Road Trip Randy's Midwest and Rust Belt Report

Road Trip Randy here with another report from the road. 

First, a word of warning. 

DON'T EAT a GIANT BURRITO HALF WAY THROUGH YOUR DAY'S DRIVE. 

Billboard Beat

I know y'all want the scoop on the billboard sitch along I-90 from NY to Illinois. Here's the deal. Billboards for fireworks, adult stores and attorneys are going strong, but I have to give a special shout out to Team Jesus because the Jesus Billboard Game is fierce! My personal favorite: "Jesus was rich." Guess those sandals were Birkenstocks! 

Toledo Teaser 

Sometimes you get so tired driving that you don't reach your intended destination and you stop over night in Toledo. Then you may get up in the morning much earlier than your wife and son and read the Toledo City Pages for something to do. You may then find out that Toledo has the BIGGEST MURAL IN THE COUNTRY and you want to see it and suggest to your wife that you go see it before heading out but your wife JUST WANTS TO GET HOME so you don't do that this trip. Also, you can get pizza for grownups in Toledo. 

Highway Yays and Nays

Yay -  Illinois tourism efforts. Shout out to non-metropolitan Illinois for their promotional efforts.  Take Ottawa,Illinois. Some people would say Ottawa, IL is in the middle of nowhere. But Ottawa isn't having that! In an epic branding clap back, they are calling their city "The Middle of Everywhere." While you really have to stretch your imagination (in fact, transform your whole worldview far eastward) to get it, that is surely a better approach than the city's other branding as "Radium City" or not trying at all. 

Nay - Quaker State Steak and Lubes.  Don't call yourself that. I just ate a giant burrito, that's playing with fire. 

Yay- The farmer in southwest Wisconsin who placed a UFO sculpture containing a dog driver in his field on the side of the road. You are an American hero. 

NAY- All other farmers on hundreds upon hundreds of miles of road providing NOTHING at all of value (unless you want to count the food on our tables). Would it kill you to commission a Sasquatch or giant picture of a farmer's daughter with a circle and line through it? Our eyes need food too! 

Yay-To the I-80 Truckstop. This is unquestionably the Crown Jewel of Corn Belt Travel. I mean, just look at that beautiful t-shirt, one of dozens of products that seem positively requisite after a day and a half of driving through fields. I would say about 50% of our total trip expenses derive here. 

  

                                                                                           

Berm Beat
Somewhere along the way there was a sign, which read, "Soft Berm." 

"What is 'soft berm'?" I asked my navigator, who is also my wife. I couldn't imagine "Berm" was a real thing, but I also couldn't imagine the local department of transportation would put made up words on signs (although I would wholeheartedly approve if they did). She looked it up. 

"'Berm' is the bit of grass next to the shoulder of the road. If it is soft, that means if you drive onto it, you might get stuck." 

Oh, I will avoid the soft berm then!" 

"Good idea." 

FAQ 

Q: Is there anywhere I can go to fulfill my insatiable thirst for knowledge about the history of RV production? 

A:  Yes, as a matter of fact, in Elkhart, Indiana, besides a Perkins, you will find the RV Hall of Fame and Museum. You will tell your wife, "I want to check that out," and she will start investigating directions to the closest bus station. 

A Final Word of Warning 

If you're going to map out your road trip on paper, stop and think for one second before you come up with something not even your son's elementary teacher would accept: 

                                         Who Needs GPS?                                          

Tumbling Into My Dream Job

In the spring of 2012, I landed my dream job of small town laundromat manager. Needless to say, I was pretty excited. Here is what I thought at the time: 

I've finally made it. Six years of higher education, 40 thousand dollars in student loans, hundreds of resumes produced and disseminated, dozens of interviews— seven years of building experience in my field. And now, finally, after all this— the light at the end of the tunnel. The dream turned reality. As of today, I am now—oh, it is almost too flipping exciting to announce (my heart is pounding a gazillion beats a second; someone call a doctor!)—the manager. of. a. small town. laundromat!

That's right: laundromat manager. Mission accomplished. Game over. Expectations for my life met, completely. All of my early promise fulfilled (the sports and clubs; Hebrew school and Odyssey of the Mind— all paid off, baby!): small town laundromat manager position acquired!!! 2012!!! This is how it's done!!!

Laundromat Manager! Yes! What now, people who said I'd never amount to anything?! Eat your hearts out! That dour-faced thirty-one-year-old man you see through the window folding some stranger's underwear poorly —that's me! Never thought I'd make it this far, did you? Well, that's right, I'm now at the top of a major three-person operation. Me plus two 60-year-old-women— plus a dozen or so washing machines— equals serious flippin' enterprise! Get me the editor of my college alumni magazine: I've got the front cover story for the next edition. '03 Graduate Tumbles into Dream Job at Laundromat: From Scholar to Sudser! I'm certain my mom's on the phone right now with everyone from our temple. My son, the laundromat manager: can you believe it? Rabbi, I'm so proud; I knew he'd do something amazing, but this—this just blows the mind. The head of a small town laundromat; we are truly blessed! Happy to deliver, mom. Happy to deliver.

My god, fate has truly smiled on me. This is a freaking dream, really— from handling strangers’ dirty underwear to finding myself responsible (without qualification) for the town’s mentally ill and homeless — there is nothing I don't love about this job. For half of my conscious hours a day, I get to perform the profoundly important work of washing, drying and folding undershirts. I'm like a human conveyer belt for clothing: out-freaking-standing! Finally, I can make a real contribution to humanity! I'm like a superhero with the mind-blowing power to hastily stuff several dozen garments into a laundry bag before the customer comes to pick it up. Just doing my duty!

Meanwhile, I get to inhale the intoxicating brew of human sweat, cotton and laundry detergent; help people find the start button on a drying machine; and feel the heavenly touch of lint in filters, like the tender fingers of aphrodite! Hello, paradise! And I get paid for this—a whole nine dollars an hour (double what I need to live in 2012). And at the end of the day, when my hands have cramped up from hours of folding, I can barely sit down from back pain, and my head is pounding from the vitriolic disputes of my two staff members— I can feel like I've really done something meaningful, transforming that crippling physical agony into an affirming reminder of the great work I've done (just like a marathon runner feels when he finishes a race, or a doctor whose spent the whole night saving someone's life). 

My dad wonders about my career and how I will ever buy a home? No worries, dad. I've found my career and my home (literally: I may have to sleep at the ‘mat soon with what I get paid). A Cinderella story, this is (mainly the part where Cinderella has to do exhausting, tedious domestic work). So, keep dreaming, folks. Success is right around the corner. With the right attitude, hard work and a cap full of luck, you too could end up starching and ironing filthy old, lab coats for some weird middle-aged man. You just have to believe.

Alumni Spotlight

Alumnus: Daniel Sennis
Year Graduated: 2003
Major: English
Extracurriculars: Drama Club, School Newspaper, Cross Country

AM: You’ve recently begun a new career. Can you tell us about your new job?

DS: Yeah, I work at a laundromat. I’m the manager.

AM: That’s incredible. How did that come about?

DS: I saw they were hiring and applied. There weren’t any other applicants.

AM: What’s it like to work as a laundromat manager?

DS: Tedious. We do linens for a hotel, and that takes up the vast majority of the time. We wrap the linens in this plastic wrap. Just bundle after bundle. And Sheila and Marge, my employees, they are just constantly arguing. Why did you do this? Why can’t you do that? It’s so irritating.

AM: Did you ever think you would find yourself working in this field?

DS: No. I don’t really understand what’s happening. I keep asking myself: how did this happen? Why am I here? Hey, can you guys stop calling me for donations. I make 9 dollars an hour.

AM: What are some of your fondest memories about college?

DS: Not working at a small town laundromat and still having hope for the future.

In This House We Believe

 My poem in Lake Affect Magazine (Spring/Summer 2023)

When Stevens Elementary Published My Haunting Childhood Lit

This is an excerpt from my forthcoming (hopefully) memoir A Portrait of the Doofus as a Young Man

I published my first book when I was 8. Entitled Dinosaurs (Jan. 1989), this illustrated debut was published by Stevens Super Stars Publishing Company. Dinosaurs masquerades as a straightforward informative text about dinosaur facts but on the second to last page the tone changes drastically. “They didn’t have anything to eat,” is all that is written and underneath those haunting words is a giant empty circle. Then the book returns to harmless fact on the last page. If only Franz Kafka, who said “we ought only to read the kind of books that wound us,” was around to read Dinosaurs. Naturally, Stevens Super Stars Publishing company wanted more from me after that and I was contracted to write two more books.

The first was Mrs. Reed, about a woman with a pig who finds twin cats in New York City and tries without success to find their owner. Continuing to explore mortality as I’d done in Dinosaurs, by the end, everyone–animal and human alike–are dead. First Loon, then the cats (never having been reunited with their owner, despite the ad Mrs. Reed places in the paper) and then Mrs. Reed herself. Everyone, everything gone—poof! Mrs. Reed, a woodwind being blown into by this author to sound the song, Carpe diem, readers! For you too may too not find the owners of the lost cats.

The last book was My Grandma Mary’s Catfish (June 1990). This way my first foray into the adventure story. Grandma Mary sets about on a mission to save a catfish from a shark after she becomes reunited with the turtle her father had kicked out of the house and the turtle tells her of the catfish’s situation. On her journey, Grandma Mary uses the resources she has packed to survive encounters with a seal who is “acting wild,” a homicidal whale and a drowning seahorse. At the end, Grandma Mary saves a goldfish from a shark and feels she has succeeded, showing not that the rising star of Stevens Super Star Publishing Company failed to notice that he had accidentally changed the type of fish central to the plot and title of the book but that he has masterfully manipulated the narrative to convey the horrors of mental illness à la A Beautiful Mind: Grandma Mary doesn’t notice the difference because she is of course suffering from Alzheimers. 

Publishing prose may have been my bread and butter but poetry was my jam. There was nothing to me like grabbing a pencil and one of my parent’s legal pads and filling the page with 6 or so obscenely-large scrawled lines in AABBCCDD rhyme scheme. I covered all of the big subjects: Love, Peace, the Earth. I also covered The Cafeteria, A Can, Cub Scouts, Crime, The Toad, The Pencil, Soccer, Baseball, and The Circus. When it came to matching words of the same sound, even when those words didn’t convey much of anything about the subject, I was unmatched.

Best Friend

My best friends name is Willy.
We always play alot.
We always play soccer.
He’s not much of a talker.
We sometimes jog with his sister.
We rearly play twister.
That’s all I have to tell
and I hope I told it well.

Did I need to have a line where I lied about Willy’s social disposition? Or a line discussing what we did not play Yes. Because the ends (which need to rhyme) justify the bends.

My most memorable poem, however was my free verse masterpiece, A Penny, written for everyone who has felt like the lowest form of currency.

A Penny

A penny is not many
A penny is something but not much.
A penny with a president sitting on top.
so little in ways.
so big in others.
A penny is real special.

Not thinking about pennies the same way now, are you, reader? Boom! Poetry-ed!

New Book Out Now!

Central North American News: Reporting on the Region Betwixt Canada and Mexico. 

                    Common Sennis Press, $12.00

For fans of absurdity, satire and the written word comes a book full of articles I've written over the years for Central North American News, the only news site to focus specifically on the region betwixt Canada and Mexico. With 50 some odd articles and editorials on such crucial events as Man Can't Eat Just One Canned Green Bean, Jailed Comedian Goes on Month Long Humor Strike and Librarian Downright Whimsical, you'd be a BIG DUMB UGLY UNWASHED JERK not to want to get yourself a copy. 

 Buy Now!

From the preface: 

Central North American News was a product of necessity. In 2014, there was barely any reporting being done on Central North America. The best you could find were some scholarly articles in anthropology journals, like: “Who Dat? An exploration of the people living below Canada but above Mexico” and and the 5000 word write-up in Southern North America Times on “The Third Best Region in North America.”

Someone needed to report on this vastly overlooked region of North America. How else would we know which elementary schoolers were being shot up by Ar-15s and what new levels of racism could be reached in modern society. I, Daniel Sennis, found as a newborn in a newspaper box, costing my bewildered adopted parents 50 cents for purchase, would have to be the one to step up. Central North America needed me.

Purchase the definitive guide to the last decade of life above Mexico but below Canada! Buy Here!

Fall Poem 2.0

Fall is coming
I can sense it in the 

cooling of the air 

and in the falling of 

children’s faces.

In fall the sun

is super shady,
always coming
and going,
slinking behind
the clouds,
leaving work earlier
and earlier each day.

The autumn rain reminds

 us of the sorrows of 

life and Guns and Roses.
The wind whispers: 

Modern Family Season 

Premiere Thursday Night!

In fall, the earth provides
a splendid harvest:
squash, pumpkins,
Pumpkin Spice Lattes,
candy corn, hot dogs, 

"Maize."

Fall spells trouble
for leaves on trees
whose life is senselessly
sucked short while we say,
"oooo, how pretty!"
What if it was a small child
whose face turned yellow,
brown, orange: would we think
that was pretty? (Probably).

Fall is spooky:
Horrifying monsters creep 

forth from their layers* 

emitting horrifying screeches

some call campaign speeches.

The male populous, 

on Sundays receives 

a hypnotizing signal from 

beyond compelling them 

to stare for hours at bizarre, 

imbecilic creatures who smash 

into one another in a fevered
hunt for pig flesh.

Soon fall will dim and 

winter will come hither.
We’ll replace our rakes
with hypotherrmic shakes.
But until then, let our apples
bake, crisp and ferment.
And let us dive headless-long into
the mortally wounded
mounds of autumnal merriment.


*also known as tax shelters

Do You Even Feminist, Bro? (Part II: Bro-ching the Feminist Reader Life)

Click here to read part I of this series first.

Last fall I took myself to task for being the Betty Fraud-an of feminism. Someone wanting to do the minimum amount of work for gender equity while getting the maximum amount of recognition. A man, if you will. At the time I made a pledge to change my behavior when it came to my reading life. I vowed to read 3 women for every man to compensate for the massive male writer broverflow that I've been drowning in since Dr. Seuss hamsplained culinary exploration to me in the crib to when the ghosts of white men past haunted my secondary and college classrooms and the allusions of this sentence. 

And now it's April, and all I can say is....Patriarchy, cower before me! The Yellow Wallpaper is coming down... only The Color Purple will cover these walls from now on. Look under your chairs, ladies...because there is a key for A Room of Your Own!  In the past 6 months, I've read 7 books by women and only 2 books by men! We can call it, Gloria! The phallus has fallen. For whom does the bell toll ,Earnie? It tolls for thee-- more like Old Man and the See Ya! 

My Hericulum 

1. Parable of the Sower by Octavia Butler

.  This is a classic of the sci-fi genre about a future society in which environmental, social and economic factors have led to societal collapse. Lauren Olamina, the narrator of the story, is a teenager who suffers from extreme empathy for others. Lauren is not satisfied with the complacency around her and begins to formulate a new religion/philosophy to move humanity forward. This book has great writing, a gripping plot and fascinating ideas which really speak to the issues we are going through as a society. 

2. The Death Spiral by Sarah Giragosian.

Sarah Giragosian is a poet and professor from my former home--the Albany, NY area. I first had the pleasure of experiencing her writing at Caffè Lena in Saratoga Springs. The Death Spiral is an imaginative and beautiful collection of poems. With masterful imagery, the poet transports us through time and the natural world and in doing so invites us to reimagine human experience in fresh new ways. This is definitely a collection to which I will return.  3.Educated by Tara Westover This is the memoir of a history scholar who grew up under the Mormon fundamentalist rule of her mentally ill father and abusive brother. Westover somehow fights off the inner doubts instilled by her family to get into college and become educated. This book also allows us to better understand the sort of anti-government (and anti-medical establishment) zealotry that has been such a disturbing force in politics recently.

4. Habibi by Naomi Shihab Nye. This is a Young Adult novel about a 14-year-old Liyana whose Palestinian American father moves the family to Israel to experience life where he grew up. This is delightful and beautiful book. Nye really brings out the characters and setting with her poetic language. We also hear the perspective of Palestinians in Israel which the United States Media, cultural institutions and Government has worked hard to suppress. 5. The Bean Trees by Barbara Kingsolver. This is the story of Taylor Greer, told by Taylor, of how she leaves Kentucky to find herself, has an abused baby thrust in to her care, and how she brings said baby (who she names Turtle) on the road and starts a new life in Arizona with the assistance of women there. Taylor is a delightfully witty narrator and the story is beautifully written and compelling. The story shows the challenges of women in our society and the power of female bonds to help women get through those challenges. 6. Heir to a Glimmering World by Cynthia Ozick This is the story of Rose Meadows, a teenager coming into adulthood in the 1930s. Rose takes a job with an eccentric Jewish refugee family and moves with them to Queens. The family are quite strange and there is much mysterious about what is going on with them that Rose is trying to figure out. Now I have confess I didn't finish this book. The writing is amazing. The mystery was intriguing. But I found I needed some more plot momentum at the moment. 7. American Street by Ibi Zoboi. This is the story of a Haitian teen named Fabiola who comes to live with her aunt and cousins in Detroit. Her mother is also supposed to come, but is detained by ICE when they arrive. Fabiola attempts to adapt to this new life without her mom while trying to figure out how to get her mom out of detention. She seeks the help of spirits in her efforts. This is a fascinating and moving book which depicts the reality and beauty of inner city life through a magical and poetic lens. This is an extraordinary work of literature.

Of course, it hasn't been all bunnies and Brontes, hugs and Hurstons. There was the e-mail I wrote in to the lady hosts of a book podcast in which I argued against a point they made (which upon further HEflection was just me misunderstanding what they were saying to begin with). Not only did I argue with these great ladies over a point they did not make but I used my dislike of a female protagonist as my support for my point. Clearly, I'm still in need of more self-browth. But by Gloria, I'm getting there! My bookshelves are no longer such a men-agerie; I've started to think the purpose of enlightenment may not, in fact, be proving how awesome I am; and that I may, come to think of it, not always be that damn awesome when it comes to feminism. And perhaps--this is a stretch,I know--the recognition for feminist accomplishment should go to, umm, women. And, yes, I did e-mail the hosts of that show, Reading Glasses--which is a great podcast--to apologize. So, I guess you could say, I'm finally on the right Plath. Stay tuned for further adventures in putting my eyeballs where my mouth is!

Do you even feminist, bro?

Lately, I've been having to ask myself some important questions. If it's "Shredded Wheat," why has the wheat yet to be"shredded" Shouldn't it be "Shreddable Wheat"? Or "Wheat Bales". And: can you find the mechanical nose hair trimmers anymore? Because I can't seem to find them and I suspect it's a conspiracy by Big Razor. And, lastly this one---that always comes to me in the form of a scolding Gloria Steinem: do you even feminist, bro? Because I talk a big game. But am I the real deal, or do I just want to have my patriarchal cake (one of your more dense and sour desserts) and to eat it too. Upon examination of at least certain aspects of my life (namely, my cultural consumption proclivities), I'm what feminist scholars call a real lemon cake eater. 

I'm not hopeless by any means. I can name great women authors, musicians, historians and screenwriters. I'm just not as off the hook as I like to pretend because my "go tos" remain "bro tos."  And "that's just what I happen to like" is not the full story there. I know I have consumed way more things by dudes and I know that society has repped those dudes way more than it has repped women. 

Just think about your high school English reading. 

Books being repped:

Dudes: Gatsby, Catcher in the Rye, Old Man and the Sea, Great Expectations, Scarlet Letter, A Separate Peace, Lord of the Flies, Shakespeare (24/7), Huck Finn, 1984, Of Mice and Men, Animal Farm, Fahrenheit 451, The Things They Carried

Women: To Kill a Mockingbird, Jayne Eyre, Speak 

That's SO lemon cake. 

And my personal bookshelf would have a real future as the museum exhibit: 50 Shades of Phillip Roth: A Literary Look at Late 20th Century Masculine Angst. 

 Poor Louisa May Alcott finds herself inexplicably in line to get Sylvester Stalone's autograph.

As my vocal chord surgeon said ironically: talk is cheap. But feminism, anti-racism--these things take effort and discomfort--everything the patriarchy tried to cure--for half the population. 

But -with quite a bit of pushing from women (note: at first I had not thought to give women credit for helping me make this change--a real citrus move!) as a small step, I'm committing for the near future to read 3 books by women for every one I read by a dude. I also plan on listening to more lady podcasts and finding more movies and TV written and directed by women. And though my instinct is to want it, I won't even expect praise for doing what's right, damn it all! 

Further Reading (written by me)

Proud Male Feminist Reads One Book by Woman

Lemon Lips' Hot Picks

Music: Ani Difranco, Rilo Kiley, Fiona Apple, Nellie McKay, The Double Clicks (Non-binary and female siblings), Lauren Hill, Cat Power, Aimee Mann, Sammus, Lex the Lexicon Artist 

Books:
Beloved by Toni Morrison
The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy
The Hate U Give by Angie Thomas
The House on Mango Street by Sandra Cisneros
Speak by Laurie Halse Anderson
The Puttermesser Papers by Cynthia Ozyick
Because It's Bitter and Because It's My Heart by Joyce Carol Oates

Podcasts: The Last Archive, Nerdette, Fresh Air, The Sarah Silverman Podcast

Comedians: Sarah Silverman, Maria Bamford, Hannah Gadsby

TV: Tina Fey productions, Kim's Convenience, Shrill, Broad City

TV News: Democracy Now 

Movies: Real Women Have Curves, Juno, Bridget Jones Diary, Whip It 

Ten Things as Useful as This Internet Argument

1. Calling an ex to see how things are going lately.

2. Thinking about how I could have scored better on the SATs. Stupid analogies!

3. Planning to eat only half of that pint of Cherry Garcia in the freezer.

4. Teaching Bleak House to my neighbor's dog. 

5. Teaching Bleak House to my 10th graders.

6. Waiting for Kevin Smith to make another good movie. 

7. Any diet your Aunt Karen has tried.

8. Trying to Not find those "Slow Children" caution signs funny every time I see one.

9. Trying to open a Capri Sun. 

10. Reducing gun violence without gun control. (That's right, Larry, this sarcastic list of things as useful as arguing with you on the internet is actually a brilliant ruse to ARGUE WITH YOU ON THE INTERNET MORE. And you thought I was just being a rational person--ha, jokes on YOU. And I can't wait to see your RIDICULOUS response so we can continue arguing until this ends in a perfectly satisfying and productive way-- right after I get my six-year-old to finish all of his vegetables and I get a straight answer from my insurance company about why this necessary medical expense isn't being covered! 

A Betting Clerk is The Life For Me (video)

 

Little Spouse on the Prairie

 The advertisement read: 

GREAT OPPORTUNITIES IN IOWA!

TALL, BLONDE PEOPLE

A SURPRISING AMOUNT OF MEXICAN RESTAURANTS

A TACO PIZZA TOPPED WITH DORITOS

A ROOM AT YOUR IN-LAWS 

So we hitched up the '13 Honda Wagon, loaded her with a sufficient supply of cheddar popcorn and wafer bites, and said so long to our charmed life of foldable pizza slices and Woody Allen controversies. We were headed west. Where people with enough pluck could eek out an existence, hard yet satisfying, provided their in-laws stocked their shelves with enough deli meats and breakfast cereals. 

     Arriving on the prairie (now with carpeting!)

Life on the plains wasn't easy. You had people calling "soda" "pop" and "bags" "sacks." Thanks to that jerk Paul Bunyan, there was not a lot of shade on the hot days and you could find yourself parked in a sliver of shade on the side of the road across from someone's house desperately hoping they didn't see you completely cover yourself in the frozen custard that had missed your mouth. 

And though the stories of attacks by native Iowans are much exaggerated to reinforce East Coast Supremacy, they did happen on occasion and when they did, they were not pretty. You may, say, go to the grocery store, and while looking for some croutons, a native Iowan would sneak up and ask you whether you were making a salad and then bombard you with his salad preferences. While driving by a farm, you might have a farmer shoot you a two finger salute--a gesture so shockingly friendly, an unprepared eastern driver may veer off the road in surprise. 

Even a Native Iowan Can Find Life on the Prairie Difficult. Seen here having to read PRINT MEDIA (😮) when the power went out for half an hour! 

But worst of all were the prairie diseases. Like the recent outbreak of Firework Fever that swept over the people of Mason City. Morning, noon, night--whether you could actually see the fireworks or not or whether the town had a very expensive, high quality professional show you could appreciate instead--victims of Firework Fever could not stop firing from their seemingly inexhaustible stockpiles as if their hospital-visits-in-the-making were the last line of defense against Al Queda. This outbreak seems to have been spread by a certain 10 foot gorilla outside the Iowa Fireworks, Inc. tent. Then you had to look out for the local Male-aria, which can drive you to cut off the sleeves of your shirt, want to ride a motorcycle without a helmet and guzzle mountain dew by the barrel. In some extreme cases, this could even lead to getting a giant tattoo of Marshall "Eminem" Mathers, or "the real slim shady" flipping the bird--on your back. 

It's Going to Take More Than This Prairie Mountain to Bring Me Down! I'm from the Adirondacks! 

Entertainment was also limited on the prairie. Besides a 4,870,000 square foot mall containing 4 floors of stores, an amusement park and hotels in Minneapolis; museums, art galleries, lakes and botanical gardens, there was practically nothing to do. So people will gather around their fireplace TV screensaver and tell tales of prairie legends. Like the man who ate so many slices of taco pizza he could no longer fit in his '13 Honda Wagon. Or the woman who shopped at all of the Targets in the greater Minneapolis area before you could say you betcha I have a Red Card two times. (or the tale of Daniel Funyan, Substitute Teacher of the Great Plains, featured below). 

Shopping at the local General store...being inexplicably overrun by Monarch butterflies. 

                 Sometimes the efforts to entertain oneself on the prairie become truly desperate! 

Life on the prairie was extremely trying. We only did get a few hours in the Mall of America and I nearly died from exhaustion walking from the Lego Store to Minnesot-ah, the home of moose coasters and You Betcha! hoodies. We only tried one Mexican restaurant though we heard such good things about The Happy Donkey in Mason City. We nearly died again when we mistakenly tried to eat midwestern bagel and a small bout with local male-aria almost lead to an incident with a 2 liter of "Hillbilly Holler," a generic Mountain Dew from the local grocery store. Plus, who knew "prairie" had two "i's"--how is anyone supposed to spell that!  But we are back at last--resting easy now that saltwater taffy, New Yorker cartoons and pissed off drivers are well within reach. 

Seen shopping at Minnesot-ah! at Mall of America. 

A Classic Prairie Tall Tale 

Daniel Funyan, Substitute Teacher of the Great Plains

A long time ago there lived a man named Daniel Funyan who was known throughout the land for his miraculous substitute teaching. Whenever a teacher got sick, Daniel mosied on over to the one-room school house, and before he was done, his students were exponentially smarter, fearing God like no one feared him before- and the welts on their hands were bigger than anyone had ever seen. One day, Ms. Candy Navian suddenly caught the gopher fever that had been plaguing the Dakota Territory. This spelled trouble, as Navian's students were the meanest, mangiest and most grasshopper-lovin' students on the plains. The last sub, Mr. Finn Lander ran home screaming after the students cut the straps on his overalls, then took his government land deed, whited out his name, and wrote in Sitting Bull.

But Daniel Funyan was not one to be bested by the youngins!

When he entered the room, there was chaos. One boy was sitting on another boy's head and farting to the tune of "Oh, Susanna." Two girls were flinging the bible across the room like a frisbee. The class prairie dog was eating a crying girl's Swedish meatballs. But when students noticed Daniel, standing 10 feet tall and another 10 feet wide, with ears like pumpkins and a ruler several meters long ready for inflicting punishment, they hushed up. "Get in your seats," his voiced boomed, causing the apple on the teacher's desk to explode all over the students. And all of the students and even the prairie dog did as were asked

By the end of the day, the students could read and write in not only English, but Greek, Latin, Portuguese and Swahili. They could name all 50 territories and knew several dozen derogatory terms for Native Americans. Before leaving, the children insisted that they wanted even more book learnin' and to go out and till the mother flippin' heck out of the land till their hands cramped shut and had to be sawed off. Their trousers were soaked from fearing God so much.

The next day, knowing Ms. Navian was still sick, Daniel headed in to school. But when he got there, there was a man setting up some kind of new-fangled contraption in front of the class.

"What is that?" He shouted, causing several students to fall out of their seats.

"This here. This is a Smartboard," the man said. "It's a new device that will teach students when teachers are out. Runs on steam."

"What? Steam can't teach students; I challenge this "Smartboard" to a teach-off."

All of the pioneers came to watch the great face-off between Daniel Funyan and the magical board. On one side the SmartBoard was teaching bible stories using audio, clip art and text. On the other Daniel was dressed up like Abraham and, in a dramatic rendition of the bible story, was threatening to kill Isaac (the boy who previously had been threatened with another boy's farts) with his infamous ruler. The students eyes darted back and forth between the two spectacles, but in the end, the kids watched and learned from Daniel. Everyone cheered for Daniel Funyan, the greatest education temp in all of the territory.

However, the next day, the Smartboard technician showed students Minesweeper, and the day of the Great Plains Substitute was done. Daniel disappeared after that, but every now and then someone would spot him trying to rapidly increase the pressure inside the Steam Smartboard.

The End

Summer is Gross (A Poem)

Summer--not just every 
Hollywood teen protagonist's dream girl.
It is also the most loathsome
season for those of us who loath sun.
Because our lack of melanin
makes us feel solar exposure
will bring us that much closer to
done with and over.
Or because
we find humidity
the height of
stupidity.
Or because we
rightly perceive
the sun’s intensity as
cosmic hostility.
The sun quite clearly
picking on me,
like my high school
bully, whose name was
no joke 
Cook.

At least Cook only pushed me in
lockers and called me names.
The sun poisoned me.
In eighth grade, as if
I didn't already burn enough 
with the embarrassment
of early adolescence,
on a camping trip, the sun
wantonly
attacked me with its
ultra violent rays
until I was sick for days.

Some are confused.
Likely sun-boozed.
They revel in the rays.
Bask in the burn.
Get nude in Nantucket.
They are not embarrassed to say things
like, “I’m going to New Jersey.”
They ‘lay out’ on blankets
to be cooked like so many
Fourth of July Franks.
Wearing their tan
like some sort of crown
as if soaking up what
beams on down
makes you
a hero and not a
hash brown.

Don’t these wieners know
that a hot day is
best countenanced
inside a frigid, air-conditioned apartment,
shades drawn, watching
a National Geographic special
on Antarctica.
Or better yet the feeling of summer
perceived as a distant memory
on a crisp, October stroll.
The sun back to its rightful place.

Nowhere near us.

But maybe these Apollogists
are just keen to the
sticky truth that the hot
mess outside of us is not the problem.
That it is really a lack of
wherewithal
why we’re with fall.
That perhaps the raw
power of sunbeams
when absorbed through
a substantial
slathering of
SPF 5000
could make us heartier.
More robust.
More likely to
tell the waiter, “No, I did not
ask for a Diet Coke. I’d like
you to bring me a regular Coke
as soon as that's convenient.”

Nah.
They
simply cannot accept
the objective,
indisputable truth that
summer is gross. 

Potential Titles for My Pandemic Memoir

1. Cover Me, I'm Going In: How we Faced the Breathtaking Changes to the Fabric of Our Lives. 

2. The Day the Purell Stopped: An Unsanatized Account of Life During the Pandemic.

3. An Uberable Feast

4. Eat, Pray, Shove: Finding Tranquility and Toilet Paper during the Pandemic. 

5. Another Bullshit Night on Suck Sofa.

6. If a Teacher Talks on Zoom, Does He Make a Sound? Teaching during the pandemic.

7. Fear and Loathing in My Living Room, Bathroom, Kitchen and Bedroom.  

8. A Really Long Ass Time to Kill, or How I watched Hamilton 10 times in 5 weeks. 

9. A Tale of Two Guineas: How Mabel and Douglas Lifted Our Chins and Each Other's During the Pandemic

10. Close Encounters of the Worst Kind: How it Became Apparent that Alien Invasion is Preferable to Sharing the Planet with the Horrible Life Forms Residing in Our Own Neighborhoods.

© Daniel Sennis 2021. All rights reserved.

This Spring Day (A Poem)

Super Strider Poem Video

Here is me reading my poem "Super Strider" from my book O Conman My Conman: Sick Rhymes for Sick Times. 

The Teddy Graham Miracle (An Inspiring Tale for Dark Times)

These are dark times. Metaphorically, and literally as I sit here writing at 4:30 a.m. But if John Krasinski has taught us anything, it is that we need to appreciate the good that is out there too. The following story could only be described as a certified Catholic miracle (though the characters in question are Jewish, Jewishy and Iowa Neutral).

The Teddy Graham Miracle 

(the box speaks for itself)

Like his father, Dan Jr. (not his real name. It's actually Dan Sr. Dan Jr. is my dad) seeks solace in food items of the sweet variety. You can catch him licking ketchup off his plate at dinner time or absconding to his pillow fort with hot chocolate packets. So yesterday at snack time (which lately has been any time mommy and daddy aren't paying attention), he took down the box of chocolate Teddy Grahams and brought them over to the table. This time we were around so we told him he could pour himself a bowl (as opposed to eating the entire box--which is, of course wrong to do unless you are over 35). So he begrudgingly did as was asked. The box got taken away.

"This isn't enough!" he whined. Daddy silently agreed.

"Yes, it is, " mommy says. "See, what's a serving? A serving is 24. Count them."

So Dan Sr. begins counting. One by one. 6, 7, 8.  12, 13, 14. He's up to like 16 when daddy realizes this might be exact and starts to get excited.

"Woah. Could there be 24 there?"

19, 20, 21.

"I think there is---" Mommy gives daddy a look like, you good over there? .

22, 23-

Holy sh$%!

24, exact! There is a god!

"It's still not enough," Dan Sr. whines.

So count your blessings, because they might be an exact serving size!*





*Also, coincidentally, 24.

PanDUMBic

A pancake would be great.
A pan pizza I'd decimate.
I'd gladly take in a panorama
of Panama or Alabama.
A panapoly of pansies would be lovely.
I'd die happy if a panda hugged me.
My pancreas is useful I'm told.
But this pandemic? Growing old.

© Daniel Sennis 2021. All Rights Reserved.

The Origin of Daniel Sennis

In my last entry, I discussed the new movie, Social Suicide which explains part of this blog's beginnings. But there is another tale that needs to be told about this blog. One filled with Media Moguls, amazing super powers, pizza sauce and a girl by the name of Ivana Betterman.

It started with a book. The Huffington Post Complete Guide to Blogging,which I found in the bargain bin at my local bookstore and thought, though I had absolutely no interest in blogging...$3...what a steal!

That night, I was so excited--I read most of the three page introduction before carelessly throwing the book in the trash. I knew I had to find out more about blogging, and how I could use it to distract myself from the important things in life.

First, I tried sending Ms. Huffington an e-vite to my upcoming Charlie's Angels themed Birthday party, but no such luck.

Then fortune intervened. I heard that Ms. Huffington was going to be attending one of those mean-spirited rich people bring-an-idiot parties at the end of the week. I knew that if I could get close enough to one of the party guests, I would surely get an invite.

The first time I got a chance to talk to Arianna was when she was handing me out first prize at the end of the night. I took the opportunity to tell Ms. Huffington how much I desired to be a blogger just like her. She laughed for a while.

“Oh, you’re serious.”

She then looked at me pityingly. Then she bit me. She took my hand and bit it as hard as she could.

“Ow!” I screamed. “What was that for?”

“You’ll see, Daniel Sennis.”

“My name isn’t Daniel Sennis!" I shouted as I ran crying out the door, trophy in hand.

That night, I wasn’t feeling very well.

“What’s the matter?” asked my girlfriend.

"Ever since Arianna Huffington bit me as hard as she could at the Idiot Party, I haven't been feeling very good. I'm going to lie down.”

Lying on the couch, I was bombarded with images of blogger dashboards, Google image searches, templates, RSS feeds, Arianna Huffington going in for the bite.

"What's happening to me?" I screamed.

Then my Huffington bite glowed red and I heard Arianna’s accented voice:

"It's time, Daniel Sennis. Blog your huge blogger butt off. Huffington out."

The blog came naturally due to new-found powers: enhanced word play ability (needed for the obligatory play-on-words blog title); super touch typing speed (over 35 wpm); and most importantly, Super Human self-importance.

The next day, my girlfriend, Ivana Betterman, asked me why I wasn't at work. My hair was disheveled and I had pizza sauce all over my face.

"I'm a blogger now. This is my work."

"Yeah, well, tell me how that works out for you. 

"You're leaving me?"

"Yes, you have shown me that I really need to figure out who Betterman is."

The next day Buster, the disabled Orangutan moved in, and the rest is movie history.

Aaron Dorkin to Direct Movie About My Blog!

Excited to announce that the critically acclaimed filmmaker Aaron Dorkin will be making a movie of the controversial founding of this blog entitled Social Suicide. Starring Jesse Ears'n'berg, the movie chronicles the legal battle between an emotionally unstable nutty bar-addicted blogger (me) and my roommate at Disney University, Buster, a mentally disabled Orangutan -- who claims I stole his idea for the blog.  Tensions rise, as Buster and I enter Judge Judy's court to fight over the blog's considerable investment money -- $100 dollars raised on Kickstarter from a mysterious donor named "Love Dad." I won't give too much away, besides that someone goes home with a ton of bananas.*  Not only is Social Suicide a legal drama of the high caliber of such Oscar worthy films as Legally Blonde 2  and Liar Liar, it is also a chronicle of a historic website that forever revolutionized social relations.** Don't miss Social Suicide. Hannukah 2015.

       Buster the mentally disabled Orangutan, played by Jimmy the Orangutan*** in Social Suicide


*Spoiler alert. It isn't Buster.
**After the site's founding, people have pretty much given up on the belief that learning about other people is worthwhile and have begun isolating themselves socially.
*** Jimmy, who is not a mentally disabled Orangutan himself, is up for an academy award for his ingenius portrayal of a mentally disabled primate .

The Curse of Ken Rizzo

The wallet lay atop a shelf in the bedroom closet. Wyler and his wife Lola were nearly done cleaning out their apartment; Wyler was making sure the couple hadn’t missed anything from the bedroom when he found the chestnut bifold. What the? He opened it, and facing him was a photo ID of Ken Rizzo, the former tenant of their soon-to-be former apartment.

 "Check this out,” Wyler shouted to Lola.
  Weird,” Lola said, upon seeing the mysterious object.
“Think we should try to get it back to him.”
 “It’s been a year and a half, I don’t think he needs it.”
“Hey, I need a new wallet!”
 "Take it!”

Wyler tossed the licence, credit cards, and Auto Zone reward card into the garbage. The garbage started ablaze, but Wyler was too busy rejoicing in his luck to notice. He sashayed around the living room, wallet raised like a flag in his right hand. "Look at me, with my new wallet! See how fancy!" .

"Wow, you're really fancy," his wife said. "Why don't you get your fancy ass back to work, seeing as how we're trying to move."

"Right."

Behind Wyler, back in the unnoticed roaring garbage can flame, an image of a young man bearing a devilish smile appeared just for a moment and then disappeared.

Wyler and his wife hadn’t known anything about Ken Rizzo, really, besides that he didn’t tell the former landlords when things were broken and was reputed to be heavily into dark magic.

The day after their move to the new apartment, Wyler and his wife pulled up to a Dunkin Donuts drive through window.

"That will be 12. 66," the cashier announced. Wyler handed over his debit card, more than ready to shove a double chocolate doughnut down his gullet.
"This card only has six dollars left on it," said the cashier.
 "What?  There must be some mistake."
"Maybe you’re cursed,"the cashier offered.
"Maybe you are!" Wyler screamed before squealing out of the parking lot, dismayed and donutless. As he drove, he heard a mysterious cackle.

"Did you hear that? Wyler asked his wife.
"Hear what?"
"The mysterious cackle"
"I thought that was you."
"Why would I cackle mysteriously?"
"I don't know why you do the things you do. It was probably just the wind. You're hearing things because you're in double chocolate doughnut withdrawal."

The day after the doughnut incident, Wyler, his wife, and their 15-month-old  became sick.
"Ugg," said Wyler
"Ugg." exclaimed Wyler's wife.
"Da da?" exclaimed the baby, sickly.
 I feel awful
 Me too.
 Bah!

 Wyler called  Dr. Ben Mahlprekteson.

“Doc, I’m real sick like Yeah. Yeah. No, I don’t think I’m cursed. Yeah, I know the dark arts are nothing to  mess with, but, OK, OK. I will. Bye.”

“Says it’s a cold.”

That evening the broke, sickly couple attempted to do a load of laundry in their new washing machine.

"I can't wait to use this new machine!" Lola exclaimed.

 Wyler and Lola were reading in the bedroom (Wyler,"The Monkey's Paw"; Lola, So Your Husband is an Idiot) when they heard gushing in the kitchen.Gush gush gush. 

"That can’t be good," Wyler said.

Wyler rushed to the kitchen and almost slipped on the wet floor; "Shut off the washer," came the cry of a distressed Lola from the bedroom. Within minutes, the entire kitchen floor was flooded.

The next day the plumber came to check out the situation.

"Nothing wrong here. Seems to me like this is just an old-fashioned wallet-based curse"

"Ken Rizzo! Wyler and his wife shouted at once!"

"Yup. Sounds like Rizzo Alright."

"Wait, you know Ken Rizzo?"

"Sure I do. He was my apprentice, before he became You Know Whose apprentice.

"The Baker's?" Wyler inquired. The plumber took a hard look at Wyler.

"Let me tell you, you better deal with this, or it's going to get worse."

"Worse than not getting to eat my doughnut?" Wyler asked.

"Well, how would you like your Netflix service interrupted."

"For how long?"

"A week."

  Wyler gasped; his wife fainted. The baby cried.

"The curse could do that?" Wyler said when he regained his composure.

"The curse will do that if you don't find a counter spell, and soon."

"How the hell are we going to do that?"

"Not my problem. Hey, do you think it's alright that I parked in front of that Wiccan shop next door?

The plumber left, and Wyler was left to ponder what to do.

"Oh, what are we gonna do?" Wyler moaned, crashing down on the couch. He heard the apartment door shut.

"Lola?"

Ten minutes later, the apartment door opened and Lola came into he living room.

"Ook," said the baby, pointing to a book in Lola's hand.

"Here you go, stupid." Lola handed Wyler a book.

"What is that?"

"Book of spells."

"Where did you find this?

"Spells R Us. Next door. Got a good price for it too: half off with the purchase of any Voodoo doll."

:"Huh." Wyler flipped through the book. "Trances, Vampire bites. Volkswagen engine trouble--here, Wallets, spell removal from, 33.

"To get rid of a wallet curse, gather the following ingredients: hot sauce, a ski vest, a dirty sock, a clean sock,  a sock that is mostly clean but just a little bit dirty; a mystery novel (but nothing by Agatha Christie), your most recent bank statement, and two forms of ID." Wyler gathered the items. "Now, stir these items together and chant the following words out loud three times. Ok, here I go." Wyler stirred the ingredients and began chanting.

Spiders, Snakes, Toads and Trump,
Lift this curse from off my hump.
Screw your curse, Ken Rizzo, you dog
I banish your lousy curse to a nearby bog!

A howl came from Ken Rizzo's wallet. "Leave the wallet be, or else!" came the previously cackling disembodied voice."

"Or else what?.

"'Or else' obviously implies something bad, so...something bad!" the wallet responded, testily.

"Oh," said Wyler.

"Keep going, you schmuck." Lola shouted.

Wyler repeated the chant.

"You stop that right now," the wallet chided.

Wyler was not deterred. He said the chant one last time. "--To a bog!"

"Oy Vey!" screamed the wallet Yidishly.

"Quick, check Netflix." Wyler yelled. Lola clicked the Netflix button on their Roku.

"Still works!"

"Thank God!

Two hours later,Wyler was searching for a missing piece of double chocolate doughnut under the couch cushion of the couch the couple had inherited from the previous apartment renters

"Hey, check this out. He held up a pair of worn, ragged boxers for Lola to inspect. "I could use a new pair!"


The End