Because I've forgotten the cord to plug in my computer, because I've forgotten my headphones, because I got off to a late start, because the two women sitting across from me at Caribou screamed and screamed about their rich neighbor who supposedly digs through the trash--she has a 500,000 house! She's stinking rich. And you won't believe this...I saw her digging through the trash. And her son, well he got my son started on it!--that's why.
Also, because after the trashy-son-woman left, another woman came to take her place. A woman who was much louder and much more angry and who had a cell phone. This woman came to Caribou solely to call her credit card company and complain about their website. She did so for about 45 minutes. She asked to speak to three different people, and so I heard her story 3 different times: Excuse me. Excuse me. Can I talk? Can you let me finish? Your website does not reflect this policy. I made a payment yesterday. 12:00 evening tonight is SUNDAY. This is a business day. You're not listening to me. No. I cannot speak to you anymore. I need to speak with your manager. I need you to pull up your website and look at this with me--do you have a computer in front of you?--I need you to understand my situation and do something about it. I need to speak to someone who is not you right now.--Thank you! She sat with her ass on the end of her wooden cabin-like Caribou chair as though she was practicing her posture. She gestured wildly. She had huge lips. She kept glancing at me, expecting me to be annoyed. I refused to show annoyance in my face; instead I just looked at the papers in front of me. When she stopped looking at me, I kept one eye on the papers and one angry eye on her.
That is also why my big writing day has been a bust.
Today, though, was okay. It's January 26th, so when you don't freeze in a ditch somewhere or lose a limb in some sort of accident, you have to say it's okay.
I spent the morning crying in my bed, for some good reason I can't really think of anymore. It was then 12:30, so I lifted weights while listening to country music, and then I decided to take advantage of the above zero weather and go for a run. And I ran and ran to prove to myself that I had it in me; I ran down Chicago to Minnehaha Parkway, and I ran the Parkway along the creek until I got to the lake, and instead of just running the tiny swamp part of the lake, I ran the whole thing, past the couples holding each others' hands in one hand and a dog leash in the other, past the girls in their tight black running pants, past the slender men on bikes with slushy tires, the men who I wish would ask me out on dates. Ah, dates. I thought about my recent bouts with the dating website, the men who look at my profile and pass on, the men with tattoos and faint moustaches who send me emails without complete sentences. I hate the dating website; the interviews of, essentially, will-you-suit-me-for-the-rest-of-my-life over coffee, the emails filled with misdirected wit. I've just become so, very good at being alone. It's depressing isn't it! It is.
Last night, I looked at the other girls on the website, their clever profiles, their cute pictures, their descriptions of themselves as "fun-loving." Their blonde hair and sucked-in, sexy faces and self-taken photographs. I began to think the website was competitive. I futhered my destructive thinking of the philiosphy of this website, how easy it is to just pass on, to reject somebody. I'll pass, but thanks. How one sentence or picture makes you say, "no." How, if I met some of these men, if they really knew who I was, that I'd be such a different person. How they could think the same thing about me. How this seems to mess with fate, or ironically is. If we were all in a room together this would be such a different story. How things like religion or wanting-of-children just sits in front of you, in tiny sans sariff font. Most of my non-spoken correspondences, otherwise known as these "winks" end with me saying in my head fuck off, [insert retarded screen name here], I'm more attractive than you anyway. You're missing out, [stupid screen name]. My picture may not be very cute, but I'm totally hot in person. And then I cry for awhile and hate myself. I'm gonna go feel sorry for myself and listen to my Sinatra records and pretend that I have somebody who thinks about me when I'm not there.
Isn't love just the most important, ridciulous thing. It is. Fuck.
Although I didn't get the writing done I wanted today, I was able to accomplish part of my goal of reading over the literary magnificence of P's essay and RT's poems. How wonderful. I took my thin black pen, and I wrote in margins, and channeled MFA Jean. I wrote and wrote, made jokes, took very small words very seriously, and felt like a human being again. When I was done, I took the pages of essay and poem and paged through them three or four times, gloating in my comments. Not even in what they said, but just how they looked on the white spaces of the pages, all teacher-writingly and messy and exclamation point filled. ! The coffee was just dark enough to upset my stomach, and the cookie was hard, but I sat there with my fingers in my hair, my head resting in my palm, and I thought about smart things; I wondered about poetry and art and trends and failures and successess and why those were what they were.
That run I had today, that was a good run. It's been 5 hours since, and my thighs are still twitching. My muscles are saying what were you thinking, Jeano. You weren't quite ready for all of these miles yet. But they're wrong.
Same shit, different outfit.
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
Today at work, we got free shirts.
It's because they're getting us "pumped up" for the integration of the new system. It's to thank us for all of our hard work. It's so when this organized mess goes live, and someone has a stroke trying to decide whether a transcript is "Req Ad" or "Reg Ad CCE" they can say look, dude. We warned you. We gave you a t-shirt. I also saw that you took two of the free cookies and it was one per person. Don't get pissed at us. Now, you're not getting any disability. Put your t-shirt on, wipe the cookie crumbs off your desk, and get back to work.
I'm not complaining. The t-shirts were long-sleeved. I love long-sleeved t-shirts. I don't care if there's a logo of the new program on this shirt that looks all business-y and lame. I love long t-shirts so much, you could put a picture of a swastika on the front, and I'd be like: so? It's comfortable! (Do I have to say I'm joking here? Who knows.) The sleeves go past my wrist and I can grip them in my palms! I'm gonna take my long-sleeved shirt and go sit by a campfire.
Also. There's a tag on the shirt that says the shirt was printed by "Rebuild Resources," a company that helps men and women who are struggling with with drug and alcohol addictions by giving them employment. That's awesome! That means that either my Uncle Al or most people who ride next to me on 5E printed my t-shirt.
Shirt and cookie day is my favorite day. Today at work, I was just a little less stabby.
What this shirt really got me thinking about, though (yes, I'm still on the shirt--nobody's forcing you to read this) is the computer system. I mean, here's me. This not even-yet-hired temp, who gets a free shirt. I don't know what the hell is going on around me. I just do what they tell me. (And it's not that I'm not smart; I just really don't care.)
But people have been working on converting the data from the old program to the new program for like two years. Two years they've been matching one program to the other. (Like, since it's higher ed, an appropriate metaphor would be like they've been doing Course Credit Evaluations for two years. For two years they've been deciding which "courses" (or data) can be transferred to the "new school" (or program).)
And you can see it in their eyes. This girl who did my training, who I'd been informed had drank a whole bottle of champagne to herself when they were officially done with this integration, looks like hell. Yesterday I sat next to her in a meeting, while she stuffed a Whopper in her face, looking like she wanted to cry. Saying, "I don't know" in a very sighing voice the whole time. And you know when someone hoovers a Whopper in a board room in front of strangers that they're reached the point of desparation.
My point here is that I've been thinking about what they've been doing for so long. I've decided--I could do that for two years. I could! As long as someone taught me, that could be my job. I decided there are many things that I could do; that with training, I am capable of doing.
My point here is: I don't want to. That's what this whole post-grad school thing has led me to decide. I could do that, but I don't want to. My happiness is pretty important to me, and things are really shitty right now, so I'm not going to do stuff I don't want to. With work, I don't have a choice. I'm saying if I did have a choice. I'm saying, right now, I'm not settling when I don't have to. I don't want to invest myself in a business-type job because I can.
For example. When I was just that age to stay home alone all summer, my mom would make a list of chores. She'd say, "can't you just vacuum today while I'm at work?" And since I was a bad, lazy daughter, I'd think, "yes I can, but I don't want to." Of course I can vacuum. But that doesn't sound very fun. I don't want to. What I want to do is call my friend Randi, hop on my bike, and ride down to Tom Thumb and buy 7 different kinds of Laffy Taffy with my allowance. What I want to do is watch Double Dare at 2:30 and Duck Tales at 3:00, until you come home, mom, and we discuss what you're making for dinner, and it had better be pizza burgers.
I think it is my ability to think about my happiness and mental stability that has made me a failure.
(Of course, there was the day when I was a "good" kid and did vacuum while she was gone, and I accidentally vacuumed up a black sock. That sock got stuck right up in that vacuum, and it started smoking and stinking like, well, a sock on fire--so I just put the vacuum on the patio in the cold until she came home and asked why is the vacuum cleaner outside? And it stayed there, ultimately, until my dad came home to finally de-sock it.)
I'm not complaining. The t-shirts were long-sleeved. I love long-sleeved t-shirts. I don't care if there's a logo of the new program on this shirt that looks all business-y and lame. I love long t-shirts so much, you could put a picture of a swastika on the front, and I'd be like: so? It's comfortable! (Do I have to say I'm joking here? Who knows.) The sleeves go past my wrist and I can grip them in my palms! I'm gonna take my long-sleeved shirt and go sit by a campfire.
Also. There's a tag on the shirt that says the shirt was printed by "Rebuild Resources," a company that helps men and women who are struggling with with drug and alcohol addictions by giving them employment. That's awesome! That means that either my Uncle Al or most people who ride next to me on 5E printed my t-shirt.
Shirt and cookie day is my favorite day. Today at work, I was just a little less stabby.
What this shirt really got me thinking about, though (yes, I'm still on the shirt--nobody's forcing you to read this) is the computer system. I mean, here's me. This not even-yet-hired temp, who gets a free shirt. I don't know what the hell is going on around me. I just do what they tell me. (And it's not that I'm not smart; I just really don't care.)
But people have been working on converting the data from the old program to the new program for like two years. Two years they've been matching one program to the other. (Like, since it's higher ed, an appropriate metaphor would be like they've been doing Course Credit Evaluations for two years. For two years they've been deciding which "courses" (or data) can be transferred to the "new school" (or program).)
And you can see it in their eyes. This girl who did my training, who I'd been informed had drank a whole bottle of champagne to herself when they were officially done with this integration, looks like hell. Yesterday I sat next to her in a meeting, while she stuffed a Whopper in her face, looking like she wanted to cry. Saying, "I don't know" in a very sighing voice the whole time. And you know when someone hoovers a Whopper in a board room in front of strangers that they're reached the point of desparation.
My point here is that I've been thinking about what they've been doing for so long. I've decided--I could do that for two years. I could! As long as someone taught me, that could be my job. I decided there are many things that I could do; that with training, I am capable of doing.
My point here is: I don't want to. That's what this whole post-grad school thing has led me to decide. I could do that, but I don't want to. My happiness is pretty important to me, and things are really shitty right now, so I'm not going to do stuff I don't want to. With work, I don't have a choice. I'm saying if I did have a choice. I'm saying, right now, I'm not settling when I don't have to. I don't want to invest myself in a business-type job because I can.
For example. When I was just that age to stay home alone all summer, my mom would make a list of chores. She'd say, "can't you just vacuum today while I'm at work?" And since I was a bad, lazy daughter, I'd think, "yes I can, but I don't want to." Of course I can vacuum. But that doesn't sound very fun. I don't want to. What I want to do is call my friend Randi, hop on my bike, and ride down to Tom Thumb and buy 7 different kinds of Laffy Taffy with my allowance. What I want to do is watch Double Dare at 2:30 and Duck Tales at 3:00, until you come home, mom, and we discuss what you're making for dinner, and it had better be pizza burgers.
I think it is my ability to think about my happiness and mental stability that has made me a failure.
(Of course, there was the day when I was a "good" kid and did vacuum while she was gone, and I accidentally vacuumed up a black sock. That sock got stuck right up in that vacuum, and it started smoking and stinking like, well, a sock on fire--so I just put the vacuum on the patio in the cold until she came home and asked why is the vacuum cleaner outside? And it stayed there, ultimately, until my dad came home to finally de-sock it.)
Monday, January 21, 2008
And I'll have a chocolate shake, as long as we're here.
Yesterday Shannon and I risked the ever-so-cold to spend some quality shopping time at the Mall of America. While there, we stopped at Torrid, which is a "plus-sized" store that carries clothes from sizes 12 to like 28. Fat girls work there, and fat girls go there. Some of the clothes are very cute, others are very goth looking. Some of the clothes you pick up and definitely will buy if you can get a good deal, others you pick up to wonder why they decided to make a 4x-strapless-sequined-low-cut-crop-top-vinyl-cardigan.
It's a decent store if you can find the right thing, and they make the clothes bigger, so I think I could fit into some size 12s there and feel pretty good about myself. You're never the "fattest" girl in Torrid.
Because it's a store for fat girls, fat girls talk about their weight unabashedly. For example, the woman in line in front of us went off about how she'd lost 50 pounds and then gained 60 back. Why would you say this in a store like Torrid? Because you're ashamed to be there? And what about the girls working, the overweight girls who have to say, Wow, congrats on that weight loss! Who then look down at their over-sized bosoms in their low cut rock and roll t-shirts?
Is not the point of a store like Torrid (or Lane Bryant) to be proud of being fat? At least comfortable shopping, and not frustrated with never finding anything in your size. Not that I necessarily think anyone should be "proud" of being fat. If you're comfortable being fat, that's awesome. But you shouldn't be proud of it. You should be proud to be happy with yourself--and all of that other camp counselor shit I could go on and say right now, but won't.
I suppose one would feel comfortable talking about weight in Torrid, because there is a general understanding that fat girls have with each other. Of course, when you're in Torrid, being fat is what's on your mind. And being surrounded by fat girls, you can know that it's on their minds too. It was on my mind. It always is, how I look. That's just how it is. And I'm always buying some new pants, somewhere, so I have to think about it, you know.
Anyway, I was annoyed with this woman, because I couldn't really give two shits that she'd lost 50 pounds and gained it back. I didn't want to wait in line to hear her brag about being smaller and hoping to fit back into all of those clothes in her closet. Because talking about it that much (to strangers) is the first step to failing. Talking about it to other people, I think, is bad luck. Maybe if she'd still had the weight off. Maybe then she could talk. Otherwise, you're always speaking in the past, or in the future, and never about right now. You know that woman and her boyfriend went to Taco Bell after shopping at Torrid, and you know that because the food court is on the third floor, that they took the escalator up there. That's what one does after shopping at Torrid and talking about their former-but-gained-back-weight-loss. They go to Taco Bell, and they order bean and cheese burritos with nacho cheese for dipping, and they order a 32 ounce Code Red Mountain Dew, and they talk more and more how skinny they used to be. They're trying to convince themselves they'll get back there. Like, they went to Venice back in '87, for a short trip. Many of their sentences start When I was in Venice...and since the trip they've been saying--yeah, I can't wait to get back to Venice! I've been craving some Italian wine and those dark waters for so long! But they haven't booked a ticket, or called a travel agent. They haven't even started saving for the trip. They haven't even looked at pictures of Venice online.
Ladies. A little less conversation, a lot more action. Come on, now.
(I know! I've been there! I'm sort of there right now, because I just want to run, but I don't, but I talk about it all the time! ... It's so fucking cold.)
I'm ranting, and the point of this was supposed to be a punchline. Anyway. While this woman was in line going off about her-50-pounds-ago and Shannon and I were checking our watches and rolling our eyes behind her, the awkwardly-bodied girl working (very skinny legs, huge, um, fupa--is that what it's called? Darren?) told us an anecdote about how she'd once asked a customer if she'd wanted to get a Torrid punch card, to earn points for all of her purchases.
The customer responded: Oh, no. No thanks. I'm just passing through this Plus-size thing right now.
What? You're passing-through? This is your first stop on the way to Skinnytown, or Nobackfatville? You pulled over to use the restroom? This is a layover to your ultimate destination? And as long as you're here, you're just gonna have a cheeseburger and fries to hold you over until you get there?
Passing through. Stupid.
It's a decent store if you can find the right thing, and they make the clothes bigger, so I think I could fit into some size 12s there and feel pretty good about myself. You're never the "fattest" girl in Torrid.
Because it's a store for fat girls, fat girls talk about their weight unabashedly. For example, the woman in line in front of us went off about how she'd lost 50 pounds and then gained 60 back. Why would you say this in a store like Torrid? Because you're ashamed to be there? And what about the girls working, the overweight girls who have to say, Wow, congrats on that weight loss! Who then look down at their over-sized bosoms in their low cut rock and roll t-shirts?
Is not the point of a store like Torrid (or Lane Bryant) to be proud of being fat? At least comfortable shopping, and not frustrated with never finding anything in your size. Not that I necessarily think anyone should be "proud" of being fat. If you're comfortable being fat, that's awesome. But you shouldn't be proud of it. You should be proud to be happy with yourself--and all of that other camp counselor shit I could go on and say right now, but won't.
I suppose one would feel comfortable talking about weight in Torrid, because there is a general understanding that fat girls have with each other. Of course, when you're in Torrid, being fat is what's on your mind. And being surrounded by fat girls, you can know that it's on their minds too. It was on my mind. It always is, how I look. That's just how it is. And I'm always buying some new pants, somewhere, so I have to think about it, you know.
Anyway, I was annoyed with this woman, because I couldn't really give two shits that she'd lost 50 pounds and gained it back. I didn't want to wait in line to hear her brag about being smaller and hoping to fit back into all of those clothes in her closet. Because talking about it that much (to strangers) is the first step to failing. Talking about it to other people, I think, is bad luck. Maybe if she'd still had the weight off. Maybe then she could talk. Otherwise, you're always speaking in the past, or in the future, and never about right now. You know that woman and her boyfriend went to Taco Bell after shopping at Torrid, and you know that because the food court is on the third floor, that they took the escalator up there. That's what one does after shopping at Torrid and talking about their former-but-gained-back-weight-loss. They go to Taco Bell, and they order bean and cheese burritos with nacho cheese for dipping, and they order a 32 ounce Code Red Mountain Dew, and they talk more and more how skinny they used to be. They're trying to convince themselves they'll get back there. Like, they went to Venice back in '87, for a short trip. Many of their sentences start When I was in Venice...and since the trip they've been saying--yeah, I can't wait to get back to Venice! I've been craving some Italian wine and those dark waters for so long! But they haven't booked a ticket, or called a travel agent. They haven't even started saving for the trip. They haven't even looked at pictures of Venice online.
Ladies. A little less conversation, a lot more action. Come on, now.
(I know! I've been there! I'm sort of there right now, because I just want to run, but I don't, but I talk about it all the time! ... It's so fucking cold.)
I'm ranting, and the point of this was supposed to be a punchline. Anyway. While this woman was in line going off about her-50-pounds-ago and Shannon and I were checking our watches and rolling our eyes behind her, the awkwardly-bodied girl working (very skinny legs, huge, um, fupa--is that what it's called? Darren?) told us an anecdote about how she'd once asked a customer if she'd wanted to get a Torrid punch card, to earn points for all of her purchases.
The customer responded: Oh, no. No thanks. I'm just passing through this Plus-size thing right now.
What? You're passing-through? This is your first stop on the way to Skinnytown, or Nobackfatville? You pulled over to use the restroom? This is a layover to your ultimate destination? And as long as you're here, you're just gonna have a cheeseburger and fries to hold you over until you get there?
Passing through. Stupid.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Roadrunner Records!
Today I went to the record store on Nicollet, the one near my house, the one that I’ve decided is “the best” record store, hands down, in the Twin Cities even though I haven’t been to any other record stores.
Yeah. Roadrunner Records not only has a stellar selection of vinyl, but it has an environment that brings out both a 46 year old man and a seventeen-year-old boy in 1980 out of me. And the best part is the discount bay, which is fucking huge and full of records to flip through. No. The best part is that records in the discount bay are 50 cents—but if you buy over 20, they’re 25 cents. 4 records for a dollar! And they aren’t shitty records, like those Kings Road Sings the Whomever crap. They’re original recordings. I have no idea why they’re a quarter.
Fuck yes. I bought 27.
In an hour of browsing, I brought my collection of vinyl to new levels. Here’s a list of what I found for a quarter a piece:
Close To You, The Carpenters.
Album highlights: “We’ve Only Just Begun,” “Close to You.” Plus, Karen Carpenter totally looks fat on the cover. (Come on, you guys. That's not funny.)
The Big Sound of Big Bands, Various Artists
Album highlights: It will remind me of cold evenings at Highland eating soup and grading student papers while listening to the Big Band station on the cable radio station. Also, on the back of the album there is a “sexy” lady with an up-do who is wearing only a sheet and who is surrounded by sousaphones, baritones, and trumpets.
Glenn Miller Plays Selections from the Glenn Miller Story and Other Hits, Glenn Miller
Album highlights: “In the Mood”
Sonatas for Violin and Piano Forte, E Flat K481, G Major K379, E Minor K304, W.A. Mozart
Album highlights: Explanations of the origin of each song.
The Era of Benny Goodman, Benny Goodman
Album highlights: “Sing, Sing, Sing” —Hell yes! Best song ever! Plus there’s a clarinet on the cover!
There Goes Rhymin’ Simon, Paul Simon
Album highlights: “Kodachrome.” Weirdest album art I have ever seen, including a photo with Paul Simon’s hairy chest while he cradles an infant.
Beethoven’s “Pathetique” Sonata No. 8 in C Minor, Op 13, L.V. Beethoven
Album highlights: Bonus track!: “Sonata No. 32, in C Minor, Op. 3.”
The Door is Still Open to My Heart, Dean Martin
Album highlights: “You’re Nobody Till Somebody Loves You” On the back are advertisements for his other albums: Dino Latino, and Dean ‘Tex’ Martin Country Style
Frampton Comes Alive!, Peter Frampton
Album highlights: Dude. Double record collection, including “Show Me the Way.” Band photos are sexy as hell.
The Best of Carly Simon, Carly Simon
Album highlights: “You’re So Vain.” And it’s in its original plastic!
A Portrait of Patsy Cline, Patsy Cline
Album highlights: While the album doesn’t contain “I Fall to Pieces,” “Crazy,” or “Walking After Midnight,” which are by far her best songs, it did once belong to a woman named “Esther” who saw fit to write her name on the front of the album in cursive, as though practicing her penmanship.
Hello, Darlin’, Conway Twitty
Album highlights: It’s cunt-ry. The liner notes inform us that Conway’s real name is Howard Jenkins! The notes end with “P.S. We love you too, Conway.”
Get the Knack, The Knack
Album highlights: “My Sharona,” “Heartbeat”
The Best of Ella Fitzgerald, Volume II, Ella Fitzgerald
Album highlights: Double record collection. So much Ella, good for rainy nights.
Johnny Cash With His Hot and Blue Guitar, Johnny Cash
Album highlights: “Cry, Cry, Cry.” Such an old, early, album, I don’t even recognize his young face on the cover. A great icon of “Sun Records” on the back and front.
Only You, The Platters
Album highlights: Double Record Collection, including, “Only You (And You Alone),” “The Great Pretender,” “In the Still of the Night.” It’s gonna sound so great on summer nights, with all those vinyl crackles.
Little Richard is Back and There’s a Whole Lotta Shakin’ Goin’ On, Little Richard
Album highlights: Who knows. Little Richard is fucking crazy. That mustache creeps me out.
The Art of Love, Readings from the Classic Hindu Study of Erotic Love “The Kama Sutra of Vatsyayana”, As recited by Saeed Jaffrey
Album highlights: Highlights? Are you kidding me? This is an audio book on album of the Kama Sutra! This is the coolest thing I have ever found in a bargain bin. The narration is “accompanied by selected Indian festive and ritual music on strings, flutes, and drums,” and the program highlights include, “The Tryst in the Pleasure Room,” “In the Beginning The Embrace,” “Biting,” and “Striking.” This is the single most coolest (that’s right, “most coolest”) thing I own, and it was a quarter. Oh, and it’s from 1966. It’s 1966 sex.
A Wild and Crazy Guy, Steve Martin
Album highlights: A comic rendering from the comedian, including “King Tut,” and hopefully some tasteless humor that I love.
John Denver’s Greatest Hits, John Denver
Album highlights: “Take Me Home, Country Roads,” “Leaving, On a Jet Plane.” Pictures of Denver in those round glasses, with his square teeth, among green and yellow shrubbery. John Denver is to country music as Mary Oliver is to poetry.
Parsley, Sage, Rosemary and Thyme, Simon and Garfunkel
Album highlights: “Scarborough Fair,” “59th Street Bridge Song.”
Bridge Over Troubled Water, Simon and Garfunkel
Album highlights: “The Only Living Boy in New York,” “Cecilia.” I can’t believe these two were just a quarter of a buck.
Elton John’s Greatest Hits, Elton John
Album highlights: Let me just list you the whole lineup: “Your Song,” “Daniel,” “Honky Cat,” “Goodbye Yellow Brick Road,” “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting,” “Rocket Man,” “Bennie and the Jets,” “Don’t Let the Sun Go Down on Me,” “Border Song,” “Crocodile Rock.” Plus, on the cover, Elton is wearing those big, white round glasses, and sitting on a piano bench. The way he’s sitting—well it makes his junk look huge. And that’s hot.
Merry Christmas, Bing Crosby
Album highlights: It’s the classic, with that picture of Bing’s head and him in the Santa hat. The tracks include many that he recorded with the Andrews sisters.
Kenny Rogers’ Greatest Hits, Kenny Rogers
Album highlights: “The Gambler.” At first I wasn’t gonna get it, because “The Gambler” seemed like the only gem. Then I noticed that the last track was, “Lady.” Lady. Laaaaa-day. Sounds like good make-out music, no? And then the song ends, and the record goes screeeeeittch.
Bat Out of Hell, Meatloaf
Album highlights: “Bat Out of Hell,” Paradise by the Dashboard Light.”
And those above were only a quarter. I splurged on one record, which was $6 and cost nearly as much as these all—but it was worth it:
Willie Nelson’s Greatest Hits (& Some That Will Be), Willie Nelson
Album highlights: All of it. I’ve been listening to Willie since I was two, and this album is solid.
Bring on the music! And more, and more, as I start spending most of my days at the record store. Blowing my allowance on all of these silly rock & roll records.
Friday, January 11, 2008
"Love," as defined by the MMC. Also, parts two and three.
I.
Tony's been back in town for two weeks, in an amazing streak of comeback specials, and Shannon and I have taken advantage. Last night, Thursday night, was one of those that "brought us back;" one of those that made me feel like I'd pressed my red heel down on the gas from Mankato speeding up the slick, unlit curves of 169 and thinking that it'd all be worth it.
It wasn't just the music, or the casual energy that comes with slower Thursday nights at the MMC. It was two very incredible people, a married, drunk couple so much in love that neither the fashion of the times nor the embarassment of falling over on the dance floor could stop them. The woman wore a red velvet dress that hit her mid-thigh and that had a sweetheart neckline. The dress was one piece, as though it'd been cut from one swatch of fabric, no definition. The shoulder pads, were, well shoulder pads. She could've been a linebacker if she'd wanted, but instead she wanted to be the spitting image of 1985, wearing pumps that might as well have been worn by the female love interest in Teen Wolf. Her hair a dishwater blonde, maybe permed two years ago, a bit of frazzled, loopy curls remaining.
And she could drink. She slammed her drinks on the rail while standing on the dance floor, and when she wasn't on the dance floor, she was dragging her husband onto the dance floor. When he wouldn't come, sweaty and exhausted from the dance, she'd stand behind his chair, rub her hands on his pudgy chest, and kiss his wet sweat-hair.
The husband, you could tell, danced for her. He was a round ball of a man, looking not like Danny DeVito, but the main character from Who Framed Roger Rabbit? who I always mistook for DeVito when I was younger. Yes, he looked like Bob Hoskins but about 100 pounds heavier. And when he danced, he kicked his short little legs and swung his short arms back and forth. This was comic to watch, really. His limbs like 4 properly placed toothpicks in an orange.
They drew attention to themselves because of her shoulder pads, and his suspenders. As she slammed more shots and he sweat more, the dancing became more intense. At the beginning of the night, she'd noticed that one of his suspenders in the back had come undone. She fixed it, sweetly. By the end of the night, she was snapping them with a sexy, masochistic look in her eye. She'd, by the end of the night, been extending her arm to push herself away from him, all the while keeping the pads of her fingers on his chest, as though she couldn't bear to not touch him. She was moving all over the floor, lifting her hands over her head, which in a short, one-piece dress causes much thigh to be revealed. By the end of the night I was watching her mouth I'm drunk, and watching a sly, short smile form between his chubby cheeks.
And so, I imagined them going home together, however they managed to get home. Walking into their house, with the wood paneled walls, still smelling of stale cigarettes even though he quit a year ago when the doctor told him he didn't have much of a choice. I imagined her pulling her long nightgown out the closet, the nightgown made of cotton, with the capped sleeves, that dragged along the floor and sometimes got caught in her slippers. I imagined them laying down in the bed at exactly the same time, he burping puke burps, craving a sandwich with fresh salami from the fridge, her telling him to just wait for breakfast the next morning. I imagine their bedroom a dark yellow color, thick curtains stained from the same sun they prevent from coming in, lace doilies on the nightstands, under the rectangle black clock radio. They don't have to set it tonight, because it was their night. They took Friday off, and they're sleeping in, which for her is getting up at 8:30 to clean some things up. They fall asleep holding each other, but he snores and she moves her head away, still just keeping one part of her leg near his to physically feel that he is still there.
II.
Dear TSB:
If you didn't play "Purple Rain" anymore, I have to honestly say that I'd be pretty cool with that. While it is a classic cover, and while it is a stand-up song, and while I love listening to Tony's voice echo for that last note of the song, and while the guitar solos are stunning--you don't know what it does to us on the rail. You don't understand that while you're up there, playing that song made so famous by your, um, cousin, that we have to endure what the song does to people.
What does that song do to people, you want to know? Well let me tell you. It gives them license to be disgusting. It's like some sexy version of the "Brown Note" made famous by South Park. But instead of making people all shit themselves at exactly the same time, "Purple Rain" makes people all start making out at the same time. It makes women who wear very, very tight yoga pants with silk see-through dress shirts and dark roots think they are sexy, when in fact they couldn't "sexy" themselves out of a paper bag. It makes their boyfriends and husbands and dance partners think they can run their dirt-caked workman's hands over those women's tiny waists and backsides, slowly and then quickly as they become clearly more aroused.
Yeah, I know. Pretty gross, huh? Watching people grind and gyrate their hips, watching them conveniently place crotch to other person's thigh.
I know this is a pretty ridiculous time to make this request. But I just think you should know that there is a chance your band has caused a lot of men to ruin perfectly good pairs of underwear while out on that dance floor. I mean, if it was me, I'd want to know.
I. Love you guys.
Love,
Jean
III.
I had a dragging, nostalgic day at work today, for absolutely no reason. I was craving the past--and all of it at once. I wanted to swim in pools of Winona; step out into the humid air and sandy shorelines of Mankato to breathe the soybean air. I wanted to go home, exhausted from physical activity, only to lay in bed with pillows of former class syllabi, overtime forensics speeches, those car rides alone down 169 in March, when the spring is like Oh, I'm back and better than ever! Turn up the CCR!
All this from looking over transcripts from my alma maters today while at work, all of it just from glancing down at my ipod to see that a track from a homemade CD Ryan gave me was playing--the CD called, simply March 2005. I saw that and felt as though I'd forgotten that year, somewhere. As though it was my turn to pick 2005 up from soccer practice, and I left it there to watch the sunset and feel the chill of dark move in, while it wondered when I would finally arrive. And what happened to 2002? What was I even doing then? What about those cross-country flights with the speech team, memorizing intros from cramped plane seats? And sure, summer 2004 is a blur as is that weekend I'd spent in Columbia with David and Ryan, walking into patchouli-stinking shops and eating cheese pizza with that weird gay man with the bad teeth, who smelled as though last week he'd smoked weed in the clothes he was wearing. Yes, that's a cloudy memory from, I think, someone else's life. But--what about the summer of 1986? What about the fall of '83? What about 5 years ago, when Ryan and I were sitting on the carpet at King Street, playing cards at 2:00 in the morning trying to get over the awkwardly hot summer, trying to make June pass by? And, eight months ago. What about then, when David and I weren't fighting, weren't metaphorically throwing sharp objects hard at each other's faces from across the room?
What about those years before me that aren't mine but I want to claim anyway? Why am I longing for the long winter of '72? Why am I trying to remember, as though they are there, the warm days of '67 that turned into slow-approaching evenings, those days I spent doing things that I can't remember?
Somehow I got all this life under my belt, all the while thinking: I need to get some life under my belt. (All of this thinking, done to Simon and Garfunkel's "America." It is essential to have a soundtrack.)
It has been a lonely, cold day. Much like what always happens when I'm alone in this house, planes fly low and loud overhead and make everything on these walls rattle.
That should set the scene.
Tony's been back in town for two weeks, in an amazing streak of comeback specials, and Shannon and I have taken advantage. Last night, Thursday night, was one of those that "brought us back;" one of those that made me feel like I'd pressed my red heel down on the gas from Mankato speeding up the slick, unlit curves of 169 and thinking that it'd all be worth it.
It wasn't just the music, or the casual energy that comes with slower Thursday nights at the MMC. It was two very incredible people, a married, drunk couple so much in love that neither the fashion of the times nor the embarassment of falling over on the dance floor could stop them. The woman wore a red velvet dress that hit her mid-thigh and that had a sweetheart neckline. The dress was one piece, as though it'd been cut from one swatch of fabric, no definition. The shoulder pads, were, well shoulder pads. She could've been a linebacker if she'd wanted, but instead she wanted to be the spitting image of 1985, wearing pumps that might as well have been worn by the female love interest in Teen Wolf. Her hair a dishwater blonde, maybe permed two years ago, a bit of frazzled, loopy curls remaining.
And she could drink. She slammed her drinks on the rail while standing on the dance floor, and when she wasn't on the dance floor, she was dragging her husband onto the dance floor. When he wouldn't come, sweaty and exhausted from the dance, she'd stand behind his chair, rub her hands on his pudgy chest, and kiss his wet sweat-hair.
The husband, you could tell, danced for her. He was a round ball of a man, looking not like Danny DeVito, but the main character from Who Framed Roger Rabbit? who I always mistook for DeVito when I was younger. Yes, he looked like Bob Hoskins but about 100 pounds heavier. And when he danced, he kicked his short little legs and swung his short arms back and forth. This was comic to watch, really. His limbs like 4 properly placed toothpicks in an orange.
They drew attention to themselves because of her shoulder pads, and his suspenders. As she slammed more shots and he sweat more, the dancing became more intense. At the beginning of the night, she'd noticed that one of his suspenders in the back had come undone. She fixed it, sweetly. By the end of the night, she was snapping them with a sexy, masochistic look in her eye. She'd, by the end of the night, been extending her arm to push herself away from him, all the while keeping the pads of her fingers on his chest, as though she couldn't bear to not touch him. She was moving all over the floor, lifting her hands over her head, which in a short, one-piece dress causes much thigh to be revealed. By the end of the night I was watching her mouth I'm drunk, and watching a sly, short smile form between his chubby cheeks.
And so, I imagined them going home together, however they managed to get home. Walking into their house, with the wood paneled walls, still smelling of stale cigarettes even though he quit a year ago when the doctor told him he didn't have much of a choice. I imagined her pulling her long nightgown out the closet, the nightgown made of cotton, with the capped sleeves, that dragged along the floor and sometimes got caught in her slippers. I imagined them laying down in the bed at exactly the same time, he burping puke burps, craving a sandwich with fresh salami from the fridge, her telling him to just wait for breakfast the next morning. I imagine their bedroom a dark yellow color, thick curtains stained from the same sun they prevent from coming in, lace doilies on the nightstands, under the rectangle black clock radio. They don't have to set it tonight, because it was their night. They took Friday off, and they're sleeping in, which for her is getting up at 8:30 to clean some things up. They fall asleep holding each other, but he snores and she moves her head away, still just keeping one part of her leg near his to physically feel that he is still there.
II.
Dear TSB:
If you didn't play "Purple Rain" anymore, I have to honestly say that I'd be pretty cool with that. While it is a classic cover, and while it is a stand-up song, and while I love listening to Tony's voice echo for that last note of the song, and while the guitar solos are stunning--you don't know what it does to us on the rail. You don't understand that while you're up there, playing that song made so famous by your, um, cousin, that we have to endure what the song does to people.
What does that song do to people, you want to know? Well let me tell you. It gives them license to be disgusting. It's like some sexy version of the "Brown Note" made famous by South Park. But instead of making people all shit themselves at exactly the same time, "Purple Rain" makes people all start making out at the same time. It makes women who wear very, very tight yoga pants with silk see-through dress shirts and dark roots think they are sexy, when in fact they couldn't "sexy" themselves out of a paper bag. It makes their boyfriends and husbands and dance partners think they can run their dirt-caked workman's hands over those women's tiny waists and backsides, slowly and then quickly as they become clearly more aroused.
Yeah, I know. Pretty gross, huh? Watching people grind and gyrate their hips, watching them conveniently place crotch to other person's thigh.
I know this is a pretty ridiculous time to make this request. But I just think you should know that there is a chance your band has caused a lot of men to ruin perfectly good pairs of underwear while out on that dance floor. I mean, if it was me, I'd want to know.
I. Love you guys.
Love,
Jean
III.
I had a dragging, nostalgic day at work today, for absolutely no reason. I was craving the past--and all of it at once. I wanted to swim in pools of Winona; step out into the humid air and sandy shorelines of Mankato to breathe the soybean air. I wanted to go home, exhausted from physical activity, only to lay in bed with pillows of former class syllabi, overtime forensics speeches, those car rides alone down 169 in March, when the spring is like Oh, I'm back and better than ever! Turn up the CCR!
All this from looking over transcripts from my alma maters today while at work, all of it just from glancing down at my ipod to see that a track from a homemade CD Ryan gave me was playing--the CD called, simply March 2005. I saw that and felt as though I'd forgotten that year, somewhere. As though it was my turn to pick 2005 up from soccer practice, and I left it there to watch the sunset and feel the chill of dark move in, while it wondered when I would finally arrive. And what happened to 2002? What was I even doing then? What about those cross-country flights with the speech team, memorizing intros from cramped plane seats? And sure, summer 2004 is a blur as is that weekend I'd spent in Columbia with David and Ryan, walking into patchouli-stinking shops and eating cheese pizza with that weird gay man with the bad teeth, who smelled as though last week he'd smoked weed in the clothes he was wearing. Yes, that's a cloudy memory from, I think, someone else's life. But--what about the summer of 1986? What about the fall of '83? What about 5 years ago, when Ryan and I were sitting on the carpet at King Street, playing cards at 2:00 in the morning trying to get over the awkwardly hot summer, trying to make June pass by? And, eight months ago. What about then, when David and I weren't fighting, weren't metaphorically throwing sharp objects hard at each other's faces from across the room?
What about those years before me that aren't mine but I want to claim anyway? Why am I longing for the long winter of '72? Why am I trying to remember, as though they are there, the warm days of '67 that turned into slow-approaching evenings, those days I spent doing things that I can't remember?
Somehow I got all this life under my belt, all the while thinking: I need to get some life under my belt. (All of this thinking, done to Simon and Garfunkel's "America." It is essential to have a soundtrack.)
It has been a lonely, cold day. Much like what always happens when I'm alone in this house, planes fly low and loud overhead and make everything on these walls rattle.
That should set the scene.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Open letters
To: Lake Nokomis
CC: The City of Minneapolis
Dear Lake Nokomis,
Well hello there, stranger! I hope things are going well for you in the new year. Did Beth yet get over her laryngitis? I was so sad to not hear her beautiful mezzo voice in the church choir this holiday.
Anyway, the reason I’m writing is not only to wish you well wishes. I regret to say that I do have some serious issues that I need to discuss regarding the paved paths circling your frozen self.
Okay. I’m just going to get right to it: I think it’s rather shitty that the paths around the little bridge haven’t been scraped. It just doesn’t make sense to me. I mean, you’ve lived in Minnesota your whole life, right? It’s not as though you were imported from, say, Utah and you don’t understand proper winter etiquette.
The issue involving me, personally, is that I haven’t been running around you in quite awhile. Sad, I know. With two jobs in December and the normal hubbub of the holidays, my fun-runs have been put on hiatus. I’ve been running near my parents’ house in Albertville, but we all know the scenery there is sub-par. I can see gas stations and dirty oil-stained snow anywhere. But the lake? One expects that there be snow only tainted by rabbit tracks and the occasional cross-country ski. One, however, does not expect to be running in this snow at the risk of twisting ankles or getting their socks wet. One does not merely expect to step into the holes that runners before her have made with their shoes. This is sort of awkward, and it makes her run slow. One cannot be preventing injury instead of working on her pacing.
I realize that I didn’t run around all of you today. It was getting dark and I have a lot of things to do this weekend. Perhaps you are clearly shoveled elsewhere, like near the beach. But, well, mostly I have to say that I am disappointed in you. I mean, I thought you’d be able to help me out in this new year, you know? Working this 8-4ish job is such a difference from the schedule I had when I could wake up at 10 in Mankato and run around campus. (Or even run to the free gym!) I’m doing the best I can, and I will continue to do that because staying fit is very important to me (after all, I have spent a lot of money in the last two years on smaller sizes of clothing—I hope to keep these clothes). But I’m going to need your help. If I get off the bus at 4:40 and still find daylight, I’m going to want to go running. But if my next thought is your un-scraped and dangerous paths, I might instead decide that the run isn’t worth it. I might instead eat leftover Christmas cookies or pop in a frozen pizza.
Anyhoo…I hope you get scabies. According to my friend Chad, they’re really tough to get rid of. And maybe they’ll teach you a lesson about looking nice and self-respect. You’re being shitty right now.
Best,
Jean Marie
To: Valtrex
CC: The Marketing Team at Valtrex; Chad; Anyone who owns royalties to the song “Happy Days”
Dear Valtrex,
Well, hello! I got your postcard from St. Thomas! Thank you so much for thinking of me while on your cruise. I hope the scenery was just as glossy and cheap looking as the postcard.
I’m writing you with what I’m calling somewhat of a proposal. I’m cautious about getting a little over-excited here, so forgive me if this letter seems a bit in-your-face.
Now, I know that you think you have a really good thing going with your marketing campaign. You’ve helped a lot of people with herpes stop those “flare-ups” or whatever people are calling them. That’s great! Couples are feeling better about their dirty sex around the country. The fact that you’re contributing to that—well, it’s something to be proud of.
The other night, my friend Chad and I were discussing music, and it just so happened that this discussion led to you. Do you know that song, “Happy Days”? It was at the beginning of that sitcom by the same name that took place in the 50s, with the now director Ron Howard. Henry Winkler also gained popularity on the show with his sexually promiscuous character “The Fonz.” (No doubt, he had the herps? Huh?! Huh?! Ah, yes.)
Anyhoo, the song, if you don’t know it, goes something like: “Sunday, Monday—Happy Days! Tuesday, Wednesday—Happy Days, Thursday, Friday—Happy Days! something-something, something-something Happy Days…I’ve been waitin’ all week for you! These happy days are yours and mine; these happy days are yours and my happy days!”
Chad and I were thinking that it might be an absolutely brilliant idea to use this song in a way that promoted your product. For example, with a simple change of one word, the lyric would be an excellent little jingle:
“Sunday, Monday—Herpes days! Tuesday, Wednesday—Herpes Days! Thursday, Friday—Herpes Days!”
And to wrap it up:
“I can have sex because I use Valtrex—Valtrex, I’ve been waiting all week for you!”
There are a number of objectives/messages we think this campaign can meet:
1) As I mentioned earlier, the character of ‘The Fonz” is known as being sexually promiscuous. I think that a take on being safe would correlate nicely. You could even feature The Fonz in the commercial. I’m sure he’d be all about it, because I don’t think Henry Winkler has done much since Arrested Development or the movie Holes. One may argue that the thought of him having sex is a little sickening, but I beg to differ. The man is a sex icon. And I think, like, a whole shitload of old people have Herpes. I mean, sexual viruses actually strongly increased in the elderly with the introduction of Viagra, because old people started having sex all the time and didn’t think they had to use condoms or dental dams.
2) The same goes for the time period of the 50s. The late 50s was a time when everyone was cautious about sex, but secretly having it everywhere. Men were promising to pull out, and nobody knew what the hell that itching was or where those odd red bumps came from. the 50s were, if you will, the pre-cum of the sexual (ahem) explosion of the 60s. Sex has come a long way since then. Your product exemplifies safe, protected sex while staying disease free. It only proves to be the antithesis to the naïveté of sex from the 50s styles “Happy Days” song. It expresses sexual freedom and responsibility! Wow!
3) I know that you may argue that proclaiming every day of the week as a “Herpes Days” may be distasteful. I must beg to differ. First of all, I find your earlier commercials that come on during the early-evening episodes of CSI distasteful, if not annoying. Watching an over-tanned couple proclaim that one of them has Herpes, while the other stays disease free, all the while lying together on a large rope hammock? What does that convey, other than having sex in public? It’s pretty disgusting. I don’t mean to turn you off to my new marketing campaign by slamming your previous attempts—especially because it seems as though they’ve been successful. I just think this idea could really work for you.
Could really work for us.
Please let me know what you think. Because I am so confident in the success of this campaign, I’ve copied this email to all of the 6 people who own royalties to the song “Happy Days.” Let’s hope we’re all on board.
Disease free since 1993,
Jean Marie
CC: The City of Minneapolis
Dear Lake Nokomis,
Well hello there, stranger! I hope things are going well for you in the new year. Did Beth yet get over her laryngitis? I was so sad to not hear her beautiful mezzo voice in the church choir this holiday.
Anyway, the reason I’m writing is not only to wish you well wishes. I regret to say that I do have some serious issues that I need to discuss regarding the paved paths circling your frozen self.
Okay. I’m just going to get right to it: I think it’s rather shitty that the paths around the little bridge haven’t been scraped. It just doesn’t make sense to me. I mean, you’ve lived in Minnesota your whole life, right? It’s not as though you were imported from, say, Utah and you don’t understand proper winter etiquette.
The issue involving me, personally, is that I haven’t been running around you in quite awhile. Sad, I know. With two jobs in December and the normal hubbub of the holidays, my fun-runs have been put on hiatus. I’ve been running near my parents’ house in Albertville, but we all know the scenery there is sub-par. I can see gas stations and dirty oil-stained snow anywhere. But the lake? One expects that there be snow only tainted by rabbit tracks and the occasional cross-country ski. One, however, does not expect to be running in this snow at the risk of twisting ankles or getting their socks wet. One does not merely expect to step into the holes that runners before her have made with their shoes. This is sort of awkward, and it makes her run slow. One cannot be preventing injury instead of working on her pacing.
I realize that I didn’t run around all of you today. It was getting dark and I have a lot of things to do this weekend. Perhaps you are clearly shoveled elsewhere, like near the beach. But, well, mostly I have to say that I am disappointed in you. I mean, I thought you’d be able to help me out in this new year, you know? Working this 8-4ish job is such a difference from the schedule I had when I could wake up at 10 in Mankato and run around campus. (Or even run to the free gym!) I’m doing the best I can, and I will continue to do that because staying fit is very important to me (after all, I have spent a lot of money in the last two years on smaller sizes of clothing—I hope to keep these clothes). But I’m going to need your help. If I get off the bus at 4:40 and still find daylight, I’m going to want to go running. But if my next thought is your un-scraped and dangerous paths, I might instead decide that the run isn’t worth it. I might instead eat leftover Christmas cookies or pop in a frozen pizza.
Anyhoo…I hope you get scabies. According to my friend Chad, they’re really tough to get rid of. And maybe they’ll teach you a lesson about looking nice and self-respect. You’re being shitty right now.
Best,
Jean Marie
To: Valtrex
CC: The Marketing Team at Valtrex; Chad; Anyone who owns royalties to the song “Happy Days”
Dear Valtrex,
Well, hello! I got your postcard from St. Thomas! Thank you so much for thinking of me while on your cruise. I hope the scenery was just as glossy and cheap looking as the postcard.
I’m writing you with what I’m calling somewhat of a proposal. I’m cautious about getting a little over-excited here, so forgive me if this letter seems a bit in-your-face.
Now, I know that you think you have a really good thing going with your marketing campaign. You’ve helped a lot of people with herpes stop those “flare-ups” or whatever people are calling them. That’s great! Couples are feeling better about their dirty sex around the country. The fact that you’re contributing to that—well, it’s something to be proud of.
The other night, my friend Chad and I were discussing music, and it just so happened that this discussion led to you. Do you know that song, “Happy Days”? It was at the beginning of that sitcom by the same name that took place in the 50s, with the now director Ron Howard. Henry Winkler also gained popularity on the show with his sexually promiscuous character “The Fonz.” (No doubt, he had the herps? Huh?! Huh?! Ah, yes.)
Anyhoo, the song, if you don’t know it, goes something like: “Sunday, Monday—Happy Days! Tuesday, Wednesday—Happy Days, Thursday, Friday—Happy Days! something-something, something-something Happy Days…I’ve been waitin’ all week for you! These happy days are yours and mine; these happy days are yours and my happy days!”
Chad and I were thinking that it might be an absolutely brilliant idea to use this song in a way that promoted your product. For example, with a simple change of one word, the lyric would be an excellent little jingle:
“Sunday, Monday—Herpes days! Tuesday, Wednesday—Herpes Days! Thursday, Friday—Herpes Days!”
And to wrap it up:
“I can have sex because I use Valtrex—Valtrex, I’ve been waiting all week for you!”
There are a number of objectives/messages we think this campaign can meet:
1) As I mentioned earlier, the character of ‘The Fonz” is known as being sexually promiscuous. I think that a take on being safe would correlate nicely. You could even feature The Fonz in the commercial. I’m sure he’d be all about it, because I don’t think Henry Winkler has done much since Arrested Development or the movie Holes. One may argue that the thought of him having sex is a little sickening, but I beg to differ. The man is a sex icon. And I think, like, a whole shitload of old people have Herpes. I mean, sexual viruses actually strongly increased in the elderly with the introduction of Viagra, because old people started having sex all the time and didn’t think they had to use condoms or dental dams.
2) The same goes for the time period of the 50s. The late 50s was a time when everyone was cautious about sex, but secretly having it everywhere. Men were promising to pull out, and nobody knew what the hell that itching was or where those odd red bumps came from. the 50s were, if you will, the pre-cum of the sexual (ahem) explosion of the 60s. Sex has come a long way since then. Your product exemplifies safe, protected sex while staying disease free. It only proves to be the antithesis to the naïveté of sex from the 50s styles “Happy Days” song. It expresses sexual freedom and responsibility! Wow!
3) I know that you may argue that proclaiming every day of the week as a “Herpes Days” may be distasteful. I must beg to differ. First of all, I find your earlier commercials that come on during the early-evening episodes of CSI distasteful, if not annoying. Watching an over-tanned couple proclaim that one of them has Herpes, while the other stays disease free, all the while lying together on a large rope hammock? What does that convey, other than having sex in public? It’s pretty disgusting. I don’t mean to turn you off to my new marketing campaign by slamming your previous attempts—especially because it seems as though they’ve been successful. I just think this idea could really work for you.
Could really work for us.
Please let me know what you think. Because I am so confident in the success of this campaign, I’ve copied this email to all of the 6 people who own royalties to the song “Happy Days.” Let’s hope we’re all on board.
Disease free since 1993,
Jean Marie
Tuesday, January 1, 2008
Hey Sun! Thanks for being out today. That was pretty cool of you.
When Christina waved goodbye to me on the highway from her car as she merged South on 41 while I merged North, I not only got a very bubbly feeling in the bottom of my gut, but also had strange images of her, Jenny, and I getting together and saying goodbye to each other in the future. These planned instances of us and our other friends all gathered. I flashed to a dream sequence where the P, X, and I all hold hands in a hilly field of long green grass and wildflowers and giggle and run and run barefoot.
So, sometimes when you're sad, the best thing to do is have fresh mashed potatoes and cookies for dinner and that's it. I love Liz.
I mean, look! How could you not love her, what with that dead Billy under the "Christmas Bush"? My roommate, the licensed EMT. Now I can choke or set myself on fire and not be as scared.
And who could not love the P, in Madison, with the "Fuck" box Liz and I gave her after "the fire?" The P, who discussed essay approaches with me this weekend, which made me feel nerd-ily spectacular.
Christmas Eve: Bourbon opens present. I hate to ruin the surprise, but it was pork strips.
And finally, this past weekend of vacation bliss:
Huge Jean Sale? Are you calling me fat? Only huge "Jeans" available? Fucking Vanity.
Christina wrote "strong jeano" as the new greeting on my phone. She has no idea how much it will help to look at that everyday.
(Yes, I'm kidding. What the fuck you guys. Holding hands?) We had an awesome weekend without a hilly field of wildflowers. We had SoCo punch and cheese fondue and amazing underwear sales at Victoria's Secret (10 for $25!) and She-Devil and pajamas and pizza and tacos and Chinese buffets and racist grandfathers and funny, young pictures of fathers in cut-offs and thoughts of Truman photo slideshows to the song "Who Let the Dogs Out" and apocalypse dreams in threes and crime-solving monkeys and mehs and killer showers and 70s style rec rooms and Happy New Years'.
Three nights in a row I dreamt about the end of the world. The first night, floods, the second night replica giants, the third night prophetic calenders. Mark's floral couch is evil. But I sort of wish I was sitting on it right now.
No holiday feels like anything, yet. It doesn't mean, though, that I'm not enjoying them. Just because I didn't feel like saying "happy new year" anymore than I felt like saying "Merry Christmas" last Tuesday doesn't mean that I didn't enjoy drinking 3 dollar champagne from the bottle with Christina while sitting on Mark's sink. It doesn't mean that when we played an impromptu game of "Blind Pictionary" and Mark drew a huge penis for every picture that I wasn't inspired to happily bring in the New Year. It simply didn't feel like.
As Christina explained, nothing feels like anything anymore, so it's just time to get new "feel likes." I think the problem I'm having with the "feel likes," though, is my lack of feeling anything. While I cruised WI 29 in the winter sun and 7 degree weather today, that's what I thought about most. My ridiculous lack of feel-like for a "writer" or a "poet." My "blank slate" and my "inability" to talk about my "blank slate." My "need" to put everything in "quotation marks" because I feel like I can't define any damn thing these days so I better "make sure" I'm "justifying" it. Ho-hum. I am devoid of emotion, and I'd say that this makes me angry, but I can't feel much anger. Everything, as it has been for the last couple of months has been hazy. My memory is absolutely shot in short-terms, as is my sense of time. I feel like a never-used chalkboard and 800 other metaphors I thought of on the ride home.
What matters now is the weekend, and the next weekend, and forcing myself to take care of myself and doing that slowly. Excuse me: "slowly."
This will involve buying and listening to new vinyl throughout all of January and February. It's the only way to make it through these next couple of months. (I explained to X and P this weekend: records are best in the spring, or at least when the sun is out. They just are. There is just something about the sun and not quite being able to go outside yet that makes them good during this time of year--and especially around March and April.) The new year will involve winter runs around the lake to dispose of the 5 pounds I'm guessing I've gained since re-employment, more time with friends now that the second job is done, and coming home to a clean house now that the second job is done. It will involve Saturdays in coffee shops writing more and more and more cover letters for real jobs, it will involve thoughts that once again, "slowly" the days are getting longer, it will involve buying more underwear to make myself feel better; it will involve re-starting my new dog search since I'm employed and feel ready to be responsible for a love-returning dog. It will involve those ideas for poems and essays actually turning into essays and poems and more importantly the writing I need to get me through all of this. Perhaps the worst thing about these last months has been that I haven't been able to write it down in a creative-writing perspective.
Sun! I bought two 70s lamps from an antique store this weekend and put them on my nightstands. They are my new suns. It's been so long since I've seen the sun this much, and it's not until your pupils shrink because of too-much-sunlight do you realize how much you've craved it. Sun!
Here are some fucking pictures. I finally found my camera cord, so I'm dumping them here:
First of all. Tonight when I came home, I saw that it was time to take down the Tony Sims Calender Shannon gave me last year, and I got that empty bubbly feeling in my gut like when I'd said goodbye to X. I missed Tony Sims night like crazy, and I missed Shannon even more, and even more than that, I missed the feeling of beer in my gut to ironically settle the bubbly-lost feeling, because that's what beer does--takes the sadness away. Here's us from the last night of the TSB, sitting at this fucking dwarf table because the bar was so full. But, I mean, it just shows how cool we are. (Plus, um, Tony's band is in town this Thursday, so you can imagine the overwhelming happiness I'd had when I found that out seconds after realizing the calender sadness.)
So, sometimes when you're sad, the best thing to do is have fresh mashed potatoes and cookies for dinner and that's it. I love Liz. I mean, look! How could you not love her, what with that dead Billy under the "Christmas Bush"? My roommate, the licensed EMT. Now I can choke or set myself on fire and not be as scared.And who could not love the P, in Madison, with the "Fuck" box Liz and I gave her after "the fire?" The P, who discussed essay approaches with me this weekend, which made me feel nerd-ily spectacular.The Wednesday before Christmas, Matt came over with Murder-Mysteries and Plum Pudding. a grand night.
Christmas Eve: Bourbon opens present. I hate to ruin the surprise, but it was pork strips.
And finally, this past weekend of vacation bliss:Mary and Liz wiped their boobs on me:
Huge Jean Sale? Are you calling me fat? Only huge "Jeans" available? Fucking Vanity.
I'm not even going to say anything about this picture. Not. a. thing.
But look at the happy drunkard couple! Throwin' one hell of a party, I tells ya what.
And, Happy New Year. Perhaps slogans for '08 can include: '08! Don't Masturbate! Or '08! Year of the ro-ller skate! Or something less gay. 24 hours ago, here I was, full of pudding shots and egg nog and the thought that if 2008 sucks anywhere nearly as much as the end of '07 that I am going to kick it in the fucking balls. Consider that a threat, '08.
Christina wrote "strong jeano" as the new greeting on my phone. She has no idea how much it will help to look at that everyday.
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