Yep. I'm 30. Free write time!! No deletes allowed!!

So I’m 30. I’m a writer. I’m supposed to vent through words, right?

 

So here it is, at 4:13am…with a glass of Glenmorangie Alstar on the rocks and a tired head, I’m going to do a no-deletes-allowed free write on what I’ve learned in the last 30 years. In no particular order:

 

If anyone out there thinks I look young for 30, it’s because of laughter and laughter only. The good times and parties, that shit is fun but leaves its mark to say the least. What sticks with me through the years is the laughs. Thinking about them either makes me laugh all over again, or (from time to time) gets me misty because the other half of those laughs isn’t around to reminisce with. So first and foremost, thank you to everyone out there who laughed with me or laughed at me…and if it was neither, I was for SURE laughing at you. So thanks for that too!

 

Love feels really good, and is frustrating beyond belief at the same time. Love is like eating a really, REALLY good rice dish, but from time to time only having one chopstick. The food is still incredible, it just takes a LOT more work to taste it. That said, I feel like if you can make the one chopstick thing work until a new set arrives, it almost makes everything taste better. Anyone out there who says love isn’t hard work missed the point, or has mistaken the fructose syrup of lust for the nectar of love. Anything worth having in this world takes work to attain it, and I think love is the highest goal. I cannot express how lucky I feel to be where I am.

 

Music. Music music music. Music music music music music. Turn off your radio and find music. Don’t know where to go? Call me google maps…

 

I like the fact that I went, in the span of ten years, from a scotch hater to a scotch lover. Ten years ago this November, I bought my first bottle of Glenlivet 12 year at the Duty Free shop in Tallin, Estonia. We played poker with matchsticks as chips, watched Russian MTV, and drank scotch on the rocks until we all were slurring and going “all in” on every hand. Ten years later, I’m sipping my favorite while staring at the moon and thinking about what to type.

 

I love finally being comfortable enough to articulate my atheism. My mother and her side of the family gave me quite a phobia about admitting it to anyone I cared about, and attending St. John’s University cemented that in my psyche. But thanks to Kurt Vonnegut, Christopher Hitchens, Ben Franklin, Albert Einstein, and (most importantly) Carl Sagan, I feel like much, much bigger shoes have trudged a path carefully and thoughtfully through the PC muck, leaving notes along the way pushing me to keep learning, keep exploring, and most importantly to keep an open mind when talking to others.

 

I will write a book. And fuck will it be good. And filled with partial sentences and bad grammar, because I love writing the way I talk.

 

I think this country has become so divided that something bad is going to have to happen before these fences are repaired…and that makes me sad. The hate that replaces dialogue in this country is a bit startling, but the media is either too busy raking those cinders and blowing on the coals while adding the kindling of mistruth and disinformation, or diverting attention to fauxlebrities and their reality shows, contemplating their fashion instead of the reasoning behind our knowing their names at all. We teeter on a dangerous cliff as I type this, and I fear the people we’ve put our trust in are too busy arguing over what type of stone this cliff is made out of or who put the cliff here instead of how to back safely away.

 

There is nothing more beautiful and perfect than a fat girl crying while delicious, delicious ice cream. I cannot and will not stop preaching the joy I got while watching her. “(frown)Boo hoo hoo…(smile)om nom nom…(frown)boo hoo hoo…(smile)ommmmm nom nom” Fantastisk!!

 

Vince Vaughn calling me “a funny motherfucker” is still the single greatest moment in my life.

 

I don’t get Radiohead, but I love Thom Yorke’s voice. I don’t like Jack White. I never liked The Strokes, The Vines, Interpol, or any of the other fuzzycool Indie bands. I’d put 15 Mike Doughty, Butch Walker, Roger Clyne, or Jim Adkins songs up against any garage band-of-the-moment and totally believe in the win.

 

I’m really afraid that I can see golf, after one real outing, could eclipse all other sports besides NFL football as my new passion. I like baseball, NCAA basketball, MMA, the whole gambit, but golf makes a lot of sense. I feel like the last dad on the block to get a “cellular telephone,” but I was a golf hater for YEARS. That all washed away with my first real drive, 235 years, dead center of the fairway. Sniffffffff, sighhhhhh. I’m hooked.

 

Being a dog person is sooooo dope. I get cats, sort of. They’re easy, funny, and adorable. But your dog is your DOG. He cuddles, brings you toys when he thinks you’re sad, freaks out EVERY time you come home, he’s your buddy. Or she, sorry bitches! A dog is part of your family, you’re a part of a cat’s family. From Thorvald The Wonderdog to Marley, dogs are and will always be my, um, dawgs?

 

(Ok, it’s 5:16am now, and this cask-strength scotch is kicking my typing skills’ ass!)

 

I biked home tonight. There was a beautiful moon out this evening. I stopped and looked at the pale white slice, glowing down on me. It occurred to me how beautiful the silence of the moon is. The sun shouts down every day “Look at me!” all the while raising and lowering temperatures depending on distance and mood. But the moon, lit in varying shades by the sun’s gaze, strikes the most elegant and delicate poses. Less people looking, showing off only when there’s plenty of stars to stare at…and yet the moon conveys its beauty with a serene confidence not seen elsewhere in the sky, day or night. Anyone can appreciate the sun, hot and loud…the real, true beauty is in the subtlety of the moon, gentle and stunning. If you can find a better metaphor for why Em and I work and why I’m stunned everyday to wake up next to her exquisite beauty, then please tell me.

 

I love you all if you’ve read this far,

The (30 year old) Quammunist

I've never said any of this, but it needs to be said...

“The list of things I used to be is longer than the list of things I am.”

 In saying that, I still realize that my list of current me is quite lengthy. I am Ben Quam; devoted fiancé, obsessive bar manager, storyteller, and reckless friend. I was Ben Quam; the liar, the reckless drunk, excuse teller, and thief. I am The Quammunist; comedian, storyteller, writer, and observer. I was simply Quam; using all of those talents to mask my lack of handle on the out-of-control vehicle that was my life. Hearts, trust, respect, and careers were ground up in the ugly gears of that messy machine, but a DWI changed all that.

The problem is that as much as I realize what I am, there is a small zone of crossover between what I was and what I am. One thing on that list bothers me more than any other. I was, and am, a divorce statistic.

“Look, at this point, I’ve raised you as I could’ve hoped. You are a man now, and if I die I’ll know I got to see you become an adult.”

Those are the words my father said to me over pizza at Carbone’s on Cedar in south Minneapolis when I was twenty. The backstory was that he was refusing treatment for his brain cancer, and wanted, apparently, to let me know that if he died,  20 was as far as he could’ve hoped for his son to grow to. I had a father for five years, and this is what I got. To qualify this story, I need to turn the clock back a little bit:

My father is was a raging alcoholic. He left my mother when I was four, and until I was fifteen and quit drinking due to a DWI-related accident, was at best a weekend warrior…showing up on Saturdays from noon to 4pm, usually buying me a toy or taking me to a movie. My mother put on the yoke of sole parenting, a role that I adored and resented her for. My mother is driven, she is brilliant, she is tenacious, but she is a mother. She is overprotective, obsessive, and at times so solely focused on an issue that she misses the big picture.

Life was unfair to everyone during my childhood. It was unfair to my father, because although he’s never admitted it to me, he missed a lot. Showing up for baseball games and weekend movies do not equal the parenting experience. He took me to bars, but gave me quarters to play videogames while he drank. He picked me up from daycare, but I’m still left with memories of him being an hour late and citing “traffic on 35” as the reason. I drive 35W all the time, and nothing takes an hour. He was getting shitfaced, and then driving me home. That said, he's still the coolest man I've ever met. He dresses impeccably, he tells fantastic stories, his music knowledge is only trumped by mine (Ha!) and he now inspires his step-grandkids and young coworkers the way I ached for so many years ago.

Life was unfair to my mother because she had to be both parents, while dad got to be my cool uncle. This distinction was exacerbated by the fact that my father was disgustingly charming and my mom was focused on business success to the point that it was off-putting from time to time. My mother had to deal with all the hard stuff for 6 ½ days a week, and dad got the best for that half-day. That said, mom delved into work…both at work and at home to hide her inability to relate to an ever-growing mind like mine. I envy no one who spent time in my formative years, which I count up until yesterday. I treated my teachers like parental figures, throwing myself into or out of every class, dependent on whether or not I connected with said teacher. Either way, I was determined not to be ruled by one person, for no real reason except defiance. 

Life was unfair to me because it taught me to be a liar. I’m a good storyteller because I learned to be a good liar. Having a dad that had never checked in and a mom that so desperately wanted to believe everything I said gave me an opportunity to invent characters I so wanted to be. The comedy I write now, at least I hope, is an extension of that lie. I have been afforded a life where I get away with more than most, and continue to obsess over whether I earn the friendships I hold so dearly. I was once told that I don't really fall in love, I just like faking it for fun. I laughed as I walked away, but like a fat joke in Jr. High it sticks in my subconscious. 

 It’s a tough world out there, and if anyone needs a forum to expel some anger about a divorce, a lack of a parent, or just an issue with life itself, holler here. No judging, no anything. Just open up…we all need it.

 

 

It's a long one, but read it if ya can...

I turn thirty in less than three months, and it almost seems arbitrary. The only credence is given by others, the way Christians give the word or Christmas (or lack thereof, as in Xmas) power. Whether a product of a Hallmark-imposed milestone or legitimately nearing a scenic outlook on a life lived, there’s one thing I’m sure of:

 

I am but a glutton for life.

 

Everything there is to experience, I take seconds. Is this bad? Is this good? Can I wear my experiences on my merit badge sleeve in the way that others wear their credit score, cars, and golf clubs? I love eating, drinking, sexing; basically any “-ing” they say is potentially bad for you or potentially addictive…except heroining and mething. I just don’t get those two, I guess.

 

An only child for all intents and purposes, my life’s experiences have been collected by only me. Some friends have been mile markers and some have been road trip compatriots, but there’s been no single copilot for these thirty years.

 

“The list of things I used to be is longer than the list of things I am.”

 

How gorgeous is that line?

 

The author of the line above, Ms. Dessa Darling, wrote a story in her first book (because I know there will be more!) about traveling abroad. I do not know her, and only if the luckiest of circumstances occur will I ever meet her; and yet she, like many others I’ve loved through page and track pushes me to try and articulate these merit badges and battle medals and heart scars and bones gathering dust in my closet. Without the expression of said moments and feelings they sit as falling trees in a forest without a witness. Does it make a sound? Did I hear it or think it? Our brains use the EXACT same functions to listen to a sound and hear a sound in our head, so what if we never actually heard it? What if, in retrospect, we just add a sound (or a meaning) to experiences to make the memory more pleasing to recall? Our brains just faking our ears, souls, and even themselves to manufacture a feeling of meaning to ease the cruelness of the world

 

In her first book, Dessa wrote a beautiful piece about traveling through South America. The end of the story struck me like a sudden gust of wind; the way it steals your breath for just a second, and your subconscious gives you that ever-so-slight jolt of adrenaline you can smell in the tip of your nose warning your conscious that danger is but a breath (or lack thereof) away. Near the end, she says, “But if there is a larger picture, it is lost on me…this story has no moral.”

 

In the interest of sharing this one before it’s lost to the ages, I have a story whose song still plays in my head.

 

When I was 20, I decided to shun all the study abroad programs my school offered, and enroll in a national program to see if I could be a “new” me to a group of people I’d never met. Not that I was unhappy with myself, but I needed to see if I could do it solely on my own. No connections, no history. I enrolled in the University of Oslo through the SUST program, and moved to Oslo. I lived in a 6 bedroom flat with 3 Norwegians, 2 Slavic women, and an American woman. Life was scary, exciting, and financially destitute…but wonderful. Talk amongst exchange students flows like summer camp concentrate.; passionate, forced, idealistic, and a few shades of misguided. Time always feels fleeting, and relationships have an air of desperation due to the ever-looming end of the semester.

 

I took a week to visit central Norway to see life closer to the village my family came from, and experience life away from the city. I ended up in the town of Levanger. During WWII, there was a concentration camp nearby in a town called Falstad. The government, as a defiant protest to Norway’s occupation by the Nazis, has preserved everything from said camp. The drawings on the walls from “defiant and misguided children,” the work fields, and the prisoners’ barracks…all sit silent as a hushed reminder of what we as humans are capable of.

 

The gentleman guiding the tour was the only employee in sight. He was a tall, stoic Norwegian who measured each sentence before he spoke, betraying either a lack of confident handle on the English language or a reluctance to open up about what in fact occurred here. He took us through the barracks and an eerie silence overtook him. He pointed at the crude lines in the walls, and the letters scrawled beneath them. Those letters were the names of those who were executed one by one, and the lines were the counts, in paces, to the unmarked graves. Each line, each letter was scratched out with fingernail on plaster, with the stains of blood 50+ years old still telling their pain. There were even hidden arrows pointing which direction to walk. The Nazis took three each time, had them dig two holes, shot two, and had the third carry the shovels back.

 

He then took us through the paces and paths they’ve now identified to the graves, marked in quiet fashion as a tip of the hat to those who died for such a misguided ideal. We quietly looked on at the crosses and listened to his story about the hundreds not accounted for yet. I found my hand interlocked with the woman standing next to me, each finger a security blanket to the opposite hand’s shocked child. No one knew what to say.

 

We walked back in silence. The crunch of each step couldn’t help but be counted, whether as a marker of our quiet respect to those who died, or a soul’s EKG beeping as one, hoping and praying for normalcy but being left with the arrhythmia of a small group too affected to notice.

 

When we returned to the main building, the man asked gently if anyone had any questions. I have no idea to this day what possessed me to speak up at that moment, but I asked him why he chose to work there. This is what he said, to the best of my memory, without exaggeration or hyperbole:

 

“If you look to the east, there is a farm now, as there was then. I was 5 years old when the Nazis turned Falstad into a death camp. My mother and father were so scared something bad would happen to us that they just continued on farming, and literally ignored what was going on behind our fence. After a year had gone by, my curiosity got the best of me, and I began sneaking off to the back fence to look at all the people in the camp. After a week or so, one man started smiling when he saw me. I smiled back, and wondered what somebody that nice was doing in prison. I went there every day after my chores, just before dinner, so watch the people and look for the smiling man.

 

“Finally one day, after looking in all directions for a minute, he walked over to me. I backed away from the fence, scared to talk to a real live prisoner, and in very rough Norwegian, he said ‘Come here.’

 

“I walked ever-so gingerly to the fence, and asked the only thing I could think of, ‘What do you want?’ And his response still sits with me to this day. All he said was ‘Pray for me.’ And so I did. Every day, just before dinner, I’d run to the fence and pray like the small dolls whose hands we put candles in at Christmas. Every day. No matter snow, rain, cold, or sun, there I was, praying for this man I didn’t even know.

 

“Almost three years later, the Allies liberated our town. We lined up to throw garbage and rotted food at the Nazi prisoners, and I looked with all my being for the man I was praying for all this time. Finally there he was, walking and smiling like the first day he saw me. He stopped, and walked over to me. My heart leapt into my throat, because I didn’t know if I didn’t pray hard enough to get them out earlier or said the wrong thing, and then he knealt down and said, ‘Thank you for praying for us. Thank you for praying for me. They killed my wife, they killed my family. I don’t know where I’m going right now, but I at least owe you this.’ And he pulled out a gold ring; his wedding ring. I guess he didn’t need it anymore.”

 

I looked at him, and tears filled my eyes. He was holding up his right hand, with a gold band on his ring finger, and was staring at me.

 

“You ask why I work here. My friend, I have not taken this ring off since that day, even though it took 14 years until it fit. I’m here to ask you what is your ring? When you are moving slower and feeling older like me, what can you look back on and say you did? Find your ring. Please.”

 

It seems simple at first, but where is the true moral to that story?

 

As I look back on my life, I search for my own truths and morals. The harder I look, the more I realized how many of my stories I’ve attached a moral to in order to feel like there was a plotline to my story. As a nonbeliever, an atheist, a heathen, or whatever the media decides scares people the most, it’s hard to say at thirty that I’m still not sure what to hang my hat on. That said, I think my road trip compatriots are better, the vehicle of my life is handling better, and I may have just been lucky enough to find a copilot for the next thirty years.

 

So, um, where are we going next? Any ideas?

 

 

Drinking the magic dancing juice

Drinking the magic dancing juice
Originally uploaded by ron ron

Yeah, um, I don't know. Maz + RonRon + Quam + The Magic Dancing Juice x Kelly Clarkson's Disney Techno = This...whatever it is.

I can never figure out what to do with my hands...

lol
Originally uploaded by ron ron

Fuck, I am weird. Oh well, it makes me laugh!!

Thoughts on a train...

People are so fickle. I love trying to figure ‘em out every hour of every day, just hoping that I’ll see the glimmer of intellect or cleverness to prove that we as a species deserve the planet we now rule. Those of you that really know me know that I do not believe in God. Pray for me (or feel sad for me if you must), but I’m of the opinion that if you’re happy when you wake up then you’re on the right belief track. The only downside my lack of faith leaves me with is a lingering need to believe that we are living up to our evolution.

            Since there’s no God in my scenario of life, there’s also no “intelligent design” inherent in the system. We’re just a really, really random shot of molecules that haven’t fucked it up for ourselves yet. But, like Isaac Asimov and Kurt Vonnegut Jr. before me, I am intrinsically a humanist. I believe in smiles and laughter and treating people justly simply because we’re all stuck on this planet together, and if the assholes prevail it’ll be a pretty shitty experience for all parties involved. So that morsel of hope in the human race keeps me on a constant search for those of us that are trying to earn it.

            Saturday night I put my DJ shoes back on, and threw a little party…and by little I mean 1500 people going crazy and drinking to the point of cirrhosis. Somewhere between the musical genius (sigh) of Lady GaGa and Flo Rida (I really wonder where he’s from), I dropped 2 minutes of Chris Brown’s last hit “Forever.” I grabbed the mic and said “Doesn’t this sound like a Rihanna beat?” and giggled to myself because, well, that joke was for me. As I transitioned into Flo Rida’s “Right Round,” I found myself being poked incessantly in the back by a sharp fingernail. I turned around already annoyed and was greeted by a little brown-haired troll with her best fart face on.

            “Was that last song by Chris Brown?” she asked.

            “Why yes it was…” I responded, already sensing where this was going.

            “Why IN. THE. FUCK! Would you play his fucking music??!” she accused.

            (Giving my best Cheshire Cat grin) “Look honey, if I quit playing songs made by criminals I’d have no dance songs to play.” And away she stomped, presumably to go complain to her fellow trolls over a bucket of ranch dressing and Bacardi/diets.

            I’ll stand by my point that while I’ll pick and choose which artists I want to financially support, when it comes to the party all politics are off if they can shake some asses. I fought a ban from Republican bosses of Kanye West’s music over the Katrina comments, I’ll play T.I. on the day he goes to jail for felony weapons possession, and to tell the truth I’d still drop a single by OJ Simpson if it made the ladies dance on the dancefloor. Hopefully it’s called “Take A Stab At Rappin’ (Yeah, I Did It).”

            What’s sad is that I really wanted to ask her if she’d read the economic stimulus package. I wanted to see if she could possibly channel any of the anger she holds for clubs that play music from a guy who beat up his girlfriend to something that ACTUALLY matters in her life. I’m sorry if you had abuse in your life because Uncle Diddles had you on his lap too much and you weren’t pretty enough to be a stripper. I’m sorry if you got knocked around by someone, but #1) I know how it feels to get wailed on and 2.) The other 1499 people grinding and shaking don’t seem to mind, and I’ll take that ratio any day.

            But back to my point, do you vote? Do you pay attention to the decisions around you that will affect your life and the lives of your kids? Or is your only idea of economics bitching that season 3 of Grey’s Anatomy is still $34.99 and not understanding why anybody would by expensive wine when Trader Joe’s Pinot Grigio is “just as good.” I’m not advocating everyone has to read all 1100 pages (especially since no one in Congress did) of the stimulus proposal, but if people spent half (HALF) the time they spent G-chatting at work, or reading the (not funny) musings of Perez Hilton or Gofugyourself.com, or twittering/facebooking/myspacing and actually read some news we could maybe start getting on the right track as a people.  

            $787,000,000,000 is 1/11 of our national debt, and is about to be spent on, um, can you tell me? Anyone out there? Yes, it will create jobs. Yes, it will help put cash back into the economy. But at what cost? The interest on that loan alone could bankrupt us as a country. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not anti-Obama, I’m just uncomfortable with the speed and recklessness this got pushed through. We are intelligent beings with the free will and ability to control our destiny, and yet as a people we keep fostering a culture that values the emptiness of fame and rewards mediocrity. We put celebrities on a pedestal and wait with bated breath for their opinion while recycling the papers written by experts in the field without reading them. Where’s the logic in that?? I can tell you 20 people who know who LC from “The Hills” voted for, but couldn’t find 20 people who know who William F. Buckley or George Will or Molly Ivins are.

            There’s an ad campaign for parents to get more involved with their kids’ school activities that says “Your child’s homeroom teacher knows who your child sits with at lunch. Do you?” I love this ad ecause the same logic applies to us in this world: “You know how much every item in your groceries costs at Costco/Cub Foods/Pick-n-Save, but can you name your state congressman or state senator or 5 things (specifically) that the Stimulus Package is going to do?”

            Barack Obama’s campaign was based on change and hope, two things I think our country desperately needs. But were I a bit smarter, a bit more motivated, and had a few less strikes against me I’d run for office under the slogan “Let’s Earn This.” Whether it’s proving we deserve this to each other, or proving it to a God who created this for us, either way we’re adults acting like petulant children who have every opportunity to be great and are sadly content just whining and pissing it away.

            So earn this. Read a paper. Read the news online.

 

            And keep reading my blogs…*wink*

My friend Tommy and I were talking about what a bummer it would be if we drowned in a river in the winter. Your lungs fill with water AND you're really cold; sounds pretty lame. During this discussion I started thinking about what songs I'd want played at my funeral, were I to drown. Here's my list, but feel free to comment with tracks I may have missed.

1. "The Water Is Wide," Lillith Fair version w/Sarah McLachlan, Jewel, and The Indigo Girls

2. "Drowning" by the Backstreet Boys

3. "Old Man River" with Michael Clark Duncan singing

4. "Nightswimming" by REM

5. "And The Hero Will Drown" by Story Of The Year

6. "Swim" by Lil' Mama

7. "Let Me Entertain You" by Natalie Wood

8. "Surfin' Safari" by the Beach Boys

9. "Congratulations" by The Rolling Stones

10. "Hallelujah" by Jeff Buckley

The 2 greatest jokes ever told, January 2006

So here we sit almost a month into 2006. I got yelled at last night by my neighbor's Xgirlfriend for my previous blog about stupid women...thereby confirming my blog about stupid women. It's all tongue-in-cheek around here, folks. If you can't tell sarcasm when you read it, put your waterwings on and float away from me.

Life pretty much fucking rules for the Quam in '06. Probation is done, beautiful women like hanging out with me (thank you Meghan, Megan, and every girl at Spin on Thursdays), and I believe in Crystal Light because I believe in me.

If you don't think this year is going that well, I need you to do me a favor. Go to rollingstone.com and read the article entitled "Scott Stapp's fall from grace". I hated this motherfucker like strippers hate their childhoods before I read it, but now I can wish Stapp on people...that's how bad his life is. Osama Bin Laden, Kim Jung Il, everyone who thinks Hollister and Abercrombie are lifestyles, and the guy who farts and walks away at a bar, I wish Stapp on you.

Besides that, if you want your year to come out right, here's some tips. Go out and buy Daniel Tosh, Todd Berry, and Patton Oswald's CDs. These guys are fucking geniuses. Also, buy some stupid sunglasses and rock them like you're serious.

I wanted to be funny in this blog, but my humor was trumped on Thursday night by a stinky drunk NorthEaster that wandered into Erte while I was eating dinner. Here is a recap on our interaction...

Drunkie: "Mumble mumble mumble" (facing away from me)

BQ: "Holy shit! We'd better listen to this well-spoken gentleman."

Drunkie: "Eh...What's the difference between a low rate war tactic and mayonnaise?"

At this point my brain almost fell out of my fucking ear trying to think of what would need to happen for that question to even be concieved. But before I could go farther he hit me with the answer...

Drunkie: "Napolean's proverb."

Damn you Kevin Nealon, you've outdone me again.

Drunkie: "Believe that. Why couldn't the French reverend understand them at Constantinople?"

Again, wow. I'm still working through the stutter I developed thinking about the first question, and here he is swinging for the fences in round two.

Drunkie: "A chastity belt made of plastic."

Folks, if you need a motto or something to say to Aunt Tilly to scare the hell out of her, feel free to throw one of these questions. I don't even know where to go after that, so I'll just say I'm Ghost like Swayze.

The original Zombie Blog circa 2007

M is really into Astrology, and in the interest of finding out what "That's so typical Leo" means, I've began reading up on the subject. I've tread water in this subject before, but now I'm kind of diving in...trying to learn about all of my bad tendencies before they manifest themselves, and learning how totally awesome the rest of me is. Oh, wait, was that typical for me? Don't care, I'm right.

Today or tomorrow, my number of blog views will crest the 10,000 mark. I don't expect any ceremonies or annoying Hallmark Cards, but I did figure that I should give something back to all of you who made this milestone possible. A little something to take with you and chew on...

Along with reading about the Sun Sign and lions and being radiant, something bubbled into my head. This is as much a warning as it is a theory, and if you're reading this I want you to make a mental note just incase this scenario ever occurs:

I'm not the A-Team, I'm not MacGuyver, but if you wake up and Zombies are attacking the planet a la Dawn or Shaun of the Dead, you should probably call me.

"What makes you say that, Ben Quam? That sounds kinda arrogant. But you are really intelligent and good looking and always smell good and have the best taste in music."

Yes, all of those things are true, but those aspects of the Quam do not help in solving the Zombie issue. Let me explain:

1. I've seen, like, every Zombie movie ever. I know that head trauma kills them the fastest, they suck at climbing anything, they're easy to get to walk into overly-elaborate booby traps involving explosives, and they follow loud noise.

"But Ben, you're so fucking loud all the time."

Have you seen me in a Zombie attack? No. I'm all types of stealthy, with the military hand signals that look like sign language for frat guys and everything! No funny impressions or singing shitty one-hit wonder songs until we're safely at base camp.

2. I have the best group of friends for Zombie fighting ever:

There's a neverending supply of beautiful women in my life that would look incredible with messed-up hair and kinda dirty shirts ripped in all the right places.

Fellas, you know what I'm talking about. Padme in Phantom Menace comes to mind. There is nothing sexier than a woman in ripped clothes stomping the shit out of Zombies. I'd name names here, but I know that I'd leave someone I think is beautiful out and she'd think it's because I think she's fat and now she's got an eating disorder that's on my conscience and I am NOT ok with that. Only for the fatties, that's what I say. I mean, I beat anorexia! Why can't you??

Anyway, then I have the "one-liner" guys that would keep everyone laughing

I'm gonna be too busy sweating and thinking about our next move to be running my typically A-game comedy, so I'll need the likes of Davey Jones, Pauly Hennessey, John Fiero, and Sexy Steve to keep things light. Don't misjudge them, though. They'll kill the fuck out of some Zombies when it's time to battle, but know that you gotta focus because Pauly will be dropping gems like Ryan Reynolds in Blade III, Davey Jones will be going Mach 5 like Cornholio on Red Bull, John Fiero will probably try and breakdance-fight with the Zombie leader, and Steve will undoubtedly be talking shit to everyone like they're 21 year-olds at 2-4-1s on Thursday nights at Williams. One false giggle and you're getting eaten like a Little Debbie snack cake in Britney Spears purse. Proceed and listen with caution.

I have the Strong Mother "I'm doing this to save my child" super ass-kicking women by my side

They may look small in frame, but you mess with Melissa's or Jenn's kid and you will be fucked up on site. At first there will probably be some crying and holding on to the small children for dear life, but if you've ever seen a movie you know that when all the chips are down you can count on the mother of the child in danger to whoop some major ass. I'm thinking Ripley at the end of Aliens when Newt is in trouble. "Get away from her you BITCH!" in the giant crane-suit. Zombies beware, my friends.

I have the "I'm wicked smart and have access to a lot of useful shit" friends

Benny Kanna is the first person I think of. He has a loft with all cement walls, perfect for hiding out while I devise a plan. He has keys to Spin and Drink, both of which have upstairs areas and huge supplies of booze. The booze is a double whammy because we can use it to take the edge off for a bit, and to make those cool molotov cocktails that work in every movie. He's also really smart at random shit like electrical wiring and Trivial Pursuit, so we can make more booby traps and have fun battling wits. Apples to Apples, son.

My boy Bud can build anything, plus when he's mad he's legally authorized to sign autographs for Lou Ferrigno. He'd be the dude who'd say "You keep the gun...I got my weapon" and it would be a bat with nails in it. B.A.M.F. Then there's Ryan Conant and Jennings, my computer guys. This is 2007, folks. You need the IT guys rolling with you. They'd know how to program the security systems, and would patch us through to CTU or the White House to let them know "We're here...don't nuke the city yet!" You gotta have two, because one ALWAYS gets eaten.

I have the best "I started out as an asshole, but then turn out to be a hero" friend

White guy Nick would totally be that guy. He'd make fun of the girls for having ironically torn shirts and point out that we've passed stacks and piles of clothes all along the way so why the fuck are you still wearing that unless you want us to look at your hot legs/stomach/cleavage. The girls would get all I'm-female-hear-me-roar and ask me why the fuck he's here, I'd explain that he's my best friend, and then silently one of them would mouth "You're lucky, bitch." and he'd smile arrogantly back at her. But we all know that when the master plan goes wrong and Nick's the only one left, he'd save the day.

It'd be that tense moment where the violin soundtrack is going crazy and he has to decide between saving the girl pinned down by the car wreck about to get eaten or pushing the detonate button on the computer...I'd yell "There's no time!!! Leave her! We gotta blow this place!!" because I'm a big fat jerk, but he'd find a way to save her AND hit the button. Then, as Zombies are blowing up all around them, she'd say "How did you do that?" and he'd say "I don't know...I guess I'm just lucky. Bitch." and everyone would laugh.

Lastly, I've got me

With everyone else being good at all of that stuff, who needs me, right? Well, who's gonna put all of those people together. And we all know the only reason I'd be doing any of it is to save M. We'd have some small successes, morale would be up, but as we got to the road that goes to the military base and "safety" I'd turn left. "But the base is that way..." someone would say. "Yeah, but she's that way." I'd reply.

Nick would point out to me that she's probably already dead because he's the asshole, I'd say I don't care. Bud and Paul would say "Fuck it, we're in." because they like to fight and kill shit and I'm sure Paul's wife and daughter would be that way too, and we'd all and up on the adventure together one-by-one picking up a rag tag group of friends to help in the good fight. In the end we'd save the ladies, all get medals of honor, and as a kicker it turns out that the military base everyone wanted to go to was already overrun by Zombies and we totally would've died.

I'm not trying to scare anyone, and I don't think we're on the verge of a Zombie attack. But just incase anyone wants to brush up on their tactics, I'm down for a good Zombie movie anytime. If you didn't get mentioned by name, respond and I'll tell you where you'd fit in. No getting mad if you're one of the people that gets eaten right away...everyone has to serve their purpose. You probably saved someone with your sacrifice. Be there anything more noble?

So, thanks for 10k and here's to hitting 100. I hope this has been some good infotainment for you...I'm just trying to help.

Much love from the land of 10,000 views and 10,000 lakes.

BQ

A classic about a locksmith from Feb. 26th, 2007

Talk about your Sunday Funday.

Mike from the band Man Down stayed over at my place Saturday night, with the hopes that their 10:20am flight would be cancelled due to the foot of snow that had fallen. In fact, he was so busy hoping that he left his guitar and bag in the cab on the way to my apartment. It was delivered just a shade before 6am, which is not helpful when one needs to be en route to an airport in 2 ½ hours.

I awoke at 9:20am to him on speakerphone waiting to find out his flight's status. Cancelled? No. Late? Not even close. We're flying on time folks. They missed the flight but went to the airport to await the next one, and my desperately hung over self went back to my warm bed and even warmer girlfriend for a few more hours of recovery time.

We re-awoke at 1pm, rested and starving. Dave and I decided that the three of us deserved a monstrous brunch spread, and the cooking began. Panckes? Check. Eggs for scramby-ing? Check. Mini Cinnamon rolls? Check. Hash for brownsing, bread for toasting, and sausage for hot greasing? Check, check, and more check. We ate it all until we were uncomfortable and washed it all down with some pulp-filled OJ, the way Nicole Simpson would want it.

It was my good friend Sexy Steve's 30^th birthday, and myriad surprises were in the mix. The ever-gorgeous M needed to run home for her belt and shoe needs, but we have 4 hours before the reservations so we're fine. "Have you seen my car key?" Shit. No I haven't, and you cabbed it downtown. Hmmmm. I think I remember your coat being in about 19 places last night, and that was just at my bar. Your key was in the pocket you say? It's off the keyring and is by itself you say? There's definitely not a spare you say? Hello qwestdex.com, BQ needs some locksmith action in a bad way.

Here's where the wheels come off for a bit. I don't know if anyone out there in the blogisphere have had to get a key made for a car, but it's kinda fascinating. Turns out that on the locking mechanism in the door there's a code that lets locksmiths (after consulting 3 400 page reference manuals) know how to cut the key...where to put the bumps and ridges.

I got really mad at this whole idea, because it was $95 that we didn't need to spend. I got a little salty at M, she put it in perspective and chilled me out, and I offered to go down and deal with the locksmith while she got to gettin' ready. Why? I mean, she lost the key. She didn't have a spare. Why am I doing this. Because she loves me, and I love her. Yeah I'll get a little heated for a sec, but fuck it, right? It's still Steve's 30^th and it's still a surprise and we still have 2 hours.

Then he showed up. I can't begin to tell you how the next hour of my life played out, but I can provide you with some highlights. This man scared the hell out of me, but he never stopped working so I played along. At one point M came down to check on me...I simply whispered "Go back upstairs!!" I didn't want him to even look at her. These are some of the talking points that were uttered:

First question out of his mouth after he got the make and model of the car:

"What about you...you a cubicle monkey?"

Solid start for a businessman...

He got a phone call from someone...this is what his end sounded like.

"New Brunswick? That sounds...snowy. Thank you for your cancellation, and visit Britebar.com for all of your beef cleansing needs. Ok, bye now."

I laughed, because I thought that was a joke. He responded,

"No man. I got a buddy who has a company that cleans conveyor belts at butcher plants. You gotta keep it clean. Two weeks ago I got food poisoning from meat. I had a couple pounds of shoulder steak that had gone bad, but I figured I'd cook it anyway. I, you know, pounded it, salted it and then soaked it in Kim Chee juice for a while and then cooked it. So now I got, like, 2lbs of spoiled meat in my intestines, and I gotta do something. So I went in the other end if ya know what I mean. Gave myself an enema with Green Tea and vitamin C. Did you know that the most common reason for a grown man to miss work is constipation? That's why you need fiber."

I had no idea what to say. Ben Quam was speechless. But he kept going without missing a beat...

"I want to start a company that gives experimental breast therapy to women. I'll just, you know, take their breasts and dip them in a mix of green tea, caffine, and chamomille...so they smell good too. Japanese do it, and I don't know if you know this, but they never get cancer. Some of the heaviest smokers on the planet, but still no cancer."

 

I'd never heard that about the Japanese I told him, but they are a very smart people and have thousands of years of herbal healing to go off of, so...

"I want to write a song for children, to increase awareness about teaching them that music notes are just like numbers. In the parochial system, if you mix numbers around you're labeled slow. I could never keep numbers straight." All this while looking up numbers for the key.

Then he started to tell me about growing up in Denver and how much he hates that city...

"A seven year old can keep a secret, but a 16 year old will tell her dad. They invented the whole child-adult marriage thing in Denver."

What do I say back to that? Then this...

"I want to work with autistic kids, but first I have to clean up my criminal record."

"After talking to the gas station attendants in Littleton, CO, I get it about gas prices and I know the real story about what happened at Columbine. There's a big difference between the haves, who have EVERTHING, and the have-nots, who are mostly Italians and Mexicans. I don't know if you knew this, but Denver used to be all Italian."

Oh boy, I'm so scared at this point. But he's still talking and I'm holding his flashlight as he takes M's door apart...

"Denver gets everything first. They totally control all of the fresh water supply for Las Vegas. You don't think that's power? Los Angeles is number 2, which isn't number one but it's damn close. They got 2 light rails, baseball, basketball...I tell ya, they ran everything in the 90s. Crooked ass mayor. Should be in jail. Legalized robbery and high crimes that the corporate world can't touch. I see these fucking things, man, and I know. I KNOW."

He also lived in Boulder...

"When Boulder was in its limelight, it was something to see. But they've cleaned up the alcohol there now, and now it's all yuppies. Yuppies just...y'know...riding their bikes."

Without missing a beat he went into more "next jobs"...

"I'm going to open a bookstore. But it'll be online. I can't have all that traffic at my location, but you know how that goes." "What kind of books will you have?" I ask him. "Mostly novels, because that's what my friend has. Then I'll take some money and be like 'I wanted to spend $5000 on books, so here's, you know, like 2. Two thousand. And then take the three."

I don't even know what that means!!!

Then he went back to the Denver issue, and then jumped to our light rail system. Called himself a 'commerce junkie'...

"I'm there before the FBI. In my day I knew more Arabs than they have hairs on their heads. I test the light rails. I'll go to a city JUST FOR the subways. I'm going to go buy Planes, Trains, and Automobiles tonight after work, watch it, then do the opposite. I hate all three. I don't consider subways trains, because they're completely independent. They're in my world, down with the rats and spiders. I like the air. It's pretty bad really. Terrible pollution. Like Denver."

What the fuck??!!

Then he asked if I was a smoker. I said no, but I have friends that do. He said...

"Here's a sure fire way to get 'em to quit. Take a cigarette, tear off the filter and roll out the tobacco. Have them hold it, light the paper, and tell them to smell it. Oooff! It'll burn their nose, but they've already quit in their mind. There's chemicals in the paper. Common misconception is that you're quitting the tobacco. Truth is that you're quitting all three. Y'know, the paper, the tobacco, and um, um, oh yeah, the filter."

He then drew what looked like a telescope.

"You see, it's kinda like a looking glass that you use to spy on people, but it's a cigarette. The tripod is the chemical paper, the tobacco, and the filter. Get rid of one and it'll fall over but you can still use it to spy. You gotta take all three out to kill it, then they've really quit. Here's your receipt, and thanks for calling."

And like that (insert poof noise here), he's gone.

M's car worked fine so she took of to get belted and shoed, I went upstairs to have a glass of wine.

Steve and Molly showed up about 5 minutes later, and the game was on. We had told Steve that I was cooking dinner at my place for the four of us. SURPRISE!! We had dress clothes for him and Molly, and we're going to Ruth's Chris Steak House. Off we go.

The snow drifts outside were so big that Steve and I picked up our ladies out of the cab and carried them through the snow to the door. Necessary, but also kinda romantic. SURPRISE!! We had another 7 people waiting for Steve there! He had no idea, and it was wonderful. We all had steaks, I split some crab cakes with Steve, and el vino did flow. Remy XP and creme brulee for dessert, and it's a belly-pattin' success.

Off to Mac's for more surprises...

(Quammunist note: I'm listening to the "10,000 days" album by Tool. That band is so beyond incredible, and this album is frighteningly beautiful and dark at the same time. Great to read and write to)

We get to Mac's and errry-one's thurr. Tommy "Smiles" DeQuattro and his wife, Dave and Jess, Garrett, Nick, Drewbie...like I said, errry-one. Even Steve's hot cousin Allison and Diane from New York showed their woppy asses. I love them and need to kick it with people from NY more...the attitude is much more my style. I even got to start a fight about Long Island vs. Rhode Island and Kennedy HS vs. Meppam HS!!

It was also Derek's birthday, and they picked Mac's too so no one would have to choose between the two parties. I love those boys. Downtown Craig Brown is my kind of peeps. Happy Birthday, D!

Those who couldn't make it called (except for fucking Pauly), and Grand Marinier was drink-drank-drunk. After a pep talk over a bathroom stall door, I yell for everyone to get together in back for a birthday photo. I know you're 6'7", but for this picture I need you and Molly in front.

SURPRISE!! He got down on one knee and popped the question like a frat kid pops a collar. She started crying and blurted out a "YES!!" and everyone cheered. Except Suzy, who missed it and them yelled at me for not telling her. I DIDN'T EVEN TELL M!!!

Shots, shots, afterbar. M insists she still loves me even though we were all types of loud until sun up, and Dave brought a cokehead over. Ass. No cocaine in BQ's casa, EVER. Sorry kids, I just don't roll that way.

Molly was 3 ½ hours late to work, but her boss is a woman so all was forgiven when she saw the rock.

I got to be hung over as hell today, but I'm smiling about the secrets I kept and the way it all got pulled off.

Damn it feels good to be a Quammunist.

Focker out.

Another classic, this one from 2007!

Just look at this photograph... Current mood:  confused What do you do when you're confronted by the very thing you love to make fun of. It happens to me now and then, and it's always this torn feeling inside? Do I want them to be mean and confirm everything I've always said, or do I want them to prove me wrong and be cool? At Lund's there was a guy I assumed to be homeless and drunk walking around yelling things indiscriminately last week. I thought it'd be fun to fuck with him an aisle over and yell "Polo" every time he shouted something. It wasn't quite Marco Polo, but it was close. I had my fun, until I ran face to face into his 'Tard Wrangler. Turns out he's mentally handicapped and likes to talk to himself. Still, she thought "Polo" was at least kinda funny. She got it, and was cool. So then I get a call last week, asking what I'm up to on Monday. I really like working for DD and the boys at Spin/Manhattan's/Drink, so I respond saying I'm down to throw a party somewhere. Turns out that Nickelback is throwing an aftershow party at Drink, and they want some Quammunist action to take the party to the next level. Fucking Nickelback. I went back through my blogs, and I think it's at least a 2:1 ratio in Nickelback jokes to other band jokes. I mean, just watch that cartoon I posted 3 blogs ago by my boy in Appleton. That says it all. Motherfucking Nickelback. And Staind. And Daughtry. Together in concert. I can't even begin to ponder how many 8th grade journals were stolen from boys across the country to write all those songs, but I can't help feeling that this party was short a Scott Stapp from being the actual Apocalypse. Poetic justice, you've out done me again. The bar was PACKED, and once again I'll say it: Say what you want about the Spin/Drink/Manhattan's owners...those men KNOW how to throw a party!!! They put Kill Tha DJ, Marky Mark, and The Quammunist himself behind that DJ Booth, and we brought the thunder. I was running the pre-party like a goddamn interactive Karaoke show, and they were eating it up like an angst-ridden breakup song about looking at a photograph! The band showed up at about 12:30am and the crowd turned into a damn-near riot. Girls were crying, handing me cameras and I was just holding them over my head and snapping them off paparazzi-style. I got Chad to come out and sing a little "Paralyzer" for the crowd, and then the rest of the band jumped into it. Hats off to them, when I asked if they had any requests, they immediately shouted "Play some Guns 'n' Roses!!" (Quammunist note: The band Guns 'n' Roses will forever in my heart be written as G'n'F'n'R as it was on my 9th grade Algebra textbook.) Things went great for the rest of the night. I got asked for the name of my band by both Chad Kroeger and Danny the drummer because I nailed some Disturbed and some Buckcherry, and I even got a few jokes in. To save my own soul I had to say something, and I chose this: When they were walking in, I said "Ladies and Gentlemen...may I present the...band in the world, Nickelback!!!" They are THE band...in the world. And you know what? They crowd went nuts. I could've said "Ladies and Gentlemen...my nuts are made of Laffy Taffy and I enjoy Decopage...Nickelback!!!" and they would've gone just as nuts. Such is life. At that point, I really wanted someone to do something douchey. The night had gone too well, and they were too nice. I needed something, anything, to validate me still cracking jokes...aside from the music...and then it happened. We notice that Chad's a bit preoccupied with a "lady suitor", and my visual hand check is coming up one short. Hmmm...is Mr. Nickelback gettin' knuckle-deep in some Minnesota Nice?? Then, right on cue as I'm thinking that, he pulls the boy scout salute out of her and gives it a nice, long sniff. Mm Mm, bitch!!! Nickelback's a sniffer!! Ha! It was like a weight was lifted from my shoulders. This guy's a multi-millionare, and he's pulling MY dopest move from 9th grade. Everybody needs a little Quam in the repertoire, at least that's what I tell the kids these days. So from me to all of you, sometimes it's too hard to hate things all the time. Hang out with something you hate, and every now and then it'll pay off in humor that'll last a lifetime. Benny, I know you won't let this one die too easy!! The one downer is that I missed the Jimmy Eat World show. For those of you that thought they were just "The Middle," you're sorely mistaken. Easily in my top 3 bands in history, their music deserves to be heard...especially when bands like Nickelback sell out the Target Center and mediocrity reigns supreme. Listen to "Kill," "23," or "Believe in What You Want" and if you care about music at all you'll be a fan from then on. Shit, they had a song called "Rockstar" in 1996! "Rockstar, what's mine is yours. Rockstar, you're looking good. You're looking to find a fight. Rockstar. Rockstar. Get off my battlefield. You could not take it back from me." Quammunist rests.

Another classic from 2008...

From Jan. 30th, 2008...

So we're at blog 2 from Ben Jr., my beautiful new MacBook. I'm still getting used to the key shortcuts and the (slightly) different keyboard, but thanks to my curiosity and some training from Hoover I'm slowly getting the hang of it. 

So anyway, I'm 28, and I was the second youngest one in my class. This means that I'm at the age where most of my friends start contemplating 30 if they haven't already, they start turning 30 if they haven't already, and they start trying ever so slightly to act like they're thirty. I have two very close friends who have decided to go back to school, one of whom is turning 31 tonight, and I'm so proud of their decisions. That one may be in my cards soon as well, I just have to figure out money first. 

But going hand in hand with contemplating your own mortality (and morality) is looking at the path you've chosen to get here. Mine kinda looks more like a ropes course from a Navy SEAL training academy than a path per se, but aside from a few dark areas I can sill trace how it was that I got through it. I can see zip lines that I'd give anything to go back and take again to feel that wind on my face, but I also see the mud bogs and sheer scaling wall that I remember almost making me quit. 

Then it hits me! My past, Navy SEALs. Where's my Casey Rybeck? Where the fuck did Steven Segal go? And for that matter, where did all my action heroes go? All the guys from GI Joe to Van Damme, Chuck Norris to Jeff Speakman, where'd you go? They beat the shit out of terrorists, thugs, criminals, drug addicts, COBRA, and even a bear (thanks, Chuck.)! They'd know how to grab life like that guy's throat in Roadhouse and tear the esophagus of success out with one bloody Eagle Claw of maturity.

I need a montage.

We all know that Chuck Norris has his list of toughness and his precious Mountain Dew commercials, but let's face it. He's forever gone as Delta Force, and forever remembered as Walker, Infomercial Ranger. Lost to the years as the guy who rocked a moustache 18 years too long, hawked home gyms in a tank top, and stared down bears on a cheesy cop drama. Conan O'Brien made you his nightly bitch for an entire season…is that Ginger on Ginger crime?

The story is the same with all of them; all were tough until no one was looking or paying, and then they simply crumpled and blew into awkward trivia answers. Steven Segal is relegated to making terrible straight-to-DVD movies using slow-mo during the action because he can't fight anymore. Oh, and when he's not doing that he's putting out albums called "Songs From The Crystal Cave" and "Mojo Priest". If you're not from Fraggle Rock you cannot call any music "From the Crystal Cave" and the term Mojo Priest should be saved for Tom Robbins books about Ex-patriots in Vietnam, not you Steven. Not you.

The last time I saw Van Damme, he had popped a boner (the only term appropriate for him) on Brazilian TV after dancing with 2 ladies on a talk show and everyone pointed and laughed while he effeminately tried to cover "his area". Jeff Speakman you may never have heard of, but trust me, the movie "Perfect Weapon" changed the game for my friends and I growing up. A blackbelt in Kenpo and karate, and armed with his 2 kenpo sticks, he was supposed to be the next action star. What'd he do? Nothing. A stream of straight-to-DVD movies and that's it. Michael Dudikoff from American Ninja had the greatest 80's action movie last name (it has DUDE in it!), but he could only make 3 sequels and then flare out. Mr. T went bankrupt, Arnold became a Republican, and Charles Bronson's death wish came true, only it was Ahlzeimer's disease instead of a .357 bullet. 

So what's left of my childhood role models? Cartoons? You mean the racist ones? Ha! Let's start class off with my man Roadblock, who was the ONLY black guy in all of GI Joe, and he could only speak in rhyme. No that's totally normal in 1986. Remember King Louie from "The Jungle Book" and the cartoon "Tale Spin"?? Do you remember the song about the monkeys wanting to become real men, men just like you? Everyone else has a British accent but the monkeys all speak in jive? Wow. Incedentally, "The Jungle Book," written by the same Rudyard Kipling who coined the term White Man's Burden in the same poem where he referenced slaves as "Your new-caught sullen peoples, half devil and half child." Yay, Disney. 

Disney movies were integral in my early years as I'm sure they were for many of you. In "The Little Mermaid" song "Under The Sea," watch as the crab introduces the Blackfish…they actually drew the Blackfish in blackface!! And wow, go back even farther to my two FAVORITE kids movies: "Peter Pan" and "Dumbo." In "Dumbo" the lead crow was named Jim. Jim Crow!! But I think the worst in retrospect is the "Injun Song" from "Peter Pan" which explains why the red man be so red (got embarrassed by a pretty girl kissing him and been red ever since) and they always say "how" because they want to learn more of the white man's ways. I mean, really? This is preached to generations of kids?

I mean, "Chip 'N' Dale Rescue Rangers" had the Siamese cats that lived in a "Randromat" that held "gambring" in the basement, and every single time an exploding cigar went off in someone's face, from Sylvester to Droopy Dog to Yosemite Sam to Elmer Fudd did it not look a bit (a lot) like blackface?

It's a wonder I didn't turn out as a Redskins fan eating Brazil nuts (look up the slang term for 'em to get that joke) and saying "Oh Herro!" to everyone that walked by.

Shit. Wait. Forget that last part.

So between the racist cartoons of my childhood and the lies of my beloved action stars later, what's left to cling to? My parents split when I was 4, and I have no blood siblings. All my rock star idols of days past are gone, with Gene Simmons on Trump's show, Metallica making movies about therapy, Axel Rose being Axel Rose, and Tommy Lee getting kicked out of a club I WORK AT (Spin, and he was throwing champagne bottles like a little bitch) for being late and for being a massive tool. Debbie Gibson, Tiffany, and Belinda Carlisle all did Playboy, but like 10 years too late for it to matter. Prince is a Jehovah's Witness for fuck's sake!! The Apollonia-Vanity-Carmen Electra guy that wrote music that 20 years of people have had sex/masturbated to/in is a knock-knock born again. 

Bobby Brown is on a country music reality show, and Ice Cube just made a sequel to "Are We There Yet"!! What's next "Boyz In Tha Woodz," a coming of age story about a suburban dad (Cube) who packs up all the neighborhood brats into the SUV for a weekend camping trip at a KOA? All the stereotypes are here, including the fat white one, the black kid who's a good student but doesn't play sports, the effeminate white nerd who's th e butt of all the gay jokes, the white punk bully kid who carries a knife and the tomboy girl who stows away and is better at all things outdoors and sports related than the boys? Careful kids, could be coming to a theater near you.

Here I am, at a dead end on Nostalgia Trail and I'm not sure where to go from here. Everything I believed in as a kid is gone or a lie, and I'm swallowing that wafer down with the wine of finding out Santa isn't real. But then, there's a light in the darkness. Where I thought it was just bushes and overgrowth, it looks like there's a silhouette. I think it's a man, and I think he's beckoning me to follow him. 

Is it Jesus?
Is it the Easter Bunny?
No. It couldn't be. Oh, it is IT'S YOU! You're here!!

"Ladies and gentlemen of my generation, may I present to you the return of my friend John, John Rambo."

He's not here to teach some lame Zen lesson about flowers and play a bluesy song on his guitar like Steven Segal, he doesn't give a fuck about you're denim on demin on denim combo Chuck, and he sure as hell doesn't have time to stop killing and pop a chubby there Jean-Claude. He's fucking Rambo and he's taken enough HGH to kill all of Myanmar/Burma 5x over. You think it's ok to kill hundreds of men, women, children and babies, burn villages to the ground, and kidnap one white woman??!! Not so fast. He's in his hut forging a machete just to kill the ringleader. You thought Wonderboy was badass in "The Natural"? Well, keep your lightning struck tree wood for yourself Sally. This is a machete made overnight out of FUCKING REBAR and he's gonna cut you in half with it. But not 'til he kills people with a bow and arrow, a gun, a machine gun, a jeep-mounted 60mm, and oh yeah, his fingers. I hope Patrick Swayze cries after seeing this movie because Stallone OWNS Dalton's signature move. 

So to all of you kids in your late twenties or early thirties that feel abandoned, don't go to therapy or church or the BMW dealership (*wink*), save your money and go to the movie theater. Bring a few guys, a flask, and the remnants of that Testosteroni-covered male-in-the-80s ego, and sit back for your recharge. 236 times, over and over.

John Rambo and I love you.

---The Quammunist

A Thought As I Watch History Unfold...

So here it is, the day is finally here. After such a long struggle, after such ugly discrimination marred and sullied the face of our country, it is finally official. This marathon of heart, this quest of honor, this Great Cause for the ages has finally unfolded. I sit, a mute witness to history as I watch it unfold on my television, almost in disbelief. The poets, the artists, and indeed the jubilant masses all have joined to revel in the same joy I am; the breaking of the shackles of bigotry. I almost tremble as I type these words:

We finally have a left handed president again. 

After 8 years of claustrophobic, ignorant, right-handed actions from our former president, the White House can breathe free again. Like Clinton, and Bush before him, Obama can write history with the elegant flair of a southpaw. So on this momentous day, let us not forget to honor those that are not here to witness this glory, those whose left-handed pushes got us over the hurdles of right-handed hatred to this incredible, unbelievable day...

With love in our hearts, we remember on this glorious day the authors H.G. Wells and Mark Twain, whose southpaw penmanship wrote the stories of our imagination in years long gone. We remember Charlemagne, Julius Caesar, Alexander the Great, and Napoleon Bonaparte, who went above and beyond the call of duty to announce to the world that we left-handers should have...nay...deserve our place as equals in history. We remember Michaelangelo and Leonardo Da Vinci, who used their left hands to show the world beauty and knowledge, the merits of which are still praised. The world would be done a disservice if I didn't mention the gorgeous, left-handed melodies penned and performed by the likes of Judy Garland, Kurt Cobain, Billy Corigan, Phil Collins, Jimmy Hendrix, Issac Hayes, Paul McCartney, Robert Plant, Paul Simon, and of course Tiny Tim. Would the world not be lost if Glenn Frey had been forbade permission to pen "The Heat Is On" in his eloquent left-handed lilt? 

And finally on this day, as we all stand looking towards the morning sun, so fondly filled with hope, please gather the world's right hands in your tender, proud, left hands, and take a moment to remember a true civil rights leader. A man whose entire life bore the emotional and physical scars of hatred and intolerance, who in the face of such great adversity rose to such heights that he will be celebrated for countless generations; former president Ronald Regan. 

We as a nation need to take a moment to remember that it was he, in grade school, was beaten relentlessly across the knuckles with a ruler for using his God-given leftness. He learned to forge a tolerable version of penmanship with his right hand, but he longed to use his left and often did in his movies. In his opus "The Killers," Mr. Regan even slapped the beautiful Angie Dickenson with a thunderous left, a bold statement that still resonates with all persecuted lefties around the planet. The gumption, the heart, the inner strength it must have taken to rise above this horrible tragedy remains documented for the ages, a feat that someday may have him mentioned in the same breath as Joan Of Arc, the martyr, Ramses II, the pharaoh, Tiberius, the emperor, and Kermit, the frog.

So someday, when stiatistically one in every eight of you look into the eves of your left-handed children, you can tell them that you were there for the change, you were there for the day that we said "ENOUGH OF THE RIGHT!" and YOU did your part to bring the left back. All those tragic days of the side of your palm being covered in ink, the mocking laughter in school as you immediately and accidentally erased everything you just wrote on the blackboard by not having your hand far enough away, every tragic spill from a fascist ladle, every ePen whose sadistic cord was too short, all of these prejudiced, bigotted, handist incidents seem to just fade away into vague memories. 

President Obama, I thank you for being the hope and change that we needed. The right-handers had their shot, but now the time grows near for us to take the washcloth of understanding and tolerance to tenderly wipe the face of our nation...and indeed our world. As a tribute to you, this was typed by only my left hand. 

I "left" you all, 

Ben Quam

Where 'Bama At??

Has anybody out there ever noticed that black people and white people do things differently? I’d like to talk about this. I also want to talk about the trouble men and women have communicating, how airline food is not as good as normal food, how driving in traffic is frustrating, how woman “be shopping all da time”, and express my frustration about the fact that they don’t just make the whole airplane out of the black box material, but those are all topics for other blogs. Ha!

For now, it’s a witty observation about blacks vs. whites.

When out at the club, at the bar, in the car, or at a party, most of the time there is music playing in people’s social lives. As a bar/nightclub manager, DJ, and bartender over the last few years, I have a slightly more intimate relationship with that music, and also the people’s reaction. In noting all of this like a modern-day Darwin with the dancefloor as my Galapagos, I’ve noticed two very interesting patterns that I believe are related:

This first is that white people NOT from Alabama go crazy when “Sweet Home Alabama” comes on. I can get it if you’re from Alabama. Failed by equally by literacy, language, and soap, it must be nice to have a (easily remembered and emulated) catchphrase involving your home. But being the but of most stupid and/or trash jokes, why would people around the country go crazy every damn time they hear that guitar lick? Frothed to a frenzy by the chorus, they audibly ejaculate “Sweet Home ALABAMA” with the vigor of a aging queen at a Cher concert.

Could it be the mocking of Neil Young? I mean, don’t get me wrong, Ben Quam don’t need Neil Young around for nuthin’ neither. But a common hatred for the whiny voiced Yoko that ruined CS+N would be lost on Joey Frat‘tard, and surely he must have SOME fans out there, so that cannot be the reason. I also doubt there are many fans of Muscle Shoals studios or their (phenomenal) studios band “The Swampers” although their incredible playing has appeared with everyone from Clapton to Aretha Franklin.

So what is it? Is it swept under the “people love stupid shit” rug, to remain there with Vin Diesel movies, Larry The Cable Guy specials, white hats with “funny” team names like Cocks or Seamen, NASCAR, Nickelback, the WWE, and hair gel? Are white people just that dumb?

The answer is NO. Wanna know why I’m sure?

Because the same amount of black people NOT from Brooklyn freak out every damn time that any rapper shouts “Where Brooklyn At?”

Urbandictionary.com has no definition of the phrase made so ridiculously popular by the late Christopher Wallace a.k.a. the Notorious BIG, but it probably started with Mr. Wallace longing for some chums from his beloved neighborhood to signal him on stage somehow so they could reminisce their collective days of yore.

Not overlooking the fact that Minneapolis is flanked by both Brooklyn Park AND Brooklyn Center, I had to take my fact finding expedition on the road to see if it still held true in markets as diverse as Chicago, Milwaukee, Pittsburgh, Columbus, and Vegas. Let it be known, in any city in America, when the DJ lets the line “Where Brooklyn At?” blast out of the speakers, be it car, club, or otherwise, black people will lose their minds like they were getting a personal shout out over the mic from Biggie himself.

Let’s pause for a recap:

1. White people everywhere freak out for “Sweet Home Alabama”
2. Black people everywhere freak out for “Where Brooklyn At?”

Oddly enough, you cannot flip the two and still have it true. While most white people who wish to be black will celebrate both “Sweet Home Alabama” AND “Where Brooklyn At?” most blacks wishing to be white tend to scoff at both songs entirely. I’m sure Darwin was just as perplexed by some of his findings.

In this, the era of the “mash up” I plead for one DJ out there to make a trak of both together to see what happens. We’ll call it the “Rodney King Can’t We All Just Get Along remix” to promote the racial harmony. We’ll drop it on the world and they won’t even know what hit ‘em!!! Who’s in??