L’Étranger

Messing around when i should be studying for class...

Life, Death, and Milk Duds

You know when your are snacking on a bag Skittles or maybe a box of Milk Duds, you put the wrapper down thinking its empty. A few minutes go by, candy forgotten, then remembered. You are sure there isn’t any skittles left but you check any way and be hold…one or two last pieces of candy are clinging to the inside of the packaging. Your wrestle the last few pieces into your mouth and for some reason they are the best tasting pieces in the whole bag, in fact probably some of the best tasting piece of candy you have ever eaten

I hope that is how my life ends, with the same kind of feeling. Maybe laying on my death bed thinking of the ups and down, the successes and failures and like that bag of candy, you are feeling pretty good about the whole endeavor. Then maybe a few moments before the wrapper is discarded, a few last jewels are discovered. You had been perfectly content with what you have been given- but look hear…one or two delicious morsels you never expected, never even asked for, are there for you to enjoy before it all goes away, and those will be the best tasting morsels of life you have ever had. That would be pretty cool.

Party Crashers: Rock Star Suite @ The Chambers Hotel

Saturday night...
My friend Melinda and I have been bar hopping all night and we end up on the top floor bar of the Chambers Hotel.

Hanging out on the patio, we see on the other side of the hotel a private party on the top floor suite. There are around 20-30 hanging out having drinks on the patio of what seems to be a huge hotel room. We talk about how cool it would be to throw a party like that, we guess how much it cost. Our guess is between $800 and $1200. Through the glass windows of the walkway connecting the two buildings we see people going back and forth, to and from the party.

Some gears begin to click, well oiled by cheap vodka, and an idea comes: “We could walk right in”. “Yeah we could” Melinda agrees, now her well oiled gears turning. We briefly mull over the delicacies of the purposed operation “…like we know what we are doing….”. We get a serge of confidence and agree to go for it. We walk out of the bar, drink in hand and head toward the walkway and on to the room. We get to the end of the hallway I in the lead, and the door is propped open. “Lets do it…strait to the patio” I open the door and walk in, not looking around, like I have already been there the whole night, and Melinda follows me out to the patio. I lean against the rail, cool and calm, she does the same.

We turn to each other, hunching our shoulders and start giggiling like little school girls. “Holy shit, we are in…all right be cool, be cool” We calm down a bit and my partner in crime suggests we start talking to people, gather some info, incase somebody starts asking questions.

She starts chatting with a couple of guys and she introduces me. They completely ignore me and focus all there attention on her. Perfect. After some empty chatter and feeling a bit more comfortable I suggest we grab some drinks. This is the next challenge. Like before we walk back in to the room, like we own the place, and go strait to the booze. I confidently and cool scoop up some ice into my low ball, grabbed one of the 5 bottles of grey goose like I bought it myself and began making a vodka tonic. Melinda mixes her self a drink and I suggest we chill on the couch. We sit down a begin to take stock of the room and the people “Holy shit, this place is nice”

For next few hours we hang out, mixing drinks, dodging polite questions about how we know Nick, and what we though of his comedy. Nick who? At some point a server came up with 4 gourmet pizzas in those platters with the metal tops. I’m pretty sure I ate one all to my self. By the end of the night it was me, Melinda, this professional cage fighter, his girl friend and his buddy. At one point cage fighters girl friend pulled out a Polaroid camera (provided by the hotel I think) and started yelling at the two guys to start taking their cloths off. They obliged her request, cage fighter falling short of complete nudity complaining of some shrinkage, but his buddy not all shy showing us it all. We and Melinda are looking at each other, laughing, giggling and mouthing numerous “Holy Shits” Time to go. We say our good byes, shake some hands, both guys still in their underwear. We walk out at cool as we walked in. The door closes a safe distance is reached, and the giggling commences. “Holy fucking shit…that was awesome”, “Dude, we could do that every week” Melinda suggest. “Why the hell not” I respond. We walked out, well oiled and high on our adventure. A couple of high fives and a hug and we parted ways.

The morning after…

The next morning, curious, I called the hotel, asking to reserve the room we were at last night. “Oh the Rock Star Suite?” The Rock Star Suite? Holy Shit. “Yeah, I guess that’s the one, what’s the price on that?” “Hold on sir while I check on that…for that room the price is $3240” Once again, Holy Shit.

Then, curiosity not sated, I cross reference some bits of info from last night with show listing for last night. Turns out the room belonged to this comedian Nick Swardson who just had show that night at the State Theater. He is originally from St. Paul, but now in Hollywood doing movies with Adam Sandler. Cool, My new favorite comedian. So, yeah. That’s that.

Chambers Hotel: Rock Star Suite

I got drunk with this guy last night.


Details coming later...

Its Thursday, I'm in a cubicle, I'm full of useless knowledge, and I'm trying to quit biting my nails.

Am I alive or am I Dead?

Some verses floating through my head at the moment. Maybe they can float through yours. If nothing else, at least that entry about the dog moves down the page. Yep...

At my job I work in a cubicle and barely speak
to anyone all day. The human wolves don't even see me.
They fear me not.

~ James Tate, The Promotion

You hear a whistling overhead
Are you alive or are you dead?
It's only Thursday
You feel a shaking on the ground
A billion candles burn around
Is it your birthday?

Tomorrow never comes until it's too late

~ DJ Shadow, Six Days

Now I wish I could write you a melody so plain
That could hold you dear lady from going insane
That could ease you and cool you and cease the pain
Of your useless and pointless knowledge

~ Bob Dylan, Tombstone Blues

this isn’t our song
this isn’t even a musical
I think life is too long
to be the whale in a cubicle
nails under your cuticle

~ Andrew Bird, Plasticities

Little Jack

Two brothers taking care of the thirds dog. He is away, in jail, for third DWI, the dog gets out, hit by a car, I hear the scream, a dogs at first then a human child, then a dog again, god the pain, the suffering, I run around from the back, I see the brother coming towards the dog, I see the dog screaming limping away from the cold concrete, its back legs bloody, not moving, it crawls, 15 feet, why is it crawling?, it must hurt so bad, it continues to crawl, it back legs crushed and bleeding, it find the cool grass and lies down, it crawled 15 feet, 15 torturous feet across black street, our streets to get the grass, to lie, and to bleed, to die? Who knows its a damn small dog. The third brother, Dave, Christ such a nice man, not a smart man, but a nice man. His dog is going to die. The brothers, one begins to cry, they both have long grey hair. Working men. Beer and classic rock men. That damn dog crawled 15 feet without back legs to lie in the grass. That beautiful green grass. It could have stayed in the street but it would not. What could have been going through it tortured little mind? Fuck, Dave, Dave is going to be crushed. That dog looked pretty messed up. Even from a 100 yards away I could see the bloody lower half. Fuck, Dave is such a nice guy, and such cool little dog. He loved that dog. His only constant companion, unmarried. The dog still lives, I can hear its moan. Well I heard its moan about a minute ago. Fuck, Dave is gonna be crushed. He is the can, and he is gonna learn his dog has died. I hope the dog lives, I hope the dog wants to live. That little fucker crawled, his lower half crush, crawled 15 feet to lay in the grass and bleed. Crushed by a car, crushed between rubber and cold concrete. Jack. Little jack.

The youngest brother cradles him in poncho in the back of a pick up truck, the other brother flipping through a phone book. “find a place yet?” No crying, jack, no sounds out of jack, eyes seemed to be closed. Unconscious hopefully, not suffering. The truck leaves, I turn on Miles, I open up to Tate’s Promotion, the one about the dog who lives a charmed life, slowly quietly dies and then is reincarnated into a cubicle bound man. I think of rewriting this poem. Jack a charmed life, and violent death (he still lives as far as I know) reincarnated as what? Another miserable man, maybe a man who paves roads, who is hit by car that stops for a second, flips out a cigarette and moves on, on a beautiful spring day.

Of Finals and Convertables

A blog in bullet points and dot dot dots...

- Finals are done, I have a whole 2 weeks until summer classes start. Loving that...
- I think i might have actually passed Spanish. Thats pretty awesome...
- Its lightning out, I love lightning...
- I Mormon missionary approached me today, I asked him what he thought about Mitt Romney, he said he is not allowed to watch television so he doesn't really know, that was kinda funny...
- I drove home with the top down enjoying the beautiful weather, then sitting at my computer, i heard the unmistakable patters of rain outside my window, oh rain i thought, how nice...FUCK!!!, and i ran out to my rain soaked car and put the top back up amidst rain, lightning and hail, i am an idiot...
- So yeah...

Good Weather

The forecast for this weekend looks great. All grey clouds, rain and misery. I only wish it was going to be 20 degree colder. While the rest of you are sitting around stuck to the TV, or reading dumb books instead of playing outside, I will be in front of the computer, my healthy tan fading back to February White, bleached by the glow of computer screen, writing another miserable paper about some miserable dead political theorist. All least my own misery will be ameliorated by the knowledge that no one else is outside playing in the sun, enjoying a beautiful spring day. Misery <3 company

D.F. Wallace

Speaking of DF here is a commencement speach by the man. It's pretty good, i think, i dont know, I didnt read it, well some of it, but he is good so his speech is most likely good. Maybe somebody will read it and tell how good it really is.

Oscar-Meyer

A Quote from Oscar Wilde: (which might imply that I know something about the man or that I am familiar with his work, which I am not, this quote coming off some Google “quote of the day” page, I wouldn’t want anybody to get the wrong idea, like I know what I am talking about or anything. I am currently reading D.F. Wallace so I am really pushing this whole “meta” thing, which is of course referenced in the title of my blog “Meta .44”) Oh yeah, The Quote:

“A great poet, a really great poet, is the most unpoetical of creatures. But inferior poets are absolutely fascinating. The worse their rhymes, the more picturesque they look. The mere fact of having published a book of second-rate sonnets make a man quite irresistible. He lives the poetry he cannot write. The others write the poetry that they dare not realise.”

I was going to make some comments about it but I no longer want to. What do you think?

Seasonal Depression

Seasonal depression does not take place during winter. No, seasonal depression happens when you have to sit in a biege cubicle when the sun is shinning, and a cool spring breeze is blowing.

A poem...

The Promotion
By James Tate

I was a dog in my former life, a very good
dog, and, thus, I was promoted to a human being.
I liked being a dog. I worked for a poor farmer,
guarding and herding his sheep. Wolves and coyotes
tried to get past me almost every night, and not
once did I loose a sheep. The farmer rewarded me
with good food, food from his table. He may have
been poor, but he ate well. And his children
played with me, when they weren't in school or
working in the field. I had all the love any dog
could hope for. When I got old, they got a new
dog, and I trained him in the tricks of the trade.
He quickly learned, and the farmer bought me into
the house to live with the family. I brought the farmer
his slippers in the morning, as he was getting
old, too. I was dying slowly, a little bit at a
time. The farmer knew this and would bring the
new dog in to visit me from time to time. The
new dog would entertain me with his flips and
flops and nuzzles. And then one morning I just
didn't get up. They gave me a fine burial down
by the stream under a shade tree. That was the
end of my being a dog. Sometimes I miss it so
I sit by my window and cry. I live in a high-rise
that looks out at a bunch of other high-rises.
At my job I work in a cubicle and barely speak
to anyone all day. The human wolves don't even see me.
They fear me not.

Moyers and Stewart.

Here is an interview by Bill Moyers with Jon Stewart of The Daily Show.

Moyers is pretty awesome. I guess he was this bad-ass reporter from back during the Vietnam war. They brought him back from the dead because our generation of journalist are too busy giving road head to Bush while he drives us off the cliff.

I guess with all the swearing and sexual references this isn't a blog for the kids.

Moyers interviews Stewart

First Post

This is going to start as a place to keep track of my thoughts, of news stories i think people should be reading and maybe some photos and other art (my own and others) that i like. Maybe it will evolve into something interesting, something worth reading, but most likely not. I have been flirting with the idea of blog for awhile and have made a few abortive attempts (if you cant count myspace as an actual blog). I guess i finally decided to commit to a blog because myspace and facebook and Microsoft word was unable to really fit my needs of tracking the news of world and my thoughts about it.

I am really trying to avoid apologizing for my blog. I feel like i dont have the talent or the creativity to produce something interesting so i shouldn't even bother, or have the audacity to think somebody will actually read this, but I came to a conclusion: Fuck it. If i actually want to produce something interesting, and add a worthwhile voice to the public discourse, i wont do it worrying about how I stack up to others, or worrying about criticism of my ideas, or spelling and grammar mistakes. Who gives a shit.

I think thats an apology for my blog. Damnit...

Oh, a shoutout and thank you to my friend Jessica at UofM Feminist for encouraging me to start a blog and otherwise making a concerted effort at emasculating me for not doing so sooner.