MightyBlog

Tenuocity.

2009-08-25T17:54:00.003-05:00

I feel very tenuous.

UNL has started classes as of yesterday and so far the Freshman crop ain't bad. Although with each passing year this matters less and less. We're verging on the day where I stop thinking they're hot so much as I resent them for coming back. Still, maybe I can lose a little weight and do something stupid.

Nah.

William's wedding proved eventful and appropriately strange. For example, I've never made out in the bushes of the Washington Pavillion before, nor had I lost a bet regarding James Doohan before last Friday. The evening was peppered with various people telling me to move to Pierre and thus solve the current issue. I can't think of anything that would kill me faster, although Vondo did point out that I would have nothing else to do but write. That's not bad. I don't think Megan likes the idea much though.

Speaking of writing, Berit reminded me of her best piece of advice regarding The Grille Blues, and if I ever bother to look at that steaming pile again I think I will apply it. But at this point it's a matter of courage.

Tenuous.

Only Slightly Intentional Vacation Week has yielded very little in terms of work completed. Also it's sort of fucked my weekend, so I kind of wish J. would have actually listened when I told him I didn't necessarily need this time off anymore and let me reschedule. But oh well. I have a Long Story Short to write this week and isn't going to end up well, but I don't think I really care that much. It's not like I'm going to top the story about Old Style. That's still funny to me.

I have a newsletter to design as well, that I can't seem to get to not look like complete ass. Maybe I'll just finish up the WL/bl stuff instead and call it a day.

What did I get on here for again? Oh yeah.

Tenuous.

"No good reason except they taste good."

2009-07-10T17:02:00.005-05:00

A trip to Jake's last night yielded a less than adequate stock of Camel Lights. Thus, I decided to re-introduce myself to Kamel Reds. Frankly, I forgot these things existed. But that hasn't stopped me from smoking the shit out of them all day. I got the Full Flavor variety, because I love the package design so much. The packaging on the Lights always looked to me like cigarettes branded by Mello Yello.

The purchase of unusual cigarettes always releases in me a small yearning for the days when I never had the same brand two packs in a row – or at least the same variety by one brand (you could go from Turkish Golds to Turkish Royals to Camel Filters without breaking any serious rules). And though I know my next pack will be the good 'ol reliable Camel Lights, my inner smoker wants to go get a pack of Galois (blue), followed perhaps by some Pall Mall's, then some Nat Sherman's or those Bumblebee cigarettes with honey toasted right into the tobacco (not just shoved into the filter). Maybe even a trim box of Player's Navy Cut, the finest after-dinner smoke ever conceived by man.

If I really knew what I was doing I would bring back my pipe. I loved smoking a pipe. But that never fails to invite judgmental leers from strangers. Plus it's just more shit to carry around. My Father, as we're all aware, is a smoker of cigars, although his tastes vary from outstanding to the "How the fuck can you put that in your mouth, Gerry?" variety. Cigars to me, though, should be reserved only for special occasions and to those for whom a cigar is a legitimate aspect of their character. Like Fozzy, Gene Hackman or, I suppose, my Dad.

In the end it doesn't matter that much that I've relegated myself to smoking cigarettes almost exclusively. It's not like I'm in bad company there (James Dean, every WW2-era soldier ever), and it is a well documented fact that smoking cigarettes makes you cool. Still, variety is the spice of life, and in this regard I am dropping the ball pretty badly.

It's a small Facebook after all.

2009-07-10T16:23:00.003-05:00

I love a good Small World scenario. Like when you're at the bar, or out of town somewhere you don't normally go, and you happen to meet somebody who knows someone from your past or who went to school in the town you grew up in. It's an instant ice breaker, and more often than not you have a great time the rest of the night getting to know this person. Either that or they end up being a complete tool, but that's all right too because then you get to have fun cracking wise at their expense once they've left your presence.

It leaves you with a kind of feeling of kismet, like you were definitely in the right place at the right time if this has happened. I feel like I've met a lot of decent people through these happy accidents, and it manages to brighten my meager outlook on life whenever it happens to me. Otherwise drab evenings are instantly transformed into rare occurrences, and they pepper my memory as moments in which my life has, in some way, shone with randomness.

Anyway. I've started to notice a variation on this happening on Facebook. Take, for example, my experience last night. I was looking at the status update of a friend of mine – an acquaintance, really – who we'll call E. E's a fine kid, and reminds me a lot of other people I've known in my life, though he's just young enough that we aren't able to relate in quite the same way that I do with others. But he's good people (even if he is widely regarded as Lincoln's most insurmountable Cock Block – he's one of those cute, little guys that loves women and who is loved by them in return).

So E updates his status with something mildly interesting, and I add my two cents before the customary mental recording of the "company" I'm in on this thread – mostly people I don't know, future hipsters or people much smarter or better looking than me. That's something else about E, he has beautiful friends. And look, one of them seems pretty cute, and her comment involves her honesty being brought on by a recently consumed fourth drink, so...

Listen. I'm not above clicking on people I don't know. That's what Facebook is about, right? Catering to our underlying voyeurism? Right. And what the hell else am I going to do, I'm at work. So onto her name I hover my pointer, and to the limited you're-not-friends-with-this-person profile I go. Two things strike me. First, this girl is stupid pretty. And second, we have two mutual friends: E (obviously), and J, a girl I went to high school with in Vermillion (and who was, for a time, a pretty important figure in 'ol J. Fantastic's little life).

Neat, right? Like this is the sort of thing where if I met this person and it somehow manages to come up, would certainly count as a Small World event and lead to all sorts of (presumably) great things. So I get that initial feeling of awe – "How random is this? What a scoop!" – and then... what? This is Facebook. So what the hell am I supposed to do with this? It's not as if I can strike up a conversation. "Oh, hey, I see by my uninvited ogling that you and I both know this girl, and she and I used to be great pals. Let's drink." No, all I can do is just sit there and let it quietly blow my mind. What would be, in the real world, a miraculous example of life's random convergences becomes, instead, something that just makes me feel really, really creepy.

It's just one more way in which Facebook is destroying my life, piece by piece.

(Don't mind me, just blowing steam.)

2009-03-25T16:57:00.004-05:00

At the beginning of March I decided that I was going to stop taking the daily 20mg dose of Paxil that I've been shoving down my throat for the past six and a half years, and began the weaning process of nixing every other dose. Now I'm stuck trying to figure out if my current all-encompassing dissatisfaction with life is because I'm actually pissed or because I'm in a transitional period via my medication.

Ditching the pills has been an odd ride so far. Initially I felt sort of like a woman going through menopause – hot flashes, mild nausea, occasionally blurred vision. I still get the flashes, though they are now accompanied by strange bouts of paranoia, moments where I can't shake the feeling that my entire existence is a waste of time.

Perhaps I simply find myself in yet another of life's long line of depressive ruts. It's not like I've ever been unhappy before. Likely my recent conclusion that my life is going nowhere is simply a coincidence. Or maybe it's been going nowhere for a long time and now that I'm coming out of the pill-coma I've just started to notice it. Man, that's an upsetting prospect.

I'm bored. Bored out of my shit. But even worse than being bored is the fact that I am lacking severely in inspiration. Whenever I sit down to work – open up a story or a design project or, well, anything – I become immediately daunted by the prospect of finishing it. I've never been all that great at finishing things, which has always bothered me, but now I feel like I've gone from "not great" to "fully unable."

Job: going nowhere. School: no less annoying than it's ever been. Location: stuck (though that's not so bad). I just want to do something. And is it so much to ask for it to be a work of undeniable genius? Or at least, you know... better than bad? What's a boy to do? Ride it out, I guess. Had to grow up sometime.

Hitpants.

2009-01-30T02:32:00.005-06:00

I have always believed that the world would be a far more interesting place if everything had Hit Points. Animal or mineral, everything would have a certain amount of damage that it could take before buckling entirely. Periodically wear and tear would begin to show, but never all at once. Most importantly, you would be able to poke your bedroom wall (or your sister, or your dog, or anything) incessantly until, one day, it would simply fall to pieces.

This is far-fetched, to be sure. There are scores of valid reasons why this idea has been thus far relegated to the world of fiction and gaming. The laws of Physics and Biology aren’t as easily sidestepped as I would like them to be. I will never be able to put a health meter above everyone’s head, but I think I've found the next best thing.

Ladies and gentlemen, if you're anything like me, then you have only a finite amount of pants. Certainly the number is bound to rise and fall, but it's not like you've got 600 pairs sitting in your closet, all in pristine condition. Pants are pants, of course, so anything that belongs to a suit counts. (Not shorts though. Shorts are shorts. If shorts were pants, they wouldn't be shorts. Got it?) Myself, I have 7 functional pairs, cleaned in rotation and often worn several days in a row.

Have you not noticed how your fortunes wax and wane along with your pant count? How dire would your situation be if you had, say, only one pair of pants? My friend Josh went several weeks with only a single pair once, and his well-being was visibly diminished. What kind of life can you lead when you are always wearing 100% of your pants, constantly subjecting your only pair to the fates?

I believe that the elements of hit points can be easily applied via the notion of Hitpants. Be honest with yourself. How is being pantless unlike death, really? What happens when you lose one? Like a diminishing amount of Health, having a pair of pants destroyed is often unforeseen and disastrous.

Submitted for your consideration: two days ago I was functioning comfortably at 8 pairs of pants. I had it all, with +1 pairs versus days of the week. My options were damn near limitless, my power undeniable. Then, for reasons yet unexplained (except perhaps by my ass-widening winter hibernation), my favorite pair split on me, right down the back. I was at work, with no option but to leave unseen, retreat to my home and find a replacement pair. I would be lying if I told you that I didn't feel as if a bit of my life had been stripped away. Likewise, I won’t feel quite as right again until I have a new pair (or two).

Really, what more evidence toward the merits of this theory do you require? It seems appropriate that my search for a quantifiable meter of life would end where so many things for me have begun. I urge you, good reader, to seize this moment and take stock of your situation. How many pairs of pants do you have? How long can this number last? Are you self-sustaining, or do you often rely on the spare pants of others? Has life rid you of your pants, and if so, why?

This much is true: the fewer your pants, the closer you are to disaster. We can no longer afford the naivety of the past. For too long our pants have remained an unappreciated commodity, when clearly with them, but for the grace of God, go we.

As of the end of 2008...

2008-12-31T20:12:00.003-06:00

I think I will make these lists every year, just so see how (if) they change.

Top Five Songs:

1. "Your Cover's Blown" by Belle and Sebastian
2. "Fat Old Sun" by Pink Floyd
3. "Georgia On My Mind" by Ray Charles
4. "Emotional Weather Report" by Tom Waits
5. "Heartless Romantic" by the Dears

Top Five Albums:

1. "Kid A" by Radiohead
2. "Dark Side of the Moon" by Pink Floyd
3. "Six Demon Bag" by Man Man
4. "Tanglewood Numbers" by Silver Jews
5. "Death of a Ladies' Man" by Leonard Cohen

...Jeez, that's even hard when you know it's going to change anyway.

--

It's not easy to get me to hate New Year's any more than I already do, but the fates seem to have managed to pull it off this time around. Not only am I stuck at work (which isn't so bad, although if ever there was an evening for early deadlines you would think this would be it), but my New Year's kiss is like ten hours away in Deadwood. Aren't you supposed to kiss the person that you want to be with for the next year tonight? And aren't I supposed to get at least a pity kiss either way? I don't know. I'm feeling especially bitter today. Nothing changes nothing changes nothing changes.

SPEAKING OF BEING FAR AWAY. I find myself constantly torn between how much I love being around her and how miserable I am the rest of the time. It's funny, because at first it bothered her and I was fine, and now she's fine and I'm going nuts. Maybe I'm not built for this. But I want to be.

Anyway. I saw my nephew yesterday, who is three years old and already much, much smarter than I am. I think he's better at carrying on a conversation than anyone else in my family. He still calls me "Uncle Jonny," which is pretty awesome.

But. All I really wanted to do here were those lists. So there you go.

Hope.

2008-11-05T01:48:00.002-06:00

Tonight was a historic one, and though I didn't get to take part in it to the extent that I would have liked, my half-flat champagne tastes pretty sweet. I am very, very proud of my country today.

MEANWHILE...

2008-10-31T21:21:00.002-05:00

I live in Gotham City.

La da da da daaaaaa, da da da da da da.

2008-10-21T16:35:00.004-05:00

There are few things as annoying to me as showing up at the Coffee House with very little to do and no headphones. In fact I don't like showing up anywhere without headphones, but some days their absence is more brutal than others.

A dreary, rainy day in Lincoln, Nebraska. Fall is most certainly here, and today I find myself lost in its lesser side. I'm feeling paranoid and a little uneasy. I keep telling people that I'm taking classes and getting shocked looks from people.

"You're still in school?" they ask.

"Yep."

"Master's?" they venture.

"Dude," I tell them, "I'll be lucky if I get an Associate's by the time I'm thirty."

Some of them laugh. Some of them don't.

I really want my 'phones. I've been listening to "While We Go Dancing" by White Rabbits almost non-stop lately and if I go too long without it I start to feel edgy. That and "Bad Days" by the Flaming Lips, a song I love that I had forgotten about until about two weeks ago.

Things I am not looking forward to today:

1. Work. It's Tuesday, which means we're putting out the Big Wednesday paper. Extra deadlines and additional trips across the street (in the rain) to the press.
2. Trying to do my assignment for tomorrow while at work. I don't really even remember what it is.
3. Missing Dad's Beer Night. I just know I'm not going down there after my shift.

Things I am looking forward to:
1. A new episode of "House." (Assuming the DVR gets the whole thing this time.)
2. Going back to bed.

My birthday is fast approaching. I feel that 27 is dangerously close to 30. Maybe that's just me. I have yet to decide if I'm going to go to Vermillion or if I am – for the first time ever – just going to get drunk where I am. I think the plan hinges on Megan. If she wants to meet me in Verm then I'll go; if not, O'Rourke's it is. I would like to finally have birthday sex, but I guess I'm willing to wait another year if I have to.

MEANWHILE, ALL OVER THE NATION, Sarah Palin continues to scare the shit out of me:

http://thinkprogress.org/2008/10/21/palin-vp-senate/

Now, truth be told, I don't really know any of this stuff either. I pretty much zoned out of... well, every year of school I've ever attended. On the other hand, I don't need to know, at least in any official capacity. I realize that by now pointing out Palin's shortcomings has become a bit like shooting fish in a barrel, but damn, man. Damn. At least have the common fucking courtesy to know what it is you'd be doing. I don't think that's too much to ask, even from a Republican candidate in this day and age. It just pisses me off.

While we're sort of on the subject, I went to W. this weekend and found it to be too little too soon. The performances were great, and it had this wonderfully strange surreal feeling to it, but the film cuts just short of the 2004 election and fails to really round itself out. I would have much preferred a longer, more in-depth cut after the end of Bush's second term. But I think Stone really wanted to get it out before this election... for some reason. Whatever. Rent it.

Monster wants to print some sort of literary journal in Verm that I really want to write something for, but I don't think I'm going to have the time to produce anything worth reading in the next week and a half. I'd like to do the cover, though. I hope he sends me his idea sooner than later so I can get cracking on it. If it actually comes out it'll be sort of like a little piece of The Grille Blues coming true, which I find amusing. A-MUS-ING.

There is a dude here with one of the new MacBooks and boy is it pretty. Just a note.

I want more coffee.

The Future is Eventual

2008-10-07T16:53:00.003-05:00

I would be filling you with lies and doom if I told you that I didn't go buy an iPhone 3G yesterday. I would be further doing you wrong if I said that I got the 8GB version, or if I didn't admit that maybe 16GB is a bit much. But I wouldn't do that to you.

It's not easy being a fetishist, nor is it cheap, attractive or functional. But it's a life, and you get used to it eventually.

First thoughts: the thing is fucking gorgeous. Like almost stupidly so. I feel unworthy of it somehow, but then I think of Al in Quantum Leap and I just feel cool. Finally, my own handlink to Ziggy! Only by Ziggy I mean ESPN and Wikipedia. Which, frankly, is just as good.

The thing is a marvel of design. The screen is wonderfully responsive, and even if you smudge it you can't tell unless the screen is off. Colors are bright and images are crisp. Looking through news and stuff, even if it's totally boring content, is fun as hell just because use of the unit is so fluid.

I haven't gotten to make many calls yet, but I haven't been disappointed yet by the sound quality of Megan's voicemail.

The iPod part of it is awesome. Album art looks amazing and navigating your music is much easier than with the old click wheel (not that I didn't love that thing too). I especially enjoy flipping through albums side-by-side, though they don't always move as nicely as you want them to. Having the music and app stores right on the phone is handy, too.

The vibrate sucks. It's weak. But oh well.

Truth be told, it was a sort of steep purchase, but since ATT gives a billing discount to Lee Enterprises I think that (in the very long run) I will end up spending a bit less. Also having my email everywhere I go is great given how anal I am about checking it (never mind the fact that I never get anything interesting). My hope is that I will use the iCal functionality more (and thus make myself more organized) and start a "No Context" blog that I can update from anywhere. I've got to think of a better title for that though... "No Context" is taken. God hates/loves me.

Enough gushing.

Megan is coming down here this weekend and I am terribly excited. I'm trying to think of cool things to do while she's here. I know we're going to go to the museum (need to check hours) and carve pumpkins. Also I'm going to make her watch "Dark Side of Oz," because for some reason she never has. Gotta find a copy of that as well. Other than that I just need to get through my schooling for the week without going nuts. Getting up at 8:00 AM just isn't my thing, but I'm trying real hard to be the shepherd.

Why is slime always green?

2008-09-25T16:29:00.004-05:00

There are few things more annoying to me than getting messages of thanks for reviews on Zoetrope, but not getting reciprocation. "Money's not as interesting to me as favors." Anyway, since the one I've gotten so far is pretty rich, I submit an excerpt for your amusement:

"My take on this was that the Thing had sex with Billy, but I wasn’t quite certain. Maybe I just wanted that to be your intention, because it’s an interesting and original way for an extra terrestrial to interact with a human. If that was your intent, you might want to make it a little more explicit--maybe Billy feels his ass tingle, or he wipes some green slime from his dick."

What? Nope. Not even close. Here's the story:

The Thing That Bled Space
By Jonathan Egan

The Thing That Bled Space came out of the night of a distant valley. There was a little town there at the bottom of the mountain range beside the lower hills. The Thing dragged its way across the land to the inviting glow of an old stone tavern, where half the population of the settlement watched it lumber its way through the door and sit down at the bar.

It was great and black, the sort of black that lacks all optic friction, like a mobile void in the room. Its shape could be construed somewhat as having arms and legs; perhaps being a little hairy, but on the other hand perhaps not. There was no depth to its visage, no detail. Its arrival was met only by the sound of the jukebox as it continued to spill its old blues over the crowds’ mute bewilderment. A few onlookers swear, however, that just before Doc Malone finally brought the weight of a whiskey bottle down on top of the Thing’s head they distinctly heard it order a beer.

From his lonely corner of the tavern young Billy watched the Thing not only tear Malone clean in half, but kill at least seven other people as well before the barmaid appeared with a hatchet from the back room. The sound that came from the Thing as she struck it was almost cavernous. It sounded to Billy like a howl bellowed from the dark side of the moon. The poor waitress probably didn’t live long enough to realize she had even connected with the beast. Her arms, still holding the weapon, landed square at Billy’s feet while the rest of her crashed headfirst into the mirror behind the bar.

Rather than run, the rest of the patrons huddled in the back, unable to take their eyes off of the Thing. It looked at them–or at least they felt as if they were being looked at–until satisfied that no more of them were going to attack. Then it silently turned and walked back out the door. Everyone inside remained petrified save Billy who was too fascinated to be frozen. No one tried to stop him as he took off after it.

Billy found the Thing just outside, presumably making its way into the nearby woods. In the darkness of night it was somehow easier to discern. Billy could see now that the Thing was bleeding profusely from its wound. A trail of the sparkling matter culminated in a small puddle at its feet. Billy approached fearlessly, and was just barely able to convince himself that what he saw was a reflection of the starry sky above when the Thing pushed him down through the puddle and into oblivion.

Billy was either falling very quickly or watching the entirety of the universe rush up past him. It was hard to tell without any atmosphere. He tried to remember everything he knew about space, but was disappointed to find his knowledge contradictory to his current state.

He was breathing, yes, but breathing what he couldn’t be sure. His blood did not, as he thought it was supposed to, feel like it was boiling. His eyes appeared to be in working order. In fact, aside from a fleeting sensation of cold in his bones he felt perfectly normal.

As the brilliant scenery around him began to distract his flustered brain, Billy felt a calm wash over him. Rather than debate whether it was he or existence itself that was falling he allowed himself to bask in the splendor of the naked galaxies and nebulas abound. Huge streaks of light stretched out around him. He passed hurtling comets, moved deftly through vast fields of floating dead rock. Planets sang to him. Eventually he came by a red dwarf, and it asked him his name.

“Billy,” he told it. The star only laughed and was gone, shooting away into the emptiness that all astral bodies share.

Awestruck by the color and magnitude of the heavens, Billy watched time itself stretch forward and back into infinity. Wave by wave the whole of creation was revealed to him. He was a celestial bird in flight.

Then he landed.

Or more accurately, he fell back up.

He was on his feet, which at first he didn’t notice because he couldn’t feel anything. One by one he regained his senses, but everything seemed a little smaller, a little blurrier. Billy was in the woods, and could just barely make out the smoldering light of the small town through the trees. He stared dumbly at it, completely unable to recall its significance or purpose.

The Thing, still beside him though they had clearly ventured further into the trees, regarded Billy now with only mild curiosity, as if he had been at its back for ages. In the darkness the Thing seemed almost to shimmer. Its blood, now indisputably filled with stars, was still streaming down its long arm, but in far less of a cascade. It was holding the wound with its other hand, and aside from this small gesture it didn’t seem to pay the gash any mind.

The Thing made an affectionate sound, almost a purring that Billy didn’t so much hear as he felt pulsating in his veins. Then it leaned back and mightily stretched its protracted limbs. Billy did the same and felt as if a gale were rushing through him, leaving his soul lighter. High above them a breeze likewise set the trees to swaying. Patches of starry sky shone through, and Billy basked in their new brilliance, counting himself among them.

--

Anyway. There are a couple of huge helicopters flying over downtown Lincoln today, and I don't know what their deal is. They have things on the front of them that look like guns. Big fucking guns. If they're going to pace like that they might as well shoot something as far as I'm concerned.

I'm heading up to Pierre this weekend because, frankly, this distance is killin' me and I can't take it. Regardless, this means that I get to spend Monday night watching football at Carey's. This pleases me. Come buy me drinks.

I don't want to go to work. But it's got to be done.

Why can't monsters get along with other monsters?

2008-08-29T17:13:00.002-05:00

I'm writing a review of a book called "The Swap" for the Journal Star, only by "writing a review" I mean "still trying to get through the piece of shit. Luckily George loves me and gives me all the time in the world. This thing is horrible. It's about a kid who swaps a mint condition Superman One in 1982 for a worthless piece of plastic, and then ends up running a comic store. Since I won't have room in the review to spell this out, let me do it for you here:

First of all, since the author has clearly never read a comic book in his life, I can't tell if he thinks that Superman One was the hero's debut or not. If so, he's wrong. If not, still, who gives a shit. There isn't a soul on the planet who didn't know that a mint copy was worth thousands of thousands of dollars, let alone two souls – the character claims to remember buying the thing. It makes me fucking crazy, I just can't wrap my head around it. Where the hell do you find a mint condition Superman One in 1982 for less than a hundred grand? You don't. Also, this book is supposed to be sort of a mystery, which means that not only is the author/protagonist an idiot, but he picked the completely wrong super hero to be an idiot about. Everyone knows that the Batman is the worlds' greatest detective. It's bullshit.

Anyway.

SEND IN THE CLOUDS. BRING DOWN THE RAIN. SHUT ALL THE BLINDS, TURN OUT THE LIGHTS. I FEEL INSANE WHEN YOU GET IN MY BED.

I can't stop listening to that one.

Is it proper to be in love but still driven somewhat crazy by someone that you see every day but don't know at all? ...Yes. Okay. Thanks for the clarification, Me. No problem, Me.

I was outside smoking a cigarette just now and saw some motherfucker in an SUV drop a can of Red Bull on the ground outside his car before driving away. That's just mean, man. I gave him the bird and he scowled. He obviously didn't get it.

Old Man Olympics in Vermillion tomorrow. Well, tonight actually, but I have to work so I won't be there to compete until Saturday. I have a sneaking suspicion that this will be my undoing. I just don't think I can drink that much beer. Anyone who wants to see me so hammered that I can't speak will find me at Leo's tomorrow afternoon, followed (probably) by Carey's.

Billy, your heartbreaker is in progress. You may need to learn to drink in order to listen to it without falling apart.

Go ahead; I wish you would.

2008-08-26T14:52:00.003-05:00

It seems that during my time away, summer in Lincoln ended. A ride downtown yields (besides the eventual realization that I forgot my wallet) a plethora of tykes walking home and even a license plate that read: "LEARN". I don't know if the new freshman crop has arrived at UNL yet, but the upperclassmen are definitely starting to show their heads. This reminds me that I need to get in touch with SCC this week...

I took the Party Barge down here over fears that my bike chain will pop off again while I'm downtown. There's a part that Elctra recalled that causes the outer casing to knock the chain off the gears, and it's been a problem since I got it. It's fine if it pops off the back one, but for the main gear I have to unscrew like five things and remove the entire outside of it to get it back in place. It's really annoying. Re-Cycled isn't open until tomorrow, either.

...Yeah, a girl at the Coffee House is reading something by Virginia Woolf. School is definitely back.

I know I talk about Apple a lot, but my belief that the iPod is the best invention ever has been renewed by its glorious performance over the course of my 14-hour round-trip. Honestly, these things should be issued for free to the public. Everybody should be allowed to have one.

I'm sure there are a lot of things that I could expand on in this entry, but I'm just not feeling up to it. Things I've learned in the last week, though:

1. Limbo isn't always Limbo.
2. There is a third part to the Blues.
3. I am in a better mood after seeing her, always.
4. Brock Samson should be a religion.
5. I am awesome at Cribbage.
6. Stranger Than Fiction is a really good film.

Deedly-dee!

2008-08-06T16:30:00.002-05:00

Tri Point finally showed up to take care of my trees yesterday, and ended up cutting one down. I've got a serious case of cutters remorse, people. I really miss that tree. The place feels psychotic without it. I'll plant a new one, but who knows how long it'll be before that tree gets interesting. Boo. I should have taken a picture of the stump...

Anyway. Things I love today:

1. People Watching other people who are People Watching, and trying to gauge by their expressions whether or not we feel the same way about the folks we're seeing. There is a girl chain-smoking on the curb outside the Coffee House and watching the passers by. She was a good subject.

2. Irony. Last night the power went out during a meeting with the Lincoln Electrical System regarding the rising rates of power. Then, while elsewhere in the city people were gathering in their neighborhoods for "Feel Safe Day" or something, somebody decided to head out on a drive-by and shoot some people. Thank you Nebraska, you weird, hopeless bastards.

3. Hercules and Love Affair. So I sort of like disco. Sue me.

4. Still having my job. Sixteen people got laid off at the Journal Star last week, and though my areas were unscathed they did chuck some people that I like–most notably the only good illustrator they had (who was also the dude who trained me).

Okay, I'm going to go find something to do.

Outside and I are quits.

2008-08-02T16:11:00.002-05:00

Heat wave, baby. Take off your pants.

I suppose I haven't weighed in on The Dark Knight yet, have I? Where do we begin. I can't say I've got a fully realized reaction yet, other than a resounding sense of the positive. For some reason I feel like I have to really pick the thing apart before I can say anything with authority – this is a surefire sign of one becoming far too geeky for his own good.

"I don't know how I feel about it," Egan said. "I've only seen it twice."

Swell. But in all seriousness: Heath Ledger – and even my sister, who is a stage actress and hates movies, agrees – is just stupidly amazing. I can't say that I've always followed his body of work, but I would say that I know Heath Ledger when I see him, and I didn't see him once in that entire movie. He just completely disappears inside that Joker he's built, and it's just beautiful to behold. From the day shooting started we've been hearing about how great he was going to be, and I don't feel at all like I was let down. Bravo, kid.

As for the rest of it, well, the whole thing is fabulous. It really is a completely different kind of comic book film. The only problem I had was the sonar thing. Plus I noticed that Bale is doing amazing things with Bruce if you pay close attention to when he uses his Batman voice out of costume. And the rise of Two-Face was glorious.

Anyway.

There is a flier out front of the Coffee House for a Kickback show two weeks from now. I like it when that happens.

I stuck a new story up on Zoetrope, but I don't think anyone has reviewed it yet. It's only a thousand words. Those people are usually pretty helpful though. I'll have to review a couple and hope that they reciprocate. Maybe I'll do that now...

...and WOW, that's the most glowing review ever! Neat.

Ima tend to this then go geter drunk.

Aw, bear.

2008-07-29T21:37:00.000-05:00

Half of the time we're gone and we don't know where.

2008-07-07T16:31:00.002-05:00

There is a girl sitting in one of the big, green leather chairs at the Coffee House reading Love in the Time of Cholera. I sort of want to go over and congratulate her.

I am annoyed that my Last.fm page isn't picking up the plays from my iPod. That's okay I guess. It's all been the new Wolf Parade album (which I don't like as much as the first one), the new Silver Jews and "The Only Living Boy in New York" by Simon and Garfunkel. I really love that song. Aaaaaah, ahhhhh, aaaaaaaaaaaaahh, here I am.

Outside it smells like drizzle on a hot city with a hint of firework smoke. I suppose there's a kiss of burning nylon from the cigarette receptacles, too. The sky is dark and looming, so it must be my day off. If it's going to be this hot it might as well at least be sunny, dammit.

Ooo. Lightning. Outside an approachable girl with a hat right out of Feifel Goes West sits atop her bicycle under the awning that the Coffee House shares with Bison Witches and U.S. Property. She's a little bit soaked but doesn't mind – she makes conversation with me while her boyfriend gets them some coffee to go. People in Lincoln are pretty friendly.

Gotham Knight comes out tomorrow, and my copy has been shipped from Amazon. I sort of hope it shows up today, but I know it won't. I'm not even remotely excited about the anime aspect – I just really want to hear Conroy do some more Batman. le sigh.

Associated.

2008-07-03T15:36:00.002-05:00

http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/848765/what_we_give.html

So there's that.

The weather is modestly perfect today. High 70s and breezy. I love it – I'm about as sick as I can be of this 90 degree weather nonsense. I wish I didn't have to work tonight so I could go for a walk, but alas. I'm working extra shifts this week and I think my raise kicked in at the beginning of the month, so I can't rightly complain (but I will anyway).

One of my neighbors apparently sent a letter of complaint to my mother (she owns the property, I don't think these people know I'm her son, they just think I rent or something) regarding my lawn, which is hilarious. I don't understand how people can be so uptight about that kind of thing. It's not even that bad. I have some fallen limbs piled up next to the house, but the only reason they're still there is because Tri Point hasn't shown up yet to haul them away. I also need some trees trimmed, but that's Tri Point's job as well. So screw it.

Lord, I honestly have nothing else to say.

It's called "Fruitless Prattle" for a reason.

2008-06-26T17:07:00.004-05:00

Every time I see a new TV spot for The Dark Knight and hear a line from the Joker that I haven't heard before my excitement increases ten-fold. Ledger's Joker seems to speak like a psychotic geek, like he's giddy with excitement over being so fucking crazy. Lines like "See, to them you're just a freak – like me!" and "Where is Harvey Dent? I'll settle for his loved ones..." fill me with a joy that I can hardly articulate. I know I probably talk about this movie too much, but it just looks so goddamn good. Everyone (with the exception of Maggie Gyllenhaal, who is sort of off-putting in my opinion) looks like they're really owning their roles.

Anyway.

I can't listen to "Tequila" without thinking about Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. In my head I always hear Mikey saying, "Sock it to me, baby!" The last time I watched that movie was with Austin and Vondo, while Billy was vodka-sick in my bathroom. I still can't believe he drank that much without any of us noticing. At least Gina eventually came to forgive us.

Megan's birthday package made it today, and I told her to just open it because neither of us could stand the suspense. I think it went over well. I'm really glad I didn't send that stupid photo with the rainbow. Yeesh.

Speaking of Megan, I should be brushing up on my Ween for the show. She got us tickets already, which is great. I hope they play "Fancy Pants."

Last night I attended my required "Respectful Workplace Training" at the Journal Star and I was the only person in the room who spoke English. It was sort of hilarious. The helper lady let me go early so I wouldn't have to spend all night listening to translations that I didn't understand. Plus I got out of like forty minutes of work. So that's all right.

I got nothin'.

Simon and Gofuckyerself

2008-06-25T16:55:00.006-05:00

Lincoln, Nebraska: 95 degrees. Sweet honky Moses it's hot. I draw my comfort line at about 80, and that's still sort of pushing it. I'm a 65-75 degree kind of guy. It's too bad I have to go to work or I'd hop over to Bison Witches and drink a ton of Skinny Dip for two bucks a pop.

Ah, beer. Last night was Dad's Beer Night at Duffy's. It's nice not to have to work Tuesdays anymore. I got a compliment on my Giraffes United Against Ceiling Fans shirt from a cute girl who was there. I'm glad somebody appreciated it.

I really want to quit smoking. I promise I do. I'm just not happy either way – when I'm smoking I enjoy how cool I am but don't like how I feel, and when I'm not smoking I like how I feel but miss the actual act. My method of smoking has become, as it has for many of us, a personality trait. I'm good at it. I look cool when I'm doing it. It eases boredom. Still, I think tomorrow I'll start giving it another shot.

I can't wait for CHRISTMAS IN JULY! On the 18th The Dark Knight comes out, then Megan is showing up for a visit and on Sunday the 20th we're going to go see Ween in Council Bluffs. I am stupidly excited. Too bad it's still like a month away.

I'm also considering going back to SCC in the fall. I don't know, though. I keep trying the school thing and it never works out. Still, I feel like there's a certain amount of respect that I'm missing out on and kind of want. With a degree – even a feeble one – I am more likely to become a safer bet. I just don't know how to fight through all that crap I hate about it, though, and just get it done. Tips? BODY MASSAGE? Why can't I just get an honorary degree for my obvious brilliance? Maybe I should skip the middle man and just take the MENSA test. Ha.

Things I sorta miss:

1. "Pants."

2. Papa's Gotta Go

3. Being 23.

4. Bryn Mawr.

5. The Opinion section of the Volante.

6. My bike.

7. The days when my car didn't have a bajillion miles on it.

There's a girl in a green dress with red hair sitting in a chair by the window of the Coffee House, smelling her hair. She looks really into it. Maybe she has amazing shampoo that she can't get enough of. I kind of want to ask her what the hubbub is about. But I won't.

Suffering Jukebox

2008-06-24T15:23:00.010-05:00

In case anyone has been wondering – and I know that you have been – the last two images I've had here (the skull and crossbones and the giraffes) are t-shirts that I got at Threadless. There's another one of two unicorn silhouettes humping in front of a rainbow that I really, really want.

I think I got called 'sir' a little while ago by a Thespian. Oh, kids. Sometimes it occurs to me that acting may have been my calling, but then I would have had to spend my life with these people. Billy is right. They've got twenty free minutes.

The new Silver Jews record isn't bad, though it's certainly no Tanglewood Numbers. Not as good as Bright Flight, either. Still, there are at least two tracks – "Aloyisius Bluegrass Drummer" and "Suffering Jukebox" that I can't seem to get enough of.

Speaking of music, I have finally come to terms with something that's been nagging at me for years. The sharing of music has long been used as a courting method. It's my method of choice, in fact. But I've always felt that the advance of technology was slowly killing this particular technique. You may have heard me discuss this in the past.

We'll start with Florentino Ariza from Marquez's brilliant novel, Love in the Time of Cholera. Here was a lad who, in order to woo his love Fermina Daza, wrote a violin piece for her and would sit at the cemetary at the top of the hill at night and play so she could hear the music through her window in the town below. This is about the purest form that I can think of – writing the music yourself and serenading your subject through the wee hours of the night. But of course Florentino would have the cleanest method.

Florentino's modern counterpart is, most arguably, Lloyd Dobler from Cameron Crowe's film Say Anything. If you haven't seen it, you're not trying hard enough. John Cusack himself actually has a larger role to play in all of this, but High Fidelity is almost too obvious to mention. Anyway, if you've seen the film then the first thing you probably think of is Lloyd standing outside of Diane Court's house, holding a boombox over his head and playing Peter Gabriel's "In Your Eyes" (the song they made love to in the back of his car before she jilted him) at top volume. Here the use of music is almost equally effective because it forces the listener to experience the precise piece that you intend for them to hear. So in terms of purity and initiative, these two men own the field.

Now, for most of us, the use of music in courting comes in the form of a mix, agonizingly composed to send one or several specific messages all via a compilation of artists and genres. Anyone who does this on a regular basis knows that it requires some amount of skill and patience. You can't just lump a bunch of songs onto a list and then hand it over to your intended without the slightest care for the order, tempos, lyrics, transitions, and so on and etc. "The making of a great mixtape – like breaking up – is hard to do. It takes ages longer than you might think." Rob Gordon (Fleming) had it right.

The cassette tape is ideal for this type of work, mostly because it insists upon being played the entire way through. If you feel like you want to skip a song on a tape it's a pain in the ass (unless you have one of those late-model decks that can detect recording gaps and stop fast forwarding automatically before the next song). It forces the listener to at least get through the tape once in order to get the gist of the message. The act of recording a tape, likewise, requires the composer to listen carefully to every track in order to make sure everything is on the up and up.

These days, though, the ease with which music can be acquired and exchanged has dealt an almost fatal blow to the fine art of mix composition. Since most people have gotten rid of their tape decks for CD players and iPods, the mixtape has been pushed aside in favor of the mixdisc. However, for those of the romantic persuasion, this adds a new level of difficulty when it comes to getting your message across. One can put together a CD full of tracks in as little as five minutes if they are so inclined, and there is little if anything stopping the recipient from simply skipping through the tracks on the disc looking for the song they want rather than sitting down and devoting their full attention to the mix as a whole.

For a long time now I have been trying to develop methods to curb this effect. When I make a CD for someone I (usually, if possible) tend to take weeks perfecting it, listening to the playlist over and over, rearranging tracks. I admit that I enjoy using iTunes for things like this purely for the simplicity of it, but on the other hand I know that I am putting an amount of effort into my mixes that I can't count on the recipient to emulate. One thing I've always done in order to ensure that the mix gets listened to in its entirety is that I never, ever deliver a mix with a tracklist, promising instead to make one available once I am convinced the CD has been played through at least once. This is hard to do, though, because you can never really be sure.

My main hurdle is that every song I put on a mix is there for a reason. Rarely is there any filler – if something makes the cut it is because it needed to be there for at least some purpose, be it transitory, lyrical or otherwise. In the end though my mixes tend to be somewhat lengthy, and I am becoming less and less convinced as I grow older that they are being experienced as intended.

One thing about cassettes was that you sort of had to fill the whole thing in order for it not to play awkwardly. With a CD you have a maximum cap, but no minimum. A short disc will never include a bunch of dead air, it'll just start back over. So here is my new theory of mixes: make them brief. From now on, I am instituting a thirty-minute cap (six to eight songs, give or take) to my mix CDs. In this way I will make it easier for the listener to hear the entire thing (I am no longer sucking up an hour of their time), and having fewer tracks allows me not only to get to the point but also makes me think very hard about what, exactly, my subject will want to hear musically. A shorter CD also makes it less likely for the listener to just go skipping through, plus they take less time to compose and proof than the old, epic-length discs.

My first effort with this idea is the mix I made for Megan's birthday. It'll be a while before I know how it goes over. I look forward to finding out, though.

To be.

2008-06-23T15:57:00.005-05:00

Ladies and gentlemen, The Thespians. Yes, that's right. For several days downtown Lincoln will be home to a bunch of high school theatre kids. The Coffee Goddess is inundated by long-hbaired scoundrels who think they're cool because they're almost eighteen and can sing like girls. I'm actually looking at somebody wearing a "Rocky Horror Picture Show on Broadway" t-shirt right now. At least I haven't heard any show tunes coming from these people. Yet. None of them actually look like they might be able to act. I actually wrote something about this last year in Hello, Dangerous:

The little grease board sign outside the House reads "Welcome Thespians!" and I have no idea what that means. There are thespians about? Is everyone acting? Was I not Shakespearean enough in my description of the cast? I seek Caroline out immediately and demand an explanation. She comes back outside with me to have a cigarette.

"They'll be around all week."

"Who? Theatre kids?"

Caroline nods.

"How old?"

"High school," she tells me.

Holy shit.

"There are going to be high school theatre kids roaming the streets for the next six days?"

Just then I see some of them, about a block away, coming towards us. Caroline confirms the sighting. You don't have to be good at anything to spot these people. You can feel their approach, as if the Baron Lloyd-Webber himself has composed their entry music. I look Caroline in the eye.

"I think I should buy a gun." Ding. "OR, we should go to their PERFORMANCE!"

"No way."

"Come on, Princess."

Caroline laughs. "You're an asshole."

Meanwhile, outside the Coffee House there is a girl and a guy with matching orange bicycles who are both having trouble with their locks. They know each other. I wonder if the bikes are standard issue for something, and if so, why this organization finds it necessary to skimp on security.

I don't have to work tonight, which as far as I'm concerned is the tops. Though I don't have a whole hell of a lot else to do. I don't think anyone is interested in going to the bar with me until tomorrow (Dad's Beer Night at Duffy's). Maybe I'll go see The Happening. But probably not.

I know. I'll listen to the new Silver Jews album. Ace.

Earpieces.

2008-06-22T17:13:00.007-05:00

K. gave me a drunk dial last night and finally revealed to me the full extent of her crazy. Jim wasn't kidding, that woman has gone bananas. Like noticeably more so than before, which is really kind of impressive. I think she was trying to pull a long-distance booty call. If I'm going to drive for seven hours, though, it's going to be to Pierre.

Speaking of which, right after I talked to K., Megan called from a tent with her best friend and put me on speaker phone. They were drunk too, but I take her wanting to call me at that point as an unbelievably good sign. I made them laugh, which is always my mission. It went well. I sort of felt like Charlie talking to his Angels.

Last night tonight of my lengthy work stretch. I'm sure the hours will pass twice as slowly knowing that there will be an episode of The Venture Brothers for me to watch when I get home. I like my job a lot but working nights is starting to take its toll. Shifts feel much longer when you know for a fact that everybody is having fun without you. I think I've been over this.

How is it that I've become addicted to crossword puzzles but I'm still really bad at them? I went and bought a book of them to do at work tonight because I've pretty much gone through a month's worth of the Journal Star's and the L.A. Times crossword is... well. Too hard for me. At least I'm not as bad at them as I am at Sudoku. Numbers, man. Mysterious.

I saw God's shadow on this world.

The car fooled me.

2008-06-20T16:44:00.005-05:00

I saw what might be the dumbest bumper sticker I've ever seen, or at least one of them, on my way downtown today. It said: "Don't let the car fool you. My treasure is in heaven." Ah, bite me.

It occurred to me as I was trying (and failing, miserably) to sleep last night that if I sent that picture of the sky to Megan in a frame she would probably look at it and think that it was in the frame when I bought it – it's that lame. Instead, she will get this, which she'll probably like more (Because who doesn't love Syd?):

Much better.

Slumber evades me. The body is willing but the mind won't shut up. Then when I finally do fall asleep – usually to the sound of birds chirping, which in the morning is nice but when you're trying to crash is just infuriating – I have weird dreams either about loneliness or The Dark Knight. I kind of worry about what's going to happen when I finally see that movie and have nothing to dream about but the former. Or maybe they'll both settle themselves at the same time.

No Disney tunes at the Coffee House today. Seems to be straight oldies. I can get behind that, though I miss the days when they let the baristas play their own stuff and I would hear Radiohead and Beirut. I guess this is why I have an iPod. I sort of get the feeling that the music Gods are laughing at me today, though. I put on my Silver Jews tour shirt in an effort to conjure the new record from my mailbox, but it looks like the USPS has thwarted me once again. At least Things To Do In Denver When You're Dead showed up the other day. Maybe I'll watch that after work tonight.

I have a long weekend of working ahead of me, which eats huge. Somehow night shifts feel twice as long as any other, probably because I know for a fact that I'm missing fun. Oh well. At least my tiny, almost useless raise kicks in soon. I need monies. I think deadlines are early on Saturday night, too, so I'll be able to slip down to O'Rourke's for a couple of High Life's before closing time.

Hey Billy, I want an mp3 of that William Tragedy song... what was it called? Dammit.

Incidentalazing.

2008-06-19T15:59:00.004-05:00

The above is something I've been working on for Megan called "The Sky Where You Are." I can't tell if it's just stupid or not. Thoughts are welcome. (Billy, I think you're the only one who reads this.) I'm going to send it (maybe) to her for her birthday along with an "I'm Popular in South Dakota" t-shirt.

Pete seems to think it's hilarious to play Disney songs over the stereo in the Coffee House. For example, when I walked in it was "Beauty and the Beast." Now it's something that I don't recognize but am positive comes from one of those early-nineties straight-to-DVD entries. Or it's just a really bad song. Maybe it's not actually from anything.

Things I've been listening to lately, but not very attentively:

1. Hefner (obviously)

2. Vampire Weekend

3. The Heavy

4. Ween

5. The Fiery Furnaces

6. Man Man (still)

Things my pants would probably say if they could talk:

1. "Dude. Shave."

2. "Please stop sitting on me."

3. "I'm really glad you're not Quevillon."

4. "Why won't you let her in here?"

5. "I need friends. Go buy jeans."

June's a boon.

2008-06-14T15:46:00.002-05:00

There are new pictures up at the Coffee House (for the gallery, I mean), and they're all of sushi. $250 photos of sushi. I don't even like eating the stuff. I find this hilarious.

Cory will be pretty much moved in as my temporary roommate tonight, I believe, which is cool. Hopefully tomorrow I'll be able to rock a little cleanup on the lawn. I take terrible care of that grass, but it's just grass. Brooke is in town, though, and I have a sneaking suspicion that if I run into her she's going to comment about it (her folks live across the street).

I hope some of my Amazon orders arrive soon. I really want to watch Trigger Happy, it's been a while since I've seen it, and for some reason I've never owned a copy on DVD. Things To Do In Denver When You're Dead should be showing up soon as well, along with the new Silver Jews record that comes out on Tuesday. I'm pretty stoked about those.

But not as stoked as I am about THE DARK KNIGHT!

I'm sure there are more productive things I could be doing with my time today, but instead I'm playing with Photoshop and wishing I could smoke a cigarette. Back on the patch. I'm torn between how much I enjoy the act of smoking and how much I like the way I feel when I'm not. This is probably going to go on for years.

Titacular.

2008-06-13T17:04:00.002-05:00

I feel like in light of William Tragedy starting up the 'ol blog again I should maybe stop thinking about my Last.fm profile as mine. Back when I had a LiveJournal all I ever really did was post song lyrics and let people figure it out for themselves. Last.fm sort of removed the middle man from that scenario. I think I'm just too timid to actually write. For example, The Grille Blues is probably a useless piece of crap. On the other hand I can't really think about it objectively. Q. referred to it as my "little novel" and said it had no story, though, so that's pretty fucking discouraging. Of course I can't listen to the people who actually like it, that would be too easy. Not that I really trust Q. in matters of literature. The guy reads fantasy novels for Christ's sake.

Work on the Kickback's EP art has finally been completed, and I think it turned out reasonably well. If I had my druthers, though, I would tweak the text on the back a little bit. Oh well. I just hope it looks as decent printed as it does on my iMac. I like the inside and back a lot more than the front. I look forward to the release–hopefully I'll be able to be in Vermillion for it.

It is actually beginning to verge on the pathetic how much I'm looking forward to The Dark Knight. I just feel like I should point that out.

The other night a tornado took out a Boy Scout camp and there were four fatalities. You've probably heard about this. Anyway, I got home from work that night and turned on the TV, and on one of the local channels they were interviewing somebody involved with (I think) the rescue team. This room is filled with local reporters, and in the background I could hear the sound of somebody sending a text message. You couldn't make out the individual tones of the numbers, though, so instead it just sounded like a series of monotone beeps coming at varying intervals, and it occurred to me that it sounded exactly like morse code. So we've come full circle in communication–you can go ahead and put that in your pocket.

Off to work, I guess. Fridays are terrible.

Skim milk cannot penetrate the Haitian.

2008-03-05T15:18:00.002-06:00

Day four. Just smoked a cigarette. I got a feeling from it that I haven't had in a long time, which was pure enjoyment. I remember enjoying cigarettes – after you smoke enough of them this stops happening. Jim used to tell me that no matter how much he smoked he still enjoyed every single one, but I never believed him. I think I believe even less now.

I was watching The Daily Show last night and Ralph Nader was on. He was talking about a court case and used the word "Malarkey," which prompted Jon Stewart to wonder is that word would ever be used in a legal situation such as a court setting. We all had a good laugh... and then I got to thinking. I have only ever heard that word used twice: once by Nader in that very interview, and once in Ghostbusters II, when the judge presiding over the boys' case says that he doesn't want to hear a lot of "malarkey about ghosts and goblins." What are the odds that the only two instances in which I hear this word are when someone is wondering if it could ever be used in a court setting, and then during a fictional session of court? Weird.

Also, speaking of television, I saw a commercial last night that prompts me to ask this: How paranoid about her PMS does a woman have to be in order to submit to actively taking a medication called "Yaz"? Think about it.

Predictability Jones

2008-03-04T15:32:00.002-06:00

Day... three? Three. Though technically I did smoke half a cigarette last night, but I'm not too bothered about that. Half a cigarette in two days is pretty good. I admit, however, that I am starting to feel like I'm losing my mind a little bit. Last night at work I was forgetting very simple things (including clocking out, which I completely failed to do). Hopefully rationality will make a return shortly. Meanwhile I've gone through more toothpicks than... a restaurant that goes through a lot of toothpicks.

The Coffee Goddess has me completely pegged. Actually I guess pretty much everyone here knows that I want a Haitian Blue Voodoo, but somehow I'm only impressed if it's her that remembers. Probably because I don't think I could get her to talk to me otherwise.

I really want to get to Minneapolis on Monday for Travis' show but I'm almost positive at this point that T. can't cover my two shifts. I wish I had known about the concert date before the March schedule had been made. I'm so overdue for a trip to the Cities it's sick (although maybe some nicer weather would be worth waiting for).

Happy retirement Brett Favre, you chump.

Patch me if you can.

2008-03-03T14:42:00.003-06:00

Ah Monday, sweet brutal day two of my sordid plan to quit smoking. I came walking into the Coffee House and when I saw Jessica I asked her if she wanted to see something terrible. Then I lifted up my shirt a bit to reveal the little 14mg nicotine patch I'm wearing.

"You're on the patch?" she asked.

"I'm quitting smoking."

"Oh," she said, and laughed. "I would have thought you were on the birth control patch before I thought nicotine."

Spot on.

The problem with all of this is that despite what your grade school teachers told you, smoking does in fact make you cool. It's sort of sad, but totally true. Now that I'm not smoking (assuming this holds up), I am no longer as cool as I was. In fact, I'm not sure I'm even half as cool. Smoking gives you a reason to be outside talking to people you don't know. It makes you look less like an idiot while you're idly leaning up against a building. It makes conversation easier. It invokes – if used properly – images of James Dean and Paul Newman, adds an air of mystery (pun intended).

I don't want to not be cool anymore. On the other hand, I think I'm already getting more oxygen, and that's not a bad feeling at all. Still, how many of these toothpicks do I really think I'm going to get through?

Moments later, still at the Coffee House, Aaron approaches me and asks if I have a lighter. Any other day I would have removed a red Bic from my pocket without even thinking about it, but today? Today no, I don't have a lighter.

Don't let on that you know what he thinks you don't know but you know. You know?

2008-02-14T16:50:00.004-06:00

It's not that I don't like Valentine's Day, really. If you want to set aside a day on the calendar when everyone is supposed to go on a date then be my guest. Most people will make the argument that it shouldn't take a special day for you to show someone you love them – and those people would be right – but there is one, so you might as well use it. You're not obligated to rampant commercialism of the thing. If you don't want to get someone a bright pink RAZR for Valentine's Day (and you shouldn't want to do that), then don't. But it's not that hard to buy someone dinner.

No, my problem is that if you have nothing to do on Valentine's Day then there is no surer sign of your single status. Granted I will always be torn between my desire for companionship and my equally strong need to just be left the fuck alone, but I think I could get by a little easier if there wasn't a specific day of the year that I feel like I'm walking around with a big "I'm Lonely" sign taped to my back (probably in American Typewriter font).

Also, it would really help me out if St. Valentine hadn't conspired with Old Man Winter this year to get the most painful effect of the day possible. Outside it is nothing but windy and frigid. It's almost like being back in Minneapolis, except people in Lincoln actually talk to you.

In about an hour I will be at work, and none of this will really matter much. In the meantime, though, it would be cool if somebody showed up with a mix CD for me. It's been a while since I've been on the business end of that sort of thing.

...Actually, I should mention that some random Coffee House patron did just give me some sort of organic chocolate-and-peanut-butter confection, and that this gesture did not go unnoticed.

And now I don't know why I'm writing this. Oh yeah, I was bored.

Glory, glory.

2008-01-11T14:24:00.000-06:00

Driving to the Coffee House today I was listening to Classics by Request and somebody apparently called in wanting to hear the "Battle Hymn of the Republic." The version they played was performed by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir (one of my favorites) and, oddly, really seemed to hit the spot – not merely because the rendition they chose was exceptionally good, but also due to the incredibly slow old lady walking across 13th street who managed to limp her way along the length of my hood just as the climax of the song came. It was like the choir was willing this poor woman to her destination, erupting in triumph as she closed in on the curb of her pursuit. I had to physically restrain myself from bursting out in gleeful laughter.

Hallelujah.

Staring at an old black man in a silver New Year's hat.

2008-01-01T15:44:00.000-06:00

2008. Thank God the Coffee House is open. I take this and the fact that the shuffle on my iTunes chose “Red Red Wine” for its first song to be good signs. UB40 is pretty close to the bottom of my list of bad things, even if I consider the rest of New Year’s to be roughly the psychological equivalent of somebody kicking me in the face over and over while screaming “Nothing changes! Nothing changes!”

It’s like 18 degrees outside right now, too. The low today is supposed to be 4, but I’m pretty sure windchills are going to drop that below zero. Holy shit I sound like the weather page. I hate when that happens – when work things or other people invade my vernacular. It drives me crazy in the same way it does when people put more than one piece of punctuation behind a sentence. (With the exception of the wonderful period, of course…) That second exclamation point is going to drive anything new home for me, you know?

Lacey and I were watching some show on BBC the other day about a 16 year-old British boy who wanted to be a girl. It was called “Teen Transsexual,” and it was all about his operations and stuff. Anyway, a girl just walked in here who looks exactly like him. That’s not necessarily a bad thing, mind you. That kid actually made sort of a cute girl. It’s just weird how much she looks like him/her. I have to fight an urge to get up and ask her if she has a penis. God that would be funny, though.

Things I should like to do as soon as possible in 2008:
1. Get up to Minneapolis.
2. Give the interior of my house a new paint job. Blue is killing me.
3. Record an EP with Jess and Adam.
4. Get to Colorado.
5. Con Kathy into keeping me in (402).

That’s a good enough list for now, I suppose. And the transsexual just walked by again! It’s un-fucking-canny!

My mother, in her infinite wisdom and glory, got me both seasons of the Venture Bros. on DVD for Christmas. I feel like Brock Samson has laid waste to my soul and claimed it for his own, and also that I am not bothered by that prospect. I’ve really got to get Josh to dress up as Dr. Orpheus for Halloween.

Okay Austin, that’s all you get for now.

384 : 19 : 16 : 45 and counting.

This I Believe

2007-04-24T11:33:00.001-05:00

I submitted the following to "This I Believe" on NPR the other day. How funny would it be if I got to read it on air?

--

I believe that my cat is smarter than me.

In early January I moved back to Lincoln, Nebraska after a three-year absence. Syd–the feline in question–was in South Dakota while I moved. He is nine years old but still as wide-eyed as a kitten; he knows me well and we’re close friends. I missed him for three months until I was ready to have him make the journey.

Two weeks ago I finally brought him down. My sister had been back visiting, and I made her take the six-hour round trip with me just so that she could keep an eye on him. Syd hates to travel and I didn’t want to cause either of us any undue agitation. He has adapted well, though, and began moving about the house only hours later. He woke us up in the middle of the night by following his curious nose into a heating vent that I didn’t know was uncovered. Since then he has been largely successful at sniffing out the house’s clues.

Except for one.

Between the main house and the garage is a breezeway that whomever owned the place before my uncle had built. It is mostly brick and wood, the exact kind of open-aired room that one wants when he has the same eager smoking habit that he did at fourteen, but now finds himself a bit concerned with the state of his home. I call it the Fortress of Solitude, because I still sort of think I’m Clark Kent. It is also where I would like to keep Syd’s food and litter box, because they stink.

The door between the kitchen and the breezeway is surprisingly thick, but I was able to get a hole hacked into it and a small cat door installed. Somewhat annoyingly, he might use it if I’m on the other side holding it open, but he can’t seem to comprehend that if he just pushes himself he can pass through, and that he doesn’t really need me for anything. Or at least that’s what he wants me to think.

It occurs to me, now, as I watch him, his tiny little white socks planted lightly on the linoleum floor, as if they are ready to move at any second, that maybe he’s just waiting for me to leave so he can jump at it. Maybe while I’m out doing whatever it is that I occasionally do, Syd wanders back and forth between the house and the Fortress all the time, but goes back to his act as soon as my car enters the driveway. The way he paces back and forth in front of the door is so intimate and filled with anticipation, as if he knows exactly what he’s going to do first as soon as I leave and he can go out there.

I always did feel that he was pondering something behind those big owl eyes of his–in fact that’s why I picked him out. It wouldn’t surprise me one bit to discover that he was just working out a way to trick me, to have a little fun with the big guy who feeds him. He got me, too. He got me good. I feel ashamed that I have no equally elaborate and funny way to tell Syd that I love him, too.

The Question, part III

2007-03-07T14:57:00.000-06:00

You drive a hard bargain Jensen, you Godless prick.

"AN ADDENDUM TO THE CHANCES OF PENGUIN'S INSIDIOUS PLOT"
by Jonathan Egan

In order to decide whether or not these eleven issues that you have put forth would ensure the Penguin's victory, we must first address them each on their own merits.

1. Harvey Dent has not yet "turned to the Dark Side," and is still working tirelessly to rid Gotham City of evil-doers. However, he and commissioner Gordon are distracted with massive corruption in the Gotham City police force, and are busy with internal affairs.

This could easily be taking place. Gotham City's police force was well-known as being one of the most corrupt institutions in human history. It is easy to imagine a scenario in which both Gordon and Dent would be preoccupied by internal affairs, however I don't think there's an amount of work big enough to keep either of them from at least addressing the problem of the Penguin, were it clear that he was about to become a major threat to the community at large. This may allow the Penguin to operate a while longer, but when it comes down to his plot succeeding I don't think that internal affairs will make much of a difference.

2. The Riddler is currently confined in Arkham Asylum, but for how long?

The Riddler himself is a much larger threat than the Penguin alone, and has been known to associate with Oswald from time to time. Should the Riddler escape from Arkham there is an excellent chance that it would bring nothing but good things for the Penguin and his crooked sense of morality.

3. Amazingly, the Joker and Mr. Freeze are working on grand schemes independent from the Penguin, and each other, forcing the heroes of Gotham to fight on three fronts.

This whole thing could, conceivably, hinge entirely on what either of those two are doing, and what stage they're in. The Joker, in particular, is known for exceptionally gruesome crimes, and if he is hitting his stride then there is no doubt that the heroes of Gotham would be concentrating on him. However if all three of these plots are in their early stages, then it is possible that Napier and Fries won't act as much of a distraction. Keep in mind that the Dark Knight has gotten very, very good at multitasking.

4. Alfred is, of course, Alfred.

Of course. He has to be. Bruce Wayne would have all kinds of bitten the dust long ago if it weren't for Alfred's support.

5. Catwoman is giving Batman her "I'm your friend... or am I?" routine.

This is something that Batman is pretty used to happening. It may be that since she is not included in those who are embarking on "grand schemes" that she is something that he is perfectly capable of putting on the back burner while he takes the Penguin to task. Bros before hos, etc.

6. There are no porpoises!

Deal!

7. He is working alone.

Okay. I will assume that he still has the usual crew of henchman and the like, which seem to be fairly standard.

8. Robin is, well, Robin.

Which Robin?

[JENSEN CLARIFIES: This means that Robin, although enthusiastic and good hearted, is useless. A mindless albatross around Batman's neck who is there only to point out the obvious in a campy manner.

I was hoping that you would say Jason Todd, who is to my knowledge the only comic book character ever to be killed by democracy. Instead we will just envision Burt Ward. This isn't a problem. Robin was largely useless until Tim Drake, anyway. While Dick Grayson was a promising lieutenant, he was too hot-headed to really be a second to the Batman. Jason Todd was too full of rage and died anyway. Tim Drake, however, genuinely desires to be the world's greatest detective, and when Bruce Wayne is finally done he probably will be. Every other Robin has been pretty much just a side note–even Dick, who continues his adventures as Nightwing, but nobody cares.

9. Batgirl is not around because she does not exist.

Does James Gordon still have a daughter?

[JENSEN CLARIFIES: I did not know that she was an actual character in the comics. I assumed that Joel Schumacher's lackey of a writer invented her. Now that you have enlightened me with the truth, She is Commissioner Gordon's Daughter. This of course means that if she helps Batman in the comic book, she is in this scenario. She is also just one more distraction for commissioner Gordon who already has a full plate.]

Okay, so, since she's around, has the Joker shot and paralyzed her yet so that she can move from her role as Batgirl to the Oracle, or is she still swinging around on rooftops? And for that matter, does Gordon know yet what she's up to?
You know what, I'm just going to strike this one completely on the grounds that you don't know what the hell you're talking about. We're going to assume that Jim Gordon has a daughter, that she is as yet unharmed by the Joker, but that she never becomes Batgirl. Everyone's happy. Never talk to me about this again.

10. The Penguin's purpose is two fold: He wants riches. He wants to kill Batman.

This is acceptable. Though the Penguin's nature isn't as violent as most, it is easy to imagine that if he had to chance to get rid of Batman he would most certainly make an attempt to do so. Though I do question the Penguin's ability to concoct a scheme by himself that would allow him not only to strike it rich but to also bring about the end of his enemy at the same time. This is a massive undertaking, and the idea should not be taken lightly. Perhaps he should concentrate on destroying Burt Ward. He was always an annoyingly easy target, what with being a complete sissy and everything.

11. There are no Blonde Bombshells, Buxom Beauties, or groupies of any kind.

What, Wayne's not dating anymore? I suppose this negates the importance of Stipulation Number Five, huh? I double-dog-dare you to make an argument that shows Catwoman as anything but a Blonde Bombshell, Buxom Beauty, etc. She basically only functions as a romantic lament and distraction for the Dark Knight. She definitely falls into this category. But alas, if they're not around, the lack of distraction will only help Batman to focus on the task at hand, namely stopping the Penguin.

If all this were happening; Will the Penguin's insidious plot succeed?

Yes, maybe. Though I don't believe that most of these variables would make much of a difference to Batman as he continues his crusade against evil in Gotham City, there are one or two that swing the balance heavily in the favor of the Penguin. Thus, I submit to you the following:

With these variables in mind, the Penguin's insidious plot could, in theory, succeed IF:

1. The Riddler escapes from Arkham. Whether or not he offers any outright aid to the Penguin isn't necessarily important. His mere presence on the streets of Gotham is certain to lend unexpected collateral aid to Oswald's devious cause. Another heavy criminal at large is sure to distract the Batman a bit, as well as embolden those who are already scheming.

2. The Joker's plans are about to hit full speed. It would be most wise of Batman and his friends to concentrate most of their efforts on the Joker, whose schemes are consistently far more deadly than anybody else's. While Mr. Freeze is a huge threat to peace and justice, the Joker's actions are typically far more public and wide-spread than anybody else's.

3. The Penguin's plot, though insidious, is fairly simple. I question the Penguin's ability, no matter what the environment looks like, to execute anything terribly elaborate. Oswald Is at his best when his sights are high but his methods are subtle.

4. The Penguin decides that Batman's death is a secondary goal, and he will settle for serious injury. Striking it rich in Gotham is one thing, but actually managing to kill Batman? The Penguin would have to be supremely lucky indeed to succeed where the Joker, Ra's Al Ghul and even the Scarecrow and Hush have failed. The Penguin's assumption that killing Batman will be a simple matter thanks to his careful planning may be only the pride before his long, long fall.

So if these four incredibly unlikely points – all of which rely on your variables – were to come to fruition then yes, yes the Penguin might succeed. But for how long could he reign victorious? Justice in Gotham, though occasionally difficult to find, is no less swift or decisive when it finally arrives. Also it should be noted that if the Penguin does, in fact, finally manage to kill the Batman then he will draw an unbelievable amount of attention to himself that could be nothing but detrimental to his future criminal exercises.

The Penguin would be wise to ask himself this: Would he rather be successful, or alive? I still maintain that the Penguin is better off as a petty crook, and that he should leave the fighting of legends to the true men and women of repute in Gotham City.

On the other hand, as Winston so aptly put it, "It's always the quiet ones."

The Question, part II

2007-02-25T20:46:00.000-06:00

Jensen counters,

Your essay was well thought out, for better or worse, and well received. However, you may have painted The Penguin in too broad a stroke, much like the writers of the forms I have seen him in. I put it to you that under certain circumstances, he could succeed, although your report proves that the deck must be stacked mightily against the caped crusader for that to happen.

I put to you the following:

1. Harvey Dent has not yet "turned to the Dark Side," and is still working tirelessly to rid Gotham City of evil-doers. However, he and commissioner Gordon are distracted with massive corruption in the Gotham City police force, and are busy with internal affairs.

2. The Riddler is currently confined in Arkham Asylum, but for how long?

3. Amazingly, The Joker and Mr. Freeze are working on grand schemes independent from The Penguin, and each other, forcing the heroes of Gotham to fight on three fronts.

4. Alfred is, of course, Alfred.

5. Catwoman is giving Batman her I'm your friend ...or am I? routine like in "Batman Returns"

6. There are no porpoises!

7. He is working alone.

8. Robin is, well, Robin.

9. Batgirl is not around because she does not exist.

10. The Penguin's purpose is two fold: He wants riches. He wants to kill Batman.

11. There are no Blonde Bombshells, Buxom Beauties, or groupies of any kind.

If all this were happening; Will the Penguin's insidious plot succeed?

--

Jonathan queries,

I require clarification on two points:

Number 8: Which Robin?

and

Number 9: Does James Gordon still have a daughter?

The Question

2007-02-25T20:41:00.000-06:00

Jensen writes,

1. Can you still smoke in bars in Nebraska?
2. Have you gotten my letter yet?
3. Will the Penguin's insidious plot succeed?

--

Jonathan responds,

1. No. O'Rourke's has a decent "open air" thing for smoking – with a heater and everything in the winter, which is awesome – but I haven't seen much else. Still, it's not so bad. Smoke less I suppose.

2. Nope.

3. Here:

"A CRITICAL ANALYSIS OF THE PENGUIN AND HIS CHANCES"
by Jonathan Egan

Oswald Cobblepot – if that is, indeed, his real name – is an aristocratic career criminal. The Penguin, as he is most commonly called, spends his time funding, planning and executing criminal plots, largely towards one of three possible ends: either he will end up rich, or he will thwart Batman somehow, or both. These basketweavings of malcontent generally qualify as "capers," due to the Penguin's usual method of doing everything quickly, and in small doses. His preference for this is to his advantage since he, though he would never admit it, would have no idea where to begin.

The Penguin has known several incarnations, though he has never been ably portrayed by anything but a pencil. Cesar's friend Burgess added the endlessly annoying "quack"s, while DeVito's version was raised by actual penguins. To their credit, though, they didn't write that stuff, but nonetheless these episodes illustrate how two-dimensional, awkward and annoying the Penguin is as a character.

NOW. The question of whether the Penguin's insidious plot will succeed depends on several factors, namely:

1. Is Batman around, and if so, is he aware of the plot?

Of course he's around. Being around is what he does. Plus he's the world's greatest detective, AND has Police Commissioner Jim Gordon helping him out. (And Harvey Dent, too, if we're talking about a pre-Two-Face Gotham.) There's no way he's not onto this, it's not even a question.

2. The term "insidious plot" implies a far more elaborate scheme than a "caper." Does the Penguin have help?

The Penguin knows his limits, for the most part, and so if he were to embark on a "plot" then he is almost certain to have found help. However, the Penguin is too trusting in business and easily played, so depending on who's helping him, he might just as easily get screwed by them. Also there aren't a lot of people in Gotham who are willing to work with the guy since he's such a double-crossing coward. Do you really think that Victor Fries (Mr. Freeze), a brilliant scientist with incredible technology, is going to hang around with somebody like the Penguin? Not a fucking chance. So whatever help he's getting is probably doing him more harm than good.

3. What are his odds based on his record?

I submit to you the following scenario as the biggest thing that he has ever embarked upon, courtesy of Adam West and the gang:

The Penguin is holding Gotham City to ransom, demanding an absurd amount of money in exchange for not infecting them with some sort of disease. Bruce Wayne – wealthy industrialist and alter-ego of the Dark Knight – gets on the radio and announces to the population that all of their cash is infected with the virus and should be thrown away immediately. (It wasn't really, obviously.) This prompts every single citizen in Gotham – every last one – to dump all of their cash in the street, where the Penguin, thinking himself quite the genius, will come and scoop it up.

None of those Gothomites will ever, ever even think about trying to get their money back.

MEANWHILE, IN THE PENGUIN'S LAIR, the Penguin's blonde bombshell girlfriend wants him to start buying her stuff with all of his new money. (I should point out at this point that it is a widely-held consensus that Adam West used to get blowjobs backstage while in costume, and it's a pretty sweet bet that any time you see a hot girl around the Penguin it is only because Batman already did her till she didn't know what and what not.) The blonde wants diamonds, clothes and real estate. The Penguin then begins a delightfully fully absurd attempt to procure all of these items via the telephone, only to be turned down by all of the stores because they don't want infected cash. (I really do think there was a Real Estate store.) And then I think Batman and Robin trace his phone calls, show up and BAFF, ZAP, POW, CRASH.

As for his odds based on his record? I'll put it this way: even when the Penguin had the entire world practically turning itself inside out to help help him win, he was still thoroughly defeated by a plan that was only going to work as long as the Penguin used that one phone line. I don't think the millionaire playboy or even his young ward bothered to yank Shakespeare's head on that one.

In conclusion, based on what we know about the Penguin, his nature, his environment and what he's up against, it seems fair to say that no, his insidious plot will not, in fact, succeed. Likely he will be caught, beaten, tried to the fullest extent of the law and referred to Arkham Asylum, where Dr. Jonathan Crane will torture him with drugs until somebody accidentally lets him out again.

Dust and air.

The Legend of Zelda

2007-02-14T19:07:00.000-06:00

I am standing by the stove, cooking myself a small dinner of soup and a sandwich while I discuss with Joel the various pros and cons of not being able to keep the evil Skullfish in your fishing journal in Twilight Princess. (There is a subgame in every Zelda game that involves fishing all over the place.) Why he bothered to fish one up in the first place is beyond me, but he did.

Regardless, there were no pros, and chief among the cons was the fact that you have no way of, say, transporting the specimen to another location, such as Ordon Province (Link's home in the game) or, better yet, one of the springs that house the Spirits of Light.

Now, here's where it gets a bit sticky. While I am stirring my soup and thinking about all of the possibilities of such an act (the fish eating all of the native wildlife, killing children, etc.) Joel, in reference to what he would say if he could drop the fish into one of the life-giving ponds, yells "Take that! Let's see what happens faster: my hearts fill up or you die."

What confuses me isn't exactly his use of language, but rather the realization that he is, I believe, talking to the Skullfish. So instead of dropping a foreign object into the pond in the hopes that he will throw off an entire ecosystem, Joel in his fantasy has instead decided to go far, far out of his way just so he can more elaborately smite evil.

My faith in humanity increases by one point.

The Wedding Band

2006-07-22T02:21:00.000-05:00

Here's an idea: go lose ten dollars in poker and then head downtown to hang out with a bunch of people who are either married, engaged, own a house or are excited about turning twenty-five because their insurance rates go down. Then go home, smoke your last cigarette, try to ignore the fact that in two weeks time you really, really have to make a decision about what you may or may not do about your life, pet the cat and go to sleep alone.

While you do this, try not to think about the fact that you are fat, full of vice, unmotivated, unlovable and your own worst enemy – always have been, always will be. Try to concentrate on the fact that at least you can sleep in. Nevermind the debt.

--

It is cold in the airport. She is cold. But it's not the air conditioning that does it. It is because, sitting there alone, she has only a destination and not a direction. She thinks of him for a moment and feels herself blush; there is a vivid picture in her mind of him as he sleeps, bathed in growing sunlight, as sound as anything can be. The image fades, despite her mentally grasping at it, and with it goes her warmth. It travels down her body, slowly but steadily, down her legs (which she shaved for him), through her feet to the tips of her toes, then spills out onto the rough carpet, disappearing forever. She is cold. It is cold in here. She is freezing.

She stands up quickly, not necessarily for any particular reason, but because she knows she has to move or she is going to panic. Forty minutes to kill. Forty minutes and she will be gone from him irrevocably. She can still feel his lips on hers from just before the security check, where tired men in blue suits forced his premature exit. She thanks something nameless for the gift of object permanece. She gathers her purse and moves towards the bathroom.

As she glides thoughtlessly down the aisle between gates she passes a small airport bar, the kind of place where every slinger of suds remembers every poor soul who bothered to stop for an overpriced shot and a stale ceasar salad during their layover. A man dressed all in black, as if for a funeral, turns and catches her eye. They smile at each other and she keeps moving as he turns back to his small drink.

The man fumbles idly with a pack of matches while he searches the nearby area for a smoking room. Meanwhile the gentleman next to him is sipping from a lukewarm bottle of Miller Lite, his initial friendliness tapped and his obligatory questions about his barmate's destination run dry. This gentleman is from Texas. He wears denim, a blue button-down shirt that is tucked in, and a cowboy hat, more because people actually wear these things than anything else. He is passing through on business – the kind of nameless, shapeless business that would easily go on without him no matter where in the world he might be. The man in black is not particularly interested in his new friend from Texas, nor is the Texan wrought with desire to learn about wherever it is that the man in black is from, whose funeral he was in town for and whether or not he feels like it was worth his attendance.

The man in black actually was just at a funeral. But he skipped the wake.

It is a dark hole that the Texan is gazing into, and not even he can realize precisely what he is looking at. He is looking at whatever a man looks at when he is deep in self-analysis, pondering his destiny and taking stock of his life thus far. The only difference between his gaze and that of anyone else at the bar who may have a similar distance in their eyes is that whatever he is finding is not, he is notably unsurprised to find, amounting to much. That, and his bottle is empty.

Across the bar the clock ticks its way to 3:00 in the afternoon, and the Texan takes his cue. With little fanfare and a resolution that is purely unconscious the Texan removes his wedding band, places it next to his spent bottle and gets up, gathering his bags as he rises. He makes his way slowly towards his gate, presents his boarding pass to the attendant and wanders onto the plane. The man in black barely notes his departure, and in a few weeks won't remember him at all.

Twenty yards or so away the girl, with thirty-seven minutes left in her wait, has absentmindedly walked directly past the bathroom.