The Mace-stache

Part One: The Mace-stache

Before I can get to that, here's a pic taken on Sunday of my long-lost beard. Sal and I were camping, but I'm saving all that content for Part Two: The Campening. This pic is the frontal bookend to showcase just how hairy I let myself get before shaving down to a mustache for the upcoming SLPeeps road trip to points West. I'll get back to more pics and words about camping and my equally bearded caterpillar friend.

In order to hack through the hedge that was my face, pre-shave trimming was necessary:

I haven't shaved my face for at least two years--whenever Patrick, Sire, Sal, and I all went to Minocqua, WI for the 4th that one summer. And you're damn right the only reason I shaved that time was also for the sake of a stache. Since it's been so long, I decided I needed to bring out the big guns: Schick Mufuckin' Quatro... as in four blades.

Many of us were given these blades for returning books to the on-campus Barnes & Noble bookstore. This is how the transactions usually went down:

BOOKSTORE BROAD
Thanks for returning your seven books!
Here's your $2.36 and a Schick Quatro!

ANY GIVEN STUDENT
What the fuck for? I still have the one
you gave me for buying these books.

Regardless of how silly it is to compensate for terrible return values with a four-edged razor, I can thank my Quatro for my mustache. But first, no man with shaving cream on his faced doesn't feel or look like an idiot.

I was amazed how much milleage Machinegun got out of his staching. For me, the process was swift with few points of interest along the way. Maybe I just didn't want to reapply shaving cream that many times. Here was my process: My beard was there; then it was gone, having left behind only the most bitchin' parts of its whole.

The process was natural, like it was meant to be. I mean, look at that 'stache. I must say I'm looking very makey-outey toniiight. Who wants a mustache ride?

Mothers, lock up your daughters. Sons also, probably. Go ahead and lock up your pets and warm loaves of bread too.

--

Part Two: The Campening

I don't know how to celebrate Memorial Day. I don't think anyone really does unless they've been shot/shot at in a foreign country. Some of those people would rather not remember the experience; other brave ones are in other countries right now being shot at all over again; and the older ones are dead. So Americans don't know how they're supposed to celebrate Memorial Day. Maybe their grandpa fought in Korea. They celebrate by thinking about Grandpa for a few minutes. But they were never told about Grandpa's war years--because they were too painful for him to relive, or every time he did talk about them Grandma would mention the redhead he was engaged to at the time, and then story time was certainly over--so they just remember the things they miss about Grandpa: his hands or pomade. Then, like the rest of us clueless Americans who are just happy to have a day off, they eat another brat.

Sal and I went camping at Minneopa State Park. Actually, we camped on Sunday, the day before Memorial Day--so this post and these pics really have nothing to do with Memorial Day. I celebrated Mem Day in my favorite way: making time-and-a-half.

But camping was fun even though it wasn't as primitive and secluded as I normally prefer. It was great... aside from our neighbors who were up drinking (in a State forest, very illegal) until 6:fucking:30am--drinking, and being loud. They only stopped at 6:30 because Sal, bless her annoyed little heart, reminded them that quiet hours are from 10:00pm the previous night until 8am that morning. "It's 6... 30..." is how she put it. Then they shut the hell up and went to bed while quiet hours were ending.

Like I wrote, though, it was great. I surveyed the land a lot.

And pointed into the distance, Zissou-style.

Maybe I was pointing at an old structure. Those are always cool.

For those of you who are new to Mankato--or you're like me and you haven't yet explored beyond the comfortable circumference of Stoltzman Road and River Hills Mall--you should really check out Minneopa Falls. Make a day out of it. Throw a disc around. Take some Matchlight, brats, a twelver of Fresca and head for Water Falling Twice, as the Injuns would say. Don't forget to check out the falls.

There are two main falls, a smaller one (top center of the above pic, beyond the footbridge) and the huge falls. I don't know how tall the falls are because I'm not good at plaques, what with all the words and statistics. But they're big and impressive and pretty. Who doesn't like waterfalls?

There are paths that wind around the falls, down to the base where people have been going for ever.

I mean that: forever. Major Dakota hangout spot. But I don't think there are any Dakota names carved in the wall--I'm pretty sure they wouldn't have been cool with that. Just imagine seeing "Barry + Denise '73" alongside "Tracks with a Hawk's Eye was here."

Every time Sal gets ready to take a pic, I scoot out of the way. Then she tells me to get back over there. No matter how many times I argue that people ruin pictures, she insists that I get back over wherever.

Then she says, "My turn!" That's when my caveman fingers fumble with the technology box, and she critiques my picture taking skillz. It's a well-oiled machine of a routine by now. But at least I captured her makey-outeyness.

These are her two "action shots," as she kept calling them.

I like them both but I like the second one better. It has still life and movement in the same pic. Besides, it looks delicious.

On the way back up from the base of the falls, I could feel Sal lagging back a bit on the stairs. I knew she was doing it on purpose; I knew she wanted a picture of me on these awesome steps. I argued again about how having me in the picture takes the focus away from the true subject: mossy stuff. But clearly, I lost that argument too.

But to prove my argument, this next pic is my favorite that she took. Not only is it cool in a whoa-metal-band-album-cover kind of way, but this pic was supposed to be of me sitting at the fire. See how much more interesting it is without my interference? Totally.

Mace...out

I Wish I Meant "Centipede" the Video Game

Last night--or I should say "this morning"--I dreamt of killing centipedes. They started out small and harmless, like this house centipede here. But no matter how small and harmless they actually are, when it comes to bugs, few other things than centipedes flap my otherwise unflappable bravery in the face of insectoids. In my defense, I don't dart to other side of the bathroom if a small-one skitters across the sill of the tub. I don't jump up on the toilet seat if one scales Reed's filthy, disgusting, always-open drawer system under the sink. I'm pretty resilient, but cents still give me the feeling of full body pinart.

In related news: Apparently, we have ants.

I haven't seen any, before or after these ant domes. And here's the mystery that is Reed: There are several obvious ways to prevent ants like, oh I don't know, washing the dishes? Notice the huge fucking crumbs next to the ant dome. I guarantee you the crumbs were there first. Crumbs = Reason for Ants. Obvious Solution to Ants = Eliminate Crumbs. It's called a broom. We have three. Reed's Solution = Buy Ant Trap 2000 and Place Next to Crumbs. Is that supposed to be bait or something?

Anyway...

In the dream, these initial small-ones were no match for the edge of my flip-flop. My Rainbows were most victorious. Each new centipede, however, was bigger and more stubborn than the last. It was like a Boss-Battle, and I had to make it through the boss' many stages and forms. A few 'pedes into the battle, one looked like this:

Only it was longer and angrier and made me miss my Puma Romas. This one was so long, I could only try to stomp on a third of it at a time. And its biting back made that difficult. At least they never got this big:

Amanda likes to freak out about her dreams. She over-analyzes them to no end. She called me up once after taking a nap. She said she'd had a bad dream, a "nightmare." Her nightmare basically was that she was about to cheat on me with some dude. She wanted to, and was about to, but the dude turned her down. I believe this dream dude said he was gay. Of course it's touching and wonderful that the thought of cheating on me was enough to upset her, but I couldn't help but laugh and tell her that that was only a nightmare because she didn't get any.

The dream bothered her for a couple days, but really she had no reason to mull it over: At least she wasn't battling 'pedes. I don't read into dreams. That's junk, if you ask me. Dreams are great for their randomness and the interesting juxtapositions that arise, but trying to figure out a dream is asking for a headache. It's like... it's like... trying to figure out a dream. The reason for my centipede dream is obvious: Metroid Prime 2: Echoes, what with its heavy insectoid imagery and artwork. But where was Samus when I needed her against the 'pedes?

Where were you, Samus?

Mace...out

Where's My DS?

...because I feel a [Picture] Dump comin' on.

First of all, let me apologize for the latency of this Dump. So much crap; so little time. Second of all, whoever designed graduation fashion never graduated from fashion school. You introduce me to the person who came up with the squared hat and I punch him in the neck--I'll even wear the hat while I punch. I write him because no woman would ever be so lacking of fashion sense to convince herself or anyone else that squared hats are distinguishingly academic-looking. No one looks good in these things. I'm convinced the whole cap/gown/squared hat thing is a last big faculty joke before their graduates go on to prove themselves as jokes in the "real world"--whatever the fuck that is.

On with the dump:

Let's forego the ceremony pics and get to the important aftermath.

The Two Most Important People in My Life (in No Order): !) Before either of my readers get a chance to comment--no, this is not my older sister. This is Ma. She can dance either of you--even Bryan--under the proverbial dancing table. And she could teach you, BM Seth, more than a few things about der bluezen.

@) The Hawk - I apologize to those who missed meeting my family. I planned on them all being around later than they could stay. I hate to admit for whom there was the most buzz about meeting, but The Hawk was #1 by far--mostly due to how much I've written about him, seeing as though he's a writing goldmine. Here he is, in all his Grizzly Adams/Gandalf Glory.

[Editor's Note: real numbers fixed] From left to right: #4 Brother Timmon, myself, The Hawk, #1 Brother Lucas.

Where's number #2?

#2 is Justin, and even if I could have gotten a hold of him (which I tried and failed to), he wouldn't have (been able to?) come. I'm not bitter; that's just the facts. I'm uber blessed and pleased with how many family were able to come as it was!

Far left: #5 Brother Dan.

Wait a second! I thought there were only FOUR Mason boys!!!1

OK, this is going to take some explaining: The hip gentlemen on the far left is Daniel Mason--common-law step brother. Here's the short history: Dan happens to share the same last name with we Masons. The Hawk and Dan's mother lived together for several years after my parents split up. Even before then, we were all church cronies at the church my Grandpa built--so there's family-friend history plus unacknowledged step-family history. It's all really fucked up, yes. Let's just call him Drunken Pirate Dan and be done with the whole weird soap opera, K? K.

At some point in every man's life, he must wear his father's hat. Most fathers' hats, however, aren't adorned with Red-Tailed Hawk tail feathers. You can tell that Sal took this pic because her bazillion camera flashes send my eyes scattering. No, I wasn't drunk. Yet.

Blue Bricks opens at noon on Saturdays. We were there at noon-fifteen. This man is #2 for the most buzz about meeting: T-Bone/T-Square/Green-T... The Infamous Timmon. Much later that evening, Koelsch and Zinnel came up with the best Timmon nickname ever: Intimmondator. Holy fuck. Why hadn't we thought of that before? Regardless, here is my brother, Timmon.

Later the evening, several SLPeeps arrived (several of whom have already been pictured here at AOAB). From left to right: He Who is Koelsch, myself, Zinnel, Grant, and Mal. Photographer: Sal--don't worry, babe; you're in the pics coming up! Location: Mexican Village. O, Mexican Village Burritos, how I love you. O, Mexican Village Burritos, how my toilet loathes you.

There she is, right in the middle of all that home-towny goodness.

Grant and Mal--who has an oak's patience for idiots like us. O Mal, Grant, someday we'll work out that foursome.

Koelsch can hold the camera. Stop flexing, Koelsch. That's so '82.

Whoa whoa whoa... Koelsch, meet Koelsch.

Whoa whoa whoa... Grant, meet Grant. What a cute couple. They even kissed after J2B2 started a game of Heinz Spin the Bottle.

It would be impossible to guestimate how many times I've drummed for Sara while she danced. But we don't need to tap that wellspring of sappiness yet again. Sara will always remember me by the "Unsung Hero" award that I left in her car after this year's Theatre and Dance Gala award ceremony. I guess that's the thing about unsung heroes: They don't complain about not being acknowledged, and they lose their awards when they are.

More dancers!: Megan and Bryan Who Thinks Naughtilie is Beautiful. Megan was one of the only dancers who I successfully taught how to Do the Whale--which sounds scandalous, now that I've written it. But I asure you that it simply involves a licked finger and taught calf skin. Shit. There's no way out of this one.

Megan: Fish in my hay-ah! Fish in my hay-ah!

Bryan: If you ever hope to get me into fishnet again, you'd better act quick.

[EN: So much unity!]

This is when things kinda got weird:

So, yeah, I have complex about my freakish hands, but it's Grant's right hand that's the cause of the face I'm making.

Girls!

Buddy Koelsch, Jack-n-Coke is not a man's drink. Jack is. Stop flexing. And if you're reading this, WhyTF are you reading this? You should be posting on the Blog of Eternal Stench instead. Also, stop flexing.

So like, who doesn't love Chard, right? I don't know so much about Jackass Next to Him, who made Chard wear his pink sweater. I think Chard knew him, but the look into the camera screams of just wanting to please everybody, even drunk acquaintances.

Things got weirder: Sad Mace. Sad Man. Kissing is the Zinnel.

And They Were Brought Together Again--Naughtilie and Bryan Who Thinks Naughtilie is Beautiful. Thanks, Bry. Now we'll never hear the end. Ahh shucks. Who isn't a sucker for poise?

Cherry coke has a profound effect on Zinnel. I think an intervention is in order. I'll bring cookies.

There are more cosmic things happening here than Brawnce and I posing for yet another picture. What doesn't Jessica see collected in the high tiles of Blue Bricks? What hasn't gotten caught up there to linger forever, smelling of smoke and sour beer spills, only traceable elsewhere in pictures on blogs?

Great pictures like this one. And countless others. Fond memories of experiences that I'll cherish forev--what? Tequila shots?! Sure!!!1

Mace...out

PS: If any-yall have pictures from this historic night that deserve publication at AOAB, send them please!

Best Pic Ever

Scotsman Drinking Mexican Beer Wearing Viking Helmet

I stole this pic from the now-and-future MFA nonsense-documentation site. By warned: Anything incriminating you do may be photographed by DJ New Girl and posted on the internet. What a time to leave.

Mace...out

For Those About to Rook...

This is how big of a chess tournament we're shooting for. So far, we have eight seeds and one alternate. I'm bracketed with my nemesis, Horsey Killer Hein, in the first round. It's a well-balanced pairing, her and I, except for that I like to lose my queen early and often. If neither of us makes stupid mistakes, I predict Hein checkmating me twenty-one moves into stalemate. If I don't manage to take her queen and both rooks, checkmate seven moves into stalemate.

The best thing about our upcoming tourney is the reward for losing. Once I go out in the first round, I get to play Chess 4 with the other losers. Chess 4 is where I'm a Viking.

Amanda, my birthday is July 19th--we can celebrate early if you'd like. Naked chess?