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EXILED ON MAIN STREET #3

eZine lover (@eZine)

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Exiled on main street

· 2 hours ago

"Drive fast - take chances."
- Louie, the bartender at the late great Sportsman's Center, Summer 1990

I think of Louie when I see those beautiful brand-spankin'-new 70 mph road signs.

SORRY

So I'm in Kinko's photocopying issue #2, and there's babes everywhere. In shorts. In halters. In skirts. In summer dresses. If Kinko's served beer (hey, there's an idea...), I'd hang out there for hours. What I'm trying to do is make excuses for the sloppy photocopying job in the last issue. My apologies, and the other excuse I have was that I was feeling rather smug...

SMUG

Big Construction (my employer from '88-'96) called and asked me to come back. The company has a nasty habit of burning their talent out via non- paid overtime and ridiculous workloads, so all I kept thinking was "how can I do my zine if I'm working for The Man?" They'd probably get pissed if I used their photocopier and stole office supplies to use for my zine.

Sheeeesh, they must be desperate if they want Mr. There-Is-No-Team-In-I back. You get on these phone calls and all those fantasies run through your brain. Make 'em name their price, and then say that there's no amount of money in the world that can get you to got back there. Or say "if I managed the people on my zine like you managed people, I'd be the only one working on it!" (wait a minute...) But of course, you are civil and say thanks- no- thanks and golly - thanks for thinking of me. You hang up and then call your friends who have also left Big Construction and everyone yukks it up big time. At the end of the day you drink your beer while listening to Dylan's "Positively Fourth Street."

Get this: the job they wanted me to do was described as an "opportunity." If I were to take the position, I was told that it would be a "win-win situation." Nice eighties management buzzwords, they still must be in the midst of a quality movement. Boy, I sure do miss being empowered.

Anyway, the implication in the phone call was reason enough for me to keep my trap shut: they need me more than I need them. Stupid fuckers.

MY NIGHT AT LEE'S, or HOW I WENT TO SEE A BAND AND YOU CAN READ ALL ABOUT EVERYTHING EXCEPT THE BAND

You know, the sign on the door of the bar did say "Please Have Your ID Ready" but this is before that. This is when I'm on 12th Street walking towards Lee's, I can see the neon sign a couple of blocks away, and I'm thinking mostly of that Blue hitting the back of my throat, straight outta of a brown longneck bottle. I get closer to the bar. I want to sprint to get into the bar to get that beer to turn around and face the stage and see the guitarists a half-step behind the singer and all of them fronting the drummer, the secret key to the band. I glance up and down the bar taking in the sights in their summer clothes. I turn my head before my darkness goes, to find a place to stand, to hear, to absorb.

But anyway, I'm on the sidewalk and I can hear the band playing "Highway 61 Revisited." I smile, see the sign that says "Please Have Your ID Ready." So I pull out my Minnesota Driver's License, step in, and hand it to the gal at the door. She glances at it, obviously only out of courtesy to me, hands it back and says "I wasn't going to card you."

There was this guy at Lee's, who I'm guessing hasn't changed his haircut or wardrobe since 1975. Think of the badass guy in Trainspotting. He was drinking Pabst (hey, just like me!) and was hustling some barely-legal girls at the table near where I was standing. He wasn't doing too well, from what I could tell. Finally, they left him to drink alone. He would occasionally bolt out of his chair to stand up and play air guitar when the band played a riff he liked. Eventually, (it had to happen, drunks love to talk to Billy) he came up to me and slurred: "sama glibto rehtuk majkta beer gule?" Some form of drunken English, obviously. I leaned closer and said "huh?" He repeated "sama glibto rehtuk majkta beer gule?" I just shook my head no, which must have been the right answer, because he left me alone. I was prepared to use my German Defense (which, come to think of, I've never had to use.) This entails telling a drunk person: "entschuldige, aber Ich spreche kein Englisch," and then hoping that they don't know German.

SPECTATOR SPORTS

One of the small pleasures on my morning commute is the action at the coffee shop a few blocks away from my bus stop. No, I don't go there for my morning fix, I'm usually watching it from the bus as we go by on the way downtown. I'd have to get up extra early to beat the lines to get something at this shop. Anytime I go in there, I wait in line as the beautiful person in front of me is ordering a double mocha espresso latte kenyan vanilla decaf. With ice cream in it.

So anyway, it's fun to watch from the stopped bus as the folks come out of this shop across the street from their bus stop. The folks think the bus will wait for them, as the MCTO bus drivers generally cut you some slack if you're within a quick stroll of the bus stop. But the stoplight turns green, the bus driver invariably hits the gas and leaves them waiting for the next bus. I can just imagine the bus driver's thinking: I've been drinking this lukewarm mud from the Bunn-O-Matic back at the garage since five-thirty a.m. and I'll hold up my route for you ... yeah, riiiiight. One of these days I'm gonna cheer out loud.

I WANNA BE YOUR KINGPIN

Every once in a while, I think about trying to expand the readership of this zine. Then I turn the channel and think about how I'm not getting shit done while I'm channel surfing. Then I moan as the Twins take another one on the chin. Anyway, I know a little about marketing and have figured out my target market: the Young Urban Female. Then I figured I should pass out my zine to Young Urban Females that I encounter. What a fiasco: Her? No, she's got a ring. Her? No, she's with that guy. Her? No, she's too intimidatingly attractive, plus she'll laugh in your face and/or throw your zine away the second she gets a few feet away from you. Hey, you're just passing these things out on a goof to round up some more readers, it's not like you're asking these gals out. Easy for you to say.

WORK IS NOT LIFE or NEVER DID SAY "PUBLIC HEALTH INSURANCE"

Here's a fun thing to do at work when your fellow finance people talk about things like "mutual funds," "the strong economy," and "the Wall Street Journal." Say things like "corporate welfare," "labor union," and "if most stocks are owned by the wealthiest 10% of the population, and currently mutual funds are the biggest buyer of stocks and households are the biggest sellers does that mean that 1) the Elite Rich are suddenly participating in wealth redistribution, or 2) the Elite Rich know something that the rest of us don't?"

I recently took a few days off. (Why?? Why not?) One of the few downsides for me about temping is that I don't get paid vacations. The best thing about paid vacations for me was drinking beer in the middle of the afternoon and realizing that I was getting paid while crafting my buzz. Even if I hadn't touched a beer all day, I would always grab one and crack it before five so that I say that I was drinking beer while being paid. But beer tastes better these days anyway, even if I'm not being paid while drinking it. More freedom will do that.

I came back from my mini-vacation and three weeks of work on my PC had been destroyed. I thought my stuff got backed up automatically every night. Guess not. Oh well, it wasn't my fault so nobody got mad at me and I just started building things from scratch all over again. Someone pointed out that I get paid by the hour, so it shouldn't really be that big of a deal for me. Good point, and plus they hadn't given me a deadline yet on my project, so what the fuck? All I lost was Big Health's files, it wasn't like I lost any real work (you know, like any work I might have completed on this issue) or pictures I downloaded of Liz Phair off of the Net. The lesson here is that your PC might crash, your backup could fail, or the world could end tomorrow; so don't work too hard on whatever you're doing.

My supervisor asked me to document how I create the financial statements that I'm working on these days. (She's pretty cool, she didn't use the word "process.") She said "if you get hit by a bus tomorrow, all that knowledge goes with you." My first thought was "if I get hit by a bus tomorrow, will my so-called friends pull a Hendrix and begin slapping together zines with every piece of crap I've ever written and then claiming them all to be 'authentic Tuomala?'"

"You permanent yet?" is the question I hear at least three times a week from people in the hallways. I'm under the impression that being Temp Boy for this long (six months) is being interpreted as one of three things by the Big Health associates that I talk to in the hallways: A) I'm not good enough to work here, B) I'm kinda weird for not wanting to work here, or C) both A and B. But I'm done here July 11, as apparently they've figured out they have their own employees who can wander the hallways and who can go downstairs to the coffee shop for their fix because the break room coffee is damn near undrinkable.

I'm determined to leave my mark at Big Health. At other places I've temped, my trademark is done in the Excel software. After you create a spreadsheet, it asks for info on the file, including author. I always put "Greil Marcus", "Jim Bouton", "Lester Bangs", etc. At Big Health, I'm in charge of creating their financial statements. So I'm using Prince-like spelling on the financials, like "Net Income B4 Taxes."

IRONY-RICH DIET

Recently I used the phrase "rise above, we're gonna rise above" which as you may well know is from the Black Flag song "Rise Above" from the excellent side one of their Damaged album. (Side two is pretty boring from what I remember.) Okay, now I wasn't ever the biggest Black Flag guy. I bought Damaged back in college because a couple of guys in my dorm used to sing "Six Pack" in the cafeteria and I thought it was a pretty damn funny song.

The thing that scares me most about this dropped reference is that I dropped it at work. Like somebody said they were worried that they weren't going to the month closed (note: monthly closes are BIG to beancounters) and I said "rise above, you're gonna rise above." A perfectly good semi-obscure hardcore punk reference, and I wasted it while sitting in my cubicle.

I tend to get carried away with reference-dropping. One Friday morning everyone in my department was acting casual and loose and they were all making the usual this-weekend-my-plans-are small talk and while everyone was talking about their kids and families, I was dropping references to Breaking Away (someone was talking about bicycling), The Simpsons (same person mentioned Flanders Brothers bike shop), and The Empire Strikes Back (someone mentioned a person losing their hand in a farm accident.) By nine thirty, I swear I was being avoided. Everyone else has spouses, kids, decks, lawns, lives and I'm trying to be a walking mystery science theater.

NEXT LESSON: CADDYSHACK AS THE VIETNAM WAR

Scary thought: I had to explain the class conflict in Breaking Away to a coworker who had recently watched the flick. He thought the cutter kids were up to no good because they were out of high school and weren't in college.

OUR NATIONAL PASTIME

The Twins have been getting beat up by the White Sox lately. I have to confess that I just found out that Comiskey Park is located in the city of Chicago - I always thought it was in the suburbs somewhere. I guess I thought that because for years the team has been referred to as "the Underachieving White Sox."

Alright, I have to 'fess up that I like this interleague play stuff. Now we can all wait for the Lords of the Game (i.e. the team owners) (hey Carl: I lose money on my hobby and you don't see me being a dick about it) to screw the whole thing up. The games had to be more exciting in the American League parks, because of the designated hitter. Forrest Gump was more interesting than watching a pitcher bat. I can hear the National League propagandists already: What about the double-switch? All that exciting strategy? All that brainpower you need? Well, Tom Kelly (the best manager in baseball) said it best back during the '91 World Series: "The double-switch: yeah, that's real rocket-science stuff there."

And I can't resist repeating what Exiled's resident poet, Paula Belmont, had to say: "... those (National League) infidels can double-switch themselves until they come..."

YOUR STARTING LINEUP

I spent my Fourth of July celebrating the birth of our great nation. America is the country of origin of both rock 'n' roll and baseball. My summer fun (some of it) has been spent trying to figure out the following: if yer favorite musical artists were baseball players, what type of ballplayers would they be? America still does baseball and rock 'n' roll better than any other countries (better by far on both counts, too) so when you're taking a beer break from reading TJ's brilliant Decla of Independence, this is a fun pastime. Here's what I've come up with so far.

Soul Asylum: Quick centerfielder with good range and decent arm. Speedy on the bases, brilliant leadoff hitter (check out The Bridge and Sweet Relief discs), can hit for power and drop the quick bunt down when needed.

Metallica: Steady first baseman. Used to have more speed and spray hits to all fields when younger, but is now almost a straight power pull hitter. Bats cleanup.

Aerosmith: Outfield / designated hitter. When 'smith was younger, he got by on sheer talent. Always a flashy crowd-pleaser, he has evolved into a crafty veteran who takes pitchers deep into the count, doing whatever it takes to get a hit.

Pearl Jam: Third base. Good glove, solid arm. Jam used to hit for more power, but his RBI production has dropped off as of late. Well-known for staying in the parking lot after games until every kid's autograph is signed.

TRUST ME

The new single "Listen" by Collective Soul is the best Jesus Jones song I've heard in years.

POETRY BY PAULA BELMONT

vfw

alcohol take me away.
(i don't wanna go.)
old reaction to an older problem.
i sip the champagne,
stare at the piano player.
my love waves at me
from behind the wall
of the mainstream.
i raise my hand,
fingers in a 'v'.
peace unto you.
victory for me.

SMUG (PT. 2)

A rather attractive older woman recently told me that I was "hip" and "cute." Wow. And after saying "wow" to myself, the next thing I did was worry about these comments. Who else does she think is hip? Am I in good company? Am I cute like Brad Pitt or cute like a puppy dog? Am I hipper than I am cute, or cuter than I am hip? Does my cuteness detract from my hipness? And if I had to choose between the two, which one would I want to be?

I only came up with an answer to that last one. Hip is preferable. Because when you're cute, you get called a "cutie"; but when you're hip, you get called a "hipster."

ROLL OUT THE BARREL

On July 1, the Twin Cities area was nailed with a nasty thunderstorm. A part of I-35W in Minneapolis was turned into a lake. Cars in traffic began floating away, endangering their drivers and passengers. Heroes rose to the occasion. The following is from the July 2 St. Paul Pioneer Press:

"Goedel and Johnson said they tied a rope to a beer keg Goedel had in his car and used it as a float to rescue three people. Describing one such rescue, Goedel said he swam out to a car, had a woman hold on to the floating keg and then paddled her back to dry ground."

THE REAL GODFATHERS OF GRUNGE

Somebody at work asked if I went to Ozzfest. I said no and my pal Ayn rushed to my defense before I could 'fess up that just a few days prior I had listened to the song "Sabbath Bloody Sabbath" really loud on headphones in the dark of my apartment. I wish I could say that I used to listen to that song all the time when it came out as part of my personal soundtrack for the Watergate scandal, but mostly during those hearings I sulked because they pre-empted the Tennessee Tuxedo cartoons.

HYPE

The St. Paul Pioneer Press recently named their forty favorite inexpensive summer things to do. At #25 with a bullet was the following entry by staff columnist Jim Walsh:

25. "Best place to read 'The Wyman Weekly': Rice Park, St. Paul, noonish, while watching the beautiful people on lunch break. Writer Bill Tuomala pens his dispatches from the cubicle of his temp job, and his ruminations on office life, music, movies, sports and the out-of-reach women that torture his downwardly mobile life make for some of the freshest 'zine reading around. What started as a free two-page weekly has grown into an essential full-fledged publication, and has all the earmarks of a cult sensation in the making."

As many of you know, The Wyman Weekly was the forerunner of this zine. Ayn suggested that as a follower of this cult sensation maybe she should get an Exiled tattoo. That made me think that I could have a tattoo contest. You all could get tattoos, and send me photos of 'em. The winner would get a pack of Camels. You readers would win 'cuz you'd look cool and I win because I get free advertising. But that sounds like a "win-win" situation, which means someone gets hosed. So forget about it.

INFO

Everything written by me, except where noted.

In an attempt to break even, print readers are going to be paying $1.00 to read future issues ($4.00 for five issues.) This is going out free to you email readers as there are no postage or photocopying costs. However, donations to the cause are glady accepted.

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