 50-goal barrier. FYI, it was March 12, 1966, against the Rangers. The 'Hawks won 4-2.
   
6. The jersey Dikta wore during that incredible touchdown run where he breaks seventy-four tackles. Seriously, it's like everybody who ever played for the other team got two shots at him.

What about you?

-Zeepdoggie

A Shout-Out to the Big Guy

Thank you God, for:

• my life, which is perfect, even when it's not;
• my pain, because it means that where it now hurts there was once something wonderful;
• my optimism, which hides in my pessimism;
• the people I know, and the ones I meet;
• swear words;
  
• the incredible sunrises and sunsets over the last two weeks (they've been faboo!);
• every little kid who's smiled at me;
• all the opportunities I've been given (I've tried to use them all!);
• the blessings that I can now call memories;
• listening to all of my whining (that goes double for you folks!);
• not giving up on me, even after I did;
• physics;

and last but not least...
Thank you, God, for all of the beauty that's been crammed on this paradise we call Earth. Especially the ladies! Great job on the looks, but do they all have to be nuckin' futs?

Just, playin' ladies; you know I love you.

-Zeepdoggie

Ahhh...

That last post was a little negative don't you think?

I really don't have anything to say, but I feel like I should do something to lighten the mood. But I'm not feeling very funny, so, as a group, let us marvel at the peerless and ethereal perfection of one of my long-standing crushes.






*sigh*

I'm feeling better already. And even if this woman is not your cup o' tea, at least I'm not whining. Everybody wins!

-Zeepdoggie

I seek opinions!

In my LitCrit class, we have been having an ongoing discussion that deals with defining literature. So, since you are all obviously intelligent (you read me, don't you ;p), you tell me: what is literature? Be specific or vague, give examples or not. Let us discuss!

Hot Wheels

I finally did it! I got myself a new bike! In silver, jut like Kevin Bacon in that bike movie that was so implausible that I noticed plot holes in it when I first saw it, and I was nine. But my God is the bike fast! From UIC to my place in 25 minutes! The lights were with me, and I had a good wind at my back, but still... My fastest time before that was 40 minutes. I am in love. What should I name her?

Oh, and if you need a bike, go to Kozy's. They have an awesome staff, and have some really good prices, especially now. You guys know I don't shill, so trust me when I say that this place is awesome.

Im going riding! Until I get back, no streets or sidewalks are safe from my rampaging speed.

-Zeepdoggie

Proof that God loves me

Yesterday was terribly exciting, as the following stories and pictures will prove. First on the agenda was attending grandniece Kayla’s birthday party/block party. As stated previously, I hadn’t gotten much sleep (Ich schlafe nicht), so I was pretty bleary until 1100, when I decided, since the old man, Zeepdaddy, wanted to leave at noon, that I should get my shit together and shower, shave, whathaveyou.
I get all this done, and take the Princess out for her constitutional. It’s not that I don’t trust her, I would much rather have her all tired with an empty bladder than leave her alone for a potential twelve hours. I know, I’m a bad daddy; but daddies need fun too, dammit! Especially this one.
But she takes forever! Four trips around the block before she finally deigns a place worthy of her poo. I do the civic duty thing, and take her in, and at a fast pace in the “Where did this come from” heat, truck my butt to the Parental Unit’s storage facility.
It turns out that Zeepmomma isn’t going because it’s going to be too hot today. Wimp. It’s only going to get up to 98 degrees Fahrenheit! But she won’t budge. I tell her, “But it’s going to be 37 degrees Celsius, Mom!” She says then she’ll be too cold. So she doesn’t go. Oh, well, at least Barb is coming too, right? It turns out that Barb might have pink eye, and must go to the doc before going to a party with little kiddies about. Makes sense. So it’s me and Zeepdaddy-o for the ride to the Par-tay.
Not necessarily a bad thing, but the old man is a special breed of man. Kind of a cross breed between man, bear, Sherman tank and rabies. He’s a big, burly, coughing, smoke-belching, angry, unstoppable force with a penchant for foul language and little to no tact. No one is safe from my Daddy-o; he hates just about everyone and everything with an equal amount of anti-pathos. I have often said that my father doesn’t love in the usual sense; he just dislikes some people less than others. My dad would have gone up to Marcus Aurelius and called him a pussy. He is an essentially German man, in the fact that he is xenophobic to the point of not liking houseguests that don’t stop by more than six times a year. Anyone he doesn’t recognize is to be loathed and shipped out of the country in a box labeled, “Return To Sender.”
And that is my dad, in a pretty good mood.

Behind the wheel, my father adds impatience, massive amounts of self-importance, and two tons of V6 powered metal to his repertoire. It is equally frightening and exhilirating riding with the Zeepdaddy. It’s the thrill that, at any point, you will be in an accident where you will witness a one-legged man beating someone with his prosthesis. Exciting doesn’t begin to cover it.
I black out during most of the drive, which is a technique I learned about twenty-five years ago.
I suppose I should mention that I am quite different from the rest of my family. And I don’t mean in that way that says, “I take after my mom’s side and everyone else takes after my dad’s.” At some point in the growth process, I somehow, and as far as I am concerned instantly, became very different from the rest of my family. They are loud, and I like to be contemplative. I like to write poetry and prose, whereas they read the Enquirer as literature and the "not too heady" stuff from the Oprah Book Club. I like talking about my feelings and being tragically romantic; they think it’s beautiful when someone uses the Jumbotron to propose, and the fat encephilitic kids in "Love Is.." tell you all you need to know about amore. They all smoke, and I never have. Why would I have to, when at family gatherings there are never fewer than fifteen cigarettes lit at any point in time? My brothers and sisters are vastly older than I am, so that accounts for most of that. But my nephews and nieces are close enough in age to me that there should be something. But they all have kids, for the most part, and jobs and adult responsibilities. All I have is college, my two not-really-real jobs, and my depressing/exciting existence. There are times when I feel I have the most in common with my dead relatives. It’s weird, but I feel like I don’t have anything to offer them, even though I love all of them so very much. There really isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for them, and that is especially true of my nephews, and double-plus true for my nieces, and super-double-plus true for the grands.

I mean, look at them. Can you blame me?


This is Taylor with her pale Uncle Z. She's the number one reason I got out of the Navy. I have proof of that statement.



This is Kayla, also known as the Ham, or the Hammer of Cute. She's the birthday girl, and the most beautiful girl born on her birthday, ever.



And this is Nicholas, who has a severe throwing arm, a fact his uncle Joe learned as he repeatedly took fastball after fastball directly in the fork from a very dense Nerf ball. Seriously, he can hurl.



Barb did show, and the party was a blast-ee. I might not be much like them, but I do love them.
So we left, and, some indiscriminate time later, I arrived home, blissfully unaware of what my father had done during the drive.
But I must now get ready for a beach party for Gordon. Good ol’ “Mustang Sally,” himself. The deal is that I am going to pick up M at work, then we will Red Line it together to Morse, and the beach there. I totally forgot that Morse is in Rogers Park. Not as dodgy as it once was, it’s still not a place to feel comfy after dark. By the time we get there, everybody is pretty drunk, and none of M’s friends are going to show. This, of course, means no K. Crap. But I get to hang with M, and Gordo, and Eric, who is a very cool individual, and some other cool people and some drunken idiots.
The highlight of the evening: some really fucked up individual (be it booze, weed, crack, whatever; it was anybody’s guess) was dancing to the music that was serving as an interlude to the Movie on the Beach. He was really going strong for almost two hours, dancing to his own private little rhythm. At some point he just collapsed; and there, lying on the ground, he continued his gyrations and footwork, dick first in the dirt. It’s a story I can’t wait to tell my kids just before I warn them of the dangers of abusing controlled substances.
Another highlight. The movie was “March of the Penguins.” Someone walking on the beach asks a guy on a bike, “Hey, what movie is it?”
“’March of the Penguins,’ and it sucks!”
“Why?”
“I can’t follow the story, man. And some dude, I think it’s God or somethin’ keeps talkin’ over the motherfuckin’ thing! It really fuckin’ sucks!”
“Who’s starrin’ in it?”
“Fucked if I know man!”
And they say the art of documentary is unappreciated.
So we wind up back at Gordon and Eric’s place, where I catch a glimpse of Eric’s nude girlfriend when I’m coming out of the bathroom. Now that is how you ingratiate yourself to your host.
I finally sit down, and realize that I am exhausted, I’m bummed about no K present, and I inadvertently start a fight between Gordon and Eric. I decide to head on out; it’s 10:30, and I am on my way home.
The beach party served its purpose. I hung out with Eric and Gordon, and I solved my ambiguity.

On the way home, I realized how much I miss my family. I miss the big get-togethers for the holidays, and the camping trips where everybody showed up. I miss making Nessa laugh, and I miss all the times I never held Taylor, Nicholas and Kayla. I miss being around to hear the stupid shit Barb will say, or what goofy thing Joe will do to amuse everybody. I miss Kiki and Jenny trying to one-up each other on the scale of dumb. Hell, there was a part of me that missed Larry, and I am sure I have more memories of people I sit next to on the train than I do with him. And I definitely miss Bob, and Aunt Sharon, and my Granpa & Gramma.
I've got to do something to make the missing become the remembering.

Freitag!

Friday. Friday, Friday, Friday! Actually, for me, Friday is more like Sunday, since I have to work on Saturday, Sunday and Monday. But it’s still a mythical day from back when I worked a 0700-1500 shift for a well meaning, but poorly managed, telecommunications contractor. And, of course, the magic of Fridays when you were in school.
But this is a Friday unlike my other Fridays. I don’t work tomorrow, and I had another fun, awesome, long pedagogy discussion with the great, intelligent, well-spoken members of the faculty of a college I won’t name. And went out for a drink (two beers! And I used to be such a tea totaler…or is it teetotaler? Spell check says the latter!) with J afterwards, and then saw the Great Chrome Bean for the first time. I was totally enraptured by that thing! First, I was just grooving on the reflections of the city, and people, then I started to look at the shape and figure out what formula you use to derive it. I know it’s calculus, and I was speculating whether it was a saddle combined with an ellipsoid or an elliptical paraboloid, but then realized that I was missing out on some beautiful music. The orchestra in Millennium Park was playing Bruckner, whom I had never heard before, and J and I took a moment to just listen.
Classical music just has that effect on me. It is so much more emotive than any other musical form. Only in classical music can you find a composer’s ability to make you feel the joy of crying at a funeral, the sadness of a child’s first smile, or the triumph over disappointment and fate when one has been laid at his lowest. I love just about every form of music, except jazz, and I appreciate what those other musical styles bring to the world. But only in classical can you find humor, tragedy, lust, strength and holiness, and all in the same movement.

*Note: it’s not that I hate jazz, it’s just that it puts me to sleep. Seriously, five minutes into any jazz and I will be out like a light. In my music appreciation class, after I fell asleep listening to a selection the professor made, he asked me what kind of music it was. I answered immediately, if a little blearily, jazz. And how did I know that, he wanted to know. “Because I fell asleep,” I said.
And, there’s the whole thing about jazz that it’s like an inside joke. Go to a jazz club, sit down, listen for a bit. Nothing terribly interesting happens, but then the whole crowd smiles, laugh that smug laugh, and either clap or snap their approval. You didn’t hear the band do anything clever or technical, at least you don’t think so, so you ask the person next to you what the guys just did that was so cool. He turns to you, cigarette smoke wafting artistically from his hand as he says, “It’s not what he did, man, it’s what he didn’t do!”
Now fuck that! I am not going to sit here after paying a cover and conforming to a two-drink minimum just to have to pay attention to both what they’re doing and what they should be doing! This is really starting to sound like class work. So, I bounce on jazz. It’s good, and you have to be great to play it, but I listen to music to relax, not study.*

So Jand I took the time to listen to Bruckner build this incredible soundscape, and just chill in the grass by a tree. It was special and peaceful, and the park had a great energy and community going on. J had to leave for her train, and I ran into work to give Lord K the new stuff I had written, and to say hi. He is really enthusiastic about this idea that we’re working on. We are going to have to get an outline running together here.
Friday night: fun with German.
I must go and try to get some sleep; I wound up staying out later than I expected (note the time of the post) and I have to get up later today to see my beautiful grandnieces and my wonderfully mischievous grandnephew.

So you say you want a... Revelution?

I'm getting on the Red Line to ride for two stops, then do the xfer to the Blue and get my shagged ass home, when I see four youngsters at the end of the platform, huddled around something. I walk up and, lo and behold, they are writing on the deck of the platform in chalk! Which I don't mind in the least bit; it's easily cleanable (if the CTA ever thought of cleaning the fucking platforms; more on that later), and it sends a message. I really don't care what the message is: if it's "Eat Dick," so long as it's in chalk, write on, brother!
But they have written a subversive message. Ooohh, angry white teens from the suburbs or the Gold Coast who want change! My favorite flavor of hypocrite. What's even better is their message, which I get to see them write, since no one is willing to go near a group of teens hanging out in this manner on an el platform. Since I plan on being one of the chief authority figures in the teen demographic's collective life (did the whole world just shudder? or was that a guffaw?), I walk up right behind them and read

START
YOUR OWN
REVELUTION

I let out a very disappointed sigh, which they hear, and turn to look at me guiltily. They stand up, and I shake my head at them. I take the chalk away from Kid A, who is most likely afraid that I will now alert the Proper Authorities.
I look at them all, and then look at their slogan. I say, "Well?" To which Kid B, who is so stoned I am amazed he can speak, says, "Whut?"
I shake my head again, and erase the second "E" with my foot. I then write the "O" that should have been there in the first place and put a semicolon at the end of their statement. Directly beneath their now correct slogan, I write

STAY
IN
SCHOOL.

And yes , I did place a period there.

Kid A says, "What the fuck does that mean?" I then give him a discourse on revolutions led by folks who were illiterate and uneducated that were successful. Can't think of any either, can you? Barbarian hordes sacking cities and destroying Rome doesn't count as a revolution; that is an overthrow. Revolutions need smart people. Just ask Jefferson and Franklin, Marx and Engels, Guevara and Lenin. We had a great discussion after that about what type of revolution they wanted. They want a world where everyone can be happy. "Even the murderous rapists?" I ask. Of course not, the group answers. They plan on being tough on criminals. "And we're not tough enough already?" I ask. And they say no. So I ask them to go into detail about how we could be tougher, and where we are weak. "We let guilty guys go because of technicalities and shit," says Kid A, clearly the brains of the outfit. It's okay, I cried for them too. "You mean, technicalities like the police fucked up on evidence and their investigations?" Kid B nods with me; a spark is starting to glow in his head. He doesn't look comfortable with that, and Kid A is sure as hell not cool with Kid B, and maybe Kid C, agreeing with this old man.
I need to catch my train this time (I let one go during the discussion, but I feel a rumbly in my tumbly and want to get home ASAP), so I tell them to read some Marx and Engels, and read Hamilton's account of the writing of the Constitution, and anything by Guevara, and the history of the Reign of Terror. Then read anything about ethics and philosophy that they can get their hands on. After that, then you can legitimately think about revolution. "With an 'o' this time," my parting shot as I board the train. Just before Foo Fighters kick in, I hear Kid B say, "He's cool for an old guy." Kid C responds, "Yeah, but he's gotta be a teacher or somethin'."
I think I will smile about this for a whole week.

I just realized how much cooler this post would be had I been equipped with a digital camera. I guess it's time to get one, eh?

For Susan, from California: Thank You

Today was incredible. A big ol’ dose of what I needed after yesterday, after this weekend; shit, it’s exactly what I needed for friggin’ ever!

Today I had a truly, classically romantic experience. What follows is true and wonderful and bittersweet and will soon be made into a short story, play, then film directed by Mike Nichols, who can’t direct a movie until it’s been directed as a play.

I was having just a shitty day at work. I got yelled at for suggesting facetiously that the greeter should wear sunglasses when it’ so sunny outside. Seriously, I got gang-bitched by three people who took me way too seriously. I should just wear a shirt: CAUTION: BULLSHIT PRESENT. KEEP SARCASM DETECTORS ON AT ALL TIMES.
But folks who take retail that seriously do scare me a lot. It’s clothing, you jerks. I know people who feed the homeless, do missions, teach to disadvantaged kids, and they don’t take themselves as seriously as you do. It’s not rocket science, it’s marketing. And so I jumped into a bit of Bill Hicks at work (click here), which really set the tone for the morning. Telling your boss what they do is evil, no, EVIL, true and deep, causing little girls to vomit so they’ll be thin enough, making men hate themselves because they’re not handsome enough, promoting fashion beyond function, charging too much money for shit made by five year old hands in countries they’ll never see on “E! Wild On…”, making fake boobs as common as real boobs type of EVIL, really gives them perspective on your career in retail.

That perspective is standing on the cliff’s edge, watching you fall.

So I go to lunch, and just get to relax a bit, take a load off, and it does me some good. I get downstairs and see a young woman by the backpacks. I ask her if she needs any help, and she looks at me, right in the eyes, smiles, and says, “Please.”

Ten thousand violins sweep into a crescendo of a note that has never been transcribed.
I feel the wind from an angel’s wing push the hair on the back of my neck.

So, I say, “Okay,” and we start talking about backpacks. And then we’re just talking. We’re talking about being active, and sports, and how much it sucks that her bike is broken. And I’m walking her to the register. She offers me her hand, and says, “I’m Susan, and I’d like to thank you for your help…”
I take her hand, and

Waves beach on rocks crash in my heart.
Real world swims away.
My breath falls away to a great height and I can’t hold her hand enough.
And she’s smiling and looking at me and she is perfect holding my hand.

So I say, “I’m Russ, and helping you was the best thing to happen to me today, Susan.” And she blushes, really blushes and I am so lost right now and she goes to the counter smiling.

I find out from a co-worker that we had been talking for a half-hour. I am going to ask this woman out, I decide. I couldn’t tell if there was a policy against it or not, but fuck that. I don’t want to go to bed tonight hoping that she’ll walk into the store again someday so I can say then what I can say right now. If the store has a policy, then I’m ignoring it; no, I’m breaking it.
I get a pen, and write down my name and both of my phone numbers. She’s done at the register, and she’s walking to the door, and I say, “Excuse me, Susan…” And she stops and turns toward me and she’s smiling already; she has to know what I’m going to do. I can feel the blush all over me. She is lovely, even under the store lights. She’s glowing from her own sun under her skin. She says, “Yes, Russ?” And how happy am I that she remembered my name!

“I was wondering, should you get your bike fixed, if you would like to go for a ride sometime?”

The longest seconds in history.


She smiles and says, “I would love to!
“But I leave for home tomorrow. I’m visiting family here.”
Still hopeful, I ask, “Where’s home?”
“California.”

We both see the disappointment on our faces.

And we start talking again, and she was an elementary school teacher but is now going into the private sector and thinks it’s amazing that I want to teach, too! And she just keeps getting lovelier as we’re talking and it’s because I’m never going to see her again.
She says, “I wish I’d come in sooner,” which she read in my eyes.

And we say goodbye, still looking at each other.

And today was a great day, because a beautiful woman named Susan was sweet and warm to me, and looked at me in a way that I haven’t been looked at in a while. I don’t know what she saw, but I know how it made me feel.

And today was a great day because I am going to bed free of regret, because I tried, and she did, too.
Thank you, Susan, for sharing your time, and your lovely voice, and your adorable smile with me. Thank you for listening to my prattle about backpacks, and laughing with me. Thank you for letting me look at you.

Thank you Susan, for being the best part of my day.

Pedagogy A-Go-Go

Yesterday I went to a meeting of some fellow educators, these others are actually working in the field, and we discussed pedagogy. Pedagogy is best thought of as the dogma of teaching; the research, practices, philosophies and studies designed to make the classroom a better place for learning. It can be quite fun, but it can be, and is often, pedantic and very idealistic. Anyway, it’s really fun to talk about if you’re a young teacher, and the one who invited you to the discussion is hot.
We discussed Maxine Greene’s “The Dialectic of Freedom,” a book that I won’t bore you with the details. Just know that Greene is very smart, loves to name drop, and has some great ideas that she doesn’t always follow through on. I guess that’s on purpose, because then it leads you to decide how to follow through. Or maybe she’s just lazy.
But there we were, in a classroom discussing the literature of the field. A real, honest-to-God discussion, like I imagined them to be in college. It was like Lisa’s trip to the local college campus in that one “Simpsons.” I love my other classes, in that I have great professors. But there have been times when the discussion between students was sorely lacking. It’s like we wanted to distract ourselves. Sometimes this was out of the boredom, ennui if you will, that we suffered in the class. Mostly it’s because nobody did the reading except for the pedagogy geeks in the class (all right, me and a few others), and everyone else was just saying whatever they thought teaching should be, and then they just said whatever.
But this was real college talk. References made to the classics; holes that we found in the arguments; points made, rebutted, remade, redefined; jargon everywhere. It was so much fun that I haven’t stopped smiling. It was the best two hours I spent in a classroom after school. Except for that one time when Sharon and I snuck into the Chem Tech lab at night. Well, let’s just say that they were both the best for very different reasons.

Karaoke Macht Frei

I did not anticipate 13 July 2006 to go down as it did. Seven months ago, I expected to be on the way to someplace like Lake Geneva for a romantic birthday celebration. Up until yesterday, I expected to be all wallowing and depressed-like. It wound up being the most fun I’ve had outside my circle of friends since the Navy.
A co-worker in Hell invited we fellow sufferers to her birthday celebration, which was to be at Friar Tuck’s, where there would be karaoke. I had several reservations about this. First off, music is a faith, and karaoke is a cult. Secondly, Friar Tuck’s is in the heart of where M and I would hang out. And, it was going to be on her birthday. So I was going to go back to where I hung out with my ex on her birthday. Yeah, you’re getting the creeps too, right? Has this ever happened to you? If it has, you know why I was just going to back out.
But the co-worker called to see if I was going, and being totally whipped by the female population as a whole, I said “Yes’m. I’ll be there.” I probably don’t have to mention that she’s cute, do I?
So I leave, and take the Brown Line to get to Wellington instead of the Red Line to get to Belmont. The Red Line is a lot faster to Belmont than the Brown is to Wellington, for those not in the know. But Red Line-Belmont is also “How Your Hero Got to M’s Place,” so we decided to skip that little train wreck down memory lane and choose a wholly different route. But I underestimated how much walking M and I did around there, since everything triggered a memory that hurt. I round the corner of Wellington and Broadway, across the street from Bobtail, a great little sundae shop that we frequented. I decided, fuck it, this is going to happen all night. I’m going home. But I see the co-worker outside the bar, and she has a cute friend with her, K, and I decide that there is only one way to go, and that is to embarrass the shit out of myself in front of cute ladies and total strangers. You know, as per usual.
I had some drinks, a lot of great conversations, sang a Nickelback song to roaring applause, hung out with another cool co-worker D (who rocks an Otis Redding tune better than any white man has a right to), met several pretty girls who were drunk enough to find me interesting and/or attractive, and… (drum roll, please)….

I didn’t think about M once.

For the first time in seventeen months, she was not the first thing on my mind. I smiled not because of a memory that is now bittersweet, but because of the joy of the moment, of the instant it happened, with no reference to anything I have been through over the last two years.
It was a long train ride home, and the Princess had licked a hole in the rug (don’t underestimate the power of the Princess’s tongue; it has knocked down large adults), but I slept soundly, dreamed deeply, and woke up smiling.
I take back most of the bad stuff I have said about karaoke. For last night, karaoke was liberation. Karaoke made me free.