Ants on a Blog

Best Goalie Mask Ever

2008-11-02T12:04:00.003-06:00

The Force is strong with this one

If only an awesome helmet made for an awesome goalie. Good luck, Martin Gerber. Ever notice the really good goalies don't have fancy helmets? Artistry, notoriety--a Jedi craves not these things.

And if half of the other goalies with awesome masks were half as good as their masks, the other half who are actually good goalies would get half as much more respect that they deserve. The above link, however, is lacking severely of Josh Harding's several thoughtful masks--except for the Rascal Flatts homages. Ugh.

Mace... out.

Day of Doom Playlist

2008-10-24T13:25:00.019-05:00

First I'd like to thank a few music-related people without whom I wouldn't have gotten so many gracious comments about the music at my wedding. So shout outs to DJ Kool Hanz, my oldest brother, and DJ Drewski for hooking up the amazing sound system and light show. Shout out also to Hip Replacement trombonist and general awesome dude, Kris James, for taking care of the more important MC duties throughout the evening.

And since I've received so many compliments about the music, I thought it would be appropriate to give the entire playlist here. I don't know what good it will do, except to show the makeup of what has been declared "the best wedding dance EVAR." Maybe we can go so far as to burn off copies of the music for those who are THAT interested. I don't know. We can talk about that. :)

Some general comments:

I was warned and warned and warned and Amanda worried and worried and worried about having an iPod wedding. Now that it's all done, however, the only thing I can think of saying to all the naysayers is "BOO YAH, BITCHES!"

Then again, I wouldn't recommend and iPod wedding to just anyone. I am extemely confident in my expertise with iTunes, iPods, my intimacy with my music library, and my ability to obtain necessary tracks at cruch time. For some rube without these comforts who's just looking to save $1,500-2,000 bucks that he'd be spending on a DJ, I would say "tread this path at your own peril."

If you have a sound system you trust, someone who you know can operate an iPod and minor MC duties, and your own confidence in knowing what makes a good playlist, I'd definitely recommend an iPod wedding. Putting the music together was one of my only personal touches on the whole event. Yeah, there were battles of what "needs" to go in there (fucking Chicken Dance), and there were battles on how to prioritize requests from guests, it means something to me to know that just about every track in these lists means something to me. The profundity of each meaning varies, from obligatory to call-off-the-wedding-if-this-song-isn't-in-there.

So, anyway, the music. I decided to map out the reception revolving around MC duties. I made a playlist for each section of uninterrupted music. So Cocktail hour, then a playlist for the Grand March, then a playlist for Dinner before speeches, etc. etc. It's important to make sure "Shuffle" and "Repeat" are turned off in the iPod's settings so that these playlists play through without--duh--repeating or shuffling. That way, you choose the order of songs, hit play once, and everything sails smooth.

So, anyway (again), the music:

When I'm Nintendo 64

01 Pre-Dinner (18 songs, 1.2 hours, 104.8mb)
[Track # - Artist - Song - Album]
01) The Beatles "When I'm Sixty-Four" - Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band
02) Johnny Cash "A Boy Named Sue" - The Legend of Johnny Cash
03) Herbie Hancock "Milestones" - Columbia Years 1972-1986
04) The Spinners "I'll Be Around" - Spinners
05) Silly Wizard "The Queen of Argyll" - Kiss the Tears Away
06) Howard Shore "Many Meetings" - The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Rings OST
07) Planxty "Cunla" - The Well Below the Valley
08) John Coltrane "Giant Steps" - Giant Steps
09) Radiohead "Let Down" - OK Computer
10) Kool & The Gang "Summer Madness" - Ganthology
11) John Coltrane "Summertime" - My Favorite Things
12) Planxty "Bean Phaidin" - The Well Below the Valley
13) Beck "Sing it Again" - Mutations
14) Howard Shore (featuring Isabel Bayradkarian) "Evenstar" - The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers OST
15) Bobby Womack "Across 110th Street" - Across 110th Street OST
16) Planxty "The Jolly Beggar" - Planxty
17) Stevie Wonder "For Once in My Life" - The Definitive Collection
18) Miles Davis "Milestones" - Denial

Not so White Wedding

02 Grand March (1 song, 4.1min, 3.9mb)
01) Billy Idol "White Wedding" - Billy Idol

My vote for the Grand March was Carl Orff "Fortuna Imperatrix Mundi, No 1: O Fortuna" - Carmina Burana. That would have been just... just... epic. Nope: vetoed by her. Instead, it was White Wedding, and several people in the wedding party didn't even remember. :(

So cool

03 Dinner 1 (14 songs, 1.2 hours, 118.1mb)
01) Miles Davis "All Blues" - Kind of Blue
02) The Beatles "Blackbird" - The White Album
03) Planxty "As I Roved Out" - The Well Below the Valley
04) Howard Shore "Concerning Hobbits" - The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring OST
05) Frank Sinatra "East of the Sun (and West of the Moon)" - The Golden Years
06) Beck "Feather in Your Cap" - It's All in Your Mind
07) Silly Wizard "The Valley of Strathmore" - So Many Partings
08) Dave Brubeck "Take Five" - Take Five
09) Opeth "Windowpane" - Damnation
10) Silly Wizard "If I was a Blackbird" - Wild and Beautiful
11) John Williams "Princess Leia's Theme" - Star Wars Episode IV: A New Hope OST
12) Joe Henderson "Mode for Joe" - Mode for Joe
13) Planxty "'P' Stands for Paddy, I Suppose" - Cold Blow and the Rainy Night
14) Frank Sinatra "My Blue Heaven" - Legendary Concerts Vol. 3

--Best Speeches Ever--

So hot

04 Dinner 2 (16 songs, 1.3 hours, 117.2mb)
01) Peggy Lee "Fever" - The Best of Miss Peggy Lee
02) Planxty "Three Drunken Maidens" - Unknown
03) Opeth "Death Whispered a Lullaby" - Damnation
04) Silly Wizard "Wi' My Dog and Gun" - So Many Partings
05) Miles Davis "So What" - Kind of Blue
06) Planxty "The Blacksmith" - Planxty
07) Dave Brubeck "Blue Rondo a la Turk" - Unknown
08) Howard Shore (featuring Annie Lennox) "Into the West" - The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King OST
09) John Coltrane "Blue Train" - Blue Train
10) Silly Wizard "Fear a Bhata" - Caledonia's Hardy Sons
11) Frank Sinatra "Fools Rush in" - The Golden Years
12) John Williams "Parade of the Ewoks" - Star Wars Episode VI: The Return of the Jedi
13) Rod Stewart "Forever Young" - Out of Order
14) Planxty "Three Reels" - Unknown
15) Frank Sinatra "Begin the Beguine" - The Best of Vol. 2
16) Bill Withers "Lovely Day" - Lean on Me: The Best of Bill Withers

So hip

05 First Dance (1 song, 3.2min, 4.9mb)
01) Al Green "Let's Stay Together" - Let's Stay Together

We were originally torn between "Let's Stay Together" and The Spinner's "I'll Be Around," but upon further inspection of the lyrics of "I'll Be Around," we realized the song's message was basically: "Hey, yeah we're broken up. But if you ever want to you know... hook up booty call do it, I'll Be Arooooouuunnnd." So we thought "Let's Stay Together" had a somewhat more wholesome message for a wedding.

So...

06 Father Daughter Dance (1 song, 3.5min, 4.8mb)
01) Heartland "I Loved Her First" - I Loved Her First

Aside from a certain Hallmark, manufactured quality of this song, there's no denying the power it has over fathers who are proud, grown men. One such gentleman, who was at the wedding and who will remain unnamed [Editor's Note: Dave Schottenbauer], had to leave the room when this song started playing. There's definitely something to that that even I can't dis.

So junior high

07 Mother Son Dance (1 song, 4.7min, 4.4mb)
01) Jane's Addiction "Jane Says" - Nothing's Shocking

A weird pick for a mother son dance, but somehow fitting since she was forced to listen to the song, oh, about a million times through junior high. It was Mah's idea--though, I think she was kidding--and I loved the juxtaposition that helped illustrate a beautiful merging of two failry different families. That, and Mah and I ran out of time to find another song.

I'd do 'im. There. I said it.

08 Wedding Party (2 songs, 7.9min, 7.3mb)
01) Prince "Kiss" - Parade
02) James Brown "Get Up Offa that Thang" - Unknown

At the beginning of "Get Up..." the wedding party ran out and grabbed people from the crowd to join the dance. Halfway through the song, everyone did the same again. By the time the song was over, and the next playlist started, the dance floor was overflowing and stayed that way pretty much all night, as will be evidenced by the awesomeness of the following playlists.

Your Kung Fu(nk) is strong

09 Dance 1 (16 songs, 1.1 hours, 96.5mb)
01) Earth Wind & Fire "September" - September
02) Sister Sledge "We are Family" - The Definitive Groove Collection
03) The Isley Brothers "Shout" - The Essential Isley Brothers
04) Lee Ann Womack "I Hope You Dance" - Greatest Hits
05) Tower of Power "So Very Hard to Go" - What is Hip Anthology
06) Roy Orbison "Pretty Woman" - Classics Vol. 3
07) The Emeralds "Chicken Dance" - Unknown Uncared About
08) Bee Gees "Stayin' Alive" - Bee Gees Greatest
09) The Contours "Do You Love Me" - Unknown
10) David Bowie "Rebel Rebel" - Diamond Dogs
11) Kenny Rogers "Through the Years" - Share Your Love
12) Kool & The Gang "Ladies' Night" - Gangthology
13) Beastie Boys "Brass Monkey" - Licensed to Ill
14) Bobby Helms "My Special Angel" - Unknown
15) ABBA "Mamma Mia" - ABBA
16) Kool & The Gang "Celebration" - Celebration

Lord of the Ringos

10 Dollar Dance (6 songs, 21.4min, 35.1mb)
01) The Beatles "In My Life" - Rubber Soul
02) Ryan Adams "Two" - Easy Tiger
03) Billy Joel "She's Got a Way" - Cold Spring Harbor
04) Billie Holiday "Blue Moon" - Unknown
05) Van Morrison "Tupelo Honey" - Favourites
06) Tori Amos "You Belong to Me" - Mona Lisa Smile OST

Ugh. Mona Lisa Smile. Brutal. What wasn't butal was that we had to play this playlist twice since we were making bank. Another brutal thing is a nasty little Schottebauer wedding tradition of putting all Dollar Dance funds into a bottle of Karo Syrup. The (once) happy couple then gets to somehow retreive the money from the jar, rinse off the bills, wait for them to dry, and then try to explain to a poor teller why exactly the bills are so wrinkled and sticky when they deposit the cash.

Amanda and I won this battle, though. We just cut open the plastic bottle, rinsed, and wiped each bill before placing them in front of fan. The whole process took only about an hour. Amanda also told her family that we had to do it the hard way, just to let them have their satisfaction before knowing the easy truth. :D

Are you down wit' da boogie?

11 Dance 2 (44 songs, 3.1 hours, 251.1mb)
01) Kool & The Gang "Jungle Boogie" - Gangthology
02) Michael Jackson "Don't Stop 'til You Get Enough" - Off the Wall
03) McFadden & Whitehead "Ain't No Stoppin' Us Now" - McFadden & Whitehead
04) Glenn Miller "In the Mood" - Unknown Uncared About
05) Ella Fitzgerald "Night and Day" - The Cole Porter Songbook Vol. 1
06) Jackie DeShannon "Needles and Pins" - Unknown
07) Madonna "Vogue" - Madonna
08) James Brown "Super Bad" - Super Bad
09) The Brothers Johnson "Stomp!" - Stomp!
10) Bryan Adams "(Everything I Do) I Do if For You" - The Best of Me
11) Bon Jovi "Living On a Prayer" - Slippery When Wet
12) Jamiroquai "Canned Heat" - Synkronized
13) Peaches & Herb "Shake Your Groove Thang" - Unknown
14) Peter Cetera "Glory of Love" - Solitude/Solitare
15) The Bangles "Eternal Flame" - Everything
16) ABBA "Dancing Queen" - Dancing Queen
17) Prince "I Would Die 4 U" - Purple Rain
18) Stevie Wonder "Superstition" - The Definitive Collection
19) The Commodores "Easy" - The Ultimate Collection
20) Cyndi Lauper "Time After Time" - She's So Unusual
21) The B-52s "Love Shack" - Cosmic Thing
22) Earth Wind & Fire "Let's Groove" - Greatest Hits
23) Andre 3000 "Hey Ya!" - Speakerboxxx
24) Tower of Power "You're Still a Young Man" - What is Hip Anthology
25) Mr. Big "To Be with You" - Lean into It
26) Right Said Fred "I'm Too Sexy" - Good God Who Cares?
27) Michael Jackson "Remember the Time" - Dangerous
28) Bee Gees "Night Fever" - Bee Gee Greatest
29) The Scorpions "Wind of Change" - Crazy World
30) Etta James "At Last" - Unknown
31) Rick Springfield "Jessie's Girl" - Unknown
32) Rick Astley "Never Gonna Give You Up" - Wherever You Go
33) Barry White "Never, Never Gonna Let You Go" - Stone Gon'
34) Prince "Purple Rain" - Purple Rain

We had to stop the playlist at this point because it was after midnight. While we missed out on the last ten songs, it was already a great success, and what a better way to go than with "Purple Rain!" Here are the rest of the songs on the playlist that were forfeited:

So Pokorny

35) The Whispers "Emergency" - Anthology
36) Lionel Richie "All Night Long" - Unknown
37) Guns N Roses "Sweet Child of Mine" - Appetite for Destruction
38) The Police "Every Breath You Take" - Synchronicity
39) Weezer "My Name is Jonas" - Weezer
40) Michael Jackson "The Way You Make Me Feel" - Bad
41) Poison "Every Rose has its Thorn" - Open Up and Say... Ahh!
42) Journey "Don't Stop Believin'" - Escape
43) Night Ranger "Sister Christian" - Midnight Madness
44) Meatloaf "I'd Do Anything for Love (but I Won't Do That)" - Bat Outta Hell II: Back into Hell

Thanks again to everyone who thought the music was great, who helped make the music possible, and who danced--well or otherwise.

Mace... out.

Cool Animator Dudes v. Corporate Zombie Trolls

2008-08-12T20:59:00.009-05:00

Part One

The Cool Animator Dudes with whom Zen Bank shares a building are just flaunting it now. Two more small episodes today were sobering reality checks to just how awful corporation jobs are.

Zen Bank had an all-employee staff meeting this morning, like we do every two months. Here's a run-down of one of these artifices of corporate importance:

7:30am - I walk in no earlier than I need to be and fill a plate with mini-muffins, cinirollettes--anything--and a styro cup with scorched-earth coffee. Why? Because the pain from the subsequent gutrot and lava-flayed mouth is a more welcome feeling than the upcoming forty-five minutes of pretending to like each other and pretending the banking world isn't being hit hard.

"Not this early in the morning!"

7:35am - Mini-muffins and cinirollettes decimated; flayed skin hanging from the roof of the mouth. Let's get this over with.

"Generic weather comment!"

7:36am - Birthdays! For the people who have been attending these meetings for decades, this event is exciting. Each employee whose birthday lands that month or the next gets to reach into a plastic pot full of ping pong balls. Everyone is granted a half-day of Paid Time Off for their birthday, but if they pull out a ping pong ball with the month or day of their birthday written on it, they get a full day of PTO. There's a wild card too: a orange ping pong ball for another chance at a full day!

"Competitive saying left over from my high school football days thirty-five years ago that will somehow inspire someone to pick the orange ball!"

The trolls and zombies love this part of the meeting because it's the only one left up to chance. The rest is dictated by the dooming reality of statistics, trends, and some other third thing that resembles the worst episodes of the Twilight Zone--not worst-chilling or worst-thought-provoking, but worst-campy, -produced, or -cheesey.

"Playful ribbing about your golf swing!"

Anniversaries are thrown in here at the end: this could be you! You could be hobbling up there to receive your crystal paperweight for thirty years of service. At year thirty-five, your paperweight has a clock in it. This could be you. Watch and remember.

7:47am - Slideshow... if they can figure out how to simply connect a laptop to a projector and if the viruses with which they infect the entire network haven't made it impossible to run Powerpoint. Graphs... stats... "... n% under the goal..." We're doomed.

"Next quarter, right?"

8:15am - Guest speaker. This morning's guest speaker was a police officer who spoke about new trends in fraud and theft. Moral of that story: they're faster, smarter, and more creative; we're doomed.

"Buck up! Go team!"

This is where it got interesting this morning. During the ending speech meant to keep solidarity and employment pride soaring, in the ironic face of a completely hopeless and routinely superficially-themed staff meeting... booming, industrial techno falls heavily from the Cool Animator Dudes above us.

I heard it; Demon heard it; but everyone else pretended not to. It was obvious that they were having a better morning upstairs than I was downstairs. I imagined they were having a staff meeting too, but there staff meetings kick off their mornings with a Quake LAN party, an early-NIN soundtrack, 'sage egg McMuffs, and Bawls for some real gut rot.

The juxtaposition of pathetic silver linings and pseudo-inspirado pep talk accompanied by a far-off rave, was wonderful. Ampliphied in my head, it was perfect.

Score one for Cool Animator Dudes.

Part Two

INT. Office Building shared hallway - Outside of the communal bathroom

Mason exits the bathroom and pockets his DS. His morning gut rot, to which he added the largest, most-promising piece of birthday cake he could find, and coupled with a McDeez lunch of three dub-chee-burgz, had escalated his status into a suitable misery. Having just dropped off his misery and failing to solve a Puzzle Quest session, he heads back towards his department at Zen Bank.

A door in the hallway swings open as Mason walks by. A Cool Animator Dude walks out, talking on a cell phone.

COOL ANIMATOR DUDE
(into cell phone)
What's up, dude? ... Just rockin' to some
Screamin' Trees, poundin' out some animation. You?

Mason's shoulders slump as he walks away, and from his core emanates the forlorn theme from The Incredible Hulk.

Score two Cool Animator Dudes.

Mace... out.

Logic Problem

2008-08-03T17:31:00.007-05:00

Despite a somewhat slow spring and early summer, over the last two years Hip Replacement has been doing very well. We've averaged about a gig per month with exceptions both ways and have landed a lot of great gigs. This is a complete turn around from our early days, which consisted of very few gigs and none of them great (Kings of Ice Cream Socials).

Last night, we played at a most prestigious Minneapolis venue. The sound man at this bar is perhaps the best sound man I've ever worked with. We've only worked with him twice now, but I would never hesitate to play any gig this guy runs.

Bands are treated really well where we played, what with being given a couple cases of beer and 50 complimentary tickets to give out in order to fill the room. So with a great sound man, an awesome location (practically right down the street from our rehearsal space), and being treated well, it's hard to think of reasons not to want to play there. Last night, however, the bar left me with a bad taste in my mouth--and it wasn't the complimentary High Life.

The Shitpagne of Beer.

When it came time for them to cut our check for headlining on a Saturday night, the invoice included a curious item: "cover songs $-6.00."

Really?

Out of our 15-song set list last night, five were covers--and a vast majority of the people possibly never heard three of those five (unless they've seen us play before). None of us have ever seen anything like this before, and a lot of us have played a lot of shows (covers and otherwise).

Granted, we're still pretty much a no-name band, but they were only going to pay us $100. After being invited only five days in advance. To headline. On a Saturday night. After we had to be there since 5pm (we went on at 11:45). On a night when one of the opening acts was a no-show. I'm not trying to sound ungrateful, but we've been paid more for less work and fewer pains and to play in front of fewer people (thanks again if you came out to see us!).

On top of all that, we get docked $6 for playing covers? Of course, it's only $6, but are we supposed to look the other way just because we're being nickel-n-dimed?

The irony struck me stupid for a few minutes. Original acts have to fight to get any gigs in Minneapolis or anywhere without playing covers. I guarantee that down the street last night at any given bar, a cover band was paid $300 to play the same top forty hits that they played last weekend and the weekend before and before (back until those songs were contemporary). Would those bars dock $6 if a cover band threw in a few original songs? F no. They wouldn't even notice; they'd too busy raking money like so many leaves into piles for diving into like Scrooge McDuck.

At some point in every musician's career, covers are a necessary step. You have to prove that you understand how songs become hits, and also prove that you can play them, in order to prove that your original music is worth a damn. It's a competitive market in which there is an innumerable amount of people with the shared dream of playing music for the masses. I will always prefer original music to covers, but at base I respect anyone out there playing. It might not seem like all that big of a step from the basement to the stage, but it's one that puts a musician ahead of a gear-fetishist and brand-snob who never puts all that technology nor specialized equipment to use.

The fallacy of every music scene is that covers were once new, original music that became popularized by radio and video. They became people's favorite songs, and when those people go out, they want to hear their favorite songs because they know them. Bars know this, so they are more likely to hire bands that will make their general occupants happy. Happy occupants = drunker occupants = richer bar. Bands know that bars know this, too. If music is the supply, it will naturally follow the demand. Bands with more gigs = richer bands = happy bands.

The bar we played at last night has always prided itself in being a supporter of live, original music. That's great. But is charging an original act that happens to play a couple covers really supportive? In a music scene that, again, breeds cover bands? When they're only paying the headliner $100, anyway? Or is it greed, thinly-veiled with altruistic policy? The $5.25 they charge for a bottle of beer certainly supports that thought. It's perfectly fine if a venue picks and chooses who plays for them based on their music policy. If you want covers, hire cover bands. If you want original acts, hire original acts. In our case, if it's a slight mix of both, give us a heads up. That's how to be supportive. Is feeing us a solution to anything? I didn't know you can fee music.

When it comes down to it, I'd play any gig for free. HR is happy when we make enough gig money to pay for our monthly rent at the studio. So I don't mean to complain--though I'm sure that's exactly what it sounds like. I'd like rather to plead to venues not to make it harder than it already is to play music for people. We want to play at your bar for your thirsty occupants. But really, we just want to play.

Mace... out.

Calm Down. Everything's Fine: I Did Not Lose My DS Afterall.

2008-05-20T13:40:00.006-05:00

Don't be mad, Precious!

Yesterday after work I headed to dreaded Target to pick up some toilet paper. Now now. The toilet paper is an important detail that will be fulfilled later in the post--not just another excuse for poop jokes. On my way out of Target and before picking up beer at Byerly's, I realized that my DS was not in my left hip pocket, where it would normally be after work.

There was an initial wave of panic and heavy breathing (and not the normal kind that's also associated with toilet paper). I calmed down, though, once I decided I must have simply left my DS in my desk at the bank. I fired up the truck, Grond, blasted the 'Pod through my new aux-out stereo deck, and crossed the street to Byerly's, in search of delicious, discounted beer without another thought for my stranded DS.

This morning I expected to slide open my desk drawer to see my DS frowning up at me, impatiently tapping its stylus like a mother having stayed up all night waiting for a naughty son to come home. My DS, however, was not there.

An aside: When I lose things I react in subtly different ways. When I lose a round of Smash Brothers, I congratulate the winner and resist the urge to happy poke their ribs. When I lose a softball game (happens a lot), I remind myself I'm playing for fun, tradition, and pitcher beer after the game. When the Wild lost in this year's playoffs to the Colorado Avalance in six games, I wrote an epic, season's end post that took ten hours to compile (all on company time, of course). When I lost my cat, Fizzgig, in Jr. High to a urinary problem treatable only by euthanasia, I was down for a month but not wailing my lamentations. In all these cases, my reactions are (usually) pretty calm and collected.

R.I.P. Fizzgig

I had already reacted poorly to this most recent loss of my DS the night before. Then, I was more disappointed about not being able play. I had thought I knew where the DS was. This second realization of the contrary was different. More panic, heavier breathing, a tear or two etc.

I asked myself all sorts of questions starting with "who," "what," "when," and such, but nothing came to mind. There are only a few places my DS ever rests: my pocket, my desk at home, my desk at work, and the toilet paper dispenser in the bathroom at work (echo... echo...).

Everyone's got to pull up their pants some time, and most of us need two hands. I have left it there on the dispenser a couple times. Before long afterwards, though, I would race back and snatch it up with an apology and a buffing of the screens. This time I had left it there over night, not just a few minutes.

Time was my enemy in more ways than one. The longer it sat there, the more likely I would never see it again. And I had all morning to worry. I emailed friends for consolation. I drafted a mock-up for a potential "Have You Seen Me?" poster with important info like: "Hello. I'm a DS who's only a year old. I respond to the name 'Precious,' I'm afraid of the dark, and my previous owner misses me so much!"

I called three fellow employees, one of whom cleans the whole bank and the community bathrooms for the building in which the bank is located. That bathroom is my paradise away from my desk and the trolls on the phone. He didn't see it when he cleaned the previous night. I wanted to grill him, squeeze the facts and the truth out of him. But I restrained. No one else knew how to get a hold of the building maintenance guy, or if there even was a lost-and-found. As if, I thought, anyone would give up such a sweet find...

That is, unless they worked in the building and thought someone might come lookin' for it.

Another aside: I have a peculiar relationship building with the Cool Animator Dudes and Cute Animator Girls who work at a medical animation company that shares the second floor of our office building. The only time I see any of them and share a greeting, is en route to and from the bathroom. Many of these guys I only see while in the bathroom. They're all genuinely friendly, young, tattooed, and hip--a fresh breath compared to the sterile, back-stabbing, stressfest goings-on at the bank. When I see these people, it's like I'm at The Herkimer having a Dunkel Weiss and sharing The Onion headlines that we picked up from a rack in the entry way.

It's a bizarro relationship built solely on intersecting bowel movement cycles.

I found some hope in another realization of good chances: that one of these guys could have found the DS on the TP dispenser and felt pity, because maybe he has forgotten something of his on the same dispenser--maybe even his own DS! I hoped whoever found it would fire it up and noticed the homebrew card, with a fully marked calendar and planner, and I hoped it would make them realize the owner takes far more than casual enjoyment from the device.

I put my faith in betting on honest, office cohabitants, sucked up my pride and went forth to ask an embarrassing question.

INT. HIP ANIMATION STUDIO - AFTERNOON

MASON enters the wide double-doors and scans the room, awe and jealousy evident on his face. The vivid, colorful design in the room is testament to the creativity and imagination necessary for their line of work. They even have life-giving plants. The institutional sterility of the bank's decor speaks to dollars-and-cents, overdraft fees, performance reviews, and cover-your-ass customer service.

MASON V.O.
There is hope here. Hope smells like ideas,
Peace Coffee, and 3d-rendering.
(sniffs)
I can smell the DS too.

A Cute Animator Girl and the owner of the company are chatting at the front desk. Both see Mason enter and welcome him. The girl recognizes him from their intersecting bowel movement cycles. Mason has only seen the owner twice: once when the animators moved in a year and a half ago, and the second time being now, just before asking a humbling question.

CUTE ANIMATOR GIRL
Hi.

OWNER
How can we help you?

MASON
Umm. Well, I work at the bank...

Gestures pointlessly through the door in the general direction of the bank, just in case they save lost DSes and can see through walls.

MASON
Anyway, it's rather embarrassing actually. Did
any of the fellas here find a Nintendo DS...
in the men's room?

CUTE ANIMATOR GIRL
Oh...

OWNER
A Nintendo DS, you say?

MASON
Yeah. I might have left it there yesterday
after I... was in there.

OWNER
I'll just go ask around, if you can wait
a couple minutes.

MASON
Thank you.

Several awkward moments pass.

MASON
That's what I get, ya know? For stopping
there after work to wash my hands.
Not anything else of course, just to...
and ohp! Left it on the counter, ya know?

CUTE ANIMATOR GIRL
Right. That happens.

She at least appears to appreciate his lie and courteous attempt to sidestep the obvious.

MASON
Boy, it sure is nice in here. Nothing
like the bank! They took away our plants
to cut cut back on "useless spending."
So... No plants.

CUTE ANIMATOR GIRL
That's awful.

The owner comes back with a Cool Animator Dude with neck tattoos and several piercings. He holds up the DS and smiles.

COOL ANIMATOR DUDE
Did you lose a white one?

They all laugh because they actually know what a Nintendo DS is, and that it could have been another color if another person had lost their red, black, or any variety of Jolly Rancher-colored DS in the same bathroom, and it is good. Mason keeps his tears in check.

MASON
Wow. Thank you. This is amazing.
Who would have thought there would be
good souls in a building that houses
a bank, ya know?

The animators laugh but trail off and look sorry for Mason.

MASON
Say, speaking of which, are you guys looking
to hire a writer?

All told, I was parted from my DS for roughly 20 hours, 15 hours of which were blissful ignorance to its true fate.

I promise, DS, to keep you away from toilet paper, dispensed or otherwise. Maybe I'll get a belt loop chain for you like the Cool Animator Dude's wallet chain. Welcome back, Precious, and please don't be mad.

Mas... Out and stylusing again

Cat Proximity -xkcd

2008-04-26T17:51:00.002-05:00

Only xkcd would be able to perfectly graph the proximal effect of kitties.

Reflections on 88 Games

2008-04-23T08:15:00.016-05:00

After Saturday's Game 6 loss to Colorado I set my Facebook status to "Jared Mason is sullen, down-trodden, and some other third thing." The last part is a Metalocalypse reference, but the more I thought about it I realized there definitely was some other third thing bothering me. I've been feeling it for months, probably; I only noticed it recently, though. Looking back, this was a very successful season overall. So why does it seem to me that this season stressed me out more than any other so far?

There were plenty of reasons for pride. This year, at least our regular season, was by far our best. But it seemed that for all the bright spots, there was also darkness causing me worry. I think there was more good, yet somehow I let my vision linger too long in the dark.

The Wild won the Northwest Division, their first in their seven seasons and Minnesota's first in 24 years (North Stars '83-84 season). Undoubtedly awesome. It will be a glorious day when we raise that banner to the rafters, the second banner raised in Wild history after retiring jersey #1 for Wild fans.

Gaborik stayed (comparatively) healthy all year and put up record numbers, showing his worth after years of patience from the State. He was held to a single point in six playoff games--more a testament to Colorado's attention than will or effort on Gabby's part.

Rolston was yet again a stud--in different ways, too, since fewer and fewer teams and goalies fall for his one-trick-pony slapshot. He lead the team in playoff points (2g, 4a) and was a +4. He was a calm, wise voice of reason in the locker room.

Parrish, too, said important things all season. This is good, since he didn't do many good things on the ice all season.

We're left to ponder what wonders Koivu could have accomplished if hadn't missed 25 games after Ohlund played Paul Bunyan with his ankle. Still though, producing 3g and 2a in the playoffs, Koivu emerged this season like a mighty narwhal through arctic ice. He lead by example, his teammates playing with him like an inspired murder of narwhals.

Backstrom was Blind Guardian in goal (that's a good thing for you non-BG dorks).

Harding struggled, but his starts tripled and included stretches of excellence.

Bouchard established a Wild record with 50 assists and gave us another (dare I say better) shootout spin-o-rama.

Burns became an historic Wild defender and an intoxicating player to watch. He made us have fun by having fun himself.

Schultz was Eastwood on our blue line. His inspiring Game 6 appearance is illustrative of what kind of professional grace we can expect for six more years.

Veilleux was like the ghost of Wes Walz. Honor Walz! Retire #37! Maybe the day we raise the Northwest Champs banner we'll raise a third one, eh? #37 to the rafters? It would be the height of classiness.

We ought to thank Fedoruk, Boogaard, Carney, Hill, Simon, and even Voros for the gravel in our gut and the spit in our eye. They policed accountability on teams taking liberties on our once namby-pamby physical game. They added fear to our arsenal.

Skoula... tried really hard.

Jaime MacDonald wrote pregame summaries for Wild.com all season. The only other writer I've read more is Tolkien. The two main things I've appreciated about MacDonald's summaries is his stubborn positivity and accurate eye for aftermath. I was a complete mess after each loss this year. The next day at work would reek of even grimmer death. Maybe the previous night I was looking only for our flaws. Maybe I was watching Skoula too much. Maybe I got too drunk--all three are probable. Then I'd eventually bring myself to read the upcoming pregame analysis, which would include observations and quotes about the previous game, and I'd feel better. Even after Game 4, which looked like the Avalanche against us warming house rubes, MacDonald wrote with hope and complied quotes that kept even me hanging on.

As for MacDonald's accurate eye, he shared an anecdote after Game 6 that I think summed up the entire season and the respect Lemaire deserves:

"It all reminded one of a subtle moment from Saturday's morning skate. Prior to the players hitting the ice, Lemaire was pushing a couple pucks around in one corner. As some of the coaches like to do, like basketball players shooting trick shots at practice, he tried to play a 200-foot bank shot off the far boards at the red line. Lemaire's puck made contact at exactly the red line, which is almost as much luck as it is skill, and it bounced towards the goal at the other end of the rink. The puck slowed down on the soggy, recently Zam-ed ice and eventually came to rest, straight on course for the goal, between the circles and the crease.

Lemaire did everything right, even found a little luck, but his shot, well on its way, just came up a bit short this time."

So back to the original question: why this dread? I think I invested a lot more into the team this year than in the past. Out of 82 regular season games and 6 playoff games, I can count how many I missed on one hand. Those that I missed, I taped... like, on VHS. I read game previews and pregame analysis (there's a difference) on Wild.com for just about every game. I read postgame summaries from three -.coms: Wild, ESPN, and NHL. I also read any article or segment on the three sites that gave mention of the Wild. I went to four games this year--not a lot but more than in the past--including Game 1 of the playoffs. Coincidentally, the Wild won one of those games (the only win I've ever seen live in nine seasons).

Maybe it comes down to simple logic: the more invested, the greater the risk. Like John Cusack in the rain: invested, soaking wet, yelling, "Wild, you fuckin' bitch. Let's work it out!"

I was angry leading up to Saturday night. I had put so much energy into the season and felt betrayed because the guys had let themselves (and myself) get into such a vulnerable position. Then I felt guilty because I realized I probably didn't have the right to feel betrayed.

So if it weren't for my hangover on Sunday morning, I would have risen early and driven to St. Paul and stood outside the Xcel, a boombox in my raised hands, Peter Gabriel waking the Wild and beckoning them to windows in their nighties.

It would have worked out; there would have been a yearbook ending before this season's credits. Even without an "In Your Eyes" ending, though, it'll still be OK. That's good, because it's probably better not to see Todd Fedoruk in frillies and lace.

It's my fault for feeling unwarranted betrayal. More invested, the greater the risk? There's just as much risk for reward, and it's my fault for not concentrating more on those rewards. Truly, this was the greatest season yet, but two comparisons make it a close running.

2007-08:
Marginally speaking, last season featured the Wild breaking 100 points (104) for a franchise record. It was a fun, high-scoring season with exciting shootouts and unknown players offering surprises each game. The season was soured only by a quick thwarting by the eventual cup champions, the Ducks.

2003:
2003 was magical because of heart taking the team so far into the playoffs, overcoming ridiculous odds. The guys made NHL history by wining two series after trailing 3-1. On paper, there was no way we should have done so well, and that's what made it so fun. It will take a Cup year to oust 2003 from being the most memorable season.

I feel better, but now what? There's the rest of the playoffs, another whole month of choking and heroism. Then we enter a dreadful lull. Luckily, though, it's summer and there are other things to distract:

- not getting ten-run-ruled in Park Tavern softball
- getting ten-pitcher-ruled at Park Tavern after softball
- Hip Replacement gigs
- Frisbee golf
- grilling and hefeweizen
- Sunday brunch with the Hawk, Kool Hanz, T-Square and the Hip Hop Nation
- scabs from biking
- garmz (Mario Kart Wii on April 27th! Who's hostin' the tourney?)
- camping/moss masks
- night swims at Cedar Lake
- bistro bar scenes--still looking for a local equivalent to Mankato's Blue Bricks

Hockey hibernates. Updates at Wild.com come about twice a month--thrice if I'm lucky. A couple important hockey-related events become the focal points:

June 20th:
2008 NHL Entry Draft. The Wild will have a pretty high pick because of their excellent season. Let's hope scouts Tommy Thompson and Blair Mackasey land another Bouchard, Koivu, Burns, Schultz, etc. Will there be another huge trade on draft day, like the one that brought Demitra into Gabby's arms?

July 1st:
2008 NHL Free Agent Market opens. This is the longest and often the most stressful part of the summer. The action really picks up in August, but each day could bring awesome or awful news. For once in eight years, the Wild are thin through center. Do we break from history and trade a draft pick for a big name center? Can you imagine: Demitra-Jokinen-Gaborik? We have a lot--I mean a lot--of weeding to do in our own garden, too. What do we do with Carney, Demitra, Rolston, Bouchard, and Foster? Those are the five biggest names in the list of restricted and unrestricted free agents. Do they let Demitra go or Rolston? Can we afford both Rolston and Demitra? At what expense? What about Gabby without Demo? Who's going to comb Gabby's hair?

See. I'm already stressing out.

Chill it out, Rud. Stay calm and positive, and keeping looking forward to Banner Day.

Picked a Keeper

2008-03-23T18:17:00.006-05:00

INT. HOME OFFICE - AFTERNOON

AMANDA and MASON sit in office chairs at their computers. WILLOW snoozes on the guest bed, lying on her back, spread-eagle-kitty. Mason pages through mid-80s X-Men comics on his screen. Amanda closes outs a few wedding-related website windows and turns to Mason's back.

AMANDA
Will you teach me to play Smash Brothers?

Mason turns to her.

MASON
I love you.

END

Hey, I know! Let's Roleplay that We're Roleplaying!

2008-03-18T23:48:00.010-05:00

This is a pretty standard, mediocre list that pollutes Digg all the time: "The 13 Best Electronic Versions of Dungeons & Dragons." I would normally browse this kinda list and forget about it in another minute, but one item nearly destroyed my brain when I read about it.

It's the 12th item down, about people who roleplay IN Second Life, the Massively Multi-player Online life simulator. As I understand it, SL prides itself on being as realistic as possible given that it's basically a chatroom inside a 3D universe. There's an internal economy, and users are able to write code for the "metaverse" based on what they want to do/see/buy.

I once read about a woman who had been a member for six years and had programmed jewelry that she sold in the game. Quite literally, she was selling merchandise in SL for their currency, the Linden Dollar, and actually making a profit in the real world. Of course, SL isn't the only MMO on which people make money. People have been making money off of World of Warcraft for a long time and Everquest even longer.

Anyway, I had already known that. But what I could never have imagined is that SL users--or "residents," but I'll never call them that--some users have immersed themselves so much that their characters actually play tabletop Dungeons & Dragons. Let's let that sink in for awhile...

That can't be healthy. The users themselves are sitting at their respective computers, and their characters are sitting at a table in Second Life, playing D&D. Often in these huge, 3D chatrooms, there are activities for avatars to do: dancing, darts, drinking, other d-words... All things that their character is actually doing in that fake universe. The characters dance; a little, digital dart flies across the room; characters drink and puke--whatever. The stimulation of those activities is visible right there, on the screen and inside that universe.

But with these SL roleplayers, the stimulation is in their digital brains! All an actual user sees happening is a group of characters sitting around a table with animations for rolling dice and writing on paper--the characters "acting out" their D&D characters' actions. All the while, one of them acts as the Dungeon Master and a "real" session of D&D is going on.

Riveting, isn't it? At least they're playing "outside."

It's like The Matrix inside The Matrix!!1

The saddest thing about it, I think, is that D&D in SL could mean that real life roleplaying is too social for some people to handle. They're dorks, and they want to roleplay, but they don't want to get out of their computer chair, invite their three friends over to go down into the basement to chuck dice and slay Pizza Hut, Doritos, and 2-liters of Dew. That's too overwhelming? They'd rather experience that from the safe, secure distance that an MMORPG-RPG can provide?

It bottles the mind.

What about the myriad smells and grease sheens that probably aren't in SL? What of the caffeine and sun-blasted headache that strikes upon the ascension from the cave after eight hours? What about arguments about exactly how many Hit-Dice Beholders have? Can a typist emote the venom and ferocity of those arguments via text-chatting?

"NO... NO... A 9th level Beholder would have hit dice of 9d8+3 not 9d10+3, you F'n dork!"

It's just not the same. Where's the Dorito spittle and flailing dice bags? Where's the mother wrenching open the door at the top of the stairs, screaming threats to drive all your friends home early if you can't play nice? And everyone involved should be listening to Manowar, not just the Second Life Dungeon Master. How's he supposed to make sure everyone's rocking the same atmosphere?

See what I mean? Totally unhealthy.

Can you imagine a LAN party during which gamers are logged into SL and playing D&D? Man! That's totally different! Not only would they be actually (kinda) socializing in the real world, but they'd also be socializing in an MMO and socializing in a D&D session in the MMO! Vast levels and mastery of socializing.

I guess dorks aren't shut-ins afterall.

Mace...out of HP.

Seven Month Recap in Two Parts

2008-03-16T14:04:00.013-05:00

Part One

So much for the last rebirth (and the one before that, and the one before that). This time, I mean it! I've taken uncomfortable steps towards ensuring that I'll keep myself honest and continue to update Ants on a Blog: I have sought out the aid of a long-time enemy: Facebook.

Yes, AssFacebook, that contraband website surfed in secret in English computer labs the country over. I've had a profile for a couple years, since back when I needed to find out exactly what my students would rather do than to listen to my dick-jokes in class. I didn't do anything with it then because it didn't focus on what I wanted to do: blog. There was little else I liked about FB at the time because Ants was already going strong and saw two and a half glorious years of attention. Then things changed, I came back to SLP, and there seemed fewer reasons to keep it up.

Excuses, excuses.

The most recent reason why I'm trying again came about while I was working on an application for a blogger position for a video game website (more on that in the future). I was asked to compile links to published online work relating to video games. Ants is the closest thing to that, so I scoured the three years of its existence, looking for posts that best exemplify my writing relating to video games.

I had a blast. Two things resulted from my scouring: I want to play chess again, and I want to write now as much as I used to. I failed to resurrect the blog before mainly because I didn't stick with it, but also because I wasn't reaching enough people. I have already reached out to a lot more people in my two days back on Facebook than I thought possible, so I have a feeling it will help inspire me to write more.

Here's hoping. Ultimately, though, the newest rebirth of Ants on a Blog could never be as awesome as Gandalf's Rebirth:

Part Two

Here's an up-and-down-the-ice recap of what's happened since September. The action will be fast-paced, so forgive me if I yadda-yadda-yadda over a few items that might require a little more explanation:

1) Amanda and I are getting married on October 18th. Yadda-yadda-yadda... I hope she wears this wedding dress.

What, oh what, indeed?

[Editor's Note: That's Kitty Pryde of the X-Men, you F'n dorks! The author is not ashamed to admit that this frame along with these hot Links are perhaps the sexiest and dorkiest pictures he's ever seen.]

2) Hip Replacement is starting to take off. We've seen some lineup changes that could normally kill a band: Andrew left us for Oregon for a doctorate program in Music Theory and Kubes is searching for himself and a place to park his van in San Fran. I have made the permanent switch to drum set, which could have been lethal but has gone well.

I love it. I am very happy to be playing drum set again. And we have a blazing horn section. These guys are as profesh as profesh gets and add an element to our music that we've never successfully nailed. Additionally, they are awesome people.

3) Job prospects are looking up. A couple months ago I applied for the two teaching positions at Normandale Community College. There was one opening for a one-year Visiting Artist in Creative Writing, and five openings for full-time English Faculty. I feel confident that I have a good chance at getting an interview at least. More on that as it unfolds, which should be soon.

As I mentioned above, I recently applied for a blogger position with a video games website. I think it might be a little unprofessional to be more detailed at this point. More on that as it unfolds, also hopefully soon.

Lastly, I have been taken on as a regular contributor for an up-coming Minneapolis-based online magazine called Juiceb0x. I will be covering things like video games, technology, and other general dorkery going on in the metro area. I am very excited for this opportunity. I will certainly update this space with more news about that, again, as it unfolds.

4) My hairy daughter, Willow Isa Luthien Tinuviel, is growing up, but she's still very much a silly kitty. I would supply a couple new choice pics of her, but my cell phone isn't cooperating with my computer--and I'm aiming for brevity here! Just know that she's beautiful, loving, and will rend your flesh from your bones if you don't play fetch with her. Come over and see her! Get some of these:

Here's another old pic that's still my favorite:

O HAI!!1 I CAN HAZ NAP IN PANTZ?

5) The Wild continue to stress me out like you wouldn't believe. They are technically doing well and are still in the playoff race. Sometimes, however, I feel like us hockey rubes could take them on and give Kim Johnsson something to mouth-breathe about.

6) Lastly, for now, Super Smash Bros: Brawl has been out for a week. How could things not be good?

Mace... Out.

Flight of the Conchords

2007-09-12T23:32:00.000-05:00

The elephant in the room that everyone's ignoring has a name: Tenacious D. But that doesn't mean that Flight of the Conchords aren't really good at what The D made popular--and you could argue that there'd be no D without Spinal Tap, so let's not point fingers. There. There's the argument against Flight of the Conchords. I've laid it out for you so you don't have to think about it. Now you can just enjoy. Enjoy their Kiwi-ness. Enjoy Jermaine's lips. Enjoy that phat casio beat.

More on (moron) drumming

2007-09-09T18:14:00.000-05:00

I mentioned the other day that I've been playing the drum set again. While at the studio this afternoon I figured I might as well snap a couple pics of my new baby and post them as an excuse to post:

I bought these drum a few summers ago while still in Mankato, but I never got a great opportunity to use them. I paid only about $200 for all four shells (only three are pictured), the snare, and a metric grip of really crappy hardware--mainly cymbal stands. Even though most of the stands are unusable, the whole package was too good of a deal to let pass--even though I knew it might be a few years before I could play them regularly.

In fact, until a couple weeks ago, I had played them only once since I got them. The boys of Encrimson'd came together in Mankato to write and record one song in one of the most brutal-cold winters in recent memory. We rented out a place called "The Jam Shack" several miles outside Kato. The name "shack" was more than appropriate: the roof had caved in in one area, the foundation could barely support itself--oh, and there was no heat besides a gas-powered space heater, the fumes of which killed more or our brain cells than our ghastly, potent metal.

All-in-all, a priceless experience. Legendary in Encrimson'd lore.

I've been back in St. Louis Park for just over a year now, but until recently there still hasn't been a decent situation for me to set up the drums. Fortunately and unfortunately, one such situation has arisen. The fortunate part is that we found ourselves with some extra room at Hip Replacement's practice studio. The unfortunate part is that there's room only because our good friend and keyboardist, Andrew Pokorny, has moved to Oregon to pursue his doctorate in music theory.

If it meant that Andrew would stay with us forever, I wouldn't mind not playing the drums. He will be that sorely missed as a band mate but even more as a friend. But he's in Oregon, regardless, and there's space in the studio. So fuck it: I'm playin' drums.

I wasn't kidding the other day that I feel like an ape when I play these drums. I feel like some animal trainer has been "teaching" me to play, but I'm only hitting the drums because, damn it, I was promised a banana. As in, it's not quite natural yet. I'll get there eventually, though, once mimicking makes room for intentionality. But a banana would still be nice.

Drums. Drums in the Deep.

2007-09-06T23:41:00.000-05:00

This works on so many levels. Not only is it genius enough for posting by itself--genius enough to wake me from a blogging slumber--but it's also relevant in another way.

Just as my gorilla friend here has waited a long time, seemingly, to drum, I too am drumming again after a long, long wait. Of course I've been playing congas/etc. with Hip Replacement for a year now, and I played hand drums for the dancers back in 'Kato for six years, but only recently have I been finally playing a drumset again.

The pleasure that drumming is giving me again is entirely comparable to the rapture of the ape. Basically, that's how I look when I play drums. He certainly has crude technique; and so do I, what with years of accumulated rust. It still feels good, though.

Mason... You can feel it in the air. Tonight. Oh lawd.

Precious Cargo

2007-07-21T18:14:00.000-05:00

EXT. Busy Metropolitan Streets - Day

A BIKE MESSENGER weaves in and out of traffic-packed streets. His aggressive navigation around cars, buses, and even other bikers brings him close to collision several times. The tubular parcel jutting out of his backpack is less fortunate and receives a few nicks from rear-views, lampposts and building corners. His focus is intense and the curses he bellows at his fellow transients are bitter, ruthless, and accurate. He takes often sips from the tube of his CamelBak.

INT. Generic Office Building - A few minutes later

The Messenger approaches the reception desk, the clips of his shoes echoing through the marble lobby. He takes the parcel out of his backpack and jabs his bike seat in its place. His sweat-soaked spandex is faded and torn from not-so-near misses. The exposed flesh of his elbows, forearms, knees, and shins are covered with fresh and slow-healing road wounds.

Two VISITORS are being signed in by a middle-aged female RECEPTIONIST. The Messenger leans in between the visitors and drops the tube in front of her. The visitors flinch away.

RECEPTIONIST
Uhh... Excuse me. I can help you in just a second.

MESSENGER
(waves a hand)
Just put it in the mail.

RECEPTIONIST
But who's it going to? What department?

MESSENGER
I dunno. Johnson or something in...
Marketing, maybe.

RECEPTIONIST
This looks like an architect parcel.

He snaps and smiles.

RECEPTIONIST
Floor?

He checks his watch, rolls his eyes, shrugs, and points up.

MESSENGER
Those things have labels for a reason. Say,
mind if I use your break room real quick?

He leans away toward a door to the left of the desk. A sign to the side of the door reads, "Employees Only." The receptionist inspects the tattered tube.

RECEPTIONIST
The break room is  for employees only.
You know, this parcel is really damaged.

INT. Break room - continuous

Several employees are taking their breaks, fixing their lunches, reading papers, chatting together at acceptable volumes. The Messenger pushes the door open with his shoe, the clip scraping as it slides down.

MESSENGER
Mornin', slaves.

A clock on the wall reads 1:13pm.

He drops his CamelBak in an empty chair next to a MAN filling out a crossword puzzle. The man glares and turns away in his chair.

At the counter, the Messenger groans as he sees that the coffee pot is empty. He picks it up and raises both hands, scattering the remaining coffee drops. He oscillates a glare at the people in the room.

MESSENGER
Can't believe it. A day like today
and you guys empty-pot me. Nice.

He fixes fresh coffee--double-brewed--and makes a mess in the process: grounds and uncooperative filters litter the counter top. While the coffee brews, he wanders the room.

MONTAGE:

A) He peaks over the shoulder of the man doing the crossword puzzle.

MESSENGER
34-down is ascot. A man's necktie. That's an ascot.
Fred from Scooby Doo wore one. Don't ask me how
I know that--I have no idea. But it's true.

B) A woman reads the sixth Harry Potter book.

MESSENGER
Don't bother. He doesn't die in the last one.
Totally lame. Pretty sure, anyway.

C) The Messenger stands in front of the open fridge, peaking into take-out and Tupperware containers, smelling them and throwing some into a large garbage receptacle.

MESSENGER
What's wrong with you heathens? Most of this
stuff has soured or was crap to begin with.

END MONTAGE

The coffee maker beeps. The Messenger grabs the pot and brings it to his table. He uncorks his CamelBak and pours the entire pot into the reservoir, spilling some in the process, scalding his fingers and spattering the man's crossword.

MESSENGER
(to man)
Uhh... looks like 12 across is coffee stain. Heh.

He re-corks the reservoir and carefully slips on the CamelBak, sucking in through his teeth until he gets used to the heat on his back. His face twists in disgust when he sucks on the tube, and he spits into the sink.

MESSENGER
The old stuff in the tube's always the worst--
am I right?
(takes another sip)
Mmm... Sumatra? Gourmet shit!

The Messenger waves a parting hand to the people.

MESSENGER
Peace, beuches. I'm out.

CROSSWORD MAN
(glances up)
Bye, Chris.

MESSENGER
It's Dan, but that's cool.

He turns on his clips, throws open the door, and walks out. The man dabs at a dot of coffee on his crossword and tastes it. After a second, he pulls a napkin from the middle of the table and wipes away the rest.

Across the Lawn - Section Two - Jerome

2007-04-21T11:39:00.000-05:00

After posting the first section of Across the Lawn I realized that for as long as this story has been around, I still hadn't described Simon at all. In later pages, which take place later in life, I describe him, but the context then is that he's physically changed from the way he looks at the beginning--a mystery which I'd not solved with words and lines until now. Of course, and this has always been a writing fault of mine, I could see him in my head so I never realized I needed to describe him.

Also, I think some writers, especially me, are afraid to give details about main characters. It's easy and necessary to describe other characters, but for some reason there's a tendency for vague main character description. Maybe I leave main characters indistinguishable because they are supposed to be the vicarious connection between the reader and the story. Maybe I want the reader to have some say in what my character looks like.

But that's pretty much bullshit. And lazy. One of Dick Terrill's most important lessons is that a writer will achieve a more universal accessibility not by writing in universal terms, but by being as specific and personal as possible. A reader will always react stronger to specifics than to generalities.

Anyway.

So I described him--rather I gave that job to a the most brutally honest judges of attraction, the executioners of hopeful hormones: Female High School Flautists.

Here are the revised paragraphs from the first section:

--

Sometimes the girls played cards. He wanted one of them to turn and ask him to play. He knew it would never happen, so he was content to watch the flautists’ ponytails bounce and sway as they gossiped. Simon couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they were talking about him. They couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or creeped out. They didn’t think Simon was ugly. They agreed that he could be cute, but his plain looks needed help. He had a build that struggled between athletic and just skinny. His hair needed to be more deliberate and his clothes updated, straightened, etc. His jaw line was strong, so facial hair wouldn’t be necessary, and boring, brown eyes could be livened up with glasses--which would look fine since his nose was an inoffensive shape and size. Those deerskin choppers would certainly have to go. Yes, they decided: With the right help, like from the right girl, he might be cute. They were sure, however, that not one of them was the right girl.

They didn’t know what his personality was like because they had never talked with him. There were rules: Flautists just didn’t talk to drummers. They could tell, though, he wasn’t too much of a dork, but he wasn’t cool either. Somehow, and this really puzzled them, he was friends with Jerome Kilbourne, the star defensemen of the hockey team. That was the only thing about Simon that intrigued the girls. They went on smiling and waging their ponytails for him, deciding any attention was good attention. He wished he was one of their red and white scrunchies.

--

This will transition nicely into the next section, titled...

--

Jerome

The pep band welcomed the team back to the ice with another once-through of “Hurrah for the Red and White!” The crowd applauded and cheered. Many cheers were directed at Jerome. When the band finished, the flautists held up a sign reading, “♥ Hit one for us, Killer! ♥”

Simon rested the beaters on the drum’s shell. He was anxious for the drop of the puck. He watched his friend skate in slow, tight circles on his blue line. Jerome was supposed to be lined up on the faceoff circle with his other defender, with the offense lined up at center-ice. But Jerome never left his defensive zone. He was the best stay-at-home defenseman the North Shore area had seen for years. All Jerome did was hit people. That’s all he wanted to do.

Even bent over, his stick resting across the tops of his knees, Jerome dwarfed the competition. Six-foot-four and he wouldn’t turn eighteen until summer. Coach said Jerome would grow another inch before he’s done. Visiting teams feared Jerome’s shoulders, which were at their head-level, and his hips, at their chest-level. As the ref prepared to drop the puck, each member of the Trojans' cross-town rival, Duluth East, had one eye on the ref and one on Jerome. Simon swore he could see the Greyhounds shaking in their skates. Jerome looked at Simon, a half-smile on his face. Simon chuckled.

The ref slapped the puck down and the game was on again. The second and third periods played out just like the first period, just like all the other games over the last three years. No one crossed Jerome’s blue line unless hip-checked ass over head and sent sliding across on their backs, groaning, dizzy, and looking forward to the low-impact nature of spring baseball.

The crowd kept tally of Jerome’s hits, shouting the count with each slam of the boards. Coach Kilbourne screamed orders from the bench but only at the offense. He didn’t have to worry about his defense, at least not when Jerome was out there. Coach had been quoted in Duluth News Tribune, prophesying to scouts, “You think scoring is down in the NHL now? Boy, once Jerome gets drafted, the rearguard position will never be the same! Forwards’ll rather take shots from center-ice than cross into his turf.”

The Greyhounds dumped the puck into Jerome’s zone almost every time they got control of it. If an opposing offender decided to carry the puck in, he was crushed, and regretted that last decision. If a forward happened to squeak by Jerome’s blue line unpunished, Jerome would roar, catch up to him in the corner, and crush him twice as hard. The deeper anyone got into Jerome’s zone, the more sorry they were for pressing. Jerome had told Simon that an offender once apologized just before being toppled over the boards of the poor guy’s own bench.

Jerome hit. That’s it. He could score and pass and defend without hitting—but Coach told him to do all these. Jerome didn’t like being told what to do. It didn’t matter that Coach was Jerome’s father. If anything, it intensified Jerome’s defiance. Instead of helping out the offense, between his freshman and junior years, he amassed three whole points (zero goals and three assists). The assists weren’t even his fault. Three times, he just happened to touch the puck right after crushing guys. Then his teammates scored and he was awarded first assist.

By sophomore year, Coach didn’t bother putting Jerome on the ice for power plays because he’d just skate in a slow figure-eights between center-ice and his blue line, waiting like a Great White for prey to enter his reef. While he waited, he’d stare Coach down. Simon sensed something deeper between them than just father-son stubbornness, but he’d never gotten a straight answer from Jerome whenever he asked. Jerome would simply say his father’s just a dick, prick, cocksucker, or an asshole—and sometimes a combination of them all.

--

Next section: Kilbournes

Dumpster Squirrels - A Conversation at The Bank

2007-04-10T19:23:00.000-05:00

INT. The Bank - Teller Line

The teller line of the bank is separated into two halves (lobby and drive-through) and connected by a wide arch. JARED swivels with soft oscillations at his drive-through station. He's watching dumpster squirrels diving into an adjacent business' back lot dumpster.

Today's squirrel trapezes across the ledge of the dumpster. It makes its way from one of the front corners, to the other, and back again and repeats. The lid of the dumpster is down, denying the squirrel any sunken treasure. The squirrel scratches at each corner and its paw falls become more erratic from corner to corner.

Jared is content to once again be at his drive-through station after a week-long lobby-conditioning assignment. He's happy to be away from lobby customers' relentless, wandering prattle. This is the way it should be: Jared watching dumpster squirrels and the snow clouds brooding and the wind quaking the property's saplings.

A fellow teller, STEVE, is helping one such CUSTOMER at his lobby-side station. He's been "helping" this customer for quite some time--rather, he's been trapped into one such conversation of wandering prattle.

STEVE
(to customer)
Huh. I guess I wouldn't know
that too well. Lemme ask Jared.

Steve swivels 180 in his chair to look at Jared in the drive-through. Steve's swiveling is an action that Jared can see--nay, feel--in the corner of his eye, an action that he knows will lead to an interruption of his happy dumpster squirrel watching.

STEVE
Jared? What's PayPal all about?
I know a little, but not enough
to answer questions.

Jared matches Steve's swivel, nods, slides out of his chair, and heads lobby-side. The woman Steve had been talking to looks frazzled, confused, and incapable, like a line-backer asked to do a chimneysweep's job or vice versa.

JARED
(to customer)
What do you need to know?

CUSTOMER
Well... What is it?

JARED
PayPal is an electronic funds transferring
service. You could use it to pay for things
on, say, eBay or gambling websites--stuff
like that.

CUSTOMER
Medication?

Jared cringes at the concept of buying medication from the internet, a place that is made up of %99.69 porn. The customer jots something down on a bank receipt from an earlier transaction with Steve.


JARED
I don't know. I guess I wouldn't
buy medication from the internet.

CUSTOMER
(jots another item)
So... You buy stuff on the internet
with PayPal?

JARED
Yes. It's kinda like an internet
credit line you set up and put money
into so you can buy things on the
internet. It's quicker than mailing
a check and safer than using your
credit card online--if you're worried
about that sort of thing.

And she does look worried about that sort of thing.

CUSTOMER
Huh. So how do I get a hold of them?

JARED
(blinks)
Umm... How 'bout PayPal.com.

The customer jots down "PayPal.com." The list of other items includes: "internet," "eBay," and "maybe buy meds."

CUSTOMER
PayPal.com. OK.

JARED
That'd be a good start.

The customer thanks Jared. He smiles, nods, and walks back to his drive-through station. The squirrel has since given up and is gone, but the clouds are still rolling and the saplings quaking.

Across the Lawn - Section One - Intermission

2007-04-08T00:53:00.000-05:00

I don't want to write a big introduction for this piece. I'll write these two things: 1) It's unfinished but intended to be of novel-length--probably young adult. 2) The content includes three of my four favorite things and one guilty familiarity. In no order of importance (nor incrimination), those things are: hockey, video games, role-playing, and sex.

Enjoy (?).

--

Across the Lawn
Jared Mason

Intermission

To Simon Jefferies, warming house hockey smelled like ice and sweat. High school hockey smelled the same plus popcorn. He didn’t know what college hockey smelled like since he was just a senior in high school. Sitting in the pep band section in Pioneer Hall, the ice arena of the Duluth Entertainment Convention Center, with his field bass drum sitting in the seat ahead of him, Simon figured college hockey smelled the same as high school hockey plus beer.

The first intermission of Duluth Central’s hockey homecoming game was a third through. Seven minutes and forty-three seconds left. Simon sat next to the aisle on the row reserved for the drummers, about halfway down the section. The band was tucked away on the side where the visiting team played the first and third periods. Most of the band had cleared out for intermission, most likely to sit with their friends in other sections. Simon didn’t have many friends but he didn’t mind sitting there alone, watching the Zamboni’s refreshing ovals.

He was distracted by another smell mixed in with the ice, sweat, and popcorn: perfume from the flute section a few bleachers down. Because of the air conditioning, the underclassmen flute girls wore turtlenecks and fleece mittens. Simon wore deerskin choppers. He hated having to play the school song, “Hurrah for the Red and White!” six or more times a night, but he hated playing with cold hands even more.

Sometimes the girls played cards. He wanted one of them to turn and ask him to play. He knew it would never happen, so he was content to watch the flautists’ ponytails bounce and sway as they gossiped. Simon couldn’t hear what they were saying, but they were talking about him. They couldn’t decide whether to be flattered or creeped out. Simon wasn’t ugly, or too much of a dork. He wasn’t that cool either. Somehow, and this really puzzled them, he was friends with Jerome Kilbourne, the star defensemen of the hockey team. That was the only thing about Simon that intrigued the girls. They went on smiling and waging their ponytails for him, deciding any attention was good attention. He wished he was one of their red and white scrunchies.

Simon wasn’t a very good drummer. His chops were good enough to handle most concert snare music and definitely good enough to handle a pep band bass drum. In middle school he wanted to play trombone but there were too many already. Drums was his second choice so he didn’t mind. Soon, though, he found out all drummers were nose-pickers and spazzes. By the time he got to high school, he didn’t care about drums or band at all. By sophomore year, he volunteered to play just the bass drum. This was a job reserved usually for the most rhythm-dead, nose-pickin’ spaz in the section. Simon never understood why since a bad bass drummer could ruin an entire song or concert. Fewer notes to screw up, he guessed. His band teacher was happy to have a competent bass drummer and Simon was happy with fewer notes. He would’ve quit by now except for the free hockey games.

Finally, hockey season had started. He was sick of football. Simon thought high school football was like playing grown-up. Kids in grown-up clothes, saying grown-up things. It looked good on the surface—cute even—but it was just pretend. Hockey was pure, a true team game. An offender only played offense when the team controlled the puck. If not, he’d better forecheck or he’d get benched if the coach found a kid who played offense and defense. For Simon, the purity of hockey came from the warming house. All the other levels, high school, college, pro—just pond hockey with more rules and higher stakes. Football didn’t have that charm for Simon. At the warming house, he had skated with six year olds and sixty year olds in the same pick up game. No matter what point a guy stopped playing organized hockey, there was always the warming house.

Simon smiled, feeling pretty good about his present situation. Hockey was back and he had pretty flautists as a pleasant distraction. Best of all, the game would start in just another three minutes and fifteen seconds. Jerome would be out there soon, crushing guys at his blue line. After all, his nickname was Killer on account of his last name and knack for open-ice hits. He was the only Trojan hockey player worth mentioning. The best thing to happen to Duluth hockey since Central hired Coach, Jerome’s father, twenty years ago. Coach Kilbourne claimed Jerome would go in the first round of the next NHL draft if he’d only get his goddamn game together. Simon knew Jerome couldn’t care less about his goddamn game because he hated his father. What Simon didn’t know, is why.

Jerome’s girlfriend, Sofia, was at the game, sitting in a section near center ice. She sat with her parents, sharing popcorn in a generic barber-striped box. She chatted with Jerome’s mom, who sat directly in front of Sofia’s family. That’s the way it was every game last year and Simon knew this year would be no exception. He liked that Sofia wasn’t sitting in the rowdy section full of popular kids decked out in red and white, taunting the away penalty box. She was a popular girl and would have belonged to that section if she wanted to sit there. But that wasn’t her style.

He watched Sophia from the safe distance of halfway across the arena. Winter-themed tuque over straight, wheat stock hair. Double-dimple smiled. Her eyes killed Simon most. One blue, the other green. He couldn’t actually see the colors of her eyes from where he sat. Since he knew their colors, though, he thought he could see them like fraternal twin stars, blue and green twinkles in the crowd’s muddy haze of motion. Sometimes, like now, Simon would catch himself looking a little too long. She was with Jerome and he shouldn’t look at her like that, right? He always looked at girls too long, though; but since he knew Sofia and admired her as a person as well as a pleasant distraction, pulling his eyes away was never easy. Normally, he’d look away and mentally slap his own wrists. Now, though, he felt safe enough to watch as long as he wanted.

During a lull in Sofia’s conversation with Jerome’s mother, she scanned the pep band section for Simon. She was a bit surprised that in a sea of otherwise engaged faces, he was looking right at her. Simon was confident that she wasn’t really looking at him, just in his direction like all the other girls. Her smile caught him off guard. He looked away for a second. She was still smiling at him when he looked again. She gave him a friendly wave, one that pleaded for him to loosen up, break out of that shy shell of his. His smile and shrug were apologetic, telling her, “You know me.”

He almost crapped his pants when she excused herself from her company and headed for Simon’s section, popcorn in hand. Simon sweated, trying to think of something to talk about. Hockey? No. Dating Jerome, she’d be sick to death of hockey talk. Drumming? Hell no. College next year? No. They’d already talked about that last week. She would attend the University of Minnesota, Duluth for nursing and he would study computer science in Madison, Wisconsin. What then? Too late. She’d was already descending the stairs to his section. God, those eyes. And the way her hair fluttered up with each step. She made gravity sexy.

She sat on the arm of Simon’s seat, nudging his shoulder with her hip. His attempt to make room for her was clumsy. He almost sent the bass drum bounding down the section. He recovered and she giggled. She extended the barber-striped box toward him. Sofia smelled like sweet pines, like lilacs planted at the bases of Norway Reds. Simon could barely pick out her scent within the over-barring odor of salted butter. “Popcorn?” she asked.

Simon pinched a few and ate them even though he didn’t like popcorn. He hated the kernel skin or whatever it was that got stuck in his gums. Sofia tongued one such skin somewhere deep in her molars. Simon wished he was that chunk of kernel.

“Umm…” he said. “Enjoying the game?” He sighed, cursing himself for bringing up hockey after deciding not to.

Sofia thought Simon’s shyness was cute in a helpless, poor-guy way. She wished she could be his social coach. She’d teach him that talking to a girl didn’t require sweat and stammering. “Better than those damned football games,” she said.

He rolled his eyes but not because of football, which is how she read it. He rolled his eyes because he wanted to kiss her. He wanted to say, “Don’t tell me that. I don’t need another reason to lust after you.” Instead, he said, “Yeah. Football sucks.” Nice.

Simon liked everything about her. Now, he liked that she completely ignored his bass drum. He was puzzled by others’ urges to bang on drums. When he’d carry the bass drum though the halls at school, on the way to the pep band bus or to the gym for a rally, everyone reached out to swat, pound, or flick the drum. They’d look at Simon first to test whether they should or not. They’d see his indifferent face and mistake it for permission. They’d hit away, producing an awkward, unsatisfying noise from the drum, somehow wrong in timbre and pitch. They’d smile anyway and expect Simon to smile back. He’d just look at them and think, “What the hell sound did you expect it to make?” He wasn’t annoyed out of fear for the drum’s health. He couldn’t care less. He didn’t even like the thing. He was offended by people having fun intruding in on his life. He was jealous that people were more interested in the drum than him. When he’d walk the halls with it, he was a scouring, erratic pulse.

Sofia wasn’t interested in the drum. Simon was glad because he didn’t want to hear it’s oafy bass tone. He was sick of being the oaf on bass drum. He pounded every ounce of high school aggression into that thing. Just looking at it’s thin, dented skin, the scarred, peeling shell, conjured the angst within. Hearing that drum a thousand times a night made him look forward to leaving it behind. He was pretty sure he was sick of Duluth, too, and that Madison would be good for him. A fresh start. New places new faces, right? But he didn’t look forward to leaving Sofia’s face behind. Or Jerome’s. Definitely not Sofia’s. Sofia was everything right and wrong with Duluth. She made leaving difficult and necessary.

“You should come sit with me during the second intermission,” Sofia said.

“Really?” Simon asked.

“Yeah. I don’t like you sitting here all alone. It doesn’t help your shyness. You need to talk to people more instead of just looking, waiting for them to come to you. How are you going to meet anyone next year?”

“Don’t worry,” he said. “I plan on meeting tons of people. I’ll be out-going and fun to be around. It’ll be a whole new me. You won’t even recognize me when I come back.” He didn’t believe himself but it sounded good.

“That’s what I like to hear,” Sofia said.

She saw on the scoreboard that only a minute remained of the first intermission. She rose, stirring up her smells of popcorn and sweet pine. “Welp…” Simon liked how she said ‘welp’ instead of ‘well.’ “I’d better get back. You promise to sit with me later?”

“Sure,” Simon said. He smiled, already missing her and he wouldn’t be leaving until summer. She said bye and walked up a couple steps before looking back. "And, Simon," she said and he turned. "You've always been fun to be around." He thought she might be lying. Her eyes weren't lying; they were just mismatched. He looked in her green eye and then her blue, as if either might reveal the truth.

--

Next Section: Jerome

Hip Replacement Triumphance

2007-04-07T17:34:00.000-05:00

My last Hip Replacement update thanked people for showing up at The Fine Line and gave a heads-up for an up-coming gig on February 3rd at Bunker's. I'm pretty sure we're well into April now which means I've missed my opportunity for several updates. Let's handle this one rapid-fire styley again so I can get to the really good news.

February 3rd - Opened for Wrinkle T again at Bunker's:

Great success!

[Editor's Note: We just found out that Wrinkle T will play their last show together sometime soon. I'd tell you more about why they're breaking up and where/when their last show is, but we're not opening for them... So I guess I don't care.]

March 1st - Opened for The New Congress at Bunker's:

Not so great success.

There were a few storms this winter that would have qualified for "blizzard" status except they weren't windy enough. One of those storms hit on March 1st, thusly limiting the audience to girlfriends and other diehards, without whom we'd never get a crowd.

We were really pumped for this show since The New Congress pretty much blows doors off hinges. We wanted to make a big impression on them, but we found out their rockstar sound and ability was accompanied by a rockstar indifference. They weren't even in the room while we played. That, coupled with the storm, sapped our energy and enthusiasm. Oh well: another notch on the belt and a little more exposure. We'll take it.

March 21st - American Band Competition at O'Gara's Garage in St. Paul:

Great success!

I have no idea how we got into this Battle of the Bands, but we did. The skinny: Each Wednesday in March, O'Gara's hosted a BotB with different bands each show. The winners from each Wednesday would throw down in a final BotB on April 6th, again at O'Gara's, for a chance to win a prize package and a third paying gig, again at O'Gara's.

On this day, "battle" was strictly metaphoric. There was no battle whatsoever. The semi-finals of this grand BotB was all fan-balloting, meaning each Wednesday show was a popularity contest. We managed to gather a good crowd, but we probably only needed a third of them to win the balloting. Next to nobody came to see the other two bands. I'll be nice and apply this the fact that neither of the bands are neither originally from nor gig in Mpls/St. Paul. Yes, that's a very nice way of saying it.

April 6th - American Band Competition at O'Gara's Garage:

Great success!

Score one for original music! Take that, cover band bitches! Sorry, I've had that animosity for cover bands building for quite some time. This was my one chance and success at proving there's hope for original music in the local gigging scene.

Last night we won the American Band Competition against three cover bands. This one actually was a competition. Well, not wholly. The first band, Judging Ronald, would have lost a high school BotB. But the other two bands, The Blind Pigs and Hero's End, were pros at what they do. What they do, however, is play KQRS and 93X cover music. Both bands brought sizeable fan bases, or at lest more than we faced at our semi-final show, and both were tight with their craft.

We won because we brought the most people, yes, but this BotB was also judged by successful, working musicians from the area. One of the judges is in Dazy Head Mazy who are pretty big in Mpls/St. Paul and the extended metro area--but I forget the bands the other two judges were representing.

These judges were given criteria to rate the bands: Sound Quality, Audience Interaction, and Some Other Third Thing. These criteria were not geared toward original bands but seemed to us to be more concerned with judging a good cover band. First of all, "Sound Quality" has very little to do with the band in a live show and very much to do with the sound production at the venue. Let me be nice again and remind everyone how nice it was to play at The Fine Line and Bunker's. Very nice. The sound at O'Gara's Garage sounds like sound you might find at venue with the word "garage" in its name. OK, not so nice.

Secondly, Hip Replacement is very aware that Audience Interaction is our bane. We know it and we're getting better, but I'm convinced that nothing will raise Koelsch's eyes from his fret board, nor sway his hips and feet outside a one foot diameter. But if the solution to a band's poor audience interaction is the gimicky crap I hate about cover bands, than I'd rather be a band of jazz faces every gig.

Lastly, yeah, I don't remember the third criteria, but it wasn't favorable. But how 'bout--oh, I don't know--Musicianship? Would that be good criteria for a BotB? Maybe? It's cool though, the judges and our loyal fan base pulled through to secure our triumphance. Judges and fans are the best.

The rewards for winning were a (supposed) $500 gift package from Guitar Boutique of St. Paul, and a third, paying gig again at O'Gara's. The "gift package" turned to be an acoustic guitar, a guitar case, and a guitar stand--all which do our band a metric shit-ton of good. A very generous donation... Well, a very donation at least. There's been no word yet as to details of the paying gig, but it sure will be at O'Gara's! "Sound Quality" again comes to mind.

--

In other HR news, we're moving into a (slightly) bigger practice space. I'm sure that reads as hardly news-worthy, but you wouldn't understand our vibrous excitement for a new room unless you've seen our current room (closet).

--

In other Ants news regarding recent vows and proclimations, I've begun re-editing a certain piece (basically re-reading and comma-play), and a section is ready for Ants; it's just that it will take a little time to figure out how to reformat from Word to bloggy styley. Not a whole lot of time, just time I don't have now since the last regular season Wild game starts in roughly seventeen minutes. "Things Must Change".... soon.

Mason... Sometimes wizards are so awesome, it hurts.

Things Must Change

2007-03-29T15:13:00.000-05:00

I've come to the realization that this blog's glory days (if I may use "glory") were tragically tethered to life in Mankato. Since I moved back home in August, this space has been Hurtsville, population: me. At first, it wasn't easy to update. Things were too crazy as adaptation takes a lot of energy and time, and down-time from adaptation is way down. Then, as things simplified, I realized I just didn't have much to report. Furthermore, I felt I couldn't report anything new until I had caught up what had been missed--which was a lot.

But these are vague justifications for what I've let happen to Ants. They are reasons, but there's no excuse. So, things have to change. Ants must be rebuilt, made stronger, given more legs--robotic legs--and antennae lasers, and its gaping mandibles with usher forth a new fire for the world to fear.

The second thing that must change is that I need to write more. I should say, rather, that I need to write, since you have to write at all before you can write more. Right? I won't get into just how naughty (writing naughty) I've been since Graduation day--s'pretty bad, though.

The plan is to use Ants as a rehabilitory writing space. At first I'll publish old, newly edited works that I wrote in school. Many of those are beginnings of pieces that still linger in my brain--the post-graduation bad taste in my mouth that resembles rust and envelope adhesive. Hopefully, Ants will help me get some work done on those. And hopefully, I'll get some feed back from my peeps. Peeps? Are you still there? That doesn't matter so much, I guess, as long as I get anything done at all, right?

But what of that nagging obligation to play catch up? I don't think any change is possible until I've remedied that first.

So here goes:

The Short List of Long Months

[Editor's note: These bullets aren't necessarily in any chronological order, and they certainly aren't in order of importance.]

1) August: I move back to my high school home--The Vortex it was called. I have until November, when Amanda's current lease is up, to find a job and for us to find an apartment.

Two days later, literally the first Monday of being back home, I get a job and our apartment. That morning Dorn calls me to inform me of a teller job opening at The Bank where he keeps the IT department afloat.

Dorn was a teller there many years ago, as was Mal Gust, and both have moved up the ladder. With their shining references and my impromptu, casual interview at noon, the position is mine before the head of HR finishes reading me the job description.

Job: check.

That night, we hit William's to celebrate my finding a job. Before I order my first litre, Mal and Grant inform Amanda and I that there's vacancy at their apartment complex. Dorn lives in the complex too. The Bank is three blocks from the apartments.

I'd grown accustomed to centralization in Mankato--hell, I spent three years in the dormitories. Some of the best years of my life. Three of my closest friends within slipper-distance and my job a twelve-minute walk away?

Apartment: Check.

2) I've been home only three-ish weeks before Cain moves to Colorado indefinitely. My head is swimming in adaptation so I don't notice yet, but his leaving crushes me. The realization sinks deeper in phases, like each time I go to a local rock show that he and I could/should be playing, or every time the Wild win, or every time there's a round of puns but none that are Cain-lame, or each time I divvy up the hockey sticks at the warming house but his isn't in the pile. Times like those.

3) Willow Isa Lutien Tinuviel. My baby's sleeping in my lap as I type.

4) There are two constants since August that don't belong at any specific number. Four is as good as any. 4a) I rejoin Hip Replacement as an auxiliary percussionist. This has also been documented thoroughly. Speaking of which, we have another gig next week, Friday the 6th at O'Gara's Garage in St. Paul. Expect a post for that soon.

4b) I started reading Tolkien in earnest early this summer, but by August and beyond the whole thing has become embarrassingly dorky. So dorky, that I'm more disappointed about the news of a new Tolkien book being published by Christopher Tolkien. I'm pissed because the story is, of course, the one I wanted to adapt into a screenplay--so there goes that idea. Oh well. I'll still buy it and read it three times.

5) September 16th: Amanda and I celebrate our six year anniversary. I could have sworn it had been at least eight, though.

[Editor's note: Please don't read into the fact that I wrote way more about Tolkien than Amanda. I'm trying to be economic here.]

6) Grant and Mal are engaged. Congrats to both of them but Grant especially: You know she's a keeper (and a bit of a dork) if she refuses a diamond over an amethyst ring.

7) Dorn, Grant, and I wait outside Super Target in SLP for ten hours. Our reward: the Wii. It's estimated that Zelda: The Twilight Princess should take an average gamer 72 hours to complete, without devoting an excess of time to fishing and other distractions. I was the first of we three to finish in 80 game hours. I loved 78 of those hours, since there were a couple places here and there that forced me to consult a walkthrough. I know; I am ashamed.

8) My favorite toy poops out on me. Considering how much use and joy I squeezed out of my 'Pod, I'm surprised it lasted so long. Alas, like us, even iPods must eventually go the way of the flesh and burn out our left channels. The good news is that its replacement boasts twenty times the space (from 4gb to 80gb); the bad news is that it cost twice as much (from $200 to nearly $400); and the ridiculous news is that I still can't fit all of my music onto the thing! But even I don't immediately need more than the 13,000 songs I can fit onto it. The 3,000 songs left behind will just have to deal.

9)This next item will juxtapose nicely with the $400 iPod: I bought a '96 Chevy Blazer with 242,000 miles for $150. Siiick!

Well, I feel a lot better. And that wasn't so hard. The hardest part was not going into detail, like the details of the hellish night waiting for the Wii, or the details of the three Lord of the Rings hockey teams I drafted, or what I named my car--OK, I can't resist. I named it "Grond War Machine." Those are details that can wait for conversations--or even specific posts now that the catch-up hump is in Grond's rearview.

And most importantly, now I can write and share my childish pieces of writing with whatever small chunk of the world still remembers Ants' url address. Now I just have to decide which relic to dig up first. Some have sifted pretty deep into the topsoil, some are pretty deep in the dark, and some aren't worth the excavation--but it's about the work, right?

-Mason

Email Your Grandkids!!

2007-01-19T18:53:00.000-06:00

The Hip Replacement was a success!

Thank you to everyone who made it to the HR show last weekend. Thank you, especially, to those who drove (through peril of detours) all the way from the lush hills of Kato--lush on many levels. I shook that tamb extra hard for you four.

And if you're reading this and your saying, "What? What show? Huh?" That's probably my fault. I did a terrible job spreading the word about our gig at the Fine Line. Publishing one measly post was a challenge that almost destroyed me. Beyond that, I failed miserably to do my duty, Judy, to increase the bodies in the room.

But since the rest of my bandmates did their part, we had no trouble filling the room with bodies. The audience made us look really good. Well, Tearra didn't need any help. SOOooOO good, in fact, that Wrinkle T wants us to open for them again! This time, I've promised myself that I'll properly publicize this gig. I'm starting my efforts now to pull my weight.

[Editor's Note: "pull my weight" is not a euphemism for masturbation.]

It all goes down at 9pm on Saturday, February 3rd, at Bunker's in Downtown Mpls. Expect a $5-ish cover and more zany Downtown parking fun!

Mace...shakers of bells, slapper of skins [EN: Again, neither are euphemisms for masturbation.]

Funk at the Fine Line

2007-01-06T15:24:00.000-06:00

The funk band I've played with since goddamn high school has a gig this Friday, January 12th, at the Fine Line in Downtown Minneapolis. Filthy funk details and directions.

I've spoken about Hip Replacement, with many people for many years. Most people have had to just trust me that the band exists. This is because I've been playing with them off-and-on over the last seven years while attending school apart from them, so there have been painful few gigs. Now's my chance to prove I'm not a liar, and it's your chance to listen and dance to the funkiest music ever--that is, the funkiest music ever played by dorks from Lou Park. These dorks:

[Editor's Note - Clockwise from top-left: Kubes (drumset), Me (percussion), Grant (bass), Pokorny (keys), Tearra (vox), Koelsch (guitar)]

OK, so one of us in there is clearly no dork. There's also no coincidence that she's not from (or living in) St. Louis Park. That's Tearra. She's bomb. Come to listen to her; stay for my congas. That's right: congas--not bongos.

Up until now, I played drumset for HR. But this time around, I play congas, djembe, cowbell (for which I have a prescription), and more tambourine than you'd find at any Southern Baptist revival. The three reasons for my switch are as follows:

One: HR finally found a steady drummer, Brian Kubes, during the long stretches while I was away. Not only that, we've found in Kubes a friend and the coolest guy out of Grand Marais ever.

Two: Over the last six years, I've played congas/djembe almost exclusively for my much-missed dancers, deep in the bowels of Andreas building at MSU. It's a natural switch.

Three: Kubes is simply way better than me. And he's from Grand Marais; I'm not messin' with that guy.

So, you see, it has been a natural transition to go from set to percussion. Kubes offers the band a wealth of set skills, and I get to offer another layer that we've always thought Hip Replacement lacked.

It's a win-win. I hope you can make it.

Mace...not afraid to explore the space of the studio.

I Don't Do Two Things Very Much Anymore:

2007-01-06T00:21:00.000-06:00

...the first being blogging; but the second thing I don't do a lot of anymore is go to movies. So understand that this post is important since I'm relapsing on two old habits to bring you this message:

Go see this movie.

And yes, I'm sure the book is even better, but I don't read anymore. Rather, I don't read [anything-but-Tolkien] anymore.

I'd write more about the film, but I don't want to relapse too hard. Not yet. And I hate over-hyping movies, especially one that's the best I've seen in a years--again, non-Tolkien-related ones.

Mace

I Play with Kittens

2006-11-28T13:56:00.000-06:00

Remember all those nice things I wrote about Willow? Deleted. Amanda, where's the squirt bottle?

And no: This is not a poorly thought-out scheme to get readers back to Ants. In fact, this is probably the last thing I should do to get my humble readership back.

Also no: That greenish skin tint is not my camera's doing. That's probably from Wii-mote radiation or something.

Mace... Bad kitty.

Reason to Update

2006-11-26T16:19:00.000-06:00

I'm going to more or less forget about the fact that it's been over four months since my last post. While there has been much to report, let's just pretend for now that you already know all that crap. Yes: I'm yadda-yadda'ing the last four months of my life; but seeing as though all of my epic-catch-up-posts were doomed to fail, I think you'll forgive me.

This is...

Willow Isa Luthien Tinuviel

The Short Story:

Amanda and I have been living in our apartment for a month (as of today). We'd always talked about getting a kitten, and once our moving in together approached, we decided we'd definitely get one. But, of course, it's expensive to move, furnish, and prepare a new apartment; so we figured we wouldn't be getting our kitty until around Xmas.

As far back as July, Amanda had been keeping an eye on The Humane Society's website--although, "keeping an eye on" doesn't quite capture her obsession: She'd check the pages of kitties, looking for the one, the Neo of Kittens, sometimes three times a day. From August-September, she had to deal with the pain of watching several adorable kittens' pictures disappear from the website. But two weeks ago, having established ourselves enough in our apartment, she set eyes on our Willow Isa, and couldn't resist. Amanda saw Willow's pic on a Monday night, and in less than twenty-four hours, pixels made way for fur, purring, and those yellow eyes with green outlined irises.

She likes to sleep.

Like... a lot.

Most of these pics are of her sleeping, yes, but trust me: During most of her waking hours, she tears around the apartment at speeds too fast for any camera's shutters. She plays hard and sleeps harder. She sleeps the Death Sleep, when only her purring is a sign of life within.

The World Wrestling Federation taught me that to test whether a sleeperhold has worked to its full effect, raise Hulk Hogans' arm and let it fall. If the arm falls a third time, Jake "The Snake" Roberts wins back The Lovely Elizabeth.

Clearly, Willow isn't winning back Elizabeth any time soon.

I've had animals, specifically kittens, all of my life. But in all my time with felines, I've never had a kitten who sleeps in such bizarre positions.

And she certainly takes after daddy. As in, she poops.

Like... a lot.

While I promise not to turn this space into look-at-my-cute-kitty site, there will be more Willow found here. Most importantly, though, there will be more regular posts here too. I promise. Until then...

Mace...out but back.

An Open Letter to the 813 People Who've Viewed My Profile

2006-07-18T02:04:00.000-05:00

Dear The 813 People Who've Viewed My Profile,

Ahh... Hey there! So like, how's it goin'? Oh? Fascinating. Hey, I love pickles too. Hmm. Umm, can I ask you something, 813? Who the hell are you? Yeah you, all 813 of you. I mean, I probably know, say, 21 of you--and that's a generous guestimation of people I know at all. Where did you come from?

I can only remember one random commenter in the entire year of this blog's existence. One. His name was Daniel B. and he liked bikes.

I know because clearly that's a bike helmet in his avatar pic, and those are fancy biking glasses, and that's a fancy bike shirt, and his blog's name was bike-something-lame-or-something.blogspot.com. All this, I'm sure, to prove that he liked bikes. Daniel B. might have asked a stupid question--who hasn't seen Ghost in the Shell, Daniel B.? To anyone who actually read that post, it would be clear that I had seen GINS, even though I didn't outright say it--but at least he asked something. The rest of you 791-ish have been as quiet as poop-looming White Castle farts--and possibly as dangerous, but I don't know since you haven't uttered a peep (or a poop).

Where are you now, Daniel B.? I can only assume you're biking somewhere. Where are the rest of you? I don't want to assume anything, and you probably don't want me assuming anything either. I'd probably make up something you wouldn't appreciate. But you're aware of what I'm capable of since you been to my blog, at least long enough to view my profile. Furthermore, you're so aware that what you saw scared you (or bored you) so much that you didn't bother commenting. Bless Daniel B.'s brave heart for his random comment, four and a half months ago. I mean that's so long ago that I was using Courier! As for the rest of the unaccounted for, you're a mystery.

Or maybe not. Maybe you're like that glitch in Superman 3 and later in Office Space, like some sort of spambot that's making someone rich by viewing random profiles. No one suspects the harmless spambot, right? Or maybe that's the kind of idea that scares away random passersby. But it certainly would explain Daniel B.'s 2,647 profile hits. Fuck, Dan, 2,647? I'm at 813 and you only have a month on me. Yet another mystery.

I wish more of you randoms would leave comments like Brave Danny B. did. Then it wouldn't feel like there were so many people secretly laughing at me. And plus, if more of you left comments, then I could devote creepy posts like this to you! But I guess you randoms don't have to comment; it's nice just to see a stat go up.

Take care, 813 People Who've Viewed My Profile. And thanks for stopping by long enough for me to alienate you.

Mace...out and biking with Daniel B.

[Picture] Dump Brewing

2006-07-07T05:06:00.000-05:00

It's been far too long--I know. There are several posts brewing. Here's a taste--only, please don't taste this pic. Do not put tongue to Juggy. Juggy is Patron Saint of Abused Jugs. People who abuse jugs are aspiring idiots and/or assholes.

Before you ask: This is a new picture. As in, it fucking happened again. I honestly didn't even consider the possibility that it could have been anything but a rarity. But, indeed, rarity has turned into sequence, into pattern, into process, into the repeatable. More on this later, if I can bring myself to wipe away the greasy residue that is my self control.

Believe it or not, there are also serveral positive things to report:

Mace...out

Phil, Naughtalie, You're Wrong. [Edit]

2006-06-27T13:38:00.000-05:00

Maltese v. Jones

--

At poker last week, Drunken Phil and I had a heated discussion about just what the hell type of hat Indiana Jones wears. It was shocking to find out that Phil was not the only one with us who didn't automatically know that Jones wears a fedora. I figured saying that information out loud would be met with lines like, "Well, duh!" or "No doy!" as was the custom when we were young. I was wrong to assume that.

Several people, however, insist that I am a moron for calling Jones' hat a fedora. AMANDA MACKENZIE glares from DRUNKEN PHIL to SULLEN SELF as we exchange beats of disgusted, saliva slick comments about hats.

DRUNKEN PHIL
No! No! It's a... It's a...

SULLEN SELF
Fedora.

DRUNKEN PHIL
No. A... A...

SULLEN SELF
Fedora. Dude, you know Eller is nuts
about this stuff. He's got an entire
post just about Indy Jones' fedora.

DRUNKEN PHIL
A... A...

At this point, the proverbial light bulb in his head, the mighty muse, shoots forth such lumens that Phil's head holes are as beacons of light, shining in the dark drunken night for lost sober thoughts to find their way home. The shaft of idea light blazing from Phil's left ear burns a disc of flesh in Art's right cheek. Art squeals in pain and calls $2.30 with 8-4-off suit because he's a dumbass and not because of the pain. The other players in the room pause like whitetail before Phil's oncoming light, waiting to either be halved by a F150 or to be halved by his naming prowess.

DRUNKEN PHIL

It's an Adventure Hat.

As if to say Indiana Jones' Sioux name might have been Adventures with a Hat.

I am slain inside and no amount of logic wins this battle for me. The night continues with others rallying under Phil's Adventure Hat banner, me losing more money and becoming even more sullen, Phil pouring beer in his eye (again), and humping his table until it collapses in an Alice in Wonderland blizzard of chips, cards, and white rabbits. Pretty standard, really.

"Adventure hat" my ass.

Mace...out

An Awesome (Lazy) Excuse for a Post

2006-06-22T01:13:00.000-05:00

I enjoyed this post over at the CNN of gaming, IGN.; but I loved the picture. It strikes me as a perfect template for SomethingAwful's Photoshop Phridays. As in, that pickle could be interchangeable with just about anything and be funny. If you follow the link to SA, you might as well visit Cliff. "Crotchety" is just another word for "honest."

Hey, Mario loves pickles too.

Mace...out

I Get Mean When Blogger is Jerk-Offy.

2006-06-18T01:30:00.000-05:00

I wanted to post Part One of the Boner Bus Midwest Tour but, as Machine Gun said it best, Blogger is being Jerk-Offy. It won't let me upload any pics of surpassing quality due, I'm guessing, to how badass awesome cool they are. Either that, or their megabytes are too big for Blogger's pants. That's probably it, since I was allowed to upload pics that are less bulging in the storage area. Until Blogger gets its shit together, keep an eye on BZ's Natro n00dz, for he has had some success uploading some of our pics. Most of the pics I had planned on using were taken by him anyway. And they all look like this. Notice the shoes. Yes. Do you feel it? Mhmm. Another New Shoe Post looms.

For now, it appears that the flood gates are open:

--

Let's talk about air conditioning. Don't even bother trying to stay cool, dear solitary reader, unless you have this cherry model:

It's OK; the jealousy you're experiencing is only natural. Some aspects of this fine instrument are beyond even my comprehension. For instance, the faces of most air conditioners I've ever come across usually fit snuggly over the unit's body. This air conditioner, however, seems to employ some kind of technology that defies popular, hasty assumptions. In the following picture, notice the curious gap between body and face.

There! I don't know why there's a gap, but I'm confident that some new devilry is afoot, some revolutionary technology! All my feeble brain can assume is that this gap allows air to enter into the body so it doesn't overheat. Indeed, this air conditioner itself is so advanced, it itself has an air conditioner... for itself!

INT. PDQ CONVENIENCE STORE
It's like when I was a kid and had holes in my jeans, and some GROWNED-UP would take note of my holey jeans.

GROWNED UP

Hey, kid. What's with them
holes in your jeans?

And I as Kid would beam with pride at the upcoming cleverness, the witty metaphor no growned-up could ever predict!

ME AS KID
It's air conditioning!

The whole contraption must be of alien design, or made by an advanced, ancient civilization like the Mayans or The Smurfs. I'd tell you the make and model of this stunning appliance, but few if any markings remain on this husk. Case and point: Mystery Buttons!

I wonder what function is now missing along with its dial. Perhaps it was a dial that helped its clueless user understand how and when to use this rondo among air conditioners. I would guess that any user who is unfamiliar with this advanced technology could simply apply common air conditioner protocol. Ahh, the point!

Air Conditioner Rules for Idiots, Morons, and Greater Dumbasses:

Do not turn on air conditioner (commonly referred to as an AC) in any of the following circumstances:

!) If it's not hot outside.

@) If there are windows wide fucking open in both bedrooms.

#) If the AC is a piece of shit--regardless of how advanced the Mayan/Smurf technology.

$) If you aren't even in the goddamned apartment while it's !) not hot outside, @) the windows are wide the fuck open, and #) if the AC's a piece of shit.

%) If especially circumstance $).

I am not a frugal man. There are plenty of things on which I "waste" my money. But I've always lived by the rule that if I'm enjoying what I'm "wasting" my money on, then I'm not being wasteful. So there's "wasting," actual wasting (like strip clubs and church offerings), and weaving a cherry bomb's wick out of a twenty dollar bill. Poor AC protocol is somewhere between strip clubs, church, and twenty dollar bill cherry bombs.

It's getting hot in here, but no AC will hold the heat of hell from reaching me.

Mace...out

It Grows

2006-06-15T14:20:00.000-05:00

...

Chuck Norris Doesn't Sleep; He Waits.

2006-06-15T01:06:00.000-05:00

Props to Muthachucka for this find.

The Post to Rule All Posts (Update)

2006-06-14T01:39:00.000-05:00

The good news is that I have collected and ordered all the pics I'll use to illustrate The Adventures of The Company of Seven. The bad news is that the number of necessary pics is over 120, meaning the story must be told in three parts. I'll get to those ASAP. As another snack/tease, here's a sample of what several of the pics are like: me pointing at stuff, like rock formations. Those are pretty cool, right?

--

In other news, I came home from Jake's tonight to find in sink #1:

Not-my-dishes filling the sink isn't a shocking sight anymore. It's old hat. It's desensitized violence. It's Wednesday--nothing special. Sink #2, however, was a new sight and far more disturbing than any ol' pile of dishes:

Yup. That's the water-filter-jug standing an inch deep in greasy burger water. The pan and water have been there longer than my memory reaches, but the water jug was new. When I got home from work and saw the scene, I kinda just stood there awhile. I snapped a picture and left the jug there because fuck that. I'm not dealing. Besides, it was time for a test.

Notice the available counter space to the left of Sink #2. Please, don't try to figure out why someone would place the jug an inch deep in burger water rather than on available counter space. If you try to figure that out, your head a splode. Let's just deal with the facts instead of the mysteries.

Like I said, I left the jug there because I figured whoever did it would eventually realize what they did and do something about it. Now, I'd hope that something-about-it would mean, oh I don't know, washing the entire filter contraption and--just maybe--the greasy burger pan in which it stood, inch-deep in coagulating beef bi-product?

Several hours after leaving the jug in the burger water, I went back to the kitchen to check up on it. I didn't really want water. I wasn't thirsty. I just wanted to see, to test. I was filled with hope that things were set right; and when I saw that the jug was no longer in the sink, my hope was satisfied--the pan was still there but, c'mon, let's be realistic: I'd be happy with baby steps.

When I saw that things were fixed, I even became a little thirsty and decided to check in the fridge to see if Ol' Juggy was doin' OK.

Oops. Fuck you, Hope:

Yup. That's an inch of greasy burger water residue around the bottom of Poor Ol' Juggy. And yup. That's my finger smear to check, to test.

INT. KITCHEN
MASON inspects greasy rim around bottom of POOR OL' JUGGY.

MASON
Aww, man... No. It can't be.

Mason smears a finger over grease rim, hoping against all hope that he didn't just put it back in the fridge. Alas Mason's finger slides greasily over Poor Ol' Juggy. It is as he worst feared.

MASON
Aww, man. Juggy, man! No!

Juggy's filter is probably two months expired. That doesn't bother me. I treasure Juggy not for the false sense of filtered security that most people feel for their filters. I just like my goddamn water cold goddamn it, and I don't like my jugs rimmed with goddamn burger grease.

I won't say who did this. It could have been any of my roomates. [Editor's Note: The Author only has one roommate.] For the sake of anonymity, I'll even claim that the culprit could have been me. [EN: It wasn't The Author.] But I won't name names--so stop asking. [EN: It was Reed.]

Mace...out and missing Colorado

Snack Attack, Motherfucker!

2006-06-11T19:28:00.000-05:00

The Boner Bus Midwest Tour 2006 was a complete success: I didn't die! But I didn't kill anything either--anything provable in a court of law, that is. What's with all this interrogation?

I feel a massive [Picture] Dump comin' on, but there is much to report about The Badlands, The Black Hills, Seminoe National Park in Wyoming, The Rockies of Colorado, and Tolkien. That post will take all my skillz, abilities, and power to complete. It may almost destroy me.

Until that post is done, I offer this pic as a snack to tide before a meal--although after now having seen the mountains of Colorado, I'm filled with a Mountain Hunger that no picture will ever satisfy. After a sentence like that, you'd think I'd post a mountain teaser pic. Nope. You get Cowboy Macestache instead.

Mace...back but out

The Mace-stache

2006-05-31T00:52:00.000-05:00

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

2006-05-25T14:36:00.001-05:00

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?

2006-05-20T02:55:00.000-05:00

...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

2006-05-11T04:23:00.000-05:00

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...

2006-05-09T03:26:00.000-05:00

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?

I'm Breaking Two of My Rules:

2006-05-06T02:42:00.000-05:00

!) Hedge the politics; and @) Never--EVER--promote anything-MTV.

Shades of Kurt Loder--MTVNews has always been the only worthwhile segment ever. Hein gave the heads up on Colbert being Brilliant Colbert in the heart of the lion's den. This is probably old news to everyone, but I was only now able to read it (because I recently learned to read).

--

In Other News: I won 2 of 2 Chess 4 games that I played today. One of my comp students, Sig Turtletower, played in my stead for the third game played in the office today. He won. Can you imagine the how Homerow Hein, Prawn Mulcher Elysaar, and Stalemate Phil felt after losing to an eighteen-year-old comp student? I love it. I know Jon as a great guy with intelligence veiled in goof; but my colleagues naturally see him as the embodiment of their comp-woes. I'm sorry. I hate to rub it in, but I just like massages so much.

I wonder if Brings His Teacher Cookies wants to play in our chess tourney this week.

I <3 Brad and Julie

2006-05-05T04:34:00.000-05:00

This is Brad, the newest faculty of the Dance Program. For those of you who think my--now past :( --job of drumming for dancers is cushy at best, fuck you. What you don't understand is that I couldn't possibly ask for a better job than accompanying dancers. JKB is my Mankato mother:

Brad is my father who makes me do too many push-ups.

Ya see: Since I love my dancers incalculably, I feel as though I'm not just staff: I'm one of them. Brad has brought to the program not only good hair and shirts but a Conditioning class. Since I'm one of them, and they all take Brad's conditioning class, so do I. This is thankful and unfortunate: The thankful part is that Brad lets me take the class even though I'm not paying for it. The unfortunate part is that I can take the class only once a week rather than twice (because I teach at the same time as one of the two meetings each week). This is also thankful, though, since taking Brad's class once a week makes me more sore than italicized "font" words can convey.

I didn't shed tears Thursday night when I took a bow at the Dance concert. I might shed more than a few at Friday's concert, though. If not, consider this humble post as the public beginning of my privately shed tears for missing my Mankato Mother, Brad Who Makes Me Sore, and the Five Years' Worth of Dancers for Whom I've Drummed.

[choke choke]

--

This is the email I wrote to Julie and Brad after writing this post:

Julie and Brad,

If tears could soak emails, this letter would be waterlogged.

I won't try to sum up how much I'm going to miss you, Julie. It's impossible.

Brad: Your addition to the program has made leaving even harder.

I have a blog that I keep regularly. I'd be honored if you two would read it now and in the future. http://antsonablog.blogspot.com

You two are the subject of my most recent post--Brad mostly, because the soreness that comes from your Conditioning class is easier to write about than how hard it will be to leave everyone.

Julie and Brad, this has been the hardest letter I've ever written.

Love and Thanks,
Jared

--

This is going to be the roughest week. Expect a Farewell to English post very soon.

Mace...out

This is Mainly For Sire

2006-05-05T03:18:00.000-05:00

My current desktop background. Opeth is what I call Ghost Metal. It's impossible to explain in a single blogpost. If you're that intersted in knowing just what the fuck I mean by Ghost Metal, we can talk.

I matched a nice deep brown with the tan of the "O" for the desktop frame of this pic. For those of you who still STRETCH desktop images--fucking-shame-on-you! One nerd to the uninitiated: Never stretch ever. You get me? NEVER. It's as tacky as tacky gets. Warhol would tile. Pollock would splat. No one fucking stetches. Borders make the painting. Think of desktop-framing as the under-appreciated grammar of the best sentence ever--if that does it for you.

I thought Sire might specifically appreciate this pic since after all of my prompting with previous albums, only "Damnation" would do it for him. He says that "screeching" vocals is laughable in the other albums; but he means "growling," and even then he's sadly too Americanized to understand the importance of growled vox. Whatev. "Damnation" is perfect, with or without Cookie Monster vox.

But... Sire, you're missing out on important synchopation because you can't let yourself appreciate growling--growling that YOU can replicate easily! I've heard you do it! Even Danecek would be jealous of your uninitiated growling prowess! Honestly, Sire, you'd make for a great Anything-Metal voxist.

Mace...out

Yip Yip Yip Yip Yip Yip Uuuuh Huh

2006-05-04T17:56:00.000-05:00

Most Frightening Sesame Street Characters Ever. Once the general kid fear wore off, though, the Sesame Street "Yip-Yips" became one of my favs.

The Best Five and a Half Minutes of Acting EVER

2006-05-03T17:22:00.000-05:00

So MacMike sent me link to a video clip from iFilm of a high school percussion ensemble doing a Dj Shadow medley. That was cool... But this is just a-fucking-stounding. I found a clip of Shat doing his thang in 73, the epitome of the cool.

You ask, what's cool? Pink butterfly collars and perposterous delivery of lines.

You ask, but what's he doing with his face? Emoting, you fucking hack.

The Best Acting in the Best Five and a Half Minutes of Acting EVER starts at 2:10 of the video. I don't know when it stops because it's so good I go numb after 25 seconds.

Poor Shat.

Mace...out

Happy 100

2006-04-27T01:02:00.000-05:00

How do you celebrate 100 posts?

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

2006-04-25T04:22:00.000-05:00

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

--

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.

--

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).

--

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.

--

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!

2006-04-24T02:53:00.002-05:00

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.

2006-04-22T22:19:00.000-05:00

Cabana Boi Flops. Come to dee islan'!

No Such Thing As Too Much Sausage

2006-04-19T12:37:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-04-19T03:09:00.001-05:00

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."

--

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.

--

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.

2006-04-18T02:56:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-04-14T16:40:00.000-05:00

Cup o' Kitty, anyone?

Cover Bands are Tragic Things.

2006-04-09T23:41:00.000-05:00

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

2006-04-06T03:59:00.000-05:00

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?

2006-04-05T01:26:00.000-05:00

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!

2006-04-04T00:54:00.000-05:00

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.

--

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

Lotioning and "Tucking" in Class

2006-03-28T16:20:00.000-06:00

[Editor's note: This post has been revised into an open letter to my student who I (playfully) embarrassed in class today:]

I apologize for embarrassing you in class, Erin. Your phone rang, a sassy salsa ring, not unlike BatManuel's from The Tick.

It rang during in-class work time so it wasn't a big deal to begin with. Also, your blood-rushed cheeks expressed the perfect amount of embarrassment. I've heard horror stories from other teachers about their students handling phone calls with far less class and humility, actually answering the phone and having a conversation, the teacher glaring but unsure whether to be angry or amazed.

The salsa jig and your obvious embarrassment were too much to ignore; I had to have fun with it. You did answer the phone, but I could tell you did it just to stop the ringing and to tell the caller you'd call back later. But I couldn't resist mocking shock and injustice that you answered. Then I said, "It hangs up the phone or else it gets the hose again," which resulted in a round of uneasy I-can't-believe-he-just-said-that-in-class laughter. You all knew the reference--The Silence of the Lambs, of course--or at least you knew it from The Family Guy, from an episode in which Stewie says the real line: "It rubs the lotion on its skin or else it gets the hose again." Besides, the line and scene have become pop culture trivia.

I [heart] Bill.

Then I remembered the song "Lotion" by The Greenskeepers which was written about the movie; and since I'm an attention whore, I began to sing it. Of course, none of you understood that reference. So I told you all about the song and the video and promptly supplied a link for it on The Mothership Connection.

I remember the day that Poats came home to our Lavish Atwood estate at The Quads. Sire an Canham followed close behind, singing the song. They hastened me to a computer (which wasn't far since I lived with three Computer Science majors) and fired up the video. My favorite things about it is how well the lyrics match up with the scene and, of course, the money shot at the end: The Tuck.

Anyway.

Again, I apologize, Erin. You didn't deserve my singing.

Wow. What a great open letter. From The Tick to The Tuck.

Mace... out

Badger! Badger! Badger! Badger!

2006-03-26T22:33:00.000-06:00

Mahshroom! Mahshroom!

I watched the Badgers tonight--not the above ones but the ones that roam the rolling hills and cheesing gullies of Wisconsin.

Yes, the type that glares and struts. I'd glare too if I had to play an entire game plus two and half full-length overtime periods--for the uninitiated n00bz, that's 110 minutes of hockey. That's intense in ten cities. That's not just sudden-death overtime; overdeath doesn't even cut it; that's über overdeath. At least they won.

I fell in love with three men tonight--you know, in that man-crush sort of way:

One) Robbie Earl. Sixth-round pick for the Toronto Maple Leafs (187th overall). He played so hard that by the third overdeath period, his legs would cramp up to the point that he'd have to crawl back to the bench. Once he was helped over the boards by his teammates, he'd sit behind the bench, kneeling on his haunches in order to stretch out the cramps until his next shift. Out he'd hobble; play 'til he once again left everything on the ice; hobble back; repeat. That's heart. I wonder how many of the fallen Toronto Maple Leafs were watching this game tonight, watching their future Leaf, Robbie Earl. How did this guy get overlooked for five rounds in the draft?

Two) Brian Elliot - Ninth-round pick for the Ottawa Senators (291st overall). Not only was Elliot the winning goalie tonight, he posted a shutout. Not only that, he played over eleven perfect periods of playoff hockey spanning over the 5+ periods of tonight's game and the two previous games. Drafting this guy in the ninth round is like finding a first edition of LotR at Half-Priced Books.

Three) Jack Skille - Seventh overall pick in 2005 for the Chicago Blackhawks. Scouting got this one right. Skille's 5th overdeath period goal released the tension tonight--literally: A replay shot from the Cornell bench showed several Cornell Big Red players quite literally deflate. It looked like the Cornell jerseys faded a few hues of red. Exhausted and defeated, a couple collapsed to the floor of the bench, on which the entire team had been sweating, spitting, and snot-rocketing for 110 game-minutes.

Since there will be no Gophers in the Final Four this year, I think it's safe to cheer on another member of Rodenia.

Go Badgers! Badgers! Badgers! Badgers! Badgers! Badgers! Badgers! Badgers! Mahshroom! Mahshroom!

The Hell is Wrong With Me?

2006-03-26T15:21:00.000-06:00

Yesterday, for the first time in...geez, maybe ever, I actually missed working at Jake's Stadium Pizza. I was putting clothes away and saw my bazillion, neglected Jake's shirts hanging there--in a color-coordinated spectrum, of course. It's been about a month since the last time I worked a shift; but upon seeing the shirts, I was rushed by an olfactory wave of char and raw sausage.

Now, normally I miss the great peeps workin' at Jake's. Here's a short list in unprioritized order: Scotty "Mobile Mannor" Feit, Schmitzurugi, Son-Son GZA-mon, Inferior-Link-Kevin--even Idiot High School Girl who one day contimplated the pepper balls in a slice of salami and asked, "Is this where pepper comes from?" and another day asked, "Did cavemen really exist or were they like the dinosaurs?" She deserves her own entire post. But not today.

I always miss these people, but yesterday I missed the shit storm work. Sweat mixing with scalding pizza grease, flour-dusted spectacles, pepperoni char, and hands endlessly smelling of sausage. I missed the Jake's I know which is bascially the exact opposite of this picture:

I work in twenty minutes for the first time in a month--in fact, I'll probably be late because of this post. Let's see whether I miss Jake's after a normal Shit Storm Sunday.

Mace...out

Hack the Gibson!

2006-03-22T18:36:00.000-06:00

The old saying goes, "Ya learn something new everyday." Today I learned that all you need to disrupt the Space-Time Continuum is a Super Scope, a couple deflector shields, and a bushel of turnips.

Ya see, I was poking around on Google today looking for Smash Brothers videos--as I think we all do sometimes. I thought I had learned everything there is to know about SB, but it continues to educate. I came across a vid that shows how to create what people are calling "The Blackhole Glitch." SB is so freakin' cool, it disrupts the STC. Is there anything SB can't do?

Mace... out

So Many Topics

2006-03-22T03:47:00.001-06:00

One) Darkon

Props to DP Wieland--which is the best future-author name ever, and who is one of my favorite scrappy defensive-offensemen PK specialists on the Minneapolis Swine Hockey Club (MSHC)--props to D for the heads up on what surely will sweep this year's Oscars in all documentary categories. All I have to say is "Lightning Bolt! Lightning Bolt!" These fuckers truly know how to roll... twenties.

Two) Hinoi

Props to Zinnfondle for the heads up on these pretty Japanese girls and their prettier Japanese fire-breathing wrestler. I dare you to resist the urge to learn those complex arm... movements; I dare you to resist singing along: "Night ahv Fylu!"

Three) Late Night Office Fun

Sal messaged me at 11:30 pm. She was sad because she thought I was out at the bars with everyone else in the world--or at least everyone in our department. But, in fact, I was grading in the office. She didn't ask for proof, but I supplied it anyway.

Then I decided to go back to grading papers until security kicked me out--which normally would have happened at midnight. But they never showed. Here's more proof.

Four) Garmz - Black & White 2

Fuck. Yes.

As if B&W1 didn't accomplish enough, B&W2 is even better. Well, I'm guessing it is. I haven't exactly played it yet.

In B&W1, of course, you play as a god--good or evil, whatever you want. You gain belief/influence over mortals by manifesting miracles. For instance, you can save drowning children if you're a good god. The villagers rejoice and praise you. Or, if you decide to go evil, instead of saving a drowning child, toss one out to sea. You'd still gain belief/influence since eville miracles like those cause mortals to praise you out of fear. My kind of game.

As cool it is to play God, you get to take care of an avatar too! Avatars steal the show in B&W1. It's surprisingly fun to play fetch with them, scratch their bellies when they're nice to a peasant, slap them around when they "accidentally" eat one, and teach them new tricks that help spread your godly influence with the mortals. Your avatar, as well as the temple at which peasants worship you, is a reflection of your alignment, either good or evil. An avatar of a good god glows with a sparkling aura while an evil avatar's eyes blaze and its footprints scorch the land.

In B&W2, though, avartars are all growed up. Your avatar leads an army of believers into battle against enemy avatars and their heathen non-believer armies. I better type some of those words again: Avatar... leads army... into battle... enemy avatar... heathen non-believer armies...

"Well, those castle walls sure are thick and tall. I wonder how I'll break th--SIEGE COW!!1"

Peter Molyneux will you marry me? Type "wOOt" in a comment if yes.

Mace...out

Another Co-Author Post!

2006-03-10T13:36:00.000-06:00

Naughtilie and I were wondering if we have taken a billion bites out of a single food, any food--even cornanas.

We mean, a billion is a lot--like, a lot. We agrued if it was even possible:

INT. TA Office, AH210

Naughtilie and Mace swivel in office chairs.

NAUGHTILIE
Well if you think about it, tee-hee-hee,
you prob'ly take about 20 bites per meal.
And three meals a day, that's about 60--

MACE
(Raises fist)
No! No! No! Because, like, do chews count
as bites?!

NAUGHTILIE
What about cats? If cats ate the same food
their entire lives--

MACE
They DO eat the same food their entire lives!

Doesn't "Fatboy" look happy eating the same food his entire life?

Mace and Naught...out (tee-hee-hee)

Co-Author Tuesday...

2006-03-07T14:43:00.000-06:00

Again.

Robert Wrigley is the avatar of August Strindberg.

Apparently, Strindberg + Helium was picked up by Comedy Central. So some of the vids have been blocked on the main S+H site. Stupid popularity. We want our Helium back.

That is all. There is nothing more--nothing... in my bleeding heart.

BLEEEEEEDIIIINNNNG!

Mace + Naughtilie...out

What-Huh?

2006-03-05T22:21:00.000-06:00

You do want to make it to the playoffs?

2g, 1a. What a man.

I'd Pay For Her Dry Cleaning Any Day

2006-03-05T22:07:00.000-06:00

Big ups to MacMike for the heads up on the Portman short done in Lazy Sunday style.

Googlemaps is the best.
True dat--Double true.

Wait a second... is SNL funny again?

What a Weak/Week

2006-03-04T00:06:00.000-06:00

I don't know why I got out of bed.

Fuck You, Comps.

2006-03-02T18:42:00.000-06:00

Left hand this time. This one, too, looks awkward and freakish.

Notice the Max Payne mousepad. That's how I roll, with akimbo Mac10s in bullet time.

Mace...out of patience for Comps

No, Let Us Not Duel.

2006-03-02T00:30:00.000-06:00

After several hours and metaphors through Hoagland, Donkey Gospel, and Dacy, The Deathbed Playboy, I got to take a break to wash a hundred dishes, make some dinner (mostaccioli with Italian Sausage & Garlic sauce and a Sam), and catch up on some Adult Swim.

You ask, "Why wasn't I watching English Premiere League Futbol like usual?" Because today I cut back our cable plan to save some ching. Don't you hate it when seven months ago you signed up for a super cheap, super kickass dual deal with 3bit cable internet + more movie and sports channels (Fox Soccer Channel) than you know what to do with? And then after five months the deal expires, and you forget to change it, so you're still stuck with the same package, which now is far from super cheap? Yeah I hate that too.

Without Liverpool v. Arsenal to watch anymore--I was watching the game while talking to the Charter CS guy, and he switched it off right before my eyes without a chance to say goodbye--without the EPL, I had to search for a few new channels to watch. My channels will once again be Cartoon Network and G4 plus, of course, OLN and FSN when the Wild are on.

Tonight, while masticating my mostaccioli, I caught up on some Aqau Teen Hunger Force and X-Play (Morgan = Love) and all was once again futbol-less. After ATHF, Samurai Champloo came on. I have an extensive history with anime. Much of my high school experience was spent watching Akira... 150 times. That's an estimate, not an exaggeration.

I bought a new vid every weekend during the height of my anime days. Sun Coast Video was my whiskey, and I've had a few. I can't remember exactly what combination of high school things eventually killed off my anime days. It was probably a combination of music, girls, and Quake 2.

Since then, I had one person to rely on for my connection to Asian entertainment, the stringed tin cans between me and Asia: Patrick. At some point during our much missed time in our much much much missed apartment in Southridge, Patrick had me watch Samurai Champloo--seriously, "had me watch" is the right way to say it. He more or less sat me down like he was pappa and he needed to tell his boner-in-sweatpants son about the birds-n-the-beez, only instead, he puts on Samurai Champloo.

Where to start? Shinichiro Watanabe (of Cowboy Bebop and The Animatrix fame) directs. Nujabes lends his DJ ear and style. This is one of the best, one of my favorite anime series. It's highly stylized, clever, and has as good of animation as I've ever seen, except maybe Steamboy--which, coincidentally, was directed by Katsuhiro Otomo of Akira fame.

SC is Samurai meets break dancing meets DJs meets capoeira.

It's been pretty clear for awhile that Japanime is taking over American "cartoon" styliez--'bout fucking time, if you ask me. But America actually had no style to take over. I mean, I'll always love G.I. Joe and Thundercats probably more than the next guy--probably more than I should--but there is no style in that animation. But now it does! I'm glad to see animation taking off over here, but--BUT... We're going too crazy.

Just because it's anime, doesn't mean it's good anime.

Half the shit they play on CN is junk the Japs didn't want. And once we overlay our goofy, American oaf voices--forgetaboutit.

Ya know that Yu-Gi-Oh show you've been watching?
It sucks. It's about cards.

Ya know Inuyasha? It sucks. The guy has a mullet and animal ears. This shit is borderline furrypr0n.

Ya know the newest Dragon Ball Z series? I don't know if there is one--but if there is, it sucks too.

Entertainment is not two clay-haired muscular dudes who are in a perpetual pre-fight state. They swear they're about to fight, but they never do. They just stand there, dialoguing, with quaking eyes and clenched fists--sometimes glowing. Sometimes they don't face each other; other times they float and talk. Then some crazy little dude with a tail shows up and says something that's supposed to be funny, but it's not because it doesn't translate well. A huge sweat drop appears on his head and the episode's over. The next-time-on-DBZ clip promises that they'll actually fight. Maybe. And who would want a shitty fan base that draws pictures like this? In short, DBZ can Goku straight to hell.

This is what we should be going crazy about: swords

Not cards.

That's a fucking card game. N.W.O.A. (Not Worthy of Animation). And don't tell me it's meant for kids. Look at that cardhall whore. She's not meant for kids. I know the Japanese are advanced--I mean they make square fucking watermellons--but their kids aren't having sex with busty blondes with an oral fixation and a fetish for gloved dudes who play the right card... at the right time.

No, let us not duel.

Let us rejoice, eat pasta, and watch Samurai Champloo.

Tricksy Bloggitses!

2006-03-01T21:05:00.000-06:00

You might notice that I changed the background of my blog. I like the baby-blueness; it goes well with my browns. And blocks of text are just something some of us like to look at.

Anyhoo, I didn't think it was possible to change the template (aside from [Sausage] links and such) since every Blogger.com blog I've ever seen was one of the very few, stark templates. Or I just haven't been paying close attention.

BZ discovered a way to dress these n00dz up with just a little bit of HTML trickery. If you're daring, go for it. I swore a lot as I tried it, messed things up, then got things back to normal enough to tweak just a little bit. So, attempt your own peril:
_

Mace,
I was stubborn and wouldn't let it go, and lo and behold I found a way to add an image (like wood paneling) to the blog background. Who said this is wasting time? I was screwing around with the template of my blog and figured this out:

Go to template / edit current / body / background:

replace "background:#xxx"
with "background:url("xxx")"

Check out my blog now for an example.

Here is a site with some great wood paneling and other textures.
_

BZ also found this site that has some more. They aren't as magnificent as Mayang's, but those folks caps the number of times their textures are downloaded from them each day--as in, each time someone visits your blog, the person's machine dls the image. And Mayang caps at 20/day, which is lame.

The second site doesn't cap. So use them or any other of the many texture sites out there--or do as BZ suggested to me: DL Mayang's images, create a fake blog post (saved as a draft) and link to that URL in your template.

Have fun, but beware the bizarre world of HTML.

Mace...out

Now that the NHL is Back...

2006-03-01T15:43:00.000-06:00

...say hello once again to the Wild while they say goodbye to the playoffs.

Why I Love Terry Davis

2006-02-25T01:58:00.000-06:00

There are reasons why Terry Davis is the chair of my Thesis Committee. There are reasons why TD is one of the major players that will review my Comprehensive Exam, just over a week away. Please be as gracious as you've ever been, TD--especially since I should be studying for the exam, but instead I'm blogging in your honor. There's a reason I've taken more courses from TD than any other professor ever (In second place is RT for his knack for poetry and a means to better my knack to blur the lines between non-fiction and fiction).

Terry has taught me more than I could ever capture in a simple, single blog. But what he's taught me about writing is, in fact, pretty simple. That "what" took a couple years to fully materialize into words I can easily express in this space. These words finally materialized for me last weekend up in Grand Marais, a place the perfect distance away from the stressful things in life that tend to cloud the observation it takes to come to epiphanies.

I can distill the most beneficial lesson Terry ever taught me into specific words. I can do this, not-so-coincidentally because Terry taught me how. First of all, these words come from my next-oldest brother, Justin, with whom I have the worst relationship with compared to my other two brothers. I know Terry would love Justin for the same reasons I do, mostly because neither of my other brothers taught me the need to be tough more than Justin did. The other reason I love Justin, and for which Terry would love Justin too, is for the words that I'll link to Terry's most beneficial lesson.

One day, Justin and I were watching Married With Children. After a particularly Al Bundy moment, Justin looked at me and said, "Al tells it like it is."

Tell it like it is.

Justin taught me that about life. Terry taught me that about writing. In Screenwriting and Contemporary Prose, Terry has his students read McKee's Story. Early on, McKee writes about Aristotle; how it's the artist/poet/writer's job to hold a mirror up to nature. Terry's best message to anyone, especially young writers, is to 1) be a thoughtful human being, and 2) be observant.

A few months ago, the combination of a good Jake's Pizza friend, Handsome Rob, and Quentin Tarentino helped me set aside certain childish revoltances towards the Country and/or Western icon that is Johnny Cash. Notice that the current "description" of my blog is a twist on the third act climax of the lyrics of "A Boy Named Sue." Last weekend, up in Grand Marais, I had a lighting strike-like revelation while listening to "I Walk the Line." I was struck to the marrow marrow.

"I keep a close watch on this heart of mine. I keep my eyes wide open all the time. I keep the ends out for the tie that binds. Because you're mine, I walk the line."

I think I shan't need to draw obvious connexions.

But mayhaps I do. When I theoretically think about it, writing is so simple. Its fundamentals certainly are. I tell my Comp students all the time: "Writing is easy. All you have to do is remember a million simple rules."

As Terry would say in any given class: take inventory of your emotions/reactions at all times. That means exactly what Cash says: Watch your heart. Keep your eyes open for ties that bind life together. Put your ego away and tell it like it is--walk the fucking line.

Of course, Cash was probably talking about shit that has little or no actual relevance to this subject--but who asked Cash? I'm the damn'd audience here. But so are these people, at Terry's reading this evening at The Filling Station:

There were more, but the pictures didn't quite turn out--my fault, which is just like life, I've observed. The reasons for my love for Terry are the same reasons why The Filling Station had never seen so many people pack its modest accommodations, and why so many people came to listen to their professor, with whom they have class twice weekly. The reason why is because they get his message, and because he's so able and willing to spread his message outside of the stuffy rooms of Armstrong Hall.

Not only is it spring semester for me, but it's my last spring semester. This would justify, I hope, this out-pouring of sap. Oh well. I don't care. For Terry Davis, I walk the line.

Mace...out

It's New Soap Day!!1

2006-02-23T18:33:00.000-06:00

INT. Shower
Old Soap, this is New Soap.

TOM
Sup, Springs?

OLD IRISH
Oh. Ahh hey, Tom.

TOM
Lookin' a little... overworked.

OLD IRISH
Yeah, I guess I've been around a long
time.
(beat)
You ahh... You smell pretty good, Tom.
Is that...?

TOM
Sage and Lemongrass.

OLD IRISH
Yeah, that's what I thought. It's a nice
combo. Fresh.

TOM
Well I guess your shift's up, Springs.

OLD IRISH
Looks like it. If you need me, you know
to like take some hours off you hands,
I'll be in the wastebasket with the Q-tips
and pubes, and some Kleenex.

TOM
I think I'm good.

OLD IRISH
Ok. See ya, I guess.

TOM
Yah.

Mace...out

Fuck You, Raquetball...

2006-02-23T17:05:00.000-06:00

...for what you did to my finger. Part of me fell off today during an inspired set of games--inspired, but futile on my part: Naughtilie whooped my ass. Whooped my ass good. I won one game, though... out of six. The good thing about winning only once is that I have exactly no illusions about my raquetball skillz. In fact, I have no skillz. My raquetball experience came down to a lot of flailing, floundering, and other fl- words, spiked with moments of brilliance.

What have I gained from raquetball: Bruis'd knees (I'll post pic of them should they color up nicely).

What have I lost from raquetball: A part of my finger. I could feel it start to blister as the games piled up. Then, the blister/callous plate slipped much like a volatile layer of the Earth's crust. It just kinda hung there, connected by a slight flap of skin/callous. That's when we stopped.

So fuck you, raquetball. I'll see you next week.

Oh, and yes I know my "bird" looks messed up. I've never been able to flip the bird without my damn'd pinky sticking out like that. It's even worse if I attempt the Molly Ringwold bird flipping from The Breakfast Club.

Mace...out

2006-02-22T16:44:00.000-06:00

BZ's documentation of our Grand Marais trip is much better than mine could ever be. Even though I love my baby, BZ takes some mean ass pics on his camera. So, head over to his site for some real photography. But here are a few of my cell pics too:

Duluth!

Finally in Grand Marais, on the long driveway from the highway to the lakeside cabin. Evil Dead comes to mind, eh?

Frost on a cabin window

Grand Marais Marina

The beach in front of the cabin, looking north-by-northeast

The beach in front of the cabin, looking south-by-southwest

Frozen beach rocks

Looking down on Grand Marais from Pincushion Mountain

Looking over the other side of Pincushion

Bundled Sal while Snowshoeing

That poor, poor septic tank

The longer we stayed, the more brutal the waves got.

These weren't even the biggest waves.

Any Day...

2006-02-22T16:20:00.000-06:00

...is a good day if I get to play a drumset. My boss, Jules, has kept me on a pretty tight djembÃ© & conga only leash for the last couple years. I have gone through stretches of multiple months without playing on a drumset since then. It's been hell for my set playing, but heaven for my hand drumming.

The pictured set is aderivativee of the one I played for a couple years for the dancers. It's not the same because the need for a set today was short notice, so I didn't have all the same pieces. Normally, I would have had a tiny tom on a stand were the conga is. The tom is real small and not that great. The best thing about it is that it has two tones, one for the initial strike and another resolving tone a half step or so down.

Also, I would have a single cymbal stand with two splash cymbals (their bells facing each other for space), which would be between and behind the tom and hi-hats. Everything else is like it used to be. Yes, that bassdrum is actually a de-tuned floor tom. You can't read it well, but the text on the hi-hat reads "Sound Vader... Made in West Germany." That's how old they are.

Mace...out

Toilet: The Fixening

2006-02-22T00:23:00.000-06:00

One of us was about to break--I could just feel it. Finally, after just over two months or so, Reed placed a work order to fix our runny runny runny toilet. It was a silent contest between us, who could last longer. It appears I have won. But winning implies I have lost: I am clearly lazier--I mean, more patient.

We only broke the toilet silence now and then when one of us would say, "God damn toilet." And the other would say, "Yahp. We should probably get that fixed soon, eh?" And then, "Yahp." Reed would then cook his seventh meal of the day--"supper" as as hobbits would say, which comes after "dinner"--and I'd keep watching hockey.

Today, Reed is the better man. He is the man. It's his birthday too. The King's to you. Happy Birthday, you Prince of Jiggling, you Savior of Toilet.

PS: Yes, that's my Nintendo DS on top of the toilet lid on top of the toilet bowl. The lid is my DS's home. The toilet is my DS throne. In Super Mario 64 DS, there are mini games. Luigi has a casino of sorts with card games. I play Luigi's card clearing game. Every time you successfully clear 80 adjacent or diagonal cards, you get 10 points and one star. Anytime you fail to do so, the number of cards you have left is subtracted from your score and one star is taken away. My score is 6,466 with 601 stars. What does that tell you? Yes: That's a lot of poop.

Mace...out

This is Not a V-Day Bashing Post

2006-02-15T01:58:00.000-06:00

...but that doesn't mean my February is Fabruary. Here's one example that requires us to play a picture game. Guess what room is in this picture:

If you said, "The TA office, AH210" you are totally wrong. You fail. This is the TA office, AH210 at midnight. Notice through the door that the motion-sensitive hall lights are off. That means no one else is in the building but me and a janitor who swept by twice. We shared two awkward glances. It was apparent that I was infringing on his me time. I agreed with his scowl: I shouldn't have been there. But that's how I roll.

Yes, I made a little fort out of Comp books--big whoop, wanna fight about it?

That was Monday night. Tuesday was not Valentine's Day; it was Jeanentine's Day. To begin with, I was pumped for the workshop of Jean's non-fiction piece, mostly because it was about music. O', also because the piece is my heart and soul in her words. That too. So I was ready to testify from the mountains when I got an email from her that included a disclaimer that she's not stalking me or anything, but she thought I should see this pic:

She was right. Everyone in the world should see this pic. See that smile? That's the fourth time he's ever done that. Smiled, that is. That's his smile before he roundhouse kicks 70s blue birds at cameramen who capture his seldom smiles. His look off into the distance is gauging just how far the cameraman will fly.

Happy V-Day, Chuck.

So that was a nice surprise. To continue Jeanentine's Day, we had her workshop. I tried my hardest not to gush too much. I think I failed, but at least I convinced a few people that her piece was not good or great--it was... RT's favorite compliment is, "You got it right." That's what she did; she got young musicianship right. I better stop now before I gush more.

I get to celebrated a day-late V-Day date with ma babay tomorrow night. Then, it's off to cozy, rustic Grand Marais for us for a long weekend with our SLPeeps. I will have pics of pines and contemplative Superior when I get back. I will probably have frost bite too.

Mace...out