My dad and SATC

This post is both related to how uncomfortable my dad makes my life sometimes and how the Sex and the City movie read my mind (but in a less funny way). I've taken flak before from people who claim I paint my dad in an "unfair light". That could be a fair criticism if he weren't completely strange.

To wit: one of the supposed benefits of being near my childhood home this summer is the frequency with which I get to see my family. I do enjoy this time, if only because it makes me realize how blessed I am to live a thousand miles away the other nine months of the year. That said, my father is on a movie kick. I consider these to be expensive naps for him as I can count on two hands the number of movies I've seen with him in the last 10 years that he's stayed awake for. I don't mind. He pays, and he buys Junior Mints.

So, Friday night, he calls me and asks if I want to see a movie on Saturday. "Sure," I say, and I read him the movies that are playing. I was hoping he wanted to see the movie "Wanted", so I reminded him that he likes both Morgan Freeman AND Angelina Jolie, and they're in a movie together. "Well," he says, "What about Sex and the City? Would you see that again?"

I tried explaining to him that I didn't think he would like it and he said some of the women in his Sunday School class said they thought he would. When I get my hands on those bitches, I will cut them. So I agreed to go (after much cajoling from my sister, who reasoned that it would be creepier for him to see the movie by himself and that he would probably fall asleep anyway).

That is not true. He stayed awake the entire time. I died a little every sex scene. The full frontal shot almost did me in. But, now to the technology part: the funniest part of the movie for both of us was when Carrie tries to use an iPhone and fails. Because my dad has an iPhone he can barely use. He doesn't know how to get on the internet. My sister and I also think he can use the caller ID and can see his missed calls, but he can't get to his contacts list. Consequently, on several occasions, he has called one of his children asking for the other child's phone number. Dad claims he can use the phone just fine, and he likes it because it doesn't "turn itself off".

To move into the social commentary: I always find it disturbing that Carrie Bradshaw was the last person in the Western World to get a cell phone. Moreover, why won't she text? And why, for someone so image conscious, would she hold her cellphone together with duct tape?

I couldn't help but feel judged. "Ohhhhh, Carrie doesn't text. It isn't a valid way to carry on adult relationships. People only text for SEX." And while this may be true, ultimately, I feel hurt and betrayed. Since when did SATC judge proclivities and piccadillos? And then there was the pun about subtexts of texts. Listen, lady (Michael Patrick King), I think I said something about textual subtexts back in 2003. (Some of you will remember that I am sensitive to people "stealing my material" a la that bitch Sarah Silverman and my joke about showering).

Ultimately, I am scarred for life. Seeing the movie with my dad was bad enough, and the rip on technology driven relationships sent me over the edge. Maybe I'll have recovered sufficiently later on to answer some more of your questions.

Bittersweet return: part 2

I hope you’re feeling refreshed after that last post. Eager to read what comes next in this sad saga. Read on.

This last one is the one that really irks me. Pisses me off to the point I get drunk and talk about it. And by talk, I clearly mean blabber to whomever is unlucky enough to be sitting next to me. But I digress—back to the END. He stopped responding. At first, I was nonplussed. Clearly he’s emotionally unavailable and not good with feelings or power dynamics, hence the communicating in 140 character increments.

But as the days passed, I went through the Kubler-Ross stages of grief.

• Denial—Maybe he didn’t get my last text. My phone sometimes doesn’t send texts right away. Occasionally, I’ll be sitting next to someone as they get a text I sent them hours ago. Sometimes whole days.
• Anger—That emotional asshat can’t even return a goddamn text?! Really? Texting is the farthest thing from a commitment. Not that I would even want a commitment from him. Seriously? Fucker.
• Bargaining—Just wait till the end of the summer. I’ll be back home and have plenty to do… I won’t text that often, I promise.
• Depression—Texting just isn’t even worth it anymore.
• Acceptance—No, screw it, I’m back to anger.

Why am I angry, you ask? Good question. It’s not like it was a committed relationship or one that had a future. It was the fast train to carpal tunnel syndrome and I should be glad to be done. Here’s why: he is dating someone. Like, a real girl. Probably a lady, actually.

I’m livid. It’s worse than a real breakup because I’m just mad I didn’t think of it first. And, because the reason we were texting in the first place is because he’s such a jerk he can’t relate to people face-to-face or even over the phone. But now, he’s going on real, live dates, and I’m writing a fucking blog post.

God, I want a Diet Coke.

Bittersweet return

After a brief hiatus, and the sad departure of C.elgans due to her “day job”, I am once again touched by the overwhelming desire to help you navigate this technological world.

So, I bring you what I think is a fitting topic: the end of a textversation.

As some of you know, as of a couple months ago, I was carrying on three different textual relationships. All very different, I was getting what I needed from several sources. (N.B. Yes, dad, I realize that these “virtual relationships” are keeping me from actually meeting a “real” man. I also understand that you’re not getting younger, and you want grandchildren. And no, I’m not a lesbian. Yet.)

In any event, away from my natural habitat for the summer, I’ve discovered something else unnatural: all of these relationships have ended.

The first, I ended. Upon reflection, I’m not sure why. I just stopped responding. I’ve tried convincing myself that it was because his sarcasm didn’t really transfer to texting. It is a fine art, and I think he thought he was funnier than he was. Not his fault. Well, it was, actually.

The next, went to a foreign country for three months. Surprisingly, I didn’t notice until a couple of days ago. I mean, I knew he was gone, I’m not that self-centered. But I didn’t feel his absence. It was like in 10th grade, when I gave up soda for soccer season. At first, I wanted Diet Coke all the time. Like, constantly. Then, I didn’t. I forgot. I got used to not having it. This guy is gone from my life like that. (Of course, I am currently looking at 3 empty Diet Coke bottles on my desk, so the metaphor may not have run its course yet.)

I’ll let you think about this for a second before I move on to something more upsetting.

Marinate, think upon your own relationships, have a cry, go to the bathroom, come back.

R.I.P. Little Friend

We hardly knew thee, but I'm sure you would have grown up to be glorious like your creators. And now, you too, have failed at life.

Seabiscuit

I have recently realized, much to my chagrin, that the old analogy Jennifer and I use re: motivation in life has, over the years, become the most apt. 

We agree that the two of us are much like Seabiscuit.  For those of you who don't know, Seabiscuit, as depicted in the 2003 movie "Seabiscuit," only "ran" when there was a challenge.

This, dear pantsless Jenifers, we can distill into multiple areas of life, for me personally:

• Romance: I am commonly attracted to (and pursue) people who present me with a challenge (i.e. they aren't interested, they have some sort of emotional issue, they smell oddly like chicken, they have appalling manners, or they are kind of mean -- plenty of other examples are available, just ask me -- usually these people end up being just like I am (except for the chicken smell -- I smell like a big cigarette) -- it's shocking!).
• Fitness: I really only exercise when I notice how fat I am.
• Responsibility: I get things done at the last minute (my drivers license expires in about ten days -- need to nip that in the bud, will probably wait until next week).
• Work ethic: I test myself with very little sleep coupled with too much fun (going to work on a Sunday at 5:30am after a Saturday night out until 4am, for example).
• Personal upkeep: I buy underwear and socks only when they fall apart.
• Et cetera: The list goes on... but gets more vindictive (at times), quirky (most times) and peculiar (at all times)...

While somewhat too illuminating, I feel like that list (and its multiple omissions) pretty much sums up my life at the moment.  I only run when there is a challenge.  And when I run, I win -- but I don't run much, mainly because I'm lazy, kind of like how I'm too lazy to end a sentence, so I operate mainly off of lists and run-on sentences and multiple sentence fragments.  I suppose the take-away from the above is that life must present some sort of challenge to remain interesting -- and when nothing terribly compelling happens, one has to create these challenges -- even if it's as stupid as not grocery shopping until I'm too broke to afford both ramen and diet coke (and choose diet coke every time). 

To tie into another favorite metaphor, life lately is just a Samuel Beckett play that Beckett wasn't up to writing.  It's absurdity found in day-to-day normalcy.  As absurd as finding a feather sticking out on a wingtip from a Wal*Mart fried chicken 8-piece family pack.  As absurd as a dog costume on a human.  Absurd as lighting the filter tip of a cigarette and taking a drag, as watching Christine give her rat a bath, as getting all dressed up and good-smelling to go to the gas station, as meeting the man of your dreams and then meeting his beautiful wife... wait, that's ironic.

Anyway.

The Last Minute

This semester I'm taking a class on Immigration Law.  Roughly February 10th, 15th, some time, who the f knows...we were assigned our final project.  This project was to be a 10-13 page research paper on some super provocative immigration law topic.  I decided to undertake the option entitled "Immigration Reform for Political Junkies" because I like to consider myself one sometimes.  Actually, I'm probably more like that person who just does it occasionally...you know, like at parties and stuff.  I'm not a junkie.  Anyway, this project description sat in a binder until tonight at about 10:30.  Said project is due tomorrow.  

The fact that I have waited until the last minute to do EVERYTHING I've ever had to do has started to make me crazy.  I can't change.  People don't.  Anyone who tells you that people change is a liar (or is dating someone that cheated on them).  Now, it's 3 in the morning and I'm reading this crap I just wrote and am being forced to beat off the guilt with a stick.  

I will never be a "productive" person, I will never be "organized" or "prepared" or "interested in the stuff I'm doing", but dammit it will get finished at the last minute.  Even if I have to sit here until the Professor comes to find me tomorrow morning, this shit will get done.

Now, who wants to give me a job?  I'm graduating in May. 

Tom Harkin, IA (D)

Today, I completely embarrassed myself in front of a United States' Senator. This event, unfortunately, is not singular, as I have had the opportunity to embarrass myself in front of quite a few distinguished guests over the last seven months, and I have rarely underpreformed.

Usually, these sorts of things involve me asking a question and then continuing to ask the question in multiple ways, in a verbal diarrhea downward spiral until I peter out and the speaker answers the query. This evening was particularly wonderful as I have not slept a whole lot in the last few days, and Tom Harkin makes me go gooey under the best of circumstances.

So there we are, Senator Harkin telling us how the New Deal was not a failure and answering questions about the farm bill and talking about the "new" civil rights... and I'm hooked. I love this man. Deeply. A committed public servant. Who loves popcorn. So he finishes. And the handlers are trying to get him out the door. So of course I run up to him, and get in line behind the other policy nerds who want to shake his hand and say something completely asinine. I should probably mention that, at this point, I'm shifting from foot to foot, trying to organize my thoughts, mostly making awkward noises when I think it might be about my turn to be next in line. He shoots me a glance at this point--it makes it worse. THEN, my turn. I roll up to him, hand outstretched.

"Hi," I say, "thankyouforcomingtospeakwithussenator,you'reoneofthetrulygreatpublicservantso
fourtimeIwenttoGrinnellCollege,I'msohonoredtomeetyou,I'minterestedinhealthpolicy
andalsofoodpolicyandIthinkwhatyoutriedtodoontheFarmBillandtheHighwayBillareso
commendable,IvotedforyouandI'msogladIdid..."

And then he puts his hand on my shoulder, and asks me my name. And I blank. And I know that I've just blown my chance to work for a U.S. Senator that I know and love.

And I bet you're all wondering what the hell this has to do with text messaging... nothing, other than if this had been a textversation, it would have gone like this:

SenatorHarkin: Hey
NoviceWonk: Hey
SenatorHarkin: How're you?
NoviceWonk: Good. Thnx for coming today. It was great.
SenatorHarkin: No problm. Enjoyed it. LBJ library = awesome.
NoviceWonk: Seriously. Also, loved the FarmBill.
SenatorHarkin: ??
NoviceWonk: The way you blended maternal/child health and subsidies. Awes.
SenatorHarkin: Word. Make sure you vote.
NoviceWonk: Will do.

I've got your number

Tonight, after just a few beers, I was discussing one of my two favorite topics with my drinking partner (the second being Law and Order... all versions... even Criminal Intent. Talk about controversial). After about 5 minutes, he mentioned a mutual friend. "HE," I announced, "IS A SERIAL TEXTER!"

I understand that not everyone will share my concern. That's fine. Allow me to elaborate... especially for you nubile, young ladies out there:

The Serial Texter
I'd be willing to conjecture that we all know a few Serial Texters. At the meta-level, the Serial Texter is not a bad person. In fact, there's nothing wrong with texting all the time... and multiple people. As I've mentioned before, the beauty of texting is that you can do it, and no one but the receiver knows. The Serial Texter exploits this facet of the text message. Now, most social Serial Texters have at least couple of partners. The partners likely don't know eachother well, and are ideally located in different cities (from eachother and said texter). This arrangement implicitly establishes social trust. Both parties know that the other could be texting other people, and there's no assumption of exclusivity. A relationship on this level builds social capital and should be considered positive.

But now we turn to the pathological Serial Texter. The pathological Serial Texter cannot abide by the different city rule. He or she (but usually, he) has multiple textees in the same city. The worst have them in the same neighborhood or friend group. Again, this is not a bad person, but perhaps someone with poor impulse control. Texting multiple people in the same area code? Really? You're texting one person for what? Sex? Then you text someone else to hedge your bets? Texting is not the market, my friend. This crossover in one specific geographic area tells me one thing: you text for the simple knowledge that someone you have regular contact with will text you back.

You, pathological serial texter, cannot live without the rush of the "blocks away" text message. "She wants me," you think. And yeah, probably she does, if she responds. So why not settle? Do it. Enjoy it. You found her fit-to-text, why not co-mingle and see if you can't make a go of it? Because you, pathological Serial Texter, cannot have one night stands and you cannot commit. You're "on-the-fence-guy" and you're bringing us all down with you.

So take my advice: if you choose to text more than one person "in that way" in the same zip code, be prepared for a revolution. This will not stand. We're onto you and we're prepared to erase you from our Contacts.

Teddy the Trash Gypsy

During the summer of 2003, I lived in the small Iowa town where I attended college. While I imagine there will be a stream of posts about what I like to refer to as the"Failed at Life" period of my existence thus far, I would first like to highlight one of the characters in the tragedy that was my life that summer: Teddy the Trash Gypsy.

I believe the first time I laid eyes on Teddy was at Rabbitt's, where Jenn tended bar that summer. Between her tavern wenching and my cash register operating at the corner grocery store, we would grow to know the majority of the personalities that haunted the streets of Grinnell, IA, far outside the liberal arts-centered realm we lived in during the school year.

Actually, that is a lie. The first time I ever saw Teddy was on High Street, an eyesore of slum houses populated by college students and the center of my universe that summer of 2003. While my friends had jobs in the science department at the college chopping up rat brains or playing with C. Elegans, I spent the majority of my time selling Diet Mountain Dew to tweakers and wine and cheese to college professors.

ANYWAY, at the end of the school year, students load all of their random crap that has accumulated over the year on the sidewalks for the trash company to come and collect. This, of course, is a hey day for Teddy the Trash Gypsy. He's a trash gypsy, so he comes and weeds through all of the leftover stuff. After all, one person's trash is another person's treasure. I would understand him doing this if he was strapped for cash. However, Teddy lived in a nice house just a few blocks away. I would later discover Teddy made his personal fortune from dealing meth. But the real question is what he did with all of the leftover junk he collected.

I think that this is an appropriate time to now mention that Teddy the Trash Gypsy is perhaps the scariest looking man I have ever seen. He stood about 6'0",was fairly thin, and walked with a minor limp. He had a crazy, curly, snow white mullet with matching white handle bar mustache and a couple of rings in his ears. I estimate his age to be between 40 and 50, but I don't think anyone really knew how old he actually was. He looked like he was straight from an episode of COPS. He even drove a rusty old AstroStar, filled to the brim with old white Hanes t-shirts and rusty beer cans.

I would observe Teddy for the rest of the summer from afar, mostly because he scared me so much I could barely make eye contact with him. But he knew everyone in town. EVERYONE. Whether he was on a marathon shopping trip at the grocery store (I would always take a convenient break if I thought there was any chance of him approaching my aisle) or selling illegal substances at the local grog shop, I determined by the end of the summer that Teddy pretty much ran that town. His son, who was 19 at the time, had been drinking underage at the bar for years. He popped up everywhere, like in some sort of nightmare. That being said, he always stayed in town where he belonged, and I figured I would see less of him once the school year began and I moved back on campus.

WRONG. One spring morning my senior year of college when I was leaving the bathroom in my dorm, I looked to my right, and there stood Teddy, lurking in a corner staring at me. My worlds had converged. No one else was in the hall. As if he had heard me gossiping about him and had come to take me to meet my maker. All I could think about for that brief moment was that he was going to cut me up into pieces and store my remains in the shed behind his house. I mean, no one would find me there. It's not like anyone had guts to go anywhere within a 100 foot radius of his house. Also, how had he entered the dorms?! We were under 24 hours lockdown, and one needed an electronic card to enter.

I fled to my room, locked the door, waited for a bit, looked out the peep hole until he disappeared, and fled upstairs to my friend Ellen's room to inform her of what had just happened.

S: "Ellen, Teddy the Trash Gypsy is IN OUR DORM."
E: "Wait, what exactly does he look like?"
S: "Um, huge curly white mullet. Moustache. That is all you need to know."
E: "Ohmygod. I let him in. I thought he was a janitor or something."

That's right, my BFF Ellen, had let a murderer into our dorm on her OWN WILL. What sort of person lets a man with HIS APPEARANCE into a locked dorm full of college students?! Oh that's right, Ellen. Of course. She could have been the one to be blamed for my death at such an innocent, young age and I would have never been able to download all those John Tesh church cuts on her Ipod. Because I would be chopped up.

Luckily, it turns out, Teddy had not come to take me away and avenge my loud mouth, but most likely to hustle meth to one of the cleaning ladies and I was able to go about my business carefree for the rest of the semester. Moral of the story: Teddy was frightening and never trust Ellen with your personal safety.

The View from the Gutter

So for the past few days I have been trapped at home as an invalid sick with one of those end of winter virus things. After pretending to read a book and waiting for Netflix to arrive became too much I decided to review the last bastion of culture in western civilization: daytime tv. Most people have mixed feelings about daytime TV; they tend to have had their ideas about it formed during the most traumatic parts of their lives such as being a young child, high school and college. I remember daytime TV being very confusing as a child and during college felt that it signified failure and disgrace (interestingly enough this rule seemed to end after 4 pm as god knows how many hours I could have studied more instead of watching pimp my ride, real world austin, and next. ) Anyway here are some highlights I’ve discovered:

THE STEVE WILKOS SHOW: Steve from the Jerry Springer days has his own show now. Imagine a version of Springer that was less funny and more tragic, funny but not haha funny. That’s pretty much what it is. Rather than the humorous antics of “how hill billies hump” or “tranny’s get even” or even “I’ve got a secret” we have big steve confronting a woman for AN HOUR about how her response to her 12 year olds allegations of rape against her new step father was not handled in a timely and responsible manner. Its pretty much Steve screaming at some white trash house wife until she is a quivering mass a gelatin and tears on the floor. Then it’s on to steve’s mailbag where he tells his detractors to go to hell and sends out t shirts in response to fan mail.

RACHEL RAY: Pretty much every Oprah related spin off hurts my brain to watch so I had to limit my exposure to 5 minute blocks. Basically all I took is that the goal to life is to cook food and then eat it (that is kind of the zen of the caveman I guess) and I don’t know why that belongs on nation wide tv. Also her mmm-mm’s after eating food are a little to house wife risqué, take that as you will, I have included a link to prove my intelligence.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0grpE8Qp6sE

(If you really wanted to be impressed by the troglodytic nature of the American you tuber read the comments on that video.)

Like I'm the Problem

So, a loud sexy law school colleague of mine suggested that our blog, although funny, was lacking commentary about societal problems. I have decided that I will do my best to address the current economic problems in the US via a comment on a recent Cosmo article.

A while ago, my friend Phil (a recent U of Chicago Law grad with a bright future and even brighter bank account) told me that I, by listening to songs like "This is the way I live" and other new hot rap soon-to-be-classics, was contributing to social degeneration. I thought he might have a small point until I read this article in Cosmo and realized guzzling Busch Light while listening to rap music might actually be making things better, not worse. I digress, anyway, the article appears in the March 2008 issue of Cosmo and is titled "How I Bought It."

Before you get the wrong idea, let me preface this rant by telling you, dear readers, that I love Cosmo. I'll admit that when my subscription runs out I haul my carcass to WalMart like a crackhead headed to a dark alley to pay $4.00 to read the exact same stuff over and over again. I can't get enough of it. Cosmo has taught me how to please my non-existent man, keep my skin glowing (even when I'm hungover!), and showed me the finer purses and coats that I can't afford. Where would I be without it? I would probably be a sadder shell of myself with dry skin and wouldn't be able to say things to suitors like, "Oh, that, yeah that's Cosmo Sutra from 2006...you like that?"

Anyway, given the state of the economy, the war, and the Bush "presidency" this article pushed me over the edge. It featured young employed upper middle class women and how they accomplished ridiculous money-related "goals". "I Took A Sexy Vacation" tells the emotional struggle of how one woman made her dream of going to Tahiti with her boyfriend a reality. "I Threw My Dream Wedding" tells us that if you substitute cupcakes for an actual wedding cake you'll have more money for fancy food, photos, and flowers. I'm sure that marriage will last since it's built on a strong foundation of financial planning and sacrifice. Three years from now tell me that this chick isn't going to flip out, leave this guy, and then sit around with her girlfriends being like "You remember when that cheap son-of-a-bitch wouldn't even pay for a wedding cake?!?!?!" That will clearly be met with a chorus of, "that's when we should have known, girl."

The piece de resistance, however, was, "I Scored An Amazing Designer Piece". I actually died a little inside when I read this. It painted the picture of a PR Exec. who altered her spending to afford a Louis Vuitton dress. A leopard Louis Vuitton dress (leopard print, though I'm sure in some parts of Africa you could buy a real leopard for what it cost). This is the quote that put the final nail in my proverbial coffin: "Over the next six weeks , I checked sample sales and clearance racks just to make sure there wasn't any other leopard-print piece out there of such high quality at a lower price. Then, I curtailed my normal shopping trips, cut back on nice dinners out, and budgeted a small percentage from each paycheck that I normally put aside to open a Roth IRA [an account similar to a 401(k) that self-employed people can set up] strictly for this purchase."

ARE YOU KIDDING ME? This woman opened a Roth IRA to save for a dress and Cosmo had to explain to people what a Roth IRA is??? If you want to point fingers about who is contributing to the degeneration of society I think maybe we should start with this "Katie, 27" who reordered her life to afford what I think might be the ugliest piece of clothing I have ever seen. If the world is falling apart so much that people are opening IRA's to be able to afford CLOTHES then I really have no chance. None whatsoever.

Once when I was still attending Grinnell I took some cans back to the local grocery store (where Helgie was employed) so I could get the refund to buy a 40 oz Busch Light. A lady who worked for the college financial aid office was running the check stand and I said hi to her and we chatted and she ended up buying the 40 for me and telling me to keep my $1.89 in change. It was a financial irresponsibility wake up call for me. I thought, wow, you need to get this shit together if you're going to make it as an adult.

Screw it, I'm calling "Katie, 27" and having her help me set up my Roth IRA so I can use the interest to buy my 40 ouncers because apparently it's acceptable to be SUPER irrational.

You'll also be happy to know that things with the dress really worked out for Katie, 27. "And it paid off in other ways: The first night I wore it, I got noticed by a guy who eventually became my boyfriend. More than a year later, it's still worth every penny!" OMG.

Gay bars are so out.

I'll start off by saying that my hatred for gay clubs stems from my misguided but intrinsic belief that they are a sort of shopping mall where I should be able to find an attractive, intelligent, well-humored man.

Thus, leaving a gay club leaves me feeling failed: like going to Lund's and finding out that they're out of that seven-layer bean/salsa/guac/cheese/sour cream dip. There is nothing you can do but go to bed hungry because you're damn well not settling for that creepy, sweaty, overweight 45-year-old hairdresser who turns out to be the only guy who talks to you (me).

Irrelevance aside, I was hoping that Vancouver, Canada would be the homo-MOA I'd always dreamed of. The large black X's removed from my hands combined with legalized gay marriage would lead at least a fun time and some successful flirting, right? The story unfolds:

After a night of "regular" bars, my friend and I hit up the gay bar district of Vancouver. We went to two clubs, named "Numbers" and "Celebrities," respectively. To compensate for the depressing number of over-50 men at Numbers, I took a number of tequila shots to complement the number of glasses of wine I'd earlier drunk. The rather small number of young, attractive men ruined themselves within ten minutes of our arrival with a number of terrible karaoke performances. If you get drunk and sing Aretha Franklin it's funny; if you're rather sober and really trying to pump out a Journey song, it's time for me to go.

Leave we did, and ended up at Celebrities. Less people, but most were of a more comparable age group: about five minutes of dancing, I was shooed off the dance floor by a fat drag queen, who valiantly attempted a performance to "It's Raining Men" amidst a malfunctioning CD ("Well this is no fun!" she wailed). Sitting on the stage adjacent to the dance floor, I was again shooed, this time by a fierce leather-clad transsexual who called me 'sweetie.' All was understood as the stage performance began, the leather clad transsexual whipping and undressing a group of three construction workers as they pounded long pieces of wood together.

The construction workers lifted up their wood (yes), now nailed into a large X, and then pounded it into a pre-made stand. What happened next I really didn't see coming: the two shirtless well-built men took the shirtless fat construction worker and tied his hands to the ends of the X, the fierce transsexual whipping them all intermittently and walking side to side in her heels. The well built men picked up a nail gun and pretend-nailed the fattie to the cross, and as the fat gay construction worker was further turned into Jesus Christ, I bee-lined to the bar for more tequila shots.

After the stage performance the fat drag queen allotted like ten more minutes of dancing before she announced that one of the well built construction workers was going to dance for us so we all had to make a circle around the dance floor. 'George' or something came out and danced around and stripped until all he was wearing was a Canadian flag around his shoulders as if some naked gay Canadian superhero. The Canucks LOVED IT. This lasted for around twenty minutes, George making sure he danced with everyone in the circle, doing flips, cartwheels, and running with his super-hero like fervor on top of the bar and around the club. He smelled overwhelmingly of baby powder and after he left my general vicinity I made another date with the bartender after I reconciled that they must be watering down my shots.

At some point in the general haze of the rest of the night, and failing to make conversation with anyone, the club had emptied save myself, my friend, and a larger Canuck with bleach blonde hair who ended up following us back to our hotel, where, given the looks my friend was giving me, I loudly explained that were WERE LEAVING AT 8 AM THE NEXT MORNING AND SHE REALLY COULDN'T GO SLEEP OVER AT HIS HOUSE. He was so heartbroken, but it's nice to go to a gay bar, not even get a glance from anyone my age, and have a female friend fighting them off at the door.

The moral of the story is that gay bars suck unless you like that 'I need a shower' feeling.

Duck Jerky.  Git ya sum.

Um, those fries...

So a few weeks ago, I went out with my "coworker"/boyfriend and some of his friends. As you, the reader, most likely know, I love a good dive and am never one to complain when it comes to a gross, disgusting bar. I thrive in an environment where the walls are lined with bricks, the air still lingers with the smell of Marlboro Reds from 20 years ago and the juke box blares a song by The Boss.

I really do feel like I have fairly high tolerance for certain watering holes, but I usually complain and get les miserables when I end up at a place like Drink The Orginal Fun Bar or some place where girls run around in skank tops and guys sit and down vodka Red Bulls.

Anyway, so you can only imagine my delight when we ended up at The Country Bar. My style! I recollect we arrived around 9 pm (on a Saturday), still early, even for myself. I had to use the lavatory, and when we all arrived, it was still fairly tame. I walked back to find the only female bathroom was occupied. 10-12 minutes later, I was still patiently waiting for the single occupancy bathroom to vacate as my bladder festered. Ugh. Anyway, you can imagine what was going on in the facility. The most busted couple/"I just met you at the country bar about 18 minutes ago" set of people wandered out together. Gross. But I do give them credit: they actually ended up dancing together for the rest of the night (from what I observed) right next to the karaoke machine. Match made in heaven! I'm sure we'll see their wedding ad in the New York Times at some point in the very near future.

Anyway, as usual, I jibber jabber. The main point of this post is to discuss the food. I clearly love greasy, deep fat fried food. No doubt. But at some point, a basket of fries was ordered (not by me...seriously). At this point, many a karaoke song had been sung and I'd had a couple of gin and tonics. And had possibly ordered a pitcher of beer for two. Nonetheless, this basket of crinkle fries (which I had not yet sampled) was rubbing me the wrong way. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but you know when something smells like a taste completely unrelated? I know this is a ridiculous statement, but I know someone must know what I'm talking about.

Anyway, the crinkle cut french fries at the country bar smell (and after later sampling...taste) like diaper rash cream. I finally figured it out. Thank God after all the drinking I was able to put two and two together. I believe I had two fries and decided I could consume no more. This was the first time in my life I have turned away french fries. DIAPER RASH FRIES they will always be known as from this point forward. I am still curious as to how one makes their fried food taste like diaper rash cream.

This is in no way a bad review of The Country Bar; only a statement about their Diaper Rash French Fries.

For shame, CQ: A short, work-related diatribe

As many of you know, I work in the political arena. My goal is actually to keep this blog fairly free of political commentary, but, I figure I will use this as a medium to promote a (kind of) nonpartisan cause I believe so very strongly in: BRING BACK THE ORIGINAL TRAY.COM.

I am a political fundraiser, and thus by nature was addicted to tray.com. For those of you unfamiliar, tray.com presented campaign contribution data in an extremely easy-to-read, easy-to-search format. Not only did I use it professionally, but also recreationally. It was like a drug. Until my dealer cut off my supply on one fine September day in 2007 (I believe it was) and it vanished. POOF. Into thin air! No warning, never to be seen again, and only to be replaced by its bastard child, CQ Moneyline. Not only does CQ Moneyline charge moolah to look at their stupid data that is free to the public, but they have completely changed the format, the best and most important feature of tray.com. I would venture to say it would be worth forking over dinero if still kept in the same format. But no. Those CQ loonies inside the Beltway would never make things that easy.

And with that, I present to you, my (now former) boss's letter of complaint to CQ. I promise my next post will appeal to a more general audience. Eat your heart out, CQ!

From: Matt
Sent: Thursday, November 01, 2007 11:14 AM
To: 'moneyline@cq.com'
Subject: CQ Money Line

To Whom It May Concern:

I am writing to express my deep disappointment regarding the recent changes to CQ/Political Money Line.

Starting to charge money is only one small issue. My primary objection is that the overall functionality of the website has declined dramatically since CQ begun running the site. Political Moneyline was by far, hands down the best and most effective site to research political giving. There was no competition.

For whatever reason, the changes you have made have rendered the database almost entirely useless. I and everyone I know have stopped coming to the site altogether. It would be one thing if the former functionallity were simply available for a fee. However, after receiving a trial subscription service I have found there is in fact no difference in functionality. A subscription only makes more totally useless features available.

As an example, the individual donor search is has been reduced to meaningless reams of unhelpful information. This morning I thought I would try one more time and looked up a local donor to see who she was supporting in this cycle’s federal races. I entered her name, (Olsen, Heidi) and on political money line I could have selected any number of cycles to see who she was supporting. The results would have been all Heidi Olsens and would have been a comprehensive list.

Instead, I received 454 reults, starting with Adams, Heidi C and then Arthur, Heidi Mrs. What possible purpose would be served by providing me with this information? I see none. The only possible explanation is that the sole purpose of CQ moneyline is to be a form of “campaign finance porn” and overload the user with useless but extensive lists of political donors of all sorts.

Unfortunately, these changes don’t just affect me. Tray.com was a true outlet for people to understand and see into the campaign finance system. CQ has taken that away and replaced it with a useless piece of garbage.

Shame!

Matt

MEATS!!!!!

Ennui on a Umami Pastorale

Since blogging exists solely to be self-promoting, I thought I'd offer up a (crappy) glimpse of my newest, favorite hobby: collage--specifically, the up-and-coming, and most misunderstood genre-- the meat collage. The cell phone picture doesn't do it justice, but this woman is apathetically waiting for her impending doom, but by what meat?

I know my lovely and most rational (tm) friend, frauline helgie, is dying to start collaging and will be happy to know that I've ordered up dozens of half smokes from Ben's Chili Bowl and extra bottles of Mod-Podge for her visit in May. I just hope she's not too upset when I make her glue the dogs to canvass and not her carcass.

Might As Well Face It, You're Addicted to Love

I'm fairly certain that my dad isn't one of those guys who got married and was jumping up and down purporting that he couldn't wait to have babies.  My parents were married a long time before I was born and my dad hasn't really come around to the idea yet (in my opinion, anyway, god forbid he reads this in his free time).  My dad loved his Saab Turbo 900 (ours was a 2 door I think) and I can remember riding around in the car with the music blaring.

Blaring Robert Palmer.

I was probably 6 or 7 and went to a babysitter with a bunch of other kids.  They were singing the opening song from Strawberry Shortcake and the Care Bears.  I was on the swing set singing "Minus Well Faces, You're Addicted to Love".  In my mind, the song was about math and well digging and I assumed the rest was too adult for me to understand.

Picture it:  super thick glasses, a perm, mismatched clothes because I was dressed by a crazy woman, skipping around singing "Minus Well Faces".  Play the song, daddy!

I had to go to law school.  An advanced degree is the only way I'll be able to make enough per year to pay for all the therapy I'm going to need.

My Fly Ride

When I went to Grinnell my parents gave me a 1996 Chevy Lumina to drive. Within months, the Lumina met an untimely end in the Burger King parking lot in Newton, IA. I felt sad, but quickly recovered when my dad presented me with a cherry 1990 Toyota Camry LE (that's the fancy version with the alloy wheels, power windows, and snazzy sunroof). He gave it to me in the Spring of 2002 and I have driven it ever since. Hot.

The beauty of 1990 Camry ownership when you are a broke student living on borrowed time and money is that it is the equivalent of taking a class in auto mechanics. I've learned the ins and outs of hearty Japanese construction and undertaken projects like changing every light bulb on the inside and outside of the car, touching up the paint, peeling the scraps of fire proof liner off of the inside of the hood, replacing the door handle (18 years of opening and one day it just snaps! how weird.), learning how to open the gas tank by shoving my hand through a tiny space in the trunk, twisting the sunroof shut so the air leak isn't so bad, crawling through the back door when the front ones freeze shut, and my favorite, negotiating the automatic seat belt so i don't get decapitated in an accident.

However, should the automatic seatbelt decapitate me I hope that Helgie gets possession of my head so she can put it on a broom handle so I can sit at her dinner table.

Look for my post graduation EBay auction of said Camry. We'll start the bidding at $18,000.

ReconTEXTualizing

More answers to your questions on texting:

When should I text someone? Hmm. A good, and very personal, question. There are several factors that you should consider.

First, consider time of day and the person's relationship to you. Texting after 7 pm is generally fine for even passing acquaintances. Coincidentally, this is also the perfect time for mass text messages. You want to know where people are going tonight, and more importantly, if someone can give you a ride. This rule holds up until about midnight, possibly 1 am, when we start getting into the booty call / ambiguous text relationship territory. Daytime texting is usually used for friends from college that don't live in the same city and who have gainful employment, and for daytime emergencies (i.e. "Im starving. Lunch?" or "So hungover. Ugh."). Now, of course, these rules of thumb can be adjusted depending on time zones, national holidays, etc.

We're entering philosophical territory again, however. Perhaps you're wondering when you should text someone over calling them. I cannot tell you the "right" answer. For me, I find that I cannot connect with some people over the phone. One, or perhaps both, of us needs the time associated with texting to compose ourselves and a response. Generally, these are people I've had drunken heart to hearts with, or seen in some sort of compromising position. Taking this one step further, for me, it is a function of where I've met someone, how often I've spoken with them, whether I've seen them naked, and if the sound of their voice makes me cringe. That said, later, I'll answer questions about appropriate texting topics. Happy messaging.

150 characters or less

I’m what they call in the field of information a “slow adopter”. It took awhile for me to warm to “texting”. Why not just call someone? What could I possibly have to say to someone that could be better expressed with just consonants and limited punctuation? I had no idea.

It really all started when I moved to a new city and had no friends and a job I didn’t like and learned that I could easily consume an entire bottle of wine in one night, from the bottle, with limited consequences the next morning. It was there that I learned the true beauty of expressing oneself in 150 character increments.

In the intervening 2 years, I’ve carried on several relationships almost exclusively via text messaging. I’ve fought, flirted and… fretted using just my thumbs. This led me to wonder about the uses and limits of texting, so I’ve decided to share some wisdom with you. Please consider this a primer for other “slow adopters”:

Can I make a booty call using the “text message”? Yes. In fact, this is why text messaging was invented. This way, the other party has no idea re: your current state of inebriation or lack thereof.

Can I break up with someone via “texting”? Yes, again. I’ve found that one of the simplest ways to stop seeing someone is to ignore their texts. That way, you only sort of seem like a bitch. Because no guy is going to ask, “Hey, why didn’t you return my text?!?” In part because it makes them look petty, and in part because no one wants to admit that they texted you so they didn’t actually have to think of things to say right after you said something.

Can I text multiple people at a time? Interesting question. The technical answer, of course, is yes. The mass text message is a useful way to disseminate information about tonight’s happy hour or the fact that your gentleman caller got crabs from some other girl. The ethical question of serial texting requires more thought. I say yes. First, almost no one is going to find out if you’re texting someone else on the side. Besides, who are you hurting? Are humans monogamous by nature? No. We get different things from different texting parties. Just be safe. Remember who you texted last and the gist of the conversation and you should be fine.

Finally, how much does text messaging cost? Again, simple answer is that it depends on your service provider. I would caution that texting always costs. You can erase your cache, but the ill thought out text lingers long after the drunk dial is forgotten.

I hope this has answered some questions. In closing: be pithy, be witty, and never use more than one exclamation point. In the next few weeks, I hope to be able to illuminate more text-tiquette issues in my quest to be the Emily Post of SMS.

The Friendly Beasts

The Sinkside Barnyard. Where do I even start? Many think it is just a myth, but today for the first time, I bring you the first ever picture of the Sinkside Barnyard taken on my cell phone camera to show you that yes, it really does exist. I guess it's really more of a ranch, as there is no barn in sight. But I digress.

The Sinkside Barnyard is located on the window sill in the kitchen at my parents house and is comprised of various miniature plastic animals including, but not limited to, cows, a turkey, a goose, chickens, and a border collie to make sure they don't wander off the window sill to a certain death by drowning in dirty dishwater.

You may be thinking "oh, that's not THAT weird. Those plastic animals must've been Sarah's when she was little and now they've been placed on the window sill for whatever reason." Well, you would be W-R-O-N-G. My mother (Bethy) purchased them only a few years ago on one of her trips out to Montana to see my grandparents and subsequently placed her new menagerie where they still graze today, as if by placing them in a sunny window they would grow to their real size. Just yesterday, however, she told me she had some reservations about her flock of farm beasts: "I really don't like how the pigs are the same size as the rabbit. "

Oh Bethy, your life is so rough. What will I do when I finally move out of my parents house and Sinkside Barnyard is no where to be found?! What will I do when the herd of little plastic faces no longer stare at me when I'm taking my vitamins in the morning?! Le sigh.

Dehumanized

Law school in South Dakota is miserable. However, I used to be even more miserable when I lived in Sioux City, IA and commuted into the great state of South Dakota. After my first year ended, my lackluster performance and procrastination had really paid off. I was unemployed, living with a boy who spent more on Crown Royal than I spent on rent, having meaningful conversations with our cat, Tiger, and trying my best not to climb a bell tower and start picking people off.

Despite the fact that I was wearing my misery on my sleeve, my parents decided that they couldn't handle my period of unemployment so they chopped down the money tree and left me hanging with no choice but to find a job.

The job market in Sioux City, IA was beyond depressing. Jobs for law students: 0, jobs involving presses, cutting meat, and trash: 1250. Just as I was about to give up I got hired at Target. Taking this job would prove to be one of the worst decisions I have ever made (and, I'm notorious for eating donuts out of trash cans when I visit my old college). Think about that one for a minute.

So, at Target I played the role of friendly cashier. Not the best gig for me. They made me wear a name tag that said "Jamie" on it. I explained that my name was Jennifer and they looked at me like I was insane. The lady even gave me a bucket of name tags and told me that if "Jamie" wasn't to my liking I could pick something else. Um, what? I assume they have a little name tag machine or maybe a Hello My Name Is sticker? Corporations. Ugh.

During training I was alerted to the fact that 'people try to steal things by placing them under their carts'. So, Target uses the BOB system. A sad person with some dumb title like "team leader" (because we're a team, dammit!) stands in front of the check stand and watches for these stealthy thieves who stick stuff under their carts. As soon as it becomes apparent that the person isn't going to offer the merchandise up to Jamie Target, world's best cashier, Team Leader says to Jamie, "Have you seen BOB today?" Stupid untrustworthy customer thinks you're looking for the janitor or maybe that hottie who works in electronics. NOPE. We're talking about you, thief.

I lasted 4 days. Four 8 hour shifts at $6.25 per hour minus taxes leaves you just enough money to pick up a 30 rack of Busch Light on your way home. In the end I ended up moving back in with my parents. They made me fairly miserable, but at least they acknowledge me by my given name.

Save the Date!!

Attention all Minnesotans! Please save the dates June 13-15, 2008 on your calendars for PINE ISLAND CHEESE FEST. While it will be my first time attending, I have been promised it is amazing and there is FREE CHEESE. What more could a girl ask for?!

Let the discussion of the best types of cheese begin!

Also, speaking of cheese, I was recently introduced to this place. Legendary, I tell you.

Love at Underwater World

It is important background for this story that Jennifer currently resides in Vermillion, South Dakota, and when she comes to visit in Minneapolis, she insists we go to the Mall of America (won't she be upset when she finds out Nickelodeon has taken over the Park at MOA) , ride the Paul Bunyan log ride, and go to Hooters to eat chicken wings (classy!).

The last time we partook of such an adventure, Jennifer saw the character pictured here outside Underwater World, the aquarium at MOA. She became fairly infatuated with who we would begin to call Sharky. So infatuated, in fact, that she decided to post a Missed Connection on Craigslist for him, which is posted here:

MOA Special Moment - 24

---

Reply to: pers-156235096@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-04-30, 11:19PM CDT


Was I wrong or did we have a moment?

YOU: strolling near the escalator outside of Underwater World looking cute and wearing a shark costume.

ME: pretty girl with curly blond hair with 2 of my friends, pants still damp from log ride en route to Hooters for chicken wings and beer.

I thought I saw you catch my eye...hit me back to chat.

• this is in or around Underwater World
  
• no -- it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests

Lucky for us, Sharky reads missed connections, because lo and behold, Jennifer received this response:

From: mike j
To: pers-156235096@craigslist.org
Date: Mon, 1 May 2006 06:36:24 -0700 (PDT)
Subject: shark
i can't believe someone has left a message on here for
me. I'm sorry i see alot of women everyday, please
re-fresh my memory


At least we know his name now!

Express Yourself

Ahoy, Ahoy! First, let me say that I am proud and flattered that my dearest friend Shelgie has invited me to contribute to this blog. If my writing is as funny as stuffing a head mannequin into a box and shipping it across country then I think everyone is in for a treat.

Today, I will tackle the topic of creativity and those that seek to stifle it at my law school. This semester I am taking an alternative dispute resolution class and part of the weekly torture involves fake mediations. Last week I was assigned the role of an attorney representing a landlord who had entered into an agreement with a tenant (a commercial lease for a restaurant which was named the Red Devil Dog Grill). The thought of sitting in front of the class and pretending to advocate on behalf of my client made me want to vomit, but since I had no choice I decided it was the perfect opportunity to express myself, wave my belligerence flag, and make everyone uncomfortable.

So I made a power point featuring this picture that you see here and purported that my client had installed a devil on his building and needed his money back. I repeatedly referred to "devil installation" and "devil improvements". I claimed that my client needed months and months for "devil removal" and replacement of "devil facade". After 2 hours of what I considered a more than stellar performance, I left the room slightly embarrassed. Luckily after the embarrassment passed I was once again filled with my usual delusions of grandeur and have giggled every time I have looked at this picture.

Inaugural Post: Wigs Across America!

Greetings, friends! I present to you PANTSLESS ON JENIFER STREET, an online, cross-country collaboration by myself and those close to me.

Since today is my 25th birthday (let the quarter life crisis continue), I thought I would list a two year "gift" inventory received from my friend, Jennifer.

Last year, for my golden 24th birthday, I received Marjorie (on your left), a lovely head mannequin from Washington state. You can only imagine my excitement when I opened the UPS box and found Marj's big, blueish grayish eyes staring right in to mine! Jennifer had even curled her hair before sending her on her way to the District of Columbia. I obviously immediately removed her from her packaging and put her on the end of a broomstick so she could sit at the dinner table with me.

Marjorie and I have had a somewhat tumultuous relationship, which has concluded with Marj currently residing in my closet at my parents house. Mostly because, let's be honest, she's the scariest gift I've ever received in my whole life.

So you can only imagine my excitement when, exactly a year later, I received yet another piece of birthday correspondence from Jennifer. While it didn't come in the same packaging, it came in an oversized golden envelope, which had to be good. I tore open the packaging, to find the following note scrawled on wide ledgered 3 hold punch paper:

"Helgie--
A new job deserves a new look--see p. 27."
Yours,
JL Machacek
USD Law Class of 2008

I moved the note only to find a catalog from TheWigCompany.com, the internet's premier clearing house for women's wigs. BEST BIRTHDAY EVER.