Journal of a Working Boy

The idea of performance-based salaries has to be one of the sickest corporate incentives ever invented. The fact that an employee is rewarded by selling more to consumers than they actually need must certainly weigh on the salesperson's conscience. Similarly, middle management's yearly bonuses are often based on ever-increasing profit margins, causing it to rule with an absolute belief in success-based compensation. Like the most heinous organized crime family in New Jersey, these corporate structures will not tolerate losing money or inefficient employees.

Recently I found myself thrust into this structure in the form of the most-oppressed character: The frustrated, wronged consumer. I was having trouble installing a tape deck in my "new" 1988 Volkswagen Fox. Apparently there is no wiring harness available for this somewhat rare German vehicle, so I took it to "The Stereo Store!" to have the stereo installed. Long story short: The sales-kid, Cameron, talked me into buying a new CD player which would cost only $105, fully installed. That CD player ended up costing $128 and didn't play burned CDs, so I opted for the $148 CD player that actually did play CDs. Whatever, it was time to upgrade from the tape deck.

When I got home and attempted to hook up my amplifier and subwoofers, there were no RCA jacks in the back of the stereo, which Cameron should have known I needed. (Note: I like listening to rap music with a reasonable amount of base, which is more than most standard stereo systems provide, '88 Fox included – I'm not a teenage gangster or nuthin.') Cameron felt bad and offered to come over to my house and fix the problem, but we decided to deal with it the next day.

When Cameron's manager insisted that I had to pay for the upgrade, I headed down there to put on my best "Unhappy Consumer" performance. I walked into the Stereo Store and asked to see the manager.

Brad was an average-sized white man with a blonde 1990's soccer player haircut - the short sides of his hairdo fade into a floppy side-spike specked with bleach spots. Cameron had already discussed the issue with Brad, who seemed eager to rectify the situation.
"Normally we charge $20 for the upgrade," he began.

Good, I thought, at least he's going to do this for free and I'll get out of here.

He continued: "I'm willing to split it with you. So if you come up with $10, we'll switch 'em up for you."

Woah woah woah. Did he seriously just try to get me to pay him $10? Ten fucking dollars?!?

"I don't see why I should have to pay for anything. This is the second straight day I've been down here because of your mistake…"

Cameron interrupted with "What if I pay the $10? I'll pay it right out of my pocket." His eyes pleaded for the confrontation to end.

"I'd feel bad for you," I said. "That's not really what this is about." (My eyes were just getting into it.)

Brad basically flipped out, turning against his young stereo-installing apprentice. "I oughta fire your ass right now," he sneered. "This has happened too many fucking times... You know what? Take a hike."

Cameron stormed out of the room and into the installation bay. Brad turned toward me, apparently expecting a newfound bond of hatred for Cameron.

"I can't believe you just did that," I said, seriously appalled and surprised at what an asshole Brad was. "That's really unprofessional of you. How do you think that makes me feel? I didn't come down here to get him fired."

Brad interrupted: "No, he's had lots of problems," he assured me. "It's not about you."

"Well that's really unprofessional of you to have cursed at him right in front of me," I said. Brad's aggressive demeanor waned a little. "He did everything he could to help me. He called me back yesterday and offered to come to my house and fix the problem off the clock so you wouldn't be bothered with it," I said.

"Well he's the one who sold you the wrong thing," Brad argued.

"Look, this is your store," I said, feeling a lecture appropriate. "You're the manager. I think you should take more responsibility instead of firing a kid for making a mistake. I don't see you doing anything to help this situation except trying to get me to pay $10 for something that's your problem. Maybe you should have trained him better."

I again tried getting Brad to refund my entire $148 charge but he insisted that he couldn't take the $50 installation fee back from the installers. I deduced that the installers on the other side of the wall must have been some sort of subcontractors.

"No," Brad said. "Everybody in this store works on commission."

"I see. That's why you try to sell someone a new CD player when they come in to get a tape player installed."

"Yea," he said.

Brad's confrontational attitude had completely vanished and he offered to exchange the stereo for free. He had lost the energy to even act like he wasn't a prick.

The union worker in the installation bay replaced my CD player in about ten minutes and hooked up two cables that I would later need to install the amplifier and subwoofers myself (this amounts to a small favor). Brad returned with my key and was back in managerial mode – phony, declarative sentences explaining what he's doing for me. As he printed an updated receipt I mentioned that I was not at all angry with Cameron and that I hoped he wasn't really fired.

"He's been here five months," Brad said. "There's a learning curve."

"Apparently," I responded, not at all convinced that Cameron still had a job at "The Stereo Store!"

Brad handed me the receipt. "Alright, Brad," I said. "You've been tremendous."

"Have a good day," he robotically responded.

I walked out to my car and sat down in the mess of stereo boxes, electrical tape and random wires and found a totally sweet surprise – a brand-new remote control sitting on the dashboard. This CD player had a fucking remote control! After the initial excitement of being able to change tracks from the back seat of a tiny four-door, I came to a sad realization: If Cameron would have just told me that for an additional $20 I could have gotten a CD player with a remote control, this entire mess could have been avoided.

Cameron wasn't a very good sales-kid, and Brad wasn't a very good manager. But considering the circumstances, I can't really blame either of them for putting their retail God's needs before mine. I didn't even get the subs to work when I got home and now I'm just going to sell them. Maybe, sometimes, we know so little about what we do want that these people deserve a slice for figuring it out for us. Whatever the case, working for a performance-based salary seems like a difficult and lonely way to make a living.

Hopefully Cameron's new job is a salaried position.

(written Thursday, July 6, 2006)

My brother Kyle has never caught a fish. He doesn't count the ones he probably caught as a child, fishing with our dad in a small green three-person boat in southwestern Kentucky. He jokes about how he'll cry if a fish ever bites his hook then escapes during the struggle, as was the case a couple years ago during an excursion in Tennessee. If he catches a fish tonight, at Laurel Lake, also in southern Kentucky, he says, "I'd be so happy, I'd bite that fucker's eye out."

"Captain Kyle," as he's known on the boat, casts his line toward the middle of the lake with a worm on his hook that his friend mounted for him. He doesn't like sticking the hook through the worm, he says, and he sips a can of beer while slowly reeling in the line. His girlfriend, Beth, leans against him and the two enjoy the fruits of another two-week, out-of-town stint working for our dad's construction company. This job has yielded a big enough paycheck for Kyle to pay his mortgage, property tax, cable TV, electric and boat payment this month, with enough extra for a weekend break from the work and worries.

Earning big bucks at a young age, which Kyle did out of college, allows for a spending pattern that relies on the income staying high. Although he's already paid off his truck, credit cards and a ridiculously extensive tool set by working 50 and 60 hour weeks for dad, he still must come up with the dough that property ownership, living alone, and general adulthood requires. It is this financial responsibility that anchors many Americans s too close to the shore, when what we really want is to close our eyes and set the sail.

Captain Kyle likes to explain his actions and physical state in a trademark holler normally emulated by his passengers. "Caaap-tain's druu-unk!" or "I'm pee-in!" are common declarations. During the July 3 afternoon cruise across Laurel Lake, Kyle randomly turns around from the steering wheel, looks me in the eye, throws his arms in the air and exclaims "FREEDOM!" He's half-joking, as the Fourth of July celebrating has already begun on the lake crowded with boats, jet skis and a healthy allotment of American flags. But in his smiling mockery of this great country's grand celebration is a sincere appreciation for his weekend of personal freedom, and the enjoyment for which he works so hard.

Prepared for professional life with a degree in Automotive Technology from Sinclair Community College in Dayton, Ohio, Kyle has earned certifications in just about everything a human can do to a car. He worked for a couple dealerships after graduation, busting his ass and coming home frustrated and tired. Once he began working for dad, he took the next step toward adulthood and bought himself a home. But with the security and comfort of property ownership comes an instantaneous and almost irrevocable immobility, which Kyle deals with by escaping to the lake whenever possible. It's not that he is unappreciative of his relationships and possessions back home, but the outdoors (along with the company, beer and relaxation) is the life.

Kyle won't catch a fish tonight, and he probably knows it, and he probably doesn't care. He loses his bait, passes the fishing rod back to a friend who slides another squirming worm onto the hook and he grabs another can of beer. He won't really be disappointed when he fails to catch the fish.

One day Kyle will catch a fish, probably with a worm that a friend hooked for him, and he'll be playfully ecstatic. He probably won't bite its eye out, but he swears that he'll eat it no matter how small it may be. But I don't get the impression, sitting on the back of his boat next to three other friends, that he is too worried about how long it will take.

(Written Saturday, October 14, 2006)

I'm sitting in Arty's northeast Portland studio and I have a fucking headache. My eyes are glassy, my nose stuffy and I didn't even drink last night. My current physical state could possibly be a remnant of the gin shower I took Thursday night, but more likely it is the result of months of general disrespect to my health. I can honestly estimate that since June I've drank alcohol approximately five nights per week – usually two nights of heavy drinking (7-10 drinks) and three of either social or recreational (1-3).

It would seem as though my problem (this one at least) is quite easily solvable. I could stop drinking so much. I've been mulling over this thought since July, though, and things have not changed a bit. (I'm probably drinking more these days because I have no responsibilities in Eugene besides writing two stories that I already know.) If I'm not going out with my friend Tim to get wasted while we talk about our fledgling industry, I'm drinking beers at his house while watching baseball and listening to Rocky quotes on the internet (this is actually quite fun).

Now, before you go all, "Danny, stop being a lowlife and clean it up," I must digress. You see, things are kind of up in the air these days. The journalism world is not the easiest place to find work. Generally, reporters must start at a small daily or work part-time at urban newspapers for a couple years before seeming credible enough to earn any sort of responsibility at a metro. This is after earning a college degree and working for free at internships where your writing sits next to salaried reporters' stories and the advertisements that pay the bills. In my case, most of this is taking place while I attend college for the second time.

If I sound bitter, it's because I am. Not at anyone or any institution in particular, but at the amount of work, time, and borrowed money that it has taken for me to get to this point – which is essentially my foot in the door. I'm also quite thankful, on the other hand, for the amount of time and education I have received. If it weren't for this journey, or whatever, I wouldn't be quite the same person I am today. Having said that, I still have a debt that rivals many Cincinnati-area mortgages.

I talked to my friend Jaleen for a while yesterday, and she couldn't imagine how dissimilar our relative professional worths could be. We both have a skill and there are companies that will pay for our services. The difference is that almost every company or individual entity that makes money needs a designer in some capacity. With a bachelor's degree at 23-years-old, digital designers (and engineers, architects, and other technologically savvy professionals) can choose what sparkling city to accept the $35,000 to $40,000 starting rate which will increase accordingly with experience. But, like I said, journalists start at $25,000 in Strasburg, Virginia, hoping that after two years they can make $30,000 in Greensboro, North Carolina. And on and on.

But here's the real problem: I am an average writer. I know a lot about sports, which is important for a sports reporter, and I try pretty hard. I get really excited when I leave events or interviews so I'm sure that I'll enjoy my future job, and of this I'm very appreciative. But I'm not in line to be the next Mitch Albom or Jim Rome. I'm more like Drew Carey – funny to a small, childish demographic and generally irrelevant to everyone else. And this has nothing to do with journalism.

What I'm saying is this: If I don't get a job that I really like in a place that sucks or a decent job in a place where my friends are, I'll soon be a fat, watery-eyed recluse living with my parents in Indiana. Then how much will I be drinking?

Here's to pre-graduation anxiety. Cheers.

(Written Friday, September 22, 2006)

I think I know what it feels like to receive a bouquet of flowers.

I showered at Josh's Portland house the other day, and I left the bathroom to find my clothes split among three suitcases neatly arranged in the corner of his family room. I put on a shirt from one of the larger bags and reached into the small, wheeled travel bag for a pair of socks. Inside the cluttered mess of underwear, socks and dirty clothes, I gripped a heavy sock-covered cylindrically-shaped object. My right hand wrapped around the thin cylinder with distinct familiarity.

Covered on each end by a scrunched up black athletic sock was "Colonel Milton Buttersworth, III," the BMX House dildo. I unwrapped its firm, yet pliable beige body and raised it closer to my face, examining the realistic ridges and fake veins. I had just handled "The Colonel" a few days earlier, when Rebecca, Dominique and I had schemed about planting it in Joey Schwab's Chrystler Concord glove box before he drove back to Dayton.

It made me happy to be in the receiving end of such a prank. It was rather charming knowing that my Cincinnati housemates (probably lead by Rebecca) had taken the time to wrap the eight inch rubber penis in my socks and bury it in my luggage with hopes of embarrassing me in front of the Federal Transit Authority and a sizable crowd at the Indianapolis International Airport. I thought about how eager the culprits must be to hear about who else was around when I surprisingly uncovered the incredibly lifelike (if exaggerated) instrument.

Now, I once asked a feminist-y girl if she was into receiving flowers. Sure, she said, they show that someone is thinking about you. Receiving the dildo helped me understand the meaning of such a gesture (although the monetary investment in flowers and random holiday-ization of the act in some ways cheapen it). There's something to be said for the beauty of nature and its prettier objects (flowers, not penises), but, more importantly, the meaningful gift is the gesture itself.

I gave the dildo a squeeze and wiggled it back and forth. The game of planting a large phallic object in each other's bedrooms, luggage, groceries and automobiles became funnier and sweeter than I thought that first night living in the BMX House, when I found "The Colonel" underneath my pillow. I understood how nice it must have been when Josh Suhre surprisingly uncovered the dildo in his travel bag while in England.

I imagined a small female hand wrapped around ten lilac stems, eagerly raising the bouquet to her nose. The slow inhale and relaxed appreciation I perceived satisfied me as I compared it to the attention I felt through this small, smart-assed act.

All I have to do now is figure out how to get this giant fake dick into something that Kevin's mom will find…

(Written Tuesday, August 22, 2006)

I can specifically remember only a couple of the many times that I've heard "The Safety Dance" during my life. The song mostly reminds me of being drunk with my friends in gay bars while looking for single, gay-friendly girls who might like us. I'm certain that I've caught the video on VH-1 fairly recently and probably even as a kid. Tonight I listened to the song at a table full of fellow swimming pool builders as we ate dinner after a long day of work.

Alex had dragged Andy and me to Saint Louis in some sort of fucked up, king of the pool-building castle horseshit, and there Andy and I sat - tired from six hours of driving and four hours of working and desperate for some time away from pool talk. We sat with Doug, a late-20's co-owner who inherited his position from his father and Craig, a mid-20's tanned worker guy who wore a sleeveless Corona t-shirt and drank a plastic cup of budweiser.

While we waited, Doug randomly mentioned that Joseph Lieberman recently stated that the U.S. should completely pull out of Iraq. If that happened, Doug said, "they" would think that we gave up and just attack us over here.

"I'd rather fight them over there than fight them over here," he said. Andy, Alex and I ignored the statement. (Andy later declared the statement to be the stupidest fucking thing he's ever heard.)

During dinner, one of the newly annointed Saint Louisans said that Andy and I looked like we went to UC. Fair enough, I thought, as Andy explained that we had both graduated from that fine institution. Our order of 100 chicked wings (garlic parmesean, cajun, teriyake and hickory barbecue) was served, and the five of us turned our table into a chicken bone burial ground. As the consumation of beers and fried food slowed, Imentioned how many baby chickens we had consumed.

"Does anyone want the last cajun?" I asked, reaching for the last wing in the basket - an undersized leg. "This poor little guy didn't last as long as the others... One hundred baby chickens we just ate." (My math skills took a temporary hiatus from respectability.)

We eventually figured out that it took 50 baby chickens to produce 100 chicken wings (although counting two wings and two legs per bird, I guess the number should be 25). We relaxed and took a few moments to finish our drinks. During the down time, Craig mentioned that our talk of baby chickens was making him feel bad about it. His conscientiousness was sweet and made the Middle East-fearing man to his left seem all the more disconnected.

We laughed and reassured Craig that it was OK to eat the baby birds and that we were just joking about the guilt (Andy and I had definitely eaten our fair share). We thanked Doug for paying for dinner and headed back to the apartment crammed in the back of a four-door pickup truck.

I went straight for the refrigerator and snagged bottles of beer for Andy and myself. We wandered around the drably decorated suburban apartment, fidgiting with things and looking for ways to make each other laugh. Andy picked up a small wooden bat decorated in Hispanic colors and style. He patted it against his open hand.

"What's this?" he said to me, a sly grin slowly appearing on his face.

"That's Craig's nigger beater," Doug said from the back of the room. Silence swept through the space like a blast of hot air on a scorching hot day.

Andy and I looked at each other with an immediate sense of offense and mutual understanding, but we said nothing and the moment wasn't disturbed by our uncomfortable-ness. Andy put the bat down, I walked out of the room and pool-building discussion continued as if nothing had ever happened.

Andy and I checked the score of the Reds' game on the Internet and found that the team had won 4-3 even though it was losing 3-0 when we left. We were excited about the win despite having two days left of our paid indenture in the dreary Saint Louis suburbanland that could only remind us of the saddest aspects of Cincinnati life.

Andy went to bed wishing he had brought his book with him inside the apartment. I went back to the family room hoping to catch an episode of The Simpsons or an equally mocking form of entertainment.

Then I thought about how much fun my memories are of "The Safety Dance." Even though I was drunk off my ass and absolutely embarrassing at 21 in the gay club (Andy was there too - a raucus 18-year-old at the time), at least I wasn't hanging out in the suburbs, morphing into an ignorant, defensive, manipulated weirdo. And even though I was tired from working manual labor two years after earning a college degree, I sat in the Saint Louis apartment with my somewhat unrelatable pool-building colleagues and enjoyed the ridiculousness of a racist eating chicken wings to such an gay-friendly tune.

(Written Saturday, August 19, 2006)
*Editor's note: While the events in the story are true and accurate, the quotes are completely fabricated in an attempt to make myself laugh.

The Cincinnati Cows brought the season's first win home Thursday night, holding off a Bombers seventh inning rally for a 14-13 win. With the win, the Cows (1-5) moved into a three-way tie for last place in Men's League 1 with All Mixed Up and All Around Flooring.

Trailing by four runs in the top of the seventh, the Bombers scored twice before left fielder Danny Cross made a sliding catch, similar Andy Stelter's patented "Sliding Blowjob," which secured the second out. When Cross arose to congratulations from shortstop Luke Lewis, the two noticed that Cross's right pinky finger was bent in a most unhealthy manner. The top third of the finger was bent outward at a 45-degree angle and the knuckle wouldn't bend.

"That shit looked all fucked up," Lewis said. "I was like 'Man, you're finger is fucked up, dude.'"

As they contemplated the ridiculousness of hospitalization for what appeared to be a broken pinky finger, Mark Tedesco tossed a sneaky meatball to the Bomber batter who smashed it over the heads of the finger-studying couple.

Lewis walked Cross toward the dugout where the Heifers gathered belongings for a trip to Deaconess Hospital. Then the umpire, after looking at the finger and shuddering, suggested that Cross pull the joint out and try to pop it back into its natural position. Cross suggested that the umpire do it for him. The ump took a step forward, rethought the situation, then backed off, again shuddering. Cross pulled on the small joint and it popped easily back into place, and then he ran back out to left field.

"The finger didn't hurt, but look at my knees," Cross whimpered after the game, drawing attention to the ripped pants that his roommate had promised to patch four weeks earlier. "My knees are bleeding and there are holes in my designer jeans!"

When reached for comment, Cross's roommate, Rebecca Sylvester, called Cross a girl said he can take his sexism and shove it up his ass.

Once play resumed, the Bombers scored again, drawing within one run at 14-13, but a fly out to right fielder Valerie Cross sealed the deal.

The Cows rallied to take the four-run lead during the sixth inning when, trailing by two, Mark Mastropaolo hit a sharp ground ball to third that turned into a two-error, inside-the-infield home run. The offense kept the pressure on and two out RBI singles by Stelter, Kyle Cross and Isaac Thorn gave the Cows the lead.

During pregame festivities at The Lucky Lady Tavern, Old Man Cross declared that if the Cows won he would buy the first round of celebratory cocktails afterward. The team's victorious return to the bar after the game delighted the bartender, Rose, who dolled out cans of beer and praised the Cows, comparing them to the 1927 New York Yankees for their professionalism, wit and charm.

Next Thursday the Cows will take on WPFB/Saddles Softball which is tied for first with a 5-1 record. The contest will begin at 9:10 and a pregame team meeting is scheduled for 7 p.m. at The Lucky Lady.

(Written Friday, July 14, 2006)
*Editor's note: While the events in the story are true and accurate, the quotes are completely fabricated in an attempt to make myself laugh.

The Cincinnati Cows were victimized by an influx of liberalism Tuesday night during a 12-0 loss at Kolping Park, which included the application of the flip-flop rule. Playing competitively for the first time in more than a year, the Cows were matched up against a team called "All Mixed Up." In reality, it was the umpire's political ideology that was confused.

When the fourth inning ended with the Cows trailing by more than 10, the unpire enacted a new-age mercy rule which allowed the Cows to bat twice in a row, giving them an added opportunity to get back in the game. The Cows did not appreciate the gesture.

"We don't need umpires letting their emotions get involved with the competition," said Cows spokesman Luke Lewis. "If that guy is into welfare and unions and all that, then he should move to Canada."

The Cows failed to score during either of the back-to-back, three-out at-bats during the fifth inning and left the dugout feeling like John Kerry had defeated George W. Bush in the 2004 election.

"It's kind of like someone taking away your handgun or forcing you to talk to your gay neighbor," Lewis said.

The Cows used trickery to keep pace with their not-so-talented counterparts, but the umpire showed little respect for the home team's game plan. After a tight-pantsed jerk hit a double, Lewis acted like he threw the ball in to the pitcher. When said jerk took his illegal lead off second base, Lewis laid the tag on him. But the blue-shirted umpire conveniently had his back turned.

"I've been waiting my whole life to get somebody with that trick," Lewis said. "And that asshole (umpire) didn't even care."

In a hilarious, yet somewhat predictable episode, the "All Mixed Up" left fielder repeatedly celebrated reaching base after Cow errors, even though he had short bangs and a fucked up-looking pseudo-mullet. When Lewis explained to him that reaching base after an error didn't count as a hit, the freak said this: "It's not my fault y'all can't throw."

The game marked the first time in their six-year existence that the Cows had a woman on their opening day roster. 21-year-old Valerie Cross started in center field, making the routine plays that have been known to elude most Cows regulars.

Next week's 10:10 contest will match the Cows up with "Barr Labs." The Cows will unveil brand new uniforms which include cursive writing.

(Written Sunday, May 21, 2006)

Tonight I caught an episode of Parental Control, MTV's newest parent-influenced dating show and it is seriously great. There's a young woman, in her early-20's, who is dating a total complete asshole. Her parents get to interview and choose two dudes to go on dates with her which will be aired in a living-room setting for her parents to watch with her current boyfriend. It's sooo funny because the boyfriend guy is always a self-absorbed jerkoff who talks shit to his girlfriend's parents while his girlfriend is on a date!

You get to see the embarrassing parts of the interviews, which is crucial to reality TV these days (I guess) and then the shit goes down. The dudes who are picked by the parents are on stellar first-date behavior so the girl gets treated way better than she does by her current boyfriend, who is jaded, bored, and unappreciative of his cutie girlfriend.

The girl flirts with both boys during both dates and her boyfriend looks like a total ass, defending himself from her parents' hilariously accurate shit-talking. He makes fun of the new guy, judges him, and reassures the parents of his confidence. When the girl returns to the living room after the date, she's giddy and optimistic, a newfound confidence exudes from her once-oppressed sexuality.

In this episode, the boy who shows up for the first date has a job delivering pizzas and the current boyfriend, an angsty, dark-eyed Good Charlotte-looking dude, makes fun of him for it. The mom says, At least he has a job, and the dad adds, And a car. The dude scoffs while his once-ignored girlfriend rides off with the pizzaboy.

So the dates go down, flirting ensues, and the boyfriend calls out every sexual advancement by the new dude. The parents defend the advancements as harmless. The boyfriend painfully watches each date, nervously fidgiting. Sweat beads down his once overconfident face. At the end, the girl gets to choose who she wants to date again - one of two blind dates or her long-term boyfriend.

During the three shows I've seen, the girl picks a new boy five-out-of-six times. It's so great because the boyfriends are such assholes and get embarrassed so badly. But in this case, the participants are not considering the long-term ramifications of these decisions. They're based on a single, video-taped date and the girl could easily end up in the same unhealthy situation as the current relationship. And honestly, some of these blind-date dudes could take anyone's girl if she hadn't been recently appreciated. There's some serious temptation going on here. But there's also a question to be asked: Are we satisfied in our current relationships or are we so far removed from feeling attractive and wanted that we settle for the comfort and safety of familiarity?

Like most reality shows, there are many variables that make this contest unfair to most of its participants. But the look on a dude's face when his girlfriend leaves him, in front of her cheering parents, for an MTV-sanctioned partner is pure hilarity.

Even if the TV-induced relationship doesn't work out, these girls will be saved from the first-boyfriend blues.

I'm going to be up all night if this show doesn't stop coming on.

EDIT: The next episode is role reversal. You mean parents hate girlfriends too?!?

(Written Friday, March 31, 2006)

As I wandered through the Mexican mini-mart, peeking through plastic covers of foreign nudey-magazines and attempting to read Spanish soda pop labels, I began to wonder about small town life. I wondered why there wasn't a place to eat within view of the Corning, California City Hall. What do people who grow up in towns with populations of 3,500 consider to be viable professional options? What happens to a town built on farming prosperity when modern science causes small farms to be obsolete? I wondered if the girls working at the bank thought I was cute when I asked them to charge my cell phone for me. They were awfully nice and smiley...

I hobbled across Corning's dangerously busy main street clutching my camera in my left hand. My bookbag bounced from side to side. "What the hell am I doing here," I laughed.

I couldn't have waited until morning to begin my 10 hour drive from Eugene to Oakland for a pseudo-spring break vacation. It had been too long since I drove all night and I had never gotten to sleep in the back of my van by myself like I had gloriously planned so long ago. It was 10 p.m. the night before I ended up in Corning, clutching my camera in my left hand while hobbling across a dangerously busy street. My bags were already packed, I wasn't at all tired and no one was around to try to stop me. I loaded a sleeping bag and pillow, a few snacks, my suitcase and a bookbag. I decided to get a few hours of driving in as long as I was awake.

The high school punk rock blasted through my stereo during the first couple hours at a volume loud enough that I wasn't reminded of the unfortunate reality of my own singing voice. The windy roads were scary at night but not so dangerous and the traffic was sparse enough to keep a steady pace. I felt excited and happy as the mile markers counted down the distance to the California border. 153... 122... 98... 80...

I started listening to Kurt Vonnegut's "Slaughterhouse Five" on CD. The narrator spoke softly, adding eeriness to my overnight travels. The van's exhaust wheezed in typical Van Club tradition - it demanded attention and concern. The duct taped left side window rattled and squeaked reminding me that it too wanted attention and care.

I began considering where to rest for the night. Would a freeway rest area be too bright? Would the side of a country rode be too creepy? As I contemplated my next destination a sparkly billboard caught my attention. "7-Feathers Casino - Eat, Drink, Play!" The sign listed a poker room as one of the resort's amenities. My sleeping plans changed. It was time to take some money from some old people.

I strolled confidently through 7-Feathers' front doors wearing blue button-up running pants, a Cincinnati Reds 1990 National League Champions T-shirt, an Oregon zip-up sweatshirt and a Chicago Cubs baseball hat. I looked like a street vendor at a Major League Baseball All-Star Game. I stopped awkwardly in front of a security guard, expecting to be ID'd. He smiled. I kept moving.

The stale smell of clothing marinated in cigarette smoke overwhelmed my senses. Old men viscously poked slot machine buttons with their money card sticking in the front of the machine. Most of them used shoestrings to secure the card to their arm, a brittle bond of amusement and hope for each.

In the poker room, the pit boss explained that the game was $4 - $8 No Limit Hold 'Em and that there were no smaller stakes tonight. I told him that those stakes were higher than I wanted to get into and I walked back through the casino wondering whether or not I should play. One voice in my head, Andrew Smith's, told me to do it, "Don't be a bitch," it said. "Get in their and take those fuckers' money." Another voice, Andy Stelter's, pleaded for me to leave, "Don't be a bitch," it said. "Leave!" I sat in my van, bored of driving and not tired enough to sleep, poker strategies echoing in my head. "I can live with losing $60 here," I decided. Sixty dollars was the amount that I believed I would lose if I played (and lost) two hands all the way through the four rounds of betting.

I ended up playing for about half an hour and things didn't go so well. I played well, don't get me wrong. But I lost my two betting hands in unavoidable situations. I left the casino $71 poorer than I arrived. The reason? Quad aces and trip threes. It happens.

I drove for another hour, continuing to creep up on the California border. The quiet story-telling of Ethan Hawke's reading of "Slaughterhouse Five," began losing my interest and I felt sleepy. I pulled into a rest area 20 miles from the border, crawled into the back of the van, covered the side window with a blanket to keep light out and went to sleep. I awoke at 6:30 with my back kinked over the angled captain's chair as my legs were kicked sideways over the other chair. It hurt like hell. I slept for a couple more hours and got on the road at 9 a.m., the originally planned Eugene departure time. I was well ahead of schedule. If I made good time I would avoid the Bay Area afternoon traffic. I was laughing in the face of punctuality.

I swiftly drove through some snow capped mountains and cruised through the northern Californian farmland. I was enjoying "Slaughterhouse Five" while I mowed down mile markers and said goodbye to the small towns that dot the way to Sacramento. I noticed that I was continually leaning closer to the speakers to hear the soft voice of Ethan Hawke. The wheezing noise was getting louder. Suddenly, the noise erupted to a full-fledged cry for help. The wheezing turned into moaning and the van began losing power. I turned loud music on in an attempt to drown out the noise but it wasn't enough. All I could do was keep an eye out for an exhaust shop along the way.

But the noise got louder and the engine got worse. I set the cruise control to 70 and the engine struggled to keep speed. The van slowly lunged forward and backward, forward and backward. I passed another small casino. "Grrr," I thought. "I'd like to go get some money from them, too."

Two miles later the van jerked backward, the engine roared and the speedometer shot up to 110. The wheezing stopped and the engine could no longer force the rear wheels to turn. I coasted off the next exit, conveniently located just a quarter mile away, turned down a side street and stopped in an abandoned parking lot. I laughed. I knew that this was where Van Club was going to end.

I peeked underneath the rear of the van and smoke poured out of a contraption in the middle of the rear axle. The problem had nothing to do with the exhaust. I called my brother Matt and told him that "the pole that connects the engine to the back wheel has this circular housing thing where it meets the axle and it's smoking."

He laughed like he always does when I describe, in layman's terms, what's wrong with a vehicle. He told me that what was smoking is called a "rear differential" and that I was right about one thing: The van was fucked.

I changed out of my stylish running pants and into jeans, put on a baseball cap and walked into the parking lot's neighboring RV dealership. A kind woman named Mary offered me a ride to the nearest town. She made a couple calls and we decided that I should visit the Greyhound/ Amtrak station in Corning, eight miles north of my abandoned minivan's carcass.

An Amtrak bus was scheduled to stop in Corning about two hours later and would take me to Sacramento where I could get on a train to Oakland. I made arrangements with my classmates to hitch a ride back to Eugene Sunday and to stop for the stripping of my van on the way. I amused myself in Corning by walking into Mexican grocery stores and hanging out in the seemingly abandoned video store. I visited the City Hall's tourist information room and spoke with Valenna, a friendly, Corning-born woman who returned to the town after living in San Francisco, Oakland and New York City. "Small towns are nice," she said. "Some are better than others..." She offered me an entire pack of Girl Scout cookies before I left to catch the bus. I accepted five and a cup of water. I thanked her for talking to me.

While waiting for the bus, I messed around with my digital camera's video function. I set the camera on a newspaper box and video taped myself eating a cookie and drinking water. I walked by the camera, acted like I didn't see it, then asked it if it had ever been stuck in a small town because its car wouldn't go. Then I taped myself sprinting across the palm tree-lined parking lot like an idiot.

When the Amtrak bus pulled up I was tired from the running. The bus was comfortable and mostly empty. The three hour ride to Sacramento was smooth and peaceful, except for my sudden hunger. I had only eaten a donut and drank cup of coffee since leaving Eugene. I watched the videos I had just made and I laughed. The transition onto the Amtrak train was convenient and the ride was comfortable. I sat, sipping a screwdriver as the beastly train made its way through the pseudo-shared suburbs of Sacramento and Oakland.

As i rode the Oakland city bus with Rebecca toward her apartment, the clock crept up on 10 p.m. I had been traveling for 24 hours, with no pressing deadlines or unbreakable appointments. I felt very tired, but also rejuvenated. As if this short break from the mundane was worth the devastation of my beloved automobile. In a way, it was. I came in contact with countless strangers during this voyage from the graveyard shift female gas station attendants in Cottage Grove, just outside of Eugene, to the high school girl who did her homework across from me on the Amtrak train between Sacramento and Oakland. Sometimes it's nice to get away from normalcy to go out of your way and not stress out about what you're missing or where you're supposed to be.

"Can't nobody take my time/ Can't nobody hold me down/ Oh no, I got to keep on movin'."

(Written Tuesday, February 28, 2006)

I watch The Dukes of Hazzard from time to time. That might not seem noteworthy but I don't really watch many TV shows. I watch sports, Seinfeld, The Simpsons, The Daily Show and The Colbert report all semi-regularly. After those, it's probably The Dukes of Hazzard.

My friends all roll their eyes at me when I tell them that it's a cool show. There are obvious problems with it - outdated gender roles, exclusion of differing cultures and an exaggeratedly simple sense of good versus evil. But the show also offers a glimpse into a strangely exclusive and defensive culture that still exists (in a quite similar form some places) today.

The Dukes are an extremely noble family. I mean, they're the good ol' boys right? You know, the song by Waylon Jennings. Anyway, they work on the farm, protect people in need, sacrifice for the family and say "Dang!" instead of "God Fucking Dammit!" like I do. Daisy is even quite independent for a woman (just kidding, just kidding).

The mockery of the police is totally hilarious. I mean, Rosco P. Coletrane and that weird ass basset hound he's always kissing? Genius! Now granted, Boss Hogg is a pretty strange stereotype and his wife's character is a total mockery but there's still some room for personality. Boss Hogg and the police never actually kill the Dukes or even lock them up for very long. They just steal their money and the Dukes steal it back.

It's a great show to watch while hanging out with the internet. The narrator (who is very humorous himself) comes on to remind you why they just paused the action while the 132nd Dodge Charger they've smashed is ramping the 17th creek in town (none of which seem to have bridges). Then you can look up from the computer when the banjo comes on, see the car bottom out or a flaming arrow pierce a moving car's tire, laugh, and imagine how much fun it would have been to watch when you were 8-years-old living in southern Kentucky.

All I'm saying is that I find it interesting to watch and I have reason to believe that I actually enjoy it. (I have a fairly low tolerance for sitcoms, action shows and stereotypes in general.)

Maybe country folk just enjoy the same type of utopian scenarios that Grease fans long for. Ohhhhh!

(Written Tuesday, February 14, 2006)

It's that time of the year again.

February the 14th: The day that peer pressure, lust, capitalism and fear will manifest society into a public orgy of misplaced affection. Our yearlong yearning for closeness and companionship will erupt like fire and ash spewing into the air from Mt. Saint Helens.

And that's on a good night.

For those of us who shy from the rigors of relationship-ism, Valentine's Day marks the coming of a golden opportunity: to eat caviar when all we can afford is potato skins. You know, to drive a Mercedes instead of the minivan. A 24-hour period when loneliness and isolation lift each of us up a few notches on the social ladder.

The days leading up to this year's dreaded Tuesday were hell for many people. Couples began looking pretentious, every hand-held step a torturous stomp on the sidewalk of many a self confidence.

But that can all change with one lucky swing.

Is that cute co-ed sitting alone in front of the library? Does that coffee-making boy look sadder than usual today? Step up to the plate you sex-starved drifters! It's time to start a new relationship with someone who wouldn't normally even look at you.

For every sucker buying diamond bracelets in accordance with the bi-yearly contract that is marriage, there are 10 dudes wasting their time playing X-Box and getting wasted by themselves tonight.

Equally as alluring are the millions of single women nationwide who sit at home watching Sex and the City while their friends prostitute themselves in the name of tradition.

So take it upon yourself today, single friends. There's a world of loneliness out there this time of year that makes you look a lot more presentable. Go ahead; ask her what she's reading. Ask him how he gets his hair so shiny and smooth.

You've got nothing to lose. And a lot more to offer than you might realize.