I don't really have anything postworthy for the Triad, but it's been a long time since I have contributed. Let's see...down at The Brown Elephant, I work with a bunch of gay guys, all of which are quite interesting and hilarious(the thrift store where I work exists solely to raise money for Howard Brown Health Center, which, in turn, exists for the purpose of providing health care for the gay and lesbian community who can't get health insurance because of AIDS...or something like that)...I enjoy it...and I've been drinking pretty heavily on my days off, which has also been interesting(by which I mean awesome). Cyndee came up last week...we had a couple beers and watched Secretary...it still seems a little strange to hang out with Cyndee without at least one of you guys around. Umm...other than that...Craigslist thinks that I and ALL of my coworkers are gay...it's closer to half...my thriftPod is all kinds of awesome...though my very brief experimentation with iPodLinux has already taken it's toll in the form of button fatigue (Doom involves a lot of control pad mashing...I don't recommend it)...and on that note, I'd like to give a big thanks to all of the rich people out there who buy iPods for the specific purpose of breaking them in every possible way and then writing about it on the internet...umm, I've ended up watching quite a lot of Project Runway with Meg and Bergen...and that usually involves more drinking...and that's about it...I've been doing everything in my power to keep my my consumption of cooked flesh at an acceptable level...but the occasional tofu makes it's way to my stomach, as well...what can you do? I can't wait for you guys to come visit...and to reciprocate...but I'm pretty sure that Renn Fayre is a no-go...it'll be quite a while before I have vacation time...however, you can be sure that the northwest coast is at the top of my list...
Oh, yeah, there's a shop a couple doors down from where I work that sells Old Peculiar...with which I have been very intrigued since reading about Eric's exploits in London...so I'm going to try it out when I get paid...hooray beer!
Thursday, February 16, 2006
Thursday, February 09, 2006
Naked is the new clothed
Here we see Minor Triad fufilling two of its main functions simultaneously: procrastination and resurrection. As I tried to write autobiographically, I somehow managed to remember a piece of writing Peter had procrastinated his last high school assignment with, and managed to uncover it in my endless Hotmail archives. I like it even more now that I've had three years removed from the subject matter, particularly the sixth paragraph, which I will be quoting in my paper for tomorrow, mostly unwritten as of yet.
Even you, you motherfucker, indeed. Enjoy:
I am about to finish the last assignment that I will ever complete for the Forest City Community School District. It's a 200 word spanish composition. The topic is to review a movie that we watched in class, The Milagro Beanfield War. Why is it that I am sitting here procrastinating? Why do I not crank out the 170 words (probably fewer) that I still need and go to bed? It is, after all, 1:59. I have no idea.
It isn't as though this sort of behavior is particularly new. Senioritis probably set in at least a month ago, a great deal later than most people, I might add. So, what is it? Why do I feel completely content to stare at this screen, albeit through my 3M Easy Clean Filter, and let my contacts dry themselves into plate glass? Why are my fingers most motivated by placing fruitless ramblings into my notepad file, which will probably be lost and erased when I reformat?
I sit here and search for every possible distraction. I check ancient websites that I visited in 1998, and not since, for updates and new pictures of Calvin and Hobbes or some other crap like that. I adjust the volume, now the bass, now the treble of my stereo. No, that isn't quite right. Now, I change the little digitally emulated iTunes EQ. By this time the song has changed, and it's all wrong again. Suck.
I leaf through my little pile of Senior Pictures. Friends from this year, from last year, from the year before. Where are they now? They could tell me what the hell my problem is, and why I can't think of even two more words to describe my feelings on The Milagro Beanfield War. Actually, the only Spanish word I can think of at all right now is chingar, but I couldn't conjugate it well enough to insult or offend even a potato (papa, there's two I suppose). No, they don't know what my problem is either, in fact most of them have it as well, but at least they could distract me for another minute. They can't help.
And then I start to wonder... Maybe I just don't want it all to be over. Maybe it has been nice. And maybe going away and leaving them all, and going to the coast, and living with a bunch of intellectual druggie bisexual hippie weirdo sex freaks will really fuck me up and leave me wanting something that I had, but can never get back. Because it ends tomorrow. Wow, maybe I'm getting somewhere with this? I leaf through the pictures again. It's just one of those "am I just paranoid, am I just stoned?" questions, and I'm really neither.
Why can't we hate and loathe and betray each other and make this easy? Why do I have so much respect for all of you? Even you you motherfucker! You used to point at me in the fourth grade and you wouldn't be my square dancing partner, presumably because I was eloquent and badly dressed and myopic and I thought about you being naked before it was the fashion? And now everything is so different. I'm still myopic, and all of us are badly dressed because it's cool and I'm even more eloquent and so are you and the naked thing is just a given at this point, and we respect each other.
It is good. And it won't ever be this good for "us" again. But, for us it'll just get better. And for some of us it'll get better, or at least stay the same for "you and me", and that's pretty damned good. But for now it's time to go off, even if that's just down the block, and be what we need to be now, poor hippy druggie satan wierdo oversexed intellectual jesus rich blue collar moron genius freaks. I swear to god, I'm going to dog ear these pictures tonight.
This feels really good now, and I'm ready, and tomorrow, and the next day, and Sunday, I'm damned sure going to take notice. I'm going to appreciate you people, you bastards and you saints. For everything that you've been for me and failed to be for me. Some of you I'll talk to, some of us will wave, some will five, some will shake hands. And we'll laugh and talk and read our Senior Warwhoops. Some of you I won't even see, but we'll still know.
I'm going to write it now. I'll probably get a C or at least a B, sort of fitting for a last assignment. Leaving in a blaze of mediocrity. I suppose it is spanish. Anyway, I won't blame myself. I won't even blame Jacobson. It's your fault, all of you.
Even you, you motherfucker, indeed. Enjoy:
I am about to finish the last assignment that I will ever complete for the Forest City Community School District. It's a 200 word spanish composition. The topic is to review a movie that we watched in class, The Milagro Beanfield War. Why is it that I am sitting here procrastinating? Why do I not crank out the 170 words (probably fewer) that I still need and go to bed? It is, after all, 1:59. I have no idea.
It isn't as though this sort of behavior is particularly new. Senioritis probably set in at least a month ago, a great deal later than most people, I might add. So, what is it? Why do I feel completely content to stare at this screen, albeit through my 3M Easy Clean Filter, and let my contacts dry themselves into plate glass? Why are my fingers most motivated by placing fruitless ramblings into my notepad file, which will probably be lost and erased when I reformat?
I sit here and search for every possible distraction. I check ancient websites that I visited in 1998, and not since, for updates and new pictures of Calvin and Hobbes or some other crap like that. I adjust the volume, now the bass, now the treble of my stereo. No, that isn't quite right. Now, I change the little digitally emulated iTunes EQ. By this time the song has changed, and it's all wrong again. Suck.
I leaf through my little pile of Senior Pictures. Friends from this year, from last year, from the year before. Where are they now? They could tell me what the hell my problem is, and why I can't think of even two more words to describe my feelings on The Milagro Beanfield War. Actually, the only Spanish word I can think of at all right now is chingar, but I couldn't conjugate it well enough to insult or offend even a potato (papa, there's two I suppose). No, they don't know what my problem is either, in fact most of them have it as well, but at least they could distract me for another minute. They can't help.
And then I start to wonder... Maybe I just don't want it all to be over. Maybe it has been nice. And maybe going away and leaving them all, and going to the coast, and living with a bunch of intellectual druggie bisexual hippie weirdo sex freaks will really fuck me up and leave me wanting something that I had, but can never get back. Because it ends tomorrow. Wow, maybe I'm getting somewhere with this? I leaf through the pictures again. It's just one of those "am I just paranoid, am I just stoned?" questions, and I'm really neither.
Why can't we hate and loathe and betray each other and make this easy? Why do I have so much respect for all of you? Even you you motherfucker! You used to point at me in the fourth grade and you wouldn't be my square dancing partner, presumably because I was eloquent and badly dressed and myopic and I thought about you being naked before it was the fashion? And now everything is so different. I'm still myopic, and all of us are badly dressed because it's cool and I'm even more eloquent and so are you and the naked thing is just a given at this point, and we respect each other.
It is good. And it won't ever be this good for "us" again. But, for us it'll just get better. And for some of us it'll get better, or at least stay the same for "you and me", and that's pretty damned good. But for now it's time to go off, even if that's just down the block, and be what we need to be now, poor hippy druggie satan wierdo oversexed intellectual jesus rich blue collar moron genius freaks. I swear to god, I'm going to dog ear these pictures tonight.
This feels really good now, and I'm ready, and tomorrow, and the next day, and Sunday, I'm damned sure going to take notice. I'm going to appreciate you people, you bastards and you saints. For everything that you've been for me and failed to be for me. Some of you I'll talk to, some of us will wave, some will five, some will shake hands. And we'll laugh and talk and read our Senior Warwhoops. Some of you I won't even see, but we'll still know.
I'm going to write it now. I'll probably get a C or at least a B, sort of fitting for a last assignment. Leaving in a blaze of mediocrity. I suppose it is spanish. Anyway, I won't blame myself. I won't even blame Jacobson. It's your fault, all of you.
Monday, January 16, 2006
Massive Reggaeton Overload
So, all of a sudden there are three days left in my south american odyssey. Though they will probably end up being pretty fine days (certain things must be consumed before airline, this is still something to be at least slightly miffed about.
Since arriving here in the southern hemisphere i have done and seen a great many things, travelled relatively far and wide, made extremely poor (not unrewarding mind you, just grammatically retarded) conversation with too many people, eaten all variety of tasty sea morsels (they have a word that effectively means "uncooked seafood grabbag" - Mariscos) and fresh fruits and veggies, paid (around a quarter) to defecate, kissed a million women on the cheek, partied with rich kids, touched a narwhal horn, partied with poor people, partied with old rich people, imbibed an unfortunate amount of "piscola" (there's a definite taste relationship between this substance and its english cognate), sung harmonies to many a guitar-fueled engrish singalong and seen a socialist woman elected president.... phew... it's been a busy break... Hope shit is equally surreal on your respective continents....
Take it easy boys - more on my return!
Since arriving here in the southern hemisphere i have done and seen a great many things, travelled relatively far and wide, made extremely poor (not unrewarding mind you, just grammatically retarded) conversation with too many people, eaten all variety of tasty sea morsels (they have a word that effectively means "uncooked seafood grabbag" - Mariscos) and fresh fruits and veggies, paid (around a quarter) to defecate, kissed a million women on the cheek, partied with rich kids, touched a narwhal horn, partied with poor people, partied with old rich people, imbibed an unfortunate amount of "piscola" (there's a definite taste relationship between this substance and its english cognate), sung harmonies to many a guitar-fueled engrish singalong and seen a socialist woman elected president.... phew... it's been a busy break... Hope shit is equally surreal on your respective continents....
Take it easy boys - more on my return!
Thursday, January 05, 2006
Hold me closer Tony Danza
Hooray for the first Minor Triad post from another country! Hopefully we'll get a South American one soon as well. Apparently there has been a livejournal site created for my three friends and I so if you desire more in depth news about London and us feel free to take a look. The username is effed_up_four. I think I'm going to spend a lot of money on beer because the Guinness is amazing and there is something called Old Peculier that is unbelievably good. The best thing I have ever tasted that is alcoholic. Also, they give you more of it, and it is stronger than in the United States. One of our proffesors will be taking us on a Pub Crawl on Friday. I'm out.
Thursday, December 08, 2005
you fellas are... well.... gross...
Thanks for having the presence of mind to email this to me ERIC OF THE PAST!
From: "Eric Thompson"
Subject: bullcrap
Date: Tue, 16 Jan 2001 04:16:31
Eric says:
i be back
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
si, señor...
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
would you like to guess the average amount of unused ram I have at any given moment?
Eric says:
damn you like those tilts don't ya?
Eric says:
no i would not
Eric says:
but you'd like to tell me
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
si, señor...
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
why not, it's fun... ...not to mention funny...
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
and fairly sad...
Eric says:
hehe
Eric says:
3 megs
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
of my glorious(and pathetic) 32mb of ram, I usually have around 20kb free at any given point in time... ...and yes, I said kb... ...and I meant kb...
Eric says:
hehe
Eric says:
very impressive
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
DUDE!! 56KB!!!!
Eric says:
shit yo!!! you do rule
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
rock on, I can fucking... ...look at a picture or something...
Eric says:
hahahahahahahahahahaha
Eric says:
yes, well i can always fucking look at a picture
Eric says:
hahaha
Eric says:
or 700
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
fuck... ...you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you... ...oh, and you in the back, fuck you too...
Eric says:
me too?
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
yeah, you in the chair, fuck you... ...yes, you, you right there typing on the keyboard, I'm talking to you...
Eric says:
oh man
Eric says:
i don't even know how!!!
Eric says:
do i need string cheese?
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
yes, and lots of it... ...it's the standard tool for foreplay... ...everyone know's that string cheese is the #1 sexual aid known to man...
Eric says:
they do?!!!
Eric says:
GOD! i'm such an idiot!
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
yeah, where the hell have you been?!
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
oh, wait, you're Pakistani, aren't you?
Eric says:
i thought wrenches were still #1
Eric says:
well......yeah
Eric says:
yeah!!! here comes my favorite part
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
you guys aren't allowed to even talk about string cheese, I forgot... ...it's against section four of your constitution... ...you're really going out on a limb asking me about it...
Eric says:
YOU'RE NO BETTER THAN ME!!!!!!
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
aren't you afraid that "big brother" is watching?
Eric says:
dude, it's section 5!
Eric says:
what are you, jewish?
Eric says:
section 4 says that any female who is over 27 years old and has a brother named Al may be punished by being beaten with a blunt piece of cheese
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
oh, well, sorry, I'm not exactly a scholar in Pakistani history... ...and no, I'm no damn jewish yutz... ...I'm from the fucking People's Front of Judea...
Eric says:
sweet yo
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
ok, well, now I know...
Eric says:
yes you do
Eric says:
keep 4 and 5 straight man
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
sorry...
Eric says:
thanks, i forgive you
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
ok...
Eric says:
want me to give you some sexual forgiveness favors?
Eric says:
YOU LIED TO ME!!!!!!!!
Eric says:
FOLLOW ME!!!
Eric says:
FOLLOW ME!
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
you'd better be forgiving me, you damned porkless, chocolate snorting, FIGGY PUDDING PACKER!!!!
Eric says:
son of a bitch!!!!!!!
Eric says:
how'd you know that????!!!!
Eric says:
i'm gonna beat the fuck out of whoever told you i was porkless!!!
Eric says:
damitt that was a secret
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
yeah, you'd better be givin' me some damn good sexual forgiveness favors 'er I'll be reporting you to your superior...
Eric says:
who's that?
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
WHAT?!
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
you don't know who your fucking superior is?!
Eric says:
umm....my mom?
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
you're dumber than I though, you fuckin' rock fucker...
Eric says:
oh yeah?????
Eric says:
well you know what?
Eric says:
i can play any damn fuckin heavy metal song on the whole fuckin planet shit fuck
Eric says:
so suck on that you self-mutilating, pig pleasuring, shit head
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
yer mom?! what a joke... ...fuckin' Kevin Costner, you stupid polar bear raper!!
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
ist, I mean...
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
rapist...
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
and there's fuckin' nothing wrong with self-mutilation!! So FUCK OFF!!1
Eric says:
BASTARD!!! don't you even bring my cousin into this!
Eric says:
jeff did nothing to you!!!!! i don't deserve this
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
yeah, 'im and 'is damn black skin!!
Eric says:
i'm just so sick and tired of this bullshit day after day after day
Eric says:
don't be surprised in one day you come home from work and i'm gone
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
shave all that bastard's white hair off and he'd be black as a fucking asshole...
Eric says:
just gone, and you're left with nobody to make you cum like orgasmatron on overdrive
Eric says:
you won't be screaming your passionate song of fucking love any more
Eric says:
and someday.....someday....i shall burn it
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
right...
Eric says:
i'll just chop it off and throw it on the fire like a log
Eric says:
a very tiny log......
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
dude, don't refer to my severed dick as a log...
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
please?
Eric says:
FUC....well i suppose i could do you that one bit of dignity
Eric says:
i'll throw it on the fire like a twig
Eric says:
a thin brittle twig......
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
that's better, thank you...
Eric says:
you're welcome
Eric says:
i just can't do this anymore, doug
Eric says:
i'm tired of arguing
Eric says:
maybe you should just go to bed and never wake up now
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
ok...
Eric says:
alright
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
si, señor...
Eric says:
man that drained me
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
me too... ...I haven't a thought left in my head...
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
hey, did you finish that crossword thing for World?
Eric says:
hell no
From: "Eric Thompson"
Subject: bullcrap
Date: Tue, 16 Jan 2001 04:16:31
Eric says:
i be back
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
si, señor...
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
would you like to guess the average amount of unused ram I have at any given moment?
Eric says:
damn you like those tilts don't ya?
Eric says:
no i would not
Eric says:
but you'd like to tell me
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
si, señor...
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
why not, it's fun... ...not to mention funny...
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
and fairly sad...
Eric says:
hehe
Eric says:
3 megs
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
of my glorious(and pathetic) 32mb of ram, I usually have around 20kb free at any given point in time... ...and yes, I said kb... ...and I meant kb...
Eric says:
hehe
Eric says:
very impressive
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
DUDE!! 56KB!!!!
Eric says:
shit yo!!! you do rule
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
rock on, I can fucking... ...look at a picture or something...
Eric says:
hahahahahahahahahahaha
Eric says:
yes, well i can always fucking look at a picture
Eric says:
hahaha
Eric says:
or 700
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
fuck... ...you, and you, and you, and you, and you, and you... ...oh, and you in the back, fuck you too...
Eric says:
me too?
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
yeah, you in the chair, fuck you... ...yes, you, you right there typing on the keyboard, I'm talking to you...
Eric says:
oh man
Eric says:
i don't even know how!!!
Eric says:
do i need string cheese?
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
yes, and lots of it... ...it's the standard tool for foreplay... ...everyone know's that string cheese is the #1 sexual aid known to man...
Eric says:
they do?!!!
Eric says:
GOD! i'm such an idiot!
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
yeah, where the hell have you been?!
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
oh, wait, you're Pakistani, aren't you?
Eric says:
i thought wrenches were still #1
Eric says:
well......yeah
Eric says:
yeah!!! here comes my favorite part
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
you guys aren't allowed to even talk about string cheese, I forgot... ...it's against section four of your constitution... ...you're really going out on a limb asking me about it...
Eric says:
YOU'RE NO BETTER THAN ME!!!!!!
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
aren't you afraid that "big brother" is watching?
Eric says:
dude, it's section 5!
Eric says:
what are you, jewish?
Eric says:
section 4 says that any female who is over 27 years old and has a brother named Al may be punished by being beaten with a blunt piece of cheese
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
oh, well, sorry, I'm not exactly a scholar in Pakistani history... ...and no, I'm no damn jewish yutz... ...I'm from the fucking People's Front of Judea...
Eric says:
sweet yo
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
ok, well, now I know...
Eric says:
yes you do
Eric says:
keep 4 and 5 straight man
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
sorry...
Eric says:
thanks, i forgive you
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
ok...
Eric says:
want me to give you some sexual forgiveness favors?
Eric says:
YOU LIED TO ME!!!!!!!!
Eric says:
FOLLOW ME!!!
Eric says:
FOLLOW ME!
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
you'd better be forgiving me, you damned porkless, chocolate snorting, FIGGY PUDDING PACKER!!!!
Eric says:
son of a bitch!!!!!!!
Eric says:
how'd you know that????!!!!
Eric says:
i'm gonna beat the fuck out of whoever told you i was porkless!!!
Eric says:
damitt that was a secret
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
yeah, you'd better be givin' me some damn good sexual forgiveness favors 'er I'll be reporting you to your superior...
Eric says:
who's that?
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
WHAT?!
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
you don't know who your fucking superior is?!
Eric says:
umm....my mom?
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
you're dumber than I though, you fuckin' rock fucker...
Eric says:
oh yeah?????
Eric says:
well you know what?
Eric says:
i can play any damn fuckin heavy metal song on the whole fuckin planet shit fuck
Eric says:
so suck on that you self-mutilating, pig pleasuring, shit head
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
yer mom?! what a joke... ...fuckin' Kevin Costner, you stupid polar bear raper!!
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
ist, I mean...
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
rapist...
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
and there's fuckin' nothing wrong with self-mutilation!! So FUCK OFF!!1
Eric says:
BASTARD!!! don't you even bring my cousin into this!
Eric says:
jeff did nothing to you!!!!! i don't deserve this
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
yeah, 'im and 'is damn black skin!!
Eric says:
i'm just so sick and tired of this bullshit day after day after day
Eric says:
don't be surprised in one day you come home from work and i'm gone
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
shave all that bastard's white hair off and he'd be black as a fucking asshole...
Eric says:
just gone, and you're left with nobody to make you cum like orgasmatron on overdrive
Eric says:
you won't be screaming your passionate song of fucking love any more
Eric says:
and someday.....someday....i shall burn it
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
right...
Eric says:
i'll just chop it off and throw it on the fire like a log
Eric says:
a very tiny log......
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
dude, don't refer to my severed dick as a log...
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
please?
Eric says:
FUC....well i suppose i could do you that one bit of dignity
Eric says:
i'll throw it on the fire like a twig
Eric says:
a thin brittle twig......
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
that's better, thank you...
Eric says:
you're welcome
Eric says:
i just can't do this anymore, doug
Eric says:
i'm tired of arguing
Eric says:
maybe you should just go to bed and never wake up now
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
ok...
Eric says:
alright
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
si, señor...
Eric says:
man that drained me
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
me too... ...I haven't a thought left in my head...
Molitov Cocktail Party says:
hey, did you finish that crossword thing for World?
Eric says:
hell no
Monday, December 05, 2005
A Birthday Card...
Today Carol saved my afternoon...
I got a call last night from Eric that ended with a reassurance that it was alright if I didn't get back to him right away.
"...cause today has been like the worst day of my life..."
The statement tripped me up for a second... possibly because I was, by this point in the evening, quite nicely dosed, but more probably because prior to eruption of birthday festivities in my honor I had been feeling something very much akin to the anxiousness I heard in Eric's words. Finals are upon us once again... like a heavy cloud of noxious gas that forces you into a corner and demands that you cough up everything everything you posess in the vain hopes that it will eventually dissipate.
This morning I woke up. Twenty-One. Blip. Now my brief reprieve had gone and I was thrust suddenly back into the cloud.
Class is never a helpful activity once one has become firmly confined to the cloud. The goals are clear, the topics have all been covered, further learning is at a virtual standstill. The date printed on the plane ticket in the back of your mind has begun to correspond to the dates at the distant margin of the extended weather forecast. If one could simply hop into a cocoon for what will look in a week and a half like the latest tick mark on an endless list of indistinguishable weeks of academic discomfort then everything would certainly pan out.
The clock strikes one, Peanut and I collect our things and exit our temporary cell for the march back to one of several available prisons.
"Library..." He mumbles, and I nod acknowledgment mumble something that vaguely resembles "Dorm". We gesture and part, telling our respective selves that if work goes well this afternoon we'll all get together in the evening and distract one another.
Now my mind drifts, and I only catch up with myself to notice that I'm not really walking toward the dorm, but toward the mailroom. I reach inside the slot and grasp the thick, precisely folded paper of a greeting card. I pull out my knife and open the purple envelope. There will be money; there's no time given to questions concerning currency. It's the guts that count, the loopy scrawl of one Thompson parent or the other bringing words of encouragement, idiom, cynicism, cliché, nostalgia.
The colorful exterior, containing a joke about college and its implications in the new world of public drinking, gives way to a tundra-like emptiness of the thick paper, punctuated only by the words "Happy 21st Birthday" in a monospaced Courier.
Beneath this lettering Carol's note reads:
Let the Happy Hour Begin!
Eric and I started without you but I have a beer with your name on it, so I am expecting a visit sometime over Christmas. It has been quite dull drinking alone but now we can really make Steve pout!
No Grilled Cheese this year -- I figured you could use some moola for whatever -- $21 of course because my "Doris Jr. OC" disorder is surfacing!
Hope you are surviving finals and papers. See you soon.
Love,
The Thompson Clan
Things will change this Christmas. Things have already changed. I am renewed. Maybe this year "home" will bring us something more fulfilling than the gentle back-and-forth rocking of displeasure that compels us to leave and then once more to return. I feel good. I feel hungry.
The cloud will squeeze and I will swelter, pouring my essence onto paper, draining so many bullet points out on to the cumulative outline of "achievement". And then I'll dry off and come home to the place where change and stagnation meet each other in comforting equilibrium.
I got a call last night from Eric that ended with a reassurance that it was alright if I didn't get back to him right away.
"...cause today has been like the worst day of my life..."
The statement tripped me up for a second... possibly because I was, by this point in the evening, quite nicely dosed, but more probably because prior to eruption of birthday festivities in my honor I had been feeling something very much akin to the anxiousness I heard in Eric's words. Finals are upon us once again... like a heavy cloud of noxious gas that forces you into a corner and demands that you cough up everything everything you posess in the vain hopes that it will eventually dissipate.
This morning I woke up. Twenty-One. Blip. Now my brief reprieve had gone and I was thrust suddenly back into the cloud.
Class is never a helpful activity once one has become firmly confined to the cloud. The goals are clear, the topics have all been covered, further learning is at a virtual standstill. The date printed on the plane ticket in the back of your mind has begun to correspond to the dates at the distant margin of the extended weather forecast. If one could simply hop into a cocoon for what will look in a week and a half like the latest tick mark on an endless list of indistinguishable weeks of academic discomfort then everything would certainly pan out.
The clock strikes one, Peanut and I collect our things and exit our temporary cell for the march back to one of several available prisons.
"Library..." He mumbles, and I nod acknowledgment mumble something that vaguely resembles "Dorm". We gesture and part, telling our respective selves that if work goes well this afternoon we'll all get together in the evening and distract one another.
Now my mind drifts, and I only catch up with myself to notice that I'm not really walking toward the dorm, but toward the mailroom. I reach inside the slot and grasp the thick, precisely folded paper of a greeting card. I pull out my knife and open the purple envelope. There will be money; there's no time given to questions concerning currency. It's the guts that count, the loopy scrawl of one Thompson parent or the other bringing words of encouragement, idiom, cynicism, cliché, nostalgia.
The colorful exterior, containing a joke about college and its implications in the new world of public drinking, gives way to a tundra-like emptiness of the thick paper, punctuated only by the words "Happy 21st Birthday" in a monospaced Courier.
Beneath this lettering Carol's note reads:
Let the Happy Hour Begin!
Eric and I started without you but I have a beer with your name on it, so I am expecting a visit sometime over Christmas. It has been quite dull drinking alone but now we can really make Steve pout!
No Grilled Cheese this year -- I figured you could use some moola for whatever -- $21 of course because my "Doris Jr. OC" disorder is surfacing!
Hope you are surviving finals and papers. See you soon.
Love,
The Thompson Clan
Things will change this Christmas. Things have already changed. I am renewed. Maybe this year "home" will bring us something more fulfilling than the gentle back-and-forth rocking of displeasure that compels us to leave and then once more to return. I feel good. I feel hungry.
The cloud will squeeze and I will swelter, pouring my essence onto paper, draining so many bullet points out on to the cumulative outline of "achievement". And then I'll dry off and come home to the place where change and stagnation meet each other in comforting equilibrium.
Sunday, December 04, 2005
Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall...and many more...
Hooray for today, the day when we are all three of age for the legal consumption of alcomahol. Take that, world...
Saturday, October 29, 2005
don't cheese grater your floor popsicle
Tonight's lesson is not to ever wear a shopping cart full of green sweaters when there are going to be a much bigger unrealistically sized shopping cart of people in your house. Especially when some of them are in Halloween costumes. My costume tonight was "green sweater crazy and freaking out man." Sufjan Stevens is calming me down a bit now...too bad I don't have him in a bottle like those ships in a bottle, so they would have had to build the bottle around Sufjan Stevens, but now he's in there and intact....maybe we could even give him a ship to sail while he was stuck in there and bored. Sailling on a heart shaped watermelon in a sea of broccoli colored, asparagus covered beans.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
nuggets from the past...
So, tonight I've been doing a little hard drive cleaning and i came across one of our archival plans... i'm glad we make these..
P.S. i have no fucking idea when we did this...
The Plan...
by Tyler and Peter
Objectives (decided first)
1. pete tongues the pen (15?)
2. make the fire us will...
3. levon sells cartoon balloons...
4. call friends to hear answering machines...
5. write a movie...
6. include this plan and much dialogue in the movie...
7. call bart farkus...
8. defeat mephisto, the commies, and the moops...
9. listen to weird old records...
10. razorface, ooh, amazin grace...!
11. ride bikes
12. buy, sell, ingest, transport, deal, and eventually be arrested for posession of... well... something...
13. author a bill which changes the legal spelling of the word banana to banaña... maybe even bañaña.
14. watch a movie, possibly the one we watch...
51. go ape
62. whip it good
73.2.end objectives
PLAN OF ACTION
LIKE THE SONG ABOUT SAMSON FROM MIDDLE SCHOOL CHURCH CHOIR
YOU KNOW, THE ONE THAT SAM MISSAL WAS OBSESSED WITH THAT WENT LIKE, “SOMETIMES I’M SAMSON, WITH THE STRENGTH TO CONQUER ANYTHING....”
Wesn’s, in the year 2002, will will (yeah, that’s right gerkass) (yeah, i bloody well know that jerk isn’t spelled with a g) commence the activities needed to carry out objective #4, upon receiving a negative result from objective 4 we will will continue by making sweet love to a gerbil of my choosing, this shall henceforth be referred to as objective #cl4236, and shall be done quietly and stealthily. then after that, we uhh, go to kansas? (he he, very nice) after we get to kansas we will realize that there are already certain objectives that have already been already completed... already! at which point the elves should have already arrived with the punch, so we’ll get the dants to come up and monitor that while we slip out into the approaching darkness, ride bikes, hop on pop, and make the required pyrotarded mystakes. then, after all has been forgived, one of two things will happen, we will either get a movie, or we will not, and then we shall make the diablisticizions late into the somnambulance...
P.S. i have no fucking idea when we did this...
The Plan...
by Tyler and Peter
Objectives (decided first)
1. pete tongues the pen (15?)
2. make the fire us will...
3. levon sells cartoon balloons...
4. call friends to hear answering machines...
5. write a movie...
6. include this plan and much dialogue in the movie...
7. call bart farkus...
8. defeat mephisto, the commies, and the moops...
9. listen to weird old records...
10. razorface, ooh, amazin grace...!
11. ride bikes
12. buy, sell, ingest, transport, deal, and eventually be arrested for posession of... well... something...
13. author a bill which changes the legal spelling of the word banana to banaña... maybe even bañaña.
14. watch a movie, possibly the one we watch...
51. go ape
62. whip it good
73.2.end objectives
PLAN OF ACTION
LIKE THE SONG ABOUT SAMSON FROM MIDDLE SCHOOL CHURCH CHOIR
YOU KNOW, THE ONE THAT SAM MISSAL WAS OBSESSED WITH THAT WENT LIKE, “SOMETIMES I’M SAMSON, WITH THE STRENGTH TO CONQUER ANYTHING....”
Wesn’s, in the year 2002, will will (yeah, that’s right gerkass) (yeah, i bloody well know that jerk isn’t spelled with a g) commence the activities needed to carry out objective #4, upon receiving a negative result from objective 4 we will will continue by making sweet love to a gerbil of my choosing, this shall henceforth be referred to as objective #cl4236, and shall be done quietly and stealthily. then after that, we uhh, go to kansas? (he he, very nice) after we get to kansas we will realize that there are already certain objectives that have already been already completed... already! at which point the elves should have already arrived with the punch, so we’ll get the dants to come up and monitor that while we slip out into the approaching darkness, ride bikes, hop on pop, and make the required pyrotarded mystakes. then, after all has been forgived, one of two things will happen, we will either get a movie, or we will not, and then we shall make the diablisticizions late into the somnambulance...
Sunday, October 09, 2005
letters to pedro...
Hi Peter, How are you doing. I think of you often, but decided to send a quick note. It was a busy day at Waldorf I am sure you mom told you about the inauguration, dedication of Library , play and it was a beautiful day so all got to transpire on time in the right place without having to rum for shelter. to keep warm that was another story the sun was out, but if you were in the shade it was cool.
I think I see your friend Tyler around town. sometimes sitting on one of the benches uptown . Is he going to Waldorf? He, if it is him, looks sort of lonelyl Is he ok??? I hope so. I know he has had a time with school so hope all is well.
Welll I have rambled enough// Good night, God Bless Love
Gra'ma H.
Okay, so i didn't preface that at all, but that's the point of this blog anyway right? You fuckers already know what's what.
I think I see your friend Tyler around town. sometimes sitting on one of the benches uptown . Is he going to Waldorf? He, if it is him, looks sort of lonelyl Is he ok??? I hope so. I know he has had a time with school so hope all is well.
Welll I have rambled enough// Good night, God Bless Love
Gra'ma H.
Okay, so i didn't preface that at all, but that's the point of this blog anyway right? You fuckers already know what's what.
That's not a fair test, that joke's hi-larious...
Haha...I spent the night hanging out with all three of your guys' sisters! It was...actually, I lot of fun...we spent most of the night reminiscing about you two and now I miss you both...you bastards...
Oh, yeah, and at the risk of sounding like a racist/opportunist...I am so totally dating a twenty-five year old black girl...how studly is that? She's absolutely delightful in so many ways...though, I don't look forward to the day that we discuss religion...
And I've made an effort to cut off all ties from My Meteoric Rise to Mediocrity and Eating Out With Us to this blog...purely so I never have to think "Should I be writing this? What if (Insert Name of Highschooler Here) ever stumbles across it?"...but, alas, a connection made is hard to break...fucking Google...and Technorati...though, the connections are VERY hard to find...
Oh, yeah, and at the risk of sounding like a racist/opportunist...I am so totally dating a twenty-five year old black girl...how studly is that? She's absolutely delightful in so many ways...though, I don't look forward to the day that we discuss religion...
And I've made an effort to cut off all ties from My Meteoric Rise to Mediocrity and Eating Out With Us to this blog...purely so I never have to think "Should I be writing this? What if (Insert Name of Highschooler Here) ever stumbles across it?"...but, alas, a connection made is hard to break...fucking Google...and Technorati...though, the connections are VERY hard to find...
Thursday, October 06, 2005
Does CSOI do house calls?
The house has been great, but something just wasn't right. It hasn't quite been "home" this whole month + and I couldn't put my finger on it until tonight. The problem was that we hadn't done severe, ridonkulous damage to it yet. I feel more comfy already. Tonight during a quick round of Mattress (the game which consisits of grasping an air mattress, holding it in front of you, and running screaming across the house directly into a person) I was hurled completely through our wall like a bowling ball through a giant graham cracker. It looks likes Wile Coyote took a detour through our hallway and that sneaky Roadrunner did some real quick-like dry-walling to trip him up. It's all good though, because Chris and Josh are going to pay their boss some drugs to patch it up. Good fun. Man, when I stop breaking shit on a semi-regular basis, it's all over. Put me to fucking sleep. What's the point?
Monday, October 03, 2005
Call it fate, call it luck, call it karma...
So, here's some right fucked up news, presented with the hopes that it will catalyze activity hereabouts... Sure, it's a cop-out in terms of its "reality tv" nature, but it's pertinent triumvirate business.
A Conversation Between Me and the Carpenter:

keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (8:53:35 PM)
what's new
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (8:54:18 PM)
oh, not too much... i'm back at school... i'm going to chile over winter break...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (8:54:35 PM)
cool
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (8:54:36 PM)
ireland is a swell place to visit...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (8:54:52 PM)
yeah, kayla wants to go there sometime
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (8:55:29 PM)
well, if you were thinking of visiting county ciarrai, i could tell you all about it...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (8:56:21 PM)
you never made it down here
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (8:57:33 PM)
i know, i was really bummed about it, but we ended up just running out of free weekends...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (8:57:58 PM)
yeah, i had a pretty crazy summer
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (8:58:15 PM)
lots of weddings, including brad's
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (8:58:50 PM)
cool, cool... how's married life treating bradley?
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (8:59:05 PM)
so far so good
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (8:59:16 PM)
from what i can tell anyways
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:00:06 PM)
that's good to hear...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:00:18 PM)
yeah
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:00:46 PM)
so, are you still carpentering away?
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:00:58 PM)
you bet
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:01:37 PM)
well, actually right now we are doing a lot of concrete work while they're finding another place for me and another guy to go
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:02:05 PM)
two carpenters working with a bunch of concrete guys isn't a good mix
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:02:21 PM)
i suppose not...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:02:47 PM)
you still seeing that one girl you mentioned to me a while back
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:03:48 PM)
sure am... i'm going to chile with her...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:03:54 PM)
ok
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:04:04 PM)
good for you
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:04:14 PM)
i'll have to meet her sometime
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:05:25 PM)
i agree, i'm sure you'd think she was "my type"... though i don't think i can explain why...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:05:52 PM)
well, that gives me kind of an idea
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:07:08 PM)
ha ha... good, good...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:08:14 PM)
yeah, i justs spent more money than i have on kayla
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:08:52 PM)
how'd you manage that?
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:09:03 PM)
rings cost a lot
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:09:09 PM)
yowzas!
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:09:15 PM)
more than a carpenter makes
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:09:34 PM)
well, besides jesus... 
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:09:43 PM)
right right
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:09:47 PM)
of course
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:11:08 PM)
so, is this like a very important ring ryan? are you telling me that my boyhood chum is hitchin' up his wagon to one of the gendered others and driving off into the marital sunset?
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:11:42 PM)
yeah, i would say that you pretty well pinpointed it
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:12:02 PM)
WOOT! that's some crazy shit man, but congrats for sure...!
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:12:14 PM)
thanks
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:13:03 PM)
now you need to just hurry up
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:13:31 PM)
ha ha... umm yeah, fuck that... at least for several more years...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:13:43 PM)
i suppose
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:14:11 PM)
kayla and i have been together for four years and she was pushing for it being it is her senior year
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:14:36 PM)
so i gave in and now all the decisions can be made by her
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:15:01 PM)
ha ha... atta boy... i'm really stoked for you man...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:15:31 PM)
well, thank, i appreciate it
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:15:47 PM)
you'll have to let the other guys know, i can never seem to get ahold of em
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:16:14 PM)
i can and will do that... of course... so, like, is there a date?
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:16:29 PM)
no, not as of yet
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:16:38 PM)
i guess more importantly, are we invited?
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:16:40 PM)
maybe a year from now or so
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:16:51 PM)
damn right you're envited
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:17:46 PM)
alright, all i can say to that is drop me a line as soon as you know and i'll do my damnedest to be there...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:18:04 PM)
cool, thanks man
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:18:25 PM)
it just wouldn't be right without the crew there
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:19:15 PM)
fer sher... i mean joel & brent are essential to provide the baseline laughter at any event...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:19:27 PM)
that's right
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:19:41 PM)
and eric is getting progressively wierder looking... so that's awesome...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:19:48 PM)
great
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:20:04 PM)
wierdness is always good
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:20:26 PM)
especially when it comes from that strange little fellow...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:20:46 PM)
yep, man i haven't seen any of you for way too long
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:21:16 PM)
it's a sad state of affairs...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:21:21 PM)
that it is
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:22:10 PM)
well bud, it is going to be one hell of a long day pouring crete tomorrow so i should probably head off
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:22:30 PM)
keep in touch man, it's been to long
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:23:36 PM)
indeed, i'll talk to you again soon, have a good night and congrats again!
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:24:35 PM)
i will talk to you laters
A Conversation Between Me and the Carpenter:

keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (8:53:35 PM)
what's new
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (8:54:18 PM)
oh, not too much... i'm back at school... i'm going to chile over winter break...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (8:54:35 PM)
cool
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (8:54:36 PM)
ireland is a swell place to visit...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (8:54:52 PM)
yeah, kayla wants to go there sometime
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (8:55:29 PM)
well, if you were thinking of visiting county ciarrai, i could tell you all about it...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (8:56:21 PM)
you never made it down here
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (8:57:33 PM)
i know, i was really bummed about it, but we ended up just running out of free weekends...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (8:57:58 PM)
yeah, i had a pretty crazy summer
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (8:58:15 PM)
lots of weddings, including brad's
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (8:58:50 PM)
cool, cool... how's married life treating bradley?
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (8:59:05 PM)
so far so good
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (8:59:16 PM)
from what i can tell anyways
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:00:06 PM)
that's good to hear...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:00:18 PM)
yeah
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:00:46 PM)
so, are you still carpentering away?
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:00:58 PM)
you bet
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:01:37 PM)
well, actually right now we are doing a lot of concrete work while they're finding another place for me and another guy to go
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:02:05 PM)
two carpenters working with a bunch of concrete guys isn't a good mix
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:02:21 PM)
i suppose not...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:02:47 PM)
you still seeing that one girl you mentioned to me a while back
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:03:48 PM)
sure am... i'm going to chile with her...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:03:54 PM)
ok
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:04:04 PM)
good for you
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:04:14 PM)
i'll have to meet her sometime
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:05:25 PM)
i agree, i'm sure you'd think she was "my type"... though i don't think i can explain why...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:05:52 PM)
well, that gives me kind of an idea
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:07:08 PM)
ha ha... good, good...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:08:14 PM)
yeah, i justs spent more money than i have on kayla
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:08:52 PM)
how'd you manage that?
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:09:03 PM)
rings cost a lot
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:09:09 PM)
yowzas!
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:09:15 PM)
more than a carpenter makes
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:09:34 PM)
well, besides jesus... 
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:09:43 PM)
right right
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:09:47 PM)
of course
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:11:08 PM)
so, is this like a very important ring ryan? are you telling me that my boyhood chum is hitchin' up his wagon to one of the gendered others and driving off into the marital sunset?
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:11:42 PM)
yeah, i would say that you pretty well pinpointed it
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:12:02 PM)
WOOT! that's some crazy shit man, but congrats for sure...!
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:12:14 PM)
thanks
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:13:03 PM)
now you need to just hurry up
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:13:31 PM)
ha ha... umm yeah, fuck that... at least for several more years...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:13:43 PM)
i suppose
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:14:11 PM)
kayla and i have been together for four years and she was pushing for it being it is her senior year
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:14:36 PM)
so i gave in and now all the decisions can be made by her
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:15:01 PM)
ha ha... atta boy... i'm really stoked for you man...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:15:31 PM)
well, thank, i appreciate it
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:15:47 PM)
you'll have to let the other guys know, i can never seem to get ahold of em
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:16:14 PM)
i can and will do that... of course... so, like, is there a date?
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:16:29 PM)
no, not as of yet
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:16:38 PM)
i guess more importantly, are we invited?
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:16:40 PM)
maybe a year from now or so
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:16:51 PM)
damn right you're envited
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:17:46 PM)
alright, all i can say to that is drop me a line as soon as you know and i'll do my damnedest to be there...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:18:04 PM)
cool, thanks man
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:18:25 PM)
it just wouldn't be right without the crew there
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:19:15 PM)
fer sher... i mean joel & brent are essential to provide the baseline laughter at any event...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:19:27 PM)
that's right
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:19:41 PM)
and eric is getting progressively wierder looking... so that's awesome...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:19:48 PM)
great
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:20:04 PM)
wierdness is always good
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:20:26 PM)
especially when it comes from that strange little fellow...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:20:46 PM)
yep, man i haven't seen any of you for way too long
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:21:16 PM)
it's a sad state of affairs...
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:21:21 PM)
that it is
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:22:10 PM)
well bud, it is going to be one hell of a long day pouring crete tomorrow so i should probably head off
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:22:30 PM)
keep in touch man, it's been to long
Santiago, Jan 1-19... says: (9:23:36 PM)
indeed, i'll talk to you again soon, have a good night and congrats again!
keep track of your fingers while swinging a hammer!!! 515-460-2682 says: (9:24:35 PM)
i will talk to you laters
Monday, August 01, 2005
brockhon, eat your heart out
1. Opening
a. heaven quote on black
b. us slumped in chair, watching movie
2. Most people hear “heaven” the loudest…I hear “no.” Later, when I thought back to it, I found those famous lines about Iowa odd. I’ll write about Iowa, but I don’t have to be kind. I don’t have to politely compliment the place like a dinner guest does a meal.
{open to book with picture of heaven; dimly lit dinner}
3. {pan from dinner to garage; stop on garage, showing Eric walking out door, splice in party shots, hoedown music} Walking out, the faces of the people in the garage blur as I move quickly past them, until they settle into the image of one representative face, like a composite sketch, which hovers in my mind as we are assaulted by the Iowa winter air. The face looks suspiciously like Dustin or Justin, but then again I suppose that is appropriate. They all look very much like him—at least to me. I can’t really tell the difference, or rather don’t want to put in the effort. {eric walking on road, shot from ladder, lights approach}
4. {eric gets in car, car leaves; narration over car pan, then walking shots}
***
fence climbing, jump below camera, tilt down, panting (gelatinous silence); wind turbine to field of turbines; school hill; synchronized waldorf lot parking, pick up peter; lund garage; pond; soda machines, hot sheet; long main street shot; store (movies America) with closed sign
***
The best time to experience Forest City, Iowa, is after midnight. Everything has stopped by that time, everything that was ever going in the first place. We used to go on endless walks, epic walks, across the entirety of the barren city. The silence was gelatinous, like a glacier of vaseline slowly sliding over the town, smothering all life and sound and awareness out of it. Except for us. We were impervious. We were aware.
We would walk down the middle of Main Street, the street that my house was on. We would own that street, because there were no cars and no other sentient beings about to challenge our authority {empty street shots, wind sounds}
If it was summer it would be humid. Not “slightly moist humid.” We’d walk side by side—the two or three or four or five of us— as wide as we wanted, presenting the appearance of a force to be reckoned with.
***
“being a father is aard vark. Don’t overvark yourself.”
***
We would head towards “town,” which meant the courthouse and the few blocks of small shops and businesses that surrounded it. we would weave and wind our way towards the epicenter, sweat forging a bond between our clothing and our flesh, But sometimes it was winter. The smell of Iowa winter was pure, unadulterated, natural cold. The cold prickled in your nostrils like menthol, blasting open your sinuses and reddening your nose. If it was winter there was snow—that was one thing you could count on that town to provide.
Everything there used to be something else. The shops go out of business eventually, leaving an empty storefront or another business that will mark time until it too runs out of customers and money. The movie rental place used to be the Dollar Store, which used to be a store for children’s clothing. The bookstore used to be something else, and at one point there was a bakery, but I’m not sure where that went. Who can keep track?
Later, after the house had been sold, we had to reverse our route. No longer having a central location to base our travels from, we had to park my car in a random lot in the middle of town and make our way back towards my former home. This was after having all gone away to college and learned new things, become new people. We would occasionally share a single cigarette between us. None of us really smoked, but it reminded us of college friends, it comforted us, it made us feel important. We found it supremely ironic and amusing to sit and talk on my front steps, the steps where we had played as toddlers, the steps that my family no longer owned, the steps that were now owned by sleeping strangers a few feet away, the steps where we were now doing our adult things. We let the smoke we exhaled mix with the memories that already hung thick and visible in the air. {CHC song, FC map graphic wes Anderson, separate activity shots}
That place was too small,{pause on frame of person exhaling smoke, rewind footage, increasing speed and snap back to the map shot} too Iowa. You had to leave. But you had to come back. { collapse back onto person exhaling smoke, continue action where left off} You had to come back—you only realized that after you left. You had to come back, if only to go on these late-night walks with this place and the people who hadn’t left it yet. {walking off curb under streetlight, camera follows}
5. Vignettes
a. Renn Fayre — {shoot something in Oregon}
b. If I had grown up… — {badly photoshopped pictures in the different locations} leave in Greeley sentence, unexplained4
c. Interview {off camera voice questions us, split shot facing the camera, answer one at a time; digital camera interview footage; windturbines?}
Laura: “What advice would you give me about whether to attend college in Iowa or on the West Coast?”
Eric: “You should stay in Iowa if you don’t like mountains or trees or the ocean or culture.”
Peter: “I miss the wind. You’ll probably miss the wind if you leave.”
The End
a. It doesn’t matter what the place is like. For instance, I may have no desire to return to Iowa to make my own home. Fireflies can’t obscure cornfields and stars can’t ease claustrophobia. But as soon as I discard it from my history, I sense that I will feel a faint ache in the cavernous place where it had resided. Should I banish my hometown from my brain and wipe its residue off of my skin, I will feel a chasm inside. Iowa is something to me that new places and people and experiences can only coat with a thin layer. It’s like trying to paint over thick black with watery white—a hint of the original color will always remain. {narration starts over last walking shot; then succession of photos, stills of the three of us, polaroids, camera video clips, fade to credits}
a. heaven quote on black
b. us slumped in chair, watching movie
2. Most people hear “heaven” the loudest…I hear “no.” Later, when I thought back to it, I found those famous lines about Iowa odd. I’ll write about Iowa, but I don’t have to be kind. I don’t have to politely compliment the place like a dinner guest does a meal.
{open to book with picture of heaven; dimly lit dinner}
3. {pan from dinner to garage; stop on garage, showing Eric walking out door, splice in party shots, hoedown music} Walking out, the faces of the people in the garage blur as I move quickly past them, until they settle into the image of one representative face, like a composite sketch, which hovers in my mind as we are assaulted by the Iowa winter air. The face looks suspiciously like Dustin or Justin, but then again I suppose that is appropriate. They all look very much like him—at least to me. I can’t really tell the difference, or rather don’t want to put in the effort. {eric walking on road, shot from ladder, lights approach}
4. {eric gets in car, car leaves; narration over car pan, then walking shots}
***
fence climbing, jump below camera, tilt down, panting (gelatinous silence); wind turbine to field of turbines; school hill; synchronized waldorf lot parking, pick up peter; lund garage; pond; soda machines, hot sheet; long main street shot; store (movies America) with closed sign
***
The best time to experience Forest City, Iowa, is after midnight. Everything has stopped by that time, everything that was ever going in the first place. We used to go on endless walks, epic walks, across the entirety of the barren city. The silence was gelatinous, like a glacier of vaseline slowly sliding over the town, smothering all life and sound and awareness out of it. Except for us. We were impervious. We were aware.
We would walk down the middle of Main Street, the street that my house was on. We would own that street, because there were no cars and no other sentient beings about to challenge our authority {empty street shots, wind sounds}
If it was summer it would be humid. Not “slightly moist humid.” We’d walk side by side—the two or three or four or five of us— as wide as we wanted, presenting the appearance of a force to be reckoned with.
***
“being a father is aard vark. Don’t overvark yourself.”
***
We would head towards “town,” which meant the courthouse and the few blocks of small shops and businesses that surrounded it. we would weave and wind our way towards the epicenter, sweat forging a bond between our clothing and our flesh, But sometimes it was winter. The smell of Iowa winter was pure, unadulterated, natural cold. The cold prickled in your nostrils like menthol, blasting open your sinuses and reddening your nose. If it was winter there was snow—that was one thing you could count on that town to provide.
Everything there used to be something else. The shops go out of business eventually, leaving an empty storefront or another business that will mark time until it too runs out of customers and money. The movie rental place used to be the Dollar Store, which used to be a store for children’s clothing. The bookstore used to be something else, and at one point there was a bakery, but I’m not sure where that went. Who can keep track?
Later, after the house had been sold, we had to reverse our route. No longer having a central location to base our travels from, we had to park my car in a random lot in the middle of town and make our way back towards my former home. This was after having all gone away to college and learned new things, become new people. We would occasionally share a single cigarette between us. None of us really smoked, but it reminded us of college friends, it comforted us, it made us feel important. We found it supremely ironic and amusing to sit and talk on my front steps, the steps where we had played as toddlers, the steps that my family no longer owned, the steps that were now owned by sleeping strangers a few feet away, the steps where we were now doing our adult things. We let the smoke we exhaled mix with the memories that already hung thick and visible in the air. {CHC song, FC map graphic wes Anderson, separate activity shots}
That place was too small,{pause on frame of person exhaling smoke, rewind footage, increasing speed and snap back to the map shot} too Iowa. You had to leave. But you had to come back. { collapse back onto person exhaling smoke, continue action where left off} You had to come back—you only realized that after you left. You had to come back, if only to go on these late-night walks with this place and the people who hadn’t left it yet. {walking off curb under streetlight, camera follows}
5. Vignettes
a. Renn Fayre — {shoot something in Oregon}
b. If I had grown up… — {badly photoshopped pictures in the different locations} leave in Greeley sentence, unexplained4
c. Interview {off camera voice questions us, split shot facing the camera, answer one at a time; digital camera interview footage; windturbines?}
Laura: “What advice would you give me about whether to attend college in Iowa or on the West Coast?”
Eric: “You should stay in Iowa if you don’t like mountains or trees or the ocean or culture.”
Peter: “I miss the wind. You’ll probably miss the wind if you leave.”
The End
a. It doesn’t matter what the place is like. For instance, I may have no desire to return to Iowa to make my own home. Fireflies can’t obscure cornfields and stars can’t ease claustrophobia. But as soon as I discard it from my history, I sense that I will feel a faint ache in the cavernous place where it had resided. Should I banish my hometown from my brain and wipe its residue off of my skin, I will feel a chasm inside. Iowa is something to me that new places and people and experiences can only coat with a thin layer. It’s like trying to paint over thick black with watery white—a hint of the original color will always remain. {narration starts over last walking shot; then succession of photos, stills of the three of us, polaroids, camera video clips, fade to credits}
Thursday, July 21, 2005
low cost self-discovery
You scored as Anarchism. <'Imunimaginative's Deviantart Page'>
What Political Party Do Your Beliefs Put You In? created with QuizFarm.com |
yeah, and then get this....
Your Brain is 73.33% Female, 26.67% Male |
Your brain leans female You think with your heart, not your head Sweet and considerate, you are a giver But you're tough enough not to let anyone take advantage of you! |
wow...
Monday, April 18, 2005
To All The Little Eichmanns Out There...
So, last night, by virture of the fact that I attend a college that has been categorized by a friend of mine as "The Amsterdam of the West", I had the tremendous fortune of getting to attend a hastily scheduled lecture given by the current bullseye of the liberal academic community, Ward Churchill. I've got to say that he's a fantastic fellow to watch and that he made a fairly significant impression on me. His lecture, intended originally to be a discussion of some of his new writings on Native American politics and treaties and such and then adapted to also encompass his now notorious essay discussing what he felt was the forgone nature of the September 11th attacks, was one of the most interesting, compelling and articulate syntheses of the hypocracy of U.S. policy, and its repeated and continuing violation by its own government, that I had ever encountered.
Anyway, Churchill's truly critical points that I'd like to highlight (and remember myself) were:
1) Based on precedents set at the Nuremburg Trials the common citizenry of any given country is responsible for the actions of its government, and if the government is committing crimes the citizenry is legally compelled to try to stop them "by any means necessary".
2) There will be no painless solution to these problems.
Weird, eh?
Anyway, it got me all riled up and excited about the end of global civilization, or at the very least the U.S. Empire.
Anyway, Churchill's truly critical points that I'd like to highlight (and remember myself) were:
1) Based on precedents set at the Nuremburg Trials the common citizenry of any given country is responsible for the actions of its government, and if the government is committing crimes the citizenry is legally compelled to try to stop them "by any means necessary".
2) There will be no painless solution to these problems.
Weird, eh?
Anyway, it got me all riled up and excited about the end of global civilization, or at the very least the U.S. Empire.
Sunday, April 17, 2005
Elephant replaces bird...
How am I supposed to be expected to function as a college student in the midst of a cultural buffet that I feel compelled to binge myself on? I feel a moral responsibility to myself to listen to the new Bright Eyes instead of researching for an impending paper of death. I can barely even bring myself to attend to the minutiae of every day life sometimes. Frankly, I'll be suprised if I can mobilize for long enough to drag myself into the bathroom to brush my fucking teeth with this William Shatner playing.
Tonight was a good night. Contrary to the direction in which the circumstancial evidence of the temporary tattoo of a dog on my cheek points, I was able to resist the ridiculous amounts of alcohol that accumulated about Chris and Ralph's room and remain in a substance free state for once. It was great. I wrote, I applied to go to London, I watched Ong-Bak, a movie so fantastic it would have been utterly wasted on an intoxicated version of myself. Plus drunk people are always amusing when you aren't one of them.
"Those bitches is paid to fuck, I can't enjoy that kind of pussy. I'd rather beg for it." - Danger Mouse and Jemini
This weekend also featured my participation in PLU 360, our own version of the illustrious Dance 360 which was born when I introduced ASPLU Senator Jon Bongard (a.k.a. Kel Mitchell, a.k.a. Mayonaize) to the show and he became physically addicted. Jesus. And the premiere of Necrophobia, a zombie movie made by my friends Dan and Aaron for $35, and quite possibly the best attended event in the history of PLU. For good cause - excessive amounts of fake blood, gratuitous nudity, very well done editing, and immaculate soundtracking. You haven't lived until you've seen the undead romp across your campus to a mixture of Better Living Through Chemistry and staticy distress calls.
I'm going to bed now to dream about hearting Huckabees. You rock rock.
Tonight was a good night. Contrary to the direction in which the circumstancial evidence of the temporary tattoo of a dog on my cheek points, I was able to resist the ridiculous amounts of alcohol that accumulated about Chris and Ralph's room and remain in a substance free state for once. It was great. I wrote, I applied to go to London, I watched Ong-Bak, a movie so fantastic it would have been utterly wasted on an intoxicated version of myself. Plus drunk people are always amusing when you aren't one of them.
"Those bitches is paid to fuck, I can't enjoy that kind of pussy. I'd rather beg for it." - Danger Mouse and Jemini
This weekend also featured my participation in PLU 360, our own version of the illustrious Dance 360 which was born when I introduced ASPLU Senator Jon Bongard (a.k.a. Kel Mitchell, a.k.a. Mayonaize) to the show and he became physically addicted. Jesus. And the premiere of Necrophobia, a zombie movie made by my friends Dan and Aaron for $35, and quite possibly the best attended event in the history of PLU. For good cause - excessive amounts of fake blood, gratuitous nudity, very well done editing, and immaculate soundtracking. You haven't lived until you've seen the undead romp across your campus to a mixture of Better Living Through Chemistry and staticy distress calls.
I'm going to bed now to dream about hearting Huckabees. You rock rock.
Saturday, March 12, 2005
oh how i love the little people
spring break is great.... for a week i splattered my brains out and tested the bounds of true academic masochism... and then suddenly, right around 8 o'clock, POOF! and then i found myself in a magical land free of cares and concerns, ready to do whatever my heart desired... and do it i have... ... now i find myself in the living room, watching willow... i have managed to become the giant glacier of vaseline, flowing freely through a landscape without any topograpical obstacles that might slow its progress... Summer Cometh!!!!
Wednesday, March 02, 2005
The Triad Goes Adventuring
I wasn't going to post this because it's ridiculously long, but I decided it is too applicable to the whole theme and purpose of this thing, so here it is. Thanks to Professor Kaufman for allowing me to write about whatever the hell I want.
The best time to experience Forest City, Iowa is after midnight. Everything has stopped by that time, everything that was ever going in the first place. We used to go on endless walks, epic walks across the entirety of the barren city. The silence was gelatinous, like a glacier of vaseline slowly sliding over the town, smothering all life and sound and awareness out of it. Except for us. We were impervious. We were aware.
We would walk down the middle of main street, the street that my house was on. It was a cobblestone remnant of the past before they dug it all up and redid it a few years ago. We would own that street, because there were no cars, and no sentient beings about to challenge our authority.
We’d start at my house, a large gray/blue one. Some argued gray, some blue. We never really knew what color it was until we later painted it white and sold it, and by then who really gave a shit what color it was? It was their color, not ours. It was the color of the past.
It was on a hill though. That whole block was on a hill, like a fortress. It was this huge lump in the middle of main street with access to the driveway through an alley on either side. In the winter you had to stomp on the pedal, close your eyes, and launch your car up the snow and ice covered gravel, praying that you didn’t slide into one of the neighbor’s huge oak trees, or backwards into the road and another vehicle.
We had a raspberry bush in the big backyard where I would always go to trap bumblebees in mason jars as a kid. Then there was the climbing tree. A senior citizen, it was gnarled and rotting. It housed thorns and mushrooms and disease all under one roof. I used to climb it with a seat cushion and read in a crook of its delicate branches. Eventually we had to have one of the larger limbs cut down for fear it would one day come barging uninvited through the bathroom window.
A wall of small trees and hedges formed a kind of border between the end of the yard and the gravel alley. It was a poor man’s forest, my sanctuary. There was a kind of natural opening, a thinning of the vivid foliage, and a hollowed out compartment inside. I would sit on a folding chair there and think about everything there was to think about. It was paradise, marred only by the rusting, gray electric meter towards the back.
In the front yard was the cherry tree, seemingly mounted purposely on a miniature hill like a prop for a model train set. The tree was on the left side of the yard, the smaller side, which was separated from the rest by the serpentine sidewalk that snaked from our front door to the steps that led to the street. On the other side was the buckeye tree. We would collect its beautiful nuts and put them in bowls around the house as decoration. The tree’s branches covered that whole section of yard, and us when we were in it, like a protective father with a thousand arms, guarding his children from the sun and the elements and the world and life.
That’s where we would usually begin the walk from, the buckeye tree. After the town settled in for the night we would venture out of my pea-green carpeted, musty basement which served as our refuge. Out the front door, a pause under the buckeye tree, down the sidewalk, and into the deserted streets.
If it was summer it would be humid. Not “slightly moist humid.” It was “forging through a curtain of weightless, floating gobs of warm, sticky sap with your face humid.” We’d walk side by side, the two or three or four or five of us, as wide as we wanted, presenting the appearance of a force to be reckoned with.
We had a flexible route. We would head towards “town,” which meant the courthouse and the few blocks of small shops and businesses that resided there. In summer we would cut back and forth through alleyways, avoiding the ever-present mosquito spray truck. It stayed a step ahead of us always...our nemesis. It coated the air with chemical, which combined with the humidity to form carcinogenic moisture. That was the smell of summer in that tiny Iowa town - the sickly-sweet yet medicinal odor of the mosquito poison. Mosquito poison with a dash of fresh gorgeous oxygen, claustrophobia with a hint of home.
So we would weave and wind our way towards the epicenter, sweat forging a bond between our clothing and our flesh if it was summer. But sometimes it was winter. If it was winter there was snow, that was one thing you could count on that town to provide. We’d cross country ski over the patches of ice in our shoes. We’d throw clumps of snow or slush or ice at each other as we journeyed. We’d stop by the Lutheran Church to play King of the Hill on the deposit of dirty snow left in the corner of the parking lot by the mammoth snow zambonis that replaced the mosquito trucks when the temperature dropped.
The smell of Iowa winter was pure, unadulterated, natural cold. The cold prickled in your nostrils like menthol, blasting open your sinuses and reddening your nose. It smelled like Christmas and skiing and icicles and boots and frozen ponds and slush-soaked socks.
But regardless of season, regardless of weather, regardless of it all, we would always walk that path towards downtown. We would walk past the tank, a large green war memorial that was fun to climb on because it was a tank, and because the signs said not to. Then past the Victorian Tea House, which used to be the Pizza Ranch. Everything here used to be something else. The shops go out of business eventually, leaving an empty storefront or another business that will mark time until it too runs out of customers and money and life. The movie rental place used to be the Dollar Store, which used to be a store for children’s clothing. The bookstore used to be something else, and at one point there was a bakery, but I’m not sure where that went. Who can keep track?
Later, after the house had been sold, we had to reverse our route. No longer having a central location to base our travels from, we had to park my car in a random lot in the middle of town and make our way back towards my former home. This was after having all gone away to college and learned new things, become new people. We would occasionally share a cigarette between us. None of us really smoked, but it reminded us of college friends, it comforted us, it made us feel important. We found it supremely ironic and amusing to sit on my front steps, the steps where we had played as toddlers, the steps that my family no longer owned, the steps that were now owned by sleeping strangers a few feet away, the steps where we were now doing our adult things. We let the smoke we exhaled mix with the memories that already hung thick and visible in the air.
I had a dream recently about going back there. I was driving into town, through one of the two intersections equipped with a stoplight. I dropped a faceless, nameless person off at the outskirts of town, rolled down the windows, and crawled into the business district as if in slow motion, eager to explore the area and to revel in, roll around in, rub my face in its cozy familiarity. As I turned a corner I saw neon and new. There were twenty new buildings crammed into the same stretch of street, some of them long and large, and yet they still all fit. One was some kind of convention center with a brash marquee on the front. There was the flashing of lights and chaos. All the buildings were at least twice as tall as they had been, blocking out the sky. The initial emotion was excitement at the novelty. Excitement decayed leaving confusion, and after the confusion wore off all that was there was a damp disappointment. I had never had a sharp realization in a dream before. Usually my dreams are vague, slippery creatures that wiggle away from me as I leave unconsciousness. But this was vivid and real. I saw that the town had to be what it was. It had to be small. It had to be lacking in culture and entertainment. It had to be boring. It had to be these ways or it would be other ways, and those other ways wouldn’t be what I remembered and grew up with. If it wasn’t these ways it would be like other places, not like this place. A simple, almost stupid observation, but it wasn’t. It was somehow profound when it came to me.
On one of these walks we came across a squirrel, dead and frozen, its back half dangling loosely from its little tree-hole home. At the time a friend suggested that it was an apt visual symbol for our town - we’re so messed up that even our squirrels are backwards. I found the situation to be more of a microcosm of life in that place - it was as if the creature had been ensnared in the middle of a hasty, frantic attempt to back out of his too-small abode. The squirrel had the same fears, the same restless nature that we had. That place was too small, too Iowa. You had to leave. But you had to come back. You had to come back - you only realized that after you left. You had to come back, if only to go on these late-night walks with this place and the people who hadn’t left it yet.
The best time to experience Forest City, Iowa is after midnight. Everything has stopped by that time, everything that was ever going in the first place. We used to go on endless walks, epic walks across the entirety of the barren city. The silence was gelatinous, like a glacier of vaseline slowly sliding over the town, smothering all life and sound and awareness out of it. Except for us. We were impervious. We were aware.
We would walk down the middle of main street, the street that my house was on. It was a cobblestone remnant of the past before they dug it all up and redid it a few years ago. We would own that street, because there were no cars, and no sentient beings about to challenge our authority.
We’d start at my house, a large gray/blue one. Some argued gray, some blue. We never really knew what color it was until we later painted it white and sold it, and by then who really gave a shit what color it was? It was their color, not ours. It was the color of the past.
It was on a hill though. That whole block was on a hill, like a fortress. It was this huge lump in the middle of main street with access to the driveway through an alley on either side. In the winter you had to stomp on the pedal, close your eyes, and launch your car up the snow and ice covered gravel, praying that you didn’t slide into one of the neighbor’s huge oak trees, or backwards into the road and another vehicle.
We had a raspberry bush in the big backyard where I would always go to trap bumblebees in mason jars as a kid. Then there was the climbing tree. A senior citizen, it was gnarled and rotting. It housed thorns and mushrooms and disease all under one roof. I used to climb it with a seat cushion and read in a crook of its delicate branches. Eventually we had to have one of the larger limbs cut down for fear it would one day come barging uninvited through the bathroom window.
A wall of small trees and hedges formed a kind of border between the end of the yard and the gravel alley. It was a poor man’s forest, my sanctuary. There was a kind of natural opening, a thinning of the vivid foliage, and a hollowed out compartment inside. I would sit on a folding chair there and think about everything there was to think about. It was paradise, marred only by the rusting, gray electric meter towards the back.
In the front yard was the cherry tree, seemingly mounted purposely on a miniature hill like a prop for a model train set. The tree was on the left side of the yard, the smaller side, which was separated from the rest by the serpentine sidewalk that snaked from our front door to the steps that led to the street. On the other side was the buckeye tree. We would collect its beautiful nuts and put them in bowls around the house as decoration. The tree’s branches covered that whole section of yard, and us when we were in it, like a protective father with a thousand arms, guarding his children from the sun and the elements and the world and life.
That’s where we would usually begin the walk from, the buckeye tree. After the town settled in for the night we would venture out of my pea-green carpeted, musty basement which served as our refuge. Out the front door, a pause under the buckeye tree, down the sidewalk, and into the deserted streets.
If it was summer it would be humid. Not “slightly moist humid.” It was “forging through a curtain of weightless, floating gobs of warm, sticky sap with your face humid.” We’d walk side by side, the two or three or four or five of us, as wide as we wanted, presenting the appearance of a force to be reckoned with.
We had a flexible route. We would head towards “town,” which meant the courthouse and the few blocks of small shops and businesses that resided there. In summer we would cut back and forth through alleyways, avoiding the ever-present mosquito spray truck. It stayed a step ahead of us always...our nemesis. It coated the air with chemical, which combined with the humidity to form carcinogenic moisture. That was the smell of summer in that tiny Iowa town - the sickly-sweet yet medicinal odor of the mosquito poison. Mosquito poison with a dash of fresh gorgeous oxygen, claustrophobia with a hint of home.
So we would weave and wind our way towards the epicenter, sweat forging a bond between our clothing and our flesh if it was summer. But sometimes it was winter. If it was winter there was snow, that was one thing you could count on that town to provide. We’d cross country ski over the patches of ice in our shoes. We’d throw clumps of snow or slush or ice at each other as we journeyed. We’d stop by the Lutheran Church to play King of the Hill on the deposit of dirty snow left in the corner of the parking lot by the mammoth snow zambonis that replaced the mosquito trucks when the temperature dropped.
The smell of Iowa winter was pure, unadulterated, natural cold. The cold prickled in your nostrils like menthol, blasting open your sinuses and reddening your nose. It smelled like Christmas and skiing and icicles and boots and frozen ponds and slush-soaked socks.
But regardless of season, regardless of weather, regardless of it all, we would always walk that path towards downtown. We would walk past the tank, a large green war memorial that was fun to climb on because it was a tank, and because the signs said not to. Then past the Victorian Tea House, which used to be the Pizza Ranch. Everything here used to be something else. The shops go out of business eventually, leaving an empty storefront or another business that will mark time until it too runs out of customers and money and life. The movie rental place used to be the Dollar Store, which used to be a store for children’s clothing. The bookstore used to be something else, and at one point there was a bakery, but I’m not sure where that went. Who can keep track?
Later, after the house had been sold, we had to reverse our route. No longer having a central location to base our travels from, we had to park my car in a random lot in the middle of town and make our way back towards my former home. This was after having all gone away to college and learned new things, become new people. We would occasionally share a cigarette between us. None of us really smoked, but it reminded us of college friends, it comforted us, it made us feel important. We found it supremely ironic and amusing to sit on my front steps, the steps where we had played as toddlers, the steps that my family no longer owned, the steps that were now owned by sleeping strangers a few feet away, the steps where we were now doing our adult things. We let the smoke we exhaled mix with the memories that already hung thick and visible in the air.
I had a dream recently about going back there. I was driving into town, through one of the two intersections equipped with a stoplight. I dropped a faceless, nameless person off at the outskirts of town, rolled down the windows, and crawled into the business district as if in slow motion, eager to explore the area and to revel in, roll around in, rub my face in its cozy familiarity. As I turned a corner I saw neon and new. There were twenty new buildings crammed into the same stretch of street, some of them long and large, and yet they still all fit. One was some kind of convention center with a brash marquee on the front. There was the flashing of lights and chaos. All the buildings were at least twice as tall as they had been, blocking out the sky. The initial emotion was excitement at the novelty. Excitement decayed leaving confusion, and after the confusion wore off all that was there was a damp disappointment. I had never had a sharp realization in a dream before. Usually my dreams are vague, slippery creatures that wiggle away from me as I leave unconsciousness. But this was vivid and real. I saw that the town had to be what it was. It had to be small. It had to be lacking in culture and entertainment. It had to be boring. It had to be these ways or it would be other ways, and those other ways wouldn’t be what I remembered and grew up with. If it wasn’t these ways it would be like other places, not like this place. A simple, almost stupid observation, but it wasn’t. It was somehow profound when it came to me.
On one of these walks we came across a squirrel, dead and frozen, its back half dangling loosely from its little tree-hole home. At the time a friend suggested that it was an apt visual symbol for our town - we’re so messed up that even our squirrels are backwards. I found the situation to be more of a microcosm of life in that place - it was as if the creature had been ensnared in the middle of a hasty, frantic attempt to back out of his too-small abode. The squirrel had the same fears, the same restless nature that we had. That place was too small, too Iowa. You had to leave. But you had to come back. You had to come back - you only realized that after you left. You had to come back, if only to go on these late-night walks with this place and the people who hadn’t left it yet.
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Slew they the goats, yay!
Rule of thumb: Girls who have their parents find you an old school Nintendo, buy it for you, and have it shipped from Alaska totally kick ass. Dudes, there will be hunting of ducks this summer, and it will not be done in camoflage. I'm not sure if this is quite as exciting a prospect for you as it is para mi, but it should be damnit.
In other news, The Meaning of Life still kicks ass. In sports, my roommate is now on crutches because of a brutal volleyball injury. This has several implications: he can no longer participate in the one hour of activity he was obligated to perform per day (though he still goes to bed before midnight to be fully rested for intensive sitting on his ass), I have to help him to and from the shower, and he's fun to trip. In weather, it looks like The Hound of the Baskervilles here every night; the fog has replaced the rain with a vengeance since dear Petros departed. And I shall be leaving in two days for the land of California where I will sing a lot, be housed by old and senile people, go to the Price is Right and Disneyland, and encounter my parents. Sounds like a recipe for a beautiful disaster.
In other news, The Meaning of Life still kicks ass. In sports, my roommate is now on crutches because of a brutal volleyball injury. This has several implications: he can no longer participate in the one hour of activity he was obligated to perform per day (though he still goes to bed before midnight to be fully rested for intensive sitting on his ass), I have to help him to and from the shower, and he's fun to trip. In weather, it looks like The Hound of the Baskervilles here every night; the fog has replaced the rain with a vengeance since dear Petros departed. And I shall be leaving in two days for the land of California where I will sing a lot, be housed by old and senile people, go to the Price is Right and Disneyland, and encounter my parents. Sounds like a recipe for a beautiful disaster.
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