Where The Rubber Meets The Road

The other day, I was presented with a cardstock door hanger of the ugliest color possible: and electric greenish-yellow, like infected Shrek snot. It announced that We Energies, a company based in Milwaukee, was going to cut off our gas for nonpayment.
“Who the fuck is We Energies?” I asked. “We get our gas from SPW&L.”

Upon calling, I found out. We Energies is the sole supplier of gas to our neighborhood. SPW&L doesn’t supply our gas, and never did. I didn’t know this, because the people who lived in our apartment prior to us didn’t bother canceling their service, and We Energies then did not notify the landlord, who did not notify us. We moved in, set up service with SPW&L, and settled in for the winter, paying our bills and being happy as clams.

Of course, We Energies continued to supply that gas, never once contacting us – or the landlord – to find out why no one was paying the bill. The answer, of course, was pretty simple: we never received one.
The representative for We Energies was very self-assured and polite. Of course, saying, “fuck you, fuck your wife, and especially fuck your little children” is not mitigated once iota by adding, “sir” to the end of it. And that is exactly the gist of their position.
When I understood the situation I’ve described, I explained it to the representative (the aforementioned, utterly uninterested bitch who I will call Monica, because that is her name). Monica assured me she understood my situation, with the kind of conviction normally reserved for Dick Cheney when he attempts to mime compassion. She also assured me that We Energies could give a shit less. She assured me that no matter what I did, my family was going to lose heat and hot water for at least two days. She was – of course – lying. They had already cut off the gas while we were speaking. Also, the maximum two day period actually lasted six.
Anyway, I explained that while I understood her position and was willing to make any arrangements necessary to prevent my family from suffering through several days of cold. Monica assured me that I could suck it, and so could my family. I told her that of course we would pay what was due them, but that my family shouldn’t have to suffer because somebody else dropped the ball. Monica assured me that was tough shit. I asked her if it seemed fair to her that my children would be shivering beneath extra blankets at night because 1) the previous tenants didn’t cancel service, 2) they didn’t bother to find out why they weren’t being paid, and 3) the landlord didn’t tell us either of these things. Monica assured me that she understood what I was saying, but that I could eat shit.
The following is roughly the conversation that followed:

Me: “Let me get this straight. You have an overdue account that isn’t ours. You are shutting off the gas because that account hasn’t been paid. Nobody knew this. Nobody talked to anybody. Yet, somehow, the one party in all of this that did not drop the ball is being punished.”
Monica: “I understand, ‘sir’, but eat shit and die. Give us our money.”
Me: “I’ve already said I would. You have no reason to disbelieve me, since we’ve never done business.”
Monica: “Who gives a shit what you say?”
Me: “What I mean is, can’t you keep the gas on for the two days it will take for your paperwork to go through so we can give you money?”
Monica: “Listen, you stupid motherfucker. Don’t you get it? You’re going to eat shit and like it. We’re cutting off your gas, you will pay us money, and we will piss in your mouth, fuckface.”
Me: “So… even when the two day delay is your fault?”
Monica: “Nothing is ever our fault, shit for brains.”
Me: “How do you people stay in business?”
Monica: “Because, asshole, if you don’t pay us anything we want and drink our piss, you and your wife and your fucking kids will die. Get it?!? Nobody here gives a shit if you freeze to death. We are a monopoly. We do whatever we want, and you will thank us for it, or we will fucking kill you. Is that clear enough, you fucking piece of shit?”
Me: “You have no soul, do you?”
Monica: “I don’t understand what you just said, but I’m adding seven hundred dollars to your first bill for saying it.”

I’m looking forward to doing business with We Energies. Out of all the companies I could have gone to, they were the only one. Also, keep voting for more deregulation, you fucking imbeciles.

The below took place November 3rd, 2008, and is in reference to voting in the closest thing to a legitimate election we’ve had in decades. I can’t decide if I should be proud of the following, or feel guilty. Perhaps both.

I voted Monday the 3rd, so that I could watch the kids while my wife stood in line for her chance to help make history – and more importantly – a great big change. And… I did a little extra, too…

Two and a half hours I stood in line. Everyone seemed cheerful and buoyant about the wait; seriously, there was very little grumbling. We entertained ourselves and each other. At one point, while standing next to a bulletin board at the Sun Prairie, Wisconsin city hall, I spotted a notice tacked among all the ads for community events. It said, “Notice: Advertisements and solicitation for services are not allowed on this board. All such items will be removed immediately.”

Taking pen to paper, I made a sign and tacked it to the board beside the notice. It said, “Wanted: Someone to remove this advertisement soliciting someone’s services in removing this item.”

But that wasn’t the great part. The woman in front of me had been forced to bring her toddler along, as she was a single mother with no one to help her in the way my wife and I worked out our voting arrangements. For two and a half hours, she had done a heroic job of keeping the little fella amused, and not, say, shrieking, crying, destroying everything near him, and kicking people. If you have or have been around kids, you understand the effort she made on our collective behalf.

As we wound through the makeshift rat-maze of traffic cones and nylon rope, we talked about children, voting early, and having to re-register due to moving. (For those not in the know, Wisconsin has same-day registration)

Finally, our trek reached it’s climax, and with a quick grin, she pushed her son’s stroller up to the counter, announcing her intention to register and vote.

Oh, shit, I thought as a sympathetic mix of fear and sadness stole over the city employee’s face while examining the young mother’s ID and proof of residence.

“I’m sorry,” she said, and truly looked the part. “None of these are acceptable as proof of residence. You would need a state ID with the correct address or a utility bill with…”

Honestly, I didn’t catch much, because the look on the mother’s face was heartbreaking. It hardened, not into anger, but into a mask I’ve seen before: Don’t cry, it said. Not in front of all these people. Keep it together.

And then words fell from the city employee’s lips that penetrated my sympathetic fog: “…or a witness to confirm residency-”

That was all I needed to hear. “Excuse me,” I said, stepping forward. “You mean if I know her, and know that she lives where she lives, then-”

“Yes!” the city worker jumped in, looking relieved. “If you can do that-”

“Done,” I cut in. “I know,” I said, stealing a glance at the yellow forwarding sticker on one of the envelopes she’d brought, “Daenae and I know she lives at (address gleaned from same-said envelope). I helped her move,” I said, lying through my teeth at this last part, but I’d be damned if this poor lady and her son had trudged through two and a half hours for nothing. Honestly, I didn’t catch her name, but after two and a half hours of talking, I was pretty sue she wasn’t an illegal alien, a terrorist, or that Canadian dude who pranked Sarah Palin.

Happily, the city employee, busied herself with preparing the young mother’s ballot. Daenae smiled, eyes shining a liquid brown, and whispered, “Thank you.”

“If you end up voting for McCain,” I whispered back, “I’m going to be very angry with myself.”

After thanking me repeatedly with increasingly less control of her emotions, she and her toddler went off to cast their vote. Being next in line, I was given a flashing smile from the city employee.

“Thank you,” she said, and her tone told me that she had grave doubts as to the veracity of my claims, and could have cared less. “I didn’t want to have to send her away empty handed.”

I winked, took my ballot, and toddled off to vote straight-ticket Republican.

Just kidding.

To do the title proper justice, you must say it aloud with the Keanu-Reeves-vapid-surfer-boy accent.

Many years ago, I studied martial arts, specifically American Kempo (Kenpo) Karate, a style derived from a style derived from the Kenpo Karate style, a synthesis of Chinese, Japanese, and Okinawan martial arts. The style I studied was less a “style” and more a hodgepodge of various martial arts, and though the instruction was superb, I quickly tired of the blended styles. (The place where I studied has since streamlined their approach, breaking off from the “chain” mentality and “belt factories/McDojos” of most American martial arts studios, ala Karate America.

For those of you that don’t know, “McDojos” are schools that teach little more than choreographed calisthenics, have dozens of levels (belts – some even make up new ones, like “camouflage belt”. This is true*.) and charge progressively more for each, advance students beyond their abilities to soak up more “testing” money, and generally keep this pattern up until the student either becomes part of the swindle, or wises up and finds a real school.

Anyway, back to blended styles, or “mixed martial arts”. Some argue that it’s wise to incorporate styles that play to the current style’s weaknesses, and some further argue that this is how martial arts evolved in the first place. I don’t care. I wanted a style that was pure – that is, no one had lumped several together in the last fifty years without enough shake-down time to streamline them. So, I found one.
In terms of it’s application in self-defense situations, martial arts (put simply) is the retraining of reflexes to have more appropriate reactions to threats. That is, rather than duck and cover, you instead block, parry, trap, and/or strike.
Of course, it’s much more than that. But a blended style incorporates movements from other styles, and those movements don’t always mesh. Hard and soft styles, linear and circular movements – the muscles remember these, and reflex moves them at a speed useful to self-defense. But when the muscles are made to move counter to the prescribed movement, reflex is slow or nonexistent. Put simply, if you have to think about it, it’s already too late.
Practitioners of blended styles have to work longer and harder to reap the benefits of the system, but “pure” or unified styles require less. It’s a matter of taste, and my tastes run toward the traditional when it comes to martial arts.

So, I joined a school that uses the Orville Redenbacher approach, and am hard at work unlearning what I have, and learning what I want. Also, shedding about thirty pounds, but that’s not the point.
The point is, however infinitesimal the amount, I know kung fu. My kung fu will be strong. I will be ready for a challenge. Your kung fu will not impress me. I will fight you for the honor of my master. All five hundred and twenty-three of you. One at a time. Let the cheesy special effects and corny cinematic noises begin!

*Note: I am totally ripping off Dave Barry, here.

It’s Science Fair time, and that usually means two things:

1. Volcanoes, and
2. The Solar System

And this year was no exception. You couldn’t swing a bored grade-schooler without hitting one of these two exhibits. Most of the junior “scientists” couldn’t have cared less about their projects; they were more interested in root beer floats, running off their sugar high from root beer floats, and shrieking at volumes generally reserved for Super Bowl halftime shows and at a frequency capable of shattering Mars (all of them).

Samara was too young to engage in this rite of passage, but Gabe had to endure the trial. After a quick scan of possible topics, he landed on mummification. Specifically, mummifying a hot dog. It was simple enough, and few (in this case, none) of the other kids would follow suit. In science fairs, originality counts. What also counts is the yuck factor, as in a slimy, room temperature stick of processed meat byproducts next to a dessicated, slimy, room temperature stick of processed meat byproducts for comparison.

Gabe’s exhibit was remarked upon most favorably, but was not the only one worth seeing. There was a pretty cool one about how to procure your own recycled paper with a coat hanger, newspaper, water, a nylon stocking, $3.99 plus tax, and a trip to Target. Another great exhibit examined the concept of playing music to plants to stimulate growth and health. The girl who ran the experiment discovered that the control group plant (the one with no music) grew fastest, because “the plant wasn’t all stressed out by loud music”. Sublime.

At 7:30 PM, the appointed time for all parents to laboriously begin deconstructing the projects they’d built 90% of, we bundled up the kids and the hot dogs. Everyone looked like they could use a drink, especially the kids.

It was Science Fair time, and then it was time to go home, safe from the demands of grade-school, good-intentioned teachers with no regard for the sanity of other adults. Until next year.

Note: This is intended to be something of a supplement to The Wednesday Phoenix. As such, a correction is necessary. The Wednesday Open Mic night at The Comedy Club On State Street will launch on April 1, 2009, and not March 4. I know, it’s April Fool’s Day, but it’s still the truth. Also, all names in this entry are accurate, though only first names, because A). The principals know who they are, and B). I suck at remembering names.

The phoenix of mythology is reborn from fire, and if Tuesday night taught me anything, it’s that the Wednesday Open Mic at The Comedy Club On State Street (hereafter referred to as TCCOSS) is being reborn in a lightning-rod-napalm-furnace-of-fire-and-other-hot-shit.

Let me explain. As I previously stated, I am once again diving into the local comedy scene, an event long overdue, as I might – might – have been able to prevent some of the damage that has been done to it. This is to my shame, but better late than never. Anyway, after consulting with the club, I began whoring myself out to the local media to pimp the open mic. (Is that a mixed metaphor, or two contradicting metaphors?) It occurred to me that if I was going to be getting my hands dirty in the attempt to help the Madison, Wisconsin comedy scene, I should at least go out and meet the people who now are that scene.

The Tuesday Open Mic at Azzalino’s has been up and running for almost a year now. The child of comics Chris, Adam, and Mike, it took up the slack left behind by other homemade open mics, largely cobbled together by the local comics – would-be and actual. (Let me pause to say that I love this about the Madison scene. When the original Wednesday nights at TCCOSS stumble and bled out into the dust, the comic sought out their own stages, and ever since then, it’s been a Whack-A-Mole game of keeping a stage open for those who wanted/needed it. I feel less guilty about this, as I’ve been up the owner’s ass since day one to bring back the open mic. If it would have helped, I might mean that literally.) Back to business. Tuesdays (now) starting at 9:00PM, Azzalino’s hosts a pretty well-run open mic, complete with organically grown rules and everything. I introduced myself around, declined doing a set (This earned me a funny look – comics are suspicious of other comics who won’t do a set. Think, “Who’s the Narc?!?” There may have been another reason why this might have been viewed askance; see below), and settled into to watch.

Wow. First, an energetic young Dave got up to kick off the show, bringing up the lead-off comic. I would have a whole section here about the show, but it abruptly took a nose-dive, due in no part to the quality of the comics. Asshole heckler showed up. He (and his buddy – a shitfaced mean drunk named Sammy, who spent the entire night trying to pick a fight) shouted – SHOUTED – his heckles at the comic on stage. While surrounded and outnumbered by at least 11 other comics. So, a brainy fellow. I will give him this, though. He actually tried to back it up by taking the stage himself. He bombed like Pearl Harbor (the movie, not the event), but at least he had a pair. Nobody was pleased, and both idiot heckler and Sammy the Bull(shit) were just the kind of drunk not to notice that everyone in the place hated them. In the case of Mike, loudly, vocally, and amplified by the microphone when he’d had enough of the Dipshit Twins, and he took the stage, delivering a fusillade of awesome insults the likes of which you just don’t see while sitting on your fat ass and watching Larry The Fucking Cable Guy. Nor do you get comedian Joanna’s sly, pointed, and awesome, “I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you above the microphone… I’m. Speaking. Into…”

But the entertainment (not the show – that had ceased to be relevant long ago, by many of the comics’ admission) was not over. Local pariah and legend in his own mind Nick Mortensen showed up to… uh… your guess is as good as mine. (Mortensen is the only last name mentioned because he took his gripes public, and slandered the club. Also, he did it in print, so libel, too. If he sees fit to make a stink in the public eye, then it is there that his charges need be answered.) He declined to do a set (see above, re: other reason why my not doing a set earned me funny looks), and proceeded to talk loudly during the show. This is notable, because if you’re going to be The Best Comic In Madison™, you should at least know the first rule, which is shut your fucking pie-hole when someone else is on the stage. Especially when everyone despises you and you’re not actually the best comedian in the town, or even much more than a mediocre, run-of-the-mill open mic’er. But I digress.

There was very little love for Nick in the room (which is shocking), and firebrand comic Sean (Shawn? Shaun? You get the idea) decided he’d had enough. Screaming into the microphone, he blasted Mortensen, calling him out for his rude behavior and (apparently) many past crimes. The shouting match continued as I received the first of many shrugging apologies. This later led to a physical altercation, whereupon the ever-proper Living Legend decided to make like a banana and fuck off – to a chorus of jeers and a shower of chess pieces (odd, but true), as he exited the building.

A lot of the comics apologized and lamented the fact that I saw this. But in a way, I was glad.

First of all, these people care. A lot. The scene is too important to them to let an asshole drunk and an even bigger asshole seemingly on dummy-drug prescription speed ruin it. Second, I didn’t have to come to the show for months to see that kind of craziness; I got it all in one night. And last but not least, it put to rest any fears I had that the scene might have taken a very unhealthy shape. The comics range from funny to trying-hard-to-be-funny, and everyone backs each other up. The can-do initiative remains, and the excitement is palpable. I feel much better about getting mixed up in the scene, as these are people I remember from my own journey through the open mics. They had different names and different faces back then, but their spirit remains the same. The scene is in good hands. And if I have any part in helping it flourish, I will be very satisfied.