the tim show

High School hair was the best

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 30 May 2008 20:37:00 +0000

tim cigelske with long hair
Originally uploaded by lille

Flying with the Governor

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 06 Apr 2008 11:03:00 +0000

The other night, I was on the same flight as New Mexico governor Bill Richardson.

When I saw him, my first thought was (obviously) holy shit, that's Gov. Bill Richardson.

Then self-doubt kicked in. Can't be him. He's a former presidential candidate. Doesn't he have a personal jet or something? Why would he be catching a 10 p.m. turboprop from Denver to Albuquerque?

Then rational thought kicked in. Because he governs in Albuquerque. Maybe he was catching a Rockies game. Plus, look at his nerdily ambitious aides in their three-piece suits. And that beard is unmistakable. It's him.

My fourth immediate thought was how I interviewed this dude six years ago. He was a new maverick governor of New Mexico, and I was a college student doing an article on Tommy Thompson's screwball brother Ed.

Coincidentally, this is (probably) the article that taught me the single most important thing about writing: Reporting. That's a fancy term for not being afraid to talk to a lot of people. Including the new unknown governor of New Mexico who was in town for a Libertarian Party function.

So when I see him at the Denver airport, I'm thinking, funny story. I wanted to tell him: Remember when I interviewed you six years ago? Yeah, I was a college student sitting in my dorm room. And all that commotion you heard behind me? That was probably my dorm residents playing kickball in the hallway.

I was all set to tell him that. Then I realized that would probably be deeply tacky, not to mention likely to draw attention of authorities. This is one time it's probably not so cool to talk to strangers, even if that's my job.

The governor was just like everyone else. He was staring straight ahead with a blank look on his face, waiting for our delayed plane to arrive. I decided to leave him alone. But I thought it all in my head.

Apparently I was not the only one having an internal struggle about giving the gov. a piece of my mind. An older couple was sitting next to me, and the old guy was absolutely fuming.

"The whole state votes for Hillary," he thunders, barely under his breath. "And he goes and endorses Obama. That's not listening to the people!"

He was pissed. Which is funny, since a personal endorsement isn't exactly legislating. He wife, on the other hand, was more pragmatic.

"But is the country ready for a woman president?" she asked, in all sincerity.

Then they went back to talking about how the plane was delayed like this during their trip last year to Vegas.

When we arrived in ABQ, an SUV and a police escort were waiting for the governor on the tarmac. They were of course the first off. I watched him stride past rampers who were only interested in offloading the late-arriving luggage so they could go home.

I have this habit of scavaging magazines and newspapers from seatbacks as I exit the plane. On this particular occasion, there were two magazines where the gov. and his aid sat. I would have taken them regardless of who sat there, but I was kinda curious what they were reading.

The verdict: The New Yorker and People Magazine.

Two Belt Scenario

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 03 Apr 2008 05:03:00 +0000

Jess bought me a new belt.

She deemed my previous sole belt "kind of nasty." It's black and has tiny bite marks all over from when Sadie was a puppy and chewed on everything in sight, including Disc 3 of my Nirvana box set.

The new belt is nice. It's brown and genuine leather and I think from Banana Republic. Now I use both belts, and keep them in whatever jeans I happen to wear that day.

But that's a problem. When I wake up in the morning, I look for the pants with a belt in them to identify which pair I wore the day before.

Having easily pinpointed my target from within the huge pile of laundry, I transfer the important shit from its pockets to today's pair of pants. Or just wear the same pants again so I didn't have to transfer the important shit in my pockets. Depends on my motivational level.

Now, I have two pairs of pants with belts in them, so I can't identify yesterday's jeans quite as readily. It takes further critical thinking or discerning actions.

This is why I was happier with just one belt. See? It's like a metaphor how too many choices lead to undue stress.

Crate and Barrel's newest "fan"

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sat, 29 Mar 2008 16:20:00 +0000

When Jess drags me along to Crate and Barrel, sales staff immediately understand by my uninterested body language that I'm the token husband.

They treat me politely, but basically ignore me. It's benign neglect.

The situation was different when Jess convinced me to go along last night so she could get a bathroom rug.

Now, because of my knee injury, I walk at roughly the pace of a 90 year old man. But I try not to limp so I don't mess up my biomechanics. So it doesn't necessarily look like I'm injured, just really, really slow.

It kind of looks like I'm incredibly engrossed in everything around me.

Bellamy graceful modern carafe handblown by a team of European master artisans with an angle-cut neck for the perfect pour? That's so interesting!

Fine-etched earthenware artisian accent vase with rustic character, refined shapes and wood-look finish? Neat!

Organic, egg-shaped objects of interest handcrafted of natural horn in an intricate mosaic? I think I'm just going to linger here for awhile.

"Can I help you with anything, sir?" a saleswoman asked me.

Whoa, that's the first time that's ever happened to me.

Generic cultural discussions based off of songs on the radio

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 10 Mar 2008 14:01:00 +0000

I was flipping through radio channels when I caught a snippet of a Latin dance song.

The next station I heard was playing No Doubt's "Just a Girl."

To me, ska is like the absence of culture. It was probably born in a suburban mall.

It's also a subgenre of a subgenre of a subgenre of a genre that's only a small portion of popular music.

I was driving along an interstate in Maryland, watching McDonald's and gas stations go by.

I asked Rick if he thought we had a culture.

He pointed out the "Yes we can, I'm going to do it and no one can stop me" is a very American thing. He also said it's hard to have a national culture because America is so vast.

I told him that's where corporations come in. They can create a uniform culture over a large physical area.

He told me he couldn't wait until I worked for a large corporation some day. I told him I already do.

Of course, I did get very excited when we crossed the Cumberland River, name-checked in a Ryan Adams song. So score one for regional culture.

We also declared that being a session drummer for Paul McCartney is like being a punter on a Super Bowl team.

Old CDs

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 15:43:00 +0000

Last summer, I got rid of about 90 percent of my CDs on a monthlong eBay selling binge.

I probably made an average of about a buck 25 on each CD. I probably could have made more babysitting. Or recycling.

I did, however, clear out some clutter in the spare bedroom, making making extra space for the two wedding dresses that sit in there.

The only CDs that I now have left are burned CDs, CDs that no one wanted on eBay, and CDs I no longer have cases for.

Now we have a car with an actual CD player. Hello, 1998.

But when we went on a road trip a few weekends ago, we didn't have a lot to choose from.

The first thing I listened to was "Tiny Music... Songs from the Vatican Gift Shop" by Stone Temple Pilots. It was spared from the selling binge due to the "can't find the case" category.

After not listening to it for, oh, about seven years, I have a fresh perspective on it.

It seems like an album hastily released before the lead singer gets completely strung out on heroin.

I still like it. "Big Bang Baby" rocks as hard as ever. The ballads are good, too.

But there's also a lot of filler. Weiland sounds like he's phoning in his vocals on some songs. "Art School Girlfriend" was probably just screwing around in the studio, then they ended up having to use it on the album when he went into rehab. "Press Play" was probably recorded when he was passed out on the floor.

Then we listened to Tenacious D.

A friend of mine at the school paper borrowed my album. Then he flunked out and I never saw him again. I was pretty upset about not getting my CD back.

So I checked it out from the library and burned a copy. In retrospect, it was a good thing he never gave it back, because I probably would have sold it and never kept a burned copy.

And the album just keeps getting better with age.

We must have listened to "Fuck Her Gently" 12 times on repeat. Not even joking.

Creepiest snowman ever

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 18 Feb 2008 00:38:00 +0000

Today was crap.

The weather was barfy -- that's seriously the best word I can think of -- and it sucked the entire life force right out of you.

I was hoping I'd feel a bit better if I got outside and did something.

So I created a snow creature.

It ended up looking like a serial murderer.

So that didn't help.

Beagle royalty

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 14 Feb 2008 17:14:00 +0000

Uno the Beagle, the new Westminster dog show champion, is three years old and from Missouri.

Sadie the Beagle is three years old and from Missouri!

“He’s the most perfect beagle I’ve ever seen,” one Judge said about Uno.

That's exactly what Jess says about Sadie!

One of the show's broadcasters said the cheering for Uno was "the loudest I’ve heard it in 19 years.”

That's exactly what I say when Jess sees Sadie!

During his inspecting, Uno was heard "baying."

That's exactly what Sadie was doing at the snowman in the front yard last night!

Clearly, Sadie belongs to beagle royalty.

New light

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 11 Feb 2008 03:43:00 +0000

Kitchen light
Originally uploaded by cigelske

The new kitchen light is ridiculously vibrant.

I actually never knew home lighting could be so... bright.

Before this, I would never have thought twice about kitchen illumination. It could have been a candle or upturned flashlight, for all I cared.

But Jess decided we needed a new light fixture.

I was totally fine with that, as long as I didn't have to go to the lighting store. And I could use the chandelier as a bargaining tool for new skis.

DIY home improvement has never been my strong suit. But I helped install it, wiring and all. We flipped it on... and the light actually worked.

Immediately, scales fell from our eyes.

I could actually see everything in the kitchen. The walls shone. The floor reflected. It was as if we had a sunroof, and streams of summer sunlight were blazing in.

It was glorious.

We looked at each other like we were seeing the other person for the first time. And we were, in this light.

But there was also a downside. It makes everything in the house look... dingy. All the other rooms and floors and ceilings seem to be cast in dark shadows.

The light beams out of the kitchen, casting rays like Mulder and Scully's flashlights in an abandoned Area 51 warehouse.

It actually made us want to get to work. On the dishes. And stove. And floor. And all the other crap we could actually SEE now.

"There's some unidentifiable yellow stuff on the counter," Jess said.

"That's been there for weeks," I responded. "I don't know what it is."

"Is that from your egg mishaps?"

"There were no egg mishaps."

"It's even on the toaster."

Right now, Jess has gloves on and is armed with Lysol multi-purpose cleaner.

Time for me to get to work.

Grocery shopping

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 10 Feb 2008 14:31:00 +0000

We still haven't found a home grocery store.

When we were on Knapp Street, the choice was easy. We were a block and a half from Metro Market.

The place was the ultimate yuppie grocery store. They even had singles nights. Not like they needed a specific day for some well dressed professional to pick someone up in the bread aisle.

Any given time you went in there you'd see at least three people you graduated with. Most of the time you knew them marginally, so any type of greeting and small talk would be painful. So you'd just pretend you were really into inspecting these grapes and not look up.

Once we moved, there were almost too many grocery choices.

We were really on a Trader Joe's kick for awhile. The place was close enough to still ride our bikes there, and they have what appears to be healthy food.

But we got disillusioned with them when their cheese kept going moldy. You don't want to mess with Jess's cheese.

There's two Sendik's equidistance from our house. It's a nice atmosphere and great produce. But it's also a little too expensive to buy groceries on a regular basis.

Probably the closest store is the Pick N Save on Oakland. But this is also the UWM hangout. The college kids are always there buying Milwaukee's Best and margarita mix and gossiping. This is where I like to judge people by their purchases in the check-out line.

We were here once when Jess was scolding me for picking up ice cream before we were done shopping. She told me you pick up ice cream last so it doesn't melt. Then this college kid came down the aisle with his buddies.

"You know, dude," he said. "You should really buy your ice cream last because..."

Then he saw by the look on our faces that he just took the wife's side.

"Oh, I'm sorry dude! I'm so sorry!"

I'm pushing really hard for Outpost to be our regular spot. It's local, it's healthy, it's a co-op, and all those feel-good things.

The problem is Jess hates Outpost with a passion. It's way too hippie for her.

For some reason she can tolerate Beans & Barley, even though that's even more hippie and expensive than Outpost. But because they have such a limited selection, it's not really a viable default grocery store.

Besides, most of their products are soy-based, and no one wants me to start developing man-boobs.

So every time we have to go to the grocery store it's a discussion of where the hell are we going to go this time?

Last night we each brought up the usual suspects, vetoing the ones each of us didn't like.

Finally, we settled on Whole Foods. Even though it's been there for more than a year, we rarely go there.

This time, we spent more than an hour there. We bought more than we ever do at a grocery store. It was Jess's idea to go down every aisle. Sometimes multiples times.

In front of us in the check out line was a guy I went to college with. We were RAs together in the same dorm. He was there with his own significant other. Probably haven't talked to him in five years.

Whole Foods may be the new Metro Market.

Roasted

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 01:36:00 +0000

Taking advantage of the snow day, I decided to make a pot roast.

I dug the slow cooker out of the back of the pantry. It was the first time it's been used since we got it for the wedding.

I cleaned it out. Even read the instruction manual.

I Googled for specific recipes based on ingredients we had in-house. There was no way I'd make it to the grocery store in this stormaggadeon.

Not being able to find any recipes that involved cream of mushroom soup in a box, beef eye round roast, carrots and mushrooms, I gave up and just threw all the crap in there.

I set the timer for 7 hours and waited.

Near the end, Jess started getting really hungry. She's not someone you want to mess with when she's hungry.

With a half hour to go on the timer, I agreed to prematurely end the cooking time so she could eat.

"I swear to God," she said. "This better be mind-blowingly awesome or I will eat your cock for dinner."

"Alright!"

"And not the way you're thinking, either. It won't be pleasant."

Then she tried some.

"Not even going to tell you how good it is."

I think my cock is safe.

Not impressed

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 05 Feb 2008 16:47:00 +0000

I did an indoor triathlon this weekend.

Jess did not care to spectate.

"How do I put this?" she said. "I'll be bored to tears."

I pointed out that I wouldn't be wearing a shirt during the swim portion. She was not impressed.

"This is not an unusual occurrence," she said. "You are shirtless more than you are shirted."

She ended up reading a book in the gym, occasionally glancing up to smile at me while I was pedaling on the stationary bike.

Extreme sledding

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 04 Feb 2008 14:29:00 +0000

After
Originally uploaded by cigelske

We made an agreement.

She'd drop me off for sledding, and she'd go shopping. We were both happy.

I was determined to experience winter. I was so excited I brought along two sleds, but ran out the car with no cell phone.

I was the only person at Klode Park in the Bay. There was apparently a reason for this.

It's not the best sled hill. It's very steep yet short and ends abruptly at a sidewalk.

I first used my cheap-o plastic sled. It sucked, as always. I got turned around and fell down the hill backwards.

So I grabbed my boogie board. That did the trick.

I careened straight down the hill, picking up speed at an alarming rate.

At the bottom I hit a snowbank, launched into the air and was thrown over the sidewalk. I landed on the other side face-first in a rock bed cleverly disguised by an inch of snow.

I started laughing, then tasted blood. So I took a picture of myself to see the extent of the damage. Sure enough, bloody nose.

Since this was only the second run, I couldn't let a little blood stop me now.

So I experimented with other portions of the hill, with varying degrees of success. I banged up my elbow pretty good and scraped my thigh.

At one point, two little kids showed up and started sledding. They saw my plastic sled sitting by itself and started using it.

After they'd taken a few runs, I told them as gently as possible that it was my sled. I mean, they could use it and all but just give it back when they were done.

They didn't really reply, nor did they make eye contact. They just used it for another run before abandoning it and going to another part of the park.

They must have wondered what's with the creepy old dude with the blood all over his face.

I tried one more run down the steepest decline, after seeing that the little kids could do it. What I failed to consider is that I have way more momentum, and stopping yourself is easier said than done.

After that last attempt I decided to call it quits while I was ahead and didn't need a skin graft and neck brace.

I sat and watched the lake for awhile. Then I got cold, because the snow that was all over me started melting. Couldn't call Jess, though. No phone.

I began running around the park to keep warm when Jess showed up.

She ran out of the car and started freaking out and asked what happened. Apparently there was still blood mixed with snow on my face.

Nothing, I said. Just a little bloody nose.

The Freezer

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 01 Feb 2008 02:59:00 +0000

The refigerator stock is running low.

I try to see how bare it can get before we have to go grocery shopping again. More often, we just end up going out to eat because "there's nothing to eat at home."

Right now, the fridge consists of about 80 percent condiments, cottage cheese and old beer. But there's vast untapped resource: The freezer.

I've been stockpiling various frozen goods for God knows how long. There's flank steak, ground turkey, turkey sausage, pork, veggie breakfast links and various bagged vegetables.

I always think I'll get around to making it someday. That day came yesterday. I defrosted the chicken breast. The label said sell by November 2005.

Tonight, I cooked it. By that I mean Jess cooked it, because I was "doing it wrong."

She prepared it with a chicken herb rub that we bought in Door County ages ago. We've only used this once before. The last time I cleaned out the freezer.

We were moving out of Knapp Street. I found a bunch of Lean Cuisines in the back of the freezer. They included gnarled chicken breasts encrusted in a layer of frost.

I ran them under hot water for a few minutes and dug them out. They felt like dried sponges.

I found the chicken herb rub in the cupboard. I slathered the meat and fried it up. I garnished it with whatever else I could find, probably baby carrots.

It was God awful.

I smelled that same sickly aroma again as the chicken breast cooked. It was that herb rub! It brought me right back to the apartment. It made me kind of nauseous.

We let it cook through for an hour then popped it out. I couldn't help myself. I tried it.

It was surprisingly good. But that old carrot from the bottom of the door, not agreeing with me.

The baby effect

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 28 Jan 2008 05:03:00 +0000

It was like staring five years into our future. Or not.

We met this other couple while having brunch at an old friend's. Their backstory is extremely similar to ours.

They met at Marquette, got married, bought a house in the suburbs. He's from the same hometown as me, same first name and last initial, even has a dad who was in the auto repair business. Sometimes I got confused who was who.

We had much in common. We got along right away.

The huge difference between us was their 1-year-old daughter.

Of course we later evaluated how such an X-factor would impact our own lifestyle and a relationship.

Though they seemed like pretty laid-back parents, they were still clearly taking orders from the kid: Feed me now, it's time for my nap on your shoulder, quit bogarting that Bloody Mary, etc.

Babies can be so selfish.

The second noticeable effect was the subtle tension on the relationship.

"I detected a few wifey looks," Jess said. "Aren't you going to help me out here and Don't you think it's time to get going?"

"I'm glad you said it and not me," I said.

"Oh, I noticed the husband looks, too."

"What's that supposed to mean? You mean the Don't start, we're in public look?"

"Exactly. I think that's bullshit."

"No! What's bullshit is when you start, and we're in public!"

Clearly, a baby would not change this part of the relationship.

Storeplay

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 27 Jan 2008 15:24:00 +0000

Apparently, some women get turned on by their men doing the chores.

There's even a name for this. It's called choreplay.

Understandably, only about 15 percent of women say that's their biggest turn on. I'm kind of surprised it's even that high. Wrinkly, smelly dishwater hands - not hot.

Doing laundry has never once gotten me laid. The dryer, that's another story.

But they should have polled women about shopping with their significant other. You're being giving, considerate of their needs, et. al. Especially when you bring it up the idea of a shopping trip yourself.

I even invented a name for this: Storeplay. I Googled the term to see if I invented it. There's already a storeplay.net, but it's not at all sexy.

I think if you're sitting in the store's Man Chair for at least an hour, commenting on outfits, reassuring, etc., that should count for something.

Not everyone agrees that shopping at Anthropologie totally counts as foreplay. And that kind of defeats the purpose.

"You still have to woo me," Jess said.

Most Awkward Photo Ever

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 25 Jan 2008 18:31:00 +0000

Tim and Jess
Originally uploaded by lille

This is from our prom-themed office party this week.

I'm not really sure what's going on here, but if I had actually gone to prom in high school, I bet it would have looked something like this.

Momento

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 22 Jan 2008 01:55:00 +0000

Watching "Momento" again eight years after it came out.

I'm just like Guy Pearce in the movie. I know someone killed his wife, but who?

Was it Trinity? Was it Joey Pantoliano?

Memories can be distorted.

I do remember reading the Marquette Tribune article sophomore year. B. Gunnar Lund (as I knew him at the time) loved the movie. Gave it 4 stars. Maybe 3 1/2.

He interviewed Joey Pantoliano. This was before his role on the Sopranoes. I thought, who's this guy?

There are things you know for sure.

I think someone's fucking with him. Trying to get him to kill the wrong guy.

Something doesn't feel right.

What's even weirder, the DVD is so old, it skips in places and goes back in time. So some of the facts are missing. That's ironic.

Awake. How long have I been here?

Packers lose and so does my free will

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Mon, 21 Jan 2008 04:09:00 +0000

The Packers lost.

I'm over it.

That's the great thing about being a bandwagon jumper. You get all the benefits if they win, with none of the abject despair when they lose.

What I am pissed about, though, is the economic impact.

Packers wins - especially this deep in the playoffs - sell tons of papers, get paid subscriptions to Packer Plus, even dramatically reduce violet crime.

In other words, my job and possibly my life is more secure when Brett Favre has a good game. It's trickle down Packer economics in Wisconsin.

I've always heard Milwaukee has been a relatively fortunate newspaper market. We haven't been hit with the degree of mass layoffs and bloodletting of other papers.

Maybe it's because that wily old gunslinger from Kiln, Mississippi. Readers can't get enough of Brett.

Just look at him. He's throwin' snowballs. He's givin' refs high-fives. He's havin' a good time out there and he just doesn't care.

Except, not anymore.

Goddamn you Brett Favre for throw that interception in OT!

I already heard hollering and stuff crashing at the neighbors. Everyone knows there's a completely scientific certain correlation between football losses and domestic violence.

Other than the loss, the other thing that disturbed me about the game was the commercials. Specifically, the music. Specifically, music Jess and I listen to all the time.

There was Kings of Leon and Whiskeytown and the Strokes and Wilco. That's probably four of our top five favorite artists.

Kings of Leon have been used in commercials for years. Jess and I actually consciously tried to emulate the storyline of a Volkswagen ad when moving from Knapp Street in the city to Woodruff Ave in the 'burbs.

"Molly's Chambers" was used in a 2003 Volkswagen commercial, depicting a young couple dancing in their apartment. Apparently, they are making too much noise, because they are kicked out, and after finding a house, they load up their VW, and move into their new home, and are seen at the end of the commercial, jumping up & down, as Molly's Chambers plays throughout the ad.

Another car commercial used "You Talk Way Too Much" from the Strokes all-but-forgotten second album. Jess and I saw that tour in South Carolina on our first vacation together during spring break senior year of college.

Then a cell phone used "Gonna Make You Love Me" from Pneumonia, the album that produced our first dance wedding song.

I'm not really too shocked. I'm no longer surprised by commercial soundtracks after hearing a car ad with The Flaming Sideburns, an obscure Swedish band whose album I got during my glorious garage rock phase junior year of college.

I'm not bothered by the "sell-out" label, either. I guess I'm just mainstream target market now. What can you do.

But what really got me was a Jetta commercial with a young-looking dad playing Wilco's "Walken" with a crying baby strapped in the back.

The only thing that would quiet the baby's crying was when the dad revved the engine.

Shit.

We just got a Jetta like a month ago.

And I've always driven like a grandma, but I fucking love revving that engine and accelerating and hugging tight corners. Those German engineers, they are diabolical geniuses.

And I'm a young-looking... guy.

What is the message here? Is this my life progression depicted in car and cell phone commercials?

You saw the soundtrack for your first vacation with your future wife, your wedding first dance, your first home and your first car. Now you just need the baby

No babies! I'm not ready to be a daddy!

"I'll go take the Wilco CD out of the car," Jess said.

Triumphant Return to Blogging

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 20 Jan 2008 20:25:00 +0000

Me: I think I'm going to start blogging again. You know, on blogspot.

Jess: OK.

Me: Well, what do you think? Should I do it up?

Jess: Sure.

Me: Yeah?

Jess: Maybe change the format. It looks old.

Me: I can do that. Google owns it now. It's all technological.

(About 40 seconds pass)

Me: What should I write about?

Jess: (stretching neck) I can't really concentrate right now!

We're all enthused about the return of the tim show.

Five months of marriage

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Thu, 29 Mar 2007 00:35:00 +0000

Jess and I have been married for just over five months now, and I'd say it's going all right.

We haven't set any longevity records yet, but we do have a house in the suburbs, the same last name and people ask us all the time when we're having kids. Pretty typical stuff.

All and all, I'd say we're handling this marriage thing pretty well.

Except for the other day when Jess went to the DMV to get a vehicle emissions test. Around late afternoon, I get a call at work from a frantic wife.

Apparently things weren't going well. That's the gist I got from the hysterics on the other end of the line.

"Um, can you hold a second?" I asked, ducking outside to take the call in private. I could still hear her shouts as I held the phone away from my ear.

What happened was she had to wait two hours while other cars that arrived after her got to go first, she finished her book and had to wait while doing nothing, and just as she was about to get her new license plate stickers, the system crashed.

"Maybe they were chastising you for waiting to get your test until six months after it was due," I said.

That was the wrong thing to say.

"It wasn't six months!"

Close enough.

"Listen," I said. "You need to calm the f*ck down."

Of course, I totally said "calm the f*ck down" jokingly. But seriously, my wife's half Italian. She can get pretty worked up. Sometimes she needs to be told to "calm the f*ck down" -- jokingly, of course.

Unfortunately, I don't think the businesswoman on the street who I think overheard me and shot me a nasty glance knew that I was jokingly saying "calm the f*ck down." I tried to give my best "that was a total JOKING calm the f*ck down!" look, but I don't think she got it. Or my wife, for that matter.

"Don't tell me to calm the f*ck down!" she said. "You're such a man!"

The next several minutes I was reminded that I was indeed a man, as if I wasn't aware of that fact.

"What I need right now is, 'Honey, that blows. That's terrible that you got stuck at the emissions testing that long.'"

That's what I meant!

So I repeated back her suggested dialogue, even though at that point it apparently doesn't "count." So I took a different track. I started telling her things I could do that, as a man, I know would at least cheer me up. Jokingly, of course.

Just then, a businessman comes walking out the door, shooting me a bewildered glance.

Maybe after six months I'll learn how to deal with these situations better.

In Flagstaff, AZ...

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Tue, 13 Mar 2007 03:58:00 +0000

Grand Canyon -- DONE.

Mountain Biking with semi-pro cyclists -- DONE.

Couch surfing with a family in Flagstaff, AZ -- DONE.

Mountain climbing -- Tomorrow.

Details later. I'm going to bed.

Cow tongue, tree chicken and baked banana with cheese

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Wed, 21 Feb 2007 22:36:00 +0000

Cow tongue tastes exactly what you'd think cow tongue should taste like.

It's tender, slightly globular and, basically, feels like tongue.

I experienced this while eating out with my friend Brian and his buddies just outside San Jose, where we were staying for the first and last nights of our trip to Costa Rica.

I had just read a book called "Fierce Food" and I was pumped to try the most unusual item on the menu. Cow tongue was one of my Dad's favorite dishes when he was growing up on the farm. My own childhood diet included my Dad's goat-milk oatmeal, but this would be my first foray into tongue cousine.

I was doing OK for the first bites. The greyish-brown slabs of meat were semi-covered in rice which made it hard to get a good look at what I was forking into my mouth. That was a good thing.

I think it tasted savory but it was hard to concentrate on flavor when all you're thinking about is that you're eating freaking tongue.

In between bites I was sampling a bunch of local dishes ordered by Brian's buddies. This reminded me of sampling weird foods like cartilage and guts with Rick and his friends in Japan.

The major difference was that while Japanese foods are bland, Costa Rican foods are in-your-face. My favorite was baked banana slathered in melted cheese. I dipped that in some of the amazing refried beans and indulged in some of the most supremely delicious mouthfuls of my life. Que riquisimo!

The next day we would be traveling to a remote surfer village called Mal Pais, where Brian's friend said we would find iguana on the menu. Of course, he said it tasted like chicken. He said it was even known as tree chicken by locals.

I did find iguana sunning themselves in Mal Pais, though I never spotted pollo de arbol on the menu. We did discover, however, that fruit mixed with milk makes a fantastic tropical drink. And it really doesn't matter what you're eating when you're being waited on at the beach.

That would come later, though. First I had to make it through my plate of tongue.

I was doing fine when rice was obscuring the soft slab of muscle tissue that was my meal. Then I made the mistake of eating enough rice so that I could actually see what I was eating.

There clearly in front of me, without distractions, was an animal tongue. In blunt terms, it looks as if someone had ripped the organ right out of a cow's mouth, lightly sauted it and slapped it on my dish.

When I saw taste buds, that pretty much signaled the end of my meal.

Bathrooms, Etc

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Sun, 11 Feb 2007 05:59:00 +0000

[Quick note: I'll be in Costa Rica next week. I know, given my recent track record updating this blog, it will be like I never left. I pre-empted that one.]

I felt like I had the best job in the world as I was researching the article for best bathrooms in Milwaukee. What that says about my job standards is open to interpretation.

I got to bum around the city, soak in my surroundings, and never had to hold it. I was surprised at how much access I had to buildings all over the place.

I wandered all over the War Memorial Center, for example, without so much as a glance from anyone in the halls. I was tempted to even grab a scoop of the buffet that was out for some meeting.

I felt like a tourist in my own city and experienced things about Milwaukee I never noticed before. I learned Rochambo has supremely tasty raison biscotti. Aala Reed has really hot chicks working there and shirts I could never afford. Rush-Mor Records has a really personable dude who will talk to you about Pearl Jam and is not at all snooty or Indier-than-thou. Cudahy has a downtown, though I hadn't intended to end up there. I could go on about how Zaffiro's pizza probably hasn't changed a thing since 1954 and on and on and on. But this paragraph is already too long.

I also learned a ton about something really close to home: The Journal Sentinel building. With the help of Sara O. we set out to put a copy of our bathroom issue in as many bathrooms as possible in our building. It seemed fitting.

In doing so, I sort of fullfilled a longtime dream of my former editor at the Marquette Tribune, who always talked about putting a copy of the paper in every stall on campus. He thought that would make us famous.

I've worked in this building on and off for seven years for various internships and whatnot, but I found I was surprisingly unfamiliar with most of the sixth floors.

The top floor, for instance, must be inhabited by some sort of big wigs. There's classy carpeting and the bathroom are fancy-schmancy. The receptionists at the elevator eyed us with suspicion when we walked up speaking Spanish (Sara is giving me lessons for my upcoming Costa Rica trip) and carrying a huge stack of papers with toilet paper on the cover. They reluctantly gave us directions to the bathrooms.

After depositing copies in each stall (I also stuck one behind a urinal pipe), we descended a spiral staircase (nice) to the fifth floor. Nothing too notable about these bathrooms, but I did find a bubbler with a sticker that said "no coffee down the drain." I thought that was odd.

Speaking of bubblers, I ran into some Tosa East kids while scoping one downtown bathroom who told me their locker room bubbler is the best around. As a runner, I can appreciate the usefullness of a well-placed quality bubbler. For 2 nanoseconds I contemplated a sequal to this story about Milwaukee's best bubblers. Then I realized how ridiculous that would sound.

Anyway, next we went down to the fourth floor newsroom. The main bathrooms here are well-known, at least in some circles, for their lounges and couches. I once crashed on the guy's couch on a Sunday morning in college while I was working and got really sick. I think my co-worker assumed I was hungover, but I really was just sick. Melissa, if you're reading this, I totally wasn't hung over!

I also noticed murals by the fourth floor elevator that illustrates the history of mass communication. There's Egyptian scribes, a town crier and even two cavemen (one of them naked) creating cave drawings. However, it lacked a paiting of a dude in front of his computer typing a blog.

The third floor women's room has a full-fledged locker room. I heard the men also have a locker room somewhere, but I've yet to find it. It could be useful in the summer after I bike here.

Sara and I ran out of papers before the second floor, so they had to have to fend for themselves. But after getting back to the lobby, I saw a dude wandering around with an MKE that I had previously seen in the third floor bathroom. I felt a tremendous sense of accomplishment.

I know there's still a ton of the building that I missed, like the Cue section and sports wing. Perhaps I'll check that out next time for my sequal, which if nothing else will at least appear in my head: The best bubblers of the Journal Sentinel Building.

The Haircut

noreply@blogger.com (Anonymous) — Fri, 09 Feb 2007 19:34:00 +0000

I was seriously considering walking out in the middle of my haircut.

It would be like, no hard feelings, but can you please not touch my head anymore? We'll just both walk away and never speak of this again.

Jess was skeptical when I told her I was getting a haircut by someone I've never gone to before.

"Did you score a free haircut again?" she asked.

I've been known to whore myself out as a hairstylist's guinee pig for a free trim. I've also been to stylist schools for a haircut many times. Some have worked out better than others.

"No!" I said indignantly. "I have a coupon."

But it was in Bay View, so I figured what could go wrong? Wasn't this the epicenter of Milwaukee's hairstyling hipness?

I was oh, so wrong. This was not KK. This was the old Bay View.

My first clue that my young stylist wasn't exactly seasoned was when she kept raking my earlobes with her comb. She scraped my skin so forcefully and carelessly I thought she was going to draw blood.

When she started clipping away I got a faceful of my own hair. It was like a downpour of Tim hair all over my eyes, nose and mouth. And it didn't stop.

I nearly needed a neck brace when she started combing my hair back. She kept yanking my head farther and farther until I could barely draw a breath. If I asphyxiate, I thought, this is seriously going to affect your tip.

Then there was the half-hearted guidance from the older barber. He periodically wandered over to demonstrate techniques.

"Watch dis," he said.

Then he proceeded to gouge huge chunks out of my neck.

There were times I thought of asking to have parts touched up. Then I thought better of it. At least I wasn't totally bald yet.

Speaking of, was my hairline really this receeding, or was the haircut just that bad? Probably some of both.

Oh my God, I thought, I look like John C. Reilly!

It was like watching myself age 30 years in the mirror. When did I become a 55 year old guy living on the Sout Side? No offense to 55 year old guys living on the Sout Side.

I produced my coupon for $5 off, left a tip and got the hell out of there.I immediately started scouring KK for a hip-looking hair establishment. I don't think I'm a diva or a metrosexual. But I at least want to look like I'm still in my 20s.

I wandered into the first cool place I saw. It was called Linear. Elizabeth, the owner, had an appointment in five mintues.

She normally doesn't take walk-ins. But when I took off my hat and she saw the ravages, she took pity on me. It must have looked like Keith Richards was my barber.

"I know that a bad haircut can really depress you," she said. "There's a psychology behind a haircut."

She sat me down and went right to work. Immediately I regained an actual shape, not just an amorphous bird's nest. Her appointment showed up and she continued to attend to the project that was my head. And she was making astonishing progress.

"This just might go from my worst haircut ever," I said, "to my best haircut ever."

I was extremely happy with the finished product, which she whipped up in just minutes and with not a lot of hair to work with. She charged me for a half haircut, which I paid along with a big tip.

After all expenses, I paid way more than what I would for a normal haircut without a coupon. But at least I don't look like some sort of deranged alpaca, and you can't put a price tag on that.