Whining is MY national pastime.

One of my students said to me the other day: "You're really organized this year." While ignoring the fact that this is certainly not true, I do feel as if I am getting a handle on the craziness of this job. The part that scares me is that I just took a bunch of vacation time. What if I get tired and start falling apart later? How do normal people who have an innate ability to do things because they need to be done, rather than because they were supposed to be done, keep going? I just want to feel like I'm riding the wave all the time. Sure, there are moments where you're afraid the crest of the wave will collapse and you'll get wet, but it's different than coughing and spitting while wondering if there will be sand if you try and put your feet down. Ahh, extended metaphors. I thank god for all the bad fiction I read as a child every time I spit one of those out. Anyway. Here I sit blogging when I should be paddling my board ahead of that wave. . . .

How did Dad do it? Oh yeah, he's a fucking genius.

Here I sit in my office waiting for the first day of a class I've been pushing to teach for awhile. The class is very specifically in my area and I feel like I have a good handle on the field, but class prep has never been my strength. I can put together a nice looking syllabus and give a lecture and lead a discussion, sure. But I'm always just waiting for that enormous flaw in the order of topics or assignment/lecture coincidence that I always seem to produce. The worst part about this particular class is that it has a couple students who are quite sure that there is nothing they need to learn, they just need to get minted as graduates so they can start earning a little 401k. Now, I know how much they could learn, but it's like heading to your neighbor's house to babysit the kid you know is going to make up rules his parents never gave him to just try and manipulate you into a near death experience. The longest walk my little feet have felt since the first one 32 years ago across a bunch of hippie rag rugs in my parents living room. Those things need rubber backing.

My real job.

The Renaissance Festival starts tomorrow. This will be my 17th year working at the festival and throughout it all, I have never thought of leaving. I have wished for others to leave, and I have thought of giving up the rest of my life and going on the circuit of ren fests. But I have never wanted to give it up. This job is what taught me what jobs are supposed to be if you follow that touchy-feely American ideal of loving your job. Let me dispel some rumours. It is not easy. It does not consist of hangin' out with cool people all day. It is 10 hours on your feet trying to wring some laughs and joy out of a hot, tired, overcharged audience with every kind of talent you may or may not possess. But that is what makes a job satisfying. If you have ever worked an easy, lame job like convenience store clerk or, god forbid, anything in a cubicle, you understand. Hard work is it's own reward. No job I have ever had has been as punishing for my body with the possible exception of bee keeper, and no job will ever be as good.

I find myself unusually unprepared or at least not nervous/excited about the festival this year. I'm not sure if it's because I have been actually taking a bunch of time off the last few weeks or what, but I'm just laid back. I took the time today to get everything together, boots oiled up, and extra underwear packed and found myself finding a groove there. I hope to find the same groove on the streets tomorrow morning. (probably worn between bad manor and the cage) This is the beginning of the best part of my year and I hope I can make a few people in the crowds feel the same way.

My first year out there was selling seafood near the stage where Puke and Snot performed. Butch and I met there and hawked shitty food together and on one clear day, hawked so loud that the mighty Mark and Joe (puke and snot) stopped their show, leaned on their swords for a moment and waited for us to shut up. Joe passed away this week after spending my entire lifetime on the streets and stages of the Minnesota Renaissance Festival and when I miss him, part of me will wish I could see their show one more time*. . . and stop it, but only for a moment.


* The show will go on, but without Joe. Come out and see Mark show us all what theatre is really about this weekend.

Start Seeing Motorcycles. And write down their plate number.

I just got a phone call from my good friend Dan Smith. Dan is one of my few close friends whom I have not known since childhood. Dan teaches High School in my home town and we met about 6 years ago when he was new there. Dan is an avid bicyclist and rides over 2000 miles a summer in various rides, races and other craziness. Fucking exercise. Dan called me because he didn't want me to hear on the radio that on Tuesday night, while riding past Camden State Park a wonderful human being on a black Harley Davidson decided to try and shoot through the pack of bicyclists in excess of 60mph. He failed. He struck Dan at full speed throwing him a great distance and then when Dan struck pavement and slid, he channeled the entire U.S. Men's olympic gymnastics team and tucked his head, drove his shoulder into the ground, poppped up into a back flip/twist and landed on his feet. His left elbow was destroyed and he will go through a couple surgeries at least but he was otherwise mostly okay. The awesome Harley ridin' stud slowed, looked back at the carnage, and gunned it, leaving the scene. They cannot identify him, so they're not sure if he will be caught. I'm not really sure how to react. I want to go buy Dan a beer to go with his morphine, I wanna hunt and kill this guy, and I just want to sit and shake a little. As Dan said, at least we're not all together drinking to his memory. Thanks Harley guy for not killing him. I hope you get hit by an SUV and suffer horribly before the ambulance arrives. Then I hope you get better and walk everywhere in fear of motorized transportation.

Air hockey

A dream of mine since I was child visiting my cousins in missouri. I now have my own air hockey table IN MY HOME. I mean, my KIDS have an air hockey table. . . Yes. Thanks to butch for paying it forward and joe for just paying for it.