Happy 100

How do you celebrate 100 posts?

I Feel a Big [Picture] Dump Comin' On.

It's Spring! You know what that means: sun, leaves, and sidewalks--but mostly pictures.

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Oldest First: St. Patrick's Day in Minneapolis with SLPeeps.

My John Deere-Green-n-Gold Jake's shirt matches well with Guinness-Black.

Sal discovered her new favorite drink through Mal. The bottom half is Blue Moon; the top is Guinness. Mal called it an Eclipse, but they call it a Black-n-Blue at Blue Bricks. Both are excellent names, but I don't think anyone will ever convince me to put a God damned slice of orange in my Guinness.

Dorn on the left, Grant on the right. Both are hard-fucking-core. Those of you who haven't met Grant yet might recognize his hot pocket and sweaty rascals. Notice his clearly pre-destined 'stache just dyin' to take over.

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Chess

Things of late in the office have taken a turn for the nerdly. There's been a lot of chess. A lot. Once chess became the new Facebook, I couldn't resist an urge I had around Xmas time. Ya see, DJ T-Money asked for a chess set this year. Perfect. A nice easy present that I could even enjoy with him. I found Chess 4 at River Hills Mall and it took all my willpower (and a fierce Amanda) to not buy two sets. Things were cool for a couple months until Phil and Naughtilie started playing chess in the office. Fuckers.

After getting whomped that one time, I finally destroyed Clock last week. All it took was Gunmetal, Vanilla, and Stout to take his Goldenrod army down. Now Clock can't even tell time. He's my most proud trophy on my mantle (read as: chalk rail behind desk).

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Thesis Reading

Nathan and I unconsciously decided on both of us looking eville for our all-time smash hit classic duo thesis reading.

Who doesn't like a good dick-joke?

Number Seven on my To Accomplish Before Graduation List: Project the word fuckin' on a giant screen in front of 40 people, including distinguished scholars, beloved friends and colleagues, and some Random Crazy Broad who asked more questions than my thesis committee combined.

Pappa Davis doesn't need to ask questions, though. The most important recurring question he's ever asked me is, "What's at stake?" The second most important recurring question was asked during the Q&A session after the readings. Jer asked where and when we'd be drinking.

Of course, Pub 500, where we always have a good time.

But even when I have to go there, I'm always really at Blue Bricks.

See how much happier people are at Blue Bricks?

I mean, look at this dude! The first thing I thought when I saw him was, "Man! That guy needs some elboobs!"

These ladies couldn't resist. Like, I mean he probably woulda done bad stuff to them if they had.

My fav type of shot. Sal and I have a ho-gillion of these.

Yeah. Pretty standard, Phil.

Motherfucker's so smart, makes my head shrink.

When my head shrinks I get good ideas like, "I know, I'll teach Sal how to walleye."

How quickly the student...

...becomes master.

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I leave you with Pappa Davis' road rash. He caught me taking pictures of Clock and Chess in my office. When seeing my delicious camera phone, he asked, "Would you take a picture of my arm?"

The front wheel of one of his bikes came off at 30 mph. So I asked, "For like... insurance reasons or something?"

He smiled. "For Static," referring to, of course, the magazine. Don't be surprised if we see a similar Static cover sometime soon.

Mace...out

Happy Birthday, iPod!

iPod, happy birthday. I love you.

Well, I guess I don't actually know the exact date I got my 'Pod last year. It doesn't really matter. What does matter is that it took me at least an entire year to load all of my mp3s into iTunes. I finished Saturday night, while Amanda slept with her mouth wide open, drooling.

Someone ask, "WTF? How could it possibly have that long? You just drag-n-click, jackass!"

Fuck you, Someone. That's not how I roll. It must all be perfect. All spelling and capitalization must be right for all artists, albums, genres, groupings. This often means I must enter this information in for each file or, at best, a group of files. I stopped trying with song titles, though. You all know I'd prefer titles to be perfect--trust me, I tried--but the shear number of mp3s makes that impossible. As testament to what tidiness I've managed and proof of what I'm up against, I submit one snapshot of my true love, my music collection:

Click to enlarge. Bask in the clean lines--all those stats and categories! First, note the bottom:

13,924 songs, 43.1 days, 78.29 GB--I'm weeping as I type. The left navbar is the heart of the beast. It shows my 'Pod, named iPodophile, and all of my playlists. I've kept them all very general because I like to listen to it all. I have categorized them all--again, 13,924 of them--into just eleven blanket genres: Atmospheric, Classical (lacking severely), Comedy, DJ, Folk, Funk, Hip-Hop (You might be surprised to find out this genre is my second largest, at 12.59gb.), Jazz, Metal (third largest at 12.01gb), Rock (first at 24gb), and Soundtrack. There are a couple exceptions, like the Tolkien and Irish/Scots playlists that call for specifics. "Only Four Kitties" is my playlist that loads into my 'Pod.

This playlist was the subject of my very first official blog post. You always remember your first: the typos let go, the lack of all-important pictures, the awkward shifting nature of blog "audience"--is it journal writing? General audience or known-limited? Aww... Good times.

The "Only Four Kitties" predicament is one that still troubles me. How do you pick just 4gb of music from 78.29gb? Back then it was 4 out of 71, so my batch of kitties has grown considerably! Actually, you have to chose more like 3.74 kitties. Apple advertises my gen of iPod at 4gb and 1,000 songs. But we all know--or at least we should--that many mp3s taking up that little space calls for some shitty-quality mp3s. That's also not how I roll. Right now, there are 553 mp3s on iPodophile, with 3.2mb I just can't fill. Dems some hi-quality files. Some might even say "tits."

It's been a momentous weekend. First, my thesis reading--pictures soon. Then, the complete gathering of my collection. Is it bad that I can't decide what I'm more proud of? It's interesting: A thesis is supposed to be a culmination of your work as a student and writer. In that sense, my thesis began culminating when I first arrived here. So did my music collection. Now they're both complete--but not done.

Regardless, happy birthday, iPodophile. And to think, Amanda told me not to buy you! Don't pay her any attention; she was just being practical, and bless her for it. But the only thing you drool is sweet ear honey.

Mace...out

The Age of Flip Flops is Upon Us.

Cabana Boi Flops. Come to dee islan'!

No Such Thing As Too Much Sausage

I've added several [Sausage] Links in the last week. The most notably creepy link is to Chad's Haunted Mirror's Blog. There are two important details about CHM: !) It's in love with Chad--big whoop; who isn't? And @) CHM seems to be a persona/possessed object that people trust to give good advice. Got something on your mind? Need another's view on the subject--some insightful reflection? Follow the [Sausage] Link leading to Chad's Haunted Mirror! It's kind of a one-sided venting process so far, though, since CHM listens well but says little.

Fuck You, Clock!

People lose at chess because of mistakes. I usually want to play again right away to improve and clear my system of said mistakes. My loss to the clock tonight was one that makes me second guess whether or not I should pursue chess as a realistic hobby.

The clock is so good, it even captured my six-sided die...?

After whomping me, the clock yelled, "I want the champ! I want Phil!" I told the clock that Phil rarely engages in matches that jeopardize his title. But it kept on chanting, "I want Phil! I want Phil!"

I asked what Clubber Clock predicts would happen in a match against Phil. It simply replied, "Pain."

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Midnight Office Tuesday: There was much grading. There was much rocking. There were fewer NCJs, but I'm now on a waving basis with a particularly grizzled maintenence man. If these MOMs and MOTs keep up, soon he and I will be hanging out in some boiler room deep in the bowels of Armstrong Hall, sharing our Schlitzes and dreams.

Desk Djembé has seen a lot of rocking the last few weeks. All that sweat and power built up into a film of stickiness, evidence of many-a-paradiddle-flamaque. So I gave 'er a bath. Look at that shine! As you can see, the shine was so bright that Brawnson's flower bent its stem-neck in the direction of Desk Djembé's pseudo photosynthetic radiation. The mistaken carnation thought the sun had risen in AH210.


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In Other Not-So-Surprising News: In addition to being a recovering Reese's Whore, I am also Nintendo's Bitch. I went to the bookstore today to buy new pens. What unmistakable arrangement of grey, coal, and crimson should catch my eye in the impulse rack at the counter? Nintendo Power Breath Mints--derr! Yes, this is a container of breath mints in the shape of an OG Nintendo controller.

Motherfuckers made breath mints because they know I'm weak. Forfucksakes. I was even wearing my "Nintendo Champion - 1985" jacket when I bought the Nintendo Power Breath Mints. I saw the mints after the clerk girl had rung up my pens. I sighed, so easily defeated, picked up the controller, and asked, "Can I add this?"

She looked at the container, to me, to my jacket, and then back at me. "Suuuuuure."

Satoru Iwata could diarrhea in the slot of an old Zelda cartridge, hand it to me, and tell me the point of this new game was to take a shot of his diarrhea from the slot of an old Zelda cartridge--and I'd respond, "Genius! Must have!"

Who wouldn't drink that his happy poo?

Mace...out

M.O.M.

I took this picture of a hall clock as I was walking out of the office tonight. Only, this clock has been frozen for at least a week. I mean, it's clearly not ticking at all. Look at that lazy ass clock.

This is what time it really was. That Dead Clock up there is way off.

Tonight was a pretty loopy MOM. There were lots of Ninja Cobbling Janitors. One particularly hagish woman was riding some sort of sweeping/buffing vehicle around. It made me jealous and I thought of Mario Kart DS, lonely at home.

It was pretty difficult to concentrate tonight. The papers were fine--or a couple will be once they cash in their Rs--so that's not what made it difficult. Two things were the prob: !) The Thesis was a good reason/excuse to get away from grading for the last couple weeks, making it difficult to transition back into regular grading; and @) My head was stuck in Chess mode--mostly because I ended the day 2-3.

Phil's good. We had a game today in which he mated me (not mated with me--sigh) without either of us taking any pieces. He called it a "fluke game." I don't know what that was. It didn't help, though. The good news: I got an email today from Games by James about my Chess 4 shipping today! That's right, Kasparov Beotches: four-player chess. It'll probably be here Saturday or Monday, I'm guessing. Then, it's officaly, nerdily on.

Earlier, in order to justify her losing to me, Naughtilie claimed her head was in grading mode and not chess mode. This MOM, my head was certainly not in grading mode. At one point Joe Henderson's "Granted" started playing on my 'Pod. Seven minutes later, by the head-out--[EN: head-out in jazz means the last time the verse and/or chorus are played (typically ABA)]--by the head-out, I realized I had been drumming on Desk Djembé the entire time, drum humming and staring blank-eyed at my poor student's paper.

After the chord-swelling bird's eye of "Granted," I said fuck it and threw on Mastodon's new album of old re-mastered tunes, "Call of Mastodon."



Holy fuck. Caveman Metal at it's finest. I rocked out to Mastodon on Desk Djembé through damn near the whole offering. Brann Dailor's drum fills are swarms of fire ants. His slippery ease between duple and triple-feels are shifting ice floes and tectonic buckling. Volcano rain. His bass drums are of an ancient -dillo breed. Chugging riffs trample like stampeding behemoths. Vocals are Man's early utterances.

Urgent and frantic instincts to communicate.

In other words, Troy yells a lot. Mastodon also devoted an entire album, "Leviathan," to Moby Dick and another seabeast themes.

Their awe of powerful things (mammoths, trains, horses, whales, swarms, glaciers) speaks to me on a primal level. It makes me want to pound other things in my own mini creations of power. Desk Djembé understands and lets me utter my Mastodon urges through it.

Mace...out

Tee Hee!

Cup o' Kitty, anyone?

Cover Bands are Tragic Things.

Cover bands are like Sierra Nevada Pale Ale in a Dixie Cup: The contents are astounding, but the presentation is thin, soggy floral print--a volume too small to do the content justice. But it's not the content's fault because, for whatever reason, the only container thirsty people want to drink out of is a Dixie Cup.

As many of you know, since I was with many of you, a pretty good cover band, Vinyl Bridge, played at the Pub this weekend. As my Dixie Cup simile implies, Vinyl Bridge were far better musicians than the music they played.

"People don't want originals," the bassist told me after I asked him if they play any. Even before I asked, I could sense they wanted to express themselves; but expressing individuality is a poor band's endevour. Most venues want nothing to do with it. Most audiences want their "Brown Eyed Girl" by their fourth or fifth Slo Gin Fizz.

I was fond of the drummer's set. I'm not a brand guy, so I don't remember what kind he had. Doesn't matter, though: It sounded good. I do remember that he was strictly Sabian except for his crisp, warm China cymbal, the brand of which I also forget; but he made sure to point out it was only $35, a steal for sure for how good it sounded.

He had a nice two-legged hi-hat stand with a cymbal attachment for a crash. Also attached was a drumstick quiver (not pictured). Yay for blurry drum pics!

I really liked this setup:

Of course, I'm referring to the single stand holding up 1) the floor tom, 2) ride cymbal (middle of pic), 3) a third crash (top left), and 4) the China. That's a nice piece of equipment. Here's why: It didn't fall over. Most stands wobble with a floor tom and ride, but that mass of silver and steel to the left of the tom held all four pieces sure and steady. Before I saw what exactly was going on, I could tell the tom and at least the crash were on the same stand. I had to change my pants when I saw the truth.

The drummer was excellent. He had great chops, thanks to a drum and bugle corp he had played with. His fills and beats were indicative of a jazz background, and his time was rock solid. I could tell he and the bassist have played a long time together. Listening to the two of them really made me miss Hip Replacement and playing with Grant. Summer couldn't come quicker.

And speaking of the bassist, he's been added to long list of my dopplegangers. Several of my colleagues informed me of this on Friday night. The list so far:

Half-Life's main character, Gordon Freeman

The Taco Bell Guy.

I get this a lot, especially from my students who seem to forget everyday that yesterday they asked me if anyone had ever told me I "look like the Taco Bell Guy." First credit for this comparison goes to Sal's ma, Mary Schuckencorn.

And now, apparently, the Vinyl Bridge bassist is my clean-shaven twin. There's a pic of him on their website which they made sure to plug a ho-gillion times on Friday. If you don't want to follow that link, here's a pic of his bass. I think this bass and I strike a much better resemblance anyway.

Did I forget any dopplegangers?

Mace...out

I'm a Reese's Whore

As in, I would probably give consent to otherwise unwanted sex if compensated with anything-Reese's. It's the only brandname for which I am an impulse buyer. They could come out with anything, and I would try it. The latest impulse buy:

It goes on ice cream. And it's not so much a topping, as in it's there for the ice cream's benefit--no. This stuff gives vanilla a reason to get out of bed in the morning.

I didn't even look at the price. The tag could have said, "Reese's Shell $First Born Son Named Asher." It wouldn't have mattered. That's how bad I have it for Reese's. Once inside the cart, I would've already been thinking of what to name son #2--perhaps... Paradiddle Flamaque Mason. That has a nice rhythm, which makes sense. Or Wesley Nintendo Mason. I've always liked: Boy Sausage Mason. Or maybe just: #2.

How about Reese?

Yes, that's a picture of my father, The Hawk, to the right. He calls me #3 and Boy all the time, so it's no wonder where I get these great names for kids. If you need a title for your Non-Fiction piece, go to Jean. If you need a title for your baby, I've got tons of 'em. I have a running mental list of names for future children. My problem is I hate kids.

My parents named my brothers after bible characters. Lame. If the Hawk had never found God, he surely would have named me Aragorn Mason.

Fuck you, God.

Mace...out

Midnight Office... Tuesday?

MOTs certainly aren't as fun as MOMs. MOMs are productive and they cook multi-coursed meals. MOTs are unfocused, desperate, and addicted to Naughtilie's cupped peanutbutter.

Primus once wrote a song called "Too Many Puppies." Like most Primus tunes, it's heavy on the goofy bass, abstract on the guitar, and five-boners on the drums. I'm pretty sure it's about Pongo and Perdita's womb-devastating litter. Tonight, however, there were no canine wombs, and the song was called "Too Many Papers."

I hope Midnight Office Wednesdays are better. That reminds me, Jean and The Fucking Kuyper: Out of desperation, I borrowed a manila department envelop from your desk. You can see it in the picture, on the far side of my desk. You'll get it back tomorrow. And don't worry; it was empty. Yeah, after I dumped out all the important, irreplaceable documents and peed on them.

House on fire
House on fire
Poot it out
Poot it out

Mace it out

Another Midnight Office Monday!

It was bitter cold walking down the hill tonight. That doesn't mean I'm sorry for wearing flip-flops. I've been wearing flip-flops since freakin' April--a whole week ago! No one should ever apologize for flip-flops. Shucks: I've worn them at weddings.

Anyway. Tonight was yet another late night at AH210. I'm beginning to like them. I feel like I'm the only person in the building, especially when my perception is confined to the papers in front of me and my 'Pod in my ears.

I rarely see them, but I know the janitors are hard at work. I'll look up one minute, and the motion sensor lights in the hall will be off. Then I'll go back to The Critiquening of papers and The Rockening of musicks. When I look up again, the lights will be back on. Either The Rockening is so hard that I set off the sensors, or someone else sets them off--witnesses my unabashed movements.

They're sneaky, those cobbler gnome janitors. The garbage in AH210 was brimming one minute and hollow the next. I wonder how they do it! I wonder if they watch me from the hall, if they hang out for a bit in the office, if they wag their wangs at me while my red pen flies and my oblivious head bobs.

I love The Rockening at Midnight. I'd like you all to meet my new favorite instrument:

That's right: It's a Desk Djembé. O the sounds it makes! The range! Vibrous basses to dry slaps and a million tones and timbres in between! A solid knee against the inside of the leg space produces bass tones that wilt Brawnce's pretty flower. There's my red pen, impliment of my Rüd rudiments.

During the day when AH210 is over-populated, I have to keep The Rockening in check, esle I receive Elyssar's annoyed stare. But on Midnight Mondays, the janitors surely have a dance party right outside the office--a ninja dance party, I'm sure, since I never see them.

Ninja Cobbling Janitors, Masters of the Flying Spirit Sweeper and Five-Point Garbage Deboweler.

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Blurry Picture Dump: This Weekend

Stupid Human Tricks don't count with finger help and such wrinkly concentration.

Impressed with Benjaminz Kenobi's powers, Sal Manda (of Kashyyyk) implores Old Benz to accept her first Padawan Learner in almost twenty years.

This is usually Tyler's face pre-flop before he calls $3 with 6-3-off and flops a boat. Instead of poker last Thursday, we were at McGoff's for the limierick contest. Clint voted for Tyler's limiericks, citing straightforwardness and profesh swearing as reasons.

I forget what Tyler said while Sal Mander of Kashyyyk and I were posing for this pic, but it was enough to open my mouth--which Tyler was far too excited to make me do. Tyler, please don't ever again tell me how nice it is when I open my mouth.

Mace...out