Bio: Everything Changed after 9/11
Born 9/9/76 in Wausau, WI while the folks were living in Clintonville. It has typically felt this sort of disconnectedness to its present location. It always knew it was never meant for this planet. Anyway, here’s where it’s been.
House. Torgerson Rd, Iola, WI (?? – August 1995)
Earliest memories from here. Building the basement and foundation, building the house on top. Most memories now remain in picture form. Of the building process, anyway. We had a garden, chickens, cats, dogs (over the years), and a long dead-end road to bike and walk up and down without having to venture onto the highway. That highway was a killer. Deer (some of which we ate – call that scavenging the military industrial deathtoll for a few pounds of food), dogs, and other wildlife were taken by that beast. Under the ethics I learned and have followed, to not use that which is useful is a sin. That’s much older than the hills.
I-S Grade School. Iola, WI
Iola-Scandinavia is a combined school district. Iola broke 1,000 in the ’80 census, and Scandinavia has been around 300, I think. Here’s what I remember of that building. Getting scolded for making noise during nap time, never getting put in the same class as my best friend, trying to catch puke before it hit the floor on my way to the bathroom (and splashing it on my face in doing so; I got to see the mirror, tho. Looked like a horror movie. I smiled.), and not realizing until embarrassingly late that the pledge of allegiance didn’t end with “have a nice day.” I knew I would be valedictorian by third grade. People treated me accordingly.
I-S High School. Iola, WI
By this time, I was able to see that Iola was a white-collar town surrounded by blue collar and/or farm communities. My parents did choose where to buy land based on the fact that the town had recently decided on a theatre over a swimming pool, so I did theatre, band, and somehow managed to work in sports, too. Cross country (to stay in shape for basketball and avoid the violent football assholes), Basketball (‘cuz I’m tall), and track (‘cuz it’s co-ed). We had the nicest facilities, and usually pretty good teams. They had this vicious competitiveness, though. Bourgeois guilt or something. Fantastic architecture surrounded/filled by soulless idiots. Such is life.
I aced the shit out of that school. I had more privileges than teachers when I was there. I was the first student of the month, and my “jersey” was immediately retired. I was expected to be the president of every club I was in, ‘cuz nobody else wanted to run meetings when I was there. Science projects, shop projects, art projects, shattered records. Sports, got benched before fouling out, never cared. My own teammates used to punch/elbow me in the face during practice. I wrote stories about killing them in the parking lot and handed them in for homework. My senior English research paper was on how to build a nuclear bomb. Look, they already knew I was the bomb (see: “you lookin’ at my watch, but my mind’s really the diamond.”). I did better on the ACT in 8th grade than most of my class did senior year. I was treated accordingly.
I got head in high school. Sixteen. Front seat of my Dark Blue Buick Electra Estate Wagon with the woodgrain stickers on the sides. Aww yeah. King Missle’s “Detachable Penis” was on my car radio (90 fm, of course). Scrapes. Such is life.
At graduation, rather than the fuck you speech I should have given, I gave the sappiest “thanks-you-guys-are-awesome” shit I could muster, and cried through the last of it. Making large groups of humans cry is easy. This society is torture for all of us.
Yale University, New Haven, CT (1995-1999)
Speaking of architecture, and presidential aspirations, and denying that the Student body % of sexually active should have been the primary determiner of where I went to school, I went to the top university in this backwater armpit of a nation. It was #1 for all four years I was there. John Kerry’s daughter lived the floor below me freshman year. I asked her out, weakly and pathetically (it’s how I do!), once. Sorry Vanessa. Oh, those poor females that I genuinely like. They sense that I would touch them at the drop of a hat, but that I won’t move without the ok. I was treated accordingly.
College was as stupid as high school. I had no real direction. I quit before I got there. I should have been a scientist, but science hill was way on the opposite side of campus. No way I could pull that off. Fatness had already sunk in. Same evil bitch what scolded me as a kindergartener had fattened my ass up to represent the Midwest. I wanted to get the psychological explanation for this cruelty, though. I wanted to hear the moral and philosophical arguments for all this shit, too. On the first day of my philosophy 110 class, my professor cited statistics about philosophy majors in law school. An excuse was born. Path set. Blame it on the tiffany glass.
Other interesting classes I took: Film Studies, Ethics of Architecture, Psychology of Influence and Persuasion, a seminar called Enthusiasm and Mental Excess, Daily Themes (loved. It. One of 2 A’s I got at Yale), Techno-Gut and Astro-Gut (Electrical Engineering 101 and Astronomy 101), and a bunch of other shit I couldn’t really stand. What a waste of time. Two summers I spent out at school, one with a depressed CA girl who finally popped my overly-horny little cherry in a fishbowl, right before it ended. Fucking pathetic. Second summer I drove a golf cart around New Haven and shagged a tiny Vietnamese girl I shoulda proposed to. Damn you, self loathing!!! Whatever. We sent the sounds of pleasure echoing through the corridors of power. When I’m getting laid, touched, and touching, life is good. So few offer it up without demanding shit I’m incapable of giving, most of the time, I just get laughed at. Sometimes, out loud, in public, right at my face. It’s ok. The shelves were worth it.
I associated with “the liberals” back then. They were slightly less assholish (thx Mr. Sands) than the tories. I accompanied the Liberal Party of the Yale Political Union to NYC a few times. Met some rich famous and powerful types. Fucking dickheads. Met Gus Hall. He gave me a t-shirt I still wear. Take that, libs.
Minneapolis, MN (1999-2002)
Post-college, no clue. I headed towards the last friend I could remember who could stand having me around. No, he didn’t really want me there (I make everyone uncomfortable everywhere I go), either. The one saving grace of being from a small town is that people who knew you when you were growing up treat you as some sort of extended family, so in some ways they have to associate with you, even if it’s only to act disappointed and find new passive aggressive ways to shun you for being horny and unable to lie. I got to know quite a few girls pretty well (fell head-over-heels in love with a number of friends’ girlfriends – what else is new?), and saw many many shows. Mosh pit fatty in jeans, plaid, and a fleece. Well, it was a lot of shows for someone as poor as me. I hadn’t yet learned that the best love is free, or like $5 from it, anyway.
9/11 hit me like a ton of bricks. I didn’t believe it. Not like in a “oh my god, I can’t believe this is happening” kind of way, but like in a “buildings don’t turn into dust from being hit with aluminum and fireworks.” I was stoned for six months straight. I scoured the ‘net for sanity. Found. God bless you, truthers. You did more to prevent my early end than trent did. That’s sayin’ something.
Besides all that, I was my usual dickish self. I did whatever the fuck I wanted, talked to friends’ girlfriends like they were my sisters/wives, right in front of their beaus. I hit on barely legal little sisters when drunk. I monopolized the TV remote and audio in my living space. Not much has changed.
On my drive out of town, I got a phone call to tell me about an upcoming wedding. I never intended to win, home slice. Nothing you can say or do will make me not love her, though. Our connection is independent of you. I wish you all the best, regardless.
Madison, WI (June 2002 – February 2007?)
Sublet, another high school buddy/neighbor/family-friend who I finally turned against me, resurgence of the second-gen kindergarten cop capitalist. Bounced with the angels, listened to the first full week of Air America online, and then law school. Burned through my “retirement fund” and increased my unsecured debt to pay rent, cuz I didn’t know any better. Went to school for the free bank money, and for research. Ye olde dictator has to burn through the suck before it turns 35, and it’s nearly time.
No, nobody knew its plans. Nobody has ever known any of this shit. None of you know me at all. Itstory was a self-buried secret prior to today. Wait ‘till I tell you about the dancing. You don’t know what paranoid delusion is until you know what it took to strip the inessential from the LazyAssWasteoid. You know neither resilience, work ethic, nor kindness, nor loyalty. You can’t see me or my friends . You believed the lies that led you to reject them, too. Same lies, but whatever. I flung myself on the gears of the machine and it shattered like candy glass. The rejects think I’m a freak, too. I provide them a sense of unity and community by allowing them to reject an overly educated tall white man. Hit harder, sweetie. To a mosh pit loving noise junky, leaving bruises on the outside while cradling the soul is the only way to get near. If I don’t speak to you, it’s because you inflict pain on me regularly. Yep, I’m the strange, sensitive one. I’m the self-sufficient outkast. I live on ether and trash. I’m the gypsy queen of this childish rock. Fuck’n’kiss me already.
At this point, anything else is gravy. I’ve made every major point I wanted to make. I’ve nuked every bridge apt to burning, and I don’t ask for recommendations. Never have. Fuck your retarded assessment of my actions and capabilities. You don’t understand 90% of what I do, so what you think of it is immaterial. I am god, and so are you.
Waupaca, Plover, Waupaca, WI
Nothing like the torture of family, huh?
Stevens Point, WI (August 2010 – Present)
You’re all caught up. Welcome to my life/hell. No, because you’re not touching me.
My daily theme is now complete. I hope you enjoyed today’s “work.” I hope it scarred your soul. I hope it made you want to hit/beat/kill me. God knows you greedy fuckers won’t part with any of your federal reserve notes in exchange for the honest assessment of the best, brightest, beautifullest. I run circles around/through/despite you. I’m gently tap, tap tapping on your resonant frequency, and there’s nothing you can do about it.