All Hail Drunken

Blogging:
The Best of Deep Thoughts with
Blogagaard

Volume One: 2005-2007

By David Oppegaard
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Introduction

I first started blogging because I was traveling a lot and found that a blog

was an easier and more approachable way of updating friends and family back

home about my travels. When I returned home, I found that I still had the urge

to instantly share my thoughts with the electronic world. So I started a new semi-

daily blog called Deep Thoughts with Blogagaard www.blogagaard.blogspot.com

Jesus, I had no idea of what kind of addiction I was getting myself into.

Here I am nearly six years later (and over 700 blog posts) and I’ve actually

decided to compile two anthologies of my favorite posts and throw them up on

the web in their own little packages. In Volume One: 2005-2007, come along

with Blogagaard as he muses on writing and life and escapes his basement studio

apartment, only to find himself in strange new worlds, beset by the horrors of

Twin Cities life, work, getting published, zombies, the upcoming apocalypse, and

an extended visit from a fictionalized David Sedaris.

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Blogging With A Vengeance

The world hasn't been quite the same since I stopped blogging a few weeks ago,
my traveling done and my Hardcore Travel Reporting blog rendered futile. Thus
I am back with this tasty new blog, where I will seek to peel back the many layers
of infinity and hopefully come to a profound revelation of some sort regarding
something somehow. I may be only pale fire compared to the venerable Jack
Handey, but I will do my best to think deeper, harder, and longer than almost
every human being on the planet with the exceptions of Alan Greenspan and Gary
Kasparov.

My first thought for this blog is that perhaps the Twins' season is somehow tied
together with that fate of all humanity. The Twins are 3.5 games out of the wild
card chase as I write this, their bats somehow missing almost every baseball
thrown at them, and I cannot help but think humanity is in dire need of a veteran
clean-up hitter. As we inch closer and closer to all-out nuclear war, or some other
kind of war (maybe with lasers), as the Twins go, so do we all.

Good evening.

August 25, 2005

The Sweet Sound of Electricity

About a week ago I moved into a new apartment. Across the street, totally visible
from my kitchen window, is an electric facility of some kind. It is a single,
freestanding building that is surrounded by a metal fence, and along the top this
fence run three strands of barbed wire (it practically screams "go away,
terrorists!"). Sometimes Excel Energy trucks park in front of it and Excel
employees mow its lawn.

I have no idea what this building does, but I do enjoy the exciting feeling that
comes from so much humming electricity so near to me. Perhaps it will aid me in
my quest to discern Ultimate Reality, acting as a sort of conduit, or perhaps
booster, to my already highly caffeinated mind.

Without electricity what would the world be like? Boring, I can tell you that
much. Have you seen the TV show Little House on the Prairie lately?

August 26, 2005

My Plan to Take Over Earth

Since writers going mad with delusions of grandeur is the hot new thing, I've
decided to take over Earth. I plan to do this by becoming famous for saving a
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kitten from the clutches of a falcon while hundreds of people film the event. Talk
show offers will pour in, and I will accept them all. While being interviewed about
the amazing event I will plug this very blog, asking Regis and Dave and Conan to
post the address on the screen during the entire interview. I will also make many
pithy and interesting remarks during the interview process, enabling the world to
see how charming I really am. Mila Kunis, otherwise known as Jackie from That
70's Show, will see me on the TV while drinking pink champagne and be
mesmerized by my personal charisma. She will e-mail after reading this blog and
viewing my profile. We will marry after a whirlwind courtship of two months in a
high profile wedding. My fame ensured (I will be in your FACE), I will run for
Senate. After a highly successful Senate career based on hard-knuckle dealings, I
will be elected president of the USA. Then we will invade Canada and Mexico.
Then on to France, using cheap labor from Mexico and sexy French-Canadians I
will cause that country to yet again fold like cheap stationary. I will use France as
my base of operations to subdue the rest of Europe, handing out free French wine
to countries that actually think fighting my army is a good idea, and soon all of
Europe will be under my control. Asia will be a minor fight at best, since I will
seize control of all Asian media outlets and subject them to 24/7 broadcasts of
Tom Sellick in Mr. Baseball and that TV mini-series they made about Meatloaf a
few years back. Africa, Russia, Australia, and everyone else will also fall to my
control, and I will allow Jackie to oversee these countries. Once in control of the
world, I will force feeble author Michael Chriton to walk everywhere naked
during the summer, wearing no sun block. He will also only be allowed to write
about dinosaurs and space aliens.

That, my friends, is how I will soon come to rule your world.

September 30, 2005

Am I Getting Stupid?

Sometimes I fear I am getting more stupid the older I get. I worry that all the
years of TV and USA movies are finally catching up with me, that I am losing the
ability to think with clarity and nimbleness. Recently the first draft of the novel
I'm working on for thesis was torn apart, bit by bit, leaving me a twitching
shambles. You'd think by the sixth book I'd have the hang of this by now, but
maybe I really am getting stupider. Is stupider really a word? I just don't know.

I can only hope that I am not getting stupider, but instead a clearing out process
is happening deep within me, a sort of approach to the runway of Zen as I try to
put my landing gear down.

Do you see my point? What the hell kind of analogy was that? Does anyone else
ever feel this way?

September 26, 2005

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The Lying Sack of Crap

One of the patients at the eye and psychology clinic I work at just referred to GW
Bush as that "lying sack of crap". Ah, what an apt analogy, or rather, description
of our Leader in Chief. He is like a cartoon villain, like the coyote you can blow up
a thousand times, yet he does not die. Now I understand what the crazy right
thought Clinton was like. Why has such a man come to govern us in these strange
times? Do we, as a country, deserve this idiot? He is the humble pie intelligent
Americans are forced to eat, or rather, choke down everyday. The quickest
snippet of audio from any Bush speech is enough to fill me with irrationally
strong rage. Do I hate him because I am a Texas accent away from being just like
him? Are we all that close to swaggering about in cowboy boots, mispronouncing
the simplest words?

September 13, 2005

Bravery

I went on a walk this afternoon in my sleepy residential neighborhood. There was

a little girl standing at the end of her sidewalk, by herself, and I thought she'd
scatter back into her house as I, the Big Stranger, walked by, or at least take a few
steps backwards onto her lawn. Instead she stood her ground as I approached. I
said hi and smiled. She said hi and smiled back. She was holding a clipboard. We
were both very brave.

September 15, 2005

Welcome to the Dave Cave

My new apartment is too small for a housewarming party, so I have decided to

host it on-line today. I don't have any pictures of it, so I will describe it to you:

I live in a studio. A basement studio. I live in the rear east corner of a two story
building on St. Clair, in the basement level. My windows, if you were to walk by
them, would show me your legs, cutting my view of you off at the waist. My few
visiting friends now walk by my east window, bend down, and say hey, Dave, are
you home? I have three windows, total. I have two closets, on your right and left
as you enter. They are big closets; both closets you can enter, shut the door
behind you, and maybe collapse. The biggest closest I have turned into my
library. It is big enough for one end table, one thin bookshelf, and a gray recliner
chair that when extended touches the both of the rooms farthest walls. This is my
sanctuary. I go in this room and pretend it is a full-sized second room, that I keep
my bed in the main room out of eccentricity. When you pass the two closets,
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heading east, there is a small bathroom to your right with a huge, vast mirror
taking up all of the wall until the sink. The tub is small, and I must stick my legs
up in the air to take a bath. I have a pale blue shower curtain, cloth-like and new,
a housewarming gift. Beyond the bathroom you have entered the Room. On your
immediate left is my twin bed, my desk, and then a long green couch that has
been in my family for many years. The couch and matching green chair form a
living room, facing as they do my 19 inch TV with old-school antennae. On your
right is some cupboards, a sink, a half-sized stove, an island from Target to chop
things on, and a huge, new-ish refrigerator.

I can run through my entire apartment in 4.9 seconds. I just timed myself.

Welcome to the Dave Cave. I hope you enjoy yourself while visiting.

September 21, 2005

Meaning in Work?

Many people find meaning in their jobs, and some even find Meaning in their
work. Artists seem to find a lot of Meaning in their work, and I guess writing is
what keeps me chugging along as well. I've written six unpublished books, a
ridiculous number, and if I didn't have an agent I think I'd start to feel like that
idiot kid we had on our football team who liked to run as hard as he could into
the concrete locker room wall, again and again and again. I've thought a lot about
what a piece of work matters if it has no audience, or if your audience consists
mostly of ex-girlfriends who no longer are willing to read your newest work. I'd
like to think the work stands for itself, that I don't need any pats on the back, that
the process of creation was rewarding enough. And to some extent it is. How days
have I gone to bed happy, feeling like I actually did something with my life,
because I had written five pages?

Yes, writing is how I justify everything else in my life. I keep going so I can write.
But is justification the same thing as Meaning? And is creating something what
gives a person meaning? (Like kids. or a new zoning ordinance). And what about
people who don't create anything, who work at our gas stations and Targets and
whatnot? Where do they find their meaning? Do they even need meaning? I've
already looked at love and travel as possible answers; but what if you worked at
Target, loved no one because of some horrific accident, and had no money to
travel? Where would you find your meaning? In moving product? And if you did
find your meaning in moving product, would that meaning be on the same
meaning level with someone who found meaning in tending to the poor, or in
writing fantastic requiems? And if you think all meaning levels are the same, as
long as someone can find Meaning in something, wouldn't that itself somehow
render Meaning meaningless, simply turn it into a relative value that has nothing
to do with Quality (Robert Pirsig style) ?
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People are the only beings who really seem to wrestle with this idea of meaning. If
you think hard about a lazy cat's daily routine, minute-to-minute, the whole thing
seems so meaningless you can only laugh, laugh, laugh. Maybe it would be easier
if we were all non-sentient beings. I would like to be a flying squirrel, or a grizzly
bear.

September 7, 2005

My First Time

It has come to the attention of Blogagaard that Meat Loaf is a hot button topic for
some people (namely our good friend, The Captain!). We here at Blogagaard are
not surprised. Such an explosive creative force is bound to generate such an
explosive response. Far worse would be the artist's greatest enemy, Indifference.
So, without further ado, is a more positive testimonial from one David
Oppegaard, a dear friend of those of us at Blogagaard:

"The first time I ever heard a song by Meat Loaf, I mean really HEARD it, I was
playing pool in a friend's basement. I was thirteen, desperately smitten with a girl
in my class whose name shall go nameless, in the off chance that anyone from my
hick town ever reads this (I love you L.C.!) Anywhere, where was I? Oh yes.
Playing pool in my friend Stoney's basement. Ah, good times. We would stay up
all night, drinking our own personal 2 liter of Coca-Cola and/or Jolt, listen to
music, play pool, watch terrible horror movies, and of course submerse ourselves
in video games. What's that? Oh yes, Meat Loaf. The song was "I'd Do Anything
For Love (But I Won't Do That". At my tender age I had no conception of Meat
Loaf, or really romance beyond X-Men comics and The Autobiography of
Malcom-X, which for some reason I really liked reading back then. But when I
heard this sweet, seemingly endless song, I finally had myself an anthem for what
I felt for old-what's-her-name. A song to get me through the long, dark nights of
love unrequited, which was all love for me until the age of 17, when my first
girlfriend finally made me a man. Thanks, Sarah! I'd do anything for love, but I
won't move back to L.C.!"

October 12, 2005

Closing Thoughts

The circus is over and Frederick Busch has returned to upstate New York, where
he will continue to write furiously in his barn and play with his chocolate lab.
Today I have been sifting through the numerous things that have happened and
been said in the last two days of many writers talking, talking, talking. Our good
friend amorsecode, whose true identity I am beginning to suspect (her name
begins with a) asked what I thought about Busch's dislike of Everything is
Illuminated and adoration of Zadie Smith. First, I think it is evident that Zadie
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Smith's picture on the back of White Teeth makes her appear hot indeed, and I
cannot blame any conscious male for lusting after her (though I have seen other
photos of Zadie, and have decided she is no Jackie). Regarding Everything is
Illuminated, I have read A Memory of War by Busch and believe he knows more
about the holocaust and being Jewish than I can even comprehend, and his
argument that a great Jewish writer friend of his (Epstein) wrote a book Foer
must have studied, shaken up, and rewrote in a zany way and his dislike of that,
well, it stands up with me. I was surprised Busch was unable to finish reading it,
but I do not think Busch is a fan of young writers. I am sure when I am older,
with twenty some books under my belt, I'll think young writers are punks, too.

On to other things. It was surreal but cool to meet nosmellgood and lucas,
characters known only to me through blogging, in person. Maybe the whole world
isn't filled with Internet scumbags, and maybe someday people will trust each
other more and not have that trust shit on by idiots. Maybe.

It was also cool to drink whiskey with Busch at dinner last night. His best
character, Jack, always drinks sour mash, and there we were, drinking it together.
Awesome.

I enjoyed writing my own by-line for my introduction and I liked being

introduced by Mary Rockcastle. She gives great introductions.

I thought the interview itself went well, though a few times I felt Busch wasn't
totally listening to my questions. Everyone told me it was a great interview, and
that I did a great job, and that felt very good. The most surprising thing during
the evening was what it felt like to look out on a crowd mixed with friends and
strangers, and to suddenly feel this boundless love towards the entire crowd, sort
of welling up inside my chest, while I asked questions and Busch answered them.
It was great. In fact the whole two day event made me inexplicably happy, as if I
was less alone in the world, surrounded by an army of funny, intelligent people
all marching towards the same goal as I was. Maybe that is why other people go
to church and get all whacked-out about it.

After the master class, after the dinner with Busch, after the interview, after the
bar after the interview, I returned to my apartment. Suddenly it was quiet, and I
was by myself. I played a game of computer football, thoughts and snippets of
conversation busting into my thoughts, and then I took a bath. My bathtub, so
very small, did not bother me. I soaked in hot water, stupid with warmth, and
when I got out of the tub I felt pleasantly empty. I got into bed, and turned out
the lights.

October 19, 2005

We'll Miss You, Mr. Greenspan

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Today they named a successor to Alan Greenspan, Chairman of the Federal

Reserve, and we here at Blogagaard found ourselves strangely sad. In the fall of
1998, my freshman year at St. Olaf, I took an economics class as a lark, happy to
find myself at a privately funded institution that actually taught economics. Here
is what I retained from that class:

1) a sunk cost is money you've already spent to make more money, someday
2) there are macro economics, which focus on the bigger global markets, and
there are micro-economics, which focus on economics on a smaller, local scale.
3) My professor Steve drove an old car which he could fix himself no matter what
the problem, and this car also served as an example to almost every econ term he
explained to us.
4) Economics involves way, way too many graphs that make no fucking sense.
5) A bear market is strong market, a bull market is weak. (or vice versa)
6) Econ books are expensive, smell good, and are wonderful sedatives if you find
yourself in the library wishing you had something to cover your face with.
7) There aren't many hot girls in the econ world.
8) Apparently, Americans are all "capitalists", although few can actually recite all
the state capitols.
9) The St. Olaf econ classrooms are frequently attacked by swarming hornets. So
many, in fact, that Professor Steve started to ignore them as they buzzed around
his face while he taught and the rest of us giggled.
10) Alan Greenspan is a powerful, monetary genius whose eventual loss the world
would quickly come to regret. He does not even answer to the president.

So fair thee well, Mr. Greenspan. I know you're 79 and not feeling too well, but
maybe when you get to heaven God will put you in charge of bingo calling or
something.

October 24, 2005

Halloween Visions

I love Halloween. Best holiday ever. I don't care that it's commercialized. I don't
care if no presents are exchanged. Compared to Thanksgiving and Christmas,
horrible affairs of the American family, it is a fucking superstar. Last night I saw a
giant waving robot on Snelling Avenue, just waving at traffic, and behind the
robot a big burly guy with an ax was laughing, Paul Bunyan revisited. I also saw a
young angel giggling as she walked to a party. It was all so cool. And funny.
Funny and cool. Halloween is magic time, baby. Anything can happen.

October 29, 2005

Crappy Movie Titanic Somehow Fit Into Graduate Essay

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Here it is. I turned this in tonight after typing it during commercials of That 70's
Show:

I love the idea of people using the lyric I as a way of taking the chaotic universe
around us and recasting it in a small, more personal light. I’ve read few stories or
novels that hold a reader’s interest without focusing on the smaller trials of
characters in a larger, tumultuous world. This is a cheesy example, but think of
the movie blockbuster Titanic with Leonardo de Caprio and Kate Winslet. As the
Titanic sinks, grandly and over three hours of film, with dozens of people meeting
their icy fate, what keeps the audience focused on the story without getting
overwhelmed is the relationship of the two young lovers, one of whom dies and
one of whom lives to tell the tale, years later, as the old woman. The old woman
serves as witness, as the “I” in the story. In his essay "Poetry and Survival"
Gregory Orr says, “The personal lyric steps forward and says: ‘Bring me your
disorder. Turn your confused world into words and I, in turn, will step forward
with my primordial ordering principles of story, symbol, and incantation.’ ” After
reading Orr’s essay, I’m not surprised Titanic was a blockbuster, despite the
obvious lame dialogue and melodrama. Its creators were simply following the
rules of the lyric I and in doing so gave their audience everything thing they
wanted: a connection to a small, human part of a huge historical event.

November 02, 2005

Blogagaard Remembers How Much He Hates November, December,

January, February, March

Every year I think No Way, This Time I'll Love Winter! But every year I am
terribly wrong, as misguided in my optimism as the writers of the new and
hopefully soon-to-be-gone sitcom The War at Home. The only thing I can never
decided is which month sucks worse.

Ladies and gentlemen, the candidates:

November: The beginning of the end. Leaves are gone, but not much snow to
cover the earth's gaping wounds. As soon as you leave the city you are driving
through a flat dirt graveyard, trees exposed and screaming. Bringer of
Thanksgiving, that most atrocious and dull of holidays. Who gives a fuck about
the Cowboys or the Lions? Turkey? Christ. Why can't we let this holiday die?
Christmas is already around the corner...

December: Getting colder now. Christmas approaches, and the evil dead begin
to roam the streets, handing out stacks of catalogues whose items will only make
your life seem emptier a few weeks later. Christmas Eve, party at my aunt's, I'll
get too drunk and end up watching the Pope's Midnight Mass Extravaganza at
midnight on the Spanish Channel, wondering if this is the year the Pope exactly
dies on Christmas Day. (New pope this year, won't be as exciting). Christmas Day
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I'll eat some food, hang out seemingly forever at my aunt's place in North
Minneapolis, and come home so bored I'll try to repress it for another year. Also,
as an added kicker, my much loved mother's birthday is on Christmas Day, and
she's been dead for five strange years. Last year when I was drunk I read a poem
called "What is An Apocalypse?" about how much we all missed her, ended up
weeping in front of everyone and petting aunt's feral beast of a dog repeatedly,
like a character from Of Mice and Men.

January: This month may be the best of them all. NFL playoffs. 31 days of St.
Paul darkness, so all you really need to do is pin your ears down, survive, and not
expect too much from yourself. You know your in the heart of winter, so it doesn't
really surprise you. Also, you're so glad Nov. and Dec. are over that any ray of
sunshine that falls on your face is welcome. Okay, January isn't so bad.

February: I know where you expect me to go with this one. Valentine's Day. You
expect me to rail at it, either as a bitter single person or as jaded writer anti-
materialist. Actually, V-Day doesn't really bother me much. I've been lucky
enough to be in love three times, and that's cool. Just didn't work out. People
change. My personality is strong, not a little like plutonium. I can't expect love to
always be there. And for the commercialized part of V-Day, who cares? I'm an
American. No American can rant about how bad the wheels of commerce are
unless they were lucky enough to be raised by wolves in the wilderness. If
America is a whore, it is a really sexy whore who just might have a heart of gold at
the end of the day.

But February is COLD. It seems LONG. I do not like winter sports, either. Snow
shoeing? Ice skating? Give me a break desperate peoples.

March: Okay, here is the worst black hole in all of sports. You can't even
remember who won the World Series, football seems like a dream with a bad,
Super Bowl aftertaste, and both the NBA and NHL playoffs aren't until fucking
June or something. And it's still cold, and freezing, and with that special slanting
freezing ice rain. 31 long, dark days days, once again. The Nordic gods are
laughing at us all. Ice age ahead?

November 04, 2005

The Boss and I: A Short Play

Act I

Boss: Dave, the journal didn't settle yesterday. I want you to look at it and find
out what's wrong.

Me: I am terrible at math. Why do you think I was an English major?

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Boss: I don't care. I am a tyrant. Go do it so I can interrupt you many times to see
if you've finished.

Act II

(Here we see Blogagaard struggling with calculator, many sheets of paper with
numbers on them, insurance checks, EOMBs, etc. He is dressed in the same shirt
he's been wearing at this job for three years, and now he must wear his only tie
with the shirt as well. He is not, and has never been, the snappiest dresser on the
block. Every five minutes he checks his e-mail or blog while looking fearfully over
his shoulder)

ME: Christ, I hate math.

(Sound of harps strumming. Jesus Christ appears in a well-tailored business

suit).

Me: Whoa. Jesus.

Jesus: Hello, my son. I sensed your suffering in the Great Beyond, and have come
to help you in your time of direst need.

(Jesus hands Blogaaard an envelope dated with yesterday's date.)

Jesus: Here you go. Everything should be in order.

Me: Thank you, Jesus!

(Jesus breaks up into glowing particles, goes the fuck away)

Act III

(Boss storms in, looking very rich, Catholic, Republican, you name it.)

Boss: Well, did you figure out the journal yet? I need to go on my third vacation
of this month already, so I can buy some land in North Dakota that I may or may
not one day develop.

Me: Here you go. (Hands over envelope). Everything should be in order.

Boss: Good. Now I can go and eat some pistachios in my car while listening to
hateful talk radio.

Me: Don't thank me, thank Jesus!

(The End)
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November 11, 2005

Blogagaard Feels Like Smacking Kafka Around a Little

The more Kafka I read, and the more I read about him, the more I think I really
wouldn't have liked hanging around with him too much. Kafka had a thing about
food, for instance, which caused him to over-masticate everything he ate, even
yogurt, until his food became simply mush in his mouth before he swallowed
anything. Even his family and closest friends couldn't stand him at the dinner
table. I guess he was afraid of choking, or being too normal. Can you imagine
trying to go out to eat and meet girls with a friend like that? He'd make the worst
wingman, ever.

He also whined a lot about his "tyrannical" father, who often grabbed the
domestic limelight Kafka wanted so badly for himself, yet allowed him to live at
home for almost his entire forty year life. If I was friends with Kafka back then,
I'd tell him to get the fuck over this father stuff and move on (unfortunately Freud
was big around this time, straight outta Vienna). Then Kafka would probably
stare off into the distance, or talk about how he could never sleep at night because
he was so intensely driven and shit. Also, he spent almost as much time
questioning his own worth as an artist as he did actually writing things. After a
while such navel gazing really annoys me. So you might not be a great artist, or
you're a great artist, who cares either way? Write if you want to write and stop
tearing yourself up over it. We'll all be gone soon, anyway, so stop bitching,
Kafka!

November, 24, 2005

Blogagaard Considers Smashing Office Stereo

Apparently it has been ordained by my boss's wife that we must have the
Christmas muzak station playing at all hours for the entire month of December.
Now, I'm not against Christmas music per se, but this is quite excessive. I'm
haunted by sentimentality everywhere I go. I'm trying to work and suddenly I'm
assaulted by melancholic images of a bygone time I never even lived the first
time. Perry Como and Dean Martin croon incessantly, and if I hear that "So This
is Christmas" song one goddamned more time I might just smash the office
stereo by throwing it under a passing semi-truck out in the street.

December 09, 2005

The Space That Occupies Us

I've been thinking a lot about spatial relations today, mainly about the places we
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dwell in and how they affect us. I live in a small apartment. Does that make me a
small person? Do I 'think smaller'? What will I be like after I've lived here for a
year? Like a mole, hiding underground in his small yet cozy burrow? I find myself
utterly exhausted if I leave my apartment for more than six hours. This effect is
slightly mitigated if I'm at work, a place I've dwelled in, on and off, for over three
years now. I'm used to work, if not the nervous people who continually pass
through it. The walls are familiar to me and I rarely get lost. But take me to IKEA.
Take me to Target. Take me out to three hour class and then the bar. Take me
abroad and make me walk strange streets. I get so freaking tired I'll walk into
traffic sight unseen. I get sleepy.

When I was kid I could play outside all day long and be happy. In college I left my
dorm room all the time, though as the college years wore on I stayed more and
more in my room. Am I a spatial anomaly? Is freedom a terrible thing after a
while? Would I die without a burrow? Is this why the haunted dead are doomed
to walk the earth eternally? Is hell never getting to go home again?

December 11, 2005

Hardworking Blogagaard Imagines Conversation Between His Two

Cacti Back on the Homefront

Spike: I can't believe I'm 10 in human years . That is so old.

Spike, Jr: What? No. You look great! Don't worry about it. I wish I was as pointy
as you.
Spike: You're just saying that.
Spkie, Jr: No! I really mean it. You look great.
Spike: Thanks. I appreciate that.

(Some cactus time elapses)

Spike: Sigh.
Spkie, Jr.: Now what's wrong?
Spike: Life is so meaningless. All we do is sit on this windowsill and wait for the
Supreme Water Giver to open the curtains in the morning and shut them at night.
There must be more to life than this.
Spike, Jr: What? We have a great life! What more could you want?
Spike: I would like...I would like a hug.
Spike, Jr: A hug? Cacti dont' hug. We're not the hugging type.
Spike: Yes, I know all the rules. Still, I dream. I dream, big time.

December 19, 2005

Blogagaard's Year in Review

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I know you've been busy this year, gentle reader, but I'd like you to kick back for a
second and consider that, at the very least, we've grown one year nearer to the
death of our dear sun, Sol. This past year you may of have had your problems
with your physical well-being, natural disasters, money, job stress,
unemployment stress, idiotic politicians on all sides, family issues, ennui issues,
sexual identity issues, or perhaps, like we here at Blogagaard, you've been
methodically hunted across the globe by a towering pillar of fire that calls itself
Pestilence and laughs when you spray it with mace, but in light of the fact that
yes, one distant day our sun will go out (that is, if we're still here, defying all odds
by our very presence) and everything that's happened in the past year will be
pretty much meaningless, more or less, because no one will remain who
remembers any of it.

But even if people do go on beyond the death of our sun, some great sturdy tribe
of historians who actually give a damn about 2005 (this is being very, very
optimistic) would that even matter? Why does 2005 matter? Why does any year
fucking matter?

I'll tell you why. We've loved, and we've been loved.

Happy New Year.

December 30, 2005

Levels of Blogging Reality

I recently spoke with a guy who got fired because he made some vague, stupid
jokes about his workplace on his blog (I know this guy through my friend Mike).
He, like every blogger, had adopted a persona, and his persona happened to
involve making jaunty jokes. Some people at work read it, not really in the
whimsical-friendly-voyeuristic spirit of blogging, more like in the negative spirit
of factual snooping. They failed to realize that what the blogger was saying was
said more to entertain an assumed, intimate audience that to actually reflect any
actual reality. This poor fellow's snoopy co-workers made the same mistake a
fiction fan does when they assume that every description and thought a novel's
main character expresses is truly the author's own. (And this blogger's mistake
was trusting he lived in a just world where everyone possessed a decent sense of
humor.)

Since my loud, half-shouted New Year's Eve conversation with this unfortunate
blogger, who actually went on to find a much better job that he loves to go to
every day, I've been thinking about the levels of being we all assume. There's a
reason I refer to myself as Blogagaard on this blog and not David Oppegaard, the
Being You Will Encounter in Real Life. I mean, Blogagaard certainly is close to
the extrovert side of my personality, but that's not the whole story. I mean, what
kind of fucked up story would that be?
 16

As a writer, who daily pushes around fictional characters to bow to my god-like

whims, I naturally slipped into the land of blogging. I failed to realize that people
would be out there reading my blog who took it all seriously. Sure, some of it's
serious, but as always there are levels of seriousness, levels of reality that should
be accounted for when you read anything any a blogger puts up. Today I poked
around blogspot's help center and found essays seriously titled "How to Not Get
Fired Because of Your Blog" and "How to Use Your Blog to Get Published". These
blogs, I tell ya. It's as if someone passed out RPG launchers to a bunch of ten year
olds, gave them just enough instructions so each kid could fire one in any
direction they chose, and then stepped back to see what would happen.

(Note to future senate investigators looking for dirt on Blogagaard: You suck!
This is what you're doing with your miserable life? How trite!)

January 03, 2006

Apocalyptic Dreams

I had another apocalyptic dream last night. This time I lived in my old house in
L.C. and a great shadow had fallen over the earth. A gradual sort of comet was
hurtling our way, and everyone knew the game was up, but was pretty calm about
it. In the dream I wondered what I should do with my remaining time on the
planet, and I decided to order a pizza with at least three toppings on it. I was
about to order the pizza when a news report came on the radio that said the
comet has slowed down for some reason, and we all had a few days longer to live.
I ordered the pizza anyway.

This was perhaps the least-terrifying of all my apocalyptic dreams. I've had
nuclear, viral, and zombie related nightmares as well, some downright terrifying.
These dreams come to me once every few months or so. I usually like them, like
someone who gets to watch a really sweet, one-time only movie, but sometimes I
wake up really thinking the end is nigh. I am glad I have no heart problems.

January 08, 2006

Blogagaard Interviews Local Zombie

Blogagaard: So, Mr. Zombie, thank you for stopping by.

Zombie: Agga Crawsh!
B: Yes, quite. So, is it true you like to eat people, especially while they squirm with
life?
Z: Gaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa chomp!
B: Do you ever feel zombies are treated, well, unfarely in today's non-zombie-
centric society? What's it gonna take to get a zombie elected President? Ha ha. I
 17

mean a real, flesh-eating zombie, of course.

Z: Mag nass maaaaaag!
B: To Shift gears a little, what's the dating scene out there like for zombies?
Z: Krawww sham chomp panties chomp chomp!
B: Sounds rough.
Z: Aaaaga!
B: Don't worry, I'm sure you'll find the right zombie life partner someday. These
things take time.
Z: Gaasa tsuggg mag errrow; tooorrrrrr.
B: What does the future hold for zombies in 2006?
Z: Aggaaaaaaaaag. Aggaaaaaaaaaaaaag. Aggaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaag!
B: Than you for stopping by.
Z: Gramph.

January 09, 2006

Reality Shift?

We here at Blogagaard have noticed that life is getting strange, more strange than
normal. Maybe this is a result of recently reading Foucault's Pendulum by
Umberto Echo. That crazy verbose Italian really got us thinking. What if there is a
secret Plan, run by an underground society that barely knows it exists itself? I
know I personally have always assumed there are a hundred million things going
on behind my back that I just don't know about, a whole society of movers and
shakers with oodles of money and devious schemes, but exactly could their Plan
be, anyhow? Are they trying to invent a super cola, a hover car that really works?

We also saw The Matrix again last week and decided we rather live in a fake yet
comfortable universe than in the harsh post-environment disaster "real" world.
We sided with the treacherous villain who almost killed everyone simply to return
to the cozy Matrix. Does this mean everyone should move to the suburbs and
drive Range Rovers to steady, well-salaried positions? It truly is a conundrum.

Do things seem to be moving faster than they used to? Are things more out of
control, or is it simply that we here at Blogagaard never noticed how insane life
has always been? Either way, there's a serious reality shift going on here. The
earth's crust is cracking.

January 18, 2006

Blogagaard Delivers Pep Talk To Himself

I just woke up from a nap and I felt pretty good, pretty damn fine but then a voice
in my head said "time for you to work on your thesis novel, David Oppegaard"
and I said to that voice "The hell I am I wanna strum my new guitar and watch
 18

Sopranos" and the voice said "Fuck no you get to working you lazy fucking
slacker" and I was all like "Fuck you, bitch!" and the voice was like "I don't care
what or who you choose to love, but this is about fiction, you moron, this is about
becoming a better writer, a better person day after day after ruthless day of
writing meditation and reflection and soul-scrounging and you get your ass in
that chair or else I'm going to sing the complete playlist of Matchbox 20" and I
said " You wouldn't dare" and the voice said "Try me, goddamn it, just try me" so
I'm going to go write now, just to shut the little fuckhead up and stop him from
being all up in my grill all the time.

February 01, 2006

Transferable Empathy

Writing fiction, for me, comes down to how well I can empathize with someone.
This someone is usually a character I've created, for good or for evil, for
humorous or serious purposes. Readers can often sense when you, as author,
don't especially like a character you've written, and that's fine. In the world of
fiction every hero needs a baddy to fight, and every beaten dog needs an asshole
owner who likes to pounce it off a wall or two.

What's not so fine is if your reader senses you've created this jerkoff character
with absolutely no understanding, or empathy, for what makes the jerk the way
he is. If you don't know your jerk throws his dog around because he was
mistreated as a child, or a pack of wild dogs devoured his family on a car trip to
Ottawa, then what you've created here is a Straw Character, Easily Blown Away
By Any Puff of scrutiny that Happens to Come Along. Why does he have a glass
eye? A hook for a hand? A propensity for touching little boys inappropriately?

But I'm not simply talking about back-story here, or interviewing your character
to see what her favorite color is. Only charlatans think a paragraph or thirty pages
of back-story truly creates a breathing character (either one or three
dimensional). These charlatans may go on to win prizes, and chat with Opera, but
deep down good writers know these other writers suck. What you need to be is
empathetic, people. You need to understand and feel for the worst, most basic
character. That UPS guy who delivers a package to your protagonist, says three
words, and saunters off never to be seen again? Maybe he has a rash on his inner
thigh. Maybe he squints a lot because he needs specs. Man, wouldn't that suck to
have a rash, or squint a lot?

Now, I haven't always been the most empathetic person on the face of the earth.
Many would say, not even close. But those people are dickheads and I hate them.
But I shouldn't hate them, should I? No. Not if I want to put them in a story some
day. And the more I write the more other people's minds, and hearts, seem open
before me, or at least my imagination. Instead of being totally bored in a room
full of people, I find myself actually paying attention on occasion, if only to steal
 19

what someone's saying or acting like for my own uses. Now, in my newly acquired
state of high empathy. whenever I see a drunk crazy person on the street I wait at
least five seconds before turning away, just in case they say something amusing.
You see? I'm becoming more empathetic, transferring myself into another
person's shoes, so to speak. It's a long, arduous process, to be sure, but a
necessary one if you want your characters to seem like a real people your reader
might actually meet on the street.

The Jesuit priest Anthony deMello said that no evil can be done in a state of true
awareness. So everyday I strive to become more aware of the people I encounter,
if only I can write caustic, sweeping generalizations about them later.

February 07, 2006

Blogagaard Reflects on Six Months of Studio Living

Ah, has it been six months already? Six months of bumping into shit, of watching
the living room TV while deeply reclined in bed? Six months of living beneath the
Judy Garland Sound Machine? Remarkable. Truly remarkable. Sure, we've seen a
lot of changes around here. Remember when I got that paper Ikea lamp back
from my ex-girlfriend and put it near my sink? Remember when I got my
landlord to fix the showerhead, releasing a new, refreshening torrent of hot
water? And who can forget that time I lined up all my VHS & DVD recordings
next to my VCR & DVD player? The aesthetic ramifications continue to echo
throughout the earth's atmosphere to this very day.

For those who've been with me from the begining, way back when, you'll be
interested to know the powerplant across the street from my apartment has had
no discernable effect on my already electrifying personality. Indeed, I'm about as
wired as usual, although I was recently at a party where I got so excited by the
humorous cat society I'd imagined aloud that I had to go outside and breathe
deeply of the chilling air.

So here's to you, basement studio apartment. May you be easy to defend in the
event of a city-wide zombie attack, and may your rent always be dirt cheap.

February 13, 2006

This V-Day, Blogagaard is in Love With....YOU!

Baby, you know I didn't mean those hateful things I said. That wasn't me. That
was some other Blogagaard, some other fool with spiky, unkempt blond hair. I
want today to be special, to be about the enormous sexual bond we've created by
talking to each other as little as possible, and never, ever, sleeping over. I may not
know where you work, but I so love how you work it. You know what I mean,
 20

baby.

Did you know I'm learning to play guitar? If you thought I was a sexy beast
before, you just wait. The manual dexterity I am amassing will consume you with
fiery, erotic passion, fit only for Georgian concubines and newly engaged cousins.
You and I, later tonight, will turn my childhood twin bed into a sexual
wonderland, you will be my trembling mattress kitten and I, I will be your bold
Roman soldier. Sure, I sweat a lot. So do geysers, whose very cores churn and
bubble with pent up desire.

You just wait, baby. I've been doing my elaborate groin stretching exercises
again....

February 14, 2006

Writing Love & Sex

If you think love is hard enough in the real world, try writing about it. It's like
freaking rocket surgery. My thesis novel has love stuff all over it, in many forms,
and for a sensitive fellow such as myself it's been a real challenge pulling it off in
a realistic, fresh manner. Some examples of written love gone bad:

"He looked at me from across a steamy bowl of beer cheese soup, and I was so
fucking smitten I could not believe it."

"Her eyes met mine, and we decided to have a stare-off. A stare-off of love!"

"She touched my breasts in an untoward manner, which I did not so much

appreciate but instead enjoyed, fiercely."

"He grabbed my rear end and squeezed it, like I was so much grapefruit. I yelled,
'Hey, I have a penis! What do you think you're doing, buddy?' and he smiled
devilishly and said, 'That's okay, I have one too." And it was then I knew I loved
him. Man loved him."

I find the only way you can truly write about love is by surfing the Internet for
porn and interjecting the phraseology used by today's modern Shakespearians of
the Flesh. Who understands today's modern sexual world better than those
profiting so immensely from it? If a woman is attractive, refer to her as a
"cumtastic good time" and use the phrase "anus as art" as much as possible. And
for your male protagonists, call them "shafts of rock hard flesh" and make sure
they're facial features are so bland almost any imagined face could be fit onto
their oily bronzed bodies.

But enough from me! Go write yourself one sexually raucous love story, my little
sparrows!
 21

February 15, 2006

A Tale of Two Instructional Narrators

Overly Cheerful Instructional

Yay! Did you hear that? It’s time for lunch!!! Race your buddy to the lunchroom.
Oh no, he beat you! Ha ha. Boy oh boy, what a great day today! What’s for lunch?
Tater tot hot dish? Sweet! You love tater tot hot dish!
Okay. Now you should sit over there, with all the cool kids. They are so cool they
don’t even drink their milk, and leave it on the table unopened, like some sort of
super cool protest or something. You should sit next to Jenny, she’s as cool as you
are, and look at those cute purple berets! What a doll! Now, drink your milk real
fast, to show everybody you’re cool, too, but in a different, milk chugging sort of
way. Look, don’t they seem, like, totally impressed? Now drink Jenny’s milk, just
to show them it wasn’t an accident.
She smiled at you! Fabulous! Drink a third milk, that will really impress her.
Wow, you can really slug those back! Everybody’s watching you now. You should
tell everyone you’ll drink as many milks as possible, just to make sure you’ve
cemented their approval. No pain, no gain, right?
Look! Now they’re going all over the lunchroom, collecting unopened milks for
you to chug. You’ve really impressed them now. Today is going to go down in
lunchroom history. You’re going to be a god, I tell you. A god among badly
dehydrated mortals!
Chug!
Chug!
Chug!
You are totally awesome!

Morbidly Nihilistic Instructional

It doesn’t really matter, but you will go to lunch. You will be in third grade, and
you’ll still have no idea that an endless, grueling march towards your own
oblivion awaits you in the future. Tater tot hot dish and the limited gastronomical
rewards such hollow, lunchroom fare provides will be about as far as your
thoughts are capable of reaching. This is just as well, because if you actually saw
beyond the material bounds of your present situation you’d most likely run out of
the lunchroom, screaming with rage and loneliness, and scamper into heavy
traffic.

After you get your “food” you will sit at a table with your “friends”, people who
would actually turn on you if you had so much as a stream of snot running from
your nose (such is the transitory nature of human friendships). Do you see the
girl named Jenny, sitting next to you with the cheap, gaudy purple berets in her
hair? In about twenty years she will be a fourth rate hooker working for a fifth
 22

rate pimp, and she will eventually be found in a dumpster behind a children’s toy
store.

Anyhow, you do not yet know this, and you will begin to drink milk as if it could
somehow fill the cavernous void in your third grade soul. You will drink milk
after milk, like some sort of industrial wet vac, until the whole lunchroom is
chanting for you, is cheering every drop of cow juice that slips between your lips.
You will grow full and bloated with all this consumption, yet deep in your heart
you will still feel nothing, their approval as meaningless as the dead bird you saw
on the sidewalk on your way to school this morning, the one with ants and worms
crawling over its carcass, never to fly again.
Yes, you will go to lunch, and in many ways, lunch will eat you.

February 16, 2006

Blogagaards In the Mist

Foggy tonight as I strolled through St. Paul my shoes crunching under me my

hands stuck in gloves stuck inside pockets my coat not fully zipped because I am
reckless sometimes thinking not thinking it did not matter everything was
covered in mist as if I were in London or the rain forests of Honduras where I
once saw the biggest damned red ants you could ever want to see and for some
reason I started thinking about a guitarist on a stage in an empire full of people
all following his every strum and it occurred to me that his song (which was
known by heart by all) was not simply a song but a requiem for the living who will
become dead and knowing or unknowingly they are singing for themselves,
singing themselves off to death and would you not listen raptly if you knew the
song was for you, that all the songs had been for you all along?

March 08, 2006

Blogagaard Sees the Light

Good morning! How the fuck are you today? I am fine, thank you. I'm supposed
to be writing a bunch of pages for a third draft of a story for class, so of course
here I am, blogging!

My basement studio has three windows. Three, count'em, THREE! Now, I usually
only have the blinds pulled up on one window, because the other two face a
sidewalk going into my building, and of course we here at Blogagaard are worried
about SPIES. These spies would have to be interested enough to actually bend
down to look in the knee level windows, but still, you can never be too safe from
TERRORISTS.

Not have I opened the blinds on all three windows today (look! some lady just
 23

passed by carrying groceries! maybe I can get her to cook me lunch!) but the
windows themselves are open as well. So now I have all this fresh air and light
seeping into my BUNKER. With all this contact with the outside world, I'm quite
EXCITED. Now, dear sparrows, I must go write. Have a good day, and may
Grand Emperor Cheney Always Fail to Shoot You in the Face and Chest!

March 11, 2006

St. Paul Will Be Cleansed of All Evil

It rained earlier tonight, and it will rain again. Perhaps it will be raining when you
read THIS VERY POST.

But do not be alarmed. Rain is necessary. Without rain, the light bulb, the race
car, and slate roofing would not have been invented. You see, rain provides
hydration, which keeps the human skin supple, and rain also powers
hydroelectric power plants, which in turn power fun arcade games like Final
Fight. Which good guy were you in Final Fight? I was the big dude. I do not need
quickness. I need strength. Strength to walk through the rain as it pours down
around me, threatening to wash away everything I love and everything I hate.

No snow will remain.

No one gets out of life alive.

March 29, 2006

Blogagaard Buys Shitload of Candy

We here at Blogagaard like our candy. It perks us up. Gives us that extra bust of
insanity to get through the day. Some have accused us of being childish for this
love, but we are not ashamed, for our love of candy is everything about this world
the pure and good and right. If you do not like candy, you are not to be trusted.
My teeth are gleaming, immaculate. My body is strong. I don't have that diabetes;
I will have my candy.

"Can't you see, can't you see, what that (candy), lord, she been doing to me."

-The Marshall Tucker Band.

PS. The moon is freakin' gorgeous tonight. Like a pale, shiny Gobstopper core.

April 10, 2006

 24

Chalk Signals

Tonight, when I was out walking the mean streets of St. Paul after midnight, I
came across a hundred-jump hopscotch drawn on the sidewalk in neon,
practically glow-in-the-dark pink chalk. This caught my eye, and I began to
wonder who possibly took the time out of their busy schedule to draw such an
elaborate numerical hopscotch. Then I thought, “Hey, maybe little people drew
this. You know, children?”

Then, as I continued my constitutional, I came across a series of chalk sketches,

or etches, or drawings, if you will. One enjoyable piece caught the image, or at
least impression, of a school bus full of happy kids with a happy school bus
driver. But as much as I enjoyed the piece, I felt it lacked a workable dialogue of
some sort. So I took up a fat piece of chalk let discarded in the grass and drew the
phrase, “Yay!” next to the bus driver’s head. I felt this conveyed, more fully, what
the graphic artist sidewalk little person(s) was going for.

I like this idea of chalk signals. Let the little people of this neighborhood merrily
sketch all day long, under a bright yellow sun, and later, under the cool dark cloak
of night, I will give words to their creations. Together we will venture down a
shared artistic path, each of us growing to the size of legend in the mind of the
unknowable, unseen Other.

April 12, 2006

So Much Happening!

So, David Sedaris stayed overnight on my couch, and now he's determined to live
with me in my studio apartment. I'm all like, "Go back to France, your boyfriend
misses you!" but he won't listen to me. Right now he's making us French Toast
and whistling the entire musical score of "Hello Dolly!" I won't lie to you, dear
sparrows, but it's nice to have someone around to trade bitchy little jokes with.
Oh, the fun we'll have in my studio apartment!

On another note, I just got an e-mail telling me to turn in two copies of my thesis
manuscript for binding, posterity, etc. The deadline is sort of today, so I better get
on that shit.

Hmmm. French Toast! You go, girl!

April 28, 2006

David Sedaris Keeps Buying Pillows

Since he arrived late last week, David Sedaris has bought approximately forty-
 25

seven pillows. They're everywhere. They fill the apartment, harmful accidents are
down, and when I sleep at night I dream of unlawfully removing their tags. How
many sheep had to give their fleece for these pillows?

I'm not even sitting on a chair right now. It's a huge, rickety pile of pillows, and
my head keeps bumping on the ceiling of my apartment. David says we should
invest in a hooka. That sounds about right.

Oh, look. Another pillow. Thanks a lot, David Sedaris.

May 01, 2006

This House is on Fire

As I woke this morning a prophet stood over me, wrapped in beautiful white
linens. He pointed a finger at me.

"These are dark times," he said. "Hogs are in power and the mice are scared. The
sky has turned gray, and thunderclouds lick the ground with forked tongues of
lightning. No greater evil exists than what lies in a man's heart, and the NY Times
best sellers list frequently features stupid books. Americans have grown
watersoft. This will not end well, and after it ends, no one will care. What have
you to say to this, slovenly one?"

Squinting, I sat up in bed.

"It's too early for this shit, man," I said. "Let me sleep, David Sedaris. And put
those linens back in the hamper, would you?"

May 04, 2006

Sedaris Helps Out

When I returned this evening, after visiting the puppet factory in which Tellon
the Alien will soon be born, I found all the cashmere pillows in my apartment
gone. Sedaris was sitting on the couch, smiling serenely as he whittled a life-sized
chipmunk out of sandalwood.

"Where hast thou taken the pillows?" I asked, casually. He grinned.

"I did it for you, Blogagaard. I want to help with Operation Mayhem. I want to
help you move. All of this, all of this space, is the space I have cleared for you in
my heart."

Stunned, I sat down beside David Sedaris in a pile of wood shavings. We sat in
 26

silence. Outside, a freed bird sang, and the smell of lilacs drifted in through my
window screen. A child laughed, zipping into traffic on a razor scooter.

"I just want you to be happy," Sedaris said, holding up the finished chipmunk to
the light. "That's all I've ever really wanted."

May 22, 2006

Hardworking Update

Today David Sedaris left the apartment early clad solely in bubble wrap. I told
him that he would get too hot in such apparel, but he ignored my pleas and
instead argued for both the aesthetic and safety values such an outfit would
garner him, regardless of the raised eyebrows as he snap crackled and popped his
way down West 7th St as he trudged to the Supervalu grocery store, a full three
miles away from Blogagaard’s Fortress of Solitude. He keeps saying they have the
best creamed corn there, and I really have no idea. I think the heat’s getting to
him.

Meanwhile, I headed south two hours to my hometown, L.C., with my “The

Hardworking Man From Nebraska” co-producer Todd and his girlfriend
Missy. Oh, the time we had, listening to my selection of 80’s hair rock tape
cassettes while the sunroof was down and it was sunny, our hair all a-muss. The
main site we scouted, my grandparents’ farmstead, turned out to be even better
for our purposes than we’d hoped. Todd took around 700 photos while Missy
delighted my grandparents by listening to every single story and viewing every
single picture they could manage to bring out in the span of an hour.

It looks like our first day of filming will be June 24th. I’m currently negotiating
with a church to hammer this location down, and they’ll be charging us a
reasonable usage fee. Hopefully the Tellon puppet suit will be ready for me by
then, an inferno of sweatiness of my own device. Our alien will composed mostly
of felt and fur, two lovely summer combinations that should provide me with no
end of delight.

May 27, 2006

'Twas a Dark and Stormy Night

Thunder. Rain. Bad TV reception. My apartment is sort of freaking me out. That

rain sounds like it wants to come inside and punch me in the face. I'm still in that
"getting to know you" stage of living here. So much space compared to my old
place. Just more area for trouble, if you ask me. Evil. Danger. Something wicked
this way comes. As soon as you think you're safe, that's when you're in big
trouble.
 27

Sedaris is whimpering under the couch and chewing on a pillow. We all have our
safe places.

June 05, 2006

Sedaris Has Left the Building

He showed up like a hurricane, ransacked my life, and now Sedaris has gone once
more. He just left with a doo rag bundle filled with Snickers bars tied to the end
of a stick, hobo style, and said he was going to walk the rails south until he found
some wolves he could run with, whatever that means.

Maybe it was all this new space in my apartment that got to him. Or perhaps it
wasn't the same with a new microwave, new stove, and new air conditioner.
Perhaps he loved my previous appliances so much he formed a soul bond with
them, a soul bond that refused to be broken.

Whatever it was, the mutherfucka's gone now, bitches.

I think I'll listen to "Alone" by Blues Traveler now, the live version from "Live
from the Fall". Damn it, John Popper. Why'd you have to go and lose that
weight?

June 19, 2006

Five Act Play Written While Bored at Work

Act I

Pistol shots ring out in the hot New Jersey night. Enter Nathan and Frankie,
dressed in clown suits, except instead of clown suits they're wearing scuba suits
and instead of flippers they're wearing 1992 vintage Air Jordan sneakers.

Frankie: Christ, that was close one.

Nathan: Maybe too close, palie.
Frankie: Nobody saw anything, and we've got the loot.
Nathan: But at what cost, Frankie? It seems I have been shot.
Frankie: Shot? Where?
Nathan: Shot through the heart, and you're to blame.
Frankie: Goddamn it! I told you to wear your vest! You stupid fuckhead!
Nathan: This stupid fuckhead is dying, Frankie. I feel...so...cold.
Frankie: You're not going anywhere, bitch.
Nathan: The fuck I'm not.

Nathan dies. Police sirens approach. Frankie, weeping openly, steals Nathan's
 28

snorkel and runs away.

Act II

A West side loft, somewhere on the Upper East side. Lots of red bricks and
vanilla scented candles. A beautiful girl with purple hair sits drinking tea and
reading The Gulag Archipelago by Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn. Someone pounds on
the door. She gets up quickly and answers the door wearing only her sheer pink
nightgown and a festive sombrero.

Enter Frankie

Frankie: Steela, you won't fucking believe what went down tonight.
Steela: Frankie! Language.
Frankie: You see, we went in to catch that shark like you wanted...
Steela: Tiger shark.
Frankie: Whatever, baby, sure, a tiger shark.
Steela: You're dripping on my nice carpet.
Frankie: Would you listen to me, woman?!
Steela: Not if you're going to use that tone with me. Frankie, I think you'd better
leave.
Frankie: I can't, baby! The coppers are after me!
Steela: The police? Whyever--
Frankie: That's what I'm trying to tell you, damn it! They shot Nathan.
Steela: Who did?
Frankie: The aquarium cops.
Steela: Oh dear.

Fist pounds on door. Frankie and Steela gasp, but before they can hide cops bust
in with shotguns raised. Frankie raises his arms in the air.

Frankie: Well, fuck.

Act III

Police interrogation room. Frankie sits at on one side of a small table under a hot
white light. A big fat cop sits on the other side of the table.

Cop: I assume you know why you're here.

Frankie: Actually, I have no idea. Is this about the snuff film I shot with your
wife?
Cop: A funny guy, eh? We love funny guys around here.
Frankie: Yeah?
Cop: Yeah. They get the longest ass pounding.

Frankie stands up and smacks the cop with his folding chair. The cop falls over,
 29

knocked out cold. Frankie goes to the door and opens it, looking back at the
fallen cop.

Frankie: No one's pounding this ass, copper.

Frankie smacks his ass, hoots, and sprints off down the hallway.

Act IV

A pub on the upper north side. Frankie is sitting alone at the bar for a minute
until he's joined by a leggy blond smoking from a hooka.

Blond: Rough day?

Frankie: Rough as a cat's tongue.
Blond: That bad, huh. Well, maybe a few drinks will smooth things out a little.
Frankie: That's the general plan. Well, Plan B, I guess. Plan A was stealing a tiger
shark for the love of a beautiful woman. That plan got my best friend shot.
Blond: Say, that is rough. Why don't you--

Enter Steela

Steela: There you are, you jerk. Cops are asking about you, and now you're
cheating on me with this skank?

Blond: I'm no skank.

Frankie: Ladies, ladies, I think you're both skanks.

Steela pulls a switchblade out and stabs Frankie in the shoulder.

Frankie: Damn it, woman!

Blond and Steela high five, a bunch of cops enter the bar with shot guns ready.

Act V

Cop: Give it up, Frankie. You ran good, but you can't run no more.

Frankie: We'll see about that, captain dickhead!

Frankie jumps behind the bar. The cops open fire, gunning down both Steela
and Blond with this heavy crossover. Frankie, laughing hysterically, starts
chucking liquor bottles over the bar with great ferocity. One of the cops tosses a
grenade over the bar, it explodes, and pieces of Frankie fly everywhere.
Suddenly the ghost of Nathan appears, hovering over the bar. He's joined by
Steela, Blond, and finally Frankie himself.
 30

Nathan: So, we come to the end of our story. Deadmen all, we pray you pray for
our mortal souls. Meanwhile, we're thinking ghost orgy.

Frankie: Yes! Ghost orgy!

Everyone starts dancing to "Little Ghost" by the White Stripes. Curtain slowly
draws shut.

El FIN

Thursday, August 10, 2006

The Gunslinger and A Purpose Driven Life

The main character of Stephen King's 7 book The Dark Tower fantasy series is a
gunslinger named Roland of Gilead. If you don't know much about King, this
series is a not really "horror" at all and has its own set of fanatical fans even
within the already startlingly popular world of Stephen King. The Dark Tower
series follows Roland as he, you guessed it, goes on a quest to find this elusive
Dark Tower that sits at the very center of all creation.

What seems remarkable about the gunslinger in the light of pre-dawn, when I've
woken up suddenly from a good dream in which I'd been taking my dream kid
brother and dream girlfriend to a drive-in movie of some sort, is that Roland
knew exactly what he wanted throughout his centuries long life and kept moving
towards it, regardless of any sacrifice that needed to be made. Like a mixture of
Clint Eastwood and the Terminator, he walked on and on and on until he reached
his destination.

Of course, there have been other characters like this in fiction. Ahab and
Odysseus come to mind, among others, but out of all the characters I've met in
fiction Roland seems, somehow, the most believable in his utter dedication to his
quest. His quest is his life, period. He isn't questing to go back home again (which
modernity tells us is impossible, anyway), or save the world (though this was a
side effect of Roland's quest), but instead he walked on simply to reach his damn
Dark Tower.

Sometimes I can't help but feel jealous of such a purpose driven life. I, too, would
like to set out on such an obvious journey with such obviously high stakes.
Instead I, Dave Oppegaard, am a real person living in a modern world. I tell
myself that writing is my Dark Tower, and usually that's enough to make the
sacrifices I've made to write worth it, but sometimes it just feels like I'm this
aimless ball of crap floating through an aimless world. People such as I are where
organizations like the Peace Corps and AmeriCorps hit pay dirt, normally, but I
don't exactly feel like drifting down a semi-organized, cliché ridden road. Instead
I find myself asking, on a daily basis, what would Roland do. Roland wouldn't sit
 31

around all day in some stupid office, either at work or at home. He'd keep
moving, always, bent on his real, tangible purpose, utterly certain that his goal
was worth attaining.

The lucky son of a bitch.

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

The Moon is Beautiful Tonight

I woke up this morning in a strange hotel suite, wondering where my pants had
gone (oh no! Not again!). Later, slowly crawling my way into full wakefulness, I'd
eaten some really good bacon and thanked the groom's parents for letting me
sleep on their fold-out couch after the reception. Soon I found myself driving
through beautiful Lino Lakes (when is the last time you thought about Lino
Lakes, that northeast suburb?) heading away from St. Paul instead of driving
towards it. I had the sunroof down, my Marshall Tucker mix tape cranked as loud
as possible. I had no agenda for the rest of the day, and I started considering just
driving and driving and driving. I could drive to Duluth, visit my peeps there, and
then keep on going. I'd drive into Canada, I'd drive to Quebec. Eventually I'd
abandon my car to work on a fishing trawler. Like Ismael, I'd take to the seas.
Ramble on, ramble on. Years would pass. I'd grow lean and tan, with eyes like
steely flecks of steel. When necessary, I'd contact my agent in New York via
satellite phone, sending along the occasional manuscript by carrier dolphin.
Eventually I'd disembark on some continent or another, the land strange beneath
my sea legs. I'd walk for a while and see what I could see. Holidays would pass
without my noticing them, my father's eventual death would be conveyed to me
by a simple, one sentence telegram. While the friends of my youth got hitched
and raised children, I'd get used to not missing anyone. I'd be free. One day
maybe I'd return to St. Paul, just in time to attend the wedding of my friend's
youngest daughter, Samantha Sanchez. He'd barely recognize me and others
would stare in disbelief, this ghost re-emerged. The Rhyme of the Ancient
Oppegaard.

Of course, instead of all this I simply turned back as soon as 35 W merged with
35E and an hour later was napping, air conditioner humming comfortably in my
ear.

September 04, 2006

A Big Ol' Mass of Humanity

Today I helped a seven year old girl pick out her first pair of
glasses. She went with a plastic "Jelly Bean" frame in brown. She was
 32

hauling around a thick book with a cover more pink than anything else
pink I've ever seen before. The book was based on a Disney TV show. I
read a page aloud to her in a funny voice to amuse us both and found
myself intrigued by the on-goings of an all-girl teeny pop rock band.
She had to pry the book away from me while I snarled at her and bared
my teeth. It got sort of ugly.

Her sister, even younger and cuter, was wearing a fuzzy pink headband, as if
single-handily keeping the 80's alive. She kept trying on sunglasses and babbling
about something called a Polly Pocket Princess. I can't imagine a
single sanitary reason you'd keep a princess in your pocket, but who
knows.

Life is full of surprises.

September 27, 2006

Loser Blogagaard Watches TV Alone on Saturday Night, Then

Proceeds to Blog About It

Okay so tonight we had a big, hard-hitting Saturday night lineup on local TV. On
NBC I watched SNL’s season premier (32nd season this year) and it was actually
pretty funny, even though Tina Fey has left the show to do “30 Rock” with Alec
Baldwin. On weekend update Bill Clinton spoke with Condi Rice and told her to
“let out your tiger” and recalled the affair they had a decade ago. Also, they had
The Killers on as the “musical guests”, and I was amazed that such an awkward
looking lead singer could front such a good band, yet he had his own groovy nerd
thing going on so whatever.

In between SNL I watch myself some TPT 17, which I believe is public access? Or
not? Anyway, they had the Vietnamese show on and a white guy special guest
reminding everyone in translated Vietnamese not to drink uncooked blood, eat
raw chicken, step in animal droppings, and to wash their hands after working
with raw animal products. He said the wash your hands thing several times.

On Fox starting at around 11:30 we had a movie called Steel, with a sword
forming the “t” in the word “steel”. The lead role in this 80’s cop drama was the
shortest, most unconvincing cop I have ever, ever seen. He was up against a
villain that talked in a robot voice because he had a voice box of some sort. I
could not really focus on this one because the cop drove some weird white
Mazarati sports car thing that was totally open except one steel bar over it where
he could put one of those detachable cherry top lights.

Also, on UPN they had an episode of “Stragate Whatever” on, also which I could
not pay attention to because I still can think only of the movie when I see the
show.
 33

These were all the channels I was able to get clearly, even with my super
antennae.

Good evening.

Last Night

My friend Noah lent me a movie called “Last Night”. It’s not a big budget, famous
actor thriller. It’s a stripped down, toned down flick about the last night on Earth.
Offering no explanation for the End, other than that it will happen precisely at
midnight (I imagine a sweeping wave of white light, sweeping all existence clean)
it follow a handful of different characters as they encounter the End in a variety of
ways. Think of it as a heartbreaking, grittier “Love Actually”.

Now, I haven’t finished this movie yet. I watched maybe the first twenty minutes,
around 1:30 AM last Saturday morning, and then I went to sleep. For the
remainder of the night I dreamt apocalyptic after apocalyptic scenario. You know,
one of those feverish problem solving dreams you can’t wake up from? One “last
night” I spent at my dad’s house in Maple Grove. Another “last night” I went over
to my aunt’s. I went to Harriet Island and hung out with a group of people and
watched the St. Paul skyline at night. My favorite, and least terrible, was simply
going to the Tavern on Grand where they served free everything all night long.
Actually, now that I write down these scenarios, they seem quite bland and
boring. Let me assure you that they all had chilling, surreal aspects to them, and
that I’ve probably forgotten the most interesting ones.

What would you do on your “last night”? I’d probably try to get laid. And drink
really expensive, high quality martinis. And I’d write a few bad poems. Maybe one
more stupid Blogagaard style “play”. I’d tell everyone I loved them and around
11:30 I’d find my way to a batting cage, slip into some spikes, and take a few last
swings before that white light came for us all.

PostScript: North Korea has declared its intention to test a nuclear weapon, due
to the “North American nuclear threat”.

October 03, 2006

Don't give up, baby. We've come too far.

How are you doing I am doing fine thanks do you think we should set this house
on fire do you think a good Frisbee toss would cut through these fumes by the
way I saw you on the bus the other day you were sitting next to a pretty woman
wearing dark sunglasses because, she claimed, she could not bear the full brunt of
the beauty in this world but you knew better, you knew she'd run into a doorknob
 34

and I don't mean this as abuse metaphor it was an honest-to-god doorknob with
her name on it, her goddamn name, and I shouted out to you but the bus had
already passed me by I continued walking, hands crammed into my deep pockets,
eyes down as I searched for chalk signals or perhaps a good fissure that needed
exploring do you think, with enough rope, we could reach any point in the world?

I'd dig that.

October 11, 2006

They Thought I Was Dead

but I'd been watching all along, from the shadows, my eyes hidden by the grey
fedora I liked to wear after watching black and white movies (grandiose, I know).
As I watched I wore a brown cotton trench coat and a pair of old hiking boots and
I did not hesitate to stride through the deepest puddles in the middle of the
darkest streets. I drank whiskey from a rusty flask and spoke in a deep, throaty
voice when I offered cigarettes to pretty dames who often wanted me to share a
taxi with them back home to whatever sadness lay in their bed, as chilled as any
vodka you cared to mention. They called me Flash. Why? Maybe it was the way
headlights reflected off my gray eyes as I scratched the stubble on my chin and
asked them where they'd been the night before, who they'd been with and if he
carried a gun or something rougher. Of course they would not give me an answer
that wasn't of the coy variety, some cheeky, flirty response that, tell you the truth,
turned me on more than it annoyed me and even as I saw them safely to their cab
and shut them inside said cab I could feel their fingernails clawing down my back
shredding my flesh like ribbon on the way to something better, something holier
than I or any man deserved and when the cab pulled away without me I would
step back into the deep gasoline puddles and look up at the sky and maybe, if it
was a good night, I'd see some stars poking through the rooftop of this dirty god
damned town and my last cigarette would light on the first try.

November 02, 2006

End of the World, Revisited

This time I dreamt that the world ended through some sort of airborne
virus/insanity/chemical weapon. People jumped in cars and started speeding
along America's interstates with reckless abandon, and a group of soulless beings
arose who wore black and drove even faster with the sole intent of causing huge
crashes and taking out as many people as possible. I wasn't a character in the
dream until the very end, and in fact the entire dream came to me through the
lens of a mostly voiceless narrator showing me several different scenes of
destruction and the small human dramas played out in each. There was a girl in a
kayak, trying to get away from the devastation but getting crushed by a tree
 35

instead? She woke up in a hospital bed and the narrator's voice suddenly spoke
up, saying, "She knew she could live and recover from her injuries, but instead
she looked around at the state of the world and chose to go away instead." The
dream ended with me driving into the Western desert alone, after my best friend
left me to join a bus full of sexy people who refused to wear chemical masks
despite my warnings. I remember thinking, in the dream, that Stephen King must
have been getting a kick out this scene.

But it's so sunny this morning. And the Jamaican guy below me is blaring Mariah
Carey. That's got to count for something, right?

November 08, 2006

How To Catch A Pterodactyl

You may not think Blogagaard knows a lot about trapping ancient birds of prey,
but you would be wrong. Or misguided, if you will. For you see, we here at
Blogagaard are experts on catching pterodactyls.

In fact, we are such experts that we managed to spell pterodactyls on the first try,
without spell check. Suck on that!

Anyways, here are some helpful tips:

1. Use exciting bait! Say, if you were trying to catch a Blogagaard, you'd use a
bottle of gin, some nudie mags, and season 2 of the Office on DVD (or
Deadwood). For giant ancient birds of prey, may I suggest tuna?

2. Keep up with their migration patterns. It's no use trying to catch a pterodactyl
in January if your neighborhood experiences peak flyover times around June.
Remember, be smarter than your prey!

3. They love the sound of Mariah Carey, played very loud as if she's not
embarrassing to the entire human race (did you know Carey has now outsold the
Beatles?). I don't what's up with that chica, but her voice is a flying predator
magnet!

4. Wear gloves!

5. Lots and lots of nets, made out of the pubic hair of virginal handmaids. A
weaving activity everyone can do together!

6. It helps if you drink a lot. Gives you that cocky caveman edge. Grrr!

7. Try not to fall asleep. If you do, they may carry you away with their powerful
 36

claws and drop you into a nest of ravenous fledgling mutherfuckers.

8. If you get in trouble, fire a flare gun. Depending on location, I should be able to
make it there in between five and ten minutes to help you, or at least provide
succor.

Well, that's pretty much covers every possible question you may have. Happy
hunting!

November 14, 2006

It's Late and I'm Waiting for My Clothes to Dry

There once was a mouse named Fred. Fred the Mouse. Fred lived a good, simple
life. He darted between furniture in the dark of night and pinched little chunks of
fallen food from the carpet and ate the occasional house ant for dessert. Fred's
favorite food was chocolate licked off a candy bar wrapper. Sometimes he'd find
an entire chunk of candy bar and he'd be like, "Sweet! This fucking rocks!" and
he'd eat all the chocolate he could until he got sick.

Fred the Mouse also liked sleeping with humans. Fred had a cat complex and
when his apartment's human would sleep he'd climb into bed with him and sit in
the hollow of the man's right eye. He'd nestle there, as snug as a bug in a rug, and
sleep until dawn's early light and then, before the man woke up, Fred would
vamoose it back to his nest, which was a pile of feathers and candy bar wrappers
behind the apartment man's bookshelf (in fact Fred slept right behind a collection
of Guy de Maupassant stories).

This went on for years, years and years of simple comfort and bodily warmth, and
Fred the Mouse grew gray with age and started telling random war stories to the
ants and other assorted apartment bugs. And then one cold November morning
the apartment man woke up with a dead mouse curled in the socket of his right
eye and as he felt the small, still warm body, the man was relieved to know that
not only was he not going blind in his right eye, but that he'd been so well loved
all along and had not suspected a thing.

November 27, 2006

I Should Be Sleeping But

I am posting instead. I have been posting for 16 months now and here I am, still
posting still drinking still up way too late but some day this will all seem like a
distant memory. No longer in a studio apartment in a studio basement I am
writing on a computer at a desk my Dad made in high school in his 1970's shop
class when Formica seemed like the god damned future. My only worry in life is
 37

selling out. Becoming complacent. You know what complacent is? It's settling for
less than the fucking best you could be. becoming "normal". I hope if you see me
on the street I make you uneasy a little worried a little nervous. I want you to be
so beautiful I can't fucking look at you okay I want you to quit your job and do
what needs to be done.

December 06, 2006

Happy New Year

Today I am engaging in my New Year's tradition: long , uncontrolled bouts of

weeping while throwing confetti around my apartment.

Ha ha, just kidding! Actually, I'm trying to go through the huge stack of New
Yorkers I've gathered over the year. If I don't do this, the pile gets so big it casts a
shadow over the my couch and I take longer naps than I need to because, like the
couch parrot I am, I think it's nighttime and will engage in deep REM sleep and
while REM is fine I'm getting sort of sick of hearing them on the radio all the
time. Reading, like, 28 issues of the New Yorker in one bout is a strange way to
review the year, but it's better than, say, turning to Carson Daily for advice.

I don't even know what that means.

Happy New Year!

December 31, 2006

Just Went Outside in Sandals & a Hawaiian Shirt 12:28 AM

It's cold right now. I'm not going to lie to you. I think you deserve better than
that. After all we've been through. After all the stories. All the drinks. It's cold out,
and I was cold as I pranced down the apartment building steps and skidded on
the powder dusting of snow. Another minute, one forgotten set of keys, and I
would have frozen like a Twins hitter in the playoffs.

But, it's also beautiful out there. Full moon tonight. A moon that looks small and
far away, the opposite of the fat low hanging romantic harvest moon. You know, I
just realized that I'll never set foot on the moon, personally. So far away. You
can't swim up to that shit. It's just there. Far away, and beautiful.

February 02, 2007

George Jones You Old Cowboy

 38

Sometimes I think I need to knock around this big world of ours a little more. A
man listens to good ol' boys like Willie Nelson and Merle and George Jones and
Hank and he can't help feeling like a big fat big city pussy. It's not just the song
themselves, but the assumed hard living far traveling persona that is assumed
with the songs. I've traveled enough to know roaming is rarely (if ever) as
glamorous and fun as it is in song, book, and movie format, but I've also traveled
enough to know there's something absolutely honest and expansive about it, too,
a sort of stretching that comes with miles beneath your boots. How many people
regale audiences with tales of a steady, if unremarkable, lives? How you worked
in an HR department for thirty years, or taught comp classes?

I'm not taking about vacations. Vacations are nice, but that's not good ol'
roaming. Roaming is when you feel like a hobo and each night you sleep
somewhere you did not plan to sleep. Roaming is getting in your car to go buy
Coke Zero, decide fuck that, and push that accelerator to the floor all the way to
New Brunswick, stopping along the way to drink with locals and perhaps buy a
tent.

Of course, it's hard to live that way for more than three or four weeks, and even
the grittiest musicians sing about being homesick.

Ah.

Well then. I guess if all the answers were easy, they wouldn't be worth figuring
out.

Or something.

February 27, 2007

Beeping

Just went outside. Heard beeping. Snowplow beeping. Feared the absolute worse
thing that can happen to any innocent person: car getting towed. Pondered
"Rather raped than towed" line of bumper stickers. Bad taste? Perhaps. Watched
enormous, DUNE-like machine get stuck trying to plow the hilly side street next
to my apartment buildings. One more inch backwards and he's colliding with a
little red car behind him with "Educated Women For Boozing" bumper sticker.
Poor devil, huge monster truck tires spinning to no effect. Who tows the big rigs?
Apache helicopter? The Rock?

Got cold. Noticed sorority girl watching me from brightly lit apartment window.
Exchanged, "What the fuck?" look with sorority girl. Finally noticed it was cold
outside. Glanced at big spinning rig one more time and headed back into
domicile.
 39

Can still hear that beeping.

Tonight, it's inside all of us.

March 02, 2007

Spring Rain

Ah. Gray stone sky, and then fat drops of water. The twigs and worms are
crawling through the ground and the trees outside my window, well, they seem to
be thinking about the possibility of budding. Makes you want to dig into the
ground and pull out a fist of mud and hold the mud to the sky like a trophy and
open your mouth to the rain and let the sky slide down your throat.

Baseball season starts next week.

March 27, 2007

Blogagaard As Temp

Many have written to inquire how Blogagaard is enjoying life after retiring from
the eye clinic. Well, he's doing alright, for you see, he has a temp job. A glorious,
glorious temp job!!

Imagine this: a steely blue office building that resembles some sort of obese
Transformer and is located directly across the Mississippi River from downtown
St. Paul. Blogagaard works on the 7th story, which seems much higher up than it
sounds. Blogagaard's employer, via the temp agency, has rented out half this floor
and the rest of the floor lies open and empty, reminding him daily of Fight Club.
All the walls are glass and the view is a spectacular, panoramic layout of
everything west and north of the office building, including of course the St. Paul
skyline. It is seriously the best view of St. Paul I have ever seen, and the first day
it sort of made me dizzy until I could get my bearings, like a looking out of an
airplane window during takeoff.

I work with a hundred other souls. Many are shabbily dressed in faux business
casual, many make awkward small talk among themselves. Most are friendly,
good souls, and all of us have signed on for this two month project. The project?
To grade over 40,000 essay papers for high school students from a southwestern
state (some details withheld in this post, due to signing of confidentiality
agreement. Seriously.) After a week of stunningly dull training, we have started
scoring this week. We are divided into teams with team leaders and each team
deals with a set of six essay responses, over and over again. All day long, with the
clicking of the mouse and the scanning of essays and all the sloppy sixth grade
handwriting you could want. We drink coffee and tea and instant hot chocolate
 40

and talk about things like agreement rates and scoring points. At 12 exactly I
leave and drive home for a rapidly inhaled lunch/Internet session, and then I
drive back again. At five, exactly, we punch out, and at 8:15, exactly, are we
allowed to punch in again (via an Internet time clock program) and always there
is another booklet to grade, always.

In other words, this temp job is exactly what I expected and in many ways wanted
after all the hustle and bustle of eye clinic life. No more telling someone there bill
is $600, or defusing an irate customer while line 2 rings and someone else is all
up in your face, too. Just scan, click, and move on. Today I graded 300 booklets,
which was the equivalent of 1,800 decisions that would effect someone else's life,
however minutely.

This must be what the director of the CIA feels like!

April 04, 2007

Sometimes Life is Like Getting Punched in the Face

Late Wed. night I stumbled home happily from the bar to find a series of heart
wrenching voice mails from my girlfriend. Turned out her one yr. old cat, Rocket,
had gotten in a fight with neighborhood cats, had his ear torn, and had died while
under anesthetic at the vet. Rocket won my heart early on while dating Sarah,
given that he was a feisty, funny dude who liked to be carried around and
wrestled with. More dog than cat sometimes, we'd chase each other around the
house until I, exhausted, gave up. I remember waking up in the middle of one
dark February night, suffering from that deep and unnerving ennui/worry that
can seep into your heart around 3 A.M., for good reason or none at all, and
finding Rocket awake and roaming the halls. I picked him up in my arms and
held him, comforted simply by his furry purring presence.

But now he's gone. just like that.

Also, last night we had dinner with friends and I learned that a cheerful friend to
all, the sunshiny Amy T., had been mugged recently and punched in the face so
hard it split her lipped, broken her little Amy T nose, knocked her teeth around
her jaw, and left her unconscious on a rain soaked sidewalk. She's doing better
now, but she's still wearing braces, still has some stitched up spots.

All this has reminded me of one thing: Life does not care about you. Life is life.
You walk the earth by chance, or luck, or the whim of some mad god. You can do
what you think is best and right, and good for you, but in the end do not be
surprised when it is taken from you. In the meantime gather what late night
comfort you can, while you can. Amy T's alive, after all, and that is a good thing.

June 15, 2007

 41

Just, Well, Staggering

Today, Tuesday the 26th of June, we here at Blogagaard agreed in principle to a

two book deal with St. Martin's Press. THE SUICIDE COLLECTORS will be the
first book released, and WORMWOOD, NEVADA (my current project) was
chosen as the second on spec. We've been dreaming about this day for, well, since
we were about 7 years old.

Pretty fucking sweet, huh?

Thanks you everyone for your goddamn support. You're all freaking awesome.

June 26, 2007

In The Hills of Boise

Boise is nestled in the foothills of the Sawtooth Mountain Range and this week I
started a volunteer job in the hills, assisting at a writing day camp fours hours a
day. We walk around the hills, looking at nature and shit, and we write poems
and stories in our journals. There are ten kids in my group, and I have it relatively
easy since I'm just a TA and not leading the group myself. The kids are around
nine or ten years old and it's amazing how they fall quiet in the shade of a tree
and sit still, writing for thirty to forty minutes at a time. I write along with them,
usually a bunch of nonsense, and I make bad sketches of the general terrain,
which reminds one of where the Warner Bro's Road Runner once dwelt. We have
a good time, I come home and eat a sandwich, then take a nap. Why can't all jobs
be this fun?

Oh yeah, 'cause you don't usually get paid for stuff like this.

July 11, 2007

Writing Prompts

Up in the Boise foothills every day we give the kids writing prompts and let their
imaginations soar, a la the red wing yellow breasted blackbird titmouse great
horned warbler. Please, allow me to present you with these helpful writing
prompts (I stole this parody idea from some dude in McSweeney’s, but the
prompts are 100% Blogagaard).

1. You've just slept with your father for the first time and afterwards he slaps you
on the ass and tells you to take out the trash. You hate taking out the trash. Flush
 42

out the ensuing conversation.

2. You've been hired to take out a llama who owes the wrong person money, but
instead of whacking the llama you fall in love with it. What next?

3. You're an alcoholic algebra teacher fighting for his job in a cold small town.
Your one special talent? You make the numbers come alive by rubbing your body
on things, such as furniture.

4. Tell a story from the point of view of Paris Hilton's vagina. Bonus points if the
story is set in prison.

5. Your toaster is channeling the voice of your high school football coach, who
died last week in a thresher accident. He wants you to stop sulking and be a man,
and perhaps rob a liquor store along the way.

6. You're a woman in her mid-thirties who can't find a husband and likes to scowl
and eat ice cream. Suddenly, you're dating Optimus Prime, and you like it.

7. You live in Boise, Idaho, and can't find your TV remote. Where the hell did it
go?

All right! I hope these prompts helped spur you on to greatness. Feel free to post
your stories as comments!

July 18, 2007

Editing

Well, I received the first round of edits from St. Martin's Press regarding THE
SUICIDE COLLECTORS and have been a diligent Mr. Author and I am in the
process of completing those edits. Astoundingly, the edits weren't as thick and
severe as I had feared, and I no doubt owe a debt to Hamline professors Mary
Rockcastle and Sheila O'Connor for hardening me to the editing process itself
and, like good minor league hitting instructors, preparing me for the day when I'd
step up to the plate when it really mattered (although editing always matters,
even in unpublished works. Just because something is published doesn't mean it
suddenly matters. Hell, what truly matters at all? Just don't look too hard at the
previous metaphor, okay? It's weaker that Robert Downey Jr's willpower while
hanging out in Willie Nelson's trailer).

I find editing itself to be an enjoyable process. You're allowed to go back, again

and again and again, and make your characters more realistic and the story itself
weightier, and even an average schmuck can seem pretty intelligent if they
rewrite enough. I'm personally always amazed by writers who appear brilliant on
stage, eloquent and wise as they talk about life and writing after a reading, say, or
 43

during an interview. Although interviews are usually aimed towards a writer and
their material, as I learned first hand when I interviewed Frederick Busch a while
back, I'm still expecting them to grab the words as they float from their mouthes,
cross a few out with a red pen, and only then allow them to float out towards their
audience. Perhaps writers have been working in quiet for so long their naturally
prepared for verbal interviews, are filled with 70,000 words to each question
posed.

Interviewer: So, Mr. Oppegaard, what inspired you to write THE SUICIDE
COLLECTORS?
Oppegaard: My shirt was on fire.
Interviewer: What?
Oppegaard: Exactly.

August 09, 2007

Late at Night, Listening to Bob Dylan on Headphones the Size

of Two Small Planets

Hello, how are you? I am fine. It is about to strike one AM here in Boise, Idaho.
Did you know Boise is William Shakespeare's birthplace? True story. Raised on
sand dune buggy races and forest fires, Bill grew up a free spirit among these fine
hill people. He liked to jog along the Green Belt and stumble into beehives and
get stung thusly and though it brought him pain, it also brought him fame. At
least, locally. For a time he was a volunteer cat juggler and then, one horrible day,
he dropped a tabby and it broke his spirit. And so, he drifted. Like a balloon. Like
a balloon filled with words, and love, and King Richards. Un-tethered, he found
himself West Coast bound, wearing handkerchiefs on his head and babbling
about Sudan. The dead haunted him, and so he wrote little "plays" in which they
played sizable roles. Of course he was immediately branded a genre writer for his
efforts, but then again people have always been frightened by what they
understood far too well. And so we find him, sitting outside the entrance to
Powell's City of Books, begging change off the out of state bookworms. Until one
day, a lad from Minnesota tells him the only true change comes from within. He
thinks about this for a day, a week. He stands and stretches and devours the
Portland fog, drinking it down like moisture salvation. A girl named Juliet steps
out of the mist and asks for a smoke, and so he sets himself on fire. She likes the
way he rolls, so they stroll hand in hand as they strike out for Texas. A state so big
it can swallow anything, even Houston. They walk and walk and walk, and then
they walk some more. At night they make camp and have fantastic sex beneath
the stars. Will thinks all this over. He keeps writing his pulp fiction. He
remembers Boise, the shiny downtown wherein he once dwelt. He understands
why Adam took that apple from Eve. He wasn't tricked. He knew what he was
getting himself into. Sometimes he lays for hours watching Juliet sleep, and one
day he wakes too late and finds she has left him for some dickweed named
Romeo. True love, and all that. But what is truth? He remembers his father
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telling him that truth could be felt in the center of the heart, a glowing amber in
the core. He feels his heart through his chest and comes to understand that he is
alive and that his love is not like the love of others. It is out there, in the desert.
So he keeps walking. He is bitten by a rattlesnake. He pours ink into the wound
and keeps walking. He makes it to Texas. There are numerous RV parks and Bud
Light signs. Outside of Odessa he meets a band named ZZ Top and their thunder
fills the atmosphere. They ask him what he does, and he says he writes. They
invite him to go on tour with them, and he accepts. Before he boards the tour bus
he throws away everything he's written so far and looks up at the sky. It's a clear,
beautiful Texas day. His skin tingles. He knows that his destiny lies somewhere
down the road, but he's in no hurry. It's all good.

September 06, 2007

Regarding New Year's Eve

There seems to be two major schools of thought regarding New Year's Eve. One is
this idea that you must party, party like you have never partied before and may
never party again, because hell, it's the start of a new calendar year tomorrow.
The other school of thought is centered around the idea of having a "quiet night
in", as if the people who choose this path(here I except the heavy drinkers who
think of New Year's Eve as amateur hour and stay home out of sheer annoyance,
and people who don't drink at all) don't have a "quiet night in" the other 364 days
a year. If the first school of hard partying thought seems a bit crazed and juvenile,
this second school of thought is usually voiced annually with almost unbearable
smugness, as if calm domesticity was the One True Path of Enjoyment and that,
sooner or later, even young party goers must face the fact that life will eventually
grind you down until you're nothing more than a yawning, flabby bundle of goo
that turns in at 10 PM, promptly, and is proud of this fact. While the "people who
go out on New Years" will spend New Year's Day nursing hangovers, visiting
Planned Parenthood, and speaking hoarsely, the "people who stay in" will be up
by eight AM tomorrow, bright eyed and eagerly engaged in domestic acts like
sorting out the garage, or cleaning the fridge. They will wear cozy sweaters, speak
in warm voices with their equally well-rested spouses, and maybe listen to that
old Heart album during a lazy, snowy afternoon.

Right now I'm 28, and I'm sort of on the edge of these two camps. Last year I rang
in the New Year by rocking out at the Hexagon Bar in Minneapolis, drinking a
Fosters the size of my head, but this year I will be home and watching The
Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. This afternoon my lady friend and I went the
Humanitarian Bowl here in Boise, my first ever college football bowl game, and
as a result I think I'm suffering from sort of cold-wind-sunlight related dementia.
SO I shall stay in, and drink dirty martinis.

But anyway. It's been a hell of year here at Blogagaard. Happy New Year
everybody.
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December 31, 2007