Dylan Bolin

Hello, friends.  My apologies for being away for so long.  Even though you don’t ask for them, I realize how much you rely on these unsolicited essays, and I have been slacking, but now, I’m sitting here at the computer with a mug of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee and my fingers are performing their final safety check before lift off.  (By the way, Dunkin’ Donuts coffee, in the parlance of today’s youth, is DA BOMB!  The only thing that would make it better would be sugar-frosted cruller chunks floating in it, but I suppose that’s my responsibility.  [Also by the way, "Sugar-Frosted Cruller Chunks" was my nickname in high school.])

Perhaps you can forgive me for my lack of Blog Due Diligence if I tell you that it was in preparation for the holidays.  For me, anyway, the holiday is Christmas although I have enjoyed a Hanukkah celebration here and there, and for those of you celebrating Kwanzaa, it begins today.  (Of course, if you celebrate Kwanzaa, you already knew that, and you don’t need some Sugar-Frosted Cruller Chunk White guy telling you.

But the holidays have a way of seriously disrupting work-a-day life patterns regardless of whether you’re honoring the birth of Jesus, slow-burning lamp oil or your African-American heritage.  There’s shopping, wrapping, baking or, in my case, shopping, wrapping and making homemade Irish Cream (recipe available upon request) which has been added to nearly every liquid that I’ve ingested for four days now.  And then, of course, it’s time to head home for the holidays.  Since every patriarchal and matriarchal family member, including my mother and father, have passed (by which I mean they’re dead, not that they’ve passed on hosting the holidays), this year, my wife and I visited her family in Beaver Dam.  (Beaver Darn for those of you with delicate sensibilities.)

But whether you’re visiting the home of your youth or that of a loved one, I think the experience is universal.  Essentially, it’s like visiting a museum and, for a time, you become part of the exhibit.  While the notches on the kitchen doorway that once marked the passage of time by your height are no longer relevant and your feet now hang over the end of the bed, for a moment you’re captured in a Sepia Tone snap shot.  Your job, income, growth, accomplishments and status are all put on hold while you revert to the little boy in the flanel football pajamas or the little girl in the nightgown with the ridiculous lace collar.  While Life doesn’t take kindly to stasis of any sort, it is the both the charm and claustrophobia of the Holidays.

And they say that Halloween is the holiday of ghosts, but if ghosts are, in fact, the indelible impressions that the departed have left with us, I say they’re never more prevalent than now in the darkest days of December.  They sit in chairs and breeze past the oven.  They ride on the waves of children’s anticipation and their voices can be heard in the steady hum of a dozen simultaneous conversations.  Whatever their form, be it in the tiny spark of memory, a tear of longing or a hearty laugh, they most certainly are.  And when the celebration subsides and our personal inertia continues, we feel the space that they had filled, once again vacant yet strangely eternal, like a single candle flame burning in defiance of the vast, infinite darkness.  And we pause.

For all of the time spent shopping, wrapping, baking and Irish Cream making, in that single pause, in that fleeting moment, when time has stopped while we take our place in our personal museum exhibit, we can count the angels on the head of the pin…and we’re home.

-Dylan

All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.  All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy.

So much white.  Whiter than the population of Utah.  I soon realized that it was not the white light of Heaven.  Death, where is thy sting.  I was not murdered for my succulent meat as I had suspected I might be.  And while the snow did try to gain entry into our home by donning the brown shorts of the U.P.S. man, its inability to speak was the flaw in its subterfuge.  Nevertheless, we are surrounded.  

Snowbound.

Trying to fill my final hours with card games.  Uno.  Uno!  UNO!  I long for Ocho Loco. 

One shovel has already caught fire and exploded; I dare not go out again.

-Dylan

I’m counting on the local news to keep me safe; from the storm…and myself.  Every meteorologist says they’re the one to trust…but I’ve been hurt before. 

Trust. 

But watch them I do, and watch them I will.  They say that this is End of Days.  In 2 hours, it will come.  Twelve inches, wet and heavy.  The perfect snow storm.  They say we all pray eventually. 

This is my last will and testament:

I, Dylan Bolin, being of sound mind and body, hereby do bequeath all of my worldly riches to Bailey (dog).  And to my wife, I ask:  Why, honey, why?  For the record, I think it’s always to early to resort to Canibalism.  Don’t ever date anybody else or I will haunt you both.

You win, Weather.

-Dylan

Personally, I don’t care for gift certificates.  Nothing screams:  “I was obliged to get you a gift so here’s a gift certificate!” like a gift certificate.  I like to play with my holiday toys right out of the wrapping paper.

That being said, for those of you who are looking for a last-minute gift for that special someone, I’ve got the perfect gift:  Me.  And the Dylan Bolin Gift Certificate couldn’t be simpler.  Here’s what you do:  Put your name and telephone number on a piece of paper.  On the other side, write “Dylan Bolin” and a dollar amount.  Have the recipient bring the Dylan Bolin Gift Certificate to me and, together, we’ll do something equal to the dollar amount on the paper.

Let’s say it was $10.  Perhaps we go and get ice cream.  $20?  Maybe we go and see a movie.  For $50 or more, maybe that movie has a, shall we say, “happy ending.”

Happy Holidays, everyone!

-Dylan

There’s a popular childhood toy of the past with a distinctly Wisconsin connection.  The toy is Lincoln Logs.  A lot of people think that Lincoln Logs were named after Abraham Lincoln, but they weren’t. 

Lincoln Logs were the idea of one John Wright, and he came up with the idea while watching the construction of the Imperial Hotel in Tokyo.  The basement of the hotel featured interlocking beams to help reduce earthquake damage.  John Wright thought that it would be neat if children could build things with small interlocking beams as well, and came up with the idea for Lincoln Logs. 

What’s the Wisconsin connection?  The architect of the hotel was his father, and former Richland Center, Wisconsin native, Frank Lloyd Wright, and John Wright named the logs after his father.  You see, Frank Lloyd Wright’s middle name wasn’t always Lloyd.  He changed it to Lloyd after his parents split, but before that, his middle name was Lincoln.  And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how we got Lincoln Logs. 

Now go out there and buy your kids an Xbox 360.

-Dylan

Tick another experience off the very long list of things that have never happened to me because last night, a guy puked on my car.  What makes this particular incident unique is that it didn’t happen at the curb, it didn’t happen in a parking lot; it happened at 60 Miles per hour. 

As I was merging onto the freeway after our Midnight Show Saturday, I noticed a ball of some kind hanging out of the passenger window of a car in the right lane.  As I pulled in behind the car, something a bit more viscous blended with the road spray and spattered on my windshield.  That’s when it occurred to me that the ball was not a ball at all, but rather a bald, lolling, drunken head that was heaving out the booze that its body couldn’t metabolize.  It also became clear that my windshield wipers were painfully ill-equipped for such an event.  Thank God for road spray. 

The spew was shortly followed by what appeared to be fast food napkins that were no doubt used to blot the remnants of his partying from his chin and shirt.  I suppose it could have been worse; it could have been his other end that exploded.  Had this occurred, due to the trauma, I fear my wipers would have stopped working completely.

-Dylan

The West Allis Common Council recently unanimously approved (9-0 with one Alderperson abstaining) a Pit Bull ban in the City of West Allis.  Thankfully, the Mayor of the city, Dan Devine, has promised to veto the legislation.  As you may have guessed from the tone of this paragraph, my wife and I are pit bull owners.

Bailey is a Pit Bull/Lab mix, and we rescued her from the Wisconsin Humane Society.  We chose her because there were no Grizzly Bear/Great White Shark/Rattlesnake mixes available on the day that we went.  I’m kidding of course; we chose her because she was sweet, smart and eager to please.  Afterwards, on walks and such, we noticed that people don’t have a neutral opinion of Pit Bulls; they either cheer you or fear you.  They either applaud you for extending kindness to a much maligned and misunderstood breed, or they assume that you’re on your way to the hospital maternity ward for its afternoon feeding. 

Irrational fear of dogs is certainly nothing new.  In the 70’s, it was the Rottweiler, in the 80’s it was the Doberman Pinscher, in the ’90’s it was the German Shepherd and now it’s the Pit Bull’s turn. 

The fact is that no dog, Pit Bull or otherwise, is inherently aggressive.  It’s not like God said:  “Man and dog seem to make for fast friends.  Hmmmm, I know what I’ll do, I’ll create a really mean one that will turn on its owner when the owner least expects it.  Ha!” 

Of course, that’s patently absurd.  It’s the human owner that creates instability, insecurity and aggression.  The Pit Bull (which is actually a blanket term for several breeds) is like no other dog in its eagerness to please its human owner.  Unfortunately, this means that if the human owner wishes to use the dog to intimidate, terrorize or harm, the dog’s loyalty dictates that that’s exactly what it will do.  It doesn’t conspire or scheme or judge, it merely wishes to please that which it views as God:  Its owner.

But I realize that fans of Breed-Specific Legislation (B.S.L.) are not going to go away quietly.  Therefore, let me offer a breed that rabid legislators should ban; namely the North American Douchebag.  This breed is extremely insecure and often aggressive.  In an attempt to extend its machismo, street “cred” and obtain superficial respect, nearly everything, including another living creature, becomes a weapon when under its control.

To the West Allis Common Council:  Alderperson Gary T. Barczak, Alderperson Michael J. Czaplewski, Alderperson Kurt E. Kopplin, Alderperson Thomas G. Lajsic, Alderperson Richard F. Narlock, Alderperson Rosalie L. Reinke, Alderperson Daniel J. Roadt, Alderperson James W. Sengstock, Alderperson Vincent Vitale (the author of the West Allis Pit Bull Ban Legislation) and Alderperson Martin J. Weigel, I implore you to consider this proposal to ban the North American Douchebag…or we can just go ahead and punish the deed and not the breed.

And to Mayor Devine:  Thank you for keeping a level head amidst the misguided posturing and hysteria. 

-Dylan

The last time I encountered a Web Designer, I remember thinking:  “Wow, that was like talking to an artist.” 

There was the Thousand Yard Stare of seeking perfection and the distracted, interpersonal responses.  And this was while he was NOT currently working on a website; in fact, he was avoiding working on a website.  Just like an artist.  And, just like an artist, the real work seems to get done when independent of the medium.  I firmly believe that the medium of the future will be websites like you’re looking at right now.

Look at the left.  Now, imagine drawing, shading and coloring, by hand, the interlacing circles.  Hard?  Easy?  Really easy?”  Now imagine all the neurons in the brain that fire, in the correct order, for you to picture it and draw it.  Now imagine drawing the interlacing circles with just the neurons.  That’s what it’s like to draw a picture with “code.”  

“Code” is the word that web designers use to tell you, nicely:  “You wouldn’t understand, but it’s nice of you to pretend to be interested.”

And we don’t understand, and we do pretend.  And we never will understand because we Noobs see the World Wide Intertubes from a strictly utilitarian point of view; “how is my world better because of this website?”  But every day, the internet becomes a greater part of our lives, and soon, the part of the human psyche that created, and is enriched by art will be served almost exclusively by this very Internet.  

Web designers attempt to make technology interesting.  And “interesting” both inspires, and is defined by, “art.”  Web designers are the creators of this “New Art,” and we won’t truly appreciate them until several generations after their deaths. 

Personally, I’m proud to commission a man named Chris to electronically enrich my soul.   

NOW WILL YOU RETURN MY F*%$ING EMAILS!?

-Dylan

After some requests to know how my 39th birthday was, I’ve decided to use this forum to respond.  Let me first thank both of you for your curiosity. 

First, I believe that, after a certain age, shots are no longer celebratory but strictly medicinal.  The sheer effort that is required for my aging body to metabolize alcohol is staggering.  I’ve been legally drinking for 18 years.  That means that my drinking self has now reached adulthood and should move out and begin a life of his own.  I no longer marvel at the heady feeling of inebriation, and my tolerance has reached the point where I now go from sober to sick with very little party in between.  And it’s not the giddy hangover of youth where you wake up and immediately commiserate with your drinking partners like knights of Olde flushed with victory over a dragon carcass.  No, I think I’m ready to start celebrating with an open robe and sandals over my socks.

But, as it turns out, 39 was also a birthday of reckoning.  I didn’t realize this until today, but this was the first year that I didn’t receive a card in the mail.  It occurred to me that all of the people that were obliged, based either on birth or circumstance, are now gone.  This year, I became the elder, marching point with only the scraps of maps left by those who went before me. 

For a moment I was struck and panicked by the silence and the untouched, pristine path ahead, but then I felt the presence of the new family at my side.  Any self-pity that I had entertained was gradually replaced by reverence and optimism; reverence for the ghosts of those that I used to follow, and optimism for the rabble occupying my here and now.  The voices and faces, harmonies and discords, interwoven in a complex and beautiful melange.

There are many things I would like to write to those who can no longer read them.  To those of you who can, thank you for being my magic and mystery.  It was a Happy Birthday, indeed.

-Dylan