The Igloo Oven

Little Bucharest

2012-02-12T14:51:00.000-08:00

My girlfriend has class Tuesday nights so we decided to do our Valentines dinner early. We cruised through Open Table, wanting to try something different. We found Little Bucharest, up the street from us on Elston. It looked fancy, and Romanian food is a different cuisine from our usual Chinese/Thai/Sushi or Mexican dine out excursions. I arrived on time for our 7pm reservation but snow decided to hit Chicago for a change this winter season, delaying my girlfriend in traffic. I was chilled from the windy, precipitating walk. As I sat at the table alone, I got the feeling the waitstaff thought I was being stood up. When she arrived, all was a good time. I had shrimp wrapped in a leaf, on a bed of garlic couscous, tasty, complex, filling! The owner was making the rounds, he saw my clean plate and tried to mess with me "why don't you like my food what's the matter with you...hahahaha!" Then he pulled out a bottle of some kind of clear liquor, I think it was ouzo, and asked to bless my girlfriend. She politely passed as she was driving and we already had some wine. I was feeling adventurous. So he drained a considerable splash of it into my mouth, wrapped his arm around to hold a cloth to close my mouth until I swallowed it all. It burned. But it was good. He made the rounds to do this to others.

Before we left he mentioned they have free limo service for groups of six or me. So we'll be lining up a triple date. I enjoyed the ambiance of the place, very jovial. Not only was it a meal, it was an experience. It made me think of a lingering urge I've had to spend some time in a European village, where there perhaps was only one eatery. And the townsfolk gather there to feast, and drink, and have a splendid time. Elation. No worrying. Spirits in the darkened light above protein and fermented beverage.

Opinion Jungle

2012-02-10T16:08:00.000-08:00

The internet has no shortage of opinions. It's released the flood gate of opinions. Scroll through twitter, facebook, blogs, you got your overdose of opinions. I've been guilty of this too. I've spouted off plenty of my own opinions as if others would savor reading them, and I apologize for any arrogance there.

I've become annoyed with opinions. Everyone is trying to out snark one another, like we're experts. In fact real experts are too busy to opine all over the internet. I just don't how interested I am in judgment. That's the thing. This throng of opinionaters that think they're throwing down fresh commentary are really, when it comes to it, just judging. We have too many judges out there. Live tweeting is the worst.

And here I am judging and writing about opinion. New habits die with difficulty. I read a quote by Aaron Sorkin recently, "I am all for everyone having a voice, I just don't think everyone has earned the microphone. And that's what the Internet has done. " And it makes me think about my own and what I've done to earn it. If I have. When I will have earned it. In the meantime, thank you for reading this blog if I haven't earned my voice. Though I am close to the dirty thirty. I think being a person throughout three decades must be worth something.

This is all very presumptuous of me.I ate a lot in the way of greasy foods this week, fried chicken, etc and wound up feeling depressed. My computer has been running really slow, like my arteries. Perhaps my Popeyes chicken gave my computer heart disease too.

I was going to write a post here earlier this week but my computer has been acting shitty and I got distracted trying to optimize its performance and so I didn't wind up writing the post. I forget what it was about but I feel it would have been the most brilliant thing.

This morning while waiting for the train a woman was scratching away at lotto tickets. I was hoping she'd win, rooting for her. It would be great to see her jump for joy at a life changing cash prize. I take it she didn't win. She stomped her feet at some lingering pigeons. Man, usually I'm not very quick celebrate other people's success. I get too envious I guess. But I was hoping to be selfless and get excited for a complete stranger getting lucky.

CPS Flaw

2012-02-04T10:58:00.000-08:00

This morning I read an article in the Huffington Post about how CPS has been losing millions to teachers that are cashing out at retirement on unused sick and vacation days. Now, my girlfriend is a hard working teacher, and I'm usually quick to defend against any suspicion of teacher perks, however this seems like a gaping flaw. I understand the idea of rewarding teachers that don't take advantage of days off, but let's remember sick days and personal days are designed to protect teachers (or any worker for that matter) against losing salary when unexpected life things come up. If they have to use them, they're protected, they get paid. If they don't use them, well, then they still get paid. In no other industry can one cash out on unused sick or vacation days. And as a result, CPS is paying out millions when that money can be used to not lay off teachers. Or to hire more teachers. Or to pay teachers more when they start teaching an extra 90 minutes a day. Award teachers for doing more! Not for just fulfilling expectations of showing up to work when they can.

And in knowing a teacher intimately, every teacher knows that missing a day actually creates a lot more catch up work. There doesn't necessarily need to be an incentive to deter teachers from taking a sick day. Last week my girlfriend was out sick on Monday and spent the rest of the week catching up.

Teachers get bashed enough by politicians, and I hate to add any more criticism to the field, however I felt the urge to throw down my thoughts that this act of cashing out on unused sick days is an inefficient way to reward the hard work of teachers. I'd rather that money be used to help balance the budget so that teachers don't continually face the fear of getting RIFed each spring.

But we don't have to worry, Rahm Emanuel just found out about this and he's not happy. The King of Chicago will certainly have his way with this.

Why I'd Be a Bad Candidate for An Acid Trip Right About Now

2012-01-28T13:04:00.000-08:00

If some one were to hand me a box wrapped with left over X-mas wrapping paper with a few tabs of acid on the inside, it would be a terrible idea for me to partake in the contents.

Last night I had a dream my bath tub was infested with bugs. Long, wiggly, snarling, hybrids of ear whigs, tube worms, and leeches. I would see these everywhere if I took a tab.

Yesterday I helped solve a technical issue with a client. The client was of course stressed, passing on the whole man who kicks dog syndrome of hand me down agitation. So of course not wanting to lose a client I took the whole situation seriously, to the point of paranoia. Now that the issue was resolved yesterday, the paranoia lingers that the error will re-present itself, laughing in my face. I can't seem to stop thinking about it, thus compelling me to keep checking in and probably bugging the shit out them.

Today I went to a Mexican grocery to get stuff to make my sick girlfriend soup. Hordes of kids ran up and down the aisles. I couldn't make a step with out feeling myself spun around with their sprint made wind. At the check out the clerks were munching on apples and I couldn't understand what they were saying to me. I felt dizzy when I left. In fact, I'm feeling some congestion fill up my cheek bones with a visit from the winter depression witch doctor. Oh boy, it's true, I have felt pretty damn jolly this winter season up until this point. I need to lay out on a beach drinking canned beer with limes crammed in, soaking up the 10,000 IU of natural radiating vitamin D. My Wood Sugars counterparts are in Hawaii with their family right now. My girlfriend and I are planning an exotic trip to Milwaukee in the spring, so they can feel the pay back of jealousy.

Clearing my head would be a good thing, and granted an acid trip would do an intense job of it. But I think instead I will compete with myself on the Wii, blaring classical music on vinyl, while sitting on the lazy boy recliner, pressing my lower back up against my heated massage pad.

For the record no one is pounding on my door bearing gifts of LSD. And if they were, then this post would actually wind up being a misguided farewell letter blaming the end of my coherence on hybrid bugs ruining the place where I take long, hot showers.

Whenever I feel stressed, I find it reassuring to stop for a moment and remember that I am not a presidential candidate. Since everyone these days is apparently an expert on politics and character, a presidential bid is just asking to have your guts kneaded by bony hands.

Dropping the N Word

2012-01-25T17:22:00.000-08:00

So I did the reading at 8x8 at the Hungry Brain on Monday and it went pretty well. In my story I read, one of the characters gets accused of calling another character a "nigger." I was nervous about reading this one, and thought about swapping it out with a newer short story among some of my recent ones but this one seemed funny and since 8x8 is a mostly booked with stand up comics, I thought I should go with funny to keep the night giggly. My other recent stories are darker, twisted, not that this one isn't but it has the most laugh out loud absurd touches. So I read it, and one of the stand up comics, Will Miles, is African American, so I got even more nervous but I didn't bring other copies of my stories so I had to stick to it. And as I said, it actually went well. Someone said he got a laugh out the n word part.

As you can see I have a lot of inexplicable white man guilt.

I once did a play in college, about African American fraternities. It was how I met Donny Rodriguez and became good friends with him and eventually got involved with Wood Sugars. I started off playing a small part, and my character had a line that involved the n word. And I couldn't say it convincingly. I remember taking up half an hour of rehearsal because I sounded like a clunky dork trying to say it. And the cooler, smoother, natural I tried to say it, the more it just sounded dorky. Eventually the lead actor quit and I asked to take on the role. The director thought about it for a week and wound up throwing me the role because he probably didn't have any other options, the show dates were getting closer. He must not have marketed the casting announcements to the right demographic as evidenced by my getting to play the lead role in a play about African American fraternities. And we didn't use black face.

I had a good time Monday at the Hungry Brain, enjoyed all the other acts, and wound up drinking 6 beers. I think maybe I have some liver fat clogging up the detox process because I woke up feeling like shit on Tuesday. For lunch the next day I went and got myself a shit load of breakfast food. See the thing is, and why I don't go out to bars too often, is drinking gets money flying out of my wallet. Such as in ordering drink after drink. And the next day almost dropping $15 including tip on weekday brunch to inject protein and grease into my queasy digestion. I'm giving myself a 3 beer maximum for a while. I hate losing steam the next day and getting crabby. An ineffective crab is not me at my best.

Marshmallow-y

2012-01-23T13:05:00.000-08:00

Tonight I will be reading at You Me Them Everybody's 8x8 at The Hungry Brain.
It's supposed to snow tonight, but I still hope a lot of people come out. Events that still get a good turnout despite inclement weather are some of the warmest, communal get-togethers. Forgive the cheese, there is some sort of magic in those flakes hitting your head, not holding you back, you got a reading to go see damnit! I've noticed myself grow cheesier as a person in humor and just general conduct. And I'm okay with that. I'm nearing my 30s and will probably be a dad in the next 10 years. My personality is not that of a rugged, intense dude. I'm a somewhat marshmallow-y fellow.

I'm reading two new short stories. In one of them, a character drops the "n" word. I'm somewhat nervous about dropping the "n" word in a public place. I am indeed white, like a marshmallow. It may be rather jarring, and goofy being flung from my mouth. We'll see how it goes.

A Taunt to the Rygodancish

2012-01-18T08:07:00.000-08:00

To the leader of the Rygodancish forces,

I do not address you by name, because (by time I write thisand send this via foot page to rush off to our messenger pigeons that I am sureyou would shoot and waste your bullets on) you will probably have removed yourcurrent general for another scandal of gay misconduct. I cannot keep up withyour shifts in leadership due to poor appointment choices to begin with. Alittle advice, do your research and learn how to read people. I can send yousome book recommendations, but I understand this letter will be enough of areading challenge. I avoided using big words. Just sound it out if you have to.

Anyway, I originally wrote this letter in blood, for it is awar letter. But the rain storm that came out of nowhere bitched up and bled thebloody language etchings into a pink sheet of mulch. So from memory I had toretype the ranting of my blood lust and put them on digital ink instead. Therain storm also seemed to bring on a form of bird pneumonia which fucked withmy coop of messenger pigeons hidden in the mountains of Anguish Bugging. I haveno problem telling you of their whereabouts now. Go take a look! At theirrotting carcasses and puny bones! It is but an omen of the devastation I can’twait to pop down upon you. The best way to deliver this to you will be throughan anonymous tweet account, so search hash tag losing and be sure to refreshbecause there might be things I want to add along the way.

I wrote this letter because I like to lay down my intentionsfor all to see, even the opposition, your ugly mug. I have been incrediblymoody lately because my government privatized health insurance once again aftera great transition into Papa Kako Care but then decided one year into the programthat it couldn’t afford it any longer in face of a looming new budget deficitcreated by the expense of the war I waged against you. So, my therapy is nolonger covered, nor my message therapy, so these knots in my shoulders aremaking me a pissed off war monger and I am craving the devastation of yourmilitary. I want it to be a sickening row. I want to skull fuck your men andfeed them to my new messenger pigeons whenever I get around to perusing the petstore and falling in love with a dirty little bird that I just have to takehome. You might not know this, but I have feelings. Not for you and your raceof pallid flat faced back-deck monkeys, but for little animals that don’t haveobnoxious sayings, unlike your peoples and their unrelenting need to reinventpopular mumbo jumbo. Really this war is about inspiring the Rygodancish to shutthe fuck up. And to devastate your currency so 3% of the Papa Kako Partyshareholders can enjoy the surge in the share prices of our new PeaPashcurrency. It’s complicated, but the old currency is backed by shares in yourRygoFilet currency, and by crashing it, the PeaPash currency transition will bepushed forward due to urgent necessity.

So, in short, I want to thank you in advance for taking awhooping so I can be the war hero who brings economic stability to the NewRepublic of Papa Kako. May hell hath appropriate accommodations for your thickskull. I hope they drain your t-cells and marrow and feed them to the souls ofmy dead messenger pigeons. And I hope you get to watch. And I hope they’ve beenfed very well, so they eat slowly. And I hope in hell birds have the ability tolaugh. Cackle even! Cackle in your thick, flat, probably pock marked face(because stereotypically the Rygodancish have bad acne in their teens, we knowhow terrible you looked when you lost your virginity).

I hope it rains blood when we hit the battle fields, in aseries of run down industrial parks that will create the right creepy mood. Please@tweet me some incantations I can use to invoke the demons to make the rainblood wish a reality. I know your people are lazy witches. I once read inNational Geographic an article about a Rygodancish girl who cast spells to gether chores done. And we all know you guys are all the same. And don’t be shyabout tweeting this to me, for if it does rain blood, the blood will help smearand bring some color to your soldiers pallid skin, so they will at least diegood looking. The only way to die with honor is to not look completely buttugly when you die. I can’t wait! I can’t wait! I can’t wait! I have severalfashion designers on hold to dress your corpses for our little ghoulish beautypageant we will host the day after your slaughter, which incidentally will beAll Hallows Eve. HAHAHAHAHAH!

With no regard for you as a person,

Colonel Fat Wrist the III

P.S. If things should not turn out to my advantage andlong standing wishes, and you somehow do wind up the victor, which is a fatchance in anorexic hell, please also accept this letter as an apology, and goeasy on us if we survive in any capacity to become residents at your smellyprison camps. In fact, you best treat me and my troops as one would be treatedat a weekend spa retreat, or I will kill myself and my ghost will be aperpetual cold tornado in whatever bedroom you occupy for the remainder of yourstupid days as a little worm turd.

May the Good Lord bless you and fuck you.

Little Pleasures

2012-01-15T15:31:00.000-08:00

Id. Gratification. The pleasure principle.

No matter one's beliefs on the purpose of life, pleasure is at least a pretty damn important additive. It's important to give into temptation every now and then.

I took a walk in the bitter cold then came inside and took a hot shower. The expansion of my circulation melted my interior with glee.

Mexican music playing from the next door neighbors. Made me think of summer, of family.

Last night I got a good beer buzz going and watched an assundry of music videos on YouTube. This was after another solid Wood Sugars writer meeting. We're getting on those more regularly now so can keep developing new live sketches and new short films.

Today I did more edits on my novel manuscript. I spent a good while on it and my brain felt a bit sapped after so I played Sonic Colors on Wii and then decided to walk to Walgreens to get cookie dough. Again, giving into temptation. I hope scientists develop a cure for diabetes. My sweet tooth is a good salesman.

I sat here for a good few minutes trying to think up a good poignant post but this is the best splattering of wisdom I could come up with for now. I have been writing a shit ton though. That's where my brain has been spilling its juice.

In a little over a week, Monday Jan 23rd I will be reading at the Hungry Brain in Chicago in the 8x8 show. You should come. We can drink IPAs together.

Inflatable Black Matter

2012-01-08T16:54:00.000-08:00

I had a nightmare in the classic sense last night. In my dream I had 8 kids, this wasn't necessarily the nightmare part. We lived on a farm and they went missing one evening. My neighbor farmer noticed a strange lurking figure in the stalks at night and researched him to be something of a diabolical wisp of black matter, inflating what looks to be a big snow suit made for a giant. I tried to puncture his suit with a shot gun but he was not an easy beast to aim at. He returned my kids to me so I thought we were all good, but in reality he had hypnotized my kids to hold me down at a certain point late at night so he could chew my face off. They tried this but I wiggled free and blew him apart with a shot gun after quite a struggle. I had to shake my kids to break the spell of this thing. When they all came to and apologized, we barbequed sausages for breakfast.

Somebody & Me invited us Wood Sugars onto their podcast last so we went a recorded that. It was indeed a blast, and we had such a lively conversation and swell improvised sketches that their may be material for two of their episodes. Pat and Rob of Somebody & Me are great guys and I hope we get to riff more in future.

I took a shitload of valerian root last night along with melatonin. Usually parking is very easy to find on my street. But not last night, and I got stuck by someone trying to park that was obviously drunk by evidence of the ineffective angles they kept trying to park at, and repeated, slow, sloppy attempts. My impatience had already started to get triggered on the way, getting stuck in clusters of cabbies trying to solicit drunk bar exiters. At one point I stopped to let some people jay-walking finish crossing the street, as they were standing in the middle of the road. They continued to walk slower than a turtle after a stroke and cars behind me honked. I can have loose fuse when it comes to driving in the city, and last night was no exception, I felt fired up! I was so fired up that I punched the seat next to me. I found parking a few blocks away after circling some, and I knew I wouldn't be able to fall asleep for some time without the aid of something, preferably not beer as I was looking forward to a night not of drunk sleep. And hence the shitload of valerian root, and the vivid, angry dreams it gave me.

Displays of Passive Aggression

2012-01-06T14:21:00.000-08:00

We've been developing a new approach in the Wood Sugars Comedy group as to create an efficient and active process for writing, shooting, editing, and releasing a ton more short films in 2012. We'll be meeting late into tonight to hash out some new ideas, riffing, and getting ball the rolling on these.

Here is a recent one we've released based on one of our live sketches we did throughout our summer "Freak Show" format. We added a new character element to it. Please go nuts watching The Passive Aggressive Panic Attack.

The passive aggressive concept led me down a memory lane to the time I lived in a storefront, The Manor, in Rogers Park. We had a continuous issue with people and dog's both peeing on my door. I'd be in there rehearsing with my theatre company and we'd hear someone walk up and unzip and piss would trickle down from under the door. Quickly I'd throw something, a roll of gorilla tape, or whatever was near at the door to scare them off and we'd give chase to the door, throw it open and they'd be out of sight. I hope I gave them a panic attack.

One morning while my brother was visiting we left out the front to go get some breakfast. Thick dog shit clung to the front corner of the door on the outside. It took a lot of elbow grease to get it clean. And some gagging. I posted the following note to try to put an end to the pissing/shitting epidemic. My brother took this picture of me. He was quite proud of me taking a stand.

Not the best photo, all I got though, the sign reads something along the lines of:

Due to assholes and their dogs pissing and shitting on my door, SURVEILLANCE has been installed and police are on call and ready. And for those who still feel the urge to unzip and aim, scissors will also be ready.

It's a touch more on the aggressive/aggressive side than passive aggressive. I got a call from my landlord a few days later asking me to please take it down.

The Mad Moon Dancing

2011-12-31T09:31:00.000-08:00

The following piece appeared in the first issue of XIII Pocket's Seeding Meat. I believe it has all been sold out, printed back in 2008 and only sold via gallery events, theatre shows, etc., but I thought I'd share it here as it recounts a strange encounter I had on New Year's Eve back when I was 8 years old. It's semi autobiographical. If you want a copy of any of the old Seeding Meats hit me up, I may have a few copies leftover on my shelf. I also made a movie when I was 15 of the same title, The Mad Moon Dancing, this was 1997-ish? It was about a mental patient who has hallucinations of the moon coming down and eating him, leading to an escape/chase scene. I did some fairly wild special effects using a sheet of plexiglass to reflect an illuminated moon I made by painting craters on a glass orb normally used to encase overhead lights. It premiered as a finalist at the Maine Student Film Festival as part of MIFF way back. It survives on a VHS tape. If I ever get around to converting it to digital I'll post it here for shits and giggles. Anyway, elements from that little movie poked through in the following short story.

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THE MAD MOON DANCING

By JeffPhillips

Starry eyed dissonance sprang from histwitching, sweaty lids. The child was fast asleep for some time. Drifting intoa slumber well before the stroke of midnight, he missed the ball, the potential kiss of his neighborhood crush.Downstairs, the party still throbbed, experiencing the behavior of wilddrunkards become of his parents and their pals. Such a party was not his scene,yet.

Nightmarish visions snatched apart hisREM sleep. A black and white mind movie jarred a haunt. Sleeping in an old woodhouse, the large white/silver disk of the moon's face turned to a rabid,predatory persona and crept up the front steps and loomed on the porch. Peepingin, the moon's eyes sized him up and licked its dusty lips. Petrified,paralyzed, magnetized by a chilly bed. The front porch quickly rotted outfrom under the touch of the fleshy moon sand. The house crumbled like cardsmade from salt. The moon sand sprayed into the child's eyes, furthertightening him with paralysis. With the old house down for the count, the childon the bed paled in weight to the gigantic, rabid, predatory moon which drooledhigh above the child. Each drip of saliva knocked the child in the face androughed him up. Lungs drowning. Eyes stinging and cloudy, the moon pounced.Moon teeth seized the child's head, ripped it from the neck. And the child'sconsciousness bounced back from the surreal to a sweaty, pulse heavy reality.Relieved, shocked, the child picked himself up and traded pajamas for corduroy.He emerged from his room, recovering from the horror of having been eaten aliveby the moon in some alternate, brain electric expanse.

He peered down stairs from the balcony,and witnessed his father dancing a strange, baboon-esque jig. His mother laughedand spilled bloody mary mix on the man, Mr. Handraddy's lap. The child snuckhis way through the crowd of neighbors and parental friends who laughed andslapped him on the back, jesting with the boy for being up past his bed time.He snuck his way to the mud room, and fished for his boots and coat fromamongst the sea of others.

Outdoors, the child found fresh air andfog. A chilly breeze rocked the trees and it looked fitting to the beat of themusic blast from the house he left behind. He looked up to the sky and foundthe moon hidden by clouds. At first relieved by its absence, a fear crept backthat it might still be watching, hunting.

The street lay silent. His thoughts wentsoft with the peace of it for sometime. But soon thoughts and reverberated imagesfrom the day emerged in flash form. He remembered his mother chopping carrotsfor the dip, in the kitchen, listening to public radio. A news cast touchedupon the announcement of a man who escaped from the loony bin in theircounty. The quiet streets and apparent vacancy did not last in itsprojection of peace with the alarming bulletin that rested all evening in theback of his mind. The moon in man form escaped the tests and attempted soothinganalysis behind white, sterile, padded walls to stalk the streets of this sorrycity. Just the child and a loose man inhabited the outer landscape. The restwere engaged with parties and winding down New Year's celebrations. The imageof loony bins reverberated a deep, scarring scratch in the child's perspective.Once his older brother told him of a time he and his pals trespassed into anabandoned nut house deep in the thick woods. A hollow, creepy building.Then sounds, footsteps rustling. When one pal felt the grip of a hand grab athis ankle they darted. Racing to the sanctuary of a car, in the overhead lightthey found themselves covered in bloody scratches and finger prints in the wetblood.

Overwhelmed and on the brink of wickedtears, the child was on the verge of steering back home to the party, desiringan exit to the safe watch of friends and neighbors. In the distance a figurecame bounding and skipping in the spirit of his prior dream. The child wasagain paralyzed, as though moon sand became a vapor with the fog, andpenetrated his eyes. Silent, barely breathing, the figure drifted closer andcloser. As it became more visible apart from the fog, what stood a shortdistance away from the child was a man in the flesh wearing only a diaper.

Almost laughable, the child blurted out,"Its baby New Year!"

The fellow approached and greeted thechild. One hand held something wrapped in tin foil. The other extended a handshake to the child. "Happy New Year," he wished.

The man gazed at the child for a moment,then spoke again:

"Want some salami?"

Not interested, the child shook his headwith the gesture of no.

"Want to smell it?"

The strange diapered fellow did not waitfor an answer, but went forward with peeling apart the tin foil to wield athick wedge of spiced meat. He poked it under the child's olfactory organ. The child shrunk from the encounter, deep, disappearing into heavy fogand lived on, untouched.

You Can't Control the Chipping Sometimes

2011-12-28T17:01:00.000-08:00

I decided to do all of my Christmas shopping at local Chicago businesses. And I did, except a couple of items at a Barnes & Nobel (as some of the small local booksellers didn't have the intended items) but I still feel good about supporting a book store, period, in these times. Among others were; Eclecticity, Bookcellar, & Marbles. I found some gems in Marbles. I could spend a fortune in Marbles trying to get smart. Soothing classical music played, which studies have shown is good for the brain. An all around brain booster, that place. I spent a good chunk on gas to hop around town, so what didn't go to Amazon.com went to Shell.

My girlfriend and I left for Minnesota Saturday morning, trying something different. Instead of leaving Friday night after work, like we usually do, getting stuck in both rush hour and jams of others leaving town, we took naps after work and struck out at 2am. I couldn't fall asleep for the life of me, despite a bath. For some reason thoughts of various birthday parties popped into my mind, and I couldn't remember for the life of me what I did for my 27th birthday. And it bothered me because I started to feel like my memory is getting fucked up and I thought about spending more money at Marbles to turn that around. Then I started waxing nostalgic on the interior. See, I grew up in Maine from age 10 to 19. My mom has since moved to Michigan. So holiday trips to see family now point us either to Michigan or Minnesota. Which is great! Some swell places to visit. But I started thinking about how I will never get the opportunity to spend time in the house I grew up in ever again. And I got really fucking sad. Little things husked in my sense memory, like the back deck and cluster of pines behind the house. The gnarled tree I used to climb. The rotting tree fort and the compost heap I made with scraps of wood and chicken wire. The feel of the carpet on my toes, the half wall between the kitchen and the family room where news papers were stacked, the finished basement with cold white tile, a jukebox, a bar, an unfinished section of the basement with ski wax ground into the pavement. I desired to have a lucid dream where I just walked around in that old house, like a ghost, but I couldn't fall asleep. Now, it wasn't the most enchanting house in the world, it was a very ordinary residential 4 bedroom, 2 1/2 bath house. But nonetheless it was the place where I spent 10 years of my formative years, and tiny little things that I took for granted happened, all creating an ether of forgotten warmth...and then the worst of it is, I started thinking about how even though I've gone through 9 or so Christmases since my dad's passing...it really sunk in that I'll never get to spend another Christmas with him again on this Earth. Unless he were to drift down as a ghost. Which may not be a complete impossibility. But all of those ghost hunting shows portray such spirits as pissed off or sad or anxious and I wouldn't want that kind of Christmas for my dad.

My good friend's little brother got married over the weekend in our old hometown of Auburn, ME and there was a pre-wedding party a few days before Christmas at one of the brew-pubs, Gritty McDuffs and I felt a bit of jealousy towards all of the old peers getting to grab drinks and catch up. Something I didn't really think I'd care about at the time of high school graduation, but I do after all feel some interest in the course of their unfolding life stories and seeing it via Facebook is such a tepid leak.

I did have a great Christmas with my girlfriend's family. We enjoyed some great traditions, like crab legs for dinner on Christmas Eve, Vietnamese food a few days later. They were all very generous with gifts and we had a jolly time talking, playing games, just being together, that sort of thing.

Burning into my late twenties I'm realizing more and more that life moves fast and some things don't get swept up into the time ticking churn. Childhood burns its wick, and some of the wax of its glory doesn't stay stuck to the table. Some of it gets chipped away. But you look at the table next to you and see your buddies getting to play with old wax of theirs that no one chipped away and you feel weird. You can't mad. You can't control the chipping sometimes.

The Laughing Problem

2011-12-19T08:41:00.000-08:00

When I was a young child, I used to sometimes laugh for no reason at the dinner table. The inexplicable nature of the stimuli that sparked the laughing made me laugh even more. It got uncontrollable at times, especially when a friend was over for dinner or lunch, that energy would egg it on. I would sometimes be made to eat the remainder of my meal in the bathroom if it got annoying enough.

My friends would tell me that I had a laughing problem.

Over the weekend, through Christmas party ale drinking and hang over recovery meditation, I had some moments of uncontrollable giggles. They felt good. It reminded of those younger days when I was made to feel weird about inexplicable chuckles. I realize now that was a great problem to have. I'd like to have more of that problem. The laughing problem.

Cake Frosting Tear Drops

2011-12-15T11:53:00.000-08:00

I've been watching a lot of space documentaries lately. The Universe is in my Blockbuster queue. It's made me thing about how creative and destructive space is at the same time; black holes engulfing, stars ejecting fused elements, clouds condensing to become stars, meteors smashing bits of dust off of a m0on, which later becomes another planet's moon, etc. Indeed it has inspired me to incorporate a bit of destruction in my own writing process. In fact, the process of revising my novel is very destructive, stuff being chopped, sentences being bashed and rearranged.

I started writing a new novel this week. I had been wanting to since the summer, an idea brewing since then. But I waited because the summer was busy, and then I moved. And then I thought I should wait until I have my current novel finalized. But really I need to spew down this new prose. My current novel is at a point where its feeling like a destructive process, as mentioned above. In a good way, maybe. But I felt the need to get this new idea in pen. I'm writing it all free hand, in a notebook. This excites me because computers are starting to remind me of business, and I start thinking of e-mails to follow up on, etc. I like the unplugged feeling of writing by hand. I like getting to a feverish point where my hand hurts. I also like the feeling of exploration that comes to me when jotting shit down with pen and paper. Which is what I feel like a first draft of a novel should be; an exploration, not a final product. When I did more acting, it used to frustrate me when directors treated rehearsal performances like it should be the final show. It's not. It's rehearsal. It should be about exploration.

I feel like my revision process is a black hole right now. And my new writing project is the white hole.

I could go on and on about space. I almost had a mini panic attack in the bathroom at work this morning when I tried to think about what existed before the big bang. Certainly something other than a super dense primordial atom. Can something really be created from nothing? Which leads me to think that the big bang may be the off shooting matter from some other universe. No beginning? The ancient gets more ancient. The thought makes me dizzy. I had dreams last night that hinted at some absence of matter. Black space, small specks of things happening. My brain had no framework to compare it to reality other than a planetarium with a dim bulb.

I also had a dream that I was at my high school reunion. I stepped in some cake frosting that had fallen to the floor and everyone pointed out that it looked like crusty cum had smeared on my shoe. It was humiliating. Cake frosting tear drops. I woke up depressed. Are such embarrassing events really that depressing in comparison with planets out there getting ripped apart by magnetars? It gives me hope that getting made fun is really actually a chill time.

Turban Tan's 2 Year Anniversary Thoughts

2011-12-09T07:36:00.001-08:00

Today marks the 2^nd anniversary of the release ofmy novella Turban Tan. Books deserve birthdays. Below is the main character,The Drippy Man celebrating.

Two Years Later, Some Thoughts.

Turban Tan began as a piece of spontaneous prose, thrown uphere on this blog in fact. I developed it some more for one of the Seeding Meatreleases, written almost as a play, with dueling philosophies on the parts ofThe Drippy Man and The Dry Advisor. As the economy continued to hover in arecession throughout 2009, I became quite interested in economics, thecomplicated facets of it, of derivatives, CDOs, mergers. I wanted to playaround with an economic “drama” of sorts and The Drippy Man character continuedto surface in my mind.

I became interested in dystopian literature as a sort ofeconomic ghost story.

I liked the idea of starting not from his race to escape afucked up world, but of exploring his tendency to go back to it after beingoffered a sanctuary. In a lot of ways I think people are masochistic. We makethings harder on ourselves than need be.

Below is a video of me being really excited about this book.

This is 2 years ago. I look pretty much the same. In fact I am still quiteexcited about this piece. I’ll be the first to admit that it isn’t a perfect pieceof literature. But I hold fast to the fact that it is a wild, unique crack atdystopia, at a fucked up spy novella, at a novella in general. Though flawed, I am confident in its fascinating trek from Maineto Dubai. The writing came togetherfairly quickly when I set out to expand it into a novella. I had a lot of shitfloating around my head from reading the news more actively than I ever hadbefore. Turban Tan is a bit raw, simple, ambiguous, and I appreciate aspects ofthat. The novel manuscript I’m currently working on, I’ve been working for twoyears now. I’m in a bit of perfectionist mode, chopping, refining each sentencestructure. I’m less reckless as a writer now since Turban Tan, for good or ill.I suppose every writer goes through phases of development, after all, I’mworking on strengthening my craft. Yet something I learned from my high schoolathletic days, sometimes you get worse before you get better, while the musclesrip and grow and ache.

Enough of my thoughts. Turban Tan is swell. It has an orangecover and a strange story told from a strange, coded point of view. You should buy a copy! I really think you should! For your back pocket and for yourOccupier’s stockings. You should also eat cake today and read a book for atleast a little bit.

I’ll be getting drunk tonight. I hope you do as well andoffer a little toast to The Drippy Man.

Buy a copy and read it too!

Coat Funk

2011-12-08T12:57:00.001-08:00

I have a theory.

Certainly city buses and trains tend to have some bodily odors wafting about. But it increases exponentially as winter happens. Most likely people don't ever wash their winter coats. Last year's funk comes out to play. I know I'm guilty of it. I recently noticed my coat smelled like shit and I couldn't remember ever washing it. I've had it at least 6 years. I have since washed it and feel good about it. I feel like I fulfilled a civic duty. I know the economy is bad and coats take up room in washers and dryers, hogging real estate from other urgent clothes, but I hope more people decide its time to throw their coats in the hamper on laundry day.

This morning I was all disoriented when I woke up. I thought it was saturday. My girlfriend was up and atom in the kitchen. All showered, dressed. I was like "why the hell you up so early?" She was just like "you up or going back to bed!" I said "goin' back to bed!" I went to pee and while I was peeing I realized it was Thursday and my alarm would be going off any minute so I couldn't actually go back to bed.

Then on the train to work I realized my smelly coat theory. I hope they all find some extra quarters in their couch. We'll worry about mitten funk some other time.

Daniel

2011-12-07T16:52:00.001-08:00

Today I had lunch at Subway. A shitload of teenagers came in, on their off-campus lunch break. Most had their own lunch boxes, or pizza from the place a few storefronts down. Clearly outside food to be munched on in Subway as though it were some cafeteria. None of the Subway staff said anything to them. A juice box was spill near the cuff of my sleeve.

One teenager was eating a slice of pizza. Another one came in, referred to as Daniel by some girls, reached over to grab the slice mid mouth.

Teenager: Naw man, this is my pizza.

Daniel: Give it to me!

Teenager: Naw!

Daniel: Remember that time you asked me for a bitch and I hooked you up!

Then Daniel and the other teenager started to wrestle. Some girls laughed. Daniel tried to splash them with streaming fountain soda. The girls shrieked "Daniel! Stop!"

Subway staff went about their business as usual.

Daniel wrestled with other teenager again and knocked his styro-foam pizza box to the floor. Then he left. Through the window I could see him run out into the street to pick up a discarded Subway beverage cup, still half full, and proceed to chase after some other girls who were hanging out down the street.

Deleted Prose 1

2011-12-05T18:34:00.001-08:00

The following is from a section of my (in revision process) novel manuscript. I've been trimming the fat. Chopping out stuff that doesn't fit. This particular item I felt messed with the logic of the first section as far as the narrator's perspective goes. But I still enjoy the prose here. So I thought I'd share. The manuscript is continuing to come along nicely. The text is getting stronger. Top heaviness reduced.

The gray steel spanned great lengths. Conveyer platforms churned up magical boxes, fat slabs of black fiber glass encasing what is most important; the screen! An army, inciters of vision pumped down the flattened rubber track, running them to the next arm that finished the job and sped them onto yet another. If the arm had conscience it would revel in the glory of finishing the job.

My father, Bruno, walked the concrete between these rows of conveyors and arms and boxes with glossy screen. He managed the inspectors and technicians, ensuring that the scheduled output of boxes, which will soon flash visions, was up to par. It was indeed. The newest box was flatter than the norm and quite vibrant in comparison to more decayed models. His toe tapped a tube; glass rolling. He bent and picked it up. He was not quite sure what it was doing on the floor, all by its lonesome. This wasn’t a good sign. If one had hopped off the assembly and went loosey goosey from the unit…this was a bad sign and SOMETHING was not up to par as he had expected upon first glance. He recognized the possibility that sure, it was most likely one box with a missing tube and it would account for only one faulty television abstaining from colorful display. But if more boxes began to share the same problem and more cathode ray tubes began to join in the free radical summersault on the oily pavement… then the accrued return, shipping, and replacement production would be the skinning of his ass. They had a deadline to meet and a nation of department chains to stock before the Holidays, and this being September, well ho! Three months is right around the corner. Mush, mush you automated arms!

But if you’re going to do a job right, do it right the first time around, and Goddamn if more cathode ray tubes escape the cage of glass. Then the evidence of his knowledge on this possibility – the security feed that ran to another screen (not manufactured by this factory, believe it or not) would indict his professionalism and pinpoint him as the culprit that neglected the prevention of a costly recall, during the red periods after the fucking Holidays! Fucking lose – lose situation! Pull the plug and halt the assembly!

He hustled off towards the window that shined its fluorescence, bouncing light from a mountain of spreadsheets stacked on top of his desk. The paper still clung to the side strip with holes that gripped the perforated river of paper through the chunk-car-chunk of an ink ribbon rub down, and beside this hub where he could trace the success of his management through numbers, was the yellow lever that stopped it all and made the white and grey arms take a hissing break.

The gears hummed a low note and the conveyors slowed and stopped and peace was too much to ask for – an arm held still the glass pane a centimeter from the skeletal encasement of the box and a visceral static did spark and pop and blew the glass into shards. The shards carried the microcosm of lightning storm on its back until it slapped into the hot wires, the hot wires that talked to the arms and gave it the day’s direction. The heat jumpstarted a black simmer and burst of red-then quickly to a blue flame which hustled down the length of a friction rubbed conveyor. The rubber did not hinder the conduction of the dance party of angry static and electron charges. The whole of the place, every arm and box exploded and the symphony of flame and smoke and debris consumed the body of my ducking father, who pulled down his face and gripped the tip of his hard hat. This is the machine’s consequence for a moment taken to reflect upon, not participate in production. The shockwaves of angry televisions put a sinking dent in the Holiday inventory and made a victim of my father.

Rock Opera for the Digesting

2011-12-04T07:40:00.001-08:00

Last night we went to a 2nd Thanksgiving dinner party thrown by my girlfriend's good group of friends. After a week of digesting turkey & an assortment of leftover carbs, we did it again. A good problem to have no doubt. Any food, an overwhelming amount of feast food, is a good food, nothing to complain about. I will say though my body has been "de-energized" since digging in a little over a week ago into the traditional foodstuffs. Some talk about the fact of tryptophan making us sleepy as only a myth, but some recent scientific studies talk on tryptophan being enhanced by the sheer amount of carbs in the typical Thanksgiving feast, thus making such a meal more coma inducing than a turkey sandwich at the local deli. Whatever the science may be, the sheer amount and variety of food items is certainly causing a load on the digestive tract. Particularly this variety. You have thick potatoes, green beans, french fried onions, turkey meat, gravy fat, stuffing, cranberry sauce, sugary pie, etc, all of which digest at different rates. And being eaten in conjunction with one another makes for a strange fight to sneak ahead of the acid line to be broken down at it's ideal speed. Yet the pie you ate at the end of the meal, breaks down quicker, due to the sugars, than the meat hunks ahead, so the sugar sits there for a bit, gets impatient. This big belly party exhausts the guts.

A colleague of mine once brought up the diet theory of eating all food groups separate from one another. So you eat your meats in one meal, wait a good couple of hours, then eat your pasta. Then a few hours later eat your fruit. This allows for an ease in digestive flow. And it makes sense. You don't want that fruit to rot while it waits behind the sirloin steak. I've yet to commit to such an eating standard. And clearly Thanksgiving breaks the rules of this diet. Though I'm thankful to be privileged enough to enjoy pounds of food and indigestion. Again, these are good problems to have.

After the massive feast last night, I was quick to desire bed when we got home. I drifted into intense dreams derived from the images of outer space my girlfriend and I have been subjecting ourselves to in watching The History Channel's: The Universe in our Blockbuster queue. One of these dreams started out with swimming through space, hopping from asteroid to asteroid, until I swam from the depths of this black vacuum to crawl up the shores of some European country, looked perhaps a bit like Portugal. The outer space behind was indeed just some big black ocean waters. Once on the shore I stepped on a snail, and this I could feel in my dream, a vivid slime ooze between my toes. I wound up starting my own small business refurbishing apartments. During the course of one project I kept ordering food from a diner. The owner himself delivered the food and we developed a good friendship. After this project I decided I was going to swim back out into space, and so I went to say good bye to the diner owner. I stopped in at the diner and he laughed at me, telling me I couldn't go! He was retiring and liked my business sense and wanted me to take over! I resisted, but then he asked me to follow him into the kitchen. He led me through the kitchen, into another larger, seemingly unused kitchen. Gates made of jagged spikes closed off one section of it. He told me to wait to the side. He wanted to show me something special locked inside a secret tomb, but he had to go in and disarm the booby traps first. I watched him dodge swinging blades and dropping spikes to disappear through a sliding glass door, down a long dark tunnel. He was gone awhile. Then he returned, on fire, playing the electric guitar, singing! I wasn't sure if this was his doomed body from the detriment of a booby trap, or if this is what he wanted to show me. But the rest of this dream took on the feel of a rock opera.

Breaded Control

2011-11-29T08:51:00.001-08:00

Last night I dreamt it was my brother's birthday. A gift he received was a video game controller, deep fried and breaded. One had to eat their way to its use.

This would be the most American invention of all time.

Fattening

2011-11-26T16:03:00.001-08:00

I am fattening myself up for the winter with meat and carbs and piles of books to rip up the mind until it bleeds and pools of platelets create a layer between my skin and the cold air.

Blood Blister Be-Gone

2011-11-16T18:00:00.001-08:00

Today I finally got rid of a blood blister/scab I've had for about two weeks. I got it from home brewing. There was this bottle from my last batch I hadn't fully cleaned out, at least not very well. Caked mold remained at the bottom from the remaining mash dregs. Thus I soaked it in hot soapy water for hours and then proceeded to thrash more hot liquid around to really break it up. I succeeded. But it resulted in the aforementioned blood blister between my thumb and forefinger. I was beginning to worry about my body's ability to heal it was taking so long. It looked almost like a mole. I was starting to get used to it. I secretly referred to it as my power mole.

It went down the shower drain. A beetle can maybe play hockey with it.

I don't think my brain synapses function correctly first thing in the morning. I kept getting weird phrases in my head while doing my morning, get-ready-for-the-day rituals, like "animal cat punches" and "sudden fritter freeze." And they kept looping in my mind like a scratched to hell piece of vinyl spinning.

And then I'd picture the blood blister dissolving slowly.

On my train commute to work I overheard two older, white men. Wearing nice suits. Both balding. One was skinny, with tight cheek bones, the other was fat and pouty. The fat, pouty one kept muttering "stupid democrats, goddamn liberals, god I hate them." Whenever the skinny one would respond to his droopy grievances the train would rattle loudly and I couldn't hear the specifics. I imagined the pouty guy calling me a young stupid punk and then imagined myself shouting back "you don't know me, what makes you think you know me! I just have a stupid grin on my face because my blood blister finally healed! Cannot I not feel jacked about small victories!"

I Plan on Firing Anxiety (Here is How it Will Go Down)

2011-11-15T16:37:00.001-08:00

With the seasonal temperature shifts, I sometimes find myself feeling an explicable anxiety, a gnawing, ill-informed nervousness that follows me like I'm a heat lamp. I'm thinking of getting rough with it, cutting this anxiety loose, like in those sad boy loves animal movies where circumstances force him to tell it to scram despite every bone in his body hating the act of severance with the confused creature.

Well, I wouldn't feel so bad about telling anxiety to get lost. I just have to sit down and do it. I want to be a creature of comfort.

-----

Me: Mr. Anxiety, please take a seat.

Anxiety: I'm very busy...

Me: I'm not asking.

Anxiety: Fine, man.

Me: Listen, there's no easy way to put this, I've lost a lot of sleep over this, but we all deserve a peace of mind-

Anxiety: Cut the bullshit.

Me: Funny way to put it, that's what I'm asking you to do!

Anxiety: I don't like jokes, sir.

Me: You were assigned to me at birth with the intent to protect me by alerting me to real predatory dangers. Things change, the world we operate in develops down strange paths, and we take on new challenges, complicated challenges.

Anxiety: I haven't taken my break yet today...

Me: You'll get a nice break. Fact is you work too hard and you've hijacked your purpose. You're sounding little alarms all over the place, distracting my departments, dissolving all real resolve of mission, scattering priorities, depleting adrenal resources.

Anxiety: I work harder than anyone else!

Me: Yet you're ignorant to the fact that you've derailed everyone else's ability to work! You're holding this operation back!

Anxiety: I'm sorry you're not pleased with my performance.

Me: Worrying hasn't been an effective strategy. I'm sorry, Mr. Anxiety, but I'm letting you go.

Anxiety: Fuck you man! What will I do now?

Me: Evolve. Your severence is this shot of whiskey. Here. Drink. Relax.

Anxiety takes the shot, glares at me, and gives me the middle finger.

Me: Leave the door open on your way out. I like the breeze.

Fade to Black.

The Smart Toilet & Shitty Thoughts

2011-11-15T09:39:00.001-08:00

Allow me to talk number 2 for a moment. I bet some day will come the invention of the "smart toilet." It will read back to you calculations about density, mass. It will tell you things about your health and bowel movements based on pH calculations and how it corresponds with what you had previously entered into the menu database for the meals you have eaten. It will tell you when that pizza you had on Friday is fully digested.

Because let's all face it, it's human instinct to take a look at what we've expelled from our bodies.

I sometimes stop and think about what I've contributed to the sewer system over the course of the day. And that if we faced apocalypse and running water had stopped, convenience and grocery stores ransacked for bottled water, rivers dangerous due to people taking armed territory at sections, the sewer with it's dark river below us may become a last resort. I sometimes think about such a thing, and what sort of contraption I would manufacture with my own two hands and found objects to clean the water and purify it. It would perhaps take a lot of strainers and boiling to re-allocate steam, to more strainers and boiling to really get the shit out of it and avoid a stomach ache.

The sewer is a resource. And if never touched, 1 million years from now, what will have become of all of the human waste, dish water, detergent, bleach, cleaning supplies, Drano, dead skin cells, soap, shampoo, toothpaste, vomit, blood, fingernails, hair, motor oil, and a variety of other items, after having sloshed around and drifted down as gunk lining the bottom of the sewer floor. Will it become its own type of rock, caked layers pressed, that can be burned for fuel?

Sometimes I think these thoughts. Not as a fixation, just drifting what ifs in my mind at some points of the day. Shit worth thinking. Because shit is always happening all over the globe, slipping away below us to a story we rarely bother ourselves to imagine because it may be grotesque.

Vacuum Man Gets Vocal

2011-11-13T10:42:00.000-08:00

I've been thinking about this guy I saw the other day at the California Blue Line stop, at the tail end of the day's home rush hour. A line had formed to go down the stairs from the platform. A guy with long, flowing black hair came trotting up, swinging a vacuum cleaner by the handle slightly as he moved. The people descending stopped off to the side the stairs, as far over as they could, to allow him up. The guy became angered by this accommodation and began yelling at them as he ascended "Ahhhh, fuck you, get out of here YOU! Get out of here!" When he finally got to the top, the line began to move again. The guy yelled at some one waiting for a Northbound train, under the heat lamps. "You too! Fuck you!" Some people across the platform started laughing at him and he yelled something un-intelligible, like "aaghjyoouyuyauuuyuAHAHHGSuiu YEah yeah fuck you ahsuujkkuujfuck!"

I was at the end of the line going down. I had the urge to mess with him. I wanted to tell him to "suck his own dick off with that vacuum." Just to rile him up. But I didn't. That wouldn't have been a level headed thing to do. It would have been mean. I could have wound up with a vacuum cleaner base fracturing my skull. And I thank my inhibitions for showing up to work at that moment.

Now if I had been on the other side of the platform, with the electrified track space between us, a taunting remark on an irrational man telling people to go fuck themselves would have been a fun thing to fling.

Pseudo Night Terrors

2011-11-12T09:58:00.001-08:00

Last night I had a dream in which I found out that I was a ghost. I was visiting a small New England coastal town, met with some friends by an old industrial yard, drank an assortment of Mexican beer without limes and hit rocks out into a field with metal baseball bats. We parted ways as dusk came along. I noticed a general lack of activity on my walk back to our hotel. Some lights went on in various apartment windows, yet I noticed no people meandering the rooms. They looked empty. I thought perhaps ghosts were flickering these lights.

I stopped in at a church because I heard nice organ music. I walked in on a meeting of the priest and various church staff members. He looked at me and accused me of eating all of the communion bread. I denied it.

I returned to our hotel. My girlfriend was lying on the bed with a cucumber peel mask spread on her face. I leaned in to kiss her hair. She awoke, startled. "Who's there?"

"Me."

"Where?"

"Right here."

"I do not see you."

I touched her head. "Do you feel me?"

"Yes."

"Can you smell me?" I breathed in her face.

"Yes."

"But you don't see me?"

"No. Maybe I have something in my eye."

"Can you see the picture on the wall?"

"Yes."

"Can you see the piano in the corner?"

"Yes."

"But you don't see me?"

"No..."

------

At one point I awoke from another dream. I had fled to live in rural Maine because I fell victim to identity theft. I received a phone call at my cabin, from the perpetrator, telling me to look across the lake at the other houses. He was in one of them looking at me with binoculars. He laughed. When I awoke from this my girlfriend was in the midst of her own night terror. "Oh my god oh my god!" She shouted as she sat up in bed. She sometimes does this and at the time of it, I fear there is a bug pestering her face. She is not very lucid, partially sleeping still when I ask her what is wrong. She calmly says "nothing" and is very confused why I am asking this.

I got up to pee. Coming back to bed my body blocked the street light and created a shadow. My heart stopped for a brief moment until I became cognizant of the physics of current photon play.

Generational Pissing Match

2011-11-05T10:18:00.000-07:00

This morning I was sitting in my recliner, cat in lap, reading A Moveable Feast by Ernest Hemingway. I came to a part where Gertrude Stein was telling Hemingway his was part of a lost generation. Stopping for a moment to sip my coffee, I saw a flash in my mind of Sarah Palin expressing her disgust at me for sitting on my ass and reading an outdated book by a writer she believes to be a lunatic asshole.

"What's wrong with reading a book?" I asked.

"You read filth that corrupts you, that gives you stupid ideas, and makes you think you're entitled to things you don't deserve!"

"And do you deserve, respect? Your generation is the one that set in motion the end of the world. Whether you like it or not, miss, your generation collectively is the Anti-Christ." I lashed back, an imagined out-let for anger. "My child will probably be born with asthma, thank you very much, smoke stack champion!"

As a disclaimer, there are many in my life (parents, Aunts and Uncles, extended family, landlords, colleagues, clients, friends, friends of the family, etc) who are actually are down to earth, thoughtful, respectful and level headed. They understand the struggles that my generation faces in our young careers. It's the political leaders, corporation leaders of my parents generation that get under skin and where I intend the following expression of disgust.

I get the sense that the middle aged politicians think so lowly of my generation. But their parents' generation thought little of them, and back on to their parents' generation who thought little of them. A vicious cycle of low confidence in and attempted understanding of their own spawn because they've slowly realized they can only control them so much. And it fuels the pissy angst they feel towards the engine of society they have fed into another complex, mushy disaster. They cling to old philosophies on how to fix this, not realizing it was these old, musty thought processes that caused kinks in the work flow of a society. And they want dish out disparaging remarks on their children's generation because they'd be embarrassed if it was some punk kid that found the solution.

The problem lies not only in a class conflict. But a generational one persists. We've been taught that we must work hard to get ahead. But many are trapped in a stage of life where hard work is actually, unfortunately not paying off, on a wide scale, because the shareholders are scared to sprinkle what's in the kitty. And those that are out in the workforce as collection agents of sorts to suck in consumer exchange to fill the company kitty, are made to feel like assholes for questioning when the shareholders might feel comfortable enough in the base of this kitty to open its valve.

There grows this distrust in the previous generation for having told them to work hard and reap what one deserves. And then as a result, the old generation in turn gets mad at the kids for being mad at them. They complain that we complain, and then they go and complain with such fervor it would make a mountain hides its cliff face.

But I will not be discouraged. I will continue to work hard, because one day, when the old generation has to call it quits on their political careers, and people from mine start theirs, maybe things will finally be revitalized.

Tailored Pants

2011-10-29T15:25:00.000-07:00

I dreamt last night that I was visiting my mom and her house, in this subconscious world, had two campers parked to the side against tall hedges. I explored them. They were dusty. Small animals skittered off, breaking windows as they went. She had a barn, high up in the rafters hung several canoes. I was very excited about these canoes. I rigged a pulley and climbed up to sit in one of them, just hanging. High up. From the rafters I made my way to a hatch, to the roof, and found myself joining up with a gaggle of young children playing tag on a series of slanted rooftops well into night fall.

I then found myself in India, staying in an antiquated hotel. A friend talked me into getting tailored pants made in a small shop in the grand, ornate hotel lobby. At one point, the newly stitched pants were on me, and I lay on an ironing board while an East Indian gentleman ironed the fabric, the heat seeping through to my skin. But I was okay with this as I was sipping on legitimate Absinthe & puffing opium from a hookah.

Preposterous

2011-10-23T10:18:00.000-07:00

I feel the urge to write a sci-fi-esque novel, just going nuts and writing bullshit and going by a new logic, a new law of physics. Just going nuts and allowing myself the freedom to be preposterous and see what can be sculpted from it. I like space and space blows my mind and I want to fuck my mind up a little bit by writing about myself in space and sucking the cartoon-ish fascination out of it and scare the shit out of myself.

Kick.Stand.

2011-10-22T20:11:00.000-07:00

I am kicking myself because of my stolen bike in early September. I had pulled up my old receipt which I was ill informed had the serial number on it, but it didn't, so Johnny Sprockets had to go digging in their archives from 2009 of receipt tickets and it took them several weeks to find. Phil, a Johnny Sprockets company man, was very helpful in this project and got me the serial number. He left a voice mail. I feel bad because I haven't called him back yet to thank him. I've been meaning to do this. I should do it soon. I am going to put it on tomorrow's to do list. I never filled out a police report after I found the bike missing because I wanted to make sure I had the serial, I felt a report would be ridiculous without it and that the cops would laugh at me. But it took so long to get the serial number that by then, it would look ridiculous with there being such a huge gap in between filing and the date of theft. I also thought I had some pictures of it but I guess I don't. That bike is as good as a belch dissipating in gale force winds. I miss it. I wish I was on the ball. It was a nice bike. I wish I had made it look shitty, with duct tape and yarn and spray paint and newspapers wrapped around its frame. Next bike I get I will put paper machete around it and paint fake vomit on it, maybe glue fake plastic vomit on it. Maybe some neon pom poms in the handles. Some beer cans in the tires. Pink duct tape on the frame. Doll heads hanging from the frame. It will look unique and stupid. No one will want to steal it. That's kind of what you have to do. I really want to go for a bike ride. I want it to snow something crazy and still go for a bike ride.

Today Eliaz Rodriguez and I helped out our friend Joe Avella shoot a scene for his feature length Master of Inventions movie. We shot it in the Mother's bar. I was an extra in a shot. I played drunk and even felt a little drunk. Mind over matter. I would save some money if I did that instead of buying booze. It was dark down there. Our eyes hurt when we left and the Division street farmer's market, an expansive thing was suddenly all packed up and not speck left behind. Eliaz and I went to my corner bar, the Orbit Room after and ran into my landlord who was having a beer after cleaning the shit left behind by my old downstairs neighbors. We found out a glass window had been blown out on our sun porch. My landlord let me know he noticed it. I thought maybe the wind fucked it up because we heard some rattling this week in the gusty howl, but in looking at it when I got home it looks like it was shattered, remains collected on the roof of the building next door, from the inside. Like a dick through something at it. I'm wondering if our ol' foes from downstairs gave us one final fuck you before they moved out. And I'm not surprised. I've kinda been bracing myself for a brick through the window from all of this.

The Witching Hour

2011-10-18T08:21:00.000-07:00

I've been waking up lately at 3am and wind up entering this partially awake, partially still dreaming hallucinatory state where lying in bed becomes this pseudo game, a complex one that doesn't make any sense and I can't fall asleep until I figure out the game. What's spooky is that this lines up with what is known as the witching hour. So I wonder what ghosts and ghouls are whispering taunts into my ear inducing such head games.

The neighbors below moved out. I wouldn't put it past them to put a curse on us to keep waking us up in the night without music. Will be looking for sage to burn. And Nyquil liquid gels. Sleeeep is a seven letter word.

Tense

2011-10-17T16:53:00.000-07:00

Tense. I've been messing around with tense in the next round of my novel revisions. I originally wrote it in past tense. A friend gave a draft a read and suggested I play with it in present tense. I was excited at this notion at first and played with it some. But I'm not sure it works with this piece. I generally like present tense writing, the active adrenaline of it. I do however feel this novel works best as a sort of memory play, told through the narrator's jaunty attitude, which transposed into present tense has a weird disconnect, the tone doesn't match the proximity to the intensity of things happening. If I were to make the present tense thing work, I would have to do more than tweak verb-age. The tone would have to be completely re-written. And the tone is one of the elements I'm very proud of. I think it's fleshy and charming.

Over the weekend my girlfriend and I got out of town for an evening. One of her favorite beers is Wild Onion Pumpkin Ale. The brewery is just outside of Chicago, in Barrington, IL. We've been wanting to do a little getaway there. Get a cheap motel and go drink it up at the brew pub, not have to worry about driving back into the city. Unfortunately they were out of pumpkin ale, but we had a wide array of other brews; the Hop Slayer Double IPA, Jack Stout, Nut Brown Ale. Some others. We drank and ate until she got a gassy stomach ache, then we cabbed it back to the motel. She passed out and I switched between War of the Worlds and The Shining. In the morning we ate some stale food in the continental breakfast room. Then went to Dunkin Donuts.

I finished reading It by Stephen King this weekend. I had been working on it on and off since April. I did really like. He delved into a deep sprawl on the town history, character histories within the 1100 page novel. And I liked the heavy detail, you really got a deep sense of the characters and the town scape. And the finale had a psychotropic tinge which I liked. One of the things about Stephen King novels I find, is that I don't find myself scared while reading them, but a subtle paranoia lingers with me during the revolving span of working on one of them. And I attract creepy happenings. For instance, several years ago, I read The Shining. I was reading it on the Red Line one night and some one fell violently on me. He was bleeding from the mouth, bleeding on me. At first, startled up from the page, I thought he was attacking me. I pushed him. Realized he was hurt and offered to help him. To buy him ice or something. He ran off at the next stop. I was left with a blood smear on my copy of the book and my work shirt. Later that night I woke to pee and for a split second thought I saw drops of blood all over my arm. In the hotel room Saturday night I awoke to pee, and in washing my hands in the sink (hotel style, the counter was in a separate space than the toilet and tub), looking at my vague black outline of a reflection in the dark, I jumped at what I thought for a second was the black outline of another body next to me. In the end it was only my eyes adjusting to the dark, or so I think. I like books that fuck with me head. One of the things I like about books versus movies or plays is that they are like a subtle drug. Working off the imagination, causing it to fire, it puts you in the author's head at the same time as the author is getting inside your head. It alters your consciousness whether you like it or not.

As part of the Occupy Wall Street movement a lot of people are closing their accounts with major banks. While I stand with and support the movement, and agree with the notion of closing one's account with a bank they don't agree with, I watched some videos of people doing so and they kind of annoyed me. In one video two girls went to close out their accounts and had big protest signs with them, and of course the videographer. They were asked to leave and were so surprised and angered by it. Now, the real objective of closing one's account, I think, is the build up of it on a massive scale. If enough people close their accounts and withdraw their money, that could hurt the capital and revenue of that bank. That's where the objective should be, running into a bank with a protest sign expecting to just go about one's business is obnoxious. It comes across a disturbance, antagonistic, and the protester loses power. Just go in, close your account, exercise your right as a consumer to stop doing business with an institution you're not happy with it. Sucking the blood out of the bank will go a lot further than waving the proverbial pirate flag inside a place of business. The bank tellers are not the fat cats, making them feel shitty about doing their job so they can collect their hourly and pay their rent is not the best use of energy, I think. Block traffic, shut down the city. I support that. But something about these girls' aghast and offended reactions being asked to leave with their high held protest signs annoyed me. Other than that I support the 99%. I'm certainly one of them.

Raw Men

2011-10-13T11:28:00.000-07:00

Ramen noodles have been fine cuisine to me lately. I get excited about eating them. Not only for budgetary reasons. I've discovered some grocery stores in my neighborhood that carry a wide variety of flavors, beyond the regular Oriental, Beef, Shrimp and Chicken. I remember there being a wide array when I was a teenager but have seen the myriad of options wane over the years until our recent discovery. In fact I had been thinking of them not long ago, wondering what had happened to those flavors of old. I even tried looking them up online. Perhaps the "law of attraction" really works and I willed them back into existence. But I'm so glad that once again I get to enjoy
Pork
Roast Pork
Roast Beef
Roast Chicken
Chili!
Chicken and Mushroom
Creamy Chicken
Picante Chicken
Picante Beef
flavors again. I think we have some others in the mix.
Ramen was a staple of my lunch diet as a lad. I had a friend who called it Raw Men and I thought that was funny. I think Ramen made it's entry into my life when I was 9. Before that I loved the fuck out of Campbell's Chicken Noodle. Chicken and Stars. I had a Vietnamese friend and we'd have homemade ramen for lunch when I was over at his house. This was when I was 8. Then when I was 9 and my mom brought Oodles of Noodles home from the grocery store and I tasted them and realized I actually had them before, I was ecstatic.

Bringing Home Small Pumpkins

2011-10-09T15:28:00.000-07:00

Went apple picking today in Indiana but didn't find too many apples in the orchard, all picked over and some scattered on the ground, got to stump on a few and at least enjoy the pseudo outdoors and the sunshine. I ate 3 pumpkin donuts too many in a short amount of time and had a sugar crash. The Hen House Prowlers were playing bluegrass for the family folk, I know these guys, I know them as Sexfist, their other name from some Chicago shows. They were nice enough to let us record some live tracks awhile back for our Wood Sugars Inside the Barrel podcast.

We bought a tiny pumpkin for our cat Gus. I get a kick out of cutesy things like that.

Wicked tired today from a late night of chicken wings and sour beer, then hoppy beer with a good friend last night.

Was wicked tired last Sunday too, I failed to mention here about our Wood Sugars 4 shows in 24 hours last weekend. We of course had our Jokesmith Juggernauts on Fri Sept. 30th which was a good turn out but the comedy didn't seem to hit. It's okay, it happens. I hope the people were at least entertained and enjoyed their Friday night out. Saturday, Oct 1st we performed at the Ravenswood Art Walk at two different times, different places. At 11:45am we performed for 15min at their Main Stage. We had to substitute out the cuss words and ultimately performed for the beer booth guys, the sound guys, and a mom with two toddlers bopping around. I rehearsed my bits all the way there without the usual cussing. I was intensely nervous I'd let some f bombs slip like usual, but I was proud in the end to be a controlled performer. Then at 2pm we were under the impression we'd be performing in a theatre space but it was actually a wood shop. Wood Sugars in a wood shop, very fitting I do believe. It was actually the most fun I've had performing in a long time. We got about 5 or 6 random viewers, and were supposed to fill an hour. We're used to 15 min time slots, so we threw in some old sketches and did some improv to stretch it out. We popped some genuine chuckles out of our crowd.

Then we were asked to perform at a friend's house party, which we agreed to tentatively but an e-mail blast went out from the hostess that we'd be performing and we didn't want to be the dicks who backed out, even though Donny was hurting from what he thought was a cracked rib after a bike accident. It was actually pretty rad performing along with some other comedy folk in an apartment. It was cozy, almost salon style. I heard about a ghostly encounter from earlier that day in that very apartment. I dig hearing such things. Some people shotgunned their beers. I cheered them on and just drank my beer really fast, not chugging, not sipping. I got drunk and stayed out late. I don't do that enough anymore, but was reminded why it's not a usual thing for me when my wee hour AM bus route through Wrigleyville delayed me from catching the Belmont bus, within only a few seconds. And it was a 30 min wait for the next one. So I just walked, which I usually don't mind but I've been doing that a lot lately and my feet were tired. I thought about the novel I've been revising. About to dive into another pass at it, and I'm feeling a slight nervousness. The piece I feel is getting close to being something swell, yet I feel like a blacksmith about to work on a bunch of small metals. A slight cabin fever type thing echoes around in me like the sensation of trying to put thread through the eye of a needle. Sometimes I get a kick out of digging into such tight focus on a task, yet sometimes I just want to work sloppily and spill my guts all over the place and not have to reshape it all into neat little piles.

I'm a slob with OCD.

Finance Blizzards

2011-10-08T11:19:00.000-07:00

It's hard to avoid thinking about the financial crisis and it's perpetuation. I mean the economy still sucks. Frustration is visible. I feel it. You feel it. Certainly if the powers that be wanted to fix it, it would be fixed by now. We feel hopeless The new american dream has become a lazy one. It aims for financial reaping, money making more money. Sit back and collect. Money has become a commodity which outweighs the merit of practical goods and services. Energy production, transportation, auto, technology, food, health, and many other industries takes a back seat to the work of the financial institutions. If the financial workings of the world; stocks, currencies, hedge funds, futures, etc all become sluggish so does industry. Yet needs remain, and resources can still be tapped. I've said before that the function of money perhaps needs to be revised. But we're a world addicted to money. I'm not naive, this won't change for another thousand years perhaps.

The word innovation is tossed around yet our nation and major businesses are run by people who are not innovators. There is general malaise and dip in creative energy that is all encompassing. How do we boost this without the promised reward of money? How do we boost this motivated only by providing utilitarian benefit, joy, entertainment? Not only is our economic system bogged in bullshit, we as people are in a rut, the jacked up feeling of accomplishment diffused by money worries. If we continue to pin advancement's potential on the work of the financial sector then we will continue to decline. Money itself has no creative nor innovative potential. It is merely a tool for transactions and the trading of real commodities that have useful value in our lives. Money has become a shield, a blinder. Certainly I'm not knocking profit. I'm okay with profit. It's why we do business, to fund our lives. But with the immense focus that world economics has placed on money itself as a good, real thought is pulled away from real production. Money powers stress and stress becomes God.

It's exciting to see Occupy Wall Street gain momentum. Frustration should be voiced visibly when there are widespread issues, financial crises at hand. Occupy Wall Street has been dished its share of criticism for not laying out any clear demands. But I agree with those who remind us it's not just about clear demands. This isn't a hostage situation. It's a wake up call, shaking us from an apathetic trance, a cry for help. A cry for help because we're all entrenched in a global financial hole that is not being addressed by our leaders with any true resolve. Certainly if the powers that be wanted to fix it, it would be fixed by now. Policy makers are too addicted by party favors and a weird, dick-ish form of high school spirit towards their "side."

Just for fun, or for the good of mankind, I did some thinking about what my demands would be if I was asked to solve this shit. Here are my ideas to get things moving again:

1) Repeal the Gramm-Leach-Liley Act which repealed provisions of the Glass-Steagall Act separating investment banks and commercial banks. This came along in 1999 and shit hit the fan not even a decade later. Banks are tools for business. When business becomes just a tool for the banks, business becomes a bummer and so do the banks.

2) Make credit default swaps illegal. Gambling on failure wins the prize of failure.

3) Set in motion a plan to withdraw all forces from Afghanistan, Iraq, Israel, all drone warfare. All troops from overseas. Cut defense spending. Focus defense on defense, not offense.

4) Reinvest the funds cut in step 3 to put into energy infrastructure and energy independence. Develop renewable energies (solar, tidal, thermal, wind) and begin oil drilling on U.S. soil with smart adherence to safety regulations to avoids spills and deadly thrills. Rebuild a failing and inefficient power grid. This step alone will create a shit ton of jobs.

5) Re-structure the tax code with a surcharge on millionaires. Close loopholes. Taxes are necessary to fund government. Think of them like dues. You wouldn't expect you country club to keep the grounds trimmed without your contribution. Maybe create a special privilege for millionaires so they can feel an extra perk for paying higher dues.

6) Legalize marijuana for people aged 21 and older and tax it. No matter what your moral stance on this topic is, perhaps the war on this drug is a drain on government resources. And the laws in place don't actually stop it or stop its presence in movies and entertainment. It exists, its a buzz like cigarettes and alcohol. If you're morally against it than its up to you as a parent to talk to your kids about it. It may not stop your teen from trying it, but the laws in place don't either. In all reality if you let your kids eat Burger King or White Castle than you are probably not fighting the right health battle with them. There lies an opportunity to regulate this drug and tax it, creating revenue to fill in government budget deficits.

7) Reinvest the extra funds from steps 5 and 6 for energy efficient transportation systems. High speed rail. Airplanes burn a shit load of fuel and airports are a pain in the ass delaying people from work hours.

8) Create tax incentives for companies with 90% or more of their workforce and property in the U.S. Bring jobs home. We have an idle workforce.

9) Create an annual "innovator prize" which awards for merited innovation in industry in the form of a 3 year hiatus from capital gains and payroll tax. Innovation needs a spark. Let's do something really neat with the space program and get America excited again about progress and exploration.

10) Life time pensions for all members of congress are bullshit. If I worked two years at a company I wouldn't expect a life long pension. Reward those for longer term service. One should serve 12 plus years in congress to get these pensions, either 2 Senate terms or 6 House terms. Republicans keep asking for cuts in spending. This is an easy one. My taxes should not pay someone for life for serving one term and doing a bad job at it.

11) Create debt forgiveness in exchange for community service. Perhaps 40 documented hours can shave off $1K in debt? I'm sure some formula can be created that would get a shit load of people out of their houses, both employed and un, to do some good.

12) Financial education as part of high school curriculum. Not everyone is privileged to have parents teach them about savings, credit cards, loans, debt, 401Ks, budgeting, etc. Everyone should pass at least a semester of financial education in order to graduate high school. Who can blame the children of low income families with little educational background for taking on predatory loans? Part of democracy's responsibility should be in equiping future generations with the educational tools to make educated financial decisions, to compete with the privileged. Financial awareness is an important thing.

These are some ideas that are certainly not perfected, yet I feel highly confident that if some resolution were to be put in motion in each of these items, the economy would blossom and people would be paying their bills all around and having a great time. A playful attitude would spread, popping new innovative ideas to take back into industry and keep the wheel spinning ever so vigorously. Optimism would be in the air again.

Please, bounce some ideas here. Call me out on shit. I would enjoy a dialogue on this.

Liquid Dreamy

2011-10-07T11:08:00.000-07:00

One could say I had a wet dream last night. Not the pervy kind, no. I was boarded up in a cabin with a wailing hurricane outside. Couldn't run to the outside, so I had to pee in a metal pale. Unfortunately it splashed up and out onto the floor and I had to do some serious cleaning. Luckily I actually didn't pee in my sleep. Which is wonderful. When I was young kid I would sometimes have a "bedtime issue" and wet the bed here and there up until 7 or 8 years old. I'm not usually forthcoming with such personal history, as it's certainly embarrassing. Around the age of 7 my parents tried out a "wet alarm" in my bedding to alert me to any liquid setting it off. I would usually sleep through it. Which was most likely the problem. I was such a heavy sleeper in my younger days that my body wouldn't awake when it had to pee. The shame I would feel from this eventually turned me into a light sleeper, and ever since those early days my body isn't shy about pulling me from my slumber when piss calls. Yet every now and then I can feel myself peeing in my dreams, and I freak for a moment when I awake later and remember such a dream fragment. I feel around the bed spreading for any dampness yet am relieved at the dry touch. And I find this strange. Doesn't urban legend say that if you pee in your sleep it tells your mind to pee in reality? I ain't complaining. I'm okay with peeing in my dream world as long as this physical disconnect is maintained.

There was such a weird shame that I totally forgot about until I pondered this now. I can recall a sleep-over at friend's where I wound up wetting my sleeping bag. The next morning his dad took it upon himself to roll up my sleeping bag and he called me out on the fact that it was wet. I clammed up. He must have sensed but covered up any accusations of pissing and asked me if I had spilled anything. I said I got up for a glass of water and bumped it later in the night. One time my brother's friend Mike was in my bedroom and curiosity poked him to peel the masking tape I had over the label of my "wet alarm" to cover up what it was to any visitors. So it could appear as some weird alarm clock without time reading on it. He asked me what was up with this wet alarm. I told him it was in place because I had a spilling problem with knocking water onto my bed and it was to alert me when I did this. Ha! Spilling problem. What bullshit I had spouted. Turns out later in high school I did have a spilling problem for a short time and spilled beverages by pure accident on friends 3 times within a week. Turns out I don't have very good control over my body.

My most embarrassing moment of bed wetting was playing house with a neighbor girl and we crawled into my bed together to play husband and wife at nighttime. I had forgot to tell my mom about my little bladder mishap, so we hadn't changed the sheets yet, and it was very wet. This neighbor girl was grossed out and asked, more less shrieked, why was it so wet! I told her I sweated a lot the night before. I think I got away with that cover up. This was after all in the thick of summer.

For shame, for shame. I remember feeling such shame at this and tried confessing to a friend through a joke about wetting the bed. He took it as a joke, and joked further, making me feel even more fearful of coming clean and clarifying the truth behind the joke.

The good news is I haven't wet the bed in 20 some years. And because of this I feel okay mentioning in a blog about this little soggy past of mine. I'm sure the suppressed embarrassment has affected my confidence in subconscious ways. It is time I come forth and acknowledge this dirty gem of personal history, let go of it, laugh it off, and grow up/gear up from the coming of my 30s in 2013.

Harsh Words

2011-10-06T10:08:00.000-07:00

If you read my post about "Noise Complacency" you'll remember it seems I've made enemies with my downstairs neighbor by being reasonable. Looks like the dude is moving out. When I arrived home yesterday he and a buddy were carrying a couch down the front stoop. He glared at me with red, burning, murderous eyes and called me a "nazi ass mother fucker." I started to speak, to defend myself some, and he continued "yeah, you and your bitch ass wife." Referring to my girlfriend.

It was exciting to later in the evening see them drive off in his U-haul. Never have a felt such wrath for asking a person politely to turn down the music some. I'm such a party pooper, how do I live with myself? How do I sleep at night being a nazi ass mother fucker? So why would loud bass affect my slumber?

At least I have a bitch ass wife to console me.

I have a paranoia this bald headed, red eyed, bearded rager will sneak back some night to murder me. If that ever happens my ghost will really ruin his party. Part of life is making enemies. I've finally become successful in one of life's endeavors.

Dub Step Father

2011-10-05T10:19:00.000-07:00

If you're familiar with dubstep you may find yourself amused, and even cracking a giggle or two. Yet another adapted stage sketch by us Wood Sugars to video. We've been having a ball with Eliaz's new camera.

Attack of the Groomzilla

2011-10-04T19:30:00.000-07:00

A new video based on one of the Wood Sugars sketches we've been doing over the summer. With some new elements.

Jokesmith Juggernauts

2011-09-28T13:42:00.000-07:00

This show is Friday. Chicago Comedy at it's finest. Free show. Brilliance. I will be performing in it. And co-producing.

More info at WoodSugars.com

Noise Complacency

2011-09-27T07:45:00.000-07:00

Oy oy. Here comes a mildly passive aggressive post.

Our new neighbors below are in their own little noisy world. Loud music will emerge at 2am, 3am, 5am, etc. We've gone down and asked them politely if they could turn it down. And we're greeted with a bunch of stoned, befuddled dudes who say they'll take care of it. The thing is a girl lives there and we've yet to see more than slight glimpses of her in the hallway or poking her head out of her room. She sends her dudes to do her bidding and answer the door. The queen bee she is.

The other weekend we went down during the late Sunday afternoon to have a cordial conversation with the girl about the trend in late night noises. We could hear her and friends there in the front living room. We knocked loud enough but they did not answer.

Last night we were awoken at 2am to loud bass thumping beneath our head. I tried ear plugs. It didn't work. My girlfriend was quick to get up and go down to ask them to lower the volume. She went down through the back sun porch area. A dude stoned out of his mind took a good minute to realize she was addressing him. Some other dudes were in the kitchen arguing loudly about who loved the song that was playing more. She finally got through, the dudes were confused, and the elusive girl tenant could be seen walking down the hall, into the bedroom, and the music was lowered. Not two minutes after my girlfriend came back up the music was back to booming. Down we went again. The mocked us that we were just down there. After we came back up we could obviously raised voices proclaiming that we must be "Iowa. No, no, I wouldn't give them the decency of being from Iowa, they must be from Nebraska! Where do you find these people?!! It's my birthday!!!! IT'S MY BIRTHDAY!!!!!" The taunting continued from these belligerent dudes. I called the police. Then I heard more belligerence from the back sun porch area "what's wrong with 4 guys drinking Coors Light. Oooo. Scary! Who the fuck calls the police!" Well, we, sir, call the police when you are incapable of being reasoned with. My adrenaline was rushing. I had to hold myself back from running with the "fight" response that was brewing. I finally drifted off to a quick dream where one of the dudes was down there celebrating Christmas with his parents in October. He got a new electric guitar with a swiveling neck to do some serious bending riffs.

As far as we know, and as far the landlord knows, it's one girl that lives there. I'm pretty sure these dudes are her hipster, unemployed friends crashing at her pad, looking for a constant party. Because they oh so represent the freedom of this generation. I wish them the very worst hangover of their lives this morning. The kind that aches the bones and laps nausea through every cell, sucking it dry. The thing is I understand a little noise. That's not necessarily the problem. Well it is in redundant trend. But the outright mockery and disrespect of us like were that lame old couple killing the party on the block pissed me the #$%^ off. We've tried being good guys, reasonable, flexible, and their behavior is now forcing some new tactics of serious confrontation on our part. In all honesty this is one of the reasons we left Wrigleyville, to get away from this douchebaggery.

But this all reminds me of a time when I had just turned 21 and my roommate and I would often drink to the point of obnoxious revelry and we often roused the wrath of our upstairs neighbor who was a flight attendant. We always viewed her as being this big old bitch. The red headed bitch is what we referred to her as. But really, especially now with the perspective of being in the working world and having to get up in the mornings, we were in the wrong. We were the little bitches. There's this tendency among the loud and drunk to cast aspersions on whomever asks them to quiet down as though they are utter bitches and assholes.

There is a point of view on everything.

In my senior in college one of my roommates would often bring back a bunch of buddies from the bar at 4am. I would awake and have to pee. But after a couple of times stepping out and dealing with these fellas, and the bathroom lines, I took too pissing in a Vitamin Water bottle lying on the floor, capping, and disposing of in the morning. I would try to stock pile empties. If lacked any, I would exit the back door of my room which led out to the garage and little driveway below the train tracks to piss away. I did this because I wanted to avoid very unreasonable people and did not want to continually step out into the sudden and be launched into the appearance of a grumpy, party-pooping nerd. Even if I was only getting up to pee. My groggy eyes were all too telling of a presence at the mid week party.

There's this tendency among the loud and drunk to cast aspersions on whomever asks them to quiet down as though they are utter bitches and assholes. And I feel bad that I had ever once adopted such an opinion.

Feigned Ghost

2011-09-26T07:21:00.000-07:00

We recently moved into a new apartment on the cusp of Logan Square and Avondale. The building I live in has been around since 1907, rehabbed in 1999 with all of the original wood work. As a ghost enthusiast I was half hoping it would be haunted with friendly spirits. But didn't experience anything. Friends of mine at my house warming party tried to convince me they thought it was haunted. They kept hearing some creaking. But you know, old buildings shift and settle with movement. Easily debunked.

Until lately...I was mighty hung over last sunday and my eyes were playing tricks on me as they were adjusting to the dark at bedtime. I thought I saw some vapor drift into the room and hover over me as I drifted quickly off to sleep.

I woke up Monday morning and thought I heard an old lady's voice in my room but my girlfriend was in the shower. Maybe it was just a deflected murmur from the floor below.

We've been seeing shadow cats. Movements of shadow playing, like "Shadow People", but of cats. We've been feeling an animal jump up on the bed but find that our cat is still licking itself in the other room.

Coming back from putting my laundry in the dryer I assumed my girlfriend was still taking a nap in the bedroom. I had to use the lavatory so walked right up to it and opened the door. Heard a quick startled moan and saw a lady sitting there on the john...

It was my girlfriend. She had got up from her nap. Yet my heart was still beating the fuck out of my chest as I had bee-Jesus out my barrel chested body hive. And so there really is no tangible phantom happening here. Just mind playing tricks. The grass is greener on the other side. Actually having a ghost would most likely be bothersome.

RPG of a Post World Order

2011-09-24T15:14:00.000-07:00

Yesterday during my commute home from work I smelled smoke. I thought perhaps a building was on a fire and I look around yet saw no plumes. Must have been a barbeque. Down I went into the subterraneae of the subway and waited for Blue Line at Chicago. It arrived, for once there was room on a rush hour train and I got on the train. Then the smell of an electrical fire became an intense stimuli to everyone and the the conductor announced for everyone to get off of the train. A mass of people streamed out into the gathering smoke and up we went, unhappy, gasping, a hipster had a hissy fit, and we all split into different groups waiting at the nearest bus stop. I called my girlfriend and luckily caught her during her drive home and convinced her to pick me up. Whenever I read about Congress not getting along, and European debt problems, I feel a pseudo glee that the status quo of the money world is going to be disrupted and we will be living in a world similar to the post apocalyptic RPGs of our childhood. There's something exciting in that right? Something dangerous. Something fresh for all of us. Because then an IPO will not have any more power than an animal or a volcano. But then I think about my cat. Transporting him from tent town to tent town in the woods would certainly rouse panic beneath his soft fur. Desperate, hungry people might try to eat him. I'd try my best to protect him, to make him understand and to talk strategy with him. He might become curious of the outdoors and get lost, scratching his way out of the canvas sheathe at our camp. Then the fantasy becomes less a game and the dire concerns that come with fatherhood to any degree are churned. I still can't believe no one has found a real solution to the economy. Perhaps if we laid it all out, all of the criss-crossed problems of world community, into and RPG game and gave it to an enthusiastic fat kid to play all day we would come out the better, into the bright euphoria of a successful revolution.

A Stick in the Mouth

2011-09-20T06:51:00.000-07:00

I've seen a lot of dogs as of late trotting around with sticks in their mouth. Many different dogs. I likes seeing the psyched quality in their eyes. They truly like their possession. It makes me happy to see the ease and joyful step the stick stimulates.

Yesterday a colleague told me about a bleeding injury they had. I tried to be charismatic and listen and make him feel important but the detail made me shudder and squirm a bit on the inner. It made me think about what my blood may have been doing in and around my liver the morning prior after an evening of Bushmills and a variety of beers.

I read article yesterday in the Washington Post about the economic ramifications if everyone quit smoking. The drop in revenue from cigarette excise tax would wreck state governments. But perhaps would trigger growth in other industries as serious smokers would have ten to twenty extra bucks in the wallet daily, and most likely with an increased appetite. Restauranteers would smile and count their blessings. People that get on buses with their cigarette butts stubbed out still stink up the place even though it's not smoldering smoke. I wish they would stop, but I'm not very ballsy in picking fights on such a thing.

Two Suns, Double Daytime

2011-09-16T09:00:00.000-07:00

I read this article yesterday about a planet that orbits two stars. I felt a quick wooshy de-ja-vu type feeling when I imagined what it would be like to experience the throws and refractions of light on that planet's sky from the rays of two suns. What would evening be like, where in our experience, light fades the horizon. But what if light faded back cancelling out that spread of dusk. The contrast of darkness when rotated on the dark side of two suns must be a harsh contrast, like an angry desert that bites the the marrow with chilly.

Sunscreen won't help you here during double day time. I hope their ozone is in good shape and every industry there went green a long long time ago.

I had another space dream last night. The view of Earth was refreshing. Dark cool blue, on the dark side of the planet. Quiet. I floated. A good dream to have.

http://www.nytimes.com/2011/09/16/science/space/16planet.html?_r=1&src=ISMR_AP_LO_MST_FB

Self Centered Sweat-shine

2011-09-13T11:12:00.000-07:00

Last night I dreamt that I was in High School. I was trying to be a big shot on the baseball team. I had a handicapped friend with severe cerebral palsy whom I was responsible for helping get around the school. In order to go to the baseball tryout I had to leave my handicapped friend in the locker room all by himself. I had to put him in a closet room to make space. I came back after the tryouts to find him missing. After panicking, the coach startled me as he emerged from a side closet within the closet. He reamed me for leaving my friend abandoned. He assured me that he was in a safe place, but he desired to teach me a lesson and that I needed to reach new moral grounds before he would have me a star on his team.

I awoke drenched in sweat despite the AC on full blast.

This morning on the bus an old lady got on, swiped her card. It flashed an insufficient value and the bus driver tried calling her back. The old lady waddled to her seat. The driver called over that she still owed a dollar on her fare. The old lady didn't hear. Finally the driver got the old lady's attention and she rose to swipe her card again only to be badgered by the bus driver. I searched my wallet for bills to help her out of this demeaning situation but had no bills. A lady sitting near the old lady retrieved a wallet to help the old lady but the bus driver told her not to because the old lady just didn't want to pay and didn't deserve the help. The old lady wound up riding without being forced to pay the dollar but certainly had to persevere death glances from the driver. I felt the bus driver's attitude unnecessary but didn't have the guts myself to tell her to knock it off.

28 Years Kicking out My Feet

2011-09-12T07:20:00.000-07:00

It has been a bit since I've last posted. August was a wild month featuring a trip to Minnesota, a summer cold, a handful of live sketch shows with Wood Sugars, packing up the old apartment, moving into a new one, and celebrating yet another year alive and healthy. I haven't written a damn thing in a month, and I've gotten antsy. The novel is back in revision stages, some short stories are set in motion. My energy is back up to par for daily demands after rough little kick in the calves. All through August I felt a sense of gleeful complacency knowing that my girlfriend had some extra money and had booked some movers. My first time with that, have always bribed friends with pizza and beer to help us move shit in and out of a rented U-Haul. Which had always worked well despite having lots of shit, but we figured maybe we're getting too old to expect that sort of favor. So psyched for the movers we were, everything ready in boxes, cat locked in one of the now empty bedrooms with his litter box, food, water. Everything cleaned so it would be an easy empty and returning of the keys on August 31st, the last day of our lease.

But then the movers did not show up. They were due between 5-6pm. At 6:05pm we called to see an ETA, assuming they were just running late. Traffic can sometimes throw curve balls. No one answered. We tried again. No answer. No call from them. The patterned ensued until about 7:40pm when we lost faith that they would show. Desperation flared, here we had all of this stuff, some big furniture pieces, and the lease soon to expire. U-Haul had no availability until 10am the following morning as August 31st is one of the biggest moving days of the year. Using my BlackBerry we found a moving company on Craigslist that was hoping to put our anxieties at ease. The guy manning the phone called out to a crew finishing a job to see if they didn't mind an extra gig. They were game. But there was some mis-communication between the amount of stuff we had and a fairly small truck was sent, along with three guys. We had asked for three. Half of our stuff was loaded up before the main guy realized they wouldn't have enough room, then he started to panic about time. Even though we asked for three hours he now wanted to be done in 1.5hrs. So ultimately they only helped us move our big furniture, and milked us out of a lot of money. My girlfriend and I made trips in her four door sedan, filling up all available space to transport everything else, back and forth. We wrapped this about 5:45am. I got 30 min of sleep, she got 10 min before the next work day. My body barely held itself through the next day after what was essentially an all nighter, with physical exertion on a muggy summer day. One of those experiences that reminds you to work out more prior to such an activity. But we had expected the moving company we had hired to show up! Even after confirmation the prior day! We were quite aghast at the gall of them not even calling, we certainly understand shit comes up, but communication is what separates the professional from the piss poor mother fuckers. Allstate Movers dropped the ball. When we got a hold of them the next day (we had left several messages and didn't even receive a return call the next morning) they acted surprised that we didn't receive our service. The receptionist then said one of their drivers had a seizure, which is terrible and I feel for him, but still, could they not have called to alert their clients? She was going to speak to her manager. We still have not heard from them. I wrote them a 1 star Yelp Review. So had 3 other people on the 1st of Sept, to vent them same thing happening to them on August 31st with a No Call/No Show from Allstate Movers. But Yelp has filtered all of reviews. Perhaps because there were so many on one day and it flagged it as perhaps one person really trying to ruin a company. In this harsh economic climate I wish all small businesses success, but Allstate Movers needs to close business because they have proved unable to deliver the service they advertise and have no problem leaving you hanging.

I will end my rant with mention of one of the repercussions. Since we didn't have the 22 ft truck we required, we didn't have room to bring my bicycle. So I had to lock it up across the street on a bike rack, outside of a well lit condo building. Both a U-Lock secured the frame and front tire to the rack, and a chain wrapped through securing frame and both sets of tires. When I went to retrieve it a few days later to ride it home, it was gone. Someone had apparently picked the U-Lock. If you see someone riding a black Jamis Commuter 1, feel free to tackle and question.

So the week covering my 28th birthday had a rough patch, a test of patience and stamina towards bullshit. But the good news is I am moved into a new apartment and I love it. The building has been around since 1907 and has all of the original woodwork, although refinished in 1999 to keep it all nice looking. No ghosts yet, you would think perhaps an old building in Chicago might have a few spectres but it's a peaceful parlour. I also got to see Pearl Jam at the PJ20 event at Alpine Valley Wisconsin. Despite rain on that Saturday I enjoyed the rock and roll, Eddie Vedder's wine infused melodic grunting and Chris Cornell's special appearance. I have come to love the music of Liam Finn. And I still found burrs on my shoes the next morning after stepping up to be my brother's friends designated driver, hopping fences and ditches to find his car parked in some remote lot, a marshy field in Wisconsin. I was crabby during the field romp as I was still sleep deprived from the moving fiasco, but the next day I appreciated the opportunity of running around under a faint cloud covered moon in rural lands. We all need the fresh air and dark night to boot sometimes.

So 28 has given me a kick to the teeth in ways, but I'm hoping I've met my bullshit quota for the year, getting all of that out of the way, and onward we go to glorious year, kicking ass in good ways.

Pink Vehicle

2011-08-20T08:55:00.000-07:00

When I was a kid I would laugh really hard whenever I would see a pink car out and about. I believe this was not a ridiculing laugh, but a happy laugh. Whenever I see a pink car out and about these days, it sort of fills me with glee. This is an image I'd like to hold onto and chuckle to. I'm currently in the throws of gearing up to move to a new apartment and I find in the final stages of packing some sort of dust gets into my soul and makes me pissy. I'd rather be the child giggling at pink cars than the grump putting his life into recycled boxes.

Snot Seizure

2011-08-13T13:29:00.000-07:00

This week I've been fighting a harsh summer cold. I caught the common cold. I flew back into Chicago from Minnesota after a trip to visit family, and I suspect the combination of recycled air on the flight with the delayed flight, putting me back in town very late and little sleep before the next prior workday, is what did me in. It got progressively worse throughout the week with long work days and several live Wood Sugars shows late into the night. It crescendo-ed Friday morning when I lost my voice completely. I took a sick day for the first time in a long, long time. Last night I took some NyQuil for a deep sleep. At one point I awoke to use the bathroom and could barely muster the coordination to get out of bed. It was as though the sleep paralysis feature of REM sleep hadn't worn off yet. Discombobulated I stepped out of bed and walked with jarred steps like a seizure gripped me. I reached for my water glass on my bed stand and pulled it to my lips. I didn't time it right. I turned it down much before my lips hit and rushed water down my chest and legs and on the floor and my feet slipped a little bit walking over the spill. I continued to walk like a cripple to the bathroom and peed sitting down to minimize more messes in this state.

I had a vivid dream in which I was training for an ice skating competition but was practicing upon the wood tiles of a basketball court. And I skated boarded home in a dream but in a similar discombobulated, nonfunctional, spasmodic, non-coordinated struggle as my journey to the bathroom.

The Week in Review

2011-07-31T11:18:00.000-07:00

This has been one of those weeks that bull dozes time. Been a busy week with the day job and Wood Sugars shows, with of course some after show boozing that made the early mornings the next day a little rough to get the day flowing. Our MILF show on Wednesday had a great turnout, with a quite a few randoms. Thursday's "One Night Only Show" was a lower turn out but I had a blast. We all drank some red wine before the show. I feel a bit funnier, loser the roll with the give and take of comedy performance with red wine trickling in my blood. After we went to a bar called Simon's with a weird old Swedish feel to it. I liked it. I had a little too many cans of cheap Genessee beer, I hadn't heard of it before but it was on sale and my wallet is thin so I gave it a shot. It tasted nice. But I felt a bit ill the following morning. When I arrived home after intense thunderstorms crackled.

My screenplay of Whiskey Pike unfortunately did not make it to the finalist round of the Nicholls Fellowship I had entered it into. Out of almost 7,000 entries 350 were selected for the final round of judging. I was certainly bummed but I spent some time looking back over the script yesterday and I certainly understand its imperfections. At the time I had submitted it I felt jacked that it was quite incredible but with my latest review of it, a little time and space between my last tear into, I do find there are a lot of fluff moments. I have the piece littered with little transitions, montage between scenes to show travel, whiskey biz development, etc. And on closer inspection these things are really just fat which at the time I thought would build a swell visual sprawl of the old time, wilderness landscape. And when it comes down to it a lot of that stuff is understood. And I'm again reminded that film is really tied together with the most important moments.

So I spent some time reworking it, and in a way I've been wanting to do for some time. I'm definitely interested and determined to shoot this thing out in the woods in the 5 year plan. Whereas I certainly don't think this piece will necessitate millions of dollars, being essentially a period piece, it's going to have some costs. And with film, its like holding up a microscope to the detail, which requires more money to fine tune that set and costuming detail. But being a theatre guy, having spent a majority of my time in Chicago studying theatre and putting on plays, my biggest interest in the production is the element of performance. The characters, the dynamic between the Bowermaster family members and most particularly the rivalry between Shane Bowermaster and George the Brewer, incited the new impulse in me to extract and piece together the scenes which focus on these relationships to develop what can an intense theatre piece that can still translate under a low budget. With theatre such period elements of costuming and set can be more representational and with the right lighting can take you to that place with more punch of ambiance perhaps film even can.

So this is my latest experiment with the Whiskey Pike script, tentatively titled The Whisky Infused Boom of Shane Bowermaster. I know I've gone back and forth quite a bit on whether I want to do this as a play or a film or what not. Sure I'm flip-floppy like a politician here, but it is an ambitious piece, and I want to make sure I put some good thought into how I want to commit to the first production of the piece. My next motion is to begin work-shopping the piece with actors and work towards doing a public staged reading of it in the near future to really hone the project.

This week I've also been getting pulled into watching CNN and CSPAN and MSNBC to follow the whole debt ceiling crisis. It's been like a riveting soap opera. We'll see what the dramatic conclusion is. As of this writing I hear there is McConnell bill that is "close".

Congressional Suspense, life imitating novella?

2011-07-26T19:51:00.000-07:00

Since Congress is playin' games with the debt ceiling and budget plans, I don't feel so bad about exploiting all of this to promote my novella...or I kind of do feel bad because because it seems the ground work is being laid for things to actually happen which play out in the year 2032 in Turban Tan. I bring this piece up because what I wanted to reflect upon in this novella, I believe is becoming more and more important to acknowledge. I'm certainly not saying Turban Tan is the most important book ever written by any means, but I am biased and believe it's important enough for you to take a risk on by adding it to your pile of books to read, maybe even setting gently on top and cracking into very soon. I appreciate you taking the risk and thank you in advance for putting up with my tooting this piece during the "tense" congressional showdown. But hey, they have an agenda, I have an agenda. They want re-election, and I want my book to be read and enjoyed.

To grab a paperback copy -> http://amzn.com/1449918026

To grab a Kindle copy -> http://amzn.com/B003156PWI

or to explore it a little more and what it's about -> http://www.TurbanTan.com

Get lost in a good book. Thanks!

Hissy Kitchen

2011-07-23T19:52:00.000-07:00

I am a sometimes hobbyist chef. Occasionally I'll get the sudden to take the helm on the makings of dinner and experiment with various ingredients and food stuffs in the pantry, fridge and freezer. In this fashion I have churned up some good peanut butter chicken wings, flautas, among a wide variety of seasoned meats.

For lunch today I decided to make a homemade macaroni and cheese. In the process of grating the cheese, my hand slipped and the cheese grater flung to the floor, with it bits of cheese. This is one of those moments that sets me over the edge, into a hissy fit. I started slamming surfaces and proclaiming "goddamnit! I am done! I need to get checked out for Parkinson's because I can touch shit without fucking it up!" I soon cooled off and cleaned up my mess, proceeding on with cooking up my meal.

I realize I wouldn't last for one second on one of those high pressure cooking competition shows. My meltdown would be of epic proportions. When thousands of dollars are at stake to get those cupcakes out on time for the judges to rip apart mentally simultaneously while ripping apart with their tongue and saliva, dropping one utensil in the rush would be enough send my flying off the handle.

I'm normally a level headed individual. I'll stick to my hobbyist meal preparations and take it in perspective. After all, life is messy and probably meant to be that way.

Econo-Rant

2011-07-23T08:36:00.000-07:00

I agree that solving the Federal Budget deficit and debt ceiling is a complicated algorithm. I'm surprised that congress really hasn't seemed to acknowledge the people's cries for job creation. I would think that would be a good thing for their fiscal problem. Get more people working, making income, paying taxes. Trickle down economics is a phony philosophy that has proven not to work, only serve the accumulation of wealth of a small percentage. Solving this economic crisis is simple, get people working. They want to work. The government gets more tax money (without even having to raise taxes) to start paying down it's debt, keep itself operating, and people start buying goods and services which will then increase revenue for business. But the U.S. congress does not serve the people. It serves Lobbyists. Congress doesn't care about job creation, doesn't want job creation, because that will cut into the gargantuan profit margins of the Fortune 500, which will cut into their campaign contributions.

I think we're getting to a point in time when dealing with supply and demand that the word profit should be phased out and replaced with benefit. Profit doesn't solve. What is the physical benefit of doing business on behalf of the business owners, the employees, the customers? The delivery of a need somewhere in the pyramid of Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs. What does the human body do with profit? What does the soul do with profit? Perhaps I am being too literal and melodramatic here, of course money let's you buy your basic human needs; your hot dogs and potato salad for dinner, your toilet paper, your medication, and the items at the top, the self actualization, your yoga classes, scuba diving trips, hang gliding adventures. But money didn't really create that scuba gear or your prescription refill...materials did, human labor did. Material and human labor are churned through and tossed aside without much regard in the current economy, but the value of a dollar, how dare we let that slip on the index.

Commerce and governance continues to run via an engine of bullshit. The population grows, needs grow, global warming continues to bring us stronger storms than we've seen in the past yet we continue to elect and place our faith in leaders that cling to old Politcal philosophies and deny adaptation to the above. We currently have no innovators in the law making body.

I am okay with the U.S. defaulting on its debts. I am okay with all of Europe defaulting on its debts. I am okay with the value of Yuan sinking. Because maybe then, and only then, will everybody be forced to rethink how we pay for shit. The laws of supply and demand are not as fixed as the laws of chemistry, they can be altered. Hell, we can synthesize chemicals, we can synthesize buoyant economies with smart management of resources.

A little innovation, because commerce and governance continues to run via an engine of bullshit. Let's think benefit. Profit doesn't have the same ring as it once did.

Body Temp

2011-07-20T18:52:00.000-07:00

I went through a good chunk of my adult life being ill aware that the direction in which a ceiling fan turns makes a difference whether it sucks hot air up and out or if it pushes hot air upon you. A friend was over for dinner the other night and as we don't have air conditioning at the moment, my girlfriend and I were most likely naturally bemoaning our ceaselessly sweaty brows. He posited a simple, observational question on which direction our fans spun. We kind of disregarded it at first, like, what difference does it make, it's blowing! But he persisted and said let's try it. So we did. And we stood beneath its blow and felt the difference and he was a correct gentleman. So the day before the hottest two days of the summer (so far) we got it straightened out. Strangely I feel a touch of de ja vu on this fan directional knowledge, that it felt familiar somehow, that I actually did know of this fact and yet somehow over the course of my 27 years of brain collected information about the world, this bit had been squeezed to the far back of my awareness of simple, everyday inefficiencies. I can't help but feel embarrassed, as the next day at work I mentioned to my colleagues my new found nugget, as though I had discovered something radical about home economics. And they all nonchalantly proclaimed their previous knowledge of the fact. Everyone in the world knew of this trick except me and my girlfriend. And my girlfriend is a smart cookie. Although even more embarrassing is that subconsciously I knew of this fan directional shit and did not make any steps to ensure our fan correctness beforehand, two years in this apartment and these were not the first hot days we've suffered here. But a problem solved is a problem solved.

Something else we've been trying is filling a bucket of ice and setting it in front of a box fan and works a little like a makeshift AC unit. Certainly not as intense, but helpful.

I spend most of the day under the blast of AC at work, which makes the heat even more overwhelming at the end of the day. I'm wondering if air conditioning is making us wimpier as a species. Sure there's global warming, but mankind has survived through heat waves for hundreds of thousands of years, and a now a high day in the 90s shuts us down and in. Productivity slips....slips...slips, like the sweat of our pits. Going from extremely cool conditions certainly cannot be the best thing for the human body. A bit shock going on to the internal temperature regulation organs. I really think it fucks with our body's ability to regulate body temperature. Yet I won't complain about the high AC at work. In fact I highly look forward to go back to it tomorrow. Even if it puts recycled dust into my throat. My pits will be comfortably regulated by electricity.

A Nation Buried Alive Needs the Right Spiritual Spade, and That Spade is Not Money

2011-07-17T15:19:00.000-07:00

I've been watching the show Cities of the Underworld on the History channel. It documents and shows underground tunnels and chambers of different historical focuses. Yesterday I watched an old one on a bunker in West Virginia underneath the Greenbrier 5 star hotel. This was the place where congress would be rushed off to in the event of nuclear holocaust during the cold war. Once entering they would be stripped, showered and issued military uniforms, which set a weird image in my mind of old white dudes walking around in fatigues and how that would alter their partisan relations.

Today I watched one on Vietnam and the intricate network of tunnels below the jungles and a whole underground village under the coastal town of Vinh Moc. Dug out by bare hands. Thick clay. My girlfriend asked me if I thought Americans would rally together to dig out and cooperate on a safe haven. And I wonder if they would. I don't mean to knock on Americans necessarily, but there is the air of uncertainty about the degree of governmental and personal roles in shaping a nation and reacting to crisis. If a war were to suddenly land on American ground, our spirit as a nation of solutions and production is currently wounded, and I'm feeling our resolve is in a doughy shape. I'm not talking about patriotism. There's plenty of that as evidenced by the rowdiness of 4th of July weekend. I'm talking about my worries of us as a nation of innovative adaptability. If you look at our congress, our lawmakers, everyone seems to clinging to old models. Republicans vs democrats. This worked. That worked. Well in the end you look at our economic situation, none of this or that worked in the long run. It got us in a trench without the right tools to dig us out.

This is America. We pull ourselves up by our bootstraps. Yet I don't feel that confidence emanate from much of the American population. The old feeling of local comraderie seems to be thinning with the enlarged communications of the global population. And America is battered by big worries about business. Business complexities. The complexities that have popped kinks in a nation that has become a business.

America is a melting pot of creativity and as a people we need to get that jiving back whether Wall Streets wants to share with Main Street, whether congress can shift gears and become a little more solution minded or not. I want to see all of us people, not wait on the big business men to sprinkle vitality on us through paychecks, but to find a way to eat, and play and make things without the agreed upon nonsense of money.

I've read about various forms of community currencies popping up as experiments. I read about one example in Japan where say for example you help out a neighbor by picking up his kids when he's sick. You in turn get a token which you can redeem for goods or services in the community, say, get a cup of coffee.

My question to us is do we really want to let our cities and states degrade while money figures out what it wants to be for us? Or do we want to create or own local systems for providing basic human needs and joys in a fair and organized way to reward those who want to pitch in and contribute? I don't mean to harp on and denigrate Americans and world citizens, this really applies to the whole world, but what the fuck, this economic crisis is bullshit and we're all agreeing to this bullshit preventing us to think outside the cardboard box and get shit done.

A nation buried alive needs the right spiritual spade, and that spade is not money.

Blackberry Connected to the Wrist Bone

2011-07-16T10:30:00.000-07:00

I used to have a Blackberry for work purposes awhile back when I worked for an event photography company. I had to solve a lot of problems, put out lots of fires and the Blackberry was a constant siphon of my attention. When I resigned to focus on some writing projects I turned it in, went back to using an old flip phone, and was happy with that shift in communication leash power.

That was a few years ago, and my wireless contract now was up for renewal, and I had the option of getting a swell new phone for free. So I hemmed and hawed and contemplated getting back into smart phone capabilities, and figured it may be good for producing stuff. I opted for the Blackberry after playing with several other types, iPhone included, because I liked the feel of the Blackberry. I'm not a big touch screen fellow when it comes to typing stuff, I like actual keys.

So for the last few days I've been very distracted by this device. We do live in a distracting age with technology and I've read posts and tweets and statuses of writers griping about the distraction of the internet. While I feel their pain, it is up to the strength of us as writers to pull up the will power to set a device down, and create, write. Dropping one type of communication for a more intimate, personal, playful one. Sometimes I like to write the old fashioned way, pen to paper. For some time I've also feared how the digital age is going to change literature, something I love so much. While we've certainly seen the fall of the big box book retailers like Borders, I do hope smaller independent bookshops can maintain their survival by remaining an active community location with readings and events. Although I think one cannot say "people don't read books anymore" because I think with all of these devices and feeds people are reading possibly more than they have in previous decades. So, for awhile I kind of moaned about the fact that "print" was getting murdered by digitizing of the reading experience. There's certainly a lot of us that prefer the feel of pages. But I sort of don't feel like focusing on the negative. I'm in a phase where I'm okay messing around with this digital device stuff and playing with it as its own form, find its own rhythm of storytelling, which hopefully can still operate as a gateway drawing people back to print. Much the same way that video helps some theatre groups entice people out to see their shows. Print and live theatre becomes a breath of fresh air for the spectator, a time to unplug. Sort of like a waking phase of digital sleep. Often I look forward to dreams as I would a TV show.

And I'm not necessarily talking about the digital as just promo for the unplugged aforementioned. A river might feed into the ocean, but the river is still a trip in and of itself. A river needs exploring. I'm going to leave it at that analogy for now.

Hysteria on the Hill

2011-07-12T06:44:00.000-07:00

I had this one dream image stick with me this morning. A big kid stood clutching a bicycle screaming at the top of his lungs on the top of a hill. He proclaimed he wanted to be like his daddy. A crowd gathered around. A little kid poked his head through some people and realized it was his bike! The big kid up there had stolen his bike. But the big kid was wailing and screeching, a fine hysteria. No one attempted to correct the injustice. No one was quite sure what would happen next, the hysteria continued. Would the kid ride the bike down the hill and off and away? He continued to proclaim his need to be like his dad. A rumor, or a fact circulated through the crowd that the big kid's father was currently serving time for Grand Theft Auto.

The hysteria continued. People got bored. I snuck up around the back of the hill to try to talk some sense into him. He rode off when I gently touched his shoulder.

Fat Fever

2011-07-11T13:54:00.000-07:00

I'm probably one of the only people I know without the Air Conditioning. Maybe it's because I'm rugged and tough. Or fairly poor. Last night the humidity in Chicago got vicious, a little build up of moisture of the approaching storm we had this morning. I could hardly sleep last night, I even turned a faced the other edge of the bed as to get some more of the box fan in my face to dry the gushing sweat. I sweat like a fat sliver of bacon pan frying and sloshing up skin oil. I don't think I really slept, but I did have some half dreams where I was cognizant of lying in my bed, sweating, but hallucinated people coming in and out of my apartment. They were un-phased by the humidity, and they chalked it up to the fact that they were of a higher class and could afford not to sweat. Maybe there is a spiritual hierarchy, like the Hindu castes, and the energy centers affect DNA's ability to withstand temperatures. But these fancy people did flaunt their dry pits and didn't want to get too close to me as they believed the fat that was oozing out of my pores would stain their dresses and slacks. I must have some humiliation hovering in my subconscious that I can't quite put my finger on. But I did shed many toxins through the exit of my skin pores last night and need to do laundry to get that fresh sheet smell.

From my office window this morning, within seconds of arriving at my desk, I saw the dark clouds roll in, intense winds lash down the trees, funneled down the train tracks. Looked like a hurricane. That is probably how my sweating looked in the judgment of my dream figments who watched me try to sleep.

Bus Hero

2011-07-08T10:58:00.000-07:00

Yesterday on the bus I saw a seeming pariah become a hero. An african american rudely squeezed passed a guy in the aisle, grunting "trying to get by." The guy responded with "well, pardon me works." The pariah dude kept asking people how long it should take to get a letter from Florida. A girl who unplugged from her ipod to answer said it may take a week. He didn't seem to believe her so he kept bugging people getting the same answer. Then someone tried to exit at the rear and pulled down the red emergency exit rod, which sounded an alarm and stopped the bus. It was jammed and until it was un-jammed the bus was unable to proceed. So the pariah dude pitched in with his muscle to try to un-jam it. It took awhile and people were getting impatient but he was able to get it free and back into place so the shrill alarm stopped sounding and the bus could continue on its way. Everyone cheered and someone called out "we have a hero!" And I felt really happy for the pariah's pride. He was now appreciated. A hero. Well done.

Animal Anxiety

2011-07-07T11:36:00.000-07:00

I was thinking about this idea over lunch - earlier this morning while getting dressed I accidentally bumped my box fan on my cat. He of course was fine, only a minor brushing of an object which glided off of his fluffy fur. But the look of terror in his eyes at the moment was intense, as of course cats are prone to over react to stimuli. I tend to feel anxiety here and there but I'm always able to talk myself down through cognitive recognition of the actual smallness of some stressors. But take for instance last week, some work was being done on our building and the noise was giving my cat extreme "big eyes." Unfortunately we are not able to properly communicate to him what is going on. I can only imagine the anxiety pumping through his blood - pure primal flight. So while thinking of this over lunch I imagined for minute what if someone injected me with a concoction of animal stress hormones. I wonder how different they are from cortisol and other adrenal gland secretions our human bodies create. I felt absolutely terrified for a moment, and then was able to talk myself down and dissolve the wickedness of my imagination, which seems to be most vivid when conjuring up the worst. Now to imagine blue skies and puffy clouds. That doesn't seem to be as sharp in my mind's eye. Wolves and sharks? For some reason sharper in mental resolution.

Patriotism, a Man Made Nuisance?

2011-07-06T21:05:00.000-07:00

Over the weekend I enjoyed the small town fireworks display over the harbor in Lexington, Michigan. Despite the Michigan economy, and small size of the municipality, they were indeed grander than anything I had seen off of Navy Pier in Chicago. My girlfriend, my mom, my brother and I all settled into watch from my mom's sailboat moored on the dock. Across the way a fellow decided to plug in his electric guitar and amp to his boat and play his rendition of Jimi Hendryx's rendition of the Star Spangled Banner over and over and over and over again, with a little Freebird riff here and there. Needless to say, it was pretty annoying. Now I'm sure he had the best of intentions, to entertain the masses from the surrounding townships on Holiday with 4th of July themed music, but it did cross beyond the border of irritation, and people around us expressed their loss in appreciation of his gesture, but he was oblivious. Certainly in the patriotic zone. This scene, the day after witnessing people at a concert in the park whoop around with high pitched wails, accompanied by over the top salutes while a cover band played "Proud to be an American" led me to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe, those who try to revel in their patriotism, might be perhaps, the most....annoying people? Is this a terrible thing to say?

I certainly appreciate my country. There are many freedoms I do enjoy, and hearing the daily world news, there really is no other place I'd rather be. Europe maybe, some parts. But when does whooping around like an animal or playing monotonous riffs to get underneath one's skin in the guise of patriotism become an honorable trait? Look at the Tea Partiers and their tooting of the constitution to an almost self destructive level. Or the Committee on Un-American Activities and McCarthyism? Or Nazism? Patriotism in moderation is a good thing. Loyalty is a great thing. After all, in order to make this beast of a nation work, people can't be giving up on it. But excessive patriotism makes baboons on ecstasy look chill, reasonable. And to make democracy work we cannot just be blindly singing its praises. We must question it. Hold it accountable. Checks and balances (with reasonable thought, not just to toot a party horn). Maybe when our country doesn't try to fuck over teachers, when it stops giving out handouts to major corporations which gamble recklessly on credit default swaps, when congress stops playing party thumb wars, when american industry stops shipping jobs overseas, will it be cool to crush a can of "American Beer" on one's skull and catcall. Being a citizen is a little more of a responsibility than rooster screeching for a sports team. Yet "team spirit" with taunts against opposing teams is often an identical twin to patriotism. Am I terrible in expressing such thoughts? Am I a terrible American? Atleast I can be thankful that I live in an America where I can post such crabby rants on "over american activity."

God Bless the U.S. "ay" - insert Canadian dialect

For a Fistful of Sweat

2011-06-26T07:38:00.000-07:00

A week that flew by leads me to a Sunday morning eating waffles (homemade from a waffle iron) and watching For A Fistful of Dollars on AMC. Sometimes I dig certain movies because I want their imagery to infuse itself in my dreams. Monday I spent time with some good college friends, one of whom has been in Africa for the past several years, having been in the Peace Corps in Zambia, and having created a life for herself in South Africa post corps. Very proud of her for her worldliness. I wish plane tickets to that part of the world weren't so pricey, as I'd love to see the world she has spoken of in stories. Waterfalls, lions, oh my. Wednesday we kicked off our latest Wood Sugars show M.I.L.F (Mothers Incredible Local Funnies) now going on Wednesdays at The Original Mothers bar in Chicago, by Rush and Division. It was a swell turn out, and many laughs were induced. Last minute I had to jump on light/sound board for one of the other sketch groups, and not having operated any such board since probably 1999 I was a little nervous. But the nerves kept my timing alert enough to not fuck it up. Had some late nights this week with the show, another Wood Sugars recording session, and some late night work revising my latest novel manuscript. By Friday night I was ready to chill, convincing my girlfriend to make chicken and waffles for dinner, and I later made popcorn. I crashed at 10pm hoping to grab, I was hoping, a 12 hour sleep, yet I awoke at 2:30am with massive heartburn. It was like a middle eastern riot in my belly. That easily stole 2 hrs from my slumber, and I was out of Wal-zan 150, and tums. All I had was old pepto-bismol tablets in the medicine drawer that had expired in 2008. I took them anyway because I was desperate. So this and my energy levels got me to thinking about getting some real exercise to help reduce stress, make my sleep more productive, speed the ol' metabolism, and in general give me a little more cardio vascular stamina. So I went for a run on Saturday afternoon and broke a very good sweat, ran for 2 miles! Which is nothing but considering it has been over a year since I went running that was not just a short print to catch the bus, I feel good about it and am going to try to keep it up a few times a week.

I also completed draft 2.1 of my latest novel on Saturday and am happy with it to a point of comfort in bouncing it around for some reader perspective before my next round of revisions that I want to finalize in September. If anyone is interested in giving the manuscript a read, I'd be more than happy for some outside perspective and critiques.

The Power of Thinking Things are Shitty (while hanging out with money)

2011-06-17T18:04:00.000-07:00

I’ve been thinking a touch on the economy. How dismal it is still projected to be, the slim job market, low stock dividends, profits slipping, slipping. And it’s interesting, especially when you try to digest it from a scientific, physical, chemical perspective. One of the laws of energy is that it can neither be created nor destroyed. In the public eye there is the bombardment of the image that wealth is vanishing. But no, it’s still there, it’s just held on to, stockpiled. Which leads me to think; that this financial crisis is not of a physical nature. The physical money has not disappeared, the dent in finance is of a mental origin. The cries and moans of Wall Street on the mess they created for themselves created shockwaves of perceived panic and loss which cause so very many to cringe and freeze their wallets and accounts. Businesses announced their wage freezing, budgets had to be cut all around because shards of trepidation were pumped into everyone’s mind, that of shortage, so everyone acted accordingly. Well, the mind shapes its environment…maybe not directly, but it influences the comings and goings just enough to make wishes, gleeful or dour, come true. Even money. Greenbacks, copper, and nickel do not like to hang around the nervous energy of panic, they’ve made that much clear. Perhaps the various currencies should douse themselves in chamomile and valerian root powder and tickle us to relax us enough into loving them again. For then, and only then, will money wear out its welcome. Again.

Sunken Valley & Journey to the Stall

2011-06-17T15:01:00.000-07:00

A couple of weekends ago, a good childhood friend and girl friend were in town to visit. We took a walk downtown after dinner to kill time before an after party for the Chicago Underground Film Festival (his experimental sitcom Dare Double was playing at CUFF). They wanted to see the lake. So we started walking eastbound from Wabash. My original thinking was to make our way through Millennium Park, but I got intrigued by the set up of tents and booths and a blocked off little side street stretching east from Michigan Ave. It the was set up for the art fair. But we kept walking through towards the lake. This took us through a strange little township it seemed of its own origin. We took some stairs down to what seemed like a sunken downtown valley, a park nestled, hidden between a surrounding mountain ridge of condominium towers and luxury hotels. A lush park trickled with fountains and throbbed the color green. I've lived in Chicago for 9 years and had no visual awareness that this little park area existed, as it is tucked away from one's sight-line from other major areas of downtown where you have business to romp around in. It had it's own little cafe and bank branch for the service of these secret like "townsfolk."

At different points each one of us had to go to the bathroom, number 2. My friend's girlfriend went into what we thought was a hotel. She asked "where's the bar?" to the front desk attendant. He responded "there is no bar."

"I thought this was a hotel."

"No, this is a condo."

"Oh, well I need to use the bathroom."

They were nice and accommodated her, taking her and my friend down a spiral stairs while I waited outside for what seemed like a very long time. I wondered about what I would do if they never emerged. They did emerge, having pooped in the employee bathroom at the far of a strange, expansive grocery store in the basement.

As we changed our direction to head back into the city, I had to go number 2. I went inside a hopping luxurious hotel, like I meant business and made my way straight into the bathroom. The floor in front of the check in desk glowed. The bathroom was one of those which had set up each stall like its own little closet room. Leaving the hotel we passed by a homeless man asking for money. His approach was "I got crabs and need to buy some cream." I enjoyed his tactic. If I had change/cash I probably would have lent.

Anyway, my friend suggested I started a blog about places to poop in the city. I thought it was a funny notion and I have plenty of such stories to tell, so I may or may not incorporate such into this Igloo Oven blog here. I did a door to door sales job awhile back for a month and it required you to be strategic about gaining entry into bathrooms. One of my territories was on the edge of Hyde Park. There was medical building which was pretty much vacant except one MD office on the first floor. I walked in like I owned the place and went into the elevator up to six. I explored the creepy, vacant hallway with abandoned boxes of paper work and dust. I thought I heard ghostly noises. I pooped as quickly as I could and went back out into the world.

Micro-fiction 6/16/11

2011-06-17T14:19:00.000-07:00

Micro-fiction exercise for 6/16/11

The rudder rush was like a quivering spasm of an ADD kid. The boat crashed right into the Bangkok style house of 51^st Street and Wagner Blvd, up on the hill that still saw the ravages of the flood. The televangelist lived in that home, and still hung out nearby for he yelled up a verbal storm at the yellow slickered bad navigator who banged his little Boston Wailer right up against his well concealed aluminum siding. Slam wobble crank creak is what gave its material away. The televangelist was up, huddled in his sons old tree fort, feeding turkey jerky to his 3 cats, all wet and hissy. The boater apologized and the televangelist cussed him out as being one of the damned. The boater traveled onwards, away from the partially engulfed hump to find people to save.

Micro-fiction 6/15/11

2011-06-16T07:39:00.000-07:00

Micro-fiction exercise for 6/15/11

Freckles were abandoned in the creation of this child when God received a strange phone call. It was prayer, a rather selfish. “God, please please please let me get this job!” But little did the Praying Man stop to consider that God actually preferred his competition to get the job, as his family situation was a bit more dire; having been unemployed for 11 months and a child on the way. Urgency spelled its way to this gentleman more so than the recent college grad. So God abandoned his freckle making in the DNA canvas to push more of his weight into making sure the unemployed man got the job. And he did! God’s will, will hath its way on Earth! But the Praying man, the recent college grad, was bummed to the nth degree and got hammered on O bombs at the corner bar and decided to drive to the suburbs to see his girl friend. And in its own twisted, unplanned revenge on God’s will, the praying man hit a woman biker, sideswiped her as she crossed the intersection. She certainly had the green light. Right of way. The paramedics arrived quickly and rushed her off to the hospital but not in time. She died from massive blood loss and hemrhaging. It turns out she had a bun in the oven. With child, two lives were crossed off the roster of the living. It was the fetus in which God had forgotten to spackle with freckles.

Tube Image

2011-06-14T06:41:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I'm a sucker for those self help deep relaxation tapes. Cheesy as it may be, I have a tape that really does the trick for me after long day, and especially if my mind is still active when I crawl into bed. So I was listening to it last night and it got me to a good point where I was slightly hallucinating behind my eye lids, which I enjoy, and a good relaxation listen will do this for me. I started to see myself from a third person omniscient, cartoon-like! I was wearing some colourful, frilly, Beatles-esque band uniform. My hair was parted a bit like the flat top character from Dick Tracy. So the cartoon me jumped into a big tube from a platform high in the sky. The tube networked with other tubes, and down I slid like a wacky water park rider. Yet I got deep into this network and the tube took me not to an opening at the end where I'd slide back out to fresh air, but to a dead end where my feet stopped me with a thud.

A tingle of claustrophobia. To shimmy back up the long, long, long tube was to be my escape.

I said to "hell with that." I took a deep breath, and exhaled away the cartoon imagery, and rolled over to welcome restful slumber.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Sometimes I get ideas or images in my head that I feel compelled to write down, and if for whatever reason I'm not able to write it down right away, and I wind up forgetting it, I get really frustrated and upset with myself. I had a realization late last night, a sort of zen to put myself at peace for the fizzling of a "gem" idea. I began to look at the formation of ideas not only from a materialistic, put em down onto paper approach...but the experience of the idea is just as important, and that if it doesn't stick as hoped, well, it was probably a little wave.

Woozy Debate

2011-06-13T17:21:00.000-07:00

I was reading a short story in the most recent New Yorker on the way home today, about a baby girl who turns out has a brain tumor, and its subtle description of hemorrhaging and brain bleeding made me pretty woozy and I still feel a bit woozy even though that was about two hours ago. I guess I'm of the faint of heart. An aspect of my novel which I'm currently revising deals with some biologically vivid induced wooziness. A bit of panic disorder.

The New Hampshire Republican debate is on. I'm not a Republican but I like Ron Paul, not for a president, but I do like his rants I've seen before on conspiracy theories and I like that there is his voice somewhere there in Congress. Michelle Bachmann is annoying. Romney has a very politically fake smile on his face as he looks on while listening to the others speak. Rick Santorum in a "this or that" question to get to know their "personalities" said he would choose Leno over Conan. He just lost my "support." Not that I even pondered supporting him. I haven't seen Newt speak much so far.

I'm not a Republican, I'm not a Democrat. I very much feel that American politics needs to develop a strong third, fourth and fifth party even. I fear that no domestic or foreign policy will get solved through the endless two party stickling and butting of heads. It makes way for either big government or big business.

Eyes and Ears, Unlikable Ones

2011-06-10T19:06:00.000-07:00

I read recently an article in The New Yorker about one Thomas Drake, now an "enemy of the state" because he shared information with the media about NSA inefficiency and un-lawful surveillance. The NSA had developed a computer program which tracks all electronic communications, phone calls, e-mails, facebook messages, etc. etc. But there was an encryption component so no individuals could be identified unless there were certain patterns which called for a warrant. But the NSA moved forward using the technology in secret without further finishing development of the encryption component. The whole scenario sounds very X-Files, which I have been watching a lot of recently. It reminds me of a time in 2004, when I was living in a basement apartment. My cell phone got shitty reception down in the unit so I had to step outside to make phone calls. Several times when calling my mom in Maine we would hear a clicking and it would disconnect. Usually I would make this phone calls in the evening, after work or a rehearsal, and it would be dark outside. One time I made a call during the daylight and my mom called out the clicking noise. And it disconnected. Then I noticed an unmarked car parked down the street, idling. This clicking/disconnection thing happened a few more times and I would notice the unmarked car parked down the street, idling. I finally gathered the courage to approach this car. Too many clicks. Too many disconnected calls. The car drove off as I got closer. My deduction for this circumstance was that the neighbors above me were selling drugs and were being tapped, dragging my phone calls under suspicion as well. Until I can get my hands on my FBI file...

I stand with Drake.

Gunned Down! Bang Dream!

2011-06-10T11:10:00.000-07:00

Last night I dreamt that I was on my way from swimming at a strange overheated, overcrowded local pool house. A black SUV drove by a house and fired away! Just ahead of me. Some folks ducked for cover. A woman emerged from a garage bleeding from the head, a bullet nicked her temple. The SUV came around again for another round of shooting. I made the mistake of giving these punks the bird. They started firing away at me! I ran and ducked for cover underneath a pile of leaves in a backyard, but they drove around to the street on the other side which exposed me and they fired at me as I darted away again to hide in a trash can. I got some bullets to the back.

This morning as I was getting ready for the day, groggy as hell because the vivid dream, or nightmare, must have sapped a lot of adrenaline (I'm certain the brain still fires synapses to gear up the adrenal glands while in deep REM sleep), I thought a little bit about these jerks who gunned me down in my subconscious. I thought about if this were to happen in real life...if I was in a moment of "there's no way out of this" I'd be sure to get a good look at their faces. So I would know who to come back and haunt like crazy. Like throw plates at their head and pull their hair and push them while they're using the bathroom. Retribution can be a bitch. I'd be a petty ghost I think.

HH4Kidz

2011-06-02T16:58:00.000-07:00

Another sample sketch. My hair is looking a little shaggy. Should I go here even though I'm a big kid now?

Oh yeah, and don't forget to subscribe to our podcast in iTunes, just search Wood Sugars.

Or stream from http://www.woodsugars.com/listen

Wav Form Dance to a Sketch of Ours

2011-06-02T06:30:00.000-07:00

We're in the works to have some of our Wood Sugars Comedy podcast sketches animated, but in the meantime Wood Sugars Eliaz figured out how to create groovy wav forms.

Oh yeah, and don't forget to subscribe to our podcast in iTunes, just search Wood Sugars.

Or stream from http://www.woodsugars.com/listen

ITB S2 E8

2011-05-31T16:35:00.000-07:00

We have a new episode up of our comedic variety show podcast, Inside the Barrel. In this episode we interview funny gals Ever Mainard and Rasa Gierstikas of The Shit Show, a kickass stand-up open mic here in Chicago. We also feature the band Lola Balatro! We tackle some slightly economic and educational issues in some of our sketches. But why listen to me yak about it, listen to it! -> ITB S2 E8.

Lake House by the Shoddy Seaport

2011-05-29T10:59:00.000-07:00

I dreamt the other night that my girlfriend and I were at a point we were looking to raise a family, and so, we were looking at houses. I looked at one incredible gem of property set on a lake. Three stories plus a basement, which was part underground, part ground level due to an incline. There was a little bar/cafe on the ground level section which we could either utilize for our own pleasure or rent out to another business, although the owner of the property looking to lease it forewarned that no business would stick there so might as well enjoy it for our own. His asking price was $1899 a month! A steal for this, dare I say it again, gem of property, right on the waterfront with a dock and boat ramp! The owner, a middle aged bespectacled man with thinning grey hair warned me of "the haunt." This he mumbled, and when I asked him to clarify he cleared his throat and said "a demon." Which wasn't too surprising because now my dream had shifted the surrounding neighbor to an abandoned seaport.

We leased the property anyway and had one hell of an adventure trying to calm down a boy's demonic spirit throwing a temper tantrum. A phantom roller coaster erected itself as a vapor around our property. We had to chase his apparition around its twists and turns.

2 Year Anniversary for a little know book - Whiskey Pike!

2011-05-28T09:57:00.001-07:00

Today is the 2 year anniversary of my book Whiskey Pike: A Bedtime Story for the Drinking Mankind. I would be more than honored if you took a swig of whiskey today and placed an order for your own copy of this bedtime storybook (for adults) for your bed stand.

-> Order Here!

Maybe that Creep's the Most Hated Man on the Bus?

2011-05-26T16:44:00.000-07:00

On the bus ride home, I had my big headphones on, so I couldn't quite hear the commotion, but I noticed a lady raise her arms like "what the fuck" and glare in the direction of the back of the bus. It looked like those pointed daggers emanating from her eyes were ripping right through a man with black mustache, trench coat, and private eye hat on. He wasn't paying any attention to her and I couldn't tell if it was a shameful avoidance or if he was just not involved in the young lady's angst. He did look like a creep, and I thought maybe he had done something creepy to her, because the lady said "why would you do that?" Still he wasn't responding to her. "You're the most hated man on this bus," she continued. Room opened up at the rear and I moved back to make room at the front. I drifted away from the odd, indistinct confrontation going on. But I thought about it a little more while I was at the back of the bus, only because it was so mysterious, and the young lady had a lot of anger in her at something, and I really was curious what the fuck that creepy, mustachioed, trench coated fellow had done to her. Then I thought maybe he had done nothing at all and the young lady was directing her distaste toward the rear exit. Maybe somebody had pushed the flappy doors when a stop wasn't requested and the doors released, causing the doors to beep an error and remain ajar, preventing the bus from resuming motion until fixed. This would cause a delay in motion. Now, I didn't see this happen, but it made sense in my head as a possibility for pissing this young lady off, because I have seen things like this happen before. An oblivious person pushes against the rear door when the green light above is not lit (meaning go ahead and push) delaying anxious commuters from getting home and eating supper and finally unwinding from a dulling day at the office. If this is the case, I can kind of understand her utterance of "you're the most hated man on this bus," because, well, I think I've thought that before in such a scenario. A motherfucker just wants to get home. And anyone getting in the way of said operation is a bit of an enemy. And that poor creep, for a second there I saw the worst in him.

The Blackest of Clouds

2011-05-25T09:53:00.000-07:00

I find I probably feel the most relaxed when weather is ominous. This morning some dark thunderclouds rolled and walking into work with rain percolating more aggressively with each step, clutching and protecting my travel mug of coffee, I suddenly felt very excited for the day. I've always loved those days of summer, when you sit at the beach all day, beautiful sunny blue sky, not even a cloud for awhile, and a dark black cumulonimbus comes plowing from the horizon and you hurriedly gather your towels and beach toys to get out from it's wrath in the nick of time. It's beautiful.

I think the "relaxing element" comes from both a perk in adrenaline, the caveman in us becomes alive, senses more astute than the normal hour as the elements are banging away, and the subconscious possibility that this earthshaking storm could be the end of the times, or least a destructive barrier in the day's agenda. This sort of washes away worries for me. A sense that whatever I have been sweating out in my mind, has little power over anything, compared with what is physically going on around me.

The Diarrhea of Writing

2011-05-22T08:47:00.000-07:00

I came across this clip of Chuck Palahniuk talking about writer's constipation which enjoyed listening to and identified with. I do love those moments of writing when you burst down to your laptop or a pad of paper and do just have to fucking write.

One of the first vivid experiences I had with that involved this old piece of spontaneous prose (http://theigloooven.blogspot.com/2008/02/lagoon-of-serious-dementia.html). I was suddenly compelled to get off the bus early, because I had language popping up in my head that I just just had to write down. So I found the only free piece of paper I had in my bag, a Chinese take out menu, and started scribbling on it against a newspaper box. This language was coming out of nowhere, as though my subconscious possessed me, came pouring out like diarrhea. That's when I knew I wanted to explore this writer thing more.

Sorry, Wrong Rapture!

2011-05-22T07:00:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty excited that I survived the rapture yesterday, or more accurately that the rapture did not happen after all. I quite forgot about it to tell the truth, but 5pm rolled around with no hiccups. This is the second time that Pastor Harold Camping of Family Radio Worldwide has predicted wrong. He originally spoke of the rapture taking place Sept. 6th 2005, but when that did not pan out he claimed he miscalculated, and then recalculated.

I'm curious though, how would any congregation trust a Pastor's word again after two wrong passionate predictions? I mean, yeah he goofed up about his prediction of the coming of the end of the world, had his people amped up and full of conviction about this happening. What a goddamn let down!

I had started reading The God Complex by Richard Dawkins around this time last year. It was thought provoking to say the least, and I only made it half way through before I had to take a break for several reasons. It certainly put the existence of God into question, as well as the spirit, and I found that I'm happier when I maintain a slight feeling of mysticism in my life, helps soften depression, anxiety, stress, for me at least. Especially at the time I was transitioning to a sales job, hearing no every day, pondering if there is no God was not what I needed at the time. I was also reading this book on the bus, and many people would try and get into religious conversations with me at 7:30 in the morning when they looked over and saw me reading it. Also not the time of day where I'm open to talking about God and heaven with strangers.

But religion, to some degree or another, does ultimately make a lot of people wrong. We'll find out some day in more specifics that many aspects of belief were actually wrong, and the wrong convictions triggered behaviors in some that were very wrong. Not just predictions about the end of the world, but persecutions both on small personal scales and massive warmonger scales.

Here is a short improvised film we did at Wood Sugars a few months back in which rapture is mentioned. Do enjoy!

Turban Tan copies

2011-05-21T20:43:00.001-07:00

I got some extra copies of my book Turban Tan for anyone willing to write me an amazon review or such. Hit me up at jeffphillips.thirdleave [at] gmail dot com if you're interested!

Negative Norm

2011-05-21T16:56:00.001-07:00

I realize I tend to see the worst in things, under some circumstances. I was just taking a wizz. Above the toilet on a little mirrored edge my girlfriend had her blow dryer resting. It seemed a little too close to the edge, still plugged in. What if it fell into the toilet and the electricity traveled back up my pee stream and gave me a jolt down under?

I wouldn't be writing this.

But I am thankful that gravity wasn't too thirsty to pull that beast down before I noticed.

I will think positively on that.

The Tripping Point

2011-05-20T18:18:00.000-07:00

Some say language developed after ancient, pre-historic tribes in Siberia took magic mushrooms. Can we in turn also trace the development of currency to this trippy incident? Territorial behavior is inherent in most if not all animals, but when we could start saying "mine" and drawing up contracts, the imaginary agreement on the value of ownership took on more weight. As words become symbols of cognitive gems, so does the coin become a bragging right - points of having.

That strange trip could have gone differently of course. It could have frozen man, in psychological stone, ice, shifting away that desire to share and to communicate a sudden and boundless vision...that in this sad turn, doesn't ripple. They grow apathetic, giving away all they got to the wolves because the coldness of the cerebral image makes them want to wither and have nothing to do with life, nothing worth holding onto.

Point is, all of our greed and backstabbing and talking obnoxiously out turn, is perhaps a more colorful course of events. Keeps you on your trippy toes.

The brain is like a wreck-less object in space. It's starts things that don't stop. Things so simple as moving from point A to point B, but is melting to become point Y and then some other point of a letter we're still working on conjuring up.

Gonna Save My Money Someday for Fine Eats

2011-05-20T06:29:00.000-07:00

Last night we had dinner plans - my girlfriend's best friend's birthday dinner. So after work, and as the fog was rolling in as thick misty chunks at street level, we went up to Andersonville in Chicago and met up with her at a boutique where she was doing some birthday shopping prior to dinner festivities. A few other female friends of her's were there. My girlfriend asked her if her boyfriend was meeting us "here" or at the restaurant. She replied with neither, he was at home...we very quickly realized that it was supposed to be a "girls" night out, my girlfriend had only skimmed the invite and mentioned to me to plan on it for Thursday thinking it was a group outing. They were nice enough to let me tag along to eat, which was great as I was mighty hungry only having a light lunch. I did feel like a party crasher, and felt bad for impeding on girl's night, but it also would have been awkward bailing on the outing. An odd thing to socially navigate.

We ate at a place called "In Fine Spirits." It was a bit pricey for my income level, luckily someone in our party had a Groupon they happily pitched in which shaved a chunk off the bill. I had the Mushroom Crepe, with Gruyere and maple. Tasty and crafty piece of food, but a little steep in cost and not filling by any means, I'm hoping the ingredients were organic as f*ck and at least heart healthy beyond belief. I washed it down with a Founders Red's Rye Ale which was smooth and hoppy. The girls were all mighty pleased with their cocktails, and had I $14 extra I would have ordered one of them myself, instead I stuck to one of the Red's Rye for $5, the cheapest thing on the drink menu, which for the beer was pretty reasonable, comparable to other bars. Anyway, In Fine Spirits is a place I would love to frequent if I had a bit of wealth going on, that way I could order two food items and multiple drinks without incurring debt. I do love places with cocktails crafted in a uniquely balanced way, as though it's liquid art, ready to vanish in an esophagus, like the Whistler in Logan Square.

At one point I had to run out to the car to re-feed the meter. I almost got hit by a car as I crossed a side street, as the car was seemingly wishing to blow through a stop sign. That's what I did yesterday to get my heart rate going. I didn't bring my phone out with me so had my hip been busted the other members of would have waited awhile before finding out. Note to self: learn girlfriend's phone number by heart in case absence of speed dial and absent minded driver.

When we got home we pigged out on Rahm-en Noodles, slices of cheese, and left over biscuits.

A Person in the Proverbial Pizza Box

2011-05-16T18:32:00.000-07:00

Today we have a new mayor in the City of Chicago. I thought I'd sound off on this briefly. I'm excited to see a new era in this city. Despite the good things Mayor Daley did for Chicago, I'm sure as this would be with anyone, after 22 years in one position you start go past the border of expertise and into the land of complacency. Rahm Emanuel has a lot of spunk which is utilized beneficially in the right direction. I'm no expert in municipal politics, but change can never be fully put in the basket of one individual. As we've seen with the narrow sighted expectation of all who voted for Barack Obama that suddenly the USA would be fixed in all its economic, health, and energy issues. A politician is not a messiah. A politician is merely one leader is an intricate network of agendas, and checks and balances. I suppose change begins by taking matters into one's own hands, starting at the level of city block. As JFK said "ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country." Solutions are not of the magic wand origin. Solutions come from public sweat.

Something Rahm said in his inauguration speech struck me as something I liked. He will not accept "we've never done that before" as an excuse not to make a change. Politics has stagnated greatly by cookie cutter party approaches. We have municipal, state and national problems that will never budge towards solution if applied with only "tried and true" ideas. Time to think outside the rotting pizza box. Of course, things need to fought out, that's democracy, questioning propositions is a good thing. But I think it's time that new questions and new intellectual fights are instigated.

I like Rahm's spunk. He might be known to a degree as an outspoken, vulgar loud mouth, but I'd also rather not see a soft spoken, doughy fella in the role of mayor of the 3rd largest city in America. For better or worse, now we get to see his true character on a local level. We'll see how this city may or may not shake a tad differently. I make no predictions. To rehash my pizza box metaphor, it's nice switch up where you get your pizza from every now and then and see how it digests. The risk of living.

Quality

2011-05-15T15:29:00.000-07:00

I was flipping through the television and came across one of those auction hunter shows, where they bid for an abandoned storage unit and its contents and then collect the items to resell. In this one I caught a piece of, they had found an old old Victrola with an original Thomas Edison seal on it. They put together, tested it out, and it played! Roughly a hundred years old, and they flipped an old switch on it, to find that it still worked.

Over a year ago I saw the Titanic exhibit at the Museum of Science Minnesota in Minneapolis. An expansive display of old artifacts retrieved from the wrecked ship looked pristine, solid. Toothbrushes, shoe polish containers. Fairly intact. And I was struck with how solid things appeared to be built back in the "old days" (minus the Titanic). In our current times things seem so cheap. My iPod from three years ago hardly works, nor does my old stereo system from 10 years ago. Yet a Victrola from the early 1900s long sitting in a dusty unheated storage room still operates.

It makes sense though. The businessmen who orchestrated the commercial work of engineers soon learned that it's good business to build things NOT to last. Keeps the customers coming back for another round.

On another note, Friday night I watched The Shining on VHS. I reckoned to myself for a moment how much I enjoyed the look and feel of an old VHS movie on an old TV. There is a grainy murkiness that in a way makes it all the more dream like. The fading of the quality is both distancing and narcotic for me. And the images start to sink in further to my subconscious in a trance-like manner. I sort of now prefer an old degraded VHS movie watching experience to a Blu Ray display on an HDTV. On such a high tech flicker the picture is almost too crisp for nostalgia to lurk. But the way they make things now, I'm curious to check out the picture quality on one of those flatscreen TVs in 15 years.

Trece de Viernes

2011-05-13T17:26:00.000-07:00

I made beer battered onion rings and mushrooms for dinner. Cutting the onions was much fiercer a battle than expected. I teared up like a tragic player, and the old eyes stung sharply! At one point I had to close my eyes and had difficulty opening them. They were stung shut! I went on cutting in blindness. I can feel my way around. Kinesthetically, I'm astute. I had to take a break, splash my eyes with cool water, which almost worsened it momentarily. Then I pulled out an old pair of swimming goggles from under the bathroom sink and resumed chopping that fat, organic white onion. I'm a culinary pansy.

These were delicious. I popped open a Labatt's Blue this morning and let it sit out all day to flatten. It served its purpose well.

As a prelude into Friday the 13th I had a wicked dream which combined two of my favorite interests; ghosts and brewing. I dreamt I owned a lot of land in the woods in which I set out to till the soil and grow barley and hops. Soon I learned this land was haunted. I forget the cerebral flicker of details but I learned the history of the accumulation of ghosts through old maps of a failed, small town bus system. An old man, not quite a shaman, or perhaps a shaman well hidden in modern garb, introduced me to a thick mud out in the woods. There was a spread of white fungus, doing its thing within the dark brown, thickened soil. He taught me to eat it. It tasted like a brownie! It had hallucinogenic properties which were supposed to heighten my awareness of these bus inflicted ghosts. Unfortunately it didn't do the trick for me. The old man told me I needed to eat more. So I did. I only felt full. Then I was suddenly on a business trip in the Wisconsin Dells and drove past outdoor hotel pools, shallow ones for the kids. Little babies were swimming around with baby dolphins under fountains. It was more like wiggling and worming than swimming. It looked a bit grotesque.

This morning on my way to work I crossed the path of a penny on the ground, heads side up! I reckoned this should be good luck on this Friday the 13th of May! Yet when I got to work I found both toilets in the men's to not have been flushed the previous evening. I did a good deed and flushed both. But the bowl was stained so I went up to the fifth floor bathroom and there was a gross something floating in the bowl there too. And cocky was I from the weather this week that I wore a short sleeved polo shirt and no coat. When I stepped out for lunch, a cold front had swept in and dropped the air temperature about twenty degrees. I think that penny is laughing at me. Day was redeemed when beer battered onion rings and mushrooms entered my belly. Now I'm going to ring in the "holiday" watching Kubrick's The Shining with my cat. On Halloween after drinking it up with pumpkin ale I wound the night down with The Shining. My cat watched it intently! His eyes were glued! He wants to see it again!

Friends or Benefits

2011-05-13T11:51:00.000-07:00

This a short sketch video I'm in over at Wood Sugars. We did a bunch of these as part of the "Friends or Benefits" series. Be sure to browse our channel for more of them. I had a blast. I was originally just helping with sound on this project but had a last minute idea for a character I wanted to try. These type of short short movies takes me back...growing up, what my friends and I did for fun was make movies. Just make them up as we went along. As a grown man, that sort of thing is still a blast.

Spray

2011-05-12T08:35:00.000-07:00

I just sneezed all of a sudden and sprayed snot all over my laptop. I think I got it all cleaned up but I still feel dirty now typing away here. Sometimes I hate sneezing. I know they say that to feel a sneeze is to feel 1/10th of an orgasm, or 1/100th of an orgasm, some stat like that. (I'm curious how this is measured. Do they set people up neuro-sensors and record their brain waves while having sex as a control experiment? Then wave pepper up their noses to compare?) I feel more irritation than anything when I sneeze. Particularly, after eating a granola or cereal bar. I think I'm allergic to something in them. I sneeze harshly after the first couple of bites. Yet I keep eating them because they are a convenient form of breakfast in a go-go-go society. Store brands make me sneeze most viciously and it's painful when I get granola chunks flung up my nasal passage. So I steer away from generic granola bars. I'm a granola bar snob. Or granola bar snot, if I may work in a pun.

I'm thinking on the correlation maybe, of this sudden sneeze spasm. I am sitting here drinking cold water and hot coffee simultaneously. Work day appropriate double fisting. Perhaps the alternating temperatures are doing weird things to my interior systems. After all, alternating from cold air conditioning and hot muggy outdoors does odd things to my body, like summer colds. But I like drinking a lot of coffee. And I like drinking a lot of water. I drink too much of each. I am a liquid fiend. I'm also curious on the psychology of this. Like a fixation. I always like to be drinking something. I get this way with beer too, I like to keep going. Not necessarily in an alcoholic way. I'm less interested in the buzz or the inebriation then I am in the taste and flow. What would Freud say about me?

I also tend to write a lot of stories about liquids. Last night at our monthly dystopian reading series I read a short story of mine about indie craft soda pop making scenesters. I had a lot of fun reading/writing this one. Add it to the collection of other liquid oriented tales; Church Decaf, Whiskey Pike, Tea Man, Steep!, Sake Date in a Mustard Field, Nagasaki Lagoon. Etc. Maybe I'll put together a liquid themed story collection. Or just submit them around like random corks riding the ocean waves. [Insert poetic conclusion]

Bottoms up.

I feel sneeze coming o-n-

8x8

2011-05-10T06:39:00.000-07:00

I will be both reading a short story and performing sketch comedy with my group Wood Sugars tonight at this thing!

Kentucky Derby for Beer Bucks

2011-05-08T16:17:00.000-07:00

Last night I dreamt I was at work. Making sales from a large office set up like stadium seating, an exaggerated lecture hall configuration. The whole thing flowed like a bizarre game. Make a sale, pop a crumbled piece of paper into a basket at the front of the room. Make it in there. Then wiggle out from the seat and slide down to the next row via a dry slip and slide aisle. This continued until finally one made it out of the front row, towards the door, and on our way home. Pretty symbolic of life, of careers if you ask me. I continued to wiggle on my belly along the median of Lake Shore Drive on a slimy slip and slide all of the way home, while shifting slivers of paper out from my pockets, leaving them behind to the drift of cars to my sides.

Yesterday was the Kentucky Derby! I'm not usually intense about sports but Animal Kingdom's sprint to the finish stirred my blood. It was a neat turn of events for that team of horse, jockey, trainer, owner. I thought about my Dad quite a bit yesterday (he passed away from a battle with cancer in 2002). He had fervently made his way to the Kentucky Derby for many (30 some?) years to partake in the debauchery of the infield. He began his venture there in his early college days by hitchhiking down there, clothes in a brown grocery bag. I've often heard stories from him while listening to ball games on the radio during a hot summer night's ride in the car, and recently my Mother found a folder of his writings - memoirs of his experiences at the Derby. These are quite educational. My coworker Andrew actually went to the Derby this weekend. I've been meaning to make my way down there one of these days, carry on my father's tradition. Maybe next year I'll finally do it. Andrew offered to place a bet for me. I passed on the offer as I'm not necessarily in the financial position to be betting on horses.

But the urge did come to me. When I was 8 at we lived in Pittsburgh my Dad would often take us to a "Downs" outside the city and place bets for us. This was something I got quite into, and overly passionate about. When my horse did not do well, I'd be in angry tears. I liked winning some dollars and the fast paced announcement of the hard trotting positions. So this weekend I devised a betting system with my girlfriend. We'd each write down our picks for places 1, 2, 3. We'd compare our first place picks with the final results, whoever finished best, got 3 points. We'd do the same for our second place picks for 2 points. And the same for third for 1 point. Whoever had the most points got to drag the other to Binny's and choose up to $20 of liquor. Despite my best pick placing 8th (Stay Thirsty, I picked in homage to my hero, the Most Interesting Man in the World) I won! So next weekend I will be redeeming for some tasty craft beers. Or maybe some Mint Juleps to keep the taste in my mouth.

A scene with Bluetooth Man

2011-05-01T13:17:00.000-07:00

The following is a scene which took place on the corner of Cornelia/Broadway in Chicago.

A car parks at the side of the road. Two men and a young woman exit the car. The two men are both wearing Cubs hats. One of them is younger, he has a Bluetooth in his ear. The other is older, could be his father. A third man struggles to get out of the back seat. The Bluetooth Man goes to pay the parking meter. The older man paces in the quiet street. He might be slightly intoxicated. No traffic passes.

BLUETOOTH MAN: Jim! Get out of the road!

JIM: What?

BLUETOOTH MAN: You're stumbling in the road.

WOMAN: Do you want some money for parking?

BLUETOOTH MAN: No. I think I can afford three dollars.

The man in the backseat finally gets out. He limps. The woman helps him close the door.

BLUETOOTH MAN: Jim! Stop walking around in the road!

LIMPER: What's he doing?

BLUETOOTH MAN: He's stumbling around in the street! (Chuckles)

JIM: Oh well.

The Bluetooth Man places the parking slip in the window. All of them walk away from the car, j-walking at the lead of the Bluetooth Man.

I felt I had to write this. The demeanor of the Bluetooth Man was beyond douche bag. I hope that it is apparent in the behavior exchange above.

Repost or Die (this is just a title, don't take seriously)

2011-05-01T13:03:00.000-07:00

I always have a tough time when I see those types of messages, either e-mailed as a forward or posted on a status that mention something along the lines of "you must repost or you will get bad luck for such and such years." My rational thought process lets me know it is bullshit, it is imaginary consequences for something to go viral for inane, anonymous motivations. But still, fear gets stirred in me for the moment, especially when it points to bad luck with money. Living paycheck to paycheck, that, well, freaks me out, just thinking about it. I'm susceptible to some degree of superstition. Growing up I did some small boat sailing, and I found in races, when the wind would lull, if I spat over the side of the boat in odd numbers, for instance, if I spat 3 times, I'd get a little gust of wind, a boost of momentum. And as I kept this up, I won races! So, if spit helped me win sailing regattas, perhaps there is substance in a goofy chain letter. What if there is a curse involved? I think, is it worth risking, shan't I just repost it for good measure? But when I get ultra rational and metaphysical, I think on the fact that most "curses" are brought on through calling up the help of spirits or demons. And when it comes down to it, to incant a curse through facebook or an AOL message...I'm pretty certain spirits and demons do not pay attention to any shit that goes down on the internet. Beelzebub does not have a facebook account. So I am probably pretty safe for not reposting that status I saw about Chinese money luck.

Soap Sud/Lingering Drain Formations

2011-04-30T07:38:00.001-07:00

I was taking a shower and noticed the formation of soap and shampoo foam looking like a little white head, with two bubbles opening up - the eyes. And a tiny bubble, a little gaping mouth. The foam pointed into a little edge, a little tail that flickered and wavered in the rushing water. It looked like a happy little sperm man.

At work, in one of the bathroom stalls, there are little holes and indentations in the bricks of the wall. They line up like constellations to form little faces. Some look like rabbits, dogs, old grimacing men. Dramatic faces yawning and bellowing.

I like seeing things configured in the shading of objects. Perhaps it is a healthy function of Gestalt psychology being sound. The brain is filling in patterns and adding flavor to perception. The imagination is being exercised. Or perhaps this a bad habit, for some day down the road when dementia sets it sails, these patterns recognized become all too vivid and undecipherable from reality. A frightening face on the bathroom wall would stop my bowels.

Mustachioed Etching

2011-04-29T07:02:00.000-07:00

I had to pee at 3am. As I got up I was convinced I had the best new idea for a short story now trickling in my head. This morning as I brushed my teeth I racked my brain for what that gem was and could not for the life of me conjure it up. I cursed myself for not jotting it down in the middle of the night. I've got to get in the habit of doing that. But, oh well, if it truly is a good idea, it will come back to me. But, what if it takes some 30 odd years to peak back up through the muddle of my subconscious into a spec of clarity? Drats. Should have just written the fucker down.

Sometimes I get stuck on thought rhythms where I explain myself to myself. This may or may not be a form of OCD. I'm not sure. I do have "checkers." I double check a few times at the end of the day whether or not the door is properly locked and the stove is off.

Throughout the workday I find myself doodling on index cards while on the phone. Lately it begins with a sudden burst of a wavy line. My instincts pull me to vigorously fill in and shade the area within the wiggles. It looks like a thick mustache. A face forms around it. Soon I feel the sudden urge to doodle more wiggles. Which becomes another mustachioed face. The subconscious manifestation of how I looked in a previous life? My future mustachioed self? At least the important ideas make their way onto paper. It looks like this (there are many

more almost identical sitting in drawers like important leads) ->

I Could Sleep...

2011-04-28T16:23:00.001-07:00

I wrote a post yesterday about air traffic controllers sleeping on the job and I definitely felt the desire to do so today! I awoke this morning with the Velvet Underground lyrics "I Could sleep for a thousand years" whispering throughout my dim, tired noggin. Luckily I was able to make use of my girlfriend's car this morning, which allowed me a few extra minutes to zone out in the shower. I think it turned into a 40 minute shower. Shame on me for wasting hot water. I crawled into bed after midnight last night. My body's a bit more persnickety than it was last year. Less than 7 hours of sleep renders some slowed effects in my effectiveness. Last night Wood Sugars did the very first installment of the Playground Theatre podcast. Donny Kevin Rodriguez and Ever Mainard hosted interviews with Boyish, a group of regular performers at the Playground Theatre. Two other podcasts performed and recorded within the same hour as the Playground Podcast; Jessie and Matt's podcast, two very like-able hosts, and Ted Tremper, a very creative man, did the Near Death Podcast. These will all be coming very soon. I've mostly performed at the Playground Theatre, and last night was my first chance getting to sit back and enjoy the show. I enjoyed a pint of Fat Tire Amber Ale. I ran into my friend Dan at the 7/11 when I bought this bottle earlier in the evening. He recently popped the question to a lady and she said yes. The whole "live before studio audience" feel was pretty neat. Eliaz of Wood Sugars did a very nice job orchestrating the evening's show. This is a man who functions well creatively on 3 hours of sleep.

Just now my long curly hair shifted, almost felt like a bug knocking about my locks, but nonetheless it seems to have just been the weight of my hair falling over the crest of my ear upon which it rested. This startled me, like an angry hallucination. I could sleep for a thousand years.

Today I cold called someone who couldn't seem to hear what I was saying and so they kept on shouting "Who?! Who?! Who?!" repeatedly for almost a minute. It appears I spoke to an owl today.

On my drive home today I passed by the last chunk of the Cabrini Green buildings being torn down. It is all gone but a dismantled corner. Graffiti adorned one of the walls. By early next week I imagine it will all be rubble being discarded from trucks. It made me slightly sad. Especially seeing that etching of graffiti. That was once someone's decorative touch to a place called home.

Sleep Blip

2011-04-27T18:04:00.000-07:00

Everyday when I leave work I notice there is a touch of coffee left in my travel mug. I tend to forget about that touch in the early morning when I arrive and smell the fresh brew, as I gravitate to pouring that fresh cup. So I dump the touch of coffee out in a patch of dirt with now budding flower poking up. I wonder if plants feel the effects of caffeine and bop microscopically.

I read today that a 3rd air traffic controller has been caught sleeping on the job and terminated from his position. I do understand that the air traffic control field is probably one of the most stressful fields, yet I'm curious for the sudden trend in sleeping in front of the radar blip. It certainly calls out for more attention to be garnered if you get caught sleeping while governing the safety of the runway strip versus sleeping at an accounting desk. No one's truly at risk if you sleep during an audit. So I'm on the side of the terminators in their canning of those sleeping in front of that radar blip. Despite the stress of the job, which I can certainly understand the desire to sleep after the anxiety wanes, I do believe if you want to keep that job, find a way to stay awake. If my bus driver fell asleep I'd want his head. I work in sales, and that can be a stressful job, but I've yet to fall asleep at my desk. But if I do one of these days, in my field, I'd probably only hurt my companies revenue, and my income.

Coffee. I may be immune to it to a degree yet, coffee can be a good decision if you start drifting at the sleep blip. Perhaps diet may be making them so sleepy. Are these air traffic controllers gorging at Chili's Too on their breaks(I ate at one of these twice in 24 hours)? I learned today that different types of foods such as meats and starches and fruits digest at different rates, and it is therefore ideal to eat them separately, not as one big square meal, as some of those foods types can get clogged and gunked and ferment behind the slower digestion of a different sort, which can also hog necessary enzymes for the other. I did not know this. A co-worker informed me. So tonight I focused on the meat type for dinner. And I do not feel so sleepy as to crawl into bed at the 9 o'clock hour as I usually wish to do.

Digital Aaaart

2011-04-26T17:44:00.000-07:00

I find myself more and more going beyond an initial knee jerk apprehension toward digital distribution, and am okay with momentarily embracing. Sometimes I feel as though I would be happier in the 1800s, when literature and the stage were dominant forms of entertainment. When actors were considered tradesman, albeit still poor, but less so regarded as silly dreamers, and when the pen (and its counterpart paper) was a little mightier than it is now. We do live in different times. People enjoy the portability of their devices, gadgets, and the fact that it contains an entire library of books, music, movies, and beyond. And even though I prefer the unplugged quality of pages, I do see the benefit of an e-reader of sorts. I have a tendency of reading multiple books and magazines at once, which kills a young man's back when all carried around via messenger sack. Anyway, I'm quite proud of my book Turban Tan and okay with it being read digitally while one is sitting on the john. It's now available on iBooks! The Nook! (has been available on Kindle for awhile now). I'm just very happy that it's being read whether scrolled or paper pages turning. Although I do hope the more its scrolled the more people learn of it being available as a paperback and perhaps partake of that edition while out in the woods, camping or strolling for a technological exit/retreat.

That being said, initially my interests in the Wood Sugars podcasting was out of developing an audience for our live shows, and while that still is true, I more and more appreciate the old theatre of the mind, an upgraded pocket size (yet bigger in its own way) reemergence of the classic radio show. By the way, we have a new episode available. ITB S2E7.

The delivery of stories sure have changed from cave wall etchings to animated GIFs. And what is the higher art? Is that for us to waste our time deciding? Or shall we continue to play and create and share our stuff even if it flickers behind LEDs? And when the power grid collapses (which is not far-fetched, perhaps imminent in our lifetime) we can evolve back to way of performing and digesting the written word through means more so of the Earth and visceral.

Slight Nobility

2011-04-25T08:06:00.000-07:00

Over the Easter weekend I got to sneak out of the cold and grey Chicago April which seems to refuse the coming of spring. Although a brief trip, I was amazed by the spread of vegetation in the North Carolina landscape, and it's ability to perk my creative mind just by the intensity of the green. So green it hurt at first sight. Unfortunately the trip was short lived. We were first supposed to fly out Friday at 2pm but after delays and delays our flight was cancelled and the next flights there weren't until 6am or 9:50am. Naturally not wanting to be up at 3am to get to the airport we opted for 9:50am.

We got see my grandparents whom I hadn't seen since 2002, at my father's funeral. There were a couple of attempted trips over the years but nothing that didn't fall through. It was pleasant to see them, and I certainly enjoyed reconnecting to the genealogy which my grandmother has been quite passionate about pursuing over the years, having visited a wealth of genealogical libraries through out the world, dedicating hours of research. She had prepared a gargantuan book of her findings for us to take with us, dating our ancestry back to 300AD. She traced us back to William Brewster, came over on the Mayflower, John Harper who ran a tavern after the revolution, Amos Wheeler who died in the battle of Bunker Hill, back farther to William the Conqueror, Lady Godiva, King Henry II who was a central character in The Lion in Winter, Charlemagne, Pepin the Short. On top of that I have the blood of old Viking ancestry and a variety of old Irish kings before the first millennium. My mother had recently seen the show "Who Do You Think You Are?" where they document the quest of movie stars to dig into their ancestry, and apparently Gweneth Paltrow was recently on there and learned of her ancestry to William Brewster. An old distant cousin...perhaps I'll have to hit her up for tea and reminisce on our mesh of distant relatives, haha! The thing is, ancestry is so intertwined and complex like a burst of staircases bleeding into one another, creating new off shoots of stair cases, anyone can really be traced back to these old rulers overseas and find they have a pinch of their blood and DNA, but not everyone takes the time to do the homework, and the fact that my grandmother has done so, and has the proof of records to determine our ancestry to some of the above mentioned, and more, is quite exciting, to me.

Our current culture seems to dismiss the deeper past lives of our blood line. We sometimes embrace from the occasional reminisces of the immediate departed family members whom we have pictures with. The bloodline is interesting thing to take seriously. Although it does trace the claims of kin to property (to some this has greater urgency, particularly when thrones are in question) it is perhaps the only physical thing we leave behind that was actually a part of us, part of our own unique chemistry. The propagation of the species, of a clan of folks. Blood brothers. Many tribal religions place great importance in their ancestry, and in fact believe the spirits of their ancestors to continually have a presence in the way the cookie crumbles in their lives. If so, I got an interesting bunch on my side. In fact, I'd like to be more open to the idea, as you know my fascination with ghosts. If I see the ghost of a naked Lady Godiva trotted down the street on horseback then I know I'm making progress.

Great Pacific Garbage Patch!

2011-04-22T08:30:00.000-07:00

Saw a thing on TV last night. Massive circling constellations of human trash circling in the ocean. Plastic chunks being ground down and coating some beaches heavily like a new toxic sand. Happy Earth Day! Take a break from throwing your Doritos bags and Mountain Dew bottles into the sea for a day. Great Pacific Garbage Patch.

I ride the bus everyday and litter seems to pile on some desolate corners like color faded snow banks. Chicago is looking to catch up with Detroit in image of degraded, desolate urban pockets. Of failed industry and weathered, dimmed humanity.

Today I board a flight to North Carolina for a few days. Weather prediction is high of 80s, even 90s on Sunday. I'm very thrilled for the warmth, and the momentary change of scenery. I expect the vegetation to be quite blooming this time of year. I'll also see some family members I haven't seen in approximately 8 years! My flight was supposed to be this morning, but I received a call from a 1-800 number I didn't know. Naturally I rejected the call. No message was left. Out of curiosity I "googled" the number. It told me it was an American Airlines number. (Their website is AA.com - perhaps a great airline for the anonymous alcoholics!) So I checked my flight status. Flight 4008 = Cancelled! Oh dear, I called the number and it was all good, they moved us to a later flight. But good thing I called. They didn't leave a message. Good thing for my curiosity. Perhaps they would have called back in due time. I will participate in a jumbo jet burning fuel on Earth Day. But then I'm "jet"pooling with others. Maybe that's why they moved our flight? Not enough passengers, so they thought better on Earth Day and wished to consolidate, for Mother Earth. Or for cutting costs.

I had a dream the other night my girlfriend and I moved to Arizona and lived on a house atop a butte over looking a quiet highway. I love Chicago, but in order to appreciate it I need my periodic breaks from it. From concrete, noise, agendas, massive criss crossing paths of people on agendas, or none, just bustling. I wouldn't mind living atop a butte in the desert for a month. With my type writer, a fire pit, and cans of beans and jerky kept in tin foil.

I close my eyes for a moment and picture myself swimming in the current of the Great Pacific Garbage Patch. This is a metaphor for modern society. We must enjoy the pristine waters in between it all and constantly maneuver to keep a comfortable space.

Junk

2011-04-20T19:03:00.000-07:00

My twelve year old self commanded my 27 year old body this evening. The girlfriend has grad school class on Wednesday's, meaning I was without her dazzling recipes and on my own for dinner. I had pizza, popcorn, and Moosetrack's ice cream. The type of shit we'd say we'd eat for dinner when we were kids, dreaming of living on our own.

Then I proceeded to do my laundry, tossing whites in with colors and overloading the machine.

I'm an adult.