SB: Which do you need first?
Management: Both.
SB: Well, Copernicus, you might want to rethink the physics on that one.

But, I met Ted Raimi and Bruce Campbell yesterday, so I figured I’d blog a little. Czeltic Girl clued me in that Bruce Campbell was going to introduce his new movie at the Oriental, so with a little prodding from MHG, I went to see.

Check out CG’s photos on the subject! And a blurry one with comments that repeat this blog entry!

We declined having our photo taken at the Bruce Campbell signing, a decision we will forever regret. Or for a while, anyway.

Bruce jibed at MHG and me, “Oh, 2-for-1 deal, eh? You couples get away with murder.” MHG replied, “Yeah, but we still have to buy 2 movie tickets.” “You got me there,” Bruce smiled. MHG got saucy with BRUCE CAMPBELL!

Bruce is a lefty. We had to have our books set out a certain way so he didn’t get all kinds of paper cuts from the dust jackets. We were #288, but we got signed around 190.

The movie was delightful B-fare, prompting a one-liner review from MHG that was a perfect summary: “It’s been a while since someone made a movie like that…on purpose.” Saucy!

Lunch with Czeltic Girl is always worth fudging on my diet. Today we patronized the round-the-corner called The Wicked Hop. We did this because their food is quite good, but also because it was raining hard enough to turn the fog around our building an eerie, mood-building turquoise.

As we waited for our overly large meals to arrive, conversation turned to the nationally televised…competition…of climbing a pole, apparently. Yep, Speed Climbing. There’s a four-time champion, you know. As happens on these occasions, snarking ensued.

CG: I’m guessing that this ‘sport’ began with the phrase “Guys, check out what I can do.”
SB: And not, “Look what I’ve learned over the past fortnight.”
CG: No. No “fortnight.” And no “Watch what I learned while finishing my Master’s.”

Later we realized that it was ESPN2 reporting from the Lumberjack games; this did not decrease the snarking, as you may imagine.

Next event: Men’s Endurance. “Please let that not be what I think it is,” prayed the Czelt, and I wholly agreed. Fortunately, it was not. Instead, large men stood atop short, thick logs SWINGING AN AXE BETWEEN THEIR LEGS INTO THE STUMP.

SB: I think that’s exactly the way they told us NOT to do it in Boy Scouts.
CG: I see they’re televising MENSA meetings now.

Apparently, the Lumberjack Games idea of Men’s Endurance is three different kinds of wood chopping, which CG and I agreed is decidedly not a sport and therefore should not be covered by ESPN.

CG: They should change this event. These guys should just have to take on a real lumberjack in a fight.
SB: Or maybe the zombie of Oliver Reed*. You thought he was tough when he was alive.

* Initially, I phrased this as Oliver Reed’s zombie, which implies that the competitors would take on a zombie owned by Oliver Reed. I’m not denying the possibility that Oliver Reed was some sort of necromancer and had zombies, only that’s not what I meant.

On Sunday, MHG and I treated her younger brother to a birthday. Poor guy was Born on the Fourth of July and has to deal with Tom Cruise and Oliver Stone coming to visit him every year with diatribes on the way Vietnam War veterans were treated upon their return. Then, Cruise eventually resorts to blaming the vets for their own crippling trauma and how taking a Flintstones vitamin would save them from all their pain. Stone responds by drinking a quart of alcohol distilled from Hummer fuel, battering Cruise with a Guns and Ammo Independence Day Special catalog, then guiltily adopting four more Vietnamese orphans and signing them up for the level 3 Scientology Anal Exam.

So, it’s not all bad.

But since his family has been into Revolutionary War reenactment for almost two decades, B hasn’t had a proper birthday since age ten. This year, we decided to get some people together for him and take him out to a Brewers game, as he enjoys watching the American baseball. Most of the people that could attend were friends of B’s that we had only met a few times, but they were cats cool as cats so it wasn’t long before we were all acting friendly. And it took even less time for most of us to get friendly with the booze. which didn’t hurt.

By the seventh inning stretch, C. and P were definitely becoming “that guy” as they boorishly shouted the lyrics to America the Beautiful. We all snickered through their interpretation and reassured them when they apologized for their behavior, thus encouraging more. Throughout the entire game, however, the most entertaining part was when the opposing team finished a double play at first prompting P to admonish them with a heartfelt, “Aw, don’t do THAT.”

P continued to bring the entertainment as he enticed one and all into games of charades and an impromptu dance competition simply entitled “Let’s do it!” The birthday celebrations continued on into the night, landing finally at a bowling alley. We all shuddered a bit as we entered the venue to Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler.” What had we gotten ourselves into? It turned out that they played no New Country, so we were safe, but for a moment we all considered a rapid egress.

P had to borrow some socks from B to bowl, since he was wearing only sandals. They went out to the car, and returned with what became the crowning story of the entire day. As they re-entered the bowling alley, two men in a pickup truck laughed from their open windows at P, who had his pants rolled up to about mid-calf, much like Huck Finn might have.

“Nice capris!” the redneck voices snickered, attempting to provoke their assumed fag into crying or something. “Nice…guy,” P retorted, in what I think is the most classy and witty verbal riposte since Black Adder went off the air. You see, most of us would have either shrugged or bit back (B thought of “Nice life,” for example), but P was able to return the jibe, instill no malice and shine light on the lameness of the original insult all in one flashing motion. Bravo, P – honestly.

And many happy returns to B, who proclaimed it to be his best birthday celebration ever, with due respect paid to the fact that the others have not been very good at all.

I woke up this morning whistling the song played during the opening traffic jam sequence of Office Space. Not the gangsta rap song that Michael Bolton hid from the flower seller, but the brass and percussion ditty that plays around it all. I took it as a bad sign. Then, I got wind of this little animated motivator, and I knew it was going to be, in the most cliché way possible, one of those days.

Check it! I made this comic. I know my blog entries are just links lately, but I have other things taking up my creative JUICE, as Rik Mayall might say.

stripcreator : make a comic, link stolen from Headless Hollow.

If a normal, red-blooded American male had a dream about superstar Hollywood sex symbol Angelina Jolie, what would you expect the outcome to be? I’m sure your imagination is far more lascivious than my dream last night.

No, I toiled over some image retouching with the exotic movie star. As many men have, I have entertained the odd dream or two about the former Mrs. Thornton. As a committed man, these things are limited to my id’s dirty little sub-mind, Ms. Jolie’s attraction to knives during foreplay notwithstanding. It’s harmless subconscious fantasy, but instead of portraying a horny stewardess or something, she is instead performing banal duties in a menial work environment.

Me: Angelina Jolie, would you make out with me?

Angelina Jolie: In your dreams, pal.

Me: No! In my dreams, you’re a photo intern at a crummy small town newspaper. What say we balance the equation, baby?

Into Madison we drive, MHG and me, the smell of humidity heavy around us like a sweater tied around our shoulders. A wet sweater, as though someone had perspired in it all day and slapped it, sopping, onto us without bothering to wring it out first. I begin to regret my earlier choice of jeans instead of shorts and kick my shoes onto the floor of the car, pushing them aside with my socked feet so they won’t get under the accelerator.

Around us is the milling life of a college town rife with over-emphasized individuals. Here a bobbing set of dreadlocks, there a flowy, flowery summer dress, and there a parrot plumage of biking spandex. Brick walls and neon, car horns and ecstatic laughter, and the queer silence underneath; a city’s stillness.

We skirt the capitol building at right angles. Mostly, I am ignored, but my companion is the unwitting and unaffected recipient of several gapes. Her hair is a sweep of rich browns and reds interrupted by chrome goggles pressed up above her forehead. Around her middle is a frayed heavy-duty red strap of a belt assisting her olive drab fatigues in resting on her shapely hips. Above that, her body is hidden by a red-trimmed shirt, the sleeves cut away for the upper portions of her arms, covered further by a V-shaped bulletproof vest over her torso. Red jewels on her eyelids barely glance back at the lingering stares and her gait becomes a steady thump as heavy rubber soles percuss at my side.

I, in my jeans and T-shirt, get to remain anonymous, while she plays celestial wonder. Until we see a familiar face. A matronly figure, family and distinguished. She suppresses an involuntary sneer and makes small talk with us. Who is the more uncomfortable? We have to explain in universal terms, like a marketer renaming a complex dietary molecule into a simple, accessible terms. A rock concert, yes. Our friend is playing. We’re also doing a bit of promotion for her store. Have a good night. Thanks.

Around the corner, we finally spy our destination. The door is recessed into the wall, but the flesh and vinyl outside is our magnetic pole. As we get our hands marked in ballpoint pen, the doorman is polite, but it’s clear one of these guests is not like the other. Not surprisingly, I am the only one in the building neglectful of black attire. My hair is not dyed nor even styled, I have no tattoos, no piercings, no scars, not even a recognizable sense of exposed self. Who am I? plead the gazes of those around me who bother to look. And I haven’t the energy to make a daring reply. I do not look back in defiance, but I am not unaffected. Merely too old, too tired to transform into something more than an overlooked oddity in a room full of in-your-faces.

Disjointed, arhythmic noise accompanies the first duo onto the stage, and we rustle through the crowd avoiding stilettos of gelled hair. As we find a seat, two college-aged men, who look far younger, press amperage into sound walls and smash bits and bytes into notes. The vocals come out a smear of strained screaming and auditory pixel bursts. In between sets, the singer is cordial and chit-chats with the nearbys until the next salvo of beats is locked and loaded. Plagued by sound trouble, the fledgling musicians never quite find their stride, though the product of their experiments is art deco for the ears.

MHG and I listen in theatre seats, comfortably set aside, nodding with the pulse of the room. We drink Diet Coke. Alcohol would loosen me up, but I want to be tense lest I slip into my fool’s act and garner approval that I cannot maintain. Without them, within me, I’m at peace. The mood is The Destructors and I’m pleased to observe. She leans in my ear and leaves insights about the bands, but I am a quiet contented smile.

Four more people move onto the stage; black wires surround them that stretch everywhere with the humming birth of electricity. Everything is shadow and neon, epileptic swirls of sound and shimmer. We know the bass player, B. Our ears take sharp focus. Later, we share the same disappointment in the vocals’ volume, the same incredulity at the drummer who sounds like a machine. We are duly impressed, happy in the dark, and B. is gracious in accepting our praise.

I get a look from mohawked muscle when I ask him to toss my bottle in the trash. The crowd is too thick to not push through and he’s conveniently located. Later, I’m told that he’s the front man for the headlining group. And while I normally would simply buy a beer to make up for any slights, I find this crowd querulous when I offer.

Each pause between groups is marked by an exodus to the front of the building, some for smokes, but all to escape the heat of the venue. And each time, I am only comfortable as a hedge attendant, permitted to stand on the curb nearby and blend with the gawking, sheltered pedestrians whose expressions can only be summarized as “fear and wonder.” Each time on the curb should be another stripe on my sleeve. But instead I feel only that they are waiting for me to leave so they can start the real party.

B. comes out with us this time. As is polite and customary, he introduces us to people who show obvious disinterest. B. is always charming, cerebral without condescension, adventurous and self-aware. He wants us to feel welcome, and I almost do. As I think upcoming words, I want to punch myself unconscious and drag myself through the gutter, but this has “never been my scene.” And no matter how accepting a subculture one stumbles upon, there are always rites and canon that must be observed. I would have been open to them … ago, and I feel old. Being old is knowing who you are, whether you like it or not.

And even after the third band lifts their own veil of conceit, thrashing about with Nintendo-fueled glee, I am checking the clock and watching the door. I want to get the Gothsicles to sit down with me over a beer. I want to be a Rolling Stone journalist and have their attention. But I am less than forgettable, and while I’m too far into my life to be hurt by it, I am disconcerted. I could be cool, and I don’t want to bother.

A malingering awareness of mortality makes the ride home miserable. I’m tired at 2. B. would have been happy for us to stay out and MHG could easily have had some fun. But me, I’m clearly spent, barely able to complete a sentence and slapping myself awake. In bed, at four, I wonder whether I could insinuate myself into that lifestyle. Do I want to become a goth? Probably not. But younger days as a social chameleon have seen their sunsets. And without my knowledge or consent I have resigned myself to life where parties are slowly becoming gatherings, where binges turn into stories rather than habits and where fresh atmospheres can be stifling rather than exhilirating.

And all I got was a crummy black T-shirt.

p.s. I really did enjoy the show. The bands were prop-ah!

INTERIOR OFFICE

Cast of Characters
Co-worker – a new HR intern taken on for the summer.
Me – a workhorse known for being sometimes a bear, but recently has been overly kind to everyone to compensate.

SCENE 1

Co-worker (jokingly, from behind me): What’s your deal, dude?

Me (turning): Hm?

Co-worker: *offers a cookie from a tray*

Me (having already had one earlier): Oh, no thank you. I’ve already had one.

Co-worker (sounds offended): You hate everyone, don’t you?

Has anyone developed a memory creation tool like the one in Total Recall yet? One that would allow me to remember having seen all the Firefly episodes? I do have a short attention span, but normally I could get through a series quickly enough. I want to have seen it, but I have no time to watch it.