25 Methodically Thought Out Things About Me.

1. I was born on January 21st, 1982 after my mother was in labor for 46 hours. She resoundingly stated, "If he moves to Chicago and decides to start doing comedy, this birth was all for naught. I'll kill him."

2. Mary Brown does not know my current Chicago address.

3. When I was three, I lived in a city in Wisconsin called New Holstein. This moment remains the Sconniest I've ever been.

4. One afternoon in August, I was playing in my backyard in New Holstein. It was next to a cornfield that went on for acres. I disappeared from my mother's sight. The police were called and they sent a helicopter to look for me. The entire time I was hiding in a cupboard, y'know, as a goof.

5. Mary Brown does not want to know my current Chicago address.

6. In my fourth year, I lived in Boston for ten months. For many years, I considered it my hometown because I was a child and children are stupid.

7. In my fifth year, I moved back to Black River Falls where my parents first met. Most statements I made to other children started with, "Well, in Boston we used to..."

8. When I was five, most statements made toward me by other children started with, "Shut up queer, I'm going to kick your..."

9. By Kindergarten, I could read the newspaper and proudly shared this information with my other elementary school classmates. I was attending an institution of learning and I wanted to use my aptitude to help my peers.

10. By Kindergarten, most statements made toward me by other children started with, "Shut up smartypants, I'm going to punch your..." I considered this an improvement over kicking, as children cannot punch very well.

11. In First Grade, my elementary school started taking part in "Tornado Awareness Week" and "Indian Awareness Week." At six years of age, I understood how racism is really funny and really sad.

12. While in First Grade, Brandon Puttbrese and I had a contest: whomever made the tallest sandcastle during recess would win Laura Brown's hand in childhood dating. While my sandcastle was easily the tallest, Laura starting seeing Brandon.

13. Laura Brown is a heart-breaking trollop and Brandon Puttbrese is a disingenuous prick.

14. In First Grade, my teacher said, "Its Indian Awareness Week, does anyone know what that means?" A student named B------ P-------- replied, "You gotta watch out for them Indians."

15. Brandon Puttbrese remains one of my closest friends. This is the first instance of what has become a regular behavior of self-loathing.

16. In Second Grade, we were given personal journals into which we could write anything we wanted; it was to be our secret diary. I wrote comically pornographic stories about members of my class I didn't like.

17. During recess, I was called inside and chastised for writing "garbage". I asked my teacher why she read my secret diary. Her answer was detention.

18. In Second Grade, I stopped trusting authority figures.

19. In Second Grade, my parents took me to Disney World during the summer.

20. After going to Disney World, I decided authority figures that take you on vacations can not only be trusted but incredibly valuable.

21. Grades Three through Five were uneventful except for my growth of pubic hair.

22. In Sixth Grade, I kissed Elizabeth Brandt in the basement of my church. Shortly afterward, I washed out my mouth. This would not be my first moment of heresy.

23. In Seventh and Eighth Grade, I got really into The Grateful Dead and Phish. I now know, like children, middle-schoolers are quite stupid.

24. Grade Nine through Eleven were actually eventful as a girl saw my pubic hair.

25. Since the Second Grade, I have continually wrote comically pornographic stories and as a result Mary Brown still does not know my current Chicago address.

My Best Holiday Story

One of my most memorable experiences over the holidays happened at a cozy downtown bar where you find the daytime drunks and the evening idlers. Its a local dive that only serves beer in cans and pours it's mixers from a bottle (Your Coke is carbonated? Hey, lucky day!). Not only can you smoke indoors, but you're sort of expected to.

The decor falls within three categories:

Product Signage: Not sure what is on the beer/liquor menu? Look at the wall. With the abundance of tacky mirrors, half-lit neon lights, and stock car hood replicas you'll get a good idea of what libations are available. You might even find something they don't make anymore (Still brewing Rhinelander? I thought the Hodags took over the brewery.)

"Hey Rhinelander Area Visitor's Bureau, I have a scam you are going to love."

Things That Were Alive: The bar has never had a problem with mice or rats because there are enough taxidermic game animals to scare the shit out of anything not strong enough to fight a coyote. With foxes, deer and beavers (Local adage: "You always know what bar to find beaver at.") this place is a backwoods Field Museum.

Burnt Wood: No, not a fireplace, but a piece of wood that has been burnt in an "artistic sense". I don't know why it's locally fashionable to take a hot rod into wood, but this bar is a veritable treasury of pyrography through the ages.

But I digress, I was sitting at the bar waiting for my friend Marcus Lewis.

"An Incidental Minority composes Incidental Music."

The jukebox went silent; I could now hear the individual voices of the intoxicated crowd. Amidst it all, I heard a rasp that I will never forget. It was the old man next to me. The scrape of his voice sounded like he needed a tracheotomy about 25 years ago. His voice was the personification of sandpaper and cigarettes forcibly enjoined.

Lets try to recreate his voice. Sit in a comfortable chair. Now, growl in the lowest tone you possibly can. No, even lower. Ease all constriction of your vocal cords and let the pliable tissue of your larynx sit absolutely still.

Okay, take a steak knife and shred your trachea. Not your throat, silly; that would kill you. Just cut up the talking part. A few decades of smoking could pull this off, but a decent amount of inner-throat stabbing will work in a pinch.

Now that you've serrated your voice-box, your speech is probably close to the harrowing cacophony of syllabic grunts I had to hear from this guy.

But I, yet again, digress, the old man sitting to my left had two beers in front of him. Both were open and both were in use. I had an inclination that the woman next to him was his wife, but wasn't sure.

After I saw the pure disgust towards him in her eyes and words, I was assured they were married. That is just how married people talk; gazes of disappointment and liberal amounts of unrequited staring that mostly involve the question: "Why?".

After his apparent spouse left, I heard his abrasive voice:

"Gimme a shot of Wild Turkey...I don't wanna feel feelings anymore."

Afterwards he took a strong breath, held it and let it go slowly. Even when he received his shot, he sat and stared at it for a while; almost like he didn't want to take it. He knew how this snap of liquor would pickle his liver, numb his mind from reality, make him stumble home.

After much consternation, he swallowed it down quickly, picked up his coat and headed toward the door. As he was putting on his hat and gloves he exclaimed:

"I can't wait until I'm dead and outta this goddamn hell."

That was the last night I spent in my hometown.