Shit is about to get REAL

Preface: I'm currently in the midst of discovering Hüsker Dü (10 minutes of "umlaut shortcut for mac" searching well worth it; heavy metal umlauts should be more prevalent in day to day life) so apologies if this post is tinged by that frenetic and groundbreaking Minneapolis punk sound that so well compliments my current disposition and this post. Or not.

Yes, the shit is about to get real. This is a true statement with law school now only hours away and my life as I know it destined to become only a distant, rapidly fading memory, tinged with nostalgia for the days of endless hours of mouth breathing and blank staring that may or may not have become a significant part of my life in this limbo between school and work and more school. It can't help that I'm reading the book One L right now that goes into graphic detail about one law student's perilous journey through Harvard Law School in the 1970's. I was told to read it with the overlying assumption that everything this guy went through I will not, at least to the extremes he did. This is comforting, but also rather frightening.

So I won't face the same pressures the author did, but I'll still face similar, if diluted pressures to perform under rigorous intellectual conditions. I certainly worked hard in undergrad, but the pressure to excel was not as pronounced as I expect it to be in law school. Or, to put it better, the competition amongst those seeking to excel will be more apparent compared to the laid back undergrad study culture (with the exception of that certain someone in the labs who was always too busy to even talk. Or think (but not to complain about being busy) even while the rest of us, with identical and similar if not more demanding extra curricular obligations were looking up cats that look like Hitler). It'll be interesting, to use my best Minnesotanease.

Speaking of Minnesota and being back home, I arrived just in time for my 5 year high school reunion. Despite some of my classmates' ambivalence or even hostility towards its arrival, for a myriad of reasons, I was genuinely mildly excited for it. Mild excitement being my version of turning up the amp to 11. Spinal Tap anyone?

As it approached, however, the vain insecurities of high school started to creep and I felt a little disappointed in myself that they had started to get a foothold once again. Looking back on it, high school kinda sucked at times, even most times, as I think it did for anyone who has moved on and realized that the most important things in life are not what the most important things in high school were. Walking under the marquee in Downtown Minneapolis (a trivial aside: I really love to see the word Minneapolis spelled out. For some reason it reminds me of a smile. I think it's that 'e' perfectly nestled in between the Minn- and the -apolis.) that announced our reunion to the world, I was met by an odd smattering of high school mates that now looked wildly out of context in a clubby bar. Cue the sheepish grin and the sustained glances towards the ESPN ticker on the flat screen that will probably forever be my anti-social cop out.

The first half hour was awkward. Like high school. But the drinking soon helped. That and a pep talk I gave myself about enjoying the party. I give myself too many of those. But aside from avoiding/ignoring the people I have no desire to ever see outside of the yearbook and the occasional facebook post, there were a lot of people I enjoyed reconnecting with. Despite my initial reversion to high school tendencies, the reunion served to chip away some of the social barriers that existed in high school. And, in between the pole dancing-bachelorettes, it was fun to hear about what my classmates had been up to. Even though I could just look it up on facebook.

Finally, in this scatterbrained rambler, is bike news. I finished it over the weekend and have already gone on a relaxed ride through Minneapolis (there it is again!) that served to remind me that bike rides can be fun and not just an excuse to burn calories. Thanks to Jeff for the front wheel, I love it. Thanks to Home Depot for the paint. Thanks to online merchandisers for the seat (Selle San Marco), seat post, lights, etc. Thanks to my local bike shops (Re-Cycle and Penn Cycle) for the rest. Thanks to my neighbor for giving me the original bike a few years ago. Thanks to my shed for keeping it safe through those tough Minnesota winters. Finally, thanks to my idle hands and mind for concocting a project to top off this month of waiting.

The morning paper

Preface: Lazy fiction. Because I can't sleep.

The old man awakes at his usual time. Though he sets an alarm every night before lights off -- better safe than sorry, he tells himself -- routine proves to be a better morning rooster, his hand hovering above the snooze button almost involuntarily at the waking time. Sometimes his aging mind plays tricks and he awakes in a panic during the dull gray dawn, certain a thunderstorm, or perhaps a freak solar event came ripping through the night, cutting power to his alarm clock, betraying that bond that exists between man and machine. He thinks to himself, I should really get a battery powered alarm clock. But he'll forget this when he runs errands that afternoon, as he always does. He will then silently chastise himself and miss his wife, who had a better memory but worse luck.

Sleepily and out of habit, he reaches a speckled, wrinkled hand to the other side of the bed but is met only by a remorselessly empty flower-patterned comforter, still precisely made from the night before. Still now years later, he feels a sharp urgent flutter in his stomach when this happens. A feeling deeper than disappointment or sadness. The old man gets out of bed and shuffles down the hallway to the bathroom. Finshed, he shuffles to the front door.

The old oak door creaks as he opens it, lifting up and outward to balance the shaky hinges. On the outside of the door, the red paint is cracking and peeling. Red flakes fall more regularly now as if the old tree, though mutilated, still remembers nature. As he opens the screen door, he makes a mental note to fix the empty holes with mesh from the garage. He will forget to do this too in the afternoon. He looks down. The paper is curled inside a green plastic bag. A curious object is nestled at the bottom. Like a giraffe to water, he splays his legs to reach down without so much pain. There is still some.

The sequence of the door is reversed and the old man retreats into the home he built decades ago. The plastic bag is emptied and the paper and the paper and the object fall to the cluttered WWII-era kitchen table. After donning a pair of drug store reading glasses -- he stashes them all over the house for times like these -- he picks up the small rectangular brownie-sized package and reads the label.

Luna Bar: The Whole Nutrition Bar for Women.

The name makes him sad and miss his wife. She would have clucked her tongue and said something about eggs, toast, and bacon being all the nutrition she needed. She also would have eaten the Luna bar later, after reconsidering, and would have gone out and bought cartons of them that same day. This is why he loved her. The bar rolls off his curled fingertips and into the endless clutter of bills, clippings, and abandoned foodstuffs.

He then scans the front page of the newspaper. This too makes him sad. He remembers John Lennon singing about reading the news. Oh boy. This morning he can't read the rest of the paper because everything is making him sad. He will make a cup -- only one cup -- of strong black coffee and one slice of rye toast with butter and cinnamon sugar. The rest of the morning, he will sit in the kitchen and look out the window at the birds feeding at the wooden feeder. The seeds are running low and he needs to remember to fill it but he will forget. The birds make him happy.

Oh how the migthy have fallen.

Preface: This post mentions the fact that I was one of the captains for the varsity baseball team at the Academy of Holy Angels in 2004. It does not go into detail regarding why I was used most often as a pinch runner during my stint under the [insert "glowing" adjective here] Coach Page. But after reading this, you may understand a bit better. Also, I kind of dig county fairs, and not in a wholly ironic way, either. It's a great expression of what it means to be an American. Both good and bad.

I had the opportunity to stay at my high school friend's cabin in Wisconsin this weekend. I had a lot of fun tubing, wakeboarding (actually being dragged through the water in a fruitless attempt to wakeboard -- more on that later), drinking, grilling, and Sing Starring. But the most enlightening experience was the Sawyer County Fair.

Watching the demolition derby, avoiding lewd carnies, and riding the Ferris Wheel are all pretty typical Wisconsin county fair things to do in my book. We did them Saturday. Some of my friends did spinny rides. I did not. I did, however, pay $2 to make an ass out of myself. Was it worth it? Probably not.

Since I didn't partake in any of the vomit-inducing rides, such as the multitude of centrifuge-inspired monstrosities that must make your internal organs mushy or smushed to the side of your body cavity, I spent some time engrossed in another wonder of the county fair - the games. Now why anyone would want a stuffed animal large enough to qualify for the HOV lane or a goldfish certain to be forgotten (while walking that thin line between floating upright and upside down) the instant it leaves the child's hands is beyond me, but hey, some of the games are fun.

I stood in front of the guess-your-speed baseball game and thought to myself, hey, I could do that! After all, I played baseball my entire life, how hard could it be? The country boys with their wide-eyed girlfriends were taking turns making elaborate, herky-jerky throws to the red painted box 15 feet away while a morbidly obese carny smoking a skinny cigarette and holding a radar gun in one hand and a 64 oz Big Gulp (for when you absolutely, positively have to consume four pounds of pop) in the other took their money and looked otherwise wall-eyed at the target. Two dollars for three throws; two warmup throws and a third that you had to guess the speed. Time and again, it went 54 mph, 54 mph, 55 mph -- fail. Ha, I thought, I can do better than these high schoolers - after all, I was captain of the famed Academy of Holy Angels varsity boys baseball team of 2004 (see preface).

So when I came back to the game with my group of friends, the gaggle of teens had moved on to greener pastures (probably the goldfish toss) and the fat carny and his carny friends were standing in a circle smoking and chatting. Slow night, apparently. I gave him my $2 and loosened up my arm to hurl a smoking fastball probably straight through the plastic banner but 15 feet away. The game was set up like a 3-walled cage, with stuffed animal prizes hanging from the ceiling about 10 feet above the ground. In my head I was already picking out my prize. Surely I would not fail. I couldn't.

I did. Epically.

My day thus far had, as I mentioned, consisted of attempting to wakeboard. My drag-friendly body couldn't get out of the water and for twenty minutes, the effort of strained lurching through the water, the wake frothy yellow, my face grotesquely expressed and red, meant my forearms were shot. I could hardly open a can (a situation upgraded to crisis level for the weekend's necessary activities). A moment of temporary forgetfulness or rather twentysomething invincibility/masculinity overtook me as I gripped the worn baseball in that familiar way, ready to fire.

A friend's flash lit up the scene -- me in a modified full-windup, my law school sweatshirt casually (of course) rolled up to my elbows, the carny smoking a cig/drinking Mountain Dew/holding the radar gun/staring off into space, my friends watching off to the side, the high schoolers suddenly all around me. It was all going so well until I felt nothing when I should've felt the ball being released from my fingers. I realized, to my utter mortification, that my hand had involuntarily released the ball when it was still by my ear, thanks to my useless forearms. The ball thankfully stayed in the game pen, but just barely. It hit a stuffed monkey. That got the carny's attention.

"You killed the monkeeee!!! Hehehe" [said through pursed, sugary, tobacco-y lips]

I looked at my hand, the traitor, like golfers look at their malfunctioning putter after missing a tap-in. I couldn't believe it. One sheepish grin and a shrug later and it was time to throw another ball -- technically still my first since my errant toss was apparently out of the radar's range. Suddenly mindful of my physical inadequacies, I took it more slowly this time and managed to hit the very top of the banner, still out of range for the radar. The carny was still loving it and his friends had joined in.

I thankfully got the last three throws within radar range and, needless to say, did not win a stuffed animal. I did, however, win the prize of having the carny take down the stuffed monkey I hit and proceed to heckle me as I walked away casually still (of course), but with some urgency into the cacophony of sounds, gaudy lighting, and questionable smells that is the Sawyer, Wisconsin County Fair.

Sometimes it takes a carny to put you back properly in your place.

In the works, a new bike

My late-summer project, Day 1

A single-speed commuter for law school!

It's an 80's vintage Fuji free from my neighbor, formerly blue, but will be painted satin black, with a world championship stripe left from the original. I'm going for a black/white color scheme, and would like to find a white seat and white handlebar grips. I thought about white tires, but that may be going too far. My budget is 1/5 of the cost of a new bike I was looking for ($500) and since I have a lot of stuff on hand already, looking for a new home, most of that will probably go towards new wheels (or beer).

1. Tonight and tomorrow morning: paint, order parts
   
2. Tomorrow: clean brakes
3. Next week: put everything together
4. Ride ;o)

Expect pics next week of the finished product.

Oh man, an Oman weekend!

Preface: I'm not usually prone to making such silly titles to my posts (ok, maybe I am) but this is an exception. Someone mentioned this weekend that they wished they could have their name put into a pun in a headline like their star athlete brother. Well, this isn't the Marinette Eagle Herald, but I guess beggars can't be choosers when it comes to last-name-pun-headlines.

I made the trip down to Davenport, Iowa this weekend to visit my MTU bud Laura who now lives down there. I met her and her sister Emily at their booth of the farmers market in downtown Davenport. The sisters, of Flours & Fibers fame, bake (Emily) and knit (Laura) their way to stardom in the Quad Cities area. I can imagine residents walking the mean streets of Davenport with scone or gluten-free muffin in hand, kept warm by knit hat, scarf, and mitten, and carrying records or french bread in intricate yet sturdy (because of the reinforced band of the bag, so I'm told) striped bags.

Eastern Iowa has a lot to offer. I witnessed the aftermath of my first tug-of-war contest across state lines (Iowa lost to Illinois, if they wanted to win, they should've played Wisconsin. They're sissies over there.), though I missed the actual event. The aftermath of Tug Fest involved a lot of large, sunburnt men wearing menacing sunglasses, menacing facial hair, and non-threatening, "barely there" tank tops eating fried food. Or a pregnant woman who nixed the frumpy maternity garb for the ever-popular tank top (everyone loves tank tops in Iowa, too bad I left all mine at the store) with the bottom rolled up into a super bra. I guess she wanted her baby to be secondhand tan when it came out.

But the highlight of Tug Fest was a visit to an antique store in quaint downtown LeClaire. Not expecting a whole lot and feeling a bit bad for not playing bingo at Tug Fest, I was definitely surprised by what I found. Many antique stores I've visited have an almost obligatory selection of records, usually in old milk crates and usually featuring bottom of the barrel selection. But not this one. Four crates held the greatest density of "good" records I've ever seen. I ended up buying (thanks, Laura, for the loan) Prince (1999), Derek and the Dominos (Layla and other Assorted Love Songs), Led Zeppelin (Physical Grafitti), and David Bowie (Let's Dance). And could have picked up another half dozen save for the fact that I was already borrowing money from my host...Amazing.

The next day we made our way out to Laura and Emily's friend Kathy's farm. I could devote a whole post to this amazing place, but it's late and I have to wake up early. I'll just throw out a few words from the experience. Corn-zebo. Einstein ducks. Overflowing Japanese beetles. The god of yarn spinning. Wildflowers. Napoleon the chicken (who, according to legend, won power through a "chicken coup").

Then a redux of finding amazing records occurred Monday. Emily brought me (after some confusion on the streets of Davenport) to this small record store on the second floor of an old building. We were greeted heartily by two guys who, let's just say, looked like they worked in a used record store! But they were nice and, once again, I ended up in records heaven. After some gut wrenching decisions, I came home with an Elvis Costello (Get Happy!) and a Grateful Dead (Workingman's Dead) record and couldn't be happier. Emily stuck out an hour of browsing the dusty vinyls and came home with some new (old) LPs of her own to play once she finds speakers at home...

So this weekend was really fun and thanks to Laura for having me at her sweet place in Iowa, I'll be back.

That hi-fi, phono sound

[ Preface: I do realize that this post makes me sound like a crotchety old man, stuck in the Seventies, sitting in a dimly lit, dank living room somewhere in Ohio with old dust-covered National Geographic magazines stacked behind the sofa, a near-deaf mother sitting quietly in the next room attending to her cats, while creditors send angrier and angrier letters to the house and life just swirls around me, the decades advancing. Or maybe like that guy at the bar, alone, drinking Fantas and eating something green, smiling maniacally, nodding, and systematically inching closer to your seat -- you two are the only ones at this bar, it's afternoon and you're killing time before a meeting, he is "recently unemployed", and you want nothing better than to be far away from this guy, but you're stuck -- you are waiting for a business contact to meet you there and then you find yourself talking to this guy, who is now drinking grape soda and still eating a green substance, and he is intense and smells funny and won't stop talking about seeing "the Jethro Tull" in concert in 1973. Fair enough. But I guess that's what listening to too many records will do to a guy.]

Nothing in this world sounds better than a vinyl record played on a decent turntable and stereo system. Nothing.

The pristine, glossy black of the record, its grooves shimmering and rippling in the light, almost begs for the light touch of the needle as it slowly descends. After the needle finds the groove, for a few seconds a dense silence exists, as if any sound, save for the random crackle and pop, is secreted away in anticipation. And when the music starts, everything is reversed.

Layers upon layers of sound come billowing out of the speakers, aided by the organic, analog qualities of records; this is, for the most part, a very good thing. To hear Art Blakey bellowing instructions to his Jazz Messengers, or Muddy Waters stomping raucously as he plays, adds another dimension to the experience of listening to vinyl. Pro Tools wasn't to help smooth over inconsistencies of the performances, so the clunkers stand out, but recording engineers and producers had a mastery of their craft that makes this a rare occurrence. Often, the transfer from analog to digital (think early-90's CDs of older albums) does more to ruin the sound than the orignial mastering could ever do.

And don't get me started on MP3s.

Selecting the perfect record requires more than just a thumb scroll. You have to get intimate. Thumbing through stacks of albums conjures up that old familiar smell, of basements and old boxes, that is comforting and nostalgic. Each exists in the same form it did in decades past, outlines of errant coffee mugs or water damage a testament to its age; or rather, wisdom. Although some are shabbier in appearance than others, the elaborate album artwork stands as a reminder when the art on the album mattered almost as much as the art inside. Each calls out to be played.

It's hard to quantify the difference between listening to a CD or MP3 versus a record. There is a distinct difference in sound and I suppose that some people may prefer one to the other. My guess is that most would choose the vinyl, but I guess you'll just have to come over and try it out for yourself!

Birthers

and while I've tried my hardest to ignore this utterly stupid phenomenon known as the birther movement, it's stuck around way too long for that to happen.

Article 2, Clause 5 of the Constitution states that only a "natural born Citizen" of the U.S. may become its president. I understand that. There is no doubt that Barack Obama fits this qualification and it's insulting that this is even an issue. He was born in Hawaii, just like our past presidents have been born in Connecticut, Arkansas, Massachusetts, and Illinois. With the economy still experiencing the throes of recession, our bohemoth healthcare system in need of serious attention, and our environment and climate facing unimaginable dire straits, why are we focusing on an insane but persistent (and LOUD) minority of theorists who question this?

Taken at face value, it appears to me that the only reason why these rabid conspiracy theorists have raised this issue is because they are desperate. In a society where information is free and only a click away, they no longer have domain over information on UFO's, Bigfoot, or David Ortiz's urine samples. Almost everyone has access to the same basic information. This access to information allows more crackpots to spin fantastical yarns on obscure web sites. It lessens their individual impact (unless your last name is Beck, Limbaugh, or O'Reilly) while magnifying the impact of a group as a whole. However, this horrendous din of the birther movement has a more sinister underbelly.

Their argument is unlikely to be based on a love of the Constitution; rather, it is based on a vicious undertone of jingoism that runs counter to the very fabric of the principles our nation was founded upon and which, at its best, it thrives on today. It insinuates that only one who is blessed by birth in the United States is worthy of leading it. By doing so, it places those of us born elsewhere who, by fate or choice, came to this country to build a better life, in a secondary caste, unworthy of aspiring to lead our country at the highest level.

Many birthers will assert that they are only defending the Constitution of their country. And every citizen has that right and should take part in its defense. But there are many juicier, more substantive Constitutional issues out there that require the efforts of those on both sides to interpret. But that won't get you on Lou Dobbs.

And you shall know our velcocity?

and it's always difficult to look away. Even when decency and protocol prescribe diverted eyes, it draws you in.

Nursing a coffee, too hot on a too hot day, it unfolds in slow motion. It's rush hour and the people who shower before work are quickly being replaced by those who shower after work. In buildings just bustling, windows are washed and trash emptied while quietly, lives are being made or rebuilt working those anonymous, thankless jobs. iPods and Blackberries are attended to, while at the same instance, common courtesy and pedestrian rights of way are not.

The coffee is cooling now, finally, and she is unremarkable walking amongst the late-day travelers, common in her dated pantsuit, a little tight along the seams, the product of too many fancy coffee drinks and meeting doughnuts. I see her standing at a crosswalk with a coterie of office workers, most with some electronic device parasitically attached to their persons. From where I sit, looking out the coffee shop window, she is on the right, near side of the street. A bus (hint: her bus) has the green light and crosses her path from right to left and stops down the next block, across the street to our left. It will wait, but for how long is uncertain.

I sip my coffee, black, and watch the unfolding drama. She is faced with a decision now -- two crosswalks stand between her and a ride home. Two crosswalks between standing impassively amongst strangers to sitting impassively amongst strangers, eye contact actively avoided AT ALL COSTS. She makes a time-saving yet dangerous move and crosses to her left with the red hand flashing and impatient brethren in cars, red faced and bothered by the injustice of it all, waiting for her crossing when it happens, for an instant only. I don't even catch it at first.

As my coffee enters into that sweet spot of drinkability (sorry light beer, you will never enter this region), I try to figure out why it was so jarring to see what I just witnessed. Like a horror movie where a zombie has no whites in their eyes, just pupil, it is not immediately clear why the thing was so, so weird. Then it hits me. She is running. I see a preview of this as she crosses that first crosswalk. It is clear she has not ran in years, decades even. But the prospect of tardiness makes people do crazy things, unthinkable in normal context.

The seconds tick off, the bus still idling as it unloads/loads its stores and looks, with flashing lights and a buzz of activity on and around it, somehow impatient, as if it were in an unnatural state when static. The woman, red in the face from unexpected and unaccustomed exertion, is bouncing maniacally on the balls of her feet, muttering under her breath. Because of a bar on the window that perfectly obstructs her head when standing still, she perfectly channels Whack-a-Mole when bobbing, her dated bouffant now perfect for this clever allusion.

The light turns green and she lurches forward, into a gait that is still deciding whether it should be a run, or just a sorry attempt at one. The seconds seem like minutes, etc, etc, etc. as she hoofs it across the street and onto the sidewalk. While it looks unnatural, harried, at first, she begins to ease into a more manageable jog as she dodges commuters on the sidewalk, oblivious to the event unfolding before their eyes. The bus driver, being a hybrid of the office workers and workers in the office by law of proximity to their commute, senses the woman flapping along the sidewalk and graciously waits for her, even though there is a green light that turns red just as she reaches the steps.

For kids, running is the only natural thing to do. Run to school (or, more often, from school). Run, against mother's wishes, in the house. Run outside. Run in the winter. Run in the summer. Run all the time. Kids, not Kenyans (but of course, Kenyan kids), are the best runners in the world. Keeping appearances or dignity in tact is not high on the list of priorities for a young person with a destination and only distance and that annoying concept of time between them. So they run. But for the rest of us, we joggers decked out in fashionable, technical garb, who run for 30 minutes (45 on Tuesdays and Thursdays) at a time, we office dwellers who spend prime kid-running time stuck sitting indoors, we never think to have less than one foot on the ground as we enter into locomotion. Must preserve professionalism and dignity AT ALL COSTS.

The woman's hair is now a mess and her once tidy (if snug) pantsuit is now unbuttoned and wrinkled. But as she makes her way toward the back of the bus and takes a seat by the window on my side, I see she is laughing, remembering how it feels to run like a kid.

post-college fun

To all you crazy kids out there who think that the end of college means the end of fun, this post is for you!

My evening, post-9 PM, Tuesday, August 4, 2009. Typical.

9:15 expressed interest in going to the liquor store to obtain some beer.
9:16 dad believed the liquor stores to be closed and to be in such a state beginning at 8 pm every weekday
9:16-9:25 Crushed, demoralized, despondent, downtrodden, world weary.
9:25 I go out to prove him wrong. Prove the world wrong, really. I'm a world-beater. It's just my spirit.
9:40 Pull into Cub Foods Liquor (in MN, grocery stores are not allowed to have alcohol for sale in the actual store, so many have one tacked onto the side.)
9:45 Still creepily trying to discern whether or not they're open from my car. I cannot. The lights are on, but there are those yellow cleaning pylons up in the aisles. I figured it was just a typical Minnesota passive aggressive way to say, CLOSED.
9:47 It wasn't. They were just cleaning the aisles! It is indeed open. Success.
9:48-9:55 Try to decide what kind of beer I want. Something classy, sorry, Bud Lime. But not something too expensive or hoity-toity. I chose Fat Tire.
9:56 Write gloating text message to father.
9:57-10:30 Drive around Bloomington trying to find fast food. I find none to my liking as Jimmy John's was closed, Taco Bell too far away, McDonalds too gross, and all other options nonexistent.
10:35 Arrive home, gloat to father in-person.
10:37 Still hungry, put in frozen pizza. I'm going to hate myself in approximately 17 minutes (to cook) + 10 minutes (to eat. everything.)
10:40 Crack a beer open, watch some plastic surgery reality show on Oxygen with my sister.
10:45 Somehow chase her away by asking too many questions. I just want to know what's happening, that's all!
10:45-11:40 Quickly change channel. Finish watching The Graduate. I've been thinking about that movie ever since watching (500) Days of Summer. And no, I did not cry at the end like Zooey Deshanel.
11:40 - present (12:30) Doze on and off while watching one of my favorite shows, The Universe, on the History Channel. As much as I love "Space Oddities" and "The Milky Way" I'm too tired to finish. Bedtime and the end of yet another epic night.

Stuck inside of Bloomington with the no-car blues again

Blogger's preface: I came up with what I thought was a catchy little title for this post on the way to the bank, which I talk about in said post. I'm not really unhappy living at home for these few weeks, I just feel that such an inspired title deserves an inspired post to go along with it. So some things may be a bit exaggerated here. Some are not, however, so be on your toes when reading. Re the title, well, I just finished watching the two-part Bob Dylan documentary No Direction Home, by Martin Scorsese, in which they talk about the song, Stuck Inside of Mobile with the Memphis Blues Again (see! it's catchy!) and am finishing reading a Dave Eggers book, which somehow compels me to become more self-referential in my writing. Although a blog is already pretty self-referential. Some would say solipsistic. But when you realize how bored I am, you'll understand. And you'll realize how bored I am by reading this post. In sum, this preface is pretty useless and I'm sorry you had to read it. Stop being such a lemming! Skip to the good parts. Maybe that's assuming too much here. Better yet, go read a book or browse CNN.com. Plenty of good stuff there. But maybe wait until after you read my blog... It's up to you, really.

Approximately 95% of my fond memories, especially ones that took place, say, from 1990-1997, took place in my hometown of Bloomington, MN. Bloomington is a suburb of Minneapolis and really has no distinguishing characteristic save for the Mall of America and the airport. Both of which, and especially in the former's case, Bloomingtonians (?) would rather not associate with. Maybe it would be better if we gave this "Mega Mall" to Richfield. But the point is that Bloomington is a rather nondescript suburb of a rather nondescript city of Minneapolis (though I'm rather fond of it).

But it was a great place to grow up. We live across the street from Brye Park which was, in the 90's, the outdoor recreation mecca for a youth into sports such as I. In the spring, of course, was baseball. I only played there once with a team, I think, but I likely hold the record for appearances at the baseball diamond there. Every night after dinner, my dad and I were out there, shagging fly balls or taking batting practice (until I began hitting balls into the street and onto peoples' yards). I was the Cal Ripken, Jr. of Brye Park -- any suitable night, I was out there. Baseball occupied my spring, summer, and fall but winter brought something even more magical, if only for its fleeting nature. That's when the city flooded the ice rink. Each December morning as we awoke for school the pump trucks would be out there, dutifully jettisoning their stores onto the frozen gravel. Every afternoon, a thorough inspection of the growing ice was in order and timetables were set and skates were sharpened in anticipation of the skating season. A warm spell or freezing rain was, and still may be, in some quarters, considered a disaster. But we'd usually get a full 6-8 weeks of hockey in before a February warm spell ended the season, always prematurely.

The suburbs were a great place to grow up. They are, I assume, a great place to raise a family. Or to retire. But they are not a great place to live when you're 23. Especially without a car.

Such is my current life. And I can't complain too much (see preface) as I am moving to the city in a few weeks and starting school. But it would absolutely kill me if I was jobless and sitting around here. Due to the family car shortage, the people with jobs get the cars most days. Which makes complete sense. But it doesn't change the fact that suburbs make those without cars feel very, oh, inadequate. In the week I've been home, I've made a few major excursions on foot to destinations near the Vessey Rd. compound. One, a rather fruitless trip to the Movie Gallery store, which was oddly hot and in disrepair. The other, which I will detail now, to the bank, Wells Fargo, up the hill.

I have some stock - no big deal - in a few corporations. No, really, it's no big deal; it's often more of a hassle because I have so little stock that the dividend checks I get in the mail (not direct deposited, mind you) are usually on the order of $0.94 or, if I'm lucky, $3.07. They find themselves all too often wedged between books or at the very bottom of the pile of junk mail that ultimately gets tossed. Yes, I know, money is money, but I feel like such a tool depositing pocket change. "And would you like this in checking or savings?" [snickers] Haha, very funny, Bank Teller. But, um, well how much do I have in checking? "Let me see, looks like, $150- no, $15.05, Mr. Dammel." Let's just do checking, then, I go for the big percentage gains!

But this weekend, I also decided to cash in some bonds I got from my grandparents when I turned 18, so I felt less demoralized when I went to make the deposit. Another personal insight: I was looking forward to making this deposit a little too much. I don't know why, I guess because it gave me some structure in life. I was about to go Saturday afternoon before I was informed by a bemused mother that banks weren't open on Saturday afternoons. Good to know. I did know that banks are closed on the Lord's Day; of course they would be! So it would have to be Monday, then. My date with destiny.

Monday, of course, I was car-less (see title!). And that was fine with me, I do like walking, did a lot of it in Washington, and wanted to keep my walking muscles in fine shape. And it was a sunny day and I hadn't really been outside yet, so I'd make it an event. Maybe get dressed up (like change into shorts with pockets.

After a few hours of sitting in the middle of the living room, listening to LP's (got through Thelonious Monk w./ Art Blakey and the Jazz Messengers, Muddy Waters, Led Zeppelin, Bruce Springsteen (of course!), Neutral Milk Hotel, Wilco, and Paul Simon) I decided it was time to start my journey. It was mid-afternoon, around 3:30 when I collected the various checks and bonds, put them in an envelope, and set out to grab a bike to cut down on the time. Well my mountain bike had a leaky tire and my fixie's chain was orange with rust and brittle looking, so I decided to hoof it as I had planned all along.

In cities, it's not weird to walk places - it may be weird not to. Especially to places mundane and ubiquitous as banks. But I felt so odd walking to the bank, which is about a mile from the house, on a busy road (Normandale Blvd). The streets close to home are wide but lacking in sidewalks. And I always veer when I walk, even sober, and so was accordingly afraid of inadvertently playing a game of chicken with oncoming motorists. I was wearing what I thought were pretty normal clothes -- some khaki shorts and a Boston College Law (fittingly ill fitting, I might add) t-shirt with socks and running shoes. Maybe it was the sock/shoe combination that made me feel out of sorts, but I felt like one of those dads, well all dads, really, who seem to go back time and time again to this combination. I admit, they were comfortable, but I prefer sandals. Young people should show their feet, socks and shoes be damned! But, I reminded myself, I was walking, so function over fashion became my mantra.

This self-consciousness was magnified when I started to think about what other people would think when they saw me walking around at 3:30 in the afternoon. Most people my age are working or otherwise preoccupied at this time so I imagine parents, too hardwired to the Dateline mindset, thought I was a molester of some sort and kept their children close at hand. Yard after yard there were toys, some with moving parts still slowly moving, and slammed doors and pairs of eyes about knee height and taller, angrier eyes looking at me as I ambled past. A nameless, senseless danger averted by vigilant action, BRAVO parent or caretaker, BRAVO! Not really, but that's how it felt. Maybe it's because I have an uncle who aimlessly walks around his parents' house, to the mall, to the library, everywhere and nowhere. Maybe that's why I don't like walking in the suburbs, I feel it's the first step towards something much worse. Like marijuana as a gateway drug to heroin. But creepier.

Another thing about walking in the suburbs, now as I turn onto the busy road, is that the car:human ratio is all too askew. I'd say it's close to 300:1. Ridiculous. And the cars all seem so menacing as they fly by just feet from the sidewalk (the crummy, afterthought sidewalk with weeds slowly overtaking the blacktop). I walk up the hill, which seems like it extends forever, and think about life. And exhaust. And apartments with ponds. And how the sky isn't really blue, it's more blueish-gray, as if the contrast was turned up too high and blue was washed out by some giant dial unknown to human intellect.

I finally reached the top and found myself in the strip mall parking lot. My next obstacle, once looming, was now upon me. It was time.

Again, the lack of sidewalks or marked walkways for pedestrians was distressing. I made my way around the back of the bank, by the drive-thru lane. A car was approaching and, since there was no sidewalk, I found myself balancing, arms outstretched, on the curb. I must have looked like an idiot, because what right-minded twentysomething does a thing like that? When I realized this, I promptly (and awkwardly) jogged across the lawn into the bank. So now passers-by thought I was robbing it. Great.

I guess it wasn't as cool outside as I had thought. This, coupled with the fact that I sweat even thinking about sweating made me a mess when I walked into the air conditioned bank. There was a small line, but I loitered by the paperwork desk for a few minutes to stop sweating. There really isn't any reason to sweat when not doing athletic activity, but I manage to find some reason all too often. So, if I didn't look like I was planing to rob this bank when I ran into it, now, I most definitely did. I could see tellers eying one another, with subtle nods, that seemed to say, "Yeah, I see him too. I'm fingering the BIG RED BUTTON if he makes any sudden moves. -Ok, me too"

But soon I stop sweating, put on a smiley face, and deposit my things. As I stood there, an annoying, entitled teen casually approached the teller next to me and said, "Give me all your money, this is a robbery."

Not really, but he just kind of demanded his money to be deposited and I don't believe he had an account there. The teller was more than a little flummoxed when she explained to him that yes, he could open an account, but that it wouldn't be available until the next business day, etc. He just kind of muttered something and then asked for her to make some change. She obliged and then asked in what denomination he would like to receive. "Oh, twenties would be awesome."

Again, after this teen hands her a wad of bills, a flummoxed look crosses the teller's face and she says the best thing I've heard in a while, "Um, sir, it appears as though you only have $19 here. Um, so do you just want a ten, a five, and four ones?" I mean really, how can you be that off in your estimation, kid? Really? Ok, I could understand if we're talking a cash roll here, but he probably had 10 bills in his hand at most. I guess if you assume they're all $100 bills, that's one thing. But that's not going to get you too far in life, I'm afraid.

I smile and, along with the tellers, the other customers, and the bankers who walk out of their offices with this crazy exact timing, as if it was all planned in advance, we all exchange knowing glances, we cock our heads to the side, shake them side-to-side and put our hands on our hips -- tsk, tsk, kids these days, we all say. And we laugh and laugh and even the people in the drive-thru get patched through the intercom and they're laughing too! We're all laughing and having a jolly good time at the expense of this cake eating brat. Hardy har-har.

After many a back-slap and recountings of this hilarous episode in our all too exciting lives, I reluctantly leave, back into the afternoon heat. The walk home is equally mundane as the walk to the bank and doesn't merit the free space of my blog to write about it. Oh, life in the suburbs, I shall miss thee. That is, until I return.

Wow, has it really been this long?!

I'm in the middle of reading a really great book, A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, by Dave Eggers. Its memoir-y accounting of the author's struggle, in his early-20's, to raise his younger brother after losing both parents to cancer. A sad story, obviously, but Eggers brilliantly sidesteps the inherent melancholy by dedicating a good portion to his internal struggles in trying to be there for his brother while still aching for a normal life as a young person in his prime, living in San Francisco.

I can't relate to him losing his parents and hope never to have to, but, being a young twentysomething myself, I do get what he writes about regarding his struggle to grow into new-found roles and responsibilities while still attempting to forge a unique path in life.

Anyway, the point of this blog is to talk about my friends out there now in the real world. I will excuse myself from currently existing in the real world -- I'm happy with my 3-year law school "real world" pass, thank you very much. But it really is exciting to catch up with old friends. Friends I've known for over half of my life, decades in some cases.

Granted, many, even the most accomplished of the bunch, are still in entry-level jobs or grad school -- but we'll get there one day! It's inspiring and yes, a bit frightening, to realize that the kids I grew up with, had crushes on in school, played baseball with during those eternal summers, rode bikes with on crisp fall mornings, that we are entering this new stage in our lives. Until now, we've all been herded into school each fall, generally complaining, but secretly comforted by another year of brand new Trapper Keepers/messenger bags (depending on the grade and degree of intended irony) and notes/IM's (same; see previous parentheses) secreted to trusting friends behind the back of those omniscient teachers. It sucked, but it was familiar.

But that comfy blanket has been cast aside for many of us and we're faced with things we thought only our parents had to deal with. A real house. Health insurance. Jobs with consequences. You know, responsible, adult-type things (still wondering why I'm delaying this onslaught for another 3 years...). And, to top it off, real life gave us a shitty economy. Or was it the Republicans? Just kidding. (Secretly not, however.)

And while most of us still lack real, pressing responsibility in our lives, this won't be the case for long. It's been five years since high school now and my goofy friends, the same ones who used to dot their "i's" with a heart or attack unsuspecting TV-watchers with a surprise fart (no, not the same person), are turning into real people. The flashes of brilliance or compassion they expressed growing up, which were quickly shooed under the table for fear of humiliating reprisal from the "cool" kids, have had a chance to ferment and grow. They are bravely entering this new world still somewhat recognizable as the awkward youths we all once were but striking now with a self-confidence that was always there, but had to be found.

So, godspeed, keep in touch, and get to working on your heartbreaking work of staggering genius!