My New Life (and a Sundog)

Well Blog, I quit my job last Friday and have put 400 miles on my car in the last two days. I still feel like I'm on a Christmas vacation of sorts, but I received a Facebook note about how today would normally be my late day at the job I just quit, and I realized that it's indeed happened. I don't have to answer to a phone queue anymore. I'm no longer at learners' beck and call. I don't have to calculate GPAs and talk people out of taking Tests and Measurements with Stats next quarter. Even better: January 7th isn't the start of a quarter anymore. It's an idle Monday; one where I'll be in rehearsal with the NTC.

At the moment, I'm in North Dakota. Home. Being here during Christmas time is something that I haven't done in years. It's a little weird. A few weeks ago my roommate Andy asked me what my favorite ornament from my childhood was. I found that I wasn't able to answer him because I haven't been home to my mom's for so long to even see what ornaments she has from when we were kids. Upon arriving in Finley tonight, I noticed that she has decked her tree with a matching assortment of red and gold balls and stars. I like it. I also have realized I'm sentimental about specific things. Apparently Christmas ornaments haven't made the cut since I haven't gathered the gumption to search the basement for what is left of this time of year circa 1990.

In other, more exciting news, 48 hours from now I'm going to be in Iowa. I know. Iowa naturally equals immense excitement. But I'll be winding down from a show at some bar that has decided to pay us in t-shirts. That's not a thing that happens to me. I can't quite wrap my mind around it, but I'm sure it will all make sense once we're on the road. I'm hoping it will make sense once we're on the road. If I think about the future too much these days, I stop believing that I've actually taken a step toward this life. The present is going to be the best place to keep my thoughts, I think. It's where I'm the happiest anyway. Might as well live it up where I most currently am. My most recent situation tells me that place is the frozen prairie. Tomorrow that place is going to be a seedy bar in Fargo. The next night? Iowa. After that? Chicago.

But as I said, the present is the best place to be. So is the past. Maybe not 1990 though. But a couple days ago, I got the most kickass picture of a sundog. Check it, Blog:

This is what happens when it's legit cold outside. .

It was weird, Blog. I was driving to see my Dad for Christmas Eve and I looked up into the sky for some reason to see where the sun was. I was surprised to see a dull point of light. It was bright outside and the light that was cast on the prairie wasn't the kind that is done so by a cloud-muted sun. But that's what this light looked like. After a moment I realized that I wasn't looking at the sun, but at a sundog. I had just explained to Kerin what a sundog was a few days before; mentioning that I hadn't seen one in years. And here one was with me on my drive to Herman on Christmas Eve. Sundogs are one of the two things I like about the cold, Blog. I'll let you guess what the second one is.

Hint: It's not worrying about my car starting.

With that, I have drunk a bottle of wine, Blog. It's time to turn in. Here's to hoping I get a chance to update you on my band tour adventures. Tomorrow we tackle the great city of Fargo. I can't wait.

Writing a Writer

Blog, should I facebook renowned author Chuck Klosterman about the day I was born? I don't really have a reason other than to simply tell him I was born on the day on which he set his fictional book Downtown Owl. I know nothing else of anything he has ever writ. Yes. Writ. Here's what I came up with when I had a couple of glasses of wine in me the other night:

Dear Chuck Klosterman,

I've never read anything you've written. For that, I'm sorry. You've been a suggested author for me to look into since I first heard of you in 2006. I've never heeded anyone's advice on this, and I'm not sure why. But I don't really read anyone's shit these days, so don't feel like I'm avoiding you. Au contraire. Lookit. I'm writing you a facebook message. (I figured the best way to contact him directly would be the message him on facebook, no?)

The reason I'm messaging you is because though I've never read anything you've written, I know you've written a thing about the day I was born. Perhaps it's better to say that you took the day I was born and made it the setting of a book of yours. At least I think you did. A few months ago my sister in law texted me a picture of a striking article from the Fargo Forum dated February 5th 1984; my birthday. It described the freak snowstorm I was born in. I was amazed that she had sent me such a thing. She told me it was in the front pages of your book Downtown Owl. Perhaps it was included as a real life anecdote to give context of where your fictional story took place.

I was supposed to be born in Morris, MN, but because of that freak storm I was born at home in Herman, MN on the comfort of a waterbed. You can ask my parents about the details of how that went down if you want. A few weeks later me and this other kid named Scott (who I've never met) were featured on the front page of Herman's newspaper dubbed as "snow babies" since we were both born under unconvential circumstances. Since then, the people in my family reminisce about where they were the day I was born; how suddenly there was a white wall of snow that blinded everyone and how there were people who died in their cars. I've created this idea of what that day was like in my mind, even though I know my version of it is nothing close to what actually happened.

Maybe I should read your book and find out what your take on it is. I guess I just wrote you to tell you about this thing of which we both know and how it has impacted our lives in its particular way. You got a published novel out of it, I got a mailing address as my place of birth on my birth certificate. Potato, potato, am I right?

Anyway, I hope you have a good day, Chuck. Way to be from North Dakota. I'm from there too, but that's a different drunken letter for a different drunken day.

Bye!

Sam

Maybe I'll just hold on to this for now. Wine makes me do things that don't translate well into sobriety; hence "unconvential".

The Title is Untitled

I have calluses on my fingers, Blog. I haven't had calluses like this in years. They are an achievement for me. They tell me that I've been diligent in playing music.

I can play for longer and longer periods of time each day. I've replaced conditioning my body by running two miles at a time with conditioning my left hand to twist and wrench itself in unnatural positions for half an hour at a time. A month ago it was painful and foreign. Tonight it was comfortable and satisfying.

Practice, practice, practice. Another thing my mom was right about.

I love that I once again have the ability to tap the hardened skin at the tips of my fingers on whatever hard surface that finds itself beneath them. I do it because I've never had the nails to make that sound. I do it to bask in the physical results of my accomplishments.

Oh man, Blog. I'm a little tipsy and therefore I'm a little poetic. I'm also a little bit happy. I really love this roommate thing. I am really loving this band thing. I am really loving my life for every moment that is given to me outside of the dull and monotonous corporate job that graces my daylight hours.

I want to punch myself for being so overly descriptive, Blog. That's it. I'm making a list.

1. I've spent a lot of money at Ikea over the past few weeks. This apartment I've moved into is actually a wonderful place. There are expansive windows that let incredible amounts of light to spill all over the hardwood floors. There is ample counter space in the kitchen. I have my own room with a reasonable closet and large window. The only thing that really sucks is the bathroom. There is no place for my toothbrush. My toiletries are often times lost behind the claw foot bath tub. There is a glass bottle reminiscent to a wine bottle lying underneath the tub. I don't know what's going on there.

2. I am getting old. I have gray hair. People don't believe me because I color it. But it's there, Blog. I am going gray. Big time.

3. Me going gray is an indicator that while I've inherited my mother's tone and demeanor, I've inherited my father's looks. I haven't seen a youthful picture of him since I was a child, but I'm hoping that he was a good looking guy back in the day. Please let him have been a good looking guy back in the day. I can't afford to be looking like this any time soon:

Though, I can afford that magnificent purple shirt.

3. Random thought: I've had to say goodbye to someone I've cared about immensely knowing that I would never see them again. That's the kind of thought that crosses my mind whenever I think of the Englishman. It's been over a year since I've seen him already. Crazy.

4. I want to make you fun again , Blog. I think the best way to do this is to write in you more often. That way I'll get sick of blanket blogging and will be forced to write about the stupid specific stuff that happens to me on a daily basis. Like today I was hugged by the Goblirsch Jr. as he told me he'd hug me until I starved to death. Unfortunately for everyone, I had just eaten. It would take him awhile. He gave up and left for Chicago instead.

I've drank a handsome amount of wine this evening Blog. I think I'm done. Until tomorrow... (because here's to hoping that I write tomorrow)

The Original Veldhouse: Part Deux

Blog, so you know how I wrote a lengthy post about seeing my dad for the first time in seven years back in December? I have to first of all make a correction. It wasn't seven years that had gone by since I last saw him; it was six. I for some reason thought that Grandma had died back in 2004, but it really was 2005. Either way, it's a significant amount of time being away from a parent, so I'm not going to dwell on semantics.

However, I don't think I mentioned in that post my dad's weird habit of bringing up rather off-the-wall ideas in conversation where my, or anyone else's response is to internalize whatever nonsense he has just babbled on about and dismiss it as just that: nonsense.

But then it hits you. Not a few minutes later; not a few hours, but days. Days later, you discover something completely relevant on the internet that validates a sense to everything he had babbled on and on about in what you perceived to be a half-drunken stupor.

That's it. I'm listing examples.

Example #1: Minnesota's Economic Woes

Even though I went 6 years without seeing my dad, that doesn't mean I wasn't talking to him. Every few months I have a conversation with my dad that usually lasts an hour or so and ranges from gardening to politics to the military to history (his favorite period is the Antebellum era of Andrew Jackson...). This one happened sometime last year, so my memory on it is fuzzy. It also doesn't help that I have no idea how the economy works. But what I do know is that while it's on a slight upswing, it's still not the greatest and it certainly wasn't doing any better last year at this time. And maybe that's why my dad started going on and on about how Minnesota needs to have a state owned bank to help with its economy so it could offer affordable loans to local farmers and businesses. This would nurture growth in communities and would pull Minnesota out of the recession.

I guess it would make sense right away to someone who knows about economics and state banks and recessions. But combine my inept understanding of such things with his slurred speech and long pauses, and you get me just amicably repeating "Ok... Ok... Uh huh... Yup".

Less than a week later, I'm looking around at what national headlines are worth a gander and come across an article. While this isn't the exact one I read, the content is pretty similar to what I found... and it was exactly what my dad was scheming.

Example #2: Those Old Christmas Lights

This one happened over Christmas, naturally. My dad was sitting in his smokey and cramped living room drinking a rum and orange juice and smoking a cigarette from his rationed pack for the day. He was blandly describing how he had a bunch of Christmas decorations in the basement, but didn't have the gusto to dig them out and put them up. After a moment of thought, he mused that he should just send them to China so they could be recycled.

What?

Apparently Christmas lights can only be recycled in China. Ok dad... How about we move on and take a look at that Depression-era glass you wanted to get rid of.

A few days later? Andrew Sullivan happens.

Example #3: Did He Just Say "Ted Kaczynski"?

The most recent and probably incredible information nugget my father has bestowed upon me was left in a voicemail I received last Thursday night. In it, he was clearly intoxicated and clearly fired up about... Saul Alinsky?

"I'm gonna get all Saul Alinsky on you. You probably don't know who Saul Alinsky is. You should look him up. Because we're going there."

I listened to this message as I rolled into Minot on the Amtrak Friday morning. I told my sister-in-law and brother about it. We all were bewildered, concerned, and glad that he wasn't talking about the unabomber.

But who the F is Saul Alinsky?

Upon my return to Minneapolis Monday morning, I open up Facebook to this link posted by Heather on my wall. Apparently Bill Maher doesn't know who Saul Alinksy is either.

And tonight, Andrew Sullivan strikes again. (Though, I confess I'm a few days behind on his blog)

I get that this all could easily be explained away by the fact that my dad is just up to date on his current events. And he totally is. The part that leads to my surprise every time is that my dad doesn't do the internet. He goes on for about 15 minutes a day and checks his email. All of this stuff is somehow heard and processed by him via his 1970's amplifiers blaring NPR 24/7. That, and his habit for bringing up obscure topics in obscure conversations while obscurly pausing and temporarily losing his train of thought leads you to believe that this isn't actual shit he's talking about.

As for Saul, my birthday conversation we had tonight (my dad rarely, if ever, calls me on my actual birthday) lead me to learn that my dad has a lot of books by the guy. He's been reading up on not only Mr. Alinsky, but also has been delving into Pete Seeger, Bob Dylan, and the retelling of There's a Hole in the Bucket and This is the House that Jack Built.

I swear to God if I come across an article on the importance pertaining to the passing-down of cumulative tales to the younger generation, you are going to be the first to hear about it Blog.

Little Samantha gets a primer of "Rules for Radicals" back in '85.