I'm finding it hard to have nothing to say.
Quiet cutting sounds throughout
Sterling silver’s perfect glint
Prison places dealing doubt
Depressed and Dying for a stint
Frigid forests working lines
Waking where Aurora grows
Awful astral dyn’sty mined
Depressed or Dying, no one knows
“Never, nothing” resultant phrase
Rested wretched boring dope
Brightened Belle of daring praise
Depressed, not dying; I can cope
People of Southwest Minnesota State University, we must come together. One of the simple joys in life is sadly at risk and we must do something about it. I am talking about the threat of Do-Not-Call Lists being activated preventing friendly telemarketers to attempt selling products to you and your family. Since this controversy has started, like you, I have just been sick to my stomach. It is as if I have been told my parents quit loving me or that my brother is in love with me. What are we to do?
To start we could all quickly do our best to get on that list as soon as humanly possible. Why so soon? Judges are lining up to strike this �Do-Not-Call List� unconstitutional. Luckily a whopping 50 million people managed to squeeze their names and phone numbers on that list before judges made their ruling.
I think the greatest sign that people are ready for telemarketing to be over would be the length it took congress and President Bush to pass a bill allowing the list, a week. They passed this thing faster than Vanilla Ice�s career started and ended.
I realize many of us have started getting really good at comeback lines for the telemarketers, telling them you had no parents, carrying on conversations for as long as they would allow, trying to convince them you were Amish and of course everyone�s favorite flat out swearing at them. The best part is, they can not swear back! What a great country we live in.
Another great part of the lists is that telemarketers have to respect everyone that�s on the list already, unconstitutional or not, they have to buy the list to see who not to call and if they dare to call those people anyways they are slapped with a large fine. How large you ask? About the price of 2 to 3 books or $11,000.
Now this whole battle is not over yet. Telemarketers have their �Freedom of Speech� arguments while everyone else in the United States argue that they are annoying and should for the love of God leave us alone. The best we have been able to get is the list and a few other legal requirements from the telemarketers. Even if you are happy about these latest developments with our friendly telephone salesmen just remember, the next time you desperately need to change your phone service, get a new mortgage, or have that urge to get another credit card maybe they won�t be so eager to help you out.
My cousin Brenna is a great girl. She’s a writer. She’s a card. She’s all that and a bag of Frito Lays (to borrow from popular culture).
Bren is currently attending St. Olaf near/in/outskirts of Northfield, Minnesota (yes, Minnesota). It has been her habit for the last couple of years to come to our house for Thanksgiving. She lives originally in Rapid City, which is something like 6 or 7 hours from Big Stone. St. Olaf is something like 3 or 4 hours from Big Stone, the other way. That is something like 10 or 11 hours driving if she wanted to go home. Seeing as how she loves us much more than her original family, she typically stays in Big Stone with us.
This year was no different. The irony of Brenna (being a cousin on my dad’s side) staying with us for Thanksgiving is that my mom’s side of the family is the one that comes to visit us. She has kinda become the nth cousin. They all know her name, and most of them know her major, though they argue about it. As it is, we always have a good time when Brenna hangs out with us.
The trip to get her even started off good. It was my brother, my father and I, braving the open road at night. Bryce, to not feel like such a back seat loser, tried his best to start conversation topics. The one that actually got a conversation going was “What activities were you or are you involved with in college?”
My dad went first. He started off with clubs and organizations. Jobs could only be counted if the school was your employer. This was great news for me because I have three jobs for the school right now. “Well, I went to a lot of events to watch; does that count?”
Bryce got angry. “Dad, you can’t count that. That’s like saying, ‘Well, I went to a basketball game once and tossed the ball back when it went out of bounds.’ You can’t say that.” My dad immediately apologized (after tears) and we pulled the car over and hugged for what seemed like forever.
When we recovered, we pulled back onto the open road. My dad’s total number of activities came to 14. It was my turn. I named off clubs and organizations and the like. The numbers climbed, soaring up to 12. I wasn’t going to be outdone by my dad, so I asked a simple question. “Can jobs, if they are for the university, be counted?” Bryce said yes, and I said 15.
I felt victorious, wondrous, and powerful. Bryce read off his list of activities. “I’m in the paper, I write for the Spur.”
“One.”
“I … I was in ROTC at SDSU.”
“Two.”
“And I was undefeated grand world champion of intramural wrestling one year in a row.”
“… three… Wait, weren’t you the only one in that weight group? And you only wrestled once?”
But we didn’t have time to get into it. There we were, at Brenna’s dorm. We waited for her for a bit, grabbed her stuff, and headed home. The only thing I regret about the trip back is that we never asked Brenna the number of activities she was in. I would have to guess 39.
The weekend was peppered with cribbage. One game we played had Bryce and Lindsey versus Dad and Me/Brenna. We won the game, but you couldn’t tell by our playing method. It seems that every hand that we had there was a question as to which stupid, crappy card we should toss. We’d be faced with a host of retard cards and the choice would come to toss either a three or a seven.
It came down to which number do we hate more? We tossed a three the first time. The card that was cut was a two. We had a ten and a jack. So, thanks to dropping the three, we had nothing. If we had a seven, and tossed that, the card that was cut would be an eight. After a couple times of this happening, we would moan and scream when the card was cut, even if it was good. Good or bad, we always screwed it up.
We also never paid much attention to the game. We got into an argument. Brenna chastised me for still believing my “disillusionity.” I argued back, ridiculing (I’m sure) her writing. Then I yelled out, “Maybe I enjoy my disillushunamentity!” I did this while she was taking a swig of Sprite, and, as a consequence, it appears to have come out her nose, boiled her brain, and forced her to leave the table.
Thanksgiving hit full force, like a fat kid accidentally pushed off the Empire State Building by his just as fat, but less sensitive, first cousin. There was turkey, stuffing, potatoes, and wine. Oh, there was wine. Grandma, if you’re reading this, Bryce needs to be talked to about his drinking problems.
The highlight of the dinner was my grandparents recounting a very interesting story about pie crusts. You might think that I’m joking, but the story was awesome. There is really no way to tell it in text on a website. To fully enjoy it, you had to have been there. To get a nice second-hand reiteration, you must see Bryce and I perform it.
The story goes like this. My grandma has recently come to realize that kids these days are more fans of store-bought crust over hand-made crust. “Kids these days don’t know what good pie crust is!” So, she decides not to do hand-made crust for Thanksgiving. “Well, I said, to hell with getting up at 6 in the morning to make pie crust they don’t even like.”
She sends my grandpa out to get some store-bought crusts. He says, “So this pretty young girl helped me find the pie crusts, and I just reached up and grabbed five of them, because Alyce needed five, and… well, how was I supposed to know there were two in a tin? I thought it was expensive.”
Grandma gets the tins and makes the pies. She checks on them that night, to see how they look, and discovers that she forgot to remove the paper between the crust and the filling. “You know that feeling when your blood turns to water? That’s how I felt seeing that paper there.” Grandma is a bit overdramatic.
Grandpa, that night, has a dream about it. Yes. Grandma couldn’t sleep all night, and Grandpa had a dream about it. “I had a dream about the damn thing. … In my dream the damn thing just lifted out, you know. My dream didn’t show what to do if it doesn’t.” Grandpa does what the dream says, but it doesn’t work perfectly. He has to do some nifty amateur surgery, but he figures it out. My uncle Kevin says, “Wait. So this pie is store-bought crust?” and my grandmother, with a huge, guilty smile on her face, can only say, “Yes!”
The activity around our household was minimal after that. We did go to Unity Square one day to play basketball. I was definitely not suited for such an athletically inclined activity, but my team won. Thanks to Tony’s underestimation of my luck, I managed to score a few points, even.
We watched TV. We saw the top celebrity battles. The runner-up was that battle between Britney and, Limp master himself, Fred Durst. I think this is a pretty weak battle. I could see how certain people would have watched it with delight, muttering “burnage” as blows were dealt, but I took no notice of the debacle. The number one was Eddie Van Halen versus David Lee Roth. Take that for what it’s worth.
It was time to take her back. Bryce and Brenna and I met Megan at China Moon in Madison to begin our trip. It came down to everyone being done and me talking with a plate full of food when Brenna said, “You ready to go?” I look down at my plate, at my watch, at them, and back at my plate. “Gimme a sec.” So, I stuffed a whole bunch into my big, fat, stupid mouth, and we left.
On the trip up was nice. We listened to Sergeant Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band (voted the number one album by Rolling Stone Magazine), lots of rap music, and then Nirvana. Megan is a huge Nirvana fan. So we started talking about how she’s going to marry him in Heaven.
“Wait, so then where do I fit?”
“Ok, we can get married in heaven, and he’ll be our son.”
And that started the topic, if you could adopt dead people in Heaven, who would you adopt? This is truly a heated argument. One person would pick someone, Lincoln, and the other person wanted that person to begin with. So, then the second person would pick a rival, John Wilkes Booth, to spite the first person. Exempt are deities and people still alive, as much as we all wanted Paul McCartney.
The list the Megan and I came up with is:
It was dark in the car. As the list rambled on, my words became muddled. Soon it was impossible to see the paper anymore, so we quit the game. It’s food for thought, though. I’m just hoping that God has something like this in place already. Then we don’t have to spend all the time getting names on a petition.
We got there safe and sound. We dropped Brenna off and drove back home. The trip home was mostly uneventful. We stopped at a Burger King, and then Bryce and Megan left me there. I was devastated that my brother and my girlfriend would double cross me like that. Shameful.
Shameful.
The next day we had church. I played guitar, but (once again) pissed off my mom while doing so and just quit playing halfway through the last song. We hit the store to buy some goodies. The fun thing about that was when Bryce slipped a douche and a package of Vagisil. Megan thought it was my mom’s, so she didn’t say anything.
So, Bryce said, “Miles, why are you getting Vagisil?”
So, not to be outdone, I say, “Wait, you got extra strength? How bad do you think my burning and itching is?”
I love going to store with my brother.
piece-
es
frag-
ments
all black blocks back to back
are white blocks wall to wall.
but
.
“…biased for or against, hence, being
based on…”
tv
radiono
tv
red, orange,
yellow, green,
blue, indigo,
violet, brown,
squares.
upclose it hurts;
downclose it hurts.
flicker flash flat flight
across
– cords – screens – tubes – wires.
then, I hear
“this just in…”
then, I see
“this just in…”
then, I say
“we are not good enough for this knowledge.”
– or – are we too good?
and; it still comes in pieces.
How many trillions of times have you heard your friends tell you that a movie sucks. How many times have your friends told you how some new song is �Da Bomb.� Well you, as I, know that the song they are talking probably is not �da bomb� and that movie they said sucks, well, you won�t even go and see it anymore cause it sucks, right?
I know I am guilty of this, if I may be so bold; I am a hardcore wrecker of movies. I am that guy who leaves the early show at the movies and decides to yell, �Boy that twist in the plot was awesome. And here we all thought the good guy died, but nope, that shizzled my mizzle!�
You really have to go to movies without seeing any trailers and talking to nobody about the film so you can truly decide if you like the movie or if you have your obnoxious buddy screaming, �This movie blows� stuck in your head. It also helps when watching a movie you don�t watch it with someone who doesn�t care for the film. I was watching �Dude, Where�s My Car� with some friends and the jerks whispered to me, �You know the guy can�t find his car, right?� I stood up and yelled, �WHOA! DUDE, why did you just do that!!!� then I stormed out of the theater and called my parents to pick me up. Talk about rude, huh?
It is almost comical how the slightest comment on either side of something can ruin it or just make it uninteresting. If by �almost comical� you mean �awful�. I have been told I will love Hanson and that �Zoolander� is a stupid movie. Well, I didn�t care much for Hanson and disowned my friend, and, let’s face it, �Zoolander� is genius.
Basically, there is a plethora of music and movies out there that you just have to experience yourself and ignore your friends� reviews, unless your friends are Roger Ebert and Richard Roeper.
I hate you, who are reading this. You have no right to have this notebook. You are going to read this, and you are going to judge me for it. You will sit there and read my words and think in horror how you would never think those things let alone do them.
What if you had to to survive? Until you can say that you are where I was, you can’t judge me. Unless you can say that you know exactly how I felt, you can’t judge me. I’m willing to bet that none of you can judge me. At least, not yet.
This is my story.
Dark, bright colors. Dark, bright colors. Dark, bright colors. The disorientating headache of light. A sleep hangover colors my thoughts, perceptions, and mood.
Blink, blink, blink
“You’d better wake up in the next five minutes, or you can walk to school.”
Are you giving me a ride? I knew even as I said this that I should have looked at her first.
“Ha. No. Brian can give you a ride.” As she answered me, I could see the alcohol in her eyes. It was only 8:20. Had she started drinking already?
Did you even go to bed?
“Get up or walk.”
A clean t-shirt, jeans, and a piece of toast later, Brian was dressed and ready to drive me over to school. Brian was a nice guy in public, but at our house he wasn’t. He was my mom’s new boyfriend. He actually slept at night, so he was only hung-over instead of drunk. Too hung-over, it seems, to beat my mother for not making his breakfast. He just grunted at seeing no eggs, bacon, and orange juice. I grabbed my coat and bag, and we walked out to the car.
I was fourteen back then. I was doing my best. It wasn’t enough.
We got into his nearly broken down Pontiac Grand Am. I always pulled out my headphones at this point. There is nothing worse than the painful, uneventful, superficial, wasteful conversation with my mother’s new lover. I had recently developed a taste for the worst in pop music. I won’t bother to name what artists there were in my tape player. Naming people would not only date me, but it would perhaps embarrass me.
He would always talk, headphones or not. He would spill about whatever stupid things he had to do that day, or how much he really did love my mom and how I should judge him by what he does to her, everyday. I had listened the first day my mother was too inebriated to take me to school. I hadn’t listened again.
It was winter now. Today was not particularly bad, weather-wise. It was still winter, and I still hated it. The snow had started to melt around town, leaving unsightly brown puddles for one to step in. The cars looked so ugly stained with brown. I would sometimes watch Brian, checking to see if he was human or not. I would wait for his skin to start to peel away from the sides of his neck, where he had used some handy theatre glue to put it on. I watched and watched. I’m sure I looked interested in him, and maybe that is why he would always talk to me. Maybe he thought I could hear him.
The car stopped. “Here we are, kid.” I didn’t turn off my music. I had gotten good at lip-reading Brian’s speech. I zipped my bag up and got out. I didn’t wave at him, I didn’t say ‘goodbye’, because I didn’t want Brian in my life.
I wanted my dad. The problem is that I don’t know my dad. I’ve never met him or seen him. My mother doesn’t even have pictures. She won’t even tell me about him. “When you’re 18, then you can look for him, but I won’t help you.” Sometimes, I really hate her.
I walked to my favorite bench. This is where I normally met Ruth every morning. We would, one of us, sit here until the other showed up. Usually, Ruth was first, because usually I was late. It didn’t matter if school had started, we would always wait for the other. If one of us missed school the other one would miss school, too. Ruth wasn’t there yet, so I sat and waited.
At noon, I was sure that she wasn’t coming. I was hungry. I was not very upset at missing school, but missing lunch was starting to get to me. I would give her two more minutes, then I would go in and eat, then I would come back out. It was simple plan. It would –
NOPLEASELETMEGOSOMEONEHELPME
Dark, bright colors. Dark, bright colors. Dark, bright colors.
Blink, blink, blink.
I was on the ground, staring up into the chilly blue of a clear winter day, covered in my own saliva. What was that? What had happened? It was like a voice had come into my head. Not only that, but the voice had carried with it the violence of a struggle. The pain of it wasn’t in the words, but it came on the wind like a pair of malevolent hands. I felt them grab a hold of me, shake me, push me.
I rolled to my stomach to get up. As I did, blood came trickling down my coat-covered arms and spilt out onto the pavement and over the backs of my hands. I couldn’t help but scream. I pulled off my jacket and looked at my blood-covered arms. There were words cut deep into my forearms. It wasn’t my doing. It wasn’t me, I swear. The right arm said “dirty” and the left one said “filthy”. It was done in careful, scripted lettering. I felt nauseous.
Then, for some reason, I thought about Ruth. Ruth’s house was a good walk from school. Was it her voice that I heard? Was it her that had somehow left those marks on my arms? I left my hunger behind me and began walking. I had a feeling I would find an answer there.
If you read this site during this prior summer, you know that I worked in the Science Center. My job during those three wonderful months was as an office assistance (read: secretary).
I had a very bad experience on the job my second day. My first day was Monday. Work started at 8 in the morning. This worked well the first day. I was motivated, happy, and ready to conquer my responsibilities. Seriously. I throttled my responsibilities that day.
The next day was horrible. I woke up in a cold sweat; my head bounced off my pillow. “Oh, no.” I was late by about AN HOUR. Horrible punishments ran through my mind. How could I make this up? What could I do to make this better? I felt terrible. How could I ever prove to Nancy that I was a good employee to be trusted and kept around?
As it turned out, Nancy was understanding. My hours were not yet defined, and I was allowed to come to work at 900 everyday instead of 800. Still, to protect against any sort of further lateness, I set my watch fast by five minutes.
Why? I did that because I went home for lunch everyday. I would come home, make my sad, little lunch, and then turn on FUSE TV to watch some quality music videos that weren’t retarded hip-hop “boob movies” or stoner-poser punk bands dancing like they had live wires attached to their genitalia. After eating my meal and watching my TV, I would sit and wait until I was able to go back to work. After a while, I began to fear being late. What if my hour took an hour and five minutes? If I set my watch ahead by five minutes, I would leave earlier and arrive there sooner.
It was the perfect plan until I learned that I had only to subtract five minutes to get the real time. Pretty soon those five minutes made no difference. My body had learned that 1200 actually meant 1155, and that was good enough for me. I was never late, but I was never scared, either. I had lost the fear.
Flash forward to fall. School is in session; leaves are falling; winter is panting like a horny 8th grader on his first date, trying to get into Autumn’s pants. It comes to that fateful day when we all must change the time pieces we carry to go backwards one hour. It is like we are denying inevitable march of time by forcing it to go back and relive that one hour it took from us. It is just as much a statement about man’s feelings on his own time limit on earth as it is a way to keep more sunlight around for longer.
This year, when that day rolled around, I, like so many others, went to go fool Mother Nature once more by making that number on the far left of my digital watch one digit smaller. To do this on my watch, you hold down the “Adjust” button, aptly named in that it adjusts the time. I push in and hold down the button. It’s supposed to take 1.5 seconds. One hour later, I still am not able to adjust time/date of watch.
What?
I think back to my summer and where my watch has been. It makes sense that it got damaged along the way. Still, this is a disappointing outcome. Think of it. I am now unable to change my watch’s time or date. The date function only comes in handy after or during time travel, and I hung up those rocket boots years ago. The time factor is applicable at least twice a year, and maybe more depending on what sort of April Fool’s Joke you have planned.
I have a dilemma now. I can handle the time just fine, but it takes a bit longer. I now have to look at my watch, absorb the numbers, subtract one from the far left number while continuing to subtract the five from the right number. This is a quad step process. This takes years to get down cold. It’s like converting to military time except I subtract a little less than 12.
Being the owner of a watch bears with it some responsibilities. People count on you to give them the time in a clear, concise fashion. They don’t have time for you to derive the time. People continue to ask me the time. I look down at my watch and begin the process of figuring the time out. When I look back up to give it to them, they are gone. You know how embarrassing it is for a digital watch to take longer to get the time from than an analog one?
People usually think one of several things. One is that I’m obviously special ed and have never really learned to tell time. They begin to expect an answer like, “fifty o’clock and noon minutes.” Two is that I’m pretending to not know the time because I hate them. They expect an answer like, “it’s dork o’clock; good thing you asked.” Three is that they become afraid that my silence is a statement on the fact that time is relative not only amongst creatures on earth but amongst humans themselves. They expect an answer like, “is there really such a thing as time? Can we truly quantify that which holds different weights and breadths for each person, thing, and location?” There are not so many people like that, though.
I was getting better at it, though. I was getting faster on my calculation time. Pretty soon I was able to give the time in almost a timely fashion. I was so proud of myself. Last weekend, we went to the dome, my family and me. My sister was sitting there. She asked me what time it was. I started to tell her the whole story about my watch, the story you’ve just heard. I saw, “Look what happens when I hold down this button. It normally should -”
It worked. The button worked. I was able to set my time, after so long of not being able to, after so many tiring hours of beating my watch against the wall trying to dislodge whatever it was that was blocking my button. I suddenly felt like a huge idiot. I was actually only half-way done with my story to Molly, but I didn’t feel like finishing it.
Now my watch is set to the correct time, but I still hesitate. I glance at the watch, and I know that I don’t have to do any math to figure out what those numbers mean. I can look at them and know if/when I am late. But, for some reason, my life feels a bit emptier. I feel less useful, less unique. I’m sure I’ll get over this, though; all I need is time.
Awayken.com tearfully brings you this news.
Fr. Ray Otto has died of unknown causes this weekend.
I received this email from my sister :
Fr. Ray died today, Saturday. Thursday he went to the hospital and said he wasn’t feeling well. They sent him home. Friday his tongue was swollen and he could barely speak. Finally, Fr. Willfred couldn’t take it anymore and brought him back to the hospital where they rushed him to Sioux Falls, but he didn’t make it. His heart stopped on the way to Sioux Falls. Mom thinks the funeral will be Wednesday.
Molly
Fr. Ray was the priest at St. Charles Parish in Big Stone City, SD. He was also a great guy and friend. We will miss him.
Let�s face the facts folks, cell phones are everywhere and will take over the world. I don�t mean to sound like Ted Kazinski or anything but our country has gone cell phone crazy; you�d think that people got a free �Beenie Baby� with each cell phone they bought.
New options have been given to cell phones quite recently to direct phone calls from your land line to your cell phone. Answering machine companies are in jeopardy. Personally, because of my roaring social life I�m rarely home so I need a great answering machine message to impress callers into leaving a message, please cell phones, don�t take that away from me, take my family, take my Beatles CD�s but leave my answering machine!
How crazy are cell phones today anyways? Cell phones perform a plethora of tasks: you can pick your choice of songs to play for your ring, you can play games and I�m not sure but I think it shovels your drive way and mows your lawn, too. What irritates me is people that can not get away from their cell phones for more than three minutes. When I see a potential �happenin’� dude or dudette in the hall and want to show them �props� it is impossible because they’re on the phone.
I guess I just have to move with the times and stick with my Tracfone because I don�t foresee the popularity of cell phones diminishing, but kids, if you love your cell phone so much, why don�t you marry them?
Some of you know me well. Some of you don’t know me at all. So, that’s why I am taking the time to write this: I hate driving. It’s a little known fact about me that I tell everyone.
Why do I hate driving? Driving is needless complication of things. Let’s face it: I’m not smooth. I tend to mess things up, especially when it means that someone might die. I have grandiose visions of fiery car wrecks where my little white car, Stallion, is responsible for shutting down two elementary schools, a nunnery, and a retard house. I didn’t mean “retard house”; I meant “fraternity”. Seriously, it’s like God is rooting for me, but Satan is beating me in the face with my own arms, saying, “Why are you hitting you hitting yourself? Don’t hit yourself.”
The other part is that I’m bad with directions. Ok, I’m horrible. Story One : My dad wanted me to drive out to Dakota Granite one day. Dakota Granite is in the country between Big Stone and Milbank. Did I say “country” ? I meant “flat, boring wilderness” instead. Anyway, he gives me the directions: drive out to the Legion, turn south, drive for about 5 miles, turn left at the ‘Dakota Granite’ sign, and go inside Gizzlebees, err, Dakota Granite.
Simple enough.
I get out to the Legion, check. I take a right, check. I drive for about 5 miles, check. I look for the ‘Dakota Granite’ sign. Nothing. I keep driving. The road comes to a junction. I turn left. I drive and drive and drive, and I go right past Mike and Lonie’s house. This doesn�t’ seem right, but I keep going. 20 minutes later I am in Wilmot.
I call my dad. I explain to him, almost in tears, that I was horribly lost and that I felt terrible about being such a retarded driver and that if I never saw him again, I was sorry and I loved him. He tells me to quit being a girl and to suck it up or he’ll use his belt. Then he tells me that South is left not right. One minor detail can make everything go wrong.
Story two : this weekend my cousin Dirk played at the Dome in Vermillion. I was quite impressed with how good a football player he is. Unfortunately, their team lost. Also unfortunate was that they decided to finally lose at 12 in the morning. Vermillion is quite a ways from Sioux Falls, which is only a little bit from Madison.
My family gets to Sioux Falls. This is where Bryce, Lindsey and Tony take their vehicle and drive to Madison, and Megan and I take my vehicle and drive to Madison. We say our tired, cranky goodbyes, and Megan and I take off. The nice thing about this was that Megan said she would drive. The bad thing is that neither of us knows Sioux Falls very well.
Being the navigator, I order her to drive south. The street numbers get bigger and bigger. My plan is to take us to 41st street, which is a big road that goes out to the Interstate. The problem with this plan is that my Aunt Karin’s house is in the part of town where big and bad 41st is a stupid little residential street. I hadn’t planned on that.
We try to take 41st around, but it gets bisected by something. So, we turn north. We go north for a while. Then I make us go west again. My process for deciding when to do this is that I watch the street names, and if I can picture my dad saying, “Take that road; it won’t get you lost”, then we take it. Otherwise we keep going.
The avenue numbers get smaller and smaller until Minnesota. Why not turn on Minnesota? Now we’re going north again. The street numbers get smaller and smaller again. I recognize things. This is excellent. We hit Russell (?) and normally one would turn west again and take that road to the interstate.
Russell is being worked on. Please use our horrible detour which doesn’t make sense. So, I did that. We go straight, on a half-gravel road. We travel forever until I recognize something else, the airport. This is great. I’m out of my element in a car. I probably could be cool and smart and logical if we were lost on bicycles. But we were not.
We get to a ‘T’ intersection. Our choices are right or left. Left says “I90” and right says “I29”. Megan says, “I think we should go left.” I say, “I think we should go right.” I try to pry my memory for which number my dad would say, but he could too easily say either one. He’s good with saying numbers. Since Megan’s driving, I say, “Let’s go left.” We drive for about 10 minutes and end up on the Interstate. This is just as planned, except when we see the turn off for Brandon, SD. It is about then that I think we went the wrong way.
No problem, we turn back around and drive and drive and drive. We make it onto I29, no problem, and begin the trek home. 20 more minutes driving, my mom calls. “Where are you guys AT?” At that point we were just outside of the Baltic exit, which is around 30 miles from Sioux Falls. “Baltic? You’ve been driving for over an hour and you’re only at Baltic?” I told her that we got a little lost and that I didn’t want to talk about it. I said that, instead, she should check my website in a couple of days and the whole story would be there.
We drive for endless amounts of time, and finally end up in Madison, where my brother, Lindsey, and Tony are already there, and have been for some time, even though they left first. It’s hard to explain the story without embarrassing myself, “You went down to 41st??”, and without giving people the wrong impression, “What were you doing in Baltic of a half an hour? Eh, eh??”
Bearing in mind that that happened Saturday night, let’s jump to Monday night. Megan and I decide to go for a car ride. I had no homework due on Tuesday, and she didn’t have any homework due on Tuesday, so we decided to cruise around the scenic Madison countryside… at night.
We have these great, long talks. We can discuss anything. It’s so great to just get lost in conversation. This is, however, a bad idea when you are driving. She would drive, get to an intersection, and ask me which way we should go. I pick at random, like I do in so many other things, and when you don’t remember what decisions you made, you get lost.
Very lost.
When we finally decided that we wanted to go home, we weren’t really sure where we were. It would have been easier getting back if we knew if we were north, south, east, or west of Madison, but they all look the same when there’s no sun or compass. So, we just drove. Then I would pick a direction at random, again, and we would drive some more. We drove and drove and found some city lights. “Let’s go toward that one. It looks big; it looks right.”
Madison is a city of 6,540 people. It covers a land area of 4.3 square miles. Wentworth is a city of 188 people. I felt like a big idiot when we drove into “Madison” to find “Wentworth” pasted all over the main street businesses. We were lost.
“Where is Wentworth?”
“I don’t know. Near Madison.”
“We are so lost! We’ll never get home…” Sobbing ensued. Once I composed myself, we started driving again. I picked another direction at random. Then Megan had a “eureka” moment. “I have a map in the glove box.”
We poured (because that is a great verb) over the map and discovered just how far away from Madison we actually were. Wentworth is about 10 miles away. Okay, it doesn’t sound that bad, but we were scared. Once I discovered what the numbers on the map meant, it was quick going. Then it was the process of finding a road with that number (which we never did) and then pretending like you found it and not telling her that you made it up until you’re outside of the ghetto Food Pride in Madison.
As we cruised the Madison streets, at midnight, heading slowly towards my house, I thought about all the losting I’ve been doing in my life. I think, despite all the tears and frustration, I’d rather be a loster than a finder. I think being lost, and getting found, is much more fun. In the words of Justin Timberlake, “You know, I used to dream about this when I was a little boy. I never thought it would end up this way. Drums.”
Yes, Justin. Drums, indeed.
I really did a good job picking a place to live. When we first moved in it seemed perfect. The houses were nice; people were friendly. The yards were well kept, animals only partially visible or heard, and there were hardly any children to get hit by cars backing out of driveways.
It was perfect.
Bit by bit that picture began to crumble. Our neighbors to the north are college kids like us. Our neighbors to the south hate us, compete with our yard, and call the cops on us. Across the street is one normal house, I assume, the broken home that we call “The Broken Home” and another broken home that is now “Chris’s House.” Dogs bark, kids run and scream, cops hang out, and it seems that the only trash to be taken out is alcohol related.
It sucks.
Our beautiful neighborhood has quickly gone to hell. I suppose it’s fitting, in a way. I tried hard not to believe it, but the second time the cops showed up across the street (for God knows what) I decided to quite pretending that we were fortunate with our streetmates.
There were things that I probably ignored up until that moment. I assume that this always happened, but I just ignored it because it was weird. I assume that they always did it, every Saturday, but I just pushed it away, back from my mind, to function with everything else that was going on.
Every Saturday night, for an unknown amount of time, the neighbors across the street, “The Broken Home”, turn on the disco light in their front porch. I am not making this up. It’s one of those crappy, small-town DJ disco lights. This is the kind of disco light that makes a junior high dance so much cooler. They have it hanging from the ceiling of their screen-in porch which faces the street (and thus our house).
I had never seen this before. What sort of ritual this is, I don’t know. Perhaps they do it for attention. Maybe it’s soothing. Either way, when I see that disco thing, I can’t look away. So there I was, last Saturday, staring and staring and staring at this thing. The harder I stare, the deeper into nothing I fall. Then I see something…
A person. There was someone standing outside of their house staring at ours. I freak out. “Jeff, did you see that??” With panick in our eyes, we pull the blinds shut. “He has a stick; oh my God. Shut the blinds!” We try and try. The blinds are stuck! We can’t get them down! Exclamation point! I peer outside for a brief second and, sure enough, there is the same person standing outside with a large stick (about 12 feet tall) at his right side. He holds it as a sensei would, sensing danger but feeling protected, waiting for the next kill.
It is in that moment – looking out – that I recognize the person as the 12 year old boy who lives next door. My heart sinks and my jaw drops. What does he want? Is he deranged? Is he unstable? Does he want to hurt me with his stick in ways I’ve only imagined myself seeing on TV? I hid behind the safety of our deep green blinds and tried to calm down. Jeff was on the floor making noises inbetween laughter and screaming.
I watched between the verde slits. The boy was walking backwards, but he was still looking at our house. He was walking back towards his house, staring at ours, in a peculiar way. He was trying to keep his eye on something and, at the same time, make his way toward something else. I can’t quite make out what he’s going for.
“What’s on that tripod?”
There are lots of things you can fit on a tripod. Including… Oh, no. “Get down!” I yell, and I toss my body to the ground. I could just about hear the whistle of the sniper bullets as they slice through the air, glass, and flesh. I just about feel the dull, cold punch of the slugs as they tear through the house.
“Oh, it’s a telescope.”
Right. Of course it was. There need not be any need to panick. Just a telescope. It didn’t matter though; we had to leave the house. It was too creepy, the things that had happened. We, all four of us, left the house to venture to the store. I made a quick call to Megan, “Do not come over. There is a crazy kid with a gun in the street. I’ll explain later.”, and we left the house.
“Boy, I sure hope Jerry doesn’t get lonely being the only person left inside our house… with his gun,” I tried to say loud enough for the scary-stick kid to hear. At the same time that I feared him, I felt sorry for him. That night was a Lunar Eclipse. You don’t often see those. Well, I don’t, because I’m pretty much oblivious to everything.
As we got into Brandon’s car (which picks up the most chicks per capita than any of the other cars at our house), I couldn’t help but feel sorry for the kid with the stick. He wasn’t just star-gazing. He was looking for a home that isn’t broken… in space. I, for one, hope he finds it. And I hope it’s warm.
Of MF
Ocean’s rhythm, like your breath,
make tired eyes close up with care
over all the grains that left
eternity for us to share.
Ocean’s scent, a salty spray,
graces vapours we inhale
over all the sands that lay
at, around, within our trail.
Ocean’s feel, lover’s hug,
naked as our bodies lie
over all the blankets snug,
making love while time walks by.
Ocean’s voice, your fluid tongue,
interprets feelings, thoughts, and motes
over all emotions wrung,
necessary tears we wrote.
Ocean’s all, our bless�d rest,
eternity for us the best.
Download it at deviantART.
There are certain events in ones life that bring to a crystal clear point the existence of God. These monumental occasions shine out as testaments to a higher being, one of all presence, all knowledge, and all sight. For some people, it’s having their first child. For others, it’s surviving a car accident. For me, it’s cribbage.
Last night, my brother and his girlfriend, Lindsey, came up for “Taming of the Shrew”. My father, too, came up for this theatrical evening. The play went “fantastic”, one eyewitness said, but who knows if she was telling the truth or not.
Afterwards, the four of us (Megan included), went to Taco John’s. Bryce and I got into a fight outside, and caused a lot of snow damage. A brutal clash of titans, to be sure. The womens got bored and went inside mid-rumble. It was very humid in Taco John’s. So humid, you couldn’t see because of all the vapour. It was practically raining inside, my soggy Quesadilla tasted like “anal”, and Bryce and I are going to star in our very own naked Rausch calender.
Once we got back to the house, only one thought consumed our beings, cribbage. Jeff got down his nice new board and his nice new deck and dealt for the four of us (Megan excluded). The cards were crisp, and luck was in the air.
It was Bryce and I versus Jeff and the Lindster. The first game was underway. Card by card, Bryce and I peg ourselves into the lead. 15 after 15 after 31 with runs, doubles, and sometimes a double or a run into a 15. It was beautiful, like a dance, how Bryce and I so totally trashed Jeff and Lindsey. The game ended with nearly a skunk, but Linds has a little luck on her side, and they were only a few points past.
The next game plays on in quite the same way. Most of our points came from pegging like Blackbeard (pirate humour – get it?). The second game, too, ended with almost a skunk. We were on fire.
The next game sucked. We lost. I forgot all the details because I didn’t much like that game. We were content that we had won two out of three, but we were not content that we had lost one out of three. Either way, there was one game left, and it was late.
Linds says, “We should make this last game worth two.” So we did. The person who won this one would win it all. There was actually nothing physical to win, but I knew in my heart that there was somewhere something. I just had to find it, with my heart.
Megan had since given up on me and my passion. I felt her lingering embrace as she abandoned me to my obsession. Would I ever see her again? Had I just lost her forever? These questions would not haunt me until I slept, fitful and weary. For now, however, we had to ‘bage.
The game went poorly. Bryce and I were far behind in our typical pegging skills. Jeff and Lindsey seemed to be doing way better than they should. Perhaps someone was asleep on God duty. As the game progressed it came down to the last hand. Then it came down to counting the hands.
They were 14 out, and we were 47 out. Bryce dealt, so Jeff counted first. He had a 6. They were now 8 out, and we were 47 out. I look at my hand. I had 7788; Bryce had cut a 6. If you do the math, that means that my hand was worth 24 points! Screams, joy. This is amazing, but we’re still 23 out, and they are 8 out. Lindsey counts her hand. She has 2. That’s right, just 2. They are 6 out, and we are 23 out. Bryce puts down his hand. He has 4456.
If you count that – that’s 24. Two 24 hands in one game? Both by players on the same team? With just enough points to give us a win by one point? That, my friends, is a miracle. That, my friends, is why I believe in God.
I apologize. I know I haven’t been writing much lately. You can blame one girl for all this. Sue Conover. That’s right. Yours truly (Miles Rausch) is once again involved with a theatrical production.
This time instead of putting on the apparel of a Jewish hat maker, I am donning the garb of a wealthy Italian gentleman off to college. DSU is doing its version of “The Taming of the Shrew”.
I play a character named “Lucentio” (pronounced loo-SENT-chee-oh). Lucentio is a wealthy college student. His father has sent him to Padua (pronounced PAJ-ooa), from Pisa (pronounced PEE-zuh), to attend university there. While reveling in the beauty of the countryside, he sees (and falls for) the lovely Bianca (pronounced bee-AWN-ku). Lucentio and his servant Tranio (pronounced TRAWN-ee-oh) learn that the fair Bianca cannot be courted and wed until her UberBeast of a Sister, Katherine (pronounced kath-uh-REEN-uh) is wed. They hatch a plan.
The Lucentio plot is that he pretends to be a Latin Teacher/Tennis Star, Cambio (pronounced CAM-bee-oh). Bianca’s daddy, Baptista (pronounced bap-TEEST-uh), allows Cambio to instruct her. Meanwhile, another Pisan gentlemen, Hortensio (pronounced whore-TENSE-see-oh), is pretending to be a guitarist named Litio (pronounced LEE-chee-oh) with the same scheme in mind.
Dmmt.
They battle for the girl, with Lucentio winning. The infamous Hortensio instead decides to wed a widow played by Quinn Swenson (pronounced quinn-swen-SON), while Lucentio and Bianca enjoy their wedding in the final scene. One other thing that happens is the taming of a person quite shrew-like, but that’s not important because none of those characters are I… me (pronounced MY-uhls).
My guitar, also, will be featured in this monumental mockery of Shakespearean stuff. If I can ever teach Rob how to tune it, it may even sound not too bad up there. He sings terribly, but my guitar sings wonderfully… unless you push down the high e string on the third fret. Ooo, God. That’s awful.
There is a dark side to this play, however. Missed lines, bawfled entrances and erroneous lights, sound, and set have plagued this production from day one. It is as if Shakespeare himself, by his ghostly proxy, is trying to sabotage this work of art. There is an awful lot of n00bs in this play. There is an awful lot of goofing off in this play.
How will the play do?
Will the group pull it off?
Are those the correct phonetic spellings?
Tune in next time; same Awayken.Com | Vistan time, same Awayken.Com | Vistan channel.