Genius!

Props to Nathan for the heads up on this. My favorite: "If you ask Chuck Norris what time it is, he always says, 'Two seconds till.' After you ask, 'Two seconds to what?' he roundhouse kicks you in the face."

I Hate to Take Credit...

...for things I shouldn't, but I can't ignore the coincidence: Ever since I almost jumped ship, my beautiful green men have gone on an amazing franchise record winning streak. Maybe--just maybe--Jacques is one of my three readers.

Go Wild.

Dreaded Continuity

I can't seem to get away from this subject. Oh well. BZ has some amazing pictures posted if you don't want to, yet again, read about Brawny Man.

I took my Brawny Man post and unbloggified it for the first assignment for DT's non-fiction workshop. As you can probably tell, I added a lot. It was fun. You can also see that the text has been freed of my bloggie-style hyperlinks and pictures. It was an interesting process to unbloggify, to decide what to keep, what to add, etc. Big apologetic props to BM and BJ for the edit. It couldn't have been helped. This was supposed to be a serious "informative" essay. It didn't feel right to cite you guys--but if you somehow land government backing we'll have to talk.

Anyway, here's how it all came out of the unbloggifier:

---

Bear Attacks Linked to Shunned Mustaches – Jared Mason

Where were you when you saw the new Brawny Man? What’s that? You didn’t know? They changed him. His rugged haircut: gone. His surveying eyes: gone. His frontier physique: gone. His mustache: gone.

They’ve replaced him with a meathead, a guy whose buddies probably call him Moose; he looks like any given line-backer. His eyes don’t survey the tree line on the opposite side of the valley, like the artist’s depiction of the original Brawny Man. The only thing the new guy’s eyes survey is the opposition’s coverage. He’s got a freshly-trimmed haircut, cropped short against his head. His hair would never get swept up in a light mountain breeze. Instead of a confident, strong jaw, the new Brawny Man has jowls, no doubt from too many dinners with his buddy, Hungry Man. And worst of all, His face is clean--not even a five o’clock shadow. Absolutely no mustache.

I rarely buy a product just because of its advertising. The two exceptions are Charmin--no other toilet paper company depicts their characters in the act (the Charmin Poop Bears® actually poop in the commercials, and only wiping with Charmin makes them smile with such warmth—but that’s another essay)--and Brawny because of the original Brawny Man. He has always stuck me as being very 70s. I’ve always admired Brawny for sticking with “dated” advertising. While other companies updated their products’ presentation with each passing advertising trend, Brawny kept their man, confident that his charm would continue to sell towels and napkins.

There’s more to my outrage than a company getting with the times. There’s a social issue at stake: The mustache is dying--or rather society is killing the mustache. I’m a fan of mustaches--there, I said it! And even I have been trained by the amorphous nature of fashion to disdain the ‘stache. Every time I see a mustachioed man in public, no matter how distinguished he looks, I’ve been brainwashed to think, “Wow. He still has a mustache.” Celebrities who were more famous for their mustaches than their life’s work have hung up their ‘staches: Alex Trebek, Tom Selleck, Cheech Marin, Geraldo Rivera, Burt Reynolds, even Sam Elliot (well, for a movie or two)--they’ve all lost faith in facial hair. It’s not their fault; it’s the pressure from society to shave their lips.

Brawny’s dropping the mustachioed Brawny Man is the latest act of discrimination. I call for an end to facial hairism! I call upon friends of mustaches everywhere who cry, "Do not go softly into that good night, mustache! Wait… you've got some chicken stuck up there. No, the other side. There! Ya got it!"

I could no longer ignore my uneasy admiration for mustaches in high school. Back then, there was a very visible, very public identity that I had to see everyday. I used to be a store manager at a Snyder Drug. Each day that I’d pass Brawny Man in the Household Cleaners isle he’d be smiling, but not necessarily looking at me, whereas most other product personalities bear their vision down on you, demanding your attention. No doubt Brawny Man could see me in his peripheries--any good woodsman has an expansive field of vision--but he always seemed to be scanning distant horizons, the potential adventures that lie hidden in far-off foothills.

My friend and co-worker, Danecek, and I would stand in Brawny Man’s isle, just-a-beholdin' his magnificence. I'd say, "Man, that 'stache is... It's magnificent!" Danecek would point at him after much thought and say, "That dude is tough." Hours would pass. Floors went unmopped. We took our inferiority frustrations out on hapless teddy bears in the alley out back. We made weapons from mop handles, shelf dividers, and discontinued garden claws. We rent many bears.

The moral? If we had been able to grow confident, magnificent mustaches like 'Stached Brawny Man, maybe we would have mopped with more conviction. He’s gone now, our once role model.

Has Brawny’s parent company, Georgia-Pacific, considered the consequences of their modernization? What about teddy bears? I highly doubt their advertisers gave much thought to them. Without a proper Brawny Man to make young men feel inferior, the teddy bear population will go unchecked. Three words: Feral Teddy Bears. Is GP prepared to deal with Feral Teddy Bears?

I researched. Nowhere in GP’s “Corporate Social Responsibility Report” does it mention any sort of F.T.B. Emergency Protocol. “Environmental protection is the responsibility of all Georgia-Pacific employees”--my eye.

I’ve got to imagine that Proctor & Gamble have an Enraged Charmin Poop Bear® Contingency Plan. Have you seen the commercials? Those bears are not happy without their Charmin. The least GP could do is match their efforts with whatever P&G are doing to ensure customer safety from bear attack, whether from F.T.B.s or animated poop bears. Please excuse the pun, but is it too much to ask that these companies do something to cover their asses?

The harshest consequence of society’s shunning of the mustache, however, is not the threat of bear attack. Think of the children--well, young men. Think of them! It’s difficult enough for young men to grow and maintain facial hair; societal fashion trends only confuse matters further.

In my case, college has taught me the skills to grow a proper beard, which is like the mustache's over-weight step brother. If brown is the new black, the beard is the new mustache. But it has been said that Beardos are just too lazy to shave, and that Beardos are “too timid for the awesomeness of mustaches”--you know who you are. Not cool, man.

Most guys feel that since their faces grow hair, they’re obligated to do something with it. They feel they’ve gained a new means of expressing their identity--and from a most unlikely source: their face. It’s a frightening power, to use one’s face to say, “Hey, this is my face! If you don’t like it, get your own!”

We genetically predisposed Beardos have inherited the great responsibility of easing young men into their obligation to express their face. This responsibility used to belong to mustachioed men but now, it seems, it is ours: The Bearded Man's Burden. Young men aren't always aware of what hair prowess their faces possess. How are they to be sure without testing the field? Let them grow beards until they decide what to do with their glory. Let them be brave and grow a beard. Perhaps in time they'll discover and accept their genetic predisposition to wear the 'stache.

In the meantime, we Beardos are a strong movement and loathe the persecution of our brothers, step or otherwise. We shall seek out other ‘stache-friends--some of whom have gone underground in fear of being ridiculed--whose dedication to the preservation of the endangered mustache will not, like their own raging mustaches, be shaved.

I call for an immediate, indefinite ban of all Brawny products until they bring back the 'stache. In fact, that should be our message; in sloppy scribbles on tag board signs, ready for picketing: “Fear the Bears! Bring Back the 'Stache!”

---

Mace...out

Maybe I Spoke Too Soon...

OK, while clearly Georgia-Pacific made a grievous error in replacing the original Brawny Man artwork, but these are fucking genius. "Where Were We," "Pickle Jar," "Immortalization," and "Hopes and Dreams" are my favorites. And those are just a few from the "custom" section.

Not Fuckin' Cool, Man.

nnnNNNNOOOOOOOooooooooo.........

This is proof that the mustache is dying--or rather society is killing the mustache. This is also proof that this facial hairism must be stopped! The mustache has friends who cry, "Do not go softly into that good night, mustache! You've also got some chicken stuck up there. No, the other side. There. Ya got it!"

Danecek and I worked at a Snyder Drug in high school [Editor's Note: We came up with the idea for Clerks long before we ever discovered Smith's hack job]. We'd stand in the Household Cleaners isle, just-a-beholdin' Brawny Man, his magnificence. I'd say, "Man, that 'stache is... It's magnificent!" Danecek would point at him after much thought and say, "That dude is tough." Hours would pass. Floors went unmopped. We took our inferiority frustrations out on hapless teddy bears in the alley out back. We made weapons from mop handles, shelf dividers, and discontinued garden claws. We rent many bears.

The moral? If we had been able to grow confident, magnificent mustaches like 'Stached Brawny Man, maybe we would have mopped with more conviction. Furthermore, without a proper Brawny Man to make young men feel inferior, the teddy bear population will go unchecked. Three words: Feral Teddy Bears. Is Georgia-Pacific prepared to deal with Feral Teddy Bears? I researched. Nowhere in GP's "Corporate Social Responsibility Report" do they mention any sort of F.T.B. Emergency Protocol. "Environmental protection is the responsibility of all Georgia-Pacific employees"--my fuckin' eye.

College has given me the skillz to grow a proper beard, which is like the mustache's over-weight step brother. If brown is the new black, the beard is the new mustache. But it has been said that beardos are just too lazy to shave, and that beardos are "too timid for the awesomeness of mustaches"--you know who you are. Not cool, man. We beardos have inherited the great responsibility of easing young men into their obligation to wear some sort of facial hair. This responsibility used to belong to mustachioed men but now, it seems, it is ours: The Bearded Man's Burden. Young men aren't always aware of what hair prowess their faces possess. How are they to be sure without testing the field? Let them grow beards until they decide what to do with their glory. Let them be brave and grow a beard. Perhaps in time they'll accept their genetic predisposition to wear the 'stache.

In the meantime, we beardos are a strong movement and loathe the persecution of our brothers, step or otherwise. As a concerned beardo, I'm grateful for organizations like The Beta Male (BM: It's a Movement) and The Benevolent Order of Mustachioed Men (B.O.M.M.) whose dedication to the preservation of the endangered mustache will not, like their own raging mustaches, be shaved.

I call for an immediate, indefinite ban of all Brawny products until they bring back the 'stache. In fact, that should be our message; in sloppy scribbles on tag board signs, ready for picketing: "Bring Back the 'Stache!"

Instead of a mustache, we now have this:

"That's triple-action performace. That's Brawny." That sucks.

[Editor's Note: Natalie discovered that this commercial is much better when you turn off the monitor and just listen to it. You do it.]


Mace...out

So Far So Good

Here's a quote from one of my student's blogs:

"I'm not sure what to expect of the instructor anymore. I've never seen a syllabus with the word 'shit' in it before."

!

I love my syllabus. Regarding their blogs and general outside-of-class writing, I challenged them to always write their best. Here's my favorite part of the challenge:

"Furthermore, imagine how weirded out your friends would be if you composed articulate, thought-out text messages instead of that God-damned techno-shorthand plague: LOL, U R 2 QUT, BOI!!1 TTYL, 4 SHIZL MAY B 2MORROW @ ENG. CLASS--SUX0RZ! BUT PROF MASON’S 2 QUT!!1 ROTFLMAO!!!1 KEKEKE <(^_^)>

They’d be like, “WTF?!?! U R 2 CR4ZY, GRRL!!1 4 KEGGER @ PHI SI & BW’S L8R!!1
Et cetera, et cetera.

Don’t blog like this. You fail if you do--like, the whole class."

So much for Randall's prototype syllabus.

Sidney Who?

Sorry for all the hockey posts. Well, not really. Anyway, this demands attention. Poor Sidney Crosby. The Calder trophy will not be yours.

Fine.

I apologize. New Guy, Wesley, Gabby, and Chewy I'm sooooorrrrry, OK? But threatening to watch golf was necessary to wake you up. You know how I get when I drink Wheat! And then I have to come home to this. I just get crazy sometimes, baby! Don't make me say those hurtful things. Don't make me throw you around the kitchen. Don't tell the other hockey teams that your bruises are from a tumble down the stairs. They'd never believe you: You're a bad liar. And lying makes crazy!

I'm willing to go through couples' therapy, even salary arbitration--but there will be no caps in my house! Maybe we can sit down and watch some home movies shot back when things were better. If you'd forgive me, I'd be willing to look past your bad habits and start over. I'm willing to try to make things work, you know, for the kids! Whaddaya say? Would ya put those bags down? Would ya, baby?

...

I teach English.

...

I'd rather watching fucking golf.

Since This Blog Thing is Sticking...

...I decide to go The Way of the Blogurai with my fresh, new students. I having them all create a blog on which they'll write all their in-class writing stuff. I decided it would've been a pain last semester--but then I got into blogging myself and most of the pain went away. Also, last semester our class split time between a lab and a--gasp!--tradition classroom. So this semester should afford an easier blogging environment. I'm going to lead by example and write along with them. I think it should be cool.

Anyway, I wanted to share my first post, addressed to them:

---
Title: On Our First Day of Class...

"...I apologized before hand for my filthy fucking mouth. Dear students, as proud as I am of that little joke, it's not just an ice breaker. Sure, it might have generated a few chuckles and shaken up your expectations of composition, having heard all the horror stories from your friends. The saying definitely gave you an early impression of what (inappropriate?) nonsense you can expect from me. But I have a filthy fucking mouth because I don't believe some words should be off-limits. They're just words. No big deal. Ahh, here we go: the point!

That's how I want you to think of our Comp class: They're just words. No big deal. I don't mean to say you shouldn't think our class a big deal. It is a big deal; you need to pass it in order to graduate. That's how big of a deal it actually is. Anyway, I mean that there's nothing to be afraid of--except, I suppose, not graduating. I'm guessing that some of your aren't too happy about having to take a writing class. I'm sure some of you have written to me, "English is not my strongest subject." I see it all the time. There's a fear behind that kind of hasty declaration. But they're just words. We don't want to be afraid of words do we? No. They're little. They won't attack you. Most of the time they stay still on the page--unless of course you've taken many hits of acid, as my father, The Hawkman, has described to me. Then the words pop out of place, walk around, talk to each other--and you!--and help each other escape the page by linking themselves together into a chain that dangles from the margins; a completely new type of sentence that describes the age-old concept of freedom! Freedom from the confines of the page!

That's the kind of freedom I dream of for you, my faithful Spring semester students! First you have to let go of any fear of writing. And don't fear that the words on the page will rebel against you, because we aren't going to do any acid in class... Not before noon anyway--oh snap! Our class is at noon. Fancy that. Seriously, though, don't bring acid to class.

You're here to improve your writing. I'm here to help you improve your writing and to accept cookies as compensation for your improvement. I don't mean to sound like a bad therapist, but you need to help me help you. Once you free yourself from the terrible resistance in saying, "I can't write", then we can make progress. So let those words fly, filthy or otherwise, and bring on the cookies.

Mace...out"
---

They have no idea what they've gotten themselves into.

As Promised [Threatened]...

...Here's the video with the goose-fucked noise makers. Introducing Reservoir Grant on the left and Zinnel on the right, who's the only person in the history of time to wear a New Year's Leprachaun hat along with a lei. The format of the video is weird, some sort of .3gp file, but if you open it in/with Quicktime, it works--or at least it did with me. If you have probs with .3gp files, whatever the fuck those are, let me know. Maybe I can get help in converting the file into something less Macintosh--har har! Nerdy loyalties are t3h l337!!1

Another tidbit of advise, before opening/playing the video, make sure your sound is at a low to normal level: The noise is crazy-wicked-loud-awesome-hyphen. Goose.

Hailz to Danecek for the crucial server space for the vid!

Also, Happy 50th Post to me! Never thought I'd stick with it. Oh well. Who needs grades, anyway?

If Cymbals were Symbolic of Stuff...

...Darren, ex-drummer of Danecek's band Pillory, would be master of metaphors. Figurative language aside, instead he's master of 674th notes. Check him out--he's not funky, though. There's no room for funk in this machine.

When it comes to drum sets, I'm a minimalist by choice and economics. On the record: that's way to many cymbals. I think the cymbal to drum ratio is 4-1, but I can't count that high. On the other hand, I'd keep the ratio if I could do what Darren does with that many cymbals and that few drums, which I can't.

While the entire sequence is masterful and showcases Darren's technical precision, my favorite part is roughly 27 seconds in and lasts only about seven seconds, when Darren's right hand blasts on the snare. Notice the unique method: his down stroke is a rim shot (as in the stick hits the skin and the rim at the same time), and he hits the skin again on the up stroke. What's the mean? Twice the hits, half the energy. In addition, the timbre of the rim shot adds a whole new vicious level to the blast. Am I wrong, or are his legs doubling the snare?

Mad Dog Darren.

How Was Your Night?

This was mine:


INT. Blue Bricks - Friday night

Plenty of English colleagues and other assorted friends mingle around gathered tables. Among them are myself, BRONSON, BRYAN G., ADRIAN (who resembles a sexy (an even sexier?) Willem Dafoe), and NATALIE.

Bryan whispers across the table to Bronson, asking for confirmation that Natalie's name is, in fact, Natalie. Bronson nods.

BRYAN
(to Natalie)
You... are so beautiful.

Natalie could only have beamed and giggled more if she were radioactive, assuming radioactive stuffs giggle at all. Bryan extends the compliment well over an entire minute, using terms like "poise," "projection," and possibly other P-words, but certainly other compliments--all deserving. At one point I aid and interject.

MASON
That's because she's a poet!

Now, poets in our program have received a lot of ribbing this semester due to a few less-jestful comments made by T.D.. I've felt a terrible sympathy and injustice--even guilt by association due to my great respect of the man--for our lovely poets because of these comments. Not only was I trying to soothe old wounds, I wanted to jump on the compliment bandwagon because Natalie is good peeps; she's been hanging out a lot lately--especially considering the great distance she travels from New Ulm to be with us--and I want it to continue. My compliment, however, was entirely lost on her for all she heard and saw after being called beautiful from a more-or-less complete stranger was Bryan and only Bryan.

I'll be the first to admit I enjoy competition for attention.

MASON
When was the last time you
called me beautiful, Bryan?

BRYAN
Jared, if you do this...
(tucks chin into neck)
it looks like you have no chin.

I've been aware of the Mason mini-double chin for years, made evident by #4, Timmon Mason. Of course #2, Justin, being the largest of the four Mason boys, got the no-chinness worst of all. But, as skinny and lankterminal as Timmon is, the Mason's gradual ease of chin into neck is present. I'm even skinnier than T-square and yet, if forced, I can make my chin disappear. I hadn't thought it was so obvious 'til Bryan decided to be so vocal about his observations; first with Natalie and now with me.

But I can take a hit and go with it.

MASON
Are you saying I look like
Beaker from The Muppets?
(does the chin thing)
Me-me-me-me!

Laughs around, even from those who don't get it. So everyone's ego is saved, especially Natalie's. She hasn't stopped blushing, dimpling, tee-hee-heeing, ha-ha-haing.


INT. Blue Bricks - later

Bryan and Adrian leave us early, but not after Bryan reminds Natalie of his compliment and plants a peck on her cheek. Natalie is smitten. Tee-hee-hee. Ha-ha-ha.


INT. Blue Bricks - later still

Natalie's moved onto water and recuperation, yet her dimples and blushing from Bryan have not moved on.

NATALIE
(to Mason)
This has been a good night: I've been called
beautiful and I got a kiss on the cheek.

MASON
(saving face, continuing The Natalie Show)
Bryan gets the glory just 'cuz he says
what everyone else is thinking.

NATALIE
Aww, that's nice, Jared.
You don't look like a Muppet.

So, here's what this night has established:
Natalie is beautiful.
Jared does not look like a muppet.

What have we learned from all this? Compliments are awesome. We already kinda new that though, didn't we? The true lesson, and this is why Bryan is a valued friend, is that friends know why friends are each others' friends--rather, we constantly compliment each other under our breaths yet seldom do we voice these compliments. For a few years I've felt it necessary to compliment my friends more. I've felt everyone needs to compliment their friends more, to tell friends why they are friends. But I've been unsure how people would take it: too open, too sentimental, too cry-for-help, too whatever. The true lesson, thank you Bryan and Natalie, is to not bottle up compliments. Let 'em loose. Loosey goosey. Forget what people might think. Let 'em beam. In most cases, like tonight, they'll probably be too busy blushing to be paranoid of why they were complimented. In the immortal, guttural words of Danecek: Share your thoughts and feelings.

Also, I learned that unless Natalie can come up with a better compliment than me not looking like a Muppet--"Certainly not Animal," she assured me, "even though he too is a drummer."--perhaps she had better stay in New Ulm.

Just kidding! Tee-hee-hee! Ha-ha-ha!

I hope no one thought I was kidding.

Two Days in SLP [Finally]

[Editor's Note: I started this post the night of 2.1.06. I knew it would take a long time since I planned on deep detail of two entire days. A couple days after starting the post, I somehow completely rooted Amanda's internet. I won't get into how (because I'd start to swear about how illogical her internet setup is--I mean, come on: Internet shouldn't be hooked up through a USB port and get fucked if unplugged), but it's the reason why this post is so late. It's turned into quite an epic, Jeano-stylie. Coincidentally, I cut-n-pasted it into Word and it came out to be over six pages. New record--easy. But without further delay...]


Kato Disclaimer: I love my Kato peeps. We're folk. Nothing's going to change that. I have shit luck in poker but covetous luck in life that I have two home-towns that I cherish. This post is not bragging; It identifies things for which I'm grateful.

Now, here are some reasons how New Year's Eve and Day were two of the best St. Louis Park days in years.


INT. Cub - afternoon
SUPER: New Year's Eve

Cub was a shitstorm and AMANDA was uber indecisive about whether to make a meat-n-cheese plate or chili-cheese dip--but that's cool. An old CRAZY GUY talked to himself in that salad bar area near customer service with little tables. Talked isn't quite a strong enough verb to describe his actions: It felt like he argued with himself, gesticulated, grumbled in some exotic, crazy guy tongue. Smelled like human pee.

Another DUDE about five feet away sat at a table a row over. He was minding his own business, probably just waiting for his wife to make up her mind about meat-n-cheese or chili cheese dip. Dude and I made eye contact. He looked at me as if to say, "My wife left me sitting here on New Year's Eve with this rambling, old, walking urine-machine. Take it in, boy. Every last detail. You'll be sitting here in my spot in fifteen years."

It was awesome.


INT. Amanda's Apartment - later

The Jerk was on. I watched and loved every minute of it, even the horrible editing-for-content. Censorship always makes things funnier anyway--the terrible dubbing of "Stupid" over "Shithead," the name of Navin's dog; the A.D.D. editing through the sex scene with the carnival's motorcycle dare devilress: "It's like a ride!"

It's interesting to see fewer scenes cut out as the years progress. For instance, near the second act climax, after Navin's established his wealth, the slum lords come to talk to him. They say they want to "keep the niggers out." Navin fumes and yells, "I am a nigger!" and in a most blacksploitational way, he wastes those sucka emcees. This was the first year of watching The Jerk that the censors didn't dubbed over "nigger" with something tamer. I'm not sure, but I think it's good progress (?). It took me an hour and half to iron my clothes while watching. Taking my sweet ass time. Fantastic.

And what would be on after The Jerk? What could possibly follow that up? The Wild--the Wild winning against the Canucks. We're currently three points out of the playoffs [Editor's note: Since then, the Wild have returned to their lukewarm efforts, placing them now seven points out of the playoffs.]. I know: We've played barely half the season so there's no need to get to prophetic about playoffs--especially since we'll probably screw it up anyway [Editor's note: Which we have.]. But it gives me reason to watch when they do well and reason to weep when they dump and play for overtime. Walz got a goal. My man. He's the third ugliest man in hockey behind him and him.

INT. Pokorny/Zinnel Residence - later that night

What a successful New Year's party. As far as parties go, there probably weren't enough people to classify as a party--not in Mankato terms, by any means. But it was our type of party. (Almost) every SLPeep we love and care for was there and other surprise guests. My jazz lab instructor from high school, the great Lance Strickland, showed up. Even though POKORNY hogged Lance all night (it was like two versions of the same person at different ages talking to each other for three hours straight), it was good to catch up with the man who had such a profound, musical impact on not just me but every SLP man-friend of mine. He was just as hilarious, lecherous, and energetic as ever--even in his early 60s.

As Lance mentally undressed our girlfriends, he said my favorite Lance Quote of the Night:

LANCE
(checks out TONIE)
"I've always said if we ever partied together, if you guys supplied the women I'd supply the drugs. It appears that I've failed in upholding my part of the deal."

EDLAVICH, an old friend/fellow musician who I hadn't seen in years, showed up too. In fact, we have him to thank for giving Lance the heads up for the party. A conversation between Edlavich and Lance is like a conversation between Woody Allen and Woody Allen.

Our party was semi-formal. Everyone looked beautiful and handsome. GRANT was all Reservoir Dogs sans black suit coat. KOELSCH and the lovely SARAH almost matched their reds. So cute, I could've crapped. STEFAN's belt buckle was a scrolling LED/LCD/whatever-the-fuck marquee that read, "Happy New Year. Get me a beer." In other words, his crotch lit up.

Grant revolutionized New Year's noise makers. Somehow, he could make his sound like a goose being fucked by Don Decker, [Editor's note: link not "work safe"], the most unsavory human I've ever had the (mis?)pleasure to meet. I might post the video I caught of the sound later if I ever finish this text. It's unreal. Disturbing. Addicting.

PAT was there with WES, my once or twice annual friend through Pat. Wes was fresh from Germany. I could smell the sausage and Spaten Optimater still clinging to his fancy German overcoat. It's always good to see Wes, especially when he doesn't get me plastered on E&J. I still can't drink brandy. It makes the chainlink scar on my leg ache.

Speaking of drinking, I drank three beers and about half a bottle of Freixenet Brut, a very comfortable amount. Stefan found a chocolate, coffee, milk beer called Viking. It had fancy foil around the top. Grant brought delicious Anchor Steam. I brought Redhook's Winter Hook which tastes like two boners--you know, metaphorically speaking. We all mixed and matched and drank champagne too. We smoked Backwoods cigars which are high-high-high end quality--as far as cigars behind gas station counters go. Actually, no they aren't. They're crap. They are campfire ash rolled in poo paper and I loved all three that I smoked. I think I can still taste them two days later [Editor's note: The taste has since subsided.].


INT. Car parked in lot - later that night

So I started a dumb argument. Someone ask, "how could that be a good thing?" Well, I thought Amanda was being overly critical of the way I brought all our stuff out to the car. She'd been overly critical all week so I just assumed... The alcohol gave me spunk to stand up for myself. Bad idea. She was more or less innocent this time, but she knew she'd been critical all week and we were both sorry and blah blah blah. So it was one of those arguments that turns out great 'cuz things get solved and you're way better off after the little argument than you were before. The only thing that could have topped this night off would be make-up sex, but by this time it was 4 a.m. While I'm just getting my second wind at this time, as you all know, Amanda is a vacuum [Editor's note: Huh?].


INT. Amanda's apartment - the next day
SUPER: Slight, manageable headache.

When I woke up at nine a.m. I could feel the previous night's party in my head but I knew the pain wouldn't last. I hate getting wasted. I hate hangovers. I hate that when it counts, I don't always avoid these hateful things. This year I had. Victory. I sent out a mass text-message to seven people, more or less asking if we were meeting for breakfast at 10 or, preferably, 11. I got only two responses:

STEFAN
11

and

MALISSA
No! Breakfast at ten. We are up.

Two opposing responses. No one else responded. Classic SLP communication.


INT. Calhoun Grill - later

This place is amazing! It's in Calhoun Village--not Calhoun square--near Lake Calhoun (hence all the Calhouns). I drank at least my own pot of their delicious, dark, hot coffee, and ate my weight in hash browns and 'sage links. It's a nice place inside: wide and roomy with earthy tones--perfect for Sunday mornings. Other patrons played Hearts, Spades, and/or Rummy while waiting for food. As for the waitresses, Amanda, Malissa, and CASSIE kept saying things like "I can see her entire midriff!" and "Omm...'i-god. Her pants are so low and tight, her ass would hang out if she bent over," and "Stop checking her out, Grant," etc.


INT. Stefan and Cassie's apartment - later that afternoon

Once Calhoun Grill's coffee made it clear I wouldn't be napping anytime soon, I decided Stefan, ZINNEL, and Grant needed to be introduced to Firefly. Thank you Sire, Pat, and Canham for initially trying to get me into the Fox series when it was on the air. I failed you then. Thank you, Sire, for trying harder and successfully getting me into the series with the DVDs. Firefly spawned the follow-up movie Serenity. Our tagline for Firefly is simple: Western Han Solo. If you don't get three boners from that tagline, you're much less dorky than we, and I'm sorry. If you get at least one boner, I assure you that both the series and movie are excellent. Watch them. Sire and I wish there was a young Han Solo prequel starring Nathan Fillion.

Anyway, we four watched the two-hour Firefly pilot episode plus the next two hour-long episodes. By the end of our mini-marathon, all of us had dubbed Adam Baldwin's character, Jayne Cobb, as our role model. My favorite Jayne quote:

JAYNE
Do you know what the chain of command is? It's the chain I beat you with until you understand who's in command here.

My fuckin' hero.

After Firefly, Stefan and Grant played Mario Tennis. Unlike other consoles, Nintendo is best at transporting the gamer to a bizarre world. Nintendo achieves this through it's unique sound and visuals. It's hard to explain to non-gamers or--gasp--the Great Unwashed Playstation Heathens, but there's a quality of sound that's specifically Nintendo. And just about any Nintendo title character game (your Marios, Zeldas, Metroids, etc.) is especially unique in its world that sucks you in. What I'm getting at: After less than 5 hours of sleep, a successfully nursed hang over, a pot-of-coffee high, coming down from said high, four hours of Firefly, and a world warp into Mario Tennis land, my head was more than a little swimming. It was awesome; what a unique feel these two days--and this day was just warming up like a heat lamp at Arby's--you're damn right that was a segue.


INT. Arby's - later

Amanda's gracious mother, MARY--Mary full of grace--decided all three of us needed more curly fries in our diet. Mary has taught me lots of things. This meal with her taught me that I should pay more attention to coupons. They saved us--well, her since she bought--buttloads of money. For instance, I discovered that Arby's has a Ruben, corned beef or turkey (a Rachel). Not only did one of Mary's coupons get me a free Ruben with the purchace of a Ruben combo (count 'em: two Rubens with Kraut , Swiss, and thousand island on marble rye), but the grammar of the coupon was so confusing that the employee didn't charge us for the initial Ruben in the combo. On top of this treat, other coupons got us two free orders of coooooookies. The amount of food we got could have fed four or five people (I counted as the 3rd, 4th, and 5th person with what I ate), all just for like $13. If Amanda and I go to Arby's, it usually costs us $13 without coupons. I love coupons, Mary, and kraut. The kraut wouldn't love me later, though--wow, I'm getting good at segues!


EXT. Nelson Park hockey rink - later that night

Our session of hockey that night might have been the best we've had ever. Finding ice has always been a problem, and this year's pathetic "winter" has yet again complicated things. We've gotten really good at producing high quality hockey on low quality ice. Cain and I have had some pretty bitchin' sessions over the years, with just ourselves and/or with RANDOM WARMING HOUSERS. The rest of the SLP chaps have only been playing with us about four years. Man, are they improving exponentially, especially considering more than a couple of them skated for the first time those four-ish years ago.

Before then, Cain and I would pray for random warming housers on our way to rinks. It seems those futile days of finding ice and players are finally behind us. Each of them has improved in all areas and found their own strengths:

Koelsch: I think I've developed into a pretty good passer; once Koelsch really finds his game, he'll put my passing to shame.

Dorn: He's got the hardest shot among us, I think. Perhaps as hard as Cain's if not harder.

Grant: His skating is as fluid as his home brew; he skates like Bourque: graceful arcs, wide-stanced.

Zinnel: There's really no place for stay-at-home-defensemen in warming house hockey. But if the pendulum should ever loose itself from offense and the concept of defense should become important again, Zinnel would be the Chelios of the house (Sire: "It's got... peppers... spoons... uhh... Yzerman... uhh... peppers...")--only Zinnel'd score more often since he's developing into a grinder-style offensemen too.

Pokorny: Remember in Bambi when the poor, hooved roadkill found ice? That's what Pokorny looked like his first year on skates. Not only can he turn now, he's as fast as 11 White Castle cheeseburgers through my digestive track. We'll work on his skate-stopping next season. Shit, I guess that means I'll have to learn how to skate-stop left.

Unity upkeep time: At one point I could feel the two Rubens from earlier debating with my stomach. The subject being debated was whether or not their relationship was really worth continuing. My stomach felt more than a little suffocated, as we all know that sorrow kraut has a co-dependent way clinging to stronger people. The good news is that my stomach is patient like oak and gave the kraut a second chance. In the end, the Rubens and my stomach gave birth to a litter of somewhat sickly and loud but otherwise happy, brown children [Editor's note: I'm sorry.].

That night, two HIGH SCHOOL KIDS showed up. A couple things stuck with me about them. First, they brought a girl who just stood there and watched. It struck me as incredibly high schoolsince there's no fucking way any of our girlfriends would give two shitz about watching us play hockey, even if we asked. Then again, these guys were way better than us, and perhaps would be more interesting to watch. I figured the girl and one of the dudes were newly attached and she was there to impress him with her interest in his playing. At least I hope that was the case: How lame would it be if she was asked or dragged to the rink? Poor girl. Idiot dudes.

Secondly, aside from those speculations, the two young fellows were fun to play with. High school hockey players are often bothersome. Our little band of old men are no match for anyone with official, organized training. This is obvious to most high school kids, I'd think, because they usually advertise their skill by wearing articles of high school hockey clothing; we advertise only our wish to stay warm. Pokorny's skinny, jeaned legs sticking out under his giant parka is one of my favorite winter sights. Also, most high school hockey players brush us off, not bothering to take any game with us seriously. They certainly don't pass to us.

These two were different. They knew etiquette: They knew that one should join the north-side team, and the other the south. They knew to keep the puck down for goals. They knew we were tired, old men. They knew we'd been playing for at least two hours by the time they got there. On top of being tired, I pointed out my broken skate blade, which was unfortunate but somehow it didn't kill the session. One of them was kind enough to advise me where to go to get my blade fixed. They were fresh with youthful energy--seemingly limitless, as I recall from my own stores before I--we all--discovered our limits. They covered each other when one had possession of the puck so we wouldn't have to try and keep up. They even passed to us. There were beautiful moments when either of our teams maintained possession in the offensive zone like a real team would: keeping the puck on the outside, drawning D-men away to create passing lanes, and not just connecting solid passes but finishing goals! As I said in the beginning of this section: It was perhaps the best session thus far. Furthermore, during our short rehydration breaks, these two kids played keep-away. In lulls of their own mini-game, they complimented each others' moves and learned--the way it should be; the way, I think, our own group has progressed so well.


Who'da thought that the very next night we'd have perhaps the worst session ever. I doubt very much the difference in temperature was more than five degrees. I guess that's all it takes. It was like playing hockey on an wide, flat snowcone. The terrible ice was more or less the only reason why this streak of amazing days didn't last longer. And I don't mean to say that my the rest of my days were dull. The point-by-point incremental greatness of these two days, however, stand out amongst the other merely great days. They are days the likes of which I can look forward to come summer. They are days to keep in the back of my mind while I enjoy entirely different types of great days in Mankato over my very last semester.

Mace...back and out

A Small (Hobbitual?) Update

You're all lucky Blogger.com has no Dwarvish rune font. That's right: I learned Dwarvish tonight (this morning)--Older Angerthas to be exact. And what were you doing at 4 a.m.? Huh? What's that? Sleeping? I can spell "you're lame" in Older Angerthasian runes; can you?

I practiced to the point of writing by almost-memory, sans alphabet table found in LOTR Appendix E. It's the phonetic derivaties of vowels and crazy th, rh, gw, sh, ngw, etc. sounds that are tricky still. By the by, I don't know what words use ngw--whatever the hell that sounds like.

A huge update coming soon.

There and Back Again: A Mason's Tale...out

Bubbly Day

In honor of Wars that Shouldn't Have Started (I love you and I'm sorry, Amanda), please direct your attention--actually, start here and then direct your attentinon, and then press the "next" button until the "damned continuation" has completed itself. Seriously, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I've ripped off Tycho for my Preying Mantis Blogging Style. Long Live Penny Arcade!