_{[Behold, as I shamelessly steal Brent Gohde’s text, add a poster image, make a few changes, and act like it is a blog post of my own making!]}

WYGWYC!

It’s about time: there hasn’t been a Cedar Block event since November of last year. Next Friday, August 15th, we return to the Milwaukee Art Museum with a program six months in the making, “What You Get When You Cross…”

(Use Facebook? Click here to view the event and RSVP!)

What do you get when you cross an elephant with a rhino? ‘ell if I know. And what do you get when you cross a metal sculptor with a figurative painter? Find out at MAM next Friday as 23 pairs of artists pay tribute to the wit and satire of Gilbert & George, subject of a major exhibition at the Museum, now through September 1st.

The Cedar Block event, however, is one night only, from 8PM-midnight. After four successful collaborations with us, the first since November’s “The Ramirez Box”, MAM once again opens its galleries to Milwaukee-area artists from diverse backgrounds, this time asking them to pair off in tribute to the process of Gilbert Prousch and George Passmore. Each duo was assigned a joke submitted by the public, as a trigger for a new piece, in recognition of Gilbert & George’s brilliant sense of humor, which aids in conveying their commentary on such serious subjects as religion, politics, and sexuality.

The following artists welcomed the challenge to work with another member of the community, taking a step outside of their own personal creative processes. These provocative pairings will have an original work on display on the 15th:

Katherine Biehl & Jenny Bohr
Luke Chappelle & Tom Stack
Monica Drake & Kelly Hillard
Max Estes & Ann-Sofi S Emilsen
Emily Gormican & Kevin Soens
Todd Graveline & Jan Graveline
Karin Haas & Katie Kraft
Sonji Hunt & Cassandra Leopold
Paul Kjelland & Joe Quinn
Little Friends of Printmaking
Luckystar Studio
Kristopher Pollard & Kat Berger
Mary Beth Ribarchek & Kristin Nelson
Cassandra Smith & Jessica Steeber
Soar Studios
Jenipher Sob & Allison Vallerga
Steve Somers & Adam McKee
Damian Strigens & Mark Waldoch
Eric Von Munz & Harvey Opgenorth
Mark Winter w/ Beth Bojarski
Milan Zori & Brent Gohde

In Windhover Hall, Mike Neuman will present his sequel to the legendary Baconizer (there’s a species of ‘za at Classic Slice named after the project, for crud’s sake!), as he teams with Toby_{(emphasis mine)} and Chris Sobotkiewicz to put attendees into a customized Gilbert & George environment. Joe Kirschling will make some of you lucky folks an instant celebrity, in tribute to G&G. And Mike Winkelmann of donebestdone will be providing visuals throughout the evening. All while DJs keep the party going along with a cash bar and free appetizers!

A film program in Lubar Auditorium will run twice during the evening, with works by Anna Helgeson & Bernadette Witzak, Travis Huss & Ryan Laing, and the aforementioned Mike Winkelmann running alongside MAM-produced shorts featuring Gilbert & George in Milwaukee.

And last, but not even close to least, the brilliant men of The Midnight Show will step out of their sold-out ComedySportz arena and into the world of art to answer the question, “What happens after the joke?” Yes, some of the funniest members of the funniest group in town perform live. Is it a treat, though? My friends, it is indeed a treat on par with a box of Drumsticks (vanilla with caramel filling) on a hot August day.

Oh, and the actual Gilbert & George exhibition will be open until 11PM to all who pay the $7 admission for the night ($5 for MAM members).

See you there!

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Hey y’all, I’m runnin dis next month

Mile 22 of Grand Island Marathon

It gets better after two minutes cuz there’s blood and pain and falling down and chicks getting water poured on them

Check out this violent elevation profile

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Ten minutes after breathing, “Never again!” after last year’s Madison Marathon, I realized that I was already plotting my return for 2008. Six hundred sixteen miles later, I found myself standing on the start line on Capitol Square once again. I was both more and less confident this time; I was better trained and conditioned, but I also knew how bad it could get.

Much like last year, the first 10 miles were pretty easy going (mile 2 and mile 8), with only bumps instead of hills. Once we got into downtown, between miles 10 and 11, we hit some nasty hills on Gorham St. Fatigue actually seemed to set in earlier this year, but I pushed through it. At mile 13, I wasn’t smiling anymore.

The weather had forecast thunderstorms, but we got pretty lucky. The temperature stayed pretty comfortable, the rain stayed away, and the sky was overcast. Still, the sweat was pouring out of everyone. You’ll see an older guy in some of the pictures with no shirt on. By mile 12, he smelled like sour milk. I kept getting stuck behind him.

Around mile 15, some guy was passing out little bottles of water. Some runners grabbed one, squirted themselves down, and chucked it. I actually carried mine for about two miles, taking a blast now and then. This stretch, along Monroe Street, was what killed me last year. It’s a long, slow, climb up a hill. I’ve been doing a lot of hill training this spring, and I guess it paid off - I made it up and over the hill without stopping. Victory! In fact, my first walk was an extended water station walk at about 16.5 miles.

My second challenge was the upcoming Arboretum. It’s a hilly three miles through the forest without much in the way of crowd support. My quads cramped up on me in this section last year and made the whole chunk a nightmare. Joy was able to make it to the entrance, right about mile 18, to cheer me on before I vanished until mile 21.

My quads came close a few times, but I cursed them out and that seemed to help. You’d be surprised at how many runners are cursing at or having conversations with body parts when no one is around. “Don’t you fucking dare cramp!” “Keep moving you bitch ass ankle!” “I hate you, I hate you, and when this is over I’m going to cut you off if you don’t knock this crap off right now!” And my favorite, “Fuck you, arm.”

We did have a few spectators in the middle of the Arboretum. As I came to the top of a hill, trying to walk out a quad cramp that was starting, a lady said, “come on, Ed, you’re going downhill!”

“I know,” I said, “I’ve got a cramp,” trying to point at my leg to explain why I wasn’t running.

She looked puzzled. “No, I mean, you’re literally going to go down a hill now!”

Oh.

Joy caught me on my way out, right about mile 21, and I tossed my sunglasses to her. One of the goals I had set for myself was to try and reach 7 miles per hour for at least the first three hours. At 21, my time was 3:04, so I was pretty close. I had five miles to go in the next 56 minutes if I wanted to break four hours. Could I do it, though? On a good day, where I hadn’t done 21 miles first, no problem.

Around 23.5 miles, Joy caught me at our last meeting point before the end. I was really starting to feel beat down, but I knew I didn’t have that much left. I was still pushing for sub-4, but it was looking to be really close.

Finally, I saw the last hill. Maybe a half mile remained. I had to walk it though; the incline was more than I could handle at that point. But once I was at the top, I gave it everything I had. I used that hill to gain speed and just kept pushing it. I saw Joy as I rounded the final corner to the finish line. I raised my arms in victory as I crossed, hoping that this year, I wouldn’t have a totally lame finisher pic. I checked my watch.

Damn. 4:02. So close. But hey, a 13-minute improvement over last year. And while I won’t be breaking any times at the Grand Island Marathon in July, I might have a shot during Akron this September. I really wasn’t all that concerned. It was bagel time.

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Once I got back in the house I had a decision to make: provide the cops with the information I had, or take it one step further and see what else I could gather.

I chose the latter.

First up, I called the number for Chris. After a couple rings, “Hello?”

I put on a cheery voice. “Hi, is this Chris ‘Smith’?”

“Uhh, yeah?”

“Hi Chris, what’s your address please?”

“Uhh, it’s seventy-eight thirty… wait, who is this?”

“This is the guy whose house you egged the other night.”

“Nuh uh!” (he seriously said NUH UH)

“That’s not what Girl Jeans said.”

“He’s lying!”

“Well, you can take it up with him, then. Thanks!” I hung up. I flipped through the phone book, found his last name, checked for 783x, sure enough, the little bugger lives two blocks from me!

Next I dialed Cameron. No answer, so I left a message. “Hi, I’m trying to reach Cameron ‘Brown.’ If this is you, please call me back at [number]. Thanks!” I then went on to do other things, so when I came back a half hour later, I saw that Cameron had called back. EVERY FIVE MINUTES. In fact, the phone rang right then.

I answered, and he said, “uh, you said to call you?”

Again, my cheery voice. “Yep! This is Cameron, right?”

“…Yeah?”

“Ok, that’s all I need!”

“For what?”

“The police report.”

“Uh, ok?”

“Thanks!” And I hung up. On a hunch, I looked up his last name. Well I’ll be! This guy lived one block further than Chris.

I put all the info in the report, including their cell numbers, home numbers and addresses, and parents’ names. I dropped the report in the mail, and that was that. I never heard anything from the police, but I’ve not seen those kids around since then.

Damn kids! Get off my lawn!

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“My boy says it wasn’t him,” Bar Hag stated.

“Bull!” I shouted.  “I watched the whole thing!”

“My boy don’t lie to me!”

I rolled my eyes.  “Right, I’m sure he’s the picture of honesty.  If it wasn’t him, then who was it, and why did they go into YOUR HOUSE afterward?”  (note: there were a lot more R-rated words in the actual conversation)

Girl Jeans spoke up.  “It wasn’t me!  It was my friends.” I should also note that Girl Jeans stands an easy 4 or 5 inches taller than me.  His hands were shoved deep into his… girl jeans… and he was hunched like he was trying to hide his head in his shirt.  Apparently, I’m a little unsettling when I’m raving.

Girl Jeans goes on to tell me that he was at a nearby park when three of his friends showed up and announced that they had egged one of his neighbors.  He then returned to his house with them; he was the one on the bike.

“Names,” I demanded.

“Uh…” he rattled off three names.

I pointed at him.  “Do you have any idea what egg does to paint?”  He nodded.  “I hope you realize just how lucky you are that this house is brick, and that it came off Ron’s siding.  I don’t want to see those three around here again.  If anything else happens around here, I’m coming after you.  Keep them on a short leash.”  I turned my back and stalked up my driveway.

As they crossed the street, thy passed Matt.  He gave a head nod, then “Sup.”  Just to let them know I wasn’t the only one watching.

About a week or so later, Girl Jeans was hanging out in front of his house with about five other kids.  They were skateboarding and riding bikes up and down the block, and one ballsy kid was riding up and down my and Matt’s driveways.  I got an idea.

I called Matt.  “Dude, I’m gonna go out there and get those names from Girl Jeans again.  Want to come with?”  The answer was an enthusiastic “Hell yeah.”

Matt and I came out of our respective front doors at the same time.  “Sup guys!” he greeted them.  A confused chorus of “sup” responded.

“Girl Jeans!” I said, using his real name.  The shock was clear on his face; he had no idea what our names were, and no idea how we knew his name.  “What were those names you gave me the other day?”  I was standing right in front of him, and he was seated on the curb.  Matt was a few feet to my right.

“What names?”

“Don’t get stupid.  The names of your friends who egged my house.  Any of these guys involved?” I pointed at the other kids.

“No, no, none of them.  The names, uh, are Chris, Cody, and Cameron,” he said, giving the last names as well.

“Phone numbers and addresses,” I said, writing the names on a notepad.

“I don’t have addresses -“

“Real close friends of yours, huh?”

”- but I got Chris and Cameron’s numbers.”  I wrote those down as well.

“Now let me tell you something, Girl Jeans.  This isn’t some game.  I’m taking this seriously because this is a nice block.  I like it here.  And I’m not going to stand for you or your moron friends messing it up for the rest of us.  Every house on this block knows what happened and who was involved.  This is not the place to be fucking around.  Got it?”

“Yeah, ok, fine,” he said, trying to shrug me off.

“Don’t get a fuckin’ attitude with me!  Do you understand that there is a police report on this?”

“I’m not getting an attitude!  Sorry!”

With that, I started to walk away.  Matt then said, pointing at the kid on the bike, “And stay out of his driveway!  And stay out of my fuckin’ driveway, too!”

Next up: The shocking (not shocking) conclusion!

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The next morning I was out cutting the grass. Near the corner of my yard where the kids had been the night before, I found a smashed egg in the street. “Ah,” I though. “That must have been what I heard.” On I mowed, mystery solved.

Until I crossed the front walk by the front porch. There, in the grass, was a piece of eggshell. There is now way that shell got there from where it was smashed in the street. To anyone watching me, they saw me suddenly stop moving, mower still running, staring at the little shell in the grass. My eyes drifted up, slowly.

“MOTHERFU-” I said out loud. There was an egg smashed on the wall right under the porch light. Yolk had run all down the brickwork and pooled on the concrete porch. Dried yolk drippings hung from the railing. I stood there, dumbfounded, for a minute or two. I shut the mower down and stood back. Another egg was spattered on the other side of my picture window, all over the brick, but not on the glass. I could see shiny spots on the roof where two more eggs had hit.

I dialed the non-emergency number for the police. “Hi, my house got egged last night, and I know who did it. Could you send someone over when they’re free?” Mad props to the KPD; an officer was in my driveway less than ten minutes later. By that time, I had talked with my neighbor to the north, as one of the roof eggs had splattered across onto his siding. The officer handed me a self-report form and described to me what to do. Fill it out, send it in, and if there is any insurance claim or permanent damage, there would be a citation issued. Otherwise, it would just be filed. Well, okay, not the most ideal resolution (SWAT team assault on the house), but I guess it makes sense.

I’ve mentioned in posts before that we have a pretty close block, here. That afternoon, the neighbors to either side of Bar Hag and the teenage girl to the south of me and I were talking. Kim knew Bar Hag’s name, and the girl knew Girl Jeans’ name. Okay, score one for my side. Matt was incensed, as he lives right next door to Bar Hag and has to listen to them all the time. Someone asks why I haven’t cleaned it off. I say, “I want Girl Jeans to do it. If he does, the report goes in the trash. If he doesn’t, I’ll send it in. But I’m not going to talk to him, I want to go through Bar Hag to take care of this.”

Some time later, Joy and I decided to start cleaning - at least my neighbor’s house. As we were finishing, Bar Hag came home. She couldn’t have fit the nickname better: she looked like she was still drunk from the night before, eyes half-closed, cigarette hanging from her mouth. Music was blaring from her Blazer as she parked, hopping the curb.

I started down the driveway. As she turned toward me with her stupid drunken cow eyes, I lost all my cool. My plan had been to speak with her in a controlled, yet obviously displeased manner, but all of the went right out. I opened my mouth, and instead of “hey Bar Hag, we need to talk about your son,” I said, no - shouted, “the next time your kid and his fucking friends eggs my house I’m going to have ‘em fucking arrested!”

“What?”

“Your kids and his buddies egged my house last night!”

“How do you know?”

“I saw them!”

“Whattya want me to do about it?”

I was speechless. Luckily, Joy joined in, “You’re the adult! Take some responsibility!”

Bar Hag shot back, “Call the cops, see if I care.”

I said, “I already did!”

“Good for you!” and she went into her house.

I was so mad. Furious. I went up on the roof, though, to clean the eggs from up there. Matt came home from dinner and saw that Bar Hag was back. I pointed at her truck and yelled across the street, “Whattya want me to do about it?”

Matt said, “Dude are you serious?” He stalked across her yard, up to her front door, and began pounding on it. I don’t know what his plan was, but no one answered.

About ten minutes later, I was working on some more egg, when Joy said, “Here they come.” Bar Hag and Girl Jeans (who had been in the house all day!) were walking over. I saw Matt come out of his house and stand at the end of his driveway where he could observe.

To be continued!

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It’s been a rough start to the year.  I’ve tallied up 28 miles over six runs (3, 4, 7, 4, 5, 5) since the 7th.  I’ve missed out on an additional 12 miles (a 7 and a 5) thanks to these super cold temperatures.  Man, 40 sure does sound a lot better than 28.  Eh, I’ll be there soon enough.

In the last post I promised a gripping tale of neighborly animosity.  Let me set the stage: There is one house on our block that always has lousy people living in it.  When we first moved in it was April and Mike.  April was a chain smoking cow who was humping some dirtbag who showed up every morning in a van ten minutes after Mike left for work.  She liked to sit on her front stoop, smoking and yammering on the phone, wearing shorts that would have been inappropriately short on a hot chick.  Their favorite hobby was holding yard sales.  These yard sales last from Saturday until everything had either been blown out of or stolen from their yard.  I’m not kidding.  Crap would be piled there for weeks.  In their backyard were two boats, a motorcycle, and a car with no wheels.

Eventually, they left, and were replaced by Nikki and Bill.  I guess they were nice enough, but they never did ANYTHING.  Nikki would hide in the house if anyone else was outside.  Bill never made any effort to say hi and would pretend not to see you wave.  He joined the army and they moved away.

And then, in November of 2006, the latest people moved in.  Because they’re still there, I’ll refer to them as Bar Hag and Girl Jeans, her 16-17 year old son (I don’t want any of you twits looking up her record or his my face dotcom web).  At first, there was nothing remarkable about them.  As spring rolled around, they even did some minor landscaping to pretty things up.  And that’s where the goodwill efforts ended.

I called her Bar Hag.  She’s probably mid-thirties, maybe forty.  Has the gravel voice and leather skin of a sixty-year-old man.  Works/worked as a bartender.  Naturally, she came home at 2:30 in the morning.  The problem was, she came home blasting either crappy nu-metal or hip hop.  Yes, thank you for the Fitty-Cent.  Good thing I only have to get up in two and a half hours!  Bar Hag also brought her “tips” home - and sometimes more than one.  They also liked to blast their music.  And then they would drunkenly yell at each other in the front yard, make out, and go inside.  One dude had the brilliant idea to take a leak on the side of her house, under full glare from her floodlights.  Another guy mistook the next door house for Bar Hag’s and banged on the bedroom window of the (at the time) single mother who lives there.

They’re just a wonderful addition to the block.

Then in June, the real war started.  I was sitting in the living room around 10:30pm, watching TV.  The lights were on.  I noticed some shadowy figures running through the yards across the street.  I knew the the people directly across from me were out of town, so I got interested.  I went into the bedroom, where it was dark, and watched as three teenage boys ran through the backyards and front yards, then gathered under the street light at the corner of my yard.  “Ok,” I thought to myself.  “It’s just Girl Jeans and some friends of his goofing around.”

As I walked back into the living room, I heard something smash - like a bottle.  I immediately thought they had thrown something at my house.  I ran to the front screen door (which was locked) and managed to get outside.  The kids were gone.  I grabbed a flashlight and searched the yard for broken glass, checked my windows, checked the neighbor’s cars… nothing.  One thing I did notice was that my house was the only one with lights on.  These kids obviously could see me when I was in the living room - my front window is 10 feet wide and 5 feet high.

While I was outside, I saw the kids coming back with a fourth on a bike.  I hid in the shadows and followed them back to Girl Jeans’ house.  I was hoping they would say something or do something to indicate what happened, but no luck.  I figured, must have been the TV, and went home.

Stay tuned for Part 2, where the egg hits the fan…

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