Of Miles Rausch

That, ladies and gentlemen, is an example of a bad pun. Not only does it employ a very forced word-syllable replacement but it also contains no commonly known phrase or term in substitution therein. This means that I really didn’t even try to be funny in the title. Does this mean you should worry? Is this an indicator of how the post is going to go? Is the post going to be forced? Will it read much like an earlier post with some words changed around? Will it not even make sense? I guess you’ll have to read on…

This weekend I went to MitcHell. I know, I know… but I had to. Megan’s cousin, Sean Joseph Flynn, Jr., was graduating from MHS this weekend. Megan is not very close to her family, but we had to make the journey anyway. I had never met but two extended members of her family, and this was a golden opportunity to see how I could use them in my plan to hit the casino in Granite Falls.

We were supposed to leave at noon, but things kept getting pushed back. We had to wait for her mom to call us. So, at 3, and after several fitful catnaps, we departed. I was crabby, but I made the most of it. See, Megan and I have decided that she’ll learn drums and we’ll form a two person band, like the White Stripes, except that I’ll be Jack and she’ll be Meg and we’ll rock even harder.

So, to make the hour-long trip to MitcHell better, we decided to pick a band name. Our first method involved picking bands we knew and replacing a word in their name. Red Hot Silly Peppers, Radioshed, Push, and even Black Stripes were all contenders. Then we decided that that wasn’t the way to go.

We could pick lyrics from songs we liked, which is partly how Radiohead did theirs. “Radio head” was a Loverboy lyric, or something. So we considered our options but our band name got longer and longer. We wouldn’t just take one or two words, we took a verse or a refrain. We didn’t think people would get into an introduction like, “Everyone put your hands together for ‘Don’t let the days go by could have been easier on you I couldn’t change though I wanted to should have been easier by three our old friend fear and you and me glycerine’!” You could take a nap in the time it takes to say that.

Then we tried using a dictionary. We each flipped open to a page and picked a random word. It was my thinking that we’d just take our two words, arrange them as we thought made the best sense, and use that as our band name. The list turned out to be:

casuarina
soft pedal
honey locust
compos mentis

That has got to be the sorriest list of band names ever. For one thing, the two words I picked were actually two words, so I picked four words. And the first word Megan picked was actually a tree from Australia and the second word was actually Latin for “of sound mind.” But the Latin intrigued me.

For our trip to MitcHell, then, I brought every Latin book I had, and we spent a majority of the time reading through Latin phrases or words, and asking Megan what she thought. Maybe we shouldn’t force it. Maybe the band name will just happen. At least now we have a lot of ideas for album titles.

So, after plenty of Latin phrases and pop music, we were there. It was a little confusing getting there. Megan was a bit stressed, only having been to her uncle’s place a few times. It’s a good thing that when Megan gets stressed she doesn’t get hot tempered and bitchy. Good thing.

I was nervous. I wanted to make a good impression on Megan’s family. As it turned out, the only aunt/uncle pair that was there were Sean’s parents. Megan, however, kept forgetting that I didn’t know these people. That person would come over and start talking to us and then, in a lull of the conversation, I would say, “Hi, I’m Miles.”

For instance, we were talking to her cousin, Sean Jr. They started talking about his mom, Deb, and I leaned over, in the lull, and asked Megan which person was Deb.

Megan says, “Oh, you haven’t met Deb?”

I say, “I haven’t met Sean, yet. Hi, I’m Miles. Congratulations.”

This kind of thing happened again and again. Thankfully, there weren’t many relatives there to repeat this lame Marx Bros. routine. Instead there were things to look at. Row upon row of awards, congratulatory certificates, and offers from foreign countries to take office. Quite impressive. What was more impressive was the food. It was a Make-Your-Own-Mexican-Shaped-Meal bar. See it wasn’t just making tacos, because you could make nachos, tacos, burritos, and even enchiladas (if you like beef over chicken). I had a burrito the first time, but I made it too fat (like a fat fat blunt), and it didn’t wrap right. The next time it became just a nacho.

Then we went to mass. Nothing much eventful happened there. This boy was asleep 10 minutes into it. He just sat there with his mouth gaping open. Then he’d wake for a short bit, then back asleep. I don’t remember if he receive communion or not.

Back to the Flynn’s for a short bit, then to the hotel. Holy crap. The handicapped rooms at the Hamilton in MitcHell are spectacular. They’re the size of a small gymnasium. The bathroom itself was about the size of the pool, but the shower had a seat to sit on and a bed to bed on. There was a microwave and a refrigerator (cause handicapped people need their eats), a TV, and more pillows than any Queen of England could ever have.

We got settled in, hit Walmart, came back, and then Meg and I went swimming. This was a horrifying and embarrassing situation. See, I haven’t gone “swimming” in an era because I’ve never gotten comfortable with my body. Then this last year hit me, and all I did for meals was eat out. So, now I’m fat, and I am DEFINATELY not comfortable with my body. In swimming, however, you have to take off your shirt. It took her about 30 minutes, but I finally relented and got into the pool.

This, we later found, was a terrible idea. If only I had held on to my insecurities, then I would have been able to save my baby. See, it happened like this. We were having contests, like we always do. I think Megan wanted to prove she was a better swimmer. So, we did a race: go down and back, short width of the pool. After about 10 mis-starts, we gave up. She wanted to swim the length of the pool. We got ready, and took off. I won! But she was complaining about the way she swims. See, I’m a top swimmer, but she’s a underwater swimmer.

“See, watch.” She dove under the water. When she came back up, she was holding her face. When she dove, she overestimated the depth of the pool, and she scraped her face on the bottom of the pool. What made is worse was the chlorine in the pool, which got into the wounds, and made it burn like nuts. We decided no more challenging and no more pool – on to the hot tub.

The next day was graduation. But first, the Spartans! Spartans rule. Did you know they had 2 kings? They did that as a system of checks and balances. They devoted their lives to order, discipline, and war. They did this because the helots, the working class of farmers, were actually a country they took over. And, actually, they outnumbered the Spartans by about 15 times. And they had an old person council of everyone 50 or older. These guys had power – real power, like the king. They were like a senate. Why did everyone over 50 get to join? Because if you lived to be 50 in Sparta, you must be tough as nails and smart to boot.

With the program still going, we had to leave. We packed the cars and headed for the Corn Palace. Pardon, The World’s Only Corn Palace. They seem to be quite proud of that name. You know what? It’s corn! But they do redo it every year. This year’s theme is “Lewis & Clark”. The structure, covered in corn husks and decorated with mosque-like towers reminiscent of the Holy Land, looked very South Dakotan in the rain.

Before the graduation, we had some times to look around. On the walls, on the inside, they have a picture “Hall Of Fame” for every Corn Palace configuration they’ve ever had. They even had one that sported a swastika. There were two warnings next to the image, explicitly explaining the symbol as a Native American “good luck” insignia. One was on the picture and another was directly below the picture, about 2 inches. This, and the fact that the picture was taken well before WWII even started, leads one to believe that, had they known, the decorators would never have used the symbol.

The pictures get fishier, though. They have a picture of the first Corn Palace with its true colours. Considering the picture was taken circa 1892 and colour film wasn’t developed until 1935-ish, I highly doubt those are the original colours. You can tell, without much squinting, that they coloured in gigantic photograph. You can tell really easily by looking at the flags – flags are really hard to colour in, realistically. It looks like they took a permanent marker and just went to town. They did this to all of the Corn Palace photos up till their cheap asses got colour film. In the brochure, however, that same picture is printed in its original black-white-sepia shade. You don’t fool me, cheesy marker colouring job!

When you go to MitcHell, and you want to see what there is to offer here, do NOT pic up the Official Visitors Guide. It should be relabeled “Really Big Book of Ads”. Besides having pictures of the latest Corn Palace design, the same design that you had to walk past to get the booklet, the Visitors Guide contains what amount to 6 pages out of 79 with “content” and the rest being adverts. Don’t get me wrong, finding the “$.50 off Any Blizzard” coupon was sweet, but it doesn’t make up for the “10 Fun Things To Do In Mitchell” segment. They did pretty much what they set out to do, listed 10 things that one can, indeed, do in the Home of the Kernels. The problem is the bolded text. See, I guess there was a writing contest at the local Tech school to come up with as many corn puns as possible to put in their brochure, and this was the winning entry. 8 of the 10 had a horrible corn-related pun in them. The 2 that didn’t were both related to Native Americans. Hmm…

That’s why you have to pick up the two brochures. See, there are two because one is the “serious” one and one is the “crazy” one. This is the same principle that family portrait photographers use. If you have to have a serious picture, they people involved are really dying to do a crazy picture, to show how they really are to the camera. This is particularly why I have not even opened the “crazy” one, as I don’t much care for carefreeness. I want seriousness.

The serious brochure is just that. Well, except for a top, inside banner declaring “Visit Mitchell’s Ear-chitecture!”, this brochure is just a colourful reminder of the glory of the world’s only Corn Palace. On the front of the brochure, there is a picture of the 1999 Palace. Then, on the inside, they have a timeline, information type list of pictures. Then they have an item pointing to two pictures the title of which is “Today’s Corn Palace.” But, the Corn Palace in both pictures is the 1998 Corn Palace. Did they make the inside first? How is the most recent Corn Palace isn’t “Today’s” Corn Palace? Unless they just couldn’t bare to photograph the 1999 Corn Palace (theme: Building a Nation) and instead opted for old photos of last years Corn Palace (theme: Youth in Action).

Well, I was pondering all this as we watched the Graduation. It was boring. I was bored. I had my brochures to keep me interested, but … well, you can tell what they’re like from the above. Instead I got to listen to SJJ’s speech. The only line I really remember, and it was a good speech (a bit stuffy, but good), was one that went, “Achieving success with perseverance will leave you intoxicated with happiness and good fortune.” Well, it went something like that, anyway. I like that he used to word “intoxicated”. I heard giggling.

Afterwards, they took some pictures. Enjoyed themselves. Then back to their house for more food and some good time. After a really arduous attempt at getting Grandma Frances up the steps in the rain, we sat down. We watched the weather, which couldn’t make its mind. It would storm really hard, then let up a bit, then storm really hard again. Sean got a cell phone for his graduation – his (and the family’s) first. It was complete with a phone call to the cell phone.

Sean answered, “Hello? I have a fairies ring.”
Then his mom said, “Can you hear her? Can she hear you?”
Megan says, “No, it’s a one-way phone.”
I say, “This must be what Alexander Graham Bell’s first phone call was like. His mother, in the room, ‘Can he hear you? But he’s way over there! How can he hear you? What are you saying to him? Are you cussing?'”

Finally, with all that done, the weather letting up, and some soda for our journey, we once again took off for Madison. Unfortunately, all the weather did was hold off until we hit the interstate, then it got terrible. We saw about 4 or 5 vehicles in the ditch as we drove on our way. But we didn’t get caught. We made it through. We totally rocked that storm, all the way home.

Radiohead
I Might Be Wrong: Live Recordings EP
[Capitol; 2001]
Rating: 8.0

The bright lights flashed in unison like cheap aluminum UFOs in a starless sky. My eyes convulsed in time with the massive flashes of white, but I didn’t really mind. Somehow, Franky and I had made it to that sacred place where the lights are far too bright and the sound is far too loud. The excitement was palpable. Though the vast majority of the 10,000 or so people present was directly behind me, and well outside of my field of view, I could sense the size and excitement of the crowd around me. I turned to Franky, who stared in rapt attention at the stage, absolutely silent.

Finally, the moment arrived. These five beings graced the stage like the gods of old descending from Olympus, illuminated by the fiery rays of Helios’ chariot. The scene was as heavenly and beautiful as Jesus and Buddha playing handball on Jerry Garcia’s assflab. The crowd’s response was as loud and forceful as a tidal wave of live kittens. Yet, Franky remained silent. Finally, as the band prepared for their first song, he turned his head to me, his brown eyes shiny and round like a sheep turd soaked in glitter. Surely, he was aware that this was the single most magical moment of his life ever. Staring awestruck at the massive crowd behind my head, Franky opened his mouth slightly, prepared to speak. And the words he spoke, which seemed to flow straight from his soul like a leaky thermos of godly ambrosia, have remained with me to this day:

“Thom Yorke just got 10,000 people to pay $60 to stare at his ugly ass.”

Sure enough, the audience seemed to be positively transfixed by the image of Yorke, his lazy eye dragging two or three centimeters behind him, twitching and wailing. It wouldn’t be much of a stretch to equate the show to Radiohead’s music itself– big rock laced with intrigue, fragility, and ugliness. On I Might Be Wrong, a good deal of the essence of Radiohead’s live show is distilled onto an eight-track EP. And while some moments are absolutely stellar, I Might Be Wrong is only a shadow of what a Radiohead live album could have been.

Like most Radiohead shows, I Might Be Wrong opens with “The National Anthem.” The song’s introduction, with Thom Yorke breathing in staccato over Colin Greenwood’s thunderous bassline and Jonny Greenwood’s skillful manipulation of the primitive Ondes-Martenot, is absolutely wonderful. Without a horn section, though, the song never really develops as it does on Kid A, trailing off without a satisfying conclusion.

“The National Anthem” is followed by “I Might Be Wrong,” a song that wouldn’t be even remotely interesting in its live incarnation if not for the subtle shifts in dynamics that grace the middle and end of the song. “Morning Bell,” like “The National Anthem,” builds to a meandering ending. But it meanders with enough grace to keep it interesting, with Ed O’Brien and Jonny Greenwood working their trademark magic with effects-laden guitars and synthesizers.

With “Like Spinning Plates,” I Might Be Wrong hits its stride. Recasting the song as a piano ballad with eerie synthesized strings, Radiohead turned one of Amnesiac’s most cryptically brilliant tracks into something much more emotional and accessible without being at all sappy or manipulative. With this new version, the song’s melody– complete with the eerily, vaudevillian quality that inhabits it during the chorus– takes center stage, showcasing Radiohead’s songwriting virtuosity rather than their sonic adventurousness.

“Like Spinning Plates” is followed by “Idioteque” and “Everything in its Right Place,” possibly the two finest tracks from Kid A, and certainly one of the better sections of this EP. The former succeeds in capturing the energy Yorke channels during live interpretations of the song, whereas the latter takes the aural experimentation of the album version one step further, with sublime digital manipulations building electronic tapestries of sound.

After the schizophrenic meltdown of “Idioteque” and the catharsis of “Everything in Its Right Place,” an entirely unexceptional version of “Dollars and Cents” is more than a little bit of a letdown, as it lacks both momentum and innovation. But “Dollars and Cents” is followed by I Might Be Wrong’s main attraction, the previously unreleased “True Love Waits.” An acoustic outtake from the OK Computer era, “True Love Waits” is absolutely gorgeous. With signature unexpected chord changes and a melody that both aches and soothes, “True Love Waits” can hold its own against any song on OK Computer, and makes a very welcome ending to I Might Be Wrong.

But while tracks like “Like Spinning Plates” and “True Love Waits” certainly justify the existence of I Might Be Wrong, the EP seems purposely limited in a way that’s immensely frustrating. At only eight songs, the disc is being sold and marketed (and priced) as a full-length album. Given the fact that so many shows were recorded in preparation for this EP, there’s absolutely no reason that I Might Be Wrong should have been limited to eight tracks. Similarly frustrating is the fact that every single track here, aside from “True Love Waits,” is taken from either Kid A or Amnesiac. The inclusion of a live version of “Fake Plastic Trees,” “Karma Police,” or “Just” would have rounded off the record nicely. Sadly, one can’t shake the feeling that this disc exists largely as a promotional item for Radiohead’s last two albums.

The quality of the recordings and performances on I Might Be Wrong is certainly top-notch. But Internet bootlegs– most notably a soundboard recording from Nijmegen, a small city in Holland– present a better, more complete picture of the Radiohead live experience. Still, even with better live documents available for free, it’s hard to resist an officially sanctioned live EP with a few absolutely stellar tracks. And although I Might Be Wrong is obnoxiously incomplete, the fact remains that Thom Yorke just got 100,000 people to spend $17.99 for eight songs. Good for him.

-Matt LeMay, December 18th, 2001

This is a tribute to the nice guys. The nice guys that finish last, that never become more than friends, that endure hours of whining and bitching about what assholes guys are, while disproving the very point. This is dedicated to those guys who always provide a shoulder to lean on but restrain themselves to tentative hugs, those guys who hold open doors and give reassuring pats on the back and sit patiently outside the changing room at department stores. This is in honor of the guys that obligingly reiterate how cute/beautiful/smart/funny/sexy their female friends are at the appropriate moment, because they know most girls need that litany of support. This is in honor of the guys with open minds, with laid-back attitudes, with honest concern. This is in honor of the guys who respect a girl�s every facet, from her privacy to her theology to her clothing style.

This is for the guys who escort their drunk, bewildered female friends back from parties and never take advantage once they�re at her door, for the guys who accompany girls to bars as buffers against the rest of the creepy male population, for the guys who know a girl is fishing for compliments but give them out anyway, for the guys who always play by the rules in a game where the rules favor cheaters, for the guys who are accredited as boyfriend material but somehow don�t end up being boyfriends, for all the nice guys who are overlooked, underestimated, and unappreciated, for all the nice guys who are manipulated, misled, and unjustly abandoned, this is for you.

This is for that time she left 40 urgent messages on your cell phone, and when you called her back, she spent three hours painstakingly dissecting two sentences her boyfriend said to her over dinner. And even though you thought her boyfriend was a chump and a jerk, you assured her that it was all ok and she shouldn�t worry about it. This is for that time she interrupted the best killing spree you�d ever orchestrated in GTA3 to rant about a rumor that romantically linked her and the guy she thinks is the most repulsive person in the world. And even though you thought it was immature and you had nothing against the guy, you paused the game for two hours and helped her concoct a counter-rumor to spread around the floor. This is also for that time she didn�t have a date, so after numerous vows that there was nothing �serious� between the two of you, she dragged you to a party where you knew nobody, the beer was awful, and she flirted shamelessly with you, justifying each fit of reckless teasing by announcing to everyone: �oh, but we�re just friends!� And even though you were invited purely as a symbolic warm body for her ego, you went anyways. Because you�re nice like that.

The nice guys don�t often get credit where credit is due. And perhaps more disturbing, the nice guys don�t seem to get laid as often as they should. And I wish I could logically explain this trend, but I can�t. From what I have observed on campus and what I have learned from talking to friends at other schools and in the workplace, the only conclusion I can form is that many girls are just illogical, manipulative bitches. Many of them claim they just want to date a nice guy, but when presented with such a specimen, they say irrational, confusing things such as �oh, he�s too nice to date� or �he would be a good boyfriend but he�s not for me� or �he already puts up with so much from me, I couldn�t possibly ask him out!� or the most frustrating of all: �no, it would ruin our friendship.� Yet, they continue to lament the lack of datable men in the world, and they expect their too-nice-to-date male friends to sympathize and apologize for the men that are jerks. Sorry, guys, girls like that are beyond my ability to fathom. I can�t figure out why the connection breaks down between what they say (I want a nice guy!) and what they do (I�m going to sleep with this complete ass now!). But one thing I can do, is say that the nice-guy-finishes-last phenomenon doesn�t last forever. There are definitely many girls who grow out of that train of thought and realize they should be dating the nice guys, not taking them for granted. The tricky part is finding those girls, and even trickier, finding the ones that are single.

So, until those girls are found, I propose a toast to all the nice guys. You know who you are, and I know you�re sick of hearing yourself described as ubiquitously nice. But the truth of the matter is, the world needs your patience in the department store, your holding open of doors, your party escorting services, your propensity to be a sucker for a pretty smile. For all the crazy, inane, absurd things you tolerate, for all the situations where you are the faceless, nameless hero, my accolades, my acknowledgement, and my gratitude go out to you. You do have credibility in this society, and your well deserved vindication is coming.

Every Tuesday and Thursday, the Dakota State University concert band meets. Every Tuesday and Thursday Megan, Jenny Sixta, and I make the trek, usually by car, up to the Dakota Prairie Playhouse to play our clarinets. Because of our devotion and talent, we own the third clarinet section.

DSU does band differently than Milbank did band. In Milbank, at first, we would be arranged most courageous to most boy. Because of this, our first day in band, Corey Rolfes and I were last chairs. Boys in the high-register winds section always get shafted. Just because girls can sing higher doesn’t mean they can play higher. Thankfully for me, Milbank then had a sorting audition, and I got put in my rightful spot.

DSU doesn’t rank its players. This means that, once again, I am the last player in the clarinet section. This also means that the alpha females compete for the first chair position, often resulting in bloody carnage minutes before a rehearsal. “Passive-aggressive” is definitely a synonym for “alive”.

Still, I like my position. I firmly believe that every part in a piece of music is important. So, I have no qualms about playing a third part. Third parts often have challenging, musical aspects that make them just as viable as any other piece of music. Still, the clarinet is meant to go high. So, the only consolation I get in playing third is that it is typically written low and I like that sound.

It reminds me the final blast of the Titanic’s horn as it sets sail for America. Okay, maybe that’s a little over the top, but it is definitely a beautiful sound laced in tragic irony. Or something like that.

The other good thing is that, because of college band, Megan and Jenny can sit next to me. This is important because they make me play all the parts that the audience has a chance of hearing, which means most of the music. Megan, who I recruited and who then recruited Jenny, claims that she just goes along with Jenny’s insecurities and that she could actually play those parts as loud as they needed to be.

“Yes, dear.”

This year, though, there was an unexpected change. I began taking bassoon lessons this semester. The bassoon is a messed up instrument. It has two reeds. This means that you can make twice as many squeaks, wrong notes, and mess ups as a typical reed instrument. It goes by the moniker, The Farting Bedpost, on account of its shape and smell. Naw, just joshing!

I took on the bassoon to have something new to learn, to get some more credits, and to make my life even more busy. It turns out, however, that Mr. Hegg wants me to play this thing in the concert. And, of course, it will be a solo. Well, thank God for that. Now I have a solo to play, I have Jenny crying “traitor” and Megan putting on her brave face saying, “I’ll support you,” when she actually means, “I hate you.”

The solo isn’t going well, however. You see, they hadn’t counted on the fact that I suck at this new instrument. It sounds tons better if there is an entire band behind me, but the other day he had just me and the piccolo play our duet. I am the weakest link. Megan said later that, just for the record, she didn’t laugh until I did.

I normally don’t read spam emails. Unless they’re porn, I have no reason to open them. I mean… not porn. I mean… dmmt. I can usually tell that its spam just by reading the from and the subject line. Today, however, I got taken by one message (which I commend them on), and the other one was just for fun.

I was going to put up some coffee shop poetry I wrote yesterday, but I don’t want anyone to fall asleep! I know what the people really want and it’s not poetry! It’s comedy!! And so I’m going to try to write some comedy not stupid stupid poetry!!! Cuz poe tree iz da suxx0rs!!!!!

The first message I got was in my midco webmail. It had no reply name (they usually have some very upstanding, trustworthy name like Dina Wolff), but it did have an address: [email protected]. I’ve heard of PayPal. PayPal is the only way most online comic writers can survive long enough to place their crude, 4th-wall-ignoring, rubber stamp comic characters out on the net.

I was ex-static. The subject line read: “Congratulations!”. I was so excited! I opened it up and I read this:

What?? What bill? I didn’t buy anything with PayPal! What are they congratulating me for then? I was furious. Was someone out there pretending to be me? Worse yet, were they giving my money to worthless hacks who opened up a free account just in case their grandparents ever got the “interwebnet” finally “downlorded” onto their “seepeeyou”? Then I noticed that a zip file was attached. HuhHah! Caught! Only viruses attach zip files. The whole internet has become so scared of zip and exe files that no matter how many certifications you have as attachments, you can’t get the pope to open an emailed zip file. A quick visit to PayPal’s security site led me to believe that the truth was that I had been doped.

Then I checked my Yahoo! mail. This message was from [email protected] (now in my address book) and the subject line (which was very intriguing) read: Rauschpax, Want you see madness? (NPmNG). How could I not want see madness? And that cool secret code at the end? How could I pass that up? Plus, he used my real rocker name, Rauschpax. I had to open it.

Wow – that was madness. This email seems to be a combination of english, l337, and dutch. How do you oonsubscribe? What does it mean to leek? Why would two lesbians masturbate a male horse? The fact that the animals they catch to have their way with are helpless. Shouldn’t someone be emailing PETA about this? If I cared more, I probably would.

Some subject lines don’t even try to hide anything.

Suckled K. Voyage – Stupid Teen Swalloing Jizz

This was even condescending. Not only is this presumeably female teen swalloing jizz (whatever that is and whatever that is that she’s doing), but they have to make fun of her intelligence. That’s not necessary. Unless, maybe, her punishment for being so “stupid” is to swallo the jizz. Then maybe it’s okay.

dreammates – View photos of singles in YOUR area

As opposed to HIS area? I would have been more likely to read this email if it had said MY area. A conceited spammer is better than a fake spammer. I get this one often. I make sure to email every one, though, and tell them that I have a girlfriend and that her name is Megan and then I give them her email address.

King Stud- MEN: Make her beg for it

This one is good. I get this one alot, actually. They never tell you who she is or what to make her beg for. Maybe we’re making the stupid teen beg for a good grade, since she has to swallo jizz. Maybe.

There are the Vicodin emails.

vickie Boyes – Hydrocodone and Vicodin hospital

I get an email involving Vicodin every day. This one has a very simple inside.

Then there is the crap paragraph at the bottom. What the hell is that? Those words have nothing to do with each other! It’s so ridiculous. Maybe they made whoever wrote this swallo jizz first. Then I guess I forgive him.

But he should get his grades up soon and leave my inbox alone.

I recently came across a new look to SomethingAwful.com. It turns out that they are parodying Pitchfork Media with their own RichDork Media. Here is what the proper site, Pitchfork Media, said about Radiohead’s Kid A album:

I’ll admit, I got a laugh over it. But wait until you see what they said. You’ll have to scroll all the way down their page to find it.

This was too priceless to pass up. If you love a band so much that you can’t laugh at them, then you are being too serious. I love Radiohead, but (c’mon) that was priceless.

I got an email the other day. It was from my cousin Jenny Brass, on my dad’s side. Jenny is a second cousin. She’s a cool gal, sometimes a little ditzy, always fun. I was surprised to get an email from her because she’s not a very email/internet in-touch kind of girl.

The email was short. It had about a paragraph in it, and it had a link. As it turns out, Jenny has gotten herself a LiveJournal. If you are not familiar with it, LiveJournal is a blog hosting website. It’s a lot like Blogger or Pitas except that the only way to join is to be invited or to buy your way in. It’s an elitist blogging site or sorts. It’s like a nightclub, where you can only get in if you know the owner or if you can afford to palm out a benjamin’.

I haven’t really had a chance to read Jenny’s blog, but it seems like all the other blogs out there. People, deep down, just want to write. They can write about anything. Here at Awayken.com, I have chosen to write, mostly, a particular kind of prose, seeking to entertain through humour. I also throw in poetry, fictional prose, and virus code… I mean wallpapers.

I was really shocked to find that Tony Rolfes has a blog. I’ve withheld the address – you can ask him for it – but I was impressed. Of course, he had to start it for a class. The assignment was to do an online journal of some sorts or have to do something else. Well, Tony took the lazy way out, but it turned out to be a positive endeavor.

He writes regularly, has a nice layout, and has found it to be a nice way to get his ideas across to the world. And here I thought Tony didn’t know how to read! With such a simple outlet, Tony has let the world know just how literate he is. Here is a sample of his genius, from April 4:

If that can pass as quality internet literature, anything can.

I was further shocked to discover that my girlfriend wanted to start a blog. She’s normally so shy about writing. For instance, she won’t play guitar, sing, write, read out loud, do homework, put on makeup, put on her shoes, dance to music, eat a meal, talk on the phone, or breathe in front of me for fear of doing something embarassing. In fact, I’m not even allowed to know the address to her blog. But, I hear that she writes quite frequently, and that she’s even posted a poem, which I am not allowed to read. I love that girl.

Micro$oft, realizing the value that blogs have to the world, has provided its employees with blog space. Dubbed “blogs.msdn.com“, this site has served as a way for the conglomerate to seem more “human” and “friendly” instead of “threatening” and “scary”. Does it work? It seems to be a thinly veiled way for these programmers and assorted worker bees to talk up their products and sound slightly less �ber-geeky, but some of the stuff is interesting.

So, could any more shocks come? Yes, there is one more shock. This isn’t based on who has a blog (because, c’mon, who hasn’t a blog??) but on who does not have a blog. That would be, my brother, Bryce Rausch.

Bryce’s internet presence has been menial at best. Always on the outskirts of content, some of the sites that he or he and I have authored together comprise a small and somewhat discouraging and embarassing list. It includes his site and a teaser site for The Clintrix, a Matrix parody we had planned on making something up for.

As you can see, on Bryce’s site, he relies heavily on Flaming Text. Flaming Text is a website that allows one to make custom graphics by picking background and fonts and such. It got its name because one of the options is to make text that flames. Thankfully, Bryce removed any flaming text he indeed had on his site. I think it is the cheesiest graphic effect in the world.

But just to show it off, here is Awayken.com in the cool flaming text style! To make it extra cool, I made it big, the background transparent, and my font even had flames built into it.

Maybe that is what’s holding him back. Most blogs do not have places for you to put your pictures unless you pay extra. This is called, in the industry, “webspace”. Tell you what, Bryce. If you decide to do a blog, and need a place for you graphics, I will front the webspace. Because I’m your brother. And I love you. And I’m tired of being your post bitch.

And no, you cannot have my flaming Awayken.

Finals are coming up, papers you’ve successfully put off for a month have come up to bite you where you least expect it and you keep getting hit on by that annoying someone in your Intro to Tee-ball class. So what can you do to just escape those daily pressures?

For one girl from Minnesota, who will soon be a little more than grounded by her mommy and daddy, the obvious choice was to stage a kidnapping. Not just for some bloke on the street either, she kidnapped the person closest to her: herself.

Brilliant! What a flawless plan…that is if you can remember your own lie.

Wisconsin police reported a day after they found Audrey Seiler who was thirsty and cold in a marsh that her stories were inconsistent. Wisconsin: One, Seiler: Zero.

Seiler said she just wanted to be alone and I’m not so sure police will just say, “So the thousands of dollars spent trying to find you were wasted? Man, we got punk’d!”

I know what you’re saying, “Hey Bryce-dawg, I’m sick of the pressures of college, too, what can I do to be alone for a while? Do I have to kidnap myself or is it true that there are a plethora of options?”

Well, random student, that’s a great question. My advice is that you do NOT kidnap yourself. If Wisconsin is known for anything besides cheese it’s their elite police force; Minnesota is only known for Bob Dylan and having a lot of lakes. So if you stage yourself being kidnapped, you may never be found and will probably be eaten by coyotes.

My advice for you students needing to get away is to drive down to Nebraska; no one lives there so there will be plenty of alone time. If traveling is not your “cup of tea,” as they say in England, then you may just want to spend time in the library on a Friday night, where your chances of seeing anyone is about as good as Nick Nolte giving a key note speech at an AA meeting.

you wonder
how much of it was a lie
how much of it was just
a game

her game

mens hearts like strings
marionette, n*sync-style
and all without a guilty glance

you fell for it
you ate it up
and all for knots.

ny morn
ny noon
ny eve naive.until.the.eve.

starlight is far brighter than moonlight
if only because it is pure
and it is pure, like diamond dust
that only makes you
clean.

You may have noticed that in the post where I discussed my birthday, Don’t Go Ape, We’re ReZoovanating, I left an email address in it. The address was [email protected].

I left the address because I implied certain sexual contact between one, Tony Rolfes, and one, Monkey. Now, I was joking. Tony doesn’t have a primate girlfriend. He didn’t get lucky in that monkey enclosure. It was all a joke, and the address would just send the mail to my normal awayken.com mail.

So, that email address works. Not only that, but I had one person, Missa, send an email to it. Her email, while short, warranted a response (as I don’t want to be a b*hole). So, I took to the internet.

I figured that I should just send her a link. I also figured that it should feature “monkey sex” or “sex with monkey”, but it should not be porn. So, after a google search string that looked like “sex with monkey” -porn -porno -movie -“young girl” -free, I finally happened upon one site.

The site is a blog called Iron Monkey hosted on blogspot. He has a post entitled Primate Sex where he has the following exerpt.

A small but noticeable portion of this site’s traffic comes from those searching for “monkey sex” (a phrase I tend to associate with a line from Buffy, The Vampire Slayer) or, as some searchers quaintly express it, “sex with monkey.” I assume that most of these searches must originate from serious researchers seeking to expand their knowledge of primatology. So, as a public service, I will provide some basic information and links to online resources for further study.

(blush) Call me silly, but that’s the exact way I found his site. I thought that was hilarious. So, as recompense for having such a terrible way to be discovered on the internet, I dedicate this post to him. It’s an interesting post, with good links. Check out the bonobos website.

You will be informed, surprised, and slightly aroused. At least, I was.

Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room’s only window. The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back.

The men talked for hours on end. They spoke of their wives and families, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military service, where they had been on vacation. And every afternoon when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roomate all the things he could see outside the window. The man in the other bed began to live for those one-hour periods where his wold would be broadened and enlivened by all the activit;y and color of the world outside.

The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every color of the rainbow. Grand old trees graced the landscape, and a fine wiew of the city skyline could be seen in the distance. As the man by the window described all this in exquisite detail, the man on the other side of the roomm would close his eyes and imagine the picturesque scene.

One warm afternoon the man by the window described a parade passing by. Although the other man couldn’t hear the band – he could see it in his mind’s eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with desriptive words. Day and weeks passed.

One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep. She was saddened and called the hospital atnedants to take the body away.

As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfotable, she left him alon.

Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look at the world out side. Finally, he would have the joy of seeing it for himself. He strained to slowly turn to look out the window beside the bed. It faced a brick wall.

The man called the day nurse back to his room. “Why,” he asked, “would my roommate describe such wonderful scenes for me? Why not just tell me that all there is here is a brick wall?”

The nurse smiled. “The reason he didn’t describe the brick wall is because he couldn’t even see that. He was completely blind when they brought him in.”

I had quite the weekend. There was much on my planning plate for Saturday. I had it all laid out: Zoo, Museum, Dinner, Movie. Then my family arrived. The plan became: Zoo, Arcade at Movie Theatre, Dance Dance Revolution, Movie, Dinner. No problem; I’m a flexible guy.

It was a good day, but one thing truly stuck out in my mind. There was really only one thing that was worth writing a comedic commentary on, and that was “The Passion of the Christ”. Whoa – what a funny movie! It was like a return to slapstick Charlie Chaplin movies. It was even entirely in German and French, which is unusual.

Aside from that, though, the funniest thing was the Great Plains Zoo (GPZ), in Sioux Falls. There is nothing more trashy looking then a South Dakotan Zoo in the winter. Most people don’t think we have running water up here, let alone wild animals kept in cages. GPZ seems to help reinforce that idea by giving Zoo Walkers very little to hold up their expectations.

You start by walking through a museum. A museum is a lot like a zoo except that everything is already dead. That and you “learn” things at a museum, supposedly. I learned is that their messed-up version of pangea is way wrong and misshapen. There is no way to get that thing into one land mass. I also learned what color carpet one can expect to find in the Rocky Mountains, the Amazon Rain Forest, and the Sahara Desert.

Off to the zoo. First thing you see out the doors is the rhino. Rhinos are scary by virtue of their large size, quick temper, and poor eyesight. You know that TRex on Jurassic Park? You remember when he rams the side of the jeep as it drives away? That was modeled after rhino behavior. Yeah – TRex, boys. TRex.

The TRex, I mean rhino, was pacing back and forth. He wasn’t just walking back and forth; he was doing figure-eights. Like a bad figure skater trapped in hell, he just went around and around, panting quietly. I, noticing his ethnicity (he was African), asked him if his being African American made him feel oppressed by his white slave drivers.

In response, he slipped and, in trying to regain his balance, kicked a fine spray of dirt and feces onto my coat. I guess he can take care of himself.

The next cage featured these birds that we all mistakenly dubbed Emus, but who were really stupid whatsits from another country. Bryce began taunting one of them. Minutes later, after wrenching his shaking body from the out of their reach, we surmised that these Emu-wannabes didn’t care for taunting and name calling, as such. We decided, however, made a decision to piss off each type of animal there was at the zoo.

This promise extended into the penguin area. Penguins, you would think, would be one of the most interesting creatures to see at a zoo in the winter. They’re used to winter, you know, so they’d feel at home and relaxed. We got to the tank and realized that penguins are always uninteresting. They stood there, silent and unmoving, facing all different directions like RISK armies. They just stared off into whatever random direction they happened to have been placed. Despite the appealing pool designed for the utmost in penguin leisure, very few of the tuxedo wearing birdish creatures were enjoying a swim or a bathe. The only excitement came when one of the penguins began moving forward. We all cheered it on. Everyone, follow Billy’s lead! Then it bent over and shot some crap out of its butt.

Next were the bears. They weren’t as interesting. When I got to that pen, one of the bears was on a rock about 20 feet below us. My parents had apparently coaxed him over to talk fish prices, but, after my arrival, he declined to stay there much longer. He began a slow, boring walk back to his cave. I turn to Megan to admire the way the sunlight gently frosts its golden beams around her, and I hear a ruckus. The bears were having a fight, but, as soon as I turned their way, they stopped. The bears, sensing an inability to get along, walked to seperate corners of the pen.

A short distance from the bear pit is the tiger track. I love tigers. Tigers are nature’s Fonzi. Cool and strong and covered in fur, though. If you don’t believe me, try putting a tiger next to a jukebox. He’ll tear it to shreds if you hang meat around it – just like Fonzi used to do. No wonder Ron Howard turned to directing! The funny thing about the tiger was that he was doing figure eights, too. The not-so-funny thing about the tiger was that he was limping. :( Pobre tigres.

Then there was the falcon/eagle cage. Most of these birds had been removed due to the violent, horrible nature of a South Dakotan winter. The ones that remained stared at us with a cool demeaner. They seemed to say, we may have one side of the cage that we launch our poop through, but we can launch it at you just as easily. Seconds later, Bryce, Lindsey, and Tony found a dead squirrel which they buried next to the road.

RIP, Mr. SnappyPants, Esquire.

The highlight of the zoo, however, was definitely the monkey arena. We went inside first. Inside there was a mommy monkey and a baby monkey. The mommy just stared at us through the glass. The little one kept climbing around and playing and being happy. He’d come up to his mother and gently pull her hair a couple times, swing around some more, and then the momma would smack him, grab him, and bite him. What a sweet mother.

Then, suddenly, she began moving. She climbed the ropes and ledges and came as close as she could to the window. Hanging there on her fingers, she stared at Tony, stared at him. Maybe it was love, but what happened next, I can’t tell you here : e-mail [email protected].

Then we went outdoors. I was standing there, waiting for some of the other people to walk out, and I had taken time to look at a monkey. As more people filed out the doors, we all turned to look at the monkey. He had been lying on his back, slightly turned away from us. Then he stood up. Right there was the biggest, pinkest monkey boner I have ever seen. Everyone’s eyes got huge, and we tried our best to turn away. It was horrifying.

We couldn’t stay any longer. The girls were scarred. The rest were skerrd. My parents were angry, seeking legislation to calm our woes. As we stood in the parking lot, Brenna just shook, her eyes fixated on a primate penis that was no longer there. My parents went to present me with a cake, but no one was hungry. In fact, no one was anything. We just stood there – dead in our hearts – and lamented this day, the day we lost our monkey penis innocence.

Walking with Miles� guitar strumming away wearing away his cheap guitar strings hoping they wear so thin he can finally replace them with his Martin strings he plays for just us.

Walking Dan and I try to keep a tune but Dan soon gives up and pats his stomach and legs for a drum affect that will soon turn his belly and legs bright red making him stop and ending the beat in which we stepped.

Walking I sing into the night, nearly screaming concerned for the people living in the houses we walk on past in the late night but don�t care cause I�m sure I could outrun them.

Walking, Miles quits playing and with each story the words are frozen in the air as the temperature nears 40 degrees and we regret wearing our shorts, it was warm when we left.

Walking Dan starts, �I can�t even� Miles and I complete �begin to start thinking of knowing how to answer that question� and we laugh, not because of the oddness of the phrase we�ve become so fond of but because we all remembered it and recited it as if it were a prayer at church we had been saying since we were old enough to have to stay away throughout the entire mass.

Walking I start singing a familiar tune I haven�t thought of in months and Miles racks his brain trying to remember the chords as Dan finds the beat on his legs and we sing about a boy and his love for his butterfly as the moon shines on us as if it were a sun.

Walking we discuss everything we can think of for this is our chance, away from parents, away from school mates, away from girlfriends, attention is only on us without acting a certain way for anyone�s approval.

Walking we unleash the terrors trembling just under our skin that have been waiting to be set free for so long.

Walking with Dan and Miles and I, I feel like I could cry, run away, jump for joy, sleep, jump, tackle, slide, scream and any number of other emotions I could possibly be feeling because I love this moment but I know the moment is gone almost as soon as I realize it.

Walking we get to the swings which we finally rest on without realizing the swings are a symbol of so much more than we realize at that moment, swings bring up back and forth, you always start at the present and go to the past then the future, much like life, much like our conversations, we always start talking about what we�re doing now, memories of old, then where we�re going in this playground of life, and much like a swing we end the night by jumping off going forward, into the future.

We walk home.