Moving to the door, I thumbed off the light in the room and walked blindly down the dark hallway to my bedroom. An exaggerated yawn stretched over my features, and I blinked slowly as the fatigue saturated me. Not bothering to turn the light on, I pulled off my clothes and flopped into bed. The gravity suspensors hummed and ached, adjusting for the form and shape of my weight as I lay down. I glanced at the clock. Although I didn’t need to be into Vinny’s until the cold shift, I was supposed to be up in four hours to help with the paddock. I groaned and rolled over. Maybe I could make it up to her later.

I’m siting in a coffee shop off Hamline trying to figure out what I should blog about. The atmosphere of this place isn’t all that conducive to The Creative Process.

Its four walls also contain a low stage, at which a hunched old bluehair is currently stroking some sort of grotesque flute crafted out of a gourd.

I don’t know what he’s planning but I’m fairly certain that it’s not going to be good for anybody.

Feeling the weak and tender sprouts of creativity in me already beginning to wither, I take a few full, hot mouthfuls of the top of my espresso — one thing I’ve found is actually very conducive to the Creative Process.

The Creative Process, (known to Nobody as “The CP”) is important to me.

You see, I’ve been trying to write a book lately.

Actually I shouldn’t really use that word, “lately.” That would imply I’ve actually been working on it recently. Which I haven’t. After a little prodding I’ll admit to you that I haven’t written a single word since the first week of November.

So let’s just say I’ve been trying to write a book… before.

And to be truthful, I shouldn’t really use that word either.  Book.  It’s just not an accurate description. (And if I, as a budding young writer, cannot provide Accurate Descriptions – what then do I offer to Society At Large other than a misguided sense of Holier Than Thou and a Vague Distaste for Nightly Television?)

So let me be accurate. What I have worked on before is not a Book. Primarily due to the fact that there are more than one of them, but secondarily because what I’ve created are a number of words and paragraphs pounded hastily into more than two dozen different text files.

These files are saved in any of four different locations: a folder on my work laptop, a folder within an external hard drive (which received a number of bad reviews on BestBuy.com and allegedly could experience a crippling hardware failure at any moment), or one of two folders within my desktop computer, both of which are thoughtlessly labeled “Writing.”

The contents of these two folders are almost identical, with just enough variation as to render confusion in which is the current working revision.  Many of these files have similar names such as “ch2.txt” and “ch2_cont.txt.” They may be direct copies of each other, or, in other cases, revisions in which a number of changes exist scatter shot within the text with no real clear characteristic of being the Newer or Improved version. Also there are two large, ragged legal pads kicked scornfully under my desk filled with slashed and crazed notes that often repeat themselves.

Listen: it’s all very complicated. The point is neither of them at this point could be accurately, (or even generously) classified as a Book. Let’s just call them Piles.

I’ve been trying to write some Piles… before.

Dear God in heaven, that squashflute Mr. Bluehair’s wheezing into sounds like a titmouse on Salvia peeping out tangled strains from Penderecki’s Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima.

Must maintain The CP! Must drink!

I awoke later to the tinny, fast-paced rhythms of Binwalli music pumping throughout the domipod. My mother would not be pleased that I had slept in and neglected my chores. She liked to turn the music up loud around this time every day if I hadn’t gotten out of bed yet. My vision was blurry and incoherent, my lids crusted thick with sleep, the oily taste of Fishtarone coating the inside of my tacky mouth.

Wandering upstairs, I deposited the remnants from the previous nights’ VR session on the counter, building a small shrine of cans, packets, and wrappers. My mother was sitting at the kitchen table in her tinwok robe, white and fluffy in the late light of the morning. A twisting finger of cinnamon-colored smoke curled its way to the ceiling from the lit end of her cigarette. I poured myself a cup of caffeine from the dispenser and sat down next across from her dumbly, still shaking the sleep away as I stared at a small puff of blue lint lounging happily within the dark hairs of my belly button.

So we’ve got two Piles, spread over three hard drives, within four folders.

And one hell of a case of Writer’s Block.

This blasted Writing! I haven’t been doing it lately. Lately I’ve been spending a fair amount of time… out. You know. Doing things. And that’s ok! There is nothing wrong with spending time out doing things.

But doing things isn’t going to write these books. Excuse me, these Piles.

Writing is not easy. It is hard. Hey listen: take it from me. I’ve been doing a lot of reading on the subject! All the experts agree. Writing is hard! If one has half a mind to actually spill enough words into a pile so that it metastasizes into a book, then one must obey the following Commandment:

• Make writing a habit, every day.

It’s a short list of To Do’s, but an effective one. You simply cannot succeed by writing only when the mood strikes. On this the experts are quite clear.

Example. Ok, you know that Dude? The one who wrote all those successful law novels about the attorneys who take on the big dogs against seemingly insurmountable odds, come up against a death threat or two, only to meet a mysterious informant who gives them the case at the end? Yeah well, that Dude went into work every day at 4am and wrote his fingers numb for three hours before work started. And now he’s rich and famous. He’s got a goddamn movie!

I forget his name. But the point stands!

Ol’ Grampa Appalachia has retired the gourd flute and now he’s playing a drum. One of my personal rules is that every time a shaking suburban shaman strikes out a shambling beat on a drum head crafted of the dried skin of the Forsaken: I have to drink.

“Up late?”
“Yeah a little.”
“Remember what I asked you to do today?”
“Yeah, sorry. Just slept in I guess.”

She huffed a short audible breath, not believing my weak alibi. This scene had repeated itself endlessly over the last handful of months of my residency here after completing school. It was nothing new: it was all steps in a familiar dance.
“What time you have to be to work?”

I groaned. I had been working at Vinny’s for four spans now, and it had grown as stale and dry as cone crumbs shoved under the broiler. I needed a change, and badly. Lately I had been showing up for my shifts late, not caring about running hard to pull in extra flips, leaving early when I could. Even Yash’s death threats had lost some of their unique pizazz.

“I need a change. I hate that job.”
“Well maybe you should have thought about that before you decided to spend four galyears becoming a, what is it? Hyper Nematoad?”

She was especially snippy today. The Binwalli music chittered and chattered in the background, rapid plinking notes from the octolute sparking from the speakers in enthusiastic audio cascades. The man on the recording was shrieking some tune about a lover he had taken to bed and never seen again. I knew every word, every note in the song. I would know them even if I hadn’t heard it every single morning for the past six spans.

“Hyper Mnemonics. It’s a good field Mom.”
“Right. A good field. It’s just that no one knows what it’s good for.”

I’ve learned another Commandment as well. This one comes from my own personal experience.

• Don’t feel obligated to stick to shitty first ideas.

While beginning to write my first Pile I found myself expending countless hours trying to fit this or that idea into the storyline for a character. Needlessly! It was completely and fully without Need. The idea I’d be struggling to jam into the story, desperately trying to make work, really had no business being there in the first place. It had no call or claim to privilege. It was simply the first thing I had thought of. Demetrius the Prince didn’t need his blood poisoned with the magical essence of a Cormorant so he could become the Ice Lord.  It was complete and utter shit, and had no place in the story at large.  

And when I realized I owed it to no one, not even myself, to include it… it was tossed.

That was a big step.

The shamanistic drumming has now given way to a story about mammoths. Sweet Jesus, who gave that man a microphone? Where am I? I came here for peace! I have no need for mammoths!

I took a long drag off of my caffeine. It slid hot and wet down my throat, splashing into my empty stomach, seeping into the cracks. My muscles ached.

“You look like trash. You shouldn’t drink all that… that slime. You know they make that stuff out of fish eggs and squid testosterone don’t you?”
“Well yeah, but it has chromium in it too. Which is, wait, that’s bad for you too right?”

The caffeine was kicking in. I drained the cup and got up to refill it.

“Anyway if you don’t like your job then you should get a new one. What about with your uncle?”
“Aw geez, what, at the warp dust mine?” I scoffed. “Busting my rear, getting that stuff worked into every crease of my clothes, every wrinkle of my skin, all in my hair? No thanks. Uncle Frank smells like engine wash all the time.”
“It’s not a mine. And besides, he said if you came on you could make up to twenty an hour.”

Visions of piles of cash flitted through my mind. I took another sip of my caffeine and decided to play it cool. Maybe I could by succumbing to her idea I’d buy a little leeway for the missed chores.
“Hmm. You’re right. Maybe I should look into it.”
She smiled. “You’re still going to work on that foundation today.”

Writing is hard. Don’t let them fool you. It’s work. That’s another realization that was beneficial for me to stumble upon amidst the piling. Writing is Work. And because it is Work, it is made easier if one is under the influence of caffeine. Or alcohol.

I learned that from the experts too, although they didn’t state it directly. It was more an instance of Leading By Example I suppose. But there’s a balance there. If you go under the influence too much you run the risk of writing a lot of pages about nothing much at all. You also run the risk of blowing your Holier Than Thou face off with a shotgun. I don’t own a shotgun, but when I’ve really been drinking I often churn out several pages impassioned drivel about driving at night on lonesome highways. No focus whatsoever!

There’s probably some altruism there under the covers but I can’t be bothered to look for it. You see, I’ve got these Piles to organize.  I have got to focus.

But first I think I’m going to head home and cook up some bacon.

No matter who your candidate was, let’s celebrate this historic moment.  Cheers for Democracy, and the Greatest Country on Earth!

Today began like any other day.  Waking up feeling totally rested after a dream of playing with a Norwich Terrier the size of a salt shaker and running from a Sherman tank, waiting in the chilly fall air on the corner near Mr. D’s Cuts and Styles, and riding into Minneapolis with approximately five hundred and fifty eight thousand U of M students aboard the 3B.

I’m the last guy to get off most days.  Well actually, the past two days this week there has been someone sleeping on the bus and the driver has had to yell at them to get off (after which I have long exited,) but today I was again the sole remaining passenger when the 3B arrived at the last stop.  I grabbed my laptop bag, stood up, and what did I behold but…

A wallet.

Placed neatly on the seat near the door, as if itself were a dainty passenger on its way into the city for a little tourism.

“Oh, don’t mind little old me.  Just going to take in the wind-swept, urine-smelling sights of Minneapolis!”

And my, what a wallet.  It was, to turn a fishing phrase, quite a lunker.  It was a veritable leather-bound tome of cards, receipts, and who knows what else.

When I saw the wallet, lying there, fat and obscene on the empty bus, I immediately mentally quoted Francis from the Darjeeling Limited:

“Look at this asshole.”

You’ve gotta be some piece of work to leave a wallet like that just lying around.  Must we, the Organized Elite, be caretakers for the entire world of you children?  Good people, I ask you!

I contemplated, for a nanosecond, giving it to the driver.  But to no fault of the driver’s esteemed character, I didn’t.  I simply trust myself more.  And so with a groan of irritation, I picked it up and shoved it, like an uneaten triple cheeseburger, into my jacket pocket.

I knew time was of the essence.  If Mr. Lose My Wallet had even 8 oz of gray matter in his brain box, once his posture straightened out from the loss of weight near his ass he’d realize that he was missing his wallet.  

Then would begin the Panic! On A Wednesday.

Once in the office, I pulled out the wallet and opened it up.  I needed to scour its contents to find some sort of contact information.

What I found inside boggled the mind and bewildered the senses.

The contents of the wallet were extensive, yes, but they were also profound.  They told a story.  And while I knew I wouldn’t accept a traditional reward, I chose as my recompense the right to record the epic contents therein.  For posterity of course!

I cannot do the contents justice with my own brand of douchey prose.  Instead, I will let the wallet tell the story of the life of its owner.  It’s a good one, and not without humor or heartfelt moments.  

BEGIN ITEMIZED LIST!

I found the fortunes particularly poignant.

I used the phone number from the never delivered note of admiration to call Mr. Lose My Wallet.

“Morning, is this Mr. Lose My Wallet?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, my name is Eric, I believe you lost your wallet on the bus today.”
“Oh!  YES.”
“I work in blah blah blah blah come get it…”

He was there in five minutes.  I gave him the wallet, and he expressed thanks.

“How did you get my telephone number?”
“There was a note…”
“Thought so.”

He tried to offer me one of the twenties.  I refused, and bid him good day.

It was lucky that he hadn’t the courage to deliver that note to the object of his affections, because it allowed me to find him quickly.  However, it also gave me a twinge of regret to see it lying undelivered amidst the club cards and the folded fortunes from former meals.

I can only hope he wrote it the evening before, and would deliver it later that day.

My brother and I recently moved into a duplex on the outskirts of St. Paul.  We live above a family of four.  We share doors in the front and in the back.  Two weeks after moving in I still had not seen a single person of this alleged “family,” although I could occasionally smell their cooking.  A heavy smell of garlic would flood the bathroom occasionally while I was showering.  The potency of the aroma was… incredible.  I left those showers clean, refreshed, and with a strong urge for marinara sauce (either to consume or dip myself in, I was unsure.)

Sometime during the third week of our residence, my brother meets me in the kitchen.
“Have you met the people downstairs yet?”
“No.”
“They’re Weird.”

Apparently he had been bumping into them every single time he went “out back.”  This confused me because there was nothing “out back” but a small patch of grass and a gravel parking area.  

My brother (and I) had occasion to go “out back” only in order to re-enter the house on the other side.  Our laundry is located in the basement, and although it is not shared, the entrance to it is on their side.  This means you have to exit the house, walk to the other door, re-enter the house, possibly bump into an exiting Weird, and go downstairs.  

But what on earth a family of four would be doing “out back,” (allegedly all together at once,) was a question that confounded the mind.

Within fifteen minutes of this conversation I met three of the four Weirds.

I was carrying more empty boxes down into the basement laundry room.  I bumped into Mother Weird and the Weird son coming out of their place.

“Hello!”
“Hi there!  You must be Eric.  We met your brother Chris yesterday.”
“Oh ok, cool.”
“Nice car!”
“Ah!  Yes, thanks.”

I hate talking about my car.

At this point the son, probably around 17, big and tall with glasses and a buzz cut, says:
“YEAH.  That’s a NICE ONE.”

His cadence is quick, but his voice is thick and dull.  Hearing it was like being hit in the face, out of nowhere, with a pillow.  SURPRISE.  I didn’t know whether to laugh or panic.

“My daughter loves your car.”

Not knowing how to respond in the friendly nonsense conversation way, I respond awkwardly:
“Well!  Don’t uh… tell her not to steal it because… it’s the only car I have! … Ha.”

Mother Weird just looks at me blankly as we stand in awkward silence, within 24 inches of one another in the doorway.  I thought I had won the Most Inane Usage of The Faculty of Speech Award, but then she responded:

“If she stole it she’d have to get a job!”

The forced laughter quickly dies.  Then:

“So you like Evanescence?”

To answer Yes would be to lie.

“Uh, … yeah.  Sure.”
“I told my daugher about the big poster you have.  She loves Evanescence.  She’s so jealous.”

We’re in kind of a strange area here because I have no idea where this woman got her information.  So I smile, bid them farewell and continue downstairs.

Coming back up I meet Father Weird and the son working on the son’s bike.  I walk over to introduce myself.

“Having bike trouble?”
“Mmmmreyeahh… what do you know about bikes?”
“Nothin’.”
“Damn!”

It’s not going well.

“My name’s Eric, just moved in upstairs.”  We shake hands.
“Jon.  That’s a nice car!”
“Oh.  Thanks.”
“Yeah here’s mine,” he says, gesturing to the large conversion van in the gravel lot.  It is maroon, with a raised roof and a shredded, peeling window decal in the rear for a personal transportation company.

“They gave me this while the other van is in the shop.”
“Ah!  I see.”
“Yeah, right now I’m making about ten an hour which is nice, you know, driving people back and forth, but it’s not great.  I’ve been doing it for quite some time now but really I’m hoping to get involved in a sales job here pretty soon, hopefully make some more money…”  

His son is the spitting image of him, except Weird Sr. has a goatee and a bit more girth.  

“… yeah, hopefully, that’ll be nice.  What do you do?”
“I’m uh… a software engineer.”
“Oooh!  Bet you make some good money?”

This conversation has taken a turn for the innappropriate, and I hit the Eject button.

“Well, you know.  Bosses will never pay you what you’re worth.  It’s how they stay in business!”
“AIN’T THAT THE TRUTH!”

I back away smiling and retreat upstairs.  Later I see Father Weird ride/wobble-on-by down below in the yard.  His unseen son yells at him:
“YEAH WORKS REAL WELL DAD — YA STUPID.”

Days later, I again come upon Mother Weird and the son outside.  Allegedly there is a Daughter Weird, who remains alluringly aloof.  I greet them as I proceed downstairs to deposit some boxes of junk.  The mother stops me, saying:

“Did your brother talk to you?”
“Um, no.  What’s up?”
“Well we just wanted to tell you, you don’t have to be quiet.”
“Oh?  What do you mean?”
“You don’t have to be quiet.  Don’t worry about us.”
“Well we aren’t going to be rowdy or anyth…” I start to reassure her, but am cut off.
“You have to live too!  Don’t worry about it.”
“We aren’t really loud peop…”
“It’s fine, don’t worry.”

This back and forth sort of “You don’t worry.” “No you don’t worry.” conversation went on even longer before I decided mentally ok this is odd, why are we arguing about this, and furthermore, why do I give a fuck?  She’s giving me free reign here.

“Ok, cool.  I won’t worry about it.”

I then meet the son, who is coming out the shared door.  The previous evening I had heard the plink-plunk of someone pawing with dull lust at an acoustic guitar, coming up through the duct.  I say hello and inquire if he was the artist behind those unique melodic stylings.

“Nah, no, I’m not much of a GUITAR GUY.  THAT’S MY SISTER.”
“Oh?  What are you into?”
“COOKING.”
“Nice.”
“Yeah.  I’m a CHEF AT A RESTAURANT.”
“Ah!  What kind?”
“ITALIAN.”
“Mmm, good stuff.  Maybe I’ll have to come by sometime.”
“YEAH.  Yeah, that would be GOOD.”

Indeed.

Later:
“Hey, did you tell the neighbors downstairs that I liked Evanescence?”
“What?  No.”
“You didn’t tell them I had a huge Evanescence poster?”
“No, why the heck would I do that?”
“Dunno.” 

Fast forward now, almost two months later.  The air has turned cold, and there is less chance of running into the Weirds outside in the gravel lot.  I had gone downstairs with a basket of laundry earlier, only to forget to carry a pile of newly-purchased underwear down as well.  Returning back down and outside, large wad of underwear in my hand, I see Father Weird coming out of the shadows in the gravel lot near the maroon van.

“Hey there!”
“Hello!  How’s it going?”
“Not bad, just got back from a sales meeting.”
“New job?”
“Well, yeah, possibly.  It’s a kind of multi-tiered sales group.”

Oh no.  I’m about to get invited to join into a pyramid scheme, I think.  This will now be the third time in my life someone has tried to get me involved in one of these Enterprises of Damnation.  I freeze like a deer in headlights, unable to react.

“Hey!” Jon says, as if the idea is just coming to him, “your brother, Chris is it?  He’s in sales isn’t he?”
“Yes.”  It’s true.  He works for Comcast.
“This is something he might be interested in.”

For no explicable reason I ask “What’s it… about.”

“It’s air purifiers.  No more than twenty pounds.”  
(He pantomimes what I take to be a ‘twenty pound cube’.)

“They clean the air, they are a thunderstorm in a room.”  

This is the selling line, the golden phrase he has taken from the meeting.  Unfortunately for his awkward sales pitch instead of getting visions of freshness and rejuvenation, I get the opposite: a vision of a room with soggy carpets, peeling paint, and ruined electronics spattered with mud and wet leaves.

“The smell of air after a thunderstorm!  In a room!”
“Heh!”
“Before the smog rolls in.”

We share a laugh.  I make sure not to drop any underwear on the deck.

“So you just started this?”
“Well I need to save up some… capital, before I can get started.”

Groan.  The buy-in.  You poor, soon-to-become-poorer man.

“Have to buy your own initial stock, huh?”
“Yeah, exactly.”

We enter the house on the shared side.  I walk down the stairs with my underwear.  He calls after me:
“So I’ll be in touch.”
“Oh yeah?”
“About the thing.”
“Right!”

Maybe I can buy one for the bathroom to keep the garlic smell at sub-noxious levels.

The Dancing Convicts from Cebu Provincial Detention and Rehabilitation Center (CPDRC) in the Phillipines hit it big on Youtube in the winter of 2007 with their choreographed tribute to Michael Jackson’s Thriller.

However, my favorite video has to be their rendition of Flo Rida’s Low. (The announcer pronounces it “Flow Rita!” in the video.) Something about watching drug dealers, rapists, and murderers dance to those lyrics that tweets me in all the right places.

Shawty got them Apple Bottom Jeans [Jeeeeeeans!]
Boots with the fur [With the furrrrrr!]
The whole club was lookin at her
She hit the floor [She hit the flo!]
Next thing you know
Shawty got low low low low low low low low

More info on these guys at the wikipedia page.

<begin trans>
hllo wrld.  hw r u.  i wnt to teh frnz show lst wk!  it rckt.  thts’ all 4 now.
<end trans>

That’s what it’s like listening to you people talk — I vicariously “hear” you as a pleasant, (but most definitely foreign), cyborg with little more than an elementary grasp of English.

It sucks.  If you really were a robot, I’d point your plasma-rifle arm at your central nervous core and blow away all your lame, over-teched and under-human circuitry.  Take a note from 2XL: no one likes a dumb robot.

Anyway, where was I?  (“ne way, were wuz i?”)  Yes, last week I went to the Franz Ferdinand show at our own Target Center here in Minneapolis, Minnesota.  Would you like to hear the story kiddies?  Grab your cookies and gather round Grandpa.  No, I don’t want any of your gingerbread — I hate that shit.

The concert-going party was to consist of four persons: <name removed>, <name removed>, <name removed>, and myself.  Well, <name>, (my best known friend of the four), had class and was going to miss the opening bands.  <Name> decided she wasn’t going to go until <name> got off from class.  Thus I find myself sitting alone with <name>’s other friend <name> an hour before the show in semi-awkward “second time we’ve met” conversation.

We decide to head into the city early and have a drink.  Driving, parking, skyway-ing, and to the bar.  I find that <name> is a pretty spunky girl, and can keep a conversation going, for which I am thankful.

Note: I am a noob-douche when it comes to ordering drinks.  Truth be told, I know about 5 drinks in total, none of which I find particularly drinkable, and which I have in constant rotation when I go out so I don’t become the “guy who always orders a screwdriver.”  On this occasion, “Eric’s Drink Spinner” was pointing to the cartoon of a steroid-ridden heifer caught in a blender, labeled “Vodka/Redbull”.  This ‘beverage’ is an interesting combination of flowery textures with an oaky bouquet and an aftertaste slightly reminiscent of Polish Bull Urine.

This I drink, and none too slowly.  <Name> has a Vodka/Tonic, whose clear biting taste I imagine as being distilled from the liquefied and boiled bodies of the Pure Norwegian Jellyfish, if ever such a creature existed.  (I find that giving drinks mystical origins in my mind makes them a little more fun to choke down.)

Theorem: Two drinks will be consumed, if one drink was consumed and if and only if conversation is even mildly pleasant.

So it was.  Two drinks were drunk in their time.  Well, ok, I’ll be honest — the time for those drinks had perhaps not yet come, they were indeed prematurely drank (drunk?), and soon we were well on our way to Funkytown, <name> leading the way having missed her evening luncheon entirely.

Theorem: Three and four drinks will be consumed in one hour if and only if it seems like a good idea to do so at the time.

Well, you don’t even have to wonder why it did, but it did.  It was then time to go to the show.  Begin “should we go” conversation:

Eric: “What time is it?”
<Name>: “Uhh, heh… um.  8:20.”
Eric: “Well I think Franz goes on at 8:30.  You ready?”
<Name>: “I want to bowl.”
Eric: “Yeah that does sound like fun, doesn’t it?”
<Name>: “Let’s do it.  I can’t believe you made me drink Tequila, you bastard.”

<Name>’s playing the blame game now, and now we’re getting shoes, and now we’re making a joke about the cash register, and now I’m thinking that the guy probably thinks we’re drunk, and now I’m thinking “To hell with what you think, sir!”, and now we’re tying laces and now we’re tossing balls and now the balls are going all sideways and crossways, and now we’re rolling on 43s and laughing about it, and now we’re laughing more and walking to the show, and now we’re wondering where the hell Franz has gotten themselves to and where the hell we are and how the hell we get from point A to point Franz.

We walk into the smallish auditorium, (a side theater to the main Coliseum-esque Target Center), and into the even more smallish grouping of people around the stage.  The lights dim for us as we enter.

“Jacqueline was seventeen, working on a desk...”  This is it, the moment I’ve been waiting for.  Soon Franz is rocking out, telling me that things are always better on holiday, and I agree.  I show that I concur wholeheartedly by jumping up and down and pumping my fist in the air.

In retrospect I’m pretty sure I was the only one doing so.

After a few more songs, the crowd was getting into it.  Franz was letting us have it — the guitars were thudding and twanging energetically, and I insisted we press and squeeze our way forward as best we could.

Quote: “As long as you aren’t gonna puke, it’s worth it.”

The rest is mostly a haze of jumping, screaming, dancing, and pushing our way up into the crowd.  Finally, during a sexually-charged rendition of “Darts of Pleasure,” <name> and I were able to jam ourselves right up in front of the stage.  Oh my god, you can see his sticky stubble.

Things in the pit began to reach a fever pitch.  When Kapranos ad-libbed “I’m sexy, you’re all sexy” during “Michael” I thought an insane orgy of Roman proportions was immanent.  At the apex, Alex broke a string and Bob threw his pick into the crowd, who all dived face first to get it.  I was sure someone was going to get a pecker in the eye.  However, like an eight year old with A.D.D., they gave up looking after three seconds, allowing me to bend over and scoop it from the cement — carefully avoiding any exposed knobs on the way down.

Thus, with my self-respect only slightly tarnished and still buzzed enough to crash a wedding, the lights went up and I left the pit.  We met <name> and <name> on the way out, explained ourselves, and headed out back to meet the band.  (I being still too sauced to drive of course.)

Bob and Paul came out some time later.  Lacking my CD booklet, (which I idiotically left at home), I had them sign my entry bracelet.  Paul was a little sauced himself, and signed my wrist instead.

Overall, I give the night four thumbs up.  Wait — I mean two thumbs up, sorry.  Anyone have some coffee?

This is the last of my Franz posts.  I swear.

“You have mail on the counter” says Xine.  I venture upstairs to receive it.  There is a bill, a title, and … a letter?

Not just any sort of letter either. A hand-written letter.  Such a thing is a momentous occasion in anybody’s life these days, what with the underground coup executed masterfully by the Emailiens in the early ’90s.  No one trades these archaic bits of paper around anymore.  So imagine my shock when I found myself holding such an object from one “Anna Vokkerenburg” from Shoreview (Name changed.  Slightly.)

I was about to “tear ‘er open n’ get ‘er done” when I thought again: “Anna Vokkerenburg”?  Who the hell was that?

I really couldn’t think who this could be.  An old stalker whose hopes I had crushed long ago?  A friend of an old stalker whose hopes I had crushed long ago?  A dying child asking me to send her 1,000 paper cranes?  A good old fashioned chain letter or pyramid scheme?

Eventually bemusement got the best of me.  I let ‘er rip.  And I read:

Well, Eric … uh, & friends:

“Sounds like a MySpacer.”

Here you are.  Bet you thought we wouldn’t send them, didn’t you?  Anyway, they took a long time coming out.

I realized what this was.  At the Franz show, despite our ardent waiting, <name>, <name>, <name> and I had to leave before getting autographs from frontman Alex and guitarist Nick, as <name> and <name> had class in the morning.  We passed off our autographed bits to a couple of sluttish younglings waiting next to us, gave them our address and asked them to mail us the completely signed bits of paper. And doing so with what we regarded as completely indefatigable College-age authority, we left the freshman to do our dirty work. (HAZED!)

Hence, this letter: (cont’d)

Anyway, they took a long time coming out.  Nick came 1st & he was awfuly nice & signed everyone’s everything.  he was quite talkative & people had actual conversations w/him…. yeah, pretty sweet… & then we had to wait for a REALLY LONG time till Alex came out. that semi-thing in there was already packed & leaving when he finally teetered out. he sort of apologized for coming out so late & kind of giggled @ everything else … right, both were drunk as hell, but it was cute almost, they’re sweet-mellow drunks. Right, anyway, hope you enjoy your, oh, BRACELET OF POWER & …. SHEET OF PAPER!!!

Right,
Anna
[the blonde girl w/ the hat]
[though I'm sure the other girls say hi]

Endearing, isn’t it?

And yes, in my state I did refer to it as the Bracelet of Power.
Because like we said: “Absolute power rocks… what is it class?  Yes.  Absolutely.“*

-E

*The writer acknowledges that in no way is aforeto mentioned bracelet in any way connected with the possession, gathering, or exercising of said power.

]]> http://youareadouche.wordpress.com/2008/08/22/myspace-blogs-the-franz-saga-pts-i-and-ii/feed/ 1 Eric http://youareadouche.wordpress.com/2008/08/19/myspace-blogs-ich-heisse-superfantastisch/ http://youareadouche.wordpress.com/2008/08/19/myspace-blogs-ich-heisse-superfantastisch/#comments Tue, 19 Aug 2008 03:34:40 +0000 Eric http://youareadouche.wordpress.com/?p=99 ]]>

Around this time in my Myspace career I started to get massive hits on my page, and subsequent requests for MySpace Friendship.  The end total, as writ in the halls of legend in the golden ink of yore, was around two thousand friends.  My brothers, who so desperately wanted me to join MySpace, had around 50 to 70 friends at that time.

I am quite certain now as to why I gained so many requests for friendship.  My first photo was an animated .gif of me slapping at the camera.  Moving pictures draw people like <insert cliche.>  And so I gained 2k “friends” in just over two weeks.

Now, two and a half years later, I read this blog and laugh, for completely different reasons.  …ahem, “the reasons:”

• Firefox was not widely used.
• I “felt bad about checking gmail at work.”  Now I just leave it open all day for 8 hours.
• The “failed webpage” mentioned was the least of the failed webpage disasters to come.

I’ve posted this as a two-parter.  A twofer.  A twosome.  Toothsome!  This dual post marks the beginning and climax of my heady rise to “power.”

Perhaps growing up means looking back at yourself and shaking your head.

Enjoy.

Title: Ich heisse superfantastisch!

This week was a mixture of hellish days and fantabulous evenings.  Needless to say, (but I’ll say it anyway): Friday found me feeling fried.

It was around 2:30 pm and I was trapped in the Cube.  Not a cool, futuristic Cube mind you, the kind of Cube that exists somewhere in the inevitable future without petroleum or electricity, a future where thought and action no longer have meaning, where the only thing that matters is a squarish combat arena where men and women engage in a gladiatorial Battle Royale for the right to call themselves the Cubemaster, a future where only one thing matters, and that thing is …. the Cube.

No, this is not that Cube.  This Cube is constructed of 3 and 1/2 walls, layered with gray carpeting and home to squattish and pus-colored swivel chair.  This is my Cube.

*cough* Where were we?  Oh yes, me — were you going to say something interesting?  I didn’t think so… let’s continue.

The afternoon isn’t passing quickly enough.  I’ve got at least 3 people breathing down my neck and something smells – my God, is that me? *sniff* no, it’s not - I need to go home, I need sleep, I need entertainment.  There is a demon on my shoulder, and he whispers in my ear:  “Gmailllll…”

Looking over my shoulder, I open up FireFox.  (If you’re not using FireFox as your default internet browser, stop being a Neolithic Douchemonger and switch.  Oh, I’m sorry, you prefer the Stone Age?  Well just let me make a note of that on my papyrus — oh shit, I left it in my other loincloth.  www.getfirefox.com)

I open up my Gmail — there are 5 emails from MySpace.  Shit.  Here we go.  Here comes the fricking spam.

My brothers, Xine and Chris, (disrespectively,) have had MySpace pages for quite some time.  I avoided getting one for three reasons.  “Jeeves?  The reasons please.”

Reason 1: I’m a programmer. To use a prefabricated webpage instead of making your own is like a Carpenter filling his house with Rubbermaid brand chairs and tables.  It’s an insult to my pride.
Reason 2: I had my own webpage. The server died and I hold onto the hope that one day, it will resurrect itself automagically like a digital Jesus.
Reason 3: I hate spam. And all manner of computer-worsening crap, including (but not limited to) the following: spam, trojans, viruses, massmail, spammail, trojmail, virusjans, and massruses.

I checked the MySpace mail.  A couple friend requests and some messages.  With even my comments on “pre-approve before posting” nothing appears on my site until I say so.  Fully expecting “friend requests” that included anything from offers to enlarge my member to protection from spam and popups (ironic?) I was surprised to find that these were actually from people.

Having potentially endangered the mission already, I took no further action, but closed MySpace and minimized my Gmail.  And that’s when the insanity began.

I was receiving handfuls of emails from MySpace every 5 minutes.  Batches of three, five, even ten at a time.  I deleted all these immediately.  What in the world? An hour and a half later I logged into MySpace again before I left work at 4, and what I found there was simultaneously exciting and laughable.

In the last 90 minutes I had amassed at least a dozen messages and somewhere in the vicinity of 50 friend requests.

By the time I reached my house and logged on, the count of friend requests had reached some 78 friend requests and a gaggle of email messages.

After I had eaten, and at the time of this blog, the total had reached 41 emails and over 135 friend requests.

In six hours.  I began to read.

What I found before me was mostly complimentary and friendly, but sometimes not.  But whether JeannieMeannie69 was saying “I want your sex in the worst way” or “Fukc you, asshol” — it didn’t matter.  What mattered was that over two score of people took time to send me a message, and that scores more wanted to be friends in the loosest and most meaningless way possible.  In one six hour span I had gone from mild-mannered (yet heroic and ravishing) programmer to burgeoning online celebrity.

Some samples, shared anonymously for the protection of the online proletariate:
- That is one sweet pic!
- hav u ever been to germany?
- You rock.
- fuck you fucking dumbass suck my dick biatch!!!!!
- omg plz do the dance
- wicked funny pictures
- i am iof the homosexual persuasion?
- [name removed] has invited you to join Triforce Brigade of Zelda
- Your pictures are fabulous.
When I began the game my goal was World Domination.  Perhaps I set my sights too low.

And now the conclusion of my sordid tale.  Were I Aesop, my fable — a Carpenter, my table.  (Oooh… was that bad or clever.  Let’s go with blever.)

I remember the first anonymous Friend Request I ever received.  I denied her instantly.  I don’t know you, and your page sucks was the thought at the time.  Well, just like the kid I made fun of in kindergarten, I tearfully wonder where they are now.  Why did I reject them?  Why didn’t I just make nice and say Sure, we’re ‘friends’ and be done with it?  Two reasons.  “Jeeves?  The reasons.”

Reason 1: I don’t know you and will probably never read your page.  It’s just the truth — I’m too busy and too damn narcissistic.
Reason 2: My real friends will get less hits if I approve you. These friends are people that exist, people that I have shared drinks with or pointed fingers at.  Not like you, you sexy binary phantom you.

So I had to decide… to approve or not to approve?  And after a very pregnant pause, I decided you’re all fucking in.

Every one of you, come, come running — I’m swinging the barn door wide and on the megaphone, screaming at you to get your motley asses in here because this is going to be the biggest party of your computerized lives.  Let’s do this like Buddhists.

I’ve decided to slight my real friends, forget all my principled reasons, and count my black kettles as I throw them through the glass house, riding the gift horse all the way to the dentist.  It’s MySpace, and a lot of weird and wonderful people want all up onz that space.

Through gritted and jealous teeth, my brother calls me a “Friend-Whore.”

I couldn’t agree more.

Lastly, in response to those of you who were kind enough to send me messages, my replies:

Owen: Me too.
Shannon: Nope.
Kharma: Sure.  But only if you keep those pants on.
Jamesy: All night long.
Christina: Sky’s the limit.
Laura: Fuck yeah? Yeah.
Lisha: *wink*
TMuffins: Word, will do.
Kath: Never.  I don’t know you.
Stewie: G-UNIT FOREVER.
Sarah: I “r” feeling wonderful. <3
Jamie: Because he makes me laugh.
Skid: I am iof not?!!!1!
Doug: I have no idea where that is.
Christine: Not him, the Canadian.
CJ: I smoke two at every 10,000 points.
Jewels: You look cool, pretty.
Marco: Buy a digital camera.
Katey: My pleasure.
Breyonna: Your courteous invitation for me to do marketing work for you has been courteously declined.
Aimee: Will do.
TDawg: You’re psychic.
MsSook: Yes I did.  That’s me.
Predator:  Your chain letter has been filed in the ‘Trash’ folder.
Mona:  Turkey?  Please send me a camel egg.
Mina: Bonsoir!
TryMe: Sure. lol.
Megs: OMFG NICE PRETZEL.  Oh wait, that’s a cigar.  And no, I haven’t read it.
Leia: You like that?  Wait until you see my concentric timidity!
Champh: Oh no, was it exposed?  How embarrassing.
Jadee: It blew a long time ago.

Violetta/Stacy/Diax/Shelix/MrThat/Jessica/SlaveMaster/Jessica/Marlo/Jadybug/240X/GreatNothing/SensualLover/: Thanks.

Title: E‘rrrybody loves Tom.

I’ve been expecting you.  Welcome back.

Now let’s get this started like Moses when the sea was parted.

I’ve gathered you here today to tell you about something that’s very dear to my heart.  While the subject itself is as old as the ozone, the focus today is the future.  I’m here to speak to you about Power.  Not just ordinary power, but uppercase Power, the Power of the mind, the Power of the masses — the Power of MySpace.

This is the Power that you and I can possess, my sexy followers.  (Yes, you.  Wait no, not you — behind you.  Yeahhh, you baby!  Ungh!)

In the last four days I have amassed just under 1,000 MySpace minions.  You, undoubtedly, are one of them, and I applaud you for it.  Know that there is honesty in my fingertips when I send you the heartfelt message:

“thx — :)”

I mean it.  We have done much in what little time we’ve had, but now, brothers and sisters, mothers, children, Stormtroopers, people with animated .gifs of lustful gyrations, and those people with .gifs of Stormtroopers performing lustful gyrations, one thing remains: to conquer MySpace in its entirety.

But we have an enemy among us, you delicious digital denizens.  Yes, an enemy!  Yes, I hear you gasping in horror, but sadly, it is all too true.  And what is sadder yet is that this usurper is well known to you all.  He was your first friend, perhaps your dearest.  He, whose smiling face shown brightly out to you the first time you logged on to MySpace…

Yes — I’m speaking about Tom.

Tom is the automatic friend we all received upon joining MySpace.  He is commonly referred to as “that tech support dude,” or “the creator of MySpace.”  Indeed, his profile says that he is here to “help you.”  It has been said that Tom once saved a baby from a burning bus while battling a bucking bronco.  I’ve overheard rumors that Tom swam the Atlantic Ocean just to save a puppy from being crushed by a taxi in Calcutta.  It has even been said that Tom is solely responsible for the creation of the some of the world’s greatest pleasures; including butterscotch, red roses blooming at midnight, the smell of the Irish hills in a springtime rain, and Norah Jones’ first album. Everybody loves Tom.

But Tom does not love you.

Not like I love you.  How could he?  Have you seen his friends list?  As of 9:41pm (central time) Tom possessed an incredible “30549976 Friends.” How could be possibly know you? Tom is the Liar, he is the Great Destroyer, and I am here to proclaim:

“Tom: your end is nigh.”

Yes, nigh.  Uh, you know, nigh.  Like, it means “close” or something.  Doesn’t it?  Ahh, frick, one sec…

(nigh (n)
adv. nigher, nighest

1. Near in time, place, or relationship: Evening draws nigh.
2. Nearly; almost: talked for nigh onto two hours.

Nigh.  The end is nigh.  But how do we nigh the end of Tom?

We take away his source of Absolute Power — his friends.

Brothers and Sisters, I say to you now: remove Tom from your Friends!  Cast him away like chaff into the wind!  Click the big red X upon the pop-up ad of his existence!  Join me, and together we can a rule MySpace as one united horde of fabulously foxy minx.  (No, not ‘manx’, that’s a cat.  What’s the plural of minx?  Is it just minx, or is it minxes? Screw it.)

By removing Tom and adding myself, you will be part of this Power.  Join me, and together, we can rule the galaxy as Pretzelboy and son.  (Or daughter.  Yeah, whatever, that’s cool too.  Ok whoa, that is not cool!  Put that away right this second young lady!)

“But Eric,” I hear you naysaying, “how can you hope to get more friends than TOM?  He has like friggin’, 5 million of them!”

I hear you Mr. Naysayer, and I tell you this:

“Uh, dude, like, first of all, he has like, 6 times that many, retard.  And second of all, … we can, so shut up.”

We can.  Every one of you that adds me and removes Tom subtracts a point from the Liar and adds it to the Lover.  (That’s me.  But don’t call me that — I don’t know you, it would be awkward in public.)  Tell your friends.  Tell your enemies.  Tell that guy that always comes in and orders the same damn Number 2 with fries and an apple pie (“No, I don’t want 2 for a dollar.”), every single afternoon.  We need them all.

A man once said that power corrupts, and that absolute power corrupts absolutely.  But as we well know, it rocks absolutely too.

The only question that remains is: do you want to rock?

Remove Tom.  Add Me – the Revolution is now!

“Yo, Jeeves!  Twisted Sister, now — spin that shit!”

I wanna rock!  (Rock!)
I wanna rock!  (Rock!)
I want to rock! (Rock!)
Rock, rock rock rock ROCK!

I know a thing or two about internet memes.  I have also stood next to the roaring fires of comment threads and forum boards and watched them burn with inanity, indignity, and even hate.  And I have had the lulz.

However, as far as the audience of this blog goes, I may be one of the few who found this article interesting.

The Trolls Among US – NY Times

I post it anyway, for those to whom Internet Culture is familiar, or perhaps those to whom it is a mystery.

Something has washed ashore in Montauk.

Something horrible.  Something alive.

Oh wait, cancel that.  It’s dead.  Jim just poked it with a stick.  Hey Jim, is it?  Yeah, Jim says it’s dead.

Still horrible though.

In the spirit of the Series of Tubes, I give you, lolmonsters.

Or perhaps loltauks.  Whatever.  Roll ‘em!

AdBusters posted this very interesting article on the latest iteration of “cool”: the Hipster.  Thanks to T. Ruth for passing along the article.

http://www.adbusters.org/magazine/79/hipster.html

It’s pretty damning, but rings true.

I think it’s every generation’s curse to have the next generation look back at old photos and think “Wow, look at that hair.  Seriously?  Leggings?”  This generation is no different.

The question is, Where Do We Go From Here, Now That All Of Our Children Are Growin’ Up?

Personally, I’m just excited for the Next Big Thing so I can jump on the bandwagon immediately and ride it all the way to Detroit Rock City.

A hipster ponders what is and what should never be.