(First)
Brief History of Trying to Get Rid of Stacey's Apartment (and a few other things).
Friday, June 25.
I realize now I shouldn't have trusted someone named Raul from Texas. Nothing to do with ethnicity, it just doesn't add up. Raul strung us along about Stacey's efficiency for more than a week, claiming to be very interested and ready to take it. After I sent the apartment application to him, I didn't hear back for over a week. He emailed back on a Friday night to let us know he'd gotten engaged and wouldn't need the place anymore. I just have to wonder what business he had looking for a place in the first place if engagement was anywhere near a reality (which it obviously was). You'd be proud of me, though. I sent a brief yet civil email back to him, thanking him for the reply, congratulating him on the engagement, and gently mentioning the fact that he'd put us in a difficult situation. Sure, we still have 3 weeks before the wedding but rent is due July 1 and it's nice to have an idea of what to expect before then. After getting the email around 10pm, we spend some time venting our frustration in various ways (Stacey sitting dejectedly on the couch, then outside -- me mumbling threats against Raul and his family (who kept telling me "he not here!" whenever I called) and pacing) and then sending out emails, getting back on roommates.com, etc. I admit I should have had a few other folks looking at the apartment and just gone with whoever signed a lease first rather than trying to trust Raul.
I walked Stacey back to her place around 1:30am. We're both about ready to drop and I decided to crash at her place because a few folks were outside partying and occasionally that gets crazy enough to really make her afraid. At just after 2am we hear loud mariachi music booming. It sounds like a parade is right outside in the street. I go out, phone in hand, and confront a drunken Mexican fellow who has all the doors on his large new purple SUV open and his stereo nearly convulsing. Again, I was pretty proud of myself that I worked with him gently and told him he should turn it down so the cops don't come. Feeling pretty downtrodden (and wishing I were as drunk as he) at the time, I don't want to make anyone else feel bad. Poor guy's probably working heavy hours at a nasty job, just trying to make a better life for himself and his family (most of whom probably aren't in the U.S.). All he wants is to have a good time on a Friday night, drink a little Tecate, drink some tequila, drink a lot more Tecate...and listen to the music that he loves, that gets him through an otherwise drudgy draggy life.

Saturday, June 26.
We proceed as planned with the day, going to look at wedding bands. We discover a close-by Irish import shop and Stacey falls in love with their scones. I fall in love with the idea of Guinness pajamas even though I don't even WEAR pajamas.
We end up going to see Fahrenheit 9/11 at 2pm, work on the apartment situation for a while, and then go to a "gathering" later on in the evening. We dig the folks We get back to Stacey's apartment around 9:30 and notice the ceiling is leaking in her bathroom. We go to find the apartment manager. As we know already (because we'd looked at an open place in the same building earlier that week but not really liked it for us), the apartment manager is out of town for a month and a kid (literally, he's no more than 19) named Richard is in her place. Stacey went to find him and later told me that when he opened the door, he and the girl hanging out with him seemed in a daze and had bloodshot, hazy eyes. He came back to her apartment and promptly stuck his finger through the soggy ceiling, let out a "holy shit!" and seemed pleased that he was Taking Care of the Situation. He tried to talk to the people in the place above Stacey's but they (we heard them talking and scrambling around) went to the back of their place and hid for some reason. We later realized they're way behind on their rent and are about to be evicted, as the apartment that's open is theirs (the one we looked at was just like it so we'd get a feel for the outlay and space). We just hoped there wouldn't be any cave-ins before Sunday, not only because Stacey needs a bathroom but also because someone was coming by to check out the place at 2. Then we realized that maybe if it caved in, she could get out of her lease...so we just kind of prayed that something good would come of this all.

Sunday, June 27
We rushed back to Stacey's after church (didn't even stay for coffee hour!) so she could clean it before some girl named "Crystal" was to come at 2. Meanwhile I had to do my dishes and clean up my place because my roommate was showing it to an 18 year old girl from some rural part of Nebraska and her parents at 1 (or, as it turned out, 1:30). I put in some time and good words for our vacancy and head over to Stacey's. At 1:55 Crystal called and said thank you, she's found another place. Before we can really dwell on it or mess the place up, Stacey and I head out and go downtown to the Arts Festival, where we made fun of people and ate some good food. I also then went down to the Antiquarium and chatted up my favorite Record Store Clerk, Dave, who informed me that according to Simon Joyner, Saddle Creek Records is pretty much built on the influence of Dexy's Midnight Runners. Tim Kasher and Conor Oberst both apparently are huge fans and Kasher derives quite a bit from DMR. Most record store clerks, even those big into the SC scene, I would've just nodded and smiled. Dave, however, isn't really all that big on SC, is far older than any of us (late 40s or early 50s at the minimum) and is far more into bands like Mission of Burma, the Minutemen, Wire, and so on. The next day (I went in to hang up a show poster) he told me that he prefers music that, when faced with the troubles of life, injustices, etc., gets an attitude and balls about it, not just sits around and mopes. He also described a couple records to me and said he played them back to back and once he was done, the other record store clerk (who is in a great band called The Bombardment Society) nearly had to have him hospitalized on account of listlessness.

Contrary to Dave's taste in music, I am a moper more than a steam-blower, so we spend some of Sunday night doing that while getting ready to fill the apartment (emailing, messaging through roommates.com, etc.).

Monday, June 28
I took the day off of work to get some wedding stuff done. As it turns out, not a ton more needs done but the apartment situation looms, so I work mostly on that. We ended up showing the place to several people, the last of whom left around 10pm. No word on the ceiling leak. Richard probably forgot everything that happened while he was high. Everyone who came to look at the place either was working pretty well in advance (good for them!) or were in a bind and parts of their situation left us with hope yet not so hopeful that we can relax yet.

Hopefully the good news is coming soon.

Pressure and high expectations for me to do something when I've not really been shown how to do it is not only asking a bit much, it's also making me want to just up and walk out and never come back. I'm sick of being treated like a servant girl when all I want to do is pay the bills. The worst part is that these people couldn't even do this stuff themselves, yet somehow "the secretary" is the one who's supposed to be proficient.

I moved to Omaha, ten hours away from my father, not because I wanted to be far away physically or emotionally but because sometimes identity needs distance from its greatest influences in order to grow. My spiritual explorations needed air to breathe and now established, we’re able to have the necessarily theological conversations without me feeling constantly on the defense without having had time to research. My third Father’s Day in Omaha is the one when perhaps two of the most significant experiences in our lives end up dominating our conversations. I don’t know if my parents ever thought I’d get married to someone they like so much. I never thought I’d ever marry someone they like so much. Then again, I never thought I’d marry someone I like so much, either. My dad and I are hopeful and pessimistic all at once most of the time, I think. I don’t know how pessimistic he is about his medical difficulty, transverse myelitis. He always notes that many people have it worse. No sign of it going away after two months. Doctors usually say that if it’s not starting to recede after three months, it probably won’t. Dad talks like he can bear with it and I have no doubt he can, but to live the rest of his life numb from the chest or waist down isn’t a thrilling prospect.
When he first went into the hospital and no one knew anything but that he was mostly numb and his chest was tight and painful, a brief self-absorption moment worked to make me question if perhaps I should feel regret over the distance. Did I really need to move so far? No need for details, but we all know I am where I am supposed to be and when Stacey’s and my reasons for being here are no more, then we’ll probably move back to that area. We both have directions in life, however, that necessitate us to be here, now, doing what we’re doing.
Ten hours isn’t much anymore. Sure, in an emergency it’s no good but we’re in the same clenching Midwest, country, continent. Stacey and I are quite fond and attached to China Town, a small restaurant only several minutes away. We laugh about the fact that their sign says “buffet” yet they don’t have one (and haven’t in the two and a half years I’ve lived here) and would really rather not eat there, but their food is the best Chinese we’ve ever had (and our friends and relatives that we take when they visit generally agree) and very inexpensive so we end up picking something up from China Town fairly often. As far as we can tell, the same three people are always there (not counting mysterious kitchen people we’ve seen maybe once), all Chinese and barely English-speaking. The most any of them have said to us is “Where your girlfriend/boyfriend?” if one of us happens to show up without the other. For some reason they all chose today to be chatty. The middle-aged man came out and with a question mark in his voice, said something to me like “farrar?” I didn’t understand until he asked more pointedly, “You farrar?” He was saying something about a father. The young girl who always works the cash register and answers the phone always briskly, always intelligently, is pregnant. Stacey and I have joked about trying to find out who the father is and often wondered if the girl’s father knows who the father is because the girl is always working. This guy may or may not be her father, I don’t know, but for a split second I wondered if he was asking me if I was the girl’s baby’s father. I make up scenes in my head for possible storylines but try not to get carried away. I told him I’m not a father, probably won’t be for a few more years, but am getting married in July. He beamed a smile. I asked if he was a father. He thought I was asking about his father. He communicated using near-English that his father is 80 and still lives in China and he hasn’t seen him in a long time. He went back in the back and the young man came out and started talking to me about the wedding, asking if we’re in school, what our jobs are, and finally what the wedding cost. I know not to be offended because I’ve read books by Maxine Hong Kingston. In fact, I’ve often wanted to talk to my acquaintances at the China Town restaurant and discover their interesting stories and family heritage. Finally the girl comes out and even she asks me a couple questions. Her belly curves out from her small petite frame in a beautiful pronouncement. Stacey shows up with the extra money for the crab rangoon and I tell her about the pleasant chats when we get back in the car. She jokingly asks me if I inquired as to the baby’s father. I tell her we’ll wait for that until a couple more conversations down the road.

It's great to be back at work again after this past extra-long weekend. I would say that if I started my sentences with "It" on a regular basis and were a huge liar.

Welcome to Men's Health Awareness Week.

Friday and Saturday I ended up doing some volunteering at the church rummage sale and taking care of some wedding-related errands. We've had a sort of debacle over the rehearsal dinner. I love my parents but nothing connected with any sort of special day in my life is ever going to happen at an Old Country Buffet. I didn't want to be mean about it but since several of us (the bride and groom especially) will be eating vegetarian and OCB is about as Vegetarian-Friendly as McDonald's, the option just isn't a viable one for me. Sure, fake mashed potatoes and rubbery green beans ARE technically vegetarian. I just don't dig Old Country Buffet in the first place. I realize it's the equivalent of Chuck E. Cheese for the 50+ set so I've been fairly gentle in diverting that idea. I remember many happy times of going to the Mishawaka, Indiana OCB with my grandparents but that was also when I rarely got the chance to go anywhere and any fried chicken, no matter how greasy or undercooked, was my idea of bliss.

I'll add you to the (far too short) mix disc list, Kate. Just so you all know, I'm still working on the second disc. The only day I really spent much time at home, the internet was down 99% of the time so I just wasn't on the computer much.
I did get quite a bit of reading done (and watched the Cubs a decent amount) and even started getting back into the writing zone. Unfortunately my current living situation is such that every time I start getting back into writing, a roommate sits down just a few feet away or something else like that starts happening. Frustration almost overcame me. Stacey and I took a long walk so I could get some exercise and work out those demons and more importantly pick up some dish soap. We found some watery stuff for a buck at the Wholesale Food Outlet but the lines were too long.

We and Walker also went to go see Saved on Saturday afternoon. Normally I'd cover something like this in the blog next to this but I've got a couple other things to discuss over there.
Anyway, Stacey and I have been excited about this film since we heard about it months ago. Walker, on the other hand, was pretty suspicious about the film (this from someone who went and saw Chronicles of Riddick the night before) but came along anyway.
We all came up in fundamentalist and evangelical "Christian" subcultures and found the satire fairly dead-on and funny. Having worked in the "Christian Bookstore" for three years, I can honestly say that as absurd as some of the characters and phrases and events were in the film, during the first 75-80% none of it was so overblown that it didn't depict at least a small part of reality, and for the most part, quite a bit more than that.
Toward the end, however, (no spoilers here) the film got absurd in its attempt to be dramatic before turning preachy. I don't think that preachy is necessarily always bad. However, when the first 3/4 of the film focuses itself on lampooning and resisting generalistic preachiness, it shouldn't devote the last part to hopping behind the pulpit itself. In addition to that, Hilary Faye quickly (and with no explanation) undergoes a sudden transformation. She exemplifies the self-righteous, giddishly juvenile attempts to "worship" and "be holy" to a disgusting tee early on, yet remains sincere, giving the impression that she wants to do the right thing but is just misled and overzealous. By the end, however, she slips from being a sort of SuperChristian Molly Ringwald type to, well, the stereotypical overplayed high school principal (see any 80s Brat Pack movie, Ferris Bueller, etc.). Another character begins the film seeming extreme -- it's no surprise when the Hooker With A Heart Of Gold card gets played (though she's not really a hooker, just a smoking Jewess rumored to be a stripper) yet Cassandra plays a deeper role in the film than one would think at the beginning. In fact, she's played by Susan Sarandon's daughter...I look forward to seeing her in more films after this.
Saved! does a really great job at exfoliating the complexities and true humanity that are ignored and overtrodden within the general evangelical (this group certainly isn't fundamentalist!) Christian subculture. It does an even better job at offering a light-hearted yet not hateful spoof of quite a few elements. When it tries to turn serious, however, it becomes as awkward and forceful as everything it seems to be against.
Overall, I do recommend it, especially to anyone who's grown up in that context. Just be aware that the ending is a letdown.

Only two inquiries on the Summer Mix cd so far.

Disc 2 is probably going to have to have some Ray Charles on it. I've been keeping my Summer Mixes to stuff either out this year or with a single recently out, but a little tribute is in order. I'll have to look into some sort of Reagan-related content, as well.

This weekend in MLBaseball interleague play: the two teams who are the most beat-up with injuries: the Cubs and Angels. Both teams are hanging tough (not unlike the New Kids) and still very much in their respective races.

Be sure to look at my Summer Mix tracklist in the blog just to your right. Comment here and I'll send you a free copy.

A note on a recent comment. Jeff posted that Liza and Mark Wolever (no idea on the spelling) did their wedding music and that it would be hip were they to do ours. Just so you know, Jeff...one of the big factors in scheduling our reception in Indiana was so that we could get Liza, Mark and company to play. So yes, they will be there and playing favorites from the realm of Celtic, folk and bluegrass. We're just going to wander around barefoot in the grass and dig the music. I'm pretty excited about that. I've been trying to think of a way to tape it!

I did line up a suit over the weekend. I'm sure that was really distressing for everyone to wonder about. For the fashion-curious: black with grey pinstripes.

In a completely different vein (because I want to post *something* that has something to do with more than just the wedding):
Last night I read a very interesting piece about Neurotica, an underground magazine that published some of the very early Beat stuff (by John Clellan Holmes and Allen Ginsberg, for example) but also apparently many other interesting pieces. I only wish we had access to some old issues.
http://www.bostonreview.net/BR24.5/campbell.html

I started typing this in response to a thread on the Vagrant Cafe about "what was the happiest time of your life?" and decided not to be a wet blanket.

"It's weird...I never really think of myself as "happy." It's not that I'm sad or upset or in some sort of negative state, because right now I don't think of myself in those terms, either...I don't know. It's not that I think my life sucks because there are very wonderful things in my life that are better than anything else like it has been...romantically and education-wise, in particular. However, I just see so much around me (whether I'm directly involved or not) that just utterly depresses and saddens me and I just don't know that I have it in me to be happy. I don't think that's a bad thing, I'm more than fine with it...it just is. I just don't ever get to the place where emotionally I'm all that high, I guess."

That said, I find enjoyment and happiness IN certain things. Stacey, for one. Spirituality, another. Also discussing interesting things with friends, reading, watching baseball, listening to good and great music, browsing and buying in record/book/magazine/thrift stores, watching films or the occasional television, playing with the cat, eating certain things, being alone in a natural setting, playing skeeball, and so on and so on. I don't think of myself as a particularly interesting or "fun" person but I'm not especially morose or faux "goth" or anything.

Thanks for enduring self-indulgence. I'm definitely that.

This morning I decided to purchase a blueberry muffin (as I do far too often) at the university food area. Sometimes when I take the bottom wrapper off a bit sticks to it. I was chomping that little bite off this morning and looked up to see one of my former bosses waving at me frantically from outside our front window. That's two days in a row I've shown myself to be extraordinarily tacky.

Today's Daily Presidential Briefing:
Dear Mr. President,
I hope you're enjoying your trip in Europe. Please Please Please don't make any "freedom fries" or "freedom toast" jokes.

I hope you enjoy the bit of an update to the design. I'm a terrible designer but like this better. Hopefully this means I can start back the updates tomorrow.