Hey, Hi, How are ya?

Not to be redundant seeing as the title says it all, but fuck it: “Hey, hi, how are ya?” How have you been, its been a long time. No really, how have you been? We haven’t caught up in some time, what has this past year had in store for you? Oh please, don’t give me some platitude, or a smile saying: “I’m doing well,” when deep down you really just want to scream about that thing Richard did at work the other day. I want to know about what Richard did, that piece of shit.  Tell me, truthfully, unequivocally, HOW ARE YOU?

Okay fine, I’ll go first. Recently I’ve been fantastic, been hitting the gym and eating right for the most part-the Taco Bell down the street from my apartment is really testing me. I’m in the waning days of my college career, about a week and a half left at the time of this writing, and I’m filled with a feeling that I can’t really describe. It is definitely not elation-which is odd you would think I would be happy to be done. It isn’t sadness, nor confusion, maybe its me being awed by the unknown. For about 16 years I’ve had a straight path and goal in mind: go to college and graduate. Now the track is coming to an end, and I now need to provide more rails in order to keep going, oh and I have to determine the direction of track too-which surely will have all kinds of twists and turns because I love being topsy turvy.

Yet, I don’t walk this road alone (Hey Alexa play Boulevard of Broken Dreams by Green Day). I get to share this adventure with my friends, family, and the WILBlog community. I’m excited for the trials, laughter, joy, anguish, dread, happiness, sadness, elation and turmoil to come. In short: I’m excited for life-which is something I couldn’t have said with 100% confidence a year ago. I’m excited, because I get to share it with all of you.

So, if you would like to share something about your corner of the world on this blog, or just want to let me know how you’re doing, write something up and send it to officialwilbblog@gmail.com. I would love to learn and catch up with those that I’ve gotten to know but haven’t talked to in a while. Always look on the bright side of life, everyone.

Signed,

Mitch

Dear Dan

Dear Dan,

I hope the Atlanta weather is treating you nicely, in fact it is probably cooler than it is here in Michigan. We’ve been graced (read: punished) with 90 degree days here in central Michigan, and frankly I don’t know what to do with myself. I am not prepared for this kind of weather. The leaves are changing, but I’m sweating buckets and this disturbs me. As a fellow life long Michigander I’m sure you can relate: THIS IS NOT NORMAL. But whatever WILB, WILB right?

Anyway, now that we’ve gotten the awkward weather small talk out of the way, school is just as you would expect. Long days followed by equally long nights because I didn’t get as much done as I had hoped, and then comes the weekend. That fickle fickle weekend with all of its festivities–and still you don’t get everything done that you wanted to get done. Regardless of that, though, I am doing wonderful (even though there has been some sarcasm preceding this I am being sincere…no really I am).

The process of finding time to write is still just that, a process. But we are making it work.    Tomorrow is JMC Madhouse which will be exciting, even though I am a little bit nervous. Regardless, I am going to go and I am going to share and it is going to be amazing damnit!

This is the part where we get a little sentimental. I miss your cooking, and just generally your presence in the kitchen. The moving to and fro knowing exactly what your doing next, as if cooking was a chess game and the opponent was the unknowing recipient that will get their queen taken in two turns after having eaten your food and will need a drink and a nap afterward to recover from such an ass kicking (did that chess analogy make sense? Share the piece if you think it didn’t).

I’m sure the folks in Atlanta are loving the food that you grace them with and with all the humor they get to witness without paying a dime (those bastards). Keep doing your think my friend and keep moving forward. The world doesn’t stop for any of us and we shouldn’t stop for the world.

Keep it groovy,

Titchell Mimmerman

P.S. ….and it was good

On Missing Deadlines

Two weeks ago I had a phone call with a friend of the blog and he had challenged me to put out some content before the Open Mic night that I help organize. After he had shared with me some of the stuff he had been working on, I was up to the challenge. Granted this is was in a blissful and optimistic state.

I woke up the next day at around midday and thought about what I would write. Maybe it would be a poem (which I did write later that week but then lost it), maybe I would work on a chapter of that so called ‘book’ that I claim I have (never got to it), or maybe I would write a completely original short story (would the hell do you think you are?). In short: I have not written anything–shocker.

I have effectively lost the challenge that my friend had given me. Seeing as the Open Mic is tomorrow and I have no new content to share I will most likely read some stuff from my blog. And so, I’ve missed a deadline.  A deadline that was about as rigid as a noodle, but a deadline nonetheless.

So I sit in the library. Surrounded by my Constitutional Law book, my Econometrics book, and another thick as a brick Law book and wonder. I wonder about if I really want to pursue what I’m studying or if that is just a means to an end. The end being writing of course. Or if I’m so engrossed in my studies and so itchy to get out in the world and find some security that I will never actually pursue the thing that I day dream about in class–that being writing of course.

This missed ‘deadline’ if you want to call it that is a thorn in my side. It is a badge of dishonor. An opportunity lost, and opportunity to actually put my nose to the grindstone and put something out in time for an Open Mic. Maybe I’ll read this and let everyone know how much a hack I am that I would rather write a piece on missing a deadline than actually write something of substance, or maybe I’ll sit comfortably in my chair and read something that I know people will love. Either way: I still missed my fucking deadline. And I have to deal with that.

Signed,

M

Keynesian Economic Theory As Applied to 21st Century Higher Education

I spent Labor Day of 2017 traveling the American South, primarily a stretch of marshes and swampland called the Low-Country. I made for Savannah, and stopped to see some old estates and cobble stone streets. The Riverfront was a bustle with locals and tourists to celebrate the 4th annual Bacon Fest. I didn’t stay long, I wanted to keep moving. Crossing over the Savannah River and into South Carolina on Highway 17, the pathways start to become shaded by low hanging trees and even lower Spanish Moss. The humidity is so thick you could cut it with an oyster shell. And there’s this smell. It’s pungent, salty, and downright rancid at some intervals. It comes from the pluff mud, the dark marsh soil left behind after the tide recedes. Each island, beach town and state park are only accessible by way of zig-zagging along the low-country coast.

I spent the night in North Charleston at a truck stop so I could shower in the morning and make a fresh start. Alongside these two lane roads and state highways are any number of stereotypical findings. Fruit and veggie stands, maintained by a married couple with nothing but a piece of paper in their hands to beat the excruciating heat. Auto body shops next to scrap yards next to mobile homes next to RVs. I couldn’t figure out where one would work and live out of those four options, but to each their own. Signs that indicated where you could find “Acres For Sale” or “Oyster Shell Recycling” and even “Clean Dirt.” Of course, every few miles you find a gas station and a dollar store and about a dozen churches. For Protestant Christians on the South Carolina coast, there is no shortage of places to go for worship. In between all of this, you discover little soul food dives and adorable corner stores. I made a pit stop at the Carolina Cider Company in Yemassee before I turned to go south toward Beaufort. Artisanal pastries and handcrafted soaps give you something to sniff on while you shop. I took home some Praline Pecans and a jug of Peach Cider. I wasn’t exactly focused, though. I was still digesting what I had been listening to on the radio. NPR had a special hour long discussion about the state of the economy and the American workforce on a program called The Takeaway from WNYC.

I encourage anyone that’s interested to listen to the podcast themselves, but I have taken the liberty of annotating and summarizing the highlights. The economy itself is steady, but not spectacular. The labor market is strong, but productivity in the workforce is weak. Unemployment is still holding firm at about 4.5%, a sign of continuity between Obama and Trump. President Trump can, and frequently does, tout the high marks in the stock market as a sign of economic growth, but the Dow Jones and the Nasdaq do not translate into the real economy. Wages have remained stagnant, with 78% of full time workers saying they live paycheck to paycheck. That number is up from 75% last year. As Congress sets out to do tax reform, it’s important to note that the GOP plan for big tax cuts won’t dramatically increase growth. Tax cuts stimulate the demand side of the equation, and do not necessarily supply a high-paying factory job to blue collar workers in small towns. Furthermore, those factory jobs might well be good for the small town and the locality, but not for the economy.

Next on the docket is some downright frightening facts and figures about post-secondary education. Employers aren’t seeing the necessary technical skills or critical skills in the incoming workforce. One of the guests on the program ascribed that to the fact that the nature of work has changed but the nature of school hasn’t. In fact, she said, “everything has changed” except the established 4 year institutions. Now, community colleges and less selective, regional 4 year colleges are leading the way for the “new traditional” student. By 2018, according to the Bureau of Labor Statistics, 63% of all jobs will require some post-secondary education. One third of undergraduates are adults, 70% of undergraduates work, 1 in 5 work full-time jobs. Part-time students make up more than one third of undergrads, and most of them are working full time. About 36 million Americans have credits but no credential, most of them carry some form of debt. A full 50% of all undergraduates enter with remediation needs.

So, the age-old thinking that education is a path to a better future regardless of accident of birth or circumstance is quickly dwindling. And yet the structure of Higher-Ed is proving remarkably durable. Institutions are out of step and struggling to rethink students and faculty. The places that are innovative in this regard offer structured programs with the end in mind. At community colleges, these are called guided pathways. The unsung heroes of the American economy are the regional 4 year campuses that are less selective and more realistic, because they recognized early and responded to the critical shift: you can no longer have separate educations for work and educations for life, you need both. The days of going to college and wandering the cafeteria to find oneself are over, and the slowest ones to change their thinking on this are the research institutions, the Big 10 schools. The Michigan States and the U of Ms of the world serve slightly different purposes and depend on slightly different revenue streams, primarily high-dollar private donors for research investment. So they may not have the greatest incentive to change, but the entire college model is changing quickly. Most students are shouldering the debt themselves, many have children of their own. How long do you imagine people with families to feed and bills to pay are going to wait for a tenured professor to find their flash drive?

“Did you want a bag?” A sweet gray haired woman was asking me from behind the counter.

“Yeah” I said under my breath, looking over at the fresh pies that illuminated the case.

“Let me asking you something,” I leaned on the counter with both my elbows. “How’s the economy down here? How’s business been?”

“Well,” she sighed. “It’s usually better during spring and autumn. Cooler weather gives people more reason to take the drive. But to tell the truth, this whole week has been real busy. Not just this morning neither, the past week too…people be in and out all day long. And you know what I think it is?”

She’s leaning toward me now, and took one look around the place before saying “I think it was that hurricane. It wiped out parts of the Gulf that are usual vacation spots. I think people ended up down here because of the flood waters out there.”

I giggled, raised to her my pint of peach cider and said “well, here’s to the high tide.”

Cheers,

Daniel J. Neebes

Perpetual Motion

The heat is inescapable. The traffic is thick and loud. The People in the streets laugh and carry on. The roaches move with freedom along the concrete floors, hiding from any instrument of clean. 

This has been the story of my life in Atlanta, Georgia. I left East Lansing over two months ago to begin a new chapter. My uncle, Anthony (everyone calls him Tony), has put me up in his apartment on a luxurious air mattress and has fed me well. The primary goal of my new venture is to help grow a business from the ground up. Located in the Sweet Auburn Curb Market, our two restaurants occupy the southeast corner. Grindhouse Killer Burgers serves up award winning Burgers and hand-spun milkshakes with unapologetic attitude. A projector on the wall shows B-movies while you wait for your order, either dine-in or carry-out. 

Next door is Three Cities Pizza. During the day you can get it by the slice, with a salad and drink for only 8.50. The business wanes between the hours of 3 and 5; but come the nighttime, we deliver anywhere within a five mile radius. And sometimes farther if I’m not paying attention. The pizza place is for all of those transplants that moved to Atlanta for work, and left behind the pizza they know and love. If you like it thin and foldable, get a New York style. For those that indulge in the thick and round variation, Chicago’s your kind of pie. But for me, my uncle, and anyone that hails from Motown; buttery and crispy crust reminds you of your native home in Detroit. At Three Cities, we want our customers to eat the pizza they grew up with. 

As for me, I’m doing what I can to make and save that cheddar. College is the single most expensive thing I’ve ever dared to invest in. That investment, while never guaranteed to pan out, is only worth a damn once completed. I know that, I truly do. I endeavor to get a bachelors degree, either two years from now or ten. 

The very simple truth is this: I Fucked Up. It happens to everybody, and it happened to me. I make no excuses and offer limited explanations. That does not change the fact that I am smart, talented and bright. Look at what I just did with a pen and paper. I made you hungry. 

I’m hungry too. Hungry for more. 

Buon Appetito, 

Daniel J. Neebes

 

Rat on a Wheel

Spin

Spin

Spin

Stop!

That’s not how you win

Why do you grin?

This is serious

Why do you look so delirious?

Aren’t you curious?

You gotta:

Spin

Spin

Spin

Stop!

You’re a rat on a wheel

You’ll run until you squeal

Oh you want a meal?

It’ll cost ya

Oh yes it will

An arm, leg, and a heel

Okay ready?

Spin

Spin

Spin

Stop!

Take a rest, heal

You’ll need your energy

for a sequel

Come on friend

You can do it

You want to be my equal

Well you gotta

Spin

Spin

Spin

Stop!

Almost done now

Don’t fret

It’ll all be over in a sec

Just think of all

the people you gotta protect

Okay ready, set

Spin

Spin

Spin

Stop!

Okay, get off

Look around

Now you’re on top

Once

I felt powerful, once…

and then, I didn’t.

 

I’m not sure if it was the act itself that did it

or so much as the loss of control that came after.

 

I felt powerful, once…

and then I forgot to eat and sleep

for almost an entire year,

running my body

and myself

into the ground.

 

I felt powerful, once….

until the times that

I had to pull into a parking lot

and turn off the car because the tears were

falling from my eyes

too thickly for me to see as I drove.

 

I felt powerful, once…

and then I felt small at 1 am,

sobbing, because my body sometimes forgets

that it doesn’t have to

fight, freeze, or flee from the person I love.

 

I felt powerful, once…

and now, I don’t.

 

-xxx

Sorry I’ve Been Away Pt. 2

“Hello, hello, hello. Yes, yes, everyone, please, please. Oh you are too gracious, thank you for coming out tonight, please take a seat”

*Applause fades and a spotlight beams onto WILB on stage*

“Well here I am, and once again: I’m sorry I’ve been away. You know time really gets away from you when you’re living in a dystopia. One day you’re pouring through thousands of tweets trying to decipher the meaning of covfefe; the next you’re fighting back the urge to seriously fuck up your life because the threat of nuclear annihilation is too real and ever present. But then again, as a college student you will do and wish for just about anything to avoid finals.

“But, that’s where all my time is dedicated to: college. That booze soaked train, smelling of vomit, b-o, fear, and the occasional Taco Bell quesadilla. The train also only moves in one direction and to one destination: Anxietyville.

‘It’s the best time of your life though!’ Says every 40-50 year old man that hates their wife and would do anything to get their shit-head kid out of their house.

‘Timmy! Stop smoking weed in the basement, goddamnit.

‘But dad, you said it was okay’

‘No, I said it was okay only if you invited me and told mom it was her asshole boyfriend that was selling you this week ass grass. Did I ever tell you about the grass we smoked back when I was in college? Hot damn, what a great time’

Sorry for the tangent and back to our regularly scheduled program: In all honesty though, the past half year has been completely bonkers.

In January/late December, I arrived back into the United States by way of France and found it to be operating under the supervision of a 70 year-old infant and his band of ne’er-do-wells.

If that wasn’t enough torture, I found out that my past self signed my present self up for 4 8:30 AM classes (lots of numbers and word play but stay focused folks–it gets crazier). Needless to say that I was tired and ready for a nap everyday after noon.

But that’s what I’ve been up to, that and-

*A loud beeping sound begins to emanate from the gallery, getting louder and louder with each passing second*

Ladies and Gentlemen I thought we made it perfectly clear that no cell phones were allowed during the performance. Please shut-

*The WILB is cut off mid sentence by the piercing noise and the state and red drape backdrop disappear*

The same WILB wakes up in bed and rolls over to shut off the alarm clock. WILB sits up in bed and slumps over putting face in hand–wishing to go back to sleep, even for a moment.

The red numbers on the alarm clock cut through the darkness and declare: 6:00 AM.

Getting up from the bed reluctantly, WILB dresses and mumbles: “ugh time for work”

Feeling Alive At Last

Sometimes I feel empty.

I am as hollow as the caves where my grandparents and I stood years ago.

My body is damp and silent.

I am carved out and rigid.

Rocks occasionally fall.

Drips are heard from a distance.


Sometimes I feel full.

My body is that old black pot

My dad always uses to make tomato sauce from scratch.

The same ingredients each time, but new just the same.

Filled with spice and warmth

Deliciously bubbling over a hot stove.

 

Sometimes I don’t know how to feel at all.

I am led down a hallway I have not visited before.

All of the doorways look the same.

Fear embraces my body like a distant relative at a family reunion

I don’t quite remember her name, but she’s familiar and important.

 

When I was ten years old, my parents got divorced.

They could not give me a clear reason why they separated.

I slept in my mother’s bed and my father’s bed for two years.

 

When I was eighteen years old, I met the lover that changed me.

He looked at me as if I was the moon and he was the darkness of night.

I kissed him and he carried me to bed like in my favorite film.

 

I am now twenty-one years old, and I am drowning and dancing and stuttering with each word I speak.

My heart is beating.

I know I am alive.

But that is all I know.

-Zoe Bommarito

It Can Happen Anywhere

My week has revolved around guns. It hasn’t been by choice. I haven’t chosen to go to a gun show, or go hunting. It is because I live in the United States.

On June 12th, we remembered the 49 LGBTQ+ people that were murdered in the Orlando Pulse Nightclub shooting a year ago. I remember driving home from Ann Arbor after visiting a friend, crying in the car because I could not imagine the horror those people experienced. The radio host I was listening to was also getting choked up. It was in the news for a couple days, but receded into the bowels of the 24-hours news cycle. Those families have endured unimaginable trauma that the rest of the us did not think about for a whole year.

With this not far from my mind, I met a friend for a drink on June 13th at a bar that I frequent. It is a bar that I had my first legal drink in on my 21st birthday, so it holds some sentimental value. As my friend and I finished up, we walked outside to find a woman calmly calling 911 telling the dispatcher that a man threatened to shoot everyone in the bar following an argument with the person he was with. She said he was allegedly yelling, “You don’t know me! I’ll shoot every fucking person in this place if I have to!” If I have to. The hair on the back of my neck stood up. We left immediately after learning this, but I went on that night like nothing had happened. Just another Tuesday evening.

On June 14th, the day I am writing this, a gunman opened fire on Republican’s practicing for their annual bipartisan baseball game. From what I hear, the week leading up to this game is one of the most fun weeks of the whole summer in D.C. 5 people were injured, some critically. The shooter was a lone gunman who apparently harbored anti-Trump sentiments according to his social media accounts. He used an SKS rifle, an AK variant, and a 9 mm pistol. He was able to cause so much damage in a minimal amount of time. Imagine if Capitol Police had not been there. It would have been open season on our elected officials. Not all those injured are out of the woods yet, and I truly hope they all make a recovery from this terrifying scene.

When I enter any room or establishment, I take stock of where the doors are. I see if the windows are unlocked or accessible to climb out of, or if I would have to break them in the event of an emergency. I look above me to see if someone with a gun could look down and pick me off. I look for hiding spots.

At times when I bring this paranoia up, I am often greeted by the solution of, “Just get your concealed pistol license (CPL).” I am uncomfortable with this idea. I am not uncomfortable by the concept of a CPL in any way, but I am uncomfortable that the solution to combat gun violence and mass shootings is for every person to be strapped at all times. I also know that the likelihood of me taking out a gunman in an active shooter situation would be slim. I do not have the demeanor or stoicism that is required of someone to do so.

I know myself, and I am a runner. I run away from these situations like I just stole something. I was once in an active shooter situation while attending MSU, which turned out to be a false report. When I received a text during class that the building I was in was to secure in place because of an active shooter in the building, I put my things in my bag. Another student and I made eye contact with each other and had a full conversation without saying a word. We calmly exited the classroom and left the building. This was obviously not what we were instructed to do, but we did because we were scared. I knew that I was on the 3rd floor of a building, in a classroom with one door. I knew if I had to jump to escape, I would likely hurt myself badly. I decided to take my chances with a back stairwell and a likeminded friend. My professor was still lecturing when we left. Like it was normal. Like it was just another February day.

I do not have any solutions, but I know I get scared. I get scared because it can happen when I go out to a club with my friends. I get scared because it can happen when I meet a friend for a drink on a Tuesday night. I get scared that it can happen while I am at work. The threat of situations like these will never keep me from living my life, but I will always look around a room for a way out.

 

Signed,

Mary Herman