Titletown Texts

Well, I spent a good hour messing around searching for gifs and video clip embeds and photo upload jingle jangle, and I am giving up! If you need a refresh of what happened in the final game of the 2015 World Series, here it is in full, or you can skip to 2:45

So after Harvey "NO WAY!"d and walked Cain and Hosmer doubled Cain in, I sent this text to Bag:

And after Hosmer scored on the wild throw:

And after the Royals onslaught ended and Wade Davis came in to finish things off:

Sadly, Fox did not cut to millionaire Kevin James' sad, Mets-loving face. But we did win the World Series, so that was pretty good.

Joke-Cards Wild

Back in the early '90s, I would read Beckett Baseball Card Monthly, to check up on my wise investments. Which of the mass-produced sports cards I purchased in the highly over-saturated market are worth big money? Which are mere common cards, which I can toss in a box and not look at again until my mom wants to clean out her storage space?

One issue of Beckett showed me how to take a sports card and make it hilarious. So I did! I did. I turned some of my cards into jokes, which I'm sure were only seen by myself and my brother and possibly a disinterested cousin. UNTIL NOW! I cleaned out a box in the basement, and can now share the hilarity.

[Note - images are poor because I scanned them to pdf and then took a screenshot, because we're not exactly dealing with fine art so I didn't fuss over dpi and whatnot.]

This bunch is classic. You take the player's photo and you make it hilarious by adding some speech bubbles, or some artwork. A+ work, tween me!

Okay, okay. This batch it a little confusing. Just marking on cards with highlighters isn't really funny. Why use a Randy Johnson card in the first place? The man is wasn't a LEGEND yet, but he was still really good at that point in time, and I defaced the card. It could be worth like $1.30 in mint condition! Wade Taylor and Kevin Brown replaced with comically mismatched heads? That's pretty funny.

Whoa, I bought some football cards? Gosh, this is funny. His mouth is open and he looks so goofy! This joke definitely holds up.

Basketball cards! These are all perfect. Dwayne Schintzius (R.I.P.) was actually from Florida and not a California surfer dude, but hey! He's got a mullet and a funny look on his face, so this joke is perfect! Joe Wolf DOES look like he could be the Statue of Liberty! Rick Mahorn and Larry Bird do seem to be enjoying a funny joke together! And Bill Hanzlik, 1986 All-Defense Second Teamer, does look like an ACME brand "safe" safe is falling on his head!

Huh. I guess Darrell May's swing follow-through does look a bit like Barry Bonds', but it also looks like almost every left-handed hitter's. And, uh...

Look, as a grown man, I can see that Oil Can Boyd does not look much like Hollywood director Spike Lee. To a kid whose only exposure to Spike Lee was Nike commercials, and whose only other exposure to black men was through The Cosby Show, A Different World, and The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, it's another story. Any black man wearing oversized frames looked like Spike Lee to me. 

Okay. Okay, okay. Uh. Okay. So,

Yeah, maybe Bucks guard Lester Conner doesn't look exactly like Magic Johnson. Maybe these past two cards give the impression I was a racist kid. But does he look ENTIRELY unlike Magic? Definitely not.

And yeah, you're probably wondering if my speech bubble for Rockets guard Dave Jamerson is an HIV joke. Look at the racist kid, making fun of the black guy with HIV.

Well, I honestly don't know if it's an HIV joke. It was a long time ago. Does Jamerson saying, "OH NO! GET AWAY! GET AWAY!" fit his expression in the photo? Yes, it does. Would it still be applicable if the Lakers legend had not contracted HIV? Yes, it would. Even the ref has a funny look on his face in this photo, so let's not let what may or may not be a slap in the face of the HIV-positive community affect how we view this very funny joke. Very funny!

Last, here's my favorite:

Jack Clark was a four-time All Star with nearly 350 career dingers. So why did I put a thought bubble that reads, "I STINK" on his card? Why did I ETCH it into the cardboard, rather than simply write it on a piece of paper and glue it to the card, like I did with all the rest?

I like to think that I saw the look on Jack's face, and determined that it was one of existential dread or self-doubt. Sorry, Jack Clark! You stink!

K-State Ninety-Eight

Last Saturday, the University of Alabama lost a football game, which meant K-State was now in line to play in the national championship game. This week, a lot of people have mentioned the last time such a thing occurred.

It was December 5, 1998. Shawn and I drove to St. Louis' TWA Dome to watch our Wildcats play Texas A&M in the Big 12 Championship Game. We were sophomores.

St. Louis, as usual, looked like garbage.

The A&M band, as usual, made shapes with themselves.

After K-State took a 17-3 lead, the arena announced Miami's upset of UCLA. We all cheered, knowing we were now in line to play in the national championship game. The scoreboard was photographed for posterity with my cheap camera. You'll have to trust me when I tell you it read Miami 49, UCLA 45.

My pals bought "Big 12 Champions" T-shirts at halftime, because we knew WE GOT THIS THING IN THE BAG.

Then we fumbled and stuff, and we lost in the second overtime.

Our group of friends drove to our shitty motel and ate terrible food at the Shoney's next door and everybody felt like shit for, like, the next year or the rest of our lives or so.

December Musings

Well, you know, I've been busy watching movies and stuff, but there will be more stuff on here really soon. I'm not going to go all Floyd on you. No posts in 5 months for Floyd! What a dick.

* * *

Two humorous things sent to me recently:


"I just got drunk at CD's bar from Walker, Texas Ranger."

-- text from Brian


"My parents and I will be up in the Cancun timeshare and I think there’s room for 2 more – you could even have the privacy of your own room and bathroom. I know this sounds excessive to have so many time shares, but I can’t be bothered to explain it. As you know, Cancun is lame in many ways, but it’s warm and relaxing and happy hour is at 3:30. And there are pretty cool Mayan ruins nearby. This might be your last chance to see them if their calendar is correct and the world is about to end."

-- email from Bar


* * *

The new Paul F Tompkins CD I ordered was delivered yesterday. Sometimes I save the first listen of such spoken word items for long drives, but I can't wait until my Christmas travels to enjoy this goodness. Look at the cover -- how could I delay one more moment without listening?




* * *


Does anyone other than @BAGEsq and Nick and Adrienne read my Google Shared Items? If you do, please leave a comment below. I feel so alone.

If you don't, you didn't notice my comments about this Franz Ferdinand video



"I know this isn't an epic video, but it makes me think about the decline of MTV. If this just happened to appear on my television, I'd be really entertained and I'd hope to see it again. As is, with no music video programming on TV, I can't be bothered to call up YouTube every week and re-watch it. All these good videos are single servings, just watched once and thrown away."

The Other Archives - Twin Letters

I re-found these again two weeks back, as I was cleaning up the junk that's accumulated upstairs.

You're going to wonder what motivated me to do this, but I don't have an answer for you. I guess it was a time in my life where I felt like strange and wonderful things were there for the taking, maybe, possibly -- probably not, but possibly -- if you took a shot in the dark.

Anyway, here's the letters I wrote May 26, 2001 to Doug Mientkiewicz and Joe Mays, care of the Minnesota Twins. A similar letter to Matt Lawton (or Tom Kelly? I can't recall.) is lost to the ages. This will go without saying, but neither letter prompted return correspondence.


* * *

Dear Mr. Mientkiewicz,

Hello. My name is [dn]. I'm a 21 year old student from Kansas.

It's hard to believe I was only 11 years old back in 1991, but mathematics are certainly hard to argue with. Perhaps it's so hard to believe because my memory of that Fall seems so vivid. Sitting on an old but well-kept brown sofa, I watched the Twins take on the Braves for seven games in the World Series. I watched from my grandparents' basement, and when I wanted to jump up and cheer in response to Kirby Puckett's amazing defense or Brian Harper's collision with Lonnie Smith I couldn't, lest I wake my sleeping grandparents. Weeks leter, my dad bought me a T-shirt proclaiming the Twins championship, which I wore proudly until its many holes rendered it unfit for its purpose.

This was the beginning of my life as a Twins fan. Now, a decade later, I find myself drawn to Minnesota once again, this time as an aside to baseball. In the fall, I will begin graduate school. [...] These past few weeks since I learned of my acceptance into the program have been exciting and anxious, as I've tried to sort out moving plans, where to open a bank account, and, most importantly, where to live in the Twin Cities. It was while I was searching for apartments on the internet that I realized just how near each other the Metrodome and my new school actually are: this was my inspiration for the letter you are reading now.

It makes quite a bit of sense when you think about it -- why not ask Doug Mientkiewicz if you can live at his house? He seems to be a down-to-earth guy; and sure, he doesn't have a high-priced major-league contract, but he's got to have a house, right? When you think about it, really, it's more stupid not to ask Doug Mientkiewicz if he has a spare room available for rent.

I could help around the house! I could do the dishes. I could take out the trash. I could buy the groceries or do the laundry. I'm a young, able-bodied college student, and if you could find me a place in the Mientkiewicz home, I'd be at your service. Plus, I'm happy to pay rent. An alternative plan may be to find me some living arrangements in the Metrodome; I could run your fan club from one of its offices!

I realize this is a lot to ask a person, which is why I'm sure you won't find it surprising that I have taken the initiative to write some of your teammates as well. This is simply to increase my odds of getting a response, and I hope you will not feel that it detracts from the sincerity of my request or the genuineness of my appreciation for you as a player.

Finally, I want to thanks you for being a part of this 2001 Twins team, a team that has given fans like myself reason to cheer once again. I truly hope that you will continue to enjoy your career as much as the recent article in ESPN the magazine indicates you are presently, and I wish you nothing but the best of luck in the future.

Thank you for your time,
[dn]


* * *

The letter to Joe Mays is identical, save for a few choice moments:



I won't lie to you, Mr. Mays. I knew nothing of you before this season. As luck would have it, however, I joined a fantasy baseball league with some friends, and I was looking for a solid pitcher one day a few weeks into April, and there you were. Joe Mays is the ace of the [dn]'s Destroyers pitching staff, and as a Twins fan I couldn't be happier.

Granted, I know you owe me nothing, even if I had enough faith in you to pick up your contract in the fake, computerized baseball world. Nevertheless, I appeal to this faux relationship between us when I ask: Can I live at your place?

...for all I know, you live in a house with a few extra rooms and may be intrigued by my request. Please be assured I would be happy to pay rent -- not only that, but I feel that I would be a real asset to the household by mopping the floors or running errands and so on.

* * *

The Other Archives - Italian Heat

I found this in an email Corinne sent while she was "studying" abroad:

Oh, also, at the bar on Friday night, there were some amazing pick up attempts made my Italian guys to various girls in our group. Here they are, use them well...

Number 1: (really politely taps Nora on the shoulder) "Excuse me....will you fuck me?"

Number 2 and my personal favorite: "Lets get naked and see if my balls are bigger than your boobs"

Number 3: After Meg drops a battery and creepy guy picks it up "Your battery is in my pants, come look for it, now I am supercharged"

The Other Archives - Craigslist Follies

Back in 2005, Heather forwarded me a funny Craiglist post:

LA GUY SEEKS MN GIRL - 28

HI I NEED A WIFE. I WANT BABIES SOON. ANY LADIES INTERESTED IN A MN BOY WHO
MOVED TO LA?

I'm 6/2 190 blond blue, etc. No fatties. Good genes please.

Two years later, Heather's follow-up question remains unanswered: What does this guy mean by "etc."?

The Other Archives - Cooter

An old email from a friend, back when I was trying to bring "cooter" back into the colloquial lexicon:

[My roommate] does not like the term "cooter". Her reply back is "cooter" is they guy from Dukes.

I prefer the term "pooter-putter" or "hoo-hoo". When I shadowed a physician in college, a woman we examined was so upset that he was going to examine "her hoo-hoo in front of this lady...what are you trying to teach her about hoo-hoos and stuff?".

Luckily the physician was quick to say "um...first she has one of those and second, I think it is best we teach people who want to go into medicine about hoo-hoos".

The Other Archives: Heather's Holiday

Good news -- I have started the Snoopy story. While you wait, breath bated, for it to be finished, please enjoy this tidbit. This is an email from two Thanksgivings ago:

Where are you? How as Thanksgiving? I watched a show on apes. I didn't want to but I got sucked in. It was about apes getting along with hoofed animals in a zoo.

Heather

Take your time cleaning out your inbox archives, kids. Hidden gems abound.

March Madness

In March 2003, I arranged a meeting with a young woman. We watched a terribly dull Tim Roth movie before she fell asleep on my futon. I felt a little silly when I found out about the boyfriend, but we became friends nonetheless.

Before all that, there was this online chat with Floyd. As you will see, we had a lot of time on our hands that night*:

dn: you there?
floyd: yes I am
floyd: what's up?
floyd: I'm actually on Monster.com right now
dn: man, shit, I'm just chillin'
floyd: and I think I found my calling
dn: wha?
floyd: I found a job titled: Model Scout
dn: like Lorenzo Lamas in that Are You Hot show?
floyd: apparently, if hired for said job, I'd be working for none other than Lou Pearlman, creater of New Kids on the Block, Backstreet Boys, N'Sync and O-Town
floyd: yes, much like Lorenzo Lamas, except I'd have no Renegade experience
dn: well, very little Renegade experience, at least
floyd: right
dn: I'm e-mailing that Jewish chick just now
floyd: oh, the attractive Jewish girl?
dn: except I'm not for certain if she's of Jewish decent or a practicing Jew or what
dn: yes, the attractive one
dn: she invited me bike riding on Friday, when the high is supposed to reach 50
floyd: wow
dn: People are going nuts. It's all we can think about
floyd: did you ride bikes?
floyd: oh wait, this Friday
dn: yeah
floyd: right
dn: but I've no bike
dn: and that's what we're discussing
floyd: hmmm...
floyd: I'd let you use mine, but I don't think I could ride up there by Friday
dn: she wrote: "you might have to ride on my handlebars."
dn: does that mean sex?
floyd: by handlebars, does she mean cooter?
dn: that's what I'm gonna ask in my reply
floyd: lol
dn: I think I might say I can't get off work for Fri afternoon, and see if she wants to do something at night instead.
dn: that's, like, money, right?
floyd: that seems pretty money to me
dn: you're, like, Mr. Money, so that's good to hear
dn: what I really want to know is: what would Nick Collison do?
floyd: lol
dn: I can't do what Jesus would do, b/c of the whole Jew thing
floyd: Nick Collison would say, "hey, I'm Nick Collison, and I'd love to ride bikes with you"
dn: lol
floyd: that's what Nick Collison would sya
floyd: say
dn: that's why he's a star
dn: I'm taking next Thurs off to do nothing but watch March madness and drink and eat shrimp cocktail
floyd: is next Thursday the opening round?
floyd: wow
dn: oh yeah
dn: Just enough time to recover from St Paddy's day, really
dn: I don't want you to have to skip work to help me fulfill my dream of
> outdoorsy excitement. We can go some other time if you have to work. Or,
> let me know what time works best for your work schedule. My only other
> plan Friday is to see my cousin in the evening.
>

dn: that's text from her message
floyd: the cousin thing is weird
dn: yeah, and "in the evening"?
dn: when is that?
floyd: I don't know
floyd: is that like from 5-8, leaving the nighttime hours open?
floyd: hmmm...
dn: this is one tough cooter to crack
floyd: lol
dn: It can't be past 8. Seriously. Who would say "evening" if it was an all night deal?
floyd: let's remember that she is Jewish
dn: She's giving me the opportunity, right?
dn: lol
dn: she's leaving the door open for activity later in the evening.
dn: ..or is she?
floyd: I think the door is open
dn: so far all I have written is this:
Do you have a basket on the front of your bike? Maybe I could ride in that. Handlebars are not really my thing.

dn: ...I'm so getting laid
floyd: that's a good line
dn: Yeah, I tried it in a bar once and it didn't work out
floyd: lol
floyd: was it a biker bar?
dn: no, it was a coffee house
floyd: well there was your problem
floyd: maybe you should buy a sidecar, or even make one
dn: maybe I should take the text of our conversation about her message and use that as my reply
floyd: I'd think it wouldn't be too hard to make with a shopping cart
floyd: lol
dn: aren't sidecars just for nazi motorbikes and those asian thingys
dn: what are those things called...
floyd: I've seen Harley sidecars
dn: when the asian peasant pulls you
dn: rickshaw
dn: hmm...I'd have to cut out our references to her being jewish
dn: in case she's not
dn: and the whole, "well, she is Jewish" line
floyd: you don't know that she's Jewish?
dn: here's what happened
dn: at the last party, a few weeks ago, I asked her ethnicity
dn: because she looks a little different, but mostly I just thought she'd say German or Irish or whatever
dn: that's all I was looking for
dn: and she said Jewish
floyd: ok
dn: Apparently people ask her all the time
floyd: so she's Jewish
dn: which I found odd
dn: so she is?
floyd: could she have been kidding?
floyd: that doesn't seem like something to kid about
dn: no, not kidding
dn: but that doesn't mean she is practicing, it means her parent(s) were Jewish
dn: or of Jewish decent
floyd: right
dn: and I can't ever, ever ask her again, because the time has passed
floyd: you know, the Nazis thought of it as an ethnicity
dn: maybe that's how I can bring it up in conversation again
floyd: I think you could probably ask her again
floyd: lol
dn: "you know, speaking of the Nazis...
floyd: "they sure killed a lot of Jews...how do you feel about that?"
dn: lol
dn: "do you feel bad? Give me it on a scale of 1-10"
floyd: lol
floyd: speaking of genocide, I made a Holocaust joke the other day
floyd: there's this girl in the law school named Holly that we frequently hang out with
floyd: and her birthday is coming up
floyd: I proposed that we name her birthday party "The Hollycaust"
dn: "speaking of genocide". classic. lol
floyd: and it would have a death camp theme
floyd: fog machines, etc.
dn: sounds kind of like my idea for prom:
dn: The Fall of Saigon
floyd: lol
floyd: right
floyd: I was rewarded with nervous laughter
dn: whatever. She's in law school and has no soul, so she should have laughed heartily
floyd: that's what I was thinking
floyd: actually, she probably just didn't get it
dn: Holly is so dumb
floyd: yeah
floyd: she was probably hoping for some lame "Holly-wood" joke
dn: yeah
floyd: but instead she was forced to laugh at the misery of millions
floyd: courtesy of yours truly
dn: millions?
floyd: 6 million, to be exact
dn: come on, Floyd, get real
floyd: give or take
dn: like, twenty, tops
floyd: so you think the Holocaust was a hoax too?
dn: I've added this past my handlebars thing: Maybe me not having a bike or friends is God telling me not to go biking with you. Maybe he's telling me to spend the rest of my life alone, not on a bike. Or maybe we should just get together Friday night.

dn: I should put "Friday night, after I get out of work."
floyd: that's a money message, I think
dn: and maybe substitute "God" with Yahweh
floyd: lol
dn: is that how you spell it?
floyd: I believe
floyd: maybe you should go with "a higher being" to avoid confrontation
dn: "Fate"
dn: The Fates
dn: yeah, confrontation may be unavoidable
dn: she's Jewish, I'm Catholic
floyd: lots of history there
dn: yeah, that's what I'm saying
dn: how do you spell embarrass?
dn: embarass?
dn: two r's?
floyd: aw crap
floyd: I can't tell now
floyd: two rs
floyd: r's
floyd: yes
floyd: that's it
dn: ok
floyd: embarrass
floyd: yeah
dn: maybe I should just write down the words of Queen's "Bicycle Race" and send that as my reply
floyd:
floyd: "Biiiiiii-cycle! Biiiiiii-cycle! I like to ride my bicycle!" (set to song)
dn: how's this:
dn: Maybe me not having a bike or friends is God telling me not to go biking with you. Maybe He's telling me to spend the rest of my life alone, not on a bike. Or maybe we should just get together Friday night, when I am not working and you are not with your cousin...or was the whole point of your invitation just to see me embarrass myself on a bicycle? Like the point of the wine party was to see me chill a wine meant to be served at room temperature?
floyd: I would go out with you, if you sent me that e-mail
dn: that puts her on the defensive
floyd: lol
floyd: and that's what you want
dn: that puts what we call "the ball" in "her court"
dn: but she's on "defense"
floyd: the minute she starts feeling comfortable around you is the minute her cootie packs up and runs away
floyd: cooter
dn: yes, cootie I don't want
floyd: lol
dn: this should make - nay, force - her to say something like, "No, it's ok if you can't go biking, let's just go out later." Or, the alternative, "Well, shit, you found my cruel ass out. The point was to mock you, just like we did at my party on Friday. Looks like my Jew ass has been caught red handed."
dn: I'm sending it
floyd: that last part?
dn: no
floyd: ok, good
floyd: don't want to show your hand too early
dn: I'm going to try and refrain from saying "my Jew ass" for a while
dn: until we build a rapport
dn: lol
floyd: lol

*Note: Floyd and I are not bigoted, just hilarious.

You Shall Know My Verbosity

Rumor has it a painfully long post of mine will be found on Circle V soon - enter her domain at your own peril.

The Other Archives - My Beard

[Written in the early fall of 2002. Posted because, a.) Some people still haven't seen my legendary beard, and b.) I told Heather I had written reasons for the beard, and she asked me to share.]

I haven't seen Dana since I left Manhattan. It was strange, then, to see her waiting for my bus on the first week of school.

I was downtown, next to the library, waiting for a 50 or 16 to take me to campus. The girl looked very much like Dana - especially the lips - and I found myself staring at her a little too much.

She sat one seat in front of me on the bus, an opportunity I took to stare at her a lot more. I miss Dana. I should talk to Dana sometime. I need to get her number in Dallas.

The bus stopped at the west bank and continued over the Washington Ave. Bridge. "Dana" laughed when she saw the shoe tree to our right. (The shoe tree is a tree that has a lot of shoes in it. The shoes' laces are tied to one another, and then they are draped like ornaments in the tree. I have no idea who does this and why it is done.) She turned her neck, allowing herself to see the tree for the maximum amount of time, and our eyes met while she was smiling, mouth slightly open. After making eye contact she stopped smiling and faced forward.

I was probably frowning. I'm always frowning. Mom used to always say I frown while I read - it probably applies to when I'm staring at chicks, too. Or buying groceries. Or whatever. I'm such a sour little fucker. Why can't I just have a slight smile on my face when it's apparent the girl I'm staring at on the bus is going to see me?

Maybe it wasn't the frowning. Maybe it was my beard.

* * *

If I were to guess what the most commonly asked question is, I'd say, "What's up?" Lately, however, it has been, "What's up with the beard?" Below are my reasons for growing a beard.

In the movie (presumably the book) Fight Club, there's a line: "How much can you know about yourself if you've never been in a fight? I don't want to die without any scars." I don't want to die without having grown a beard. Why not grow a beard?

After all, that scene in The Royal Tenenbaums with Richie cutting off his huge beard is a pretty neat one, set to Elliott Smith music, and Richie is a pretty cool character...

I've always wanted to come home after an absence changed. I really wanted to experience coming home to friend and family and hearing them say how much muscle I've gained. "You look a lot bigger," they'd say. "Wow. You look hot," the ladies would say. I've accepted the fact that I don't have the drive, and possibly don't have the metabolism, to gain a lot of muscle through weightlifting. So, instead of the bodybuilding thing, I'm accomplishing the dream with a beard. It will not be nearly as cool, and people will just say, "A beard? Why?" but whatever.

Finally, I was pretty sure that I shouldn't date anyone for a while. It seems like I don't know exactly what I want, and until I figure out what to go after I should have some sort of assurance that I can't hook up with a lady that isn't the best lady around. A wild, unruly beard was just the thing.



[Thanks to Pick for the hardware to scan this photo. Note the sliding door in the background - you might remember that door and that apartment from last summer in Oklahoma.]

Pamoja

[Hi. I found the following text over the weekend, when I was searching for the letters I wrote to former Minnesota Twins players. (I asked several of them to put me up in their mansions while I went to graduate school. I did not receive any correspondence in return.) The text is an email I sent on behalf of the student senate - we were hosting a get-together for all the grad students. It was called "Pamjoa", for reasons I'm still not quite comprehending. Regardless of its name, we needed to get the asses in the seats, as they say. I thought this email would do the trick. It's ridiculous, ridiculously long, and of little interest to anyone.]

I hope you are all considering to attend Pamoja: An Evening of Community. Wednesday evening will surely prove to be a good time.

I'm sure more than a few of you have thought, or even wondered aloud, "Pamoja? Why is it called Pamoja? Well, I'll tell you why.

There's a reason for everything, and--

No, stop. Wait. I'm sorry. I'm off to a bad start already. That's a lie, the thing about a reason for everything. Reassuring as it may sound, it's simply not true; I don't want to start off with a lie like that. What message would I be sending? A message of untruth, or, at the very least, a misleading memorandum -- and that's, like, the Best Case Scenario.

There is not a reason for everything, and that fact is a difficult thing to wrap one's head around. Still, for some things a reason exists, and one of these reasoned entities is the naming of Pamoja. After an extensive survey of young professionals, the name for the back-to-school Student Senate-sponsored event was shortlisted to three. They were, in order of popularity:

1. Twilight Enchantment
2. Banquet Under the Sea

(and)

3. Pinnacle: A Remembrance of Heart

Clearly, Student Senate had its work cut out for itself. After separately voting on the best event name at four separate meetings, the deadlock was broken. "Banquet Under the Sea" won out by the narrowest of margins, and planning began in earnest. Things hit a snag rather quickly, however, when it brought to our attention that seawater caused unfortunate aftertastes in the dishes we planned to serve. This detail -- in combination with the grim realization that humans cannot dine or survive for extended periods underwater -- was great enough to abort the underwater buffet idea. I thank heavens to this day for the rehearsal that brought these points to our attention; I fear the loss of life may have been far greater if we had proceeded as planned.

So, there we were, a mere two months away from the event date, without a name for our gathering. Down on my luck, I turned to my usual therapy -- a steamy helping of alphabet soup. As I sipped the broth from a plastic spoon -- irregularly shaped due to unfortunate, improper placement in the automatic dishwasher -- I happened to glance down at my bowl's literary content. Clearly spelled out between a bit of celery and a chunk of chicken (the manufacturers claim it's 100% All White Meat!, but I have my doubts) was the word that inspired it all: "PARTOFME".

Granted, it was hardly a word at all, more like 3 words in one magical grouping, but it did the trick. A switch in my noggin flipped, and I rushed to the file cabinet in the next room. Inside was the answer we had been searching for: 3,000 pieces of correspondence, the result of an intensive, nationwide letter-writing campaign to Student Senate the previous semester. All across America, both youths and adolescents alike sent their voices soaring past the walls of their middle schools. They urged us to, should we sponsor a gathering of public health students and faculty, name the event "Pamoja".

Without bothering to alert the others, I immediately began researching the etymology of Pamoja. What I found was alarming. Not only was its aesthetic value off the charts, Pamoja's literal and figurative meanings were perfectly suited for its designation. Clearly, the letter-writing youth of America were on to something…something BIG.

It turns out that Pamoja is a Swahili word for "together". Can you believe it? What a happy coincidence! Here we are, planning an event to bring together two groups of people, and we get a name that MEANS WHAT WE'RE DOING!! Amazing. And it didn't stop there -- as my research continued, I found that "together" is actually an English word for "pamoja"!

Furthermore, "together" is taken from the essential derivative "ghedh", which in turn becomes words like "gadrian" (meaning "gather", Old English) and "gaduri" (meaning "in a body", Germanic). Just fascinating. Didn't I tell you it was fascinating? Here we are, "gathering" people (or, "bodies") into a place that originally was going to be a "body" of water…I mean, does it get any better than Pamoja?

Pamoja, were it to appear in a common English language dictionary, would be placed adjacent to "pampero", a strong, cold southwest wind that blows across the Pampas. It's cold here in Minnesota -- where wind sometimes blows -- where we're having Pamoja! And it's being held at the Weisman Museum, a museum that just HAPPENS to face the southwest!

Books of learning scattered across the floor, my hands shook as I sat there, trying to light a cigarette. My anxiety was so great that I failed to accomplish that task; indeed, my anxiety was so momentous that I had forgotten that I do not smoke -- in fact, my anxiety was so very, very big that I had no recollection of stopping my research briefly, walking outside, punching a passerby in the stomach, taking his wallet and cigarettes, then calmly moving back inside my abode and attempting to enter Flavor Country.

And you should be excited, too. Pamoja could very well be the last event we ever attend. Not the last function we go to at Gehry's Wacky Shack, not the last gathering at the University of Minnesota -- the last event, like, ever. The world could end immediately after the interactive entertainment we have planned for Pamoja comes to a close. Don't believe me? What if I told you that "Pampas" was a vast plain of south-central South America from the lower Parana R. to south-central Argentina? Am I the only one that sees the significance? Pamoja? Pampero? Pampas? Parana R.? Vast plain? A vast plain is, like, only the most OBVIOUS reference to the all-encompassing void of space known as the ever-expanding universe, where our souls will drift for all eternity after the planet we know as Earth implodes upon itself.

Please, I urge you to come to Pamoja before life as we know it comes to an end. Also, there will be food and drinks.

Bye,

Student Senate

There Was Something In The Air That Night

[This is the information about my old neighbors I promised a while back. This was written in July 2002.]

I was studying for the Biostatistics final in my apartment. It was night, and I heard some commotion from the apartment I share a wall with. The only things/words I'm CERTAIN I heard that night were:

"Don't EVER call me MOTHERFUCKER! Don't you EVER call me motherFUCKER!"

I believe there was a slap or hit of some kind before, after, or between these statements. There was also talk of one person wanting the other person (the one who was slapped) the fuck out of the apartment. Then there was nothing for the rest of the night - nothing I heard, anyway.

Fast forward to the next day; I, again, was dutifully studying for a biostatistics test that would turn out to be amazingly simple. I heard voices again from next door, and forced myself to write some of the lines down (these lines have been on 2 post-it notes on my desk for the last 7 months, and thank God I can finally throw those away).

First there was sounds that may have been the moving of things in a closet, such as the sound that may have been wire hangers moving on a rod. Then I believe there was the sound of a door unlocking and opening, followed immediately by a "where are you going/what are you doing sort of comment by a man I believe to be Robert. (Robert, although I have never met him, must be the name, as people sometimes come around to the back parking lot and shout up to his window, "Robert!", prompting him to leave the apartment, go downstairs and let them in the building. I may have seen Robert before, but there's no way to tell, as it may have been a friend of his entering/exiting the apartment.) The following is from my post-it notes from that morning, verbatim, keeping in mind there was MUCH emotion in these words, more than CAPS or italics would do justice, so much so that I'm not going to bother:

Fernando don't go!
I'll change!
I will change
I promise you
I am sick enough
I am jealous enough
Why me?
I'll change
I promise you, Fernando!
I will I will I will
I'm sorry
I won't ever do it again
I'll be good
I'm sorry Fernando…no…NO!
I'll never do it again!
Please forgive me I will be different…no, really honey
I won't ever hurt you ever again
I promise you
I don't know, Fernando, I don't know
Will you stay for Christmas?
It's only one week
-but Fernando you don't TALK to me!
Do you think I have a right to be jealous?
I promise I will never do that again. NEVER! NEVER!!!

very long pause, Robert ends his audible diatribe, the final line belonging to Fernando:

Goodbye.

With that, it was over, and Fernando left. A few minutes later, I heard the Righteous Brothers' Unchained Melody through the wall - a touch of tenderness by this man who hit his boyfriend and positively wailed his case to his victim, only to be left alone (a week before Christmas!) I'm not sure what terms they're on now. I have heard Fernando's loud Latino music in early 2002, but I haven't seen him lately. I do not miss him.

Loring Park Lore

[This is an excerpt of an old email of mine, wherein I detailed some memories of my Minneapolis apartment. I was thinking I could extent it into a good post, but it's been in "draft" status since May 2005, so I'm purging it. More on my old neighbors to come...]

Good

1. Chug It night.

2. Watching the lunar eclipse with Rhonda on the rooftop patio. Nothing like some cold Boulevards and a cosmic event.

3. Hearing the neighbors diagonal from me having prolonged sex. This never bothered me. It was always kind of nice, not too loud, never weird sounds, just good sex.

4. This one time when I was studying (maybe for finals?), and Steph came over and brought cookies.

Neutral

1. Fernando moving out to the dismay of his abusive lover, my neighbor, whose name might have been John.

2. Watching the stupid fucking Jayhawks miss 4 million free throws and lose the national championship game. At least I didn't have to watch it alone.

3. Living without furniture for a year. How many people can say that? And not be homeless?

Bad

1. Hearing the neighbors' squeaky bed above me as they presumably had sex.

2. John, post-Fernando, blasting AC/DC as loud as he possibly could at random times for reasons unknown.

3. The surreal moment I woke at 3 a.m. to hear Fleetwood's "The Chain" being played from John's pad. So many conflicting emotions.

4. Any of the numerous fire drills, esp. the one where the alarm could not be shut off, which kept me awake for an additional 1.5 hours or so.

5. The 4 or 5 days the boiler, and hence our heat, went out.

6. When I couldn't shut my heater off, and dude was like, "I don't know how to fix this - couldn't you just open a window when you're too hot?"

7. The ridiculous ingenuity that I had to employ to wash and dry my dishes due to lack of counter space.

The Other Archives - New In Town

[NOTE: I've got a case of eye strain I'm hoping to cure by avoiding personal internet usage until next week, when I return from my trip to the Twin Cities. I thought it appropriate to leave you with something to read. Below are several pieces I wrote immediately after moving to Minneapolis for graduate school - most of it ended up in emails home to friends. I've reread it this evening, and I come across as a homophobic bumpkin, which is half-accurate. Anywho, this will be a nice refresher for those that have already read this years ago, and a possibly interesting window into my mindset for the friends I've since, uh, befriended. There may be some curly-quote-type issues, since this is pasted from MS Word. Deal with it. I'm going to shut my eyes now.]

August 18th
2:51 pm

There are bells ringing. Not the gonging of the hours ringing, or perhaps that is called tolling – but in any case what I am hearing now is many differently pitched bells chiming in no particular order, constructing no particular tune. I know not where these bells are, as there are three churches in the neighborhood, each assumedly with bells – God’s bells.

I heard a similar excited ringing yesterday around 4:45 in the evening, and I wondered then as I wondered now, “Why are these bells – God’s bells – ringing at this time of day?” I fully comprehend the hourly bells, as well as the one ring heard on the half hour. But these bells – what is with these bells? Are people getting married on Friday afternoons?

There are three churches in the neighborhood, my neighborhood, into which I have slowly begun to settle. It has been an interesting progression, and you should hear about it from the beginning:

Thursday evening:

“How could this place be so small? This didn’t seem so small before. Is this the same apartment I saw last time? The same one I signed up for? This seems really small.

“What is the deal with this place? How could this place be so damn small? What is up with this bathroom sink? Oh. Oh. Okay, the sink is fine. But why is this place so small? This place sucks.

“Why did I move into this place? This is the worst apartment I have ever seen in my life. How can they charge this much for this place? What the hell am I doing in here?

“God, oh God this place is a hellhole. Why did I move here? What am I doing in this city? What the hell am I thinking? I should have taken a job. I should be working. I should be working, at home, in Kansas, working somewhere and making money. Why the hell am I up here? What the hell was I thinking? I don’t belong here. Minneapolis? Who the hell picks Minneapolis? Of all the places in the goddamn country, why am I here? Downtown? What on God’s green earth would possess me to live in the heart of a thriving metropolis like this? Oh, this is such a bad move. Bad, bad idea.

“I shouldn’t have come here. Why did I come here? Why is that guy down the hall playing that rap music so loud? Why is it that the loud rap music is never any rap that I have heard before? Am I out of touch with the black community? Maybe it will be okay. Yeah, it will be okay. It’s always okay. Things will work out. Things will be okay.

“I had to leave. I had to, didn’t I? If I didn’t leave, they would have left, and I would be alone anyway. I’d be in Kansas, alone. Now I’m in Minnesota, alone. No difference. This was the right thing to do. It will be okay. How many stupid people live in this city? Millions. I’m not that dumb. It will be okay. Bigger idiots than I have done this. I can do this. I will live in downtown Minneapolis while attending graduate school.

“This place is kind of nice, really. Oh, look! It’s not so small. I can put the coffee table over there. Yes! And the desk can go there! Yes! This is the greatest apartment ever built! Feel that breeze coming in through the window – can you believe the breeze coming through that window? Truly this must be the wind felt by angels in heaven! Is this not exciting?! This will be fantastic! This will be the greatest adventure since trying to steal that hubcap! The black community embraces me and empathizes with my limited knowledge of rap artists out of the mainstream! Everything will be okay!”

Thursday night:

I decided to walk down the block to the Oak Grove grocery, a smallish shop a bit below street level; it’s a fine place to pick up a loaf of bread, a gallon of milk, Michelob by the bottle, gum – you know the kind of place.

As I stared at the selection of breakfast pastries (which was slim, I might add) the clerk confronted a customer about shoplifting. The “customer” was upset at the accusation, and proceeded to throw his capped bottle of Mountain Dew on the floor, shouting, “I’ll fuck you up!” or something like that. I listened as I continued to stare at the knock-off Pop Tarts. The angry young man left. “I have just been assaulted,” the angry clerk calmly spoke into the telephone. Jesus. I bypassed the pastries and paid for my cereal, milk, and $.50 chocolate/vanilla sandwich cookies. As I walked back toward my apartment building, I passed a police cruiser heading the opposite direction.

It should be noted that I would have been a worthless witness anyway, as I simply stared ahead as I heard yelling. Was the clerk hit? I doubt it. He seemed pretty strange, and, as we all know, justice belongs to everyone but the strange.

Friday morning:

By now I was assured that living in this apartment would not be without its quirks. Here are the most notable oddities:

1. In most kitchens, there are drawers used for storage. In my studio, there is not. This raises an interesting problem involving the placement of my silverware tray, not to mention the eating tools therein. Currently, my silverware tray is on top of my microwave, which is on top of my microwave box.

2. Why is your microwave sitting on its box? How can the box support such a heavy object? As for the latter, it is cleverly and efficiently stuffed with other boxes, aiding its structural integrity. The boxes within a box can now safely hold three strong men, or, in my case, a microwave oven, a toaster, and a full silverware tray. Now then, it resides on said Superbox because there is precious little countertop space in the apartment. Next to the wall is the oven (gas! I’ve never used a gas oven! This is exciting!), next to the oven is the sink, next to the sink is the refrigerator, next to that is the wall. The only space is found on the breakfast bar, a peninsular protrusion found four or five feet opposite the oven, etc. In fact, I could attempt a crude line drawing here for illustration:

[NOTE: line drawing deleted - web formatting issues]

3. The lack of countertop creates an additional dilemma – dishwashing. There is no place to put my dish draining thingy, and the thingy that goes beneath it that drains the dripping water toward the sink. At first, I thought it would be simple to place it on the oven; this was before I found that the stovetop is constantly hot. The iron thingys you put the pots on is not hot, the stovetop itself – the part that you constantly scrub with cleaning agents to remove spaghetti sauce bubble-over, etc., is very warm to the touch. I do not know why. It is an old appliance, however, and it simply must be how old gas ovens are. Now then. It would be unwise to put the plastic dish tray on a hot surface, and it is a bit cumbersome to put a cookie sheet, etc. beneath the dish tray. Additionally, it is nearly impossible to put the tray on top of the refrigerator so that water drips into the sink, although it is quite possible to allow the water to drip near the sink, make a big splash, and get the frig, floor, and whatnot all wet.

4. Preparing to shave with my electric razor rather than the Mach 3 shaving system, I couldn’t help but notice another quirk, this time electrical. There is no electrical outlet in the bathroom. Anywhere. Two perfectly functioning light bulbs, no outlet. I have purchased a handheld mirror to aid in electric shaving in the future, although in all probability I will likely grow a Unabomberesque beard to avoid the whole conundrum altogether.

[NOTE: I found the bathroom's outlet, cleverly hidden underneath a light fixture. I did grow a beard, but that was about a year after writing this, and not because of any power problem.]

5. Unlike the rest of the doors on my floor, assumedly in the entire building, my door lacks a peephole. This is not a big deal, considering my lack of friends at the time being, but it is annoying not being able to spy on the neighbors as they walk by, unlock their doors, etc.

Friday night:

It was the end of a long day of work getting things together in this new home, and it was time to get something to eat, as my refrigerator contained only water. I had ventured to McDonalds the previous night, and even though I was impressed with their improved quarter pounder (seriously, I don’t know what they did, but they taste better now) I hated the idea of eating there again. What I needed was a sandwich. A sandwich with bacon, served to me by a beautiful lady. Or, a couple of cold cuts with some cheese on it. Whatever. I really needed a sandwich – a Subway sandwich.

This seemed like a good idea to me - with Subway being the second largest fast food chain in the world, it should be relatively easy to find one in a city this size. In chronological order, here is what I found on my search for Subway:

-An Asian shopping district. I’d say Vietnamese. Lots of Vietnamese grocery stores. Conspicuously absent, at least from my 30 mph passing view, were Asians.

-What looked to be a very happening Thai restaurant next to the Metrodome. Inside the Metrodome, of course, the Twins were getting spanked by the worst team in baseball.

-A charming, possibly seedy place advertising itself on its marquee as “Sex World”.

-Saint Mary’s University. It looked to be Lutheran. I did not know Lutherans had universities.

-Two tall, attractive, blond females. In different places, but both wearing black pants.

-Slums. Really, the plural of slum should just be “slum”. Used in context: “I drove through some slum.” Nice, eh? Oh, and you know how when you see a bad area and you think, “Man, I’ll bet this used to be a really nice neighborhood.” I saw one slum like that, but the other one looked like it was built for the express purpose of being a decrepit, poverty-ridden slum.

-A shop on Hennepin Avenue called “A Brother’s Touch”. Does anyone else think that would be the perfect name for a homosexually themed store? I thought so. Accordingly, the rainbow colored sign of A Brother’s Touch proclaiming it “Your One Stop Gay Shop” supported my inkling 110%. In case you are wondering, the only items inside I was able to get a good look at were a fan and a plant -- hardly the flaming gay objects I was hoping for.

-Burger King. This was exciting for exactly one second, until I remembered that it was virtually the same as McDonalds.

After nearly an hour in the car, I surrendered. Dinner that night was two cheeseburgers, newly featured on the McDonalds value menu.

Saturday morning:

I needed food. Badly. So there’s no Subway around – big deal, right? This neighborhood is packed with thousands of people, the majority of which almost certainly require nutrition to sustain life. There should be no problem finding a supermarket.

There was little problem finding a supermarket. SuperValu foods was located next to a Walgreens (surprise, sarcastically), and cattycorner from A Brother’s Touch (surprise, genuinely). Always Save and Best Choice were nowhere to be found, but there was a cheap brand called Flavorite (pun intended!) that sufficed rather well.

Some folks casually consider themselves to possess what is known colloquially as Gay-dar, the ability to spot a homosexual person who may go unrecognized by a less intuitive person. Assuredly, I do not have Gay-dar. Assuredly, I spotted two homosexual men near the market.

I do not wish to give the impression that gay men surrounded the place, because it was not. However, one was in the checkout line behind me – blatantly gay because of earring, hair, and blue jeans, buying a quart of milk and a carton of Marlboros. The other happened to be walking toward my car as I waited to turn left on Hennepin Ave. He walked down the sidewalk in his extremely tight, flesh-colored shirt in exactly the manner you would expect a flaming homosexual to strut. Wow. I mean, I thought that was just a stereotype. Wow. In fact, they very likely built the stereotype around this guy. I mean, he had ATTITUDE.

Saturday evening:

I attended Mass at The Basilica of St. Mary, America’s first basilica. According to the little pamphlet thing I picked up, it was designed by French architect Masqueray, chief architect of the 1904 St. Louis World’s Fair. It is very big and exactly how you would expect a huge basilica to look on both the inside and outside. It is an impressive place to attend a Mass, and is in fact so impressive that it is very difficult to write about in a humorous manner, so I didn’t.

August 19th, 2001
8:25 pm

Continuing:

Sunday morning:

I am chosen. Perhaps I am not The Chosen One, but I should be under consideration for one of the chosen. I have proof.

Sunday it was decided that Lance and myself would attend the Twins game. We hiked to the Metrodome and bought tickets there around 11 or so, observing the huge lines of fans waiting to enter and receive a Kirby Puckett Mountain Dew Hall of Fame Bobblehead Doll, available to the first 15,000 fans through the gates. Some had been camping out since the end of the previous night’s game, some had not – all were mad with desire for a bobblehead doll.

As Lance and I stepped away from the booth with our $5 GA tickets, we surveyed the situation, attempting to see the end of one of the long lines, wondering which we should get in the back of.

Suddenly (of course suddenly! I am chosen!) some sort of uniformed officer began to order people out of one line and to begin a new one. A new line, at a new gate. In front of us. We strolled forward with the mass of unchosen commoners, and after a few short minutes of bottlenecked friction, we each held dolls.

If you’re so “chosen”, why did the Twins manage only 4 hits against the worst team in Major League Baseball? Does this not prove that you are, in fact, little better than the rest of us? Does this not support an unimpressive conclusion, one in which you are not a miracle child that benefits from divine actions?

No.

Near the 7th inning, shortly after “Wooly Bully” was played over blooper clips on the Jumbotron, I happened to take a look at the boy sitting two rows down, next to the older woman whose headphones covered an incidental portion of her hair – hair that was at once platinum blonde and older woman white. The boy wore a denim hat (yes, denim, likely bought by a foolish mother). Beneath the denim hat were short, curly locks of white hair.

My education in biology has suffered marginally due to K-State’s lack of a true population biologist. Nevertheless, I have come to understand that the likelihood of an albino being born is slim. More than slim. Again, I am a little hazy on the actual statistics, but they are probably around one in one hundred billion. If we take this empirical figure, and work in the other intangibles – that this albino was in Minneapolis, in a place I only recently arrived, at a baseball game, with an upper deck GA seat, deciding to sit exactly in front of me, two rows down, in right field – the figure is astounding. One in one hundred thousand billion. I am chosen.

I am fine. Soon, I hope to make friends.
Best wishes,
dn

August 21, 2001
8:19 pm

Monday:

This was the first day of orientation. It did little to orient me, but it did have its moments. By lunchtime, I had actually met people who could possibly be friends.

One thing that became a topic of conversation was living arrangements. When I told people that knew the area that I lived by Loring Park, I received some positive feedback, necessary feedback, because any information on my new neighborhood was needed. Here's a sampling:

"That’s a nice area."
"Have you been to the Loring Cafe? That’s one of my favorite places!"
"It’s nice. You’re kind of in an artsy part of town."
"My friend used to live there! It’s really reasonable rent."
"Don’t go to the park at night. Male prostitutes hang out there."

Now, I have painted a bit of a picture to you back home, and I'm sure I will be hearing few disparaging remarks about where I live. Please keep these to a minimum, realizing that the buildings here are not rainbow-colored, there are no nightly circle jerks (to my knowledge), and that there is a large area in the park for horseshoes – the most heterosexual of all leisure activities.

Not that there’s anything wrong with that.

Get it? Like that Seinfeld episode! Dude, remember Seinfeld!?

After being oriented, the less prudish students met at a bar on the banks of the Mighty Mississip', Tuggs. A smaller group then carried the torch to another bar, a little ways in some direction from Tuggs, quaintly named Whitey's. Whitey's advertises itself as a World Famous Saloon because they serve booze and food – it’s a business modus operandi that is sure to catch on all across this great nation of ours.

As everyone got to know one another a bit better, the labeling began. For instance, Jarod, a Missouri native, gave a spastic anesthesiologist from the Fargo/Morehead area the nickname “Fargo”. Nadia, a second year student, perhaps upset about her lackluster nickname (Nadi – rhymes with potty, body, etc.), boldly bucked the geographic trend, christening me “Bitch”. On the bright side, she didn’t laugh at any of my jokes. Looking back, with hindsight being 20/20 as always, I should have fired back the nickname “Ms. Haversham” for the Dickens-loving Nadia, rather than the uncouth, less catchy attempt of “Racist”, which didn’t go over all that well with the group.

Tuesday night:

Is right now, when I am typing away, busily preparing a document to be read by the masses. Uninterestingly, I have solved my dishwashing problem by utilizing a large roasting pan as a base for the dish-drainer thingy. There is still no phone service, and if there is nothing tomorrow, I will be angry, and you all will not be reading this as promptly as you could have been. The bells still ring – 10 minutes at a time, at odd times like 9:31 a.m., 4:21 p.m. – and the Episcopalians are likely to blame/thank. Finally, I have discovered one more gay shop, located northeast of the apartment, the opposite direction of my first discovery. This brings a bit more to the table – now I’m quite fascinated, really. Two stores catering to the same gay community…are there price wars? Is there customer loyalty? Is one for gay women and one for gay men? Is one for the really, really gay while the other has a less overt clientele? My head is racing now, my feet are tired. But I am glad, content – and maybe that’s all I should have said in the first place.

dn

Thursday, August 30, 2001
3:13 pm

Last night I dreamt I was flying – or more like I was being pulled, like a parasailor – over the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden. I was on a collision course with either the Spoonbridge with Cherry itself or the water that sprays from it when my memory of the dream stops, just as the dream itself may have.

I remembered this as I crossed the artsy/fancy bridge that takes you over the highway to the Sculpture Garden and the Walker Arts Center (and the Guthrie Theater). Thursdays offer free admission to Walker, which is good, as I have no intention of paying to see art by myself.

The first stop was the gift shop. Pricey. There were a few things worth mentioning:
-a pillow/pillowcase ensemble that came in either "yes" or "no". The yeses and nos were printed in a simple but large, lowercase black font, and were presented on a solid white background. I wonder if it is better to sleep on the yes or the no.

-an adorable set of salt and pepper shakers which I really, really, really must own. If I was female (and if the pricetag was anywhere to be found), I would have purchased them immediately. They're reminiscent of polar bears – like the ones Coke advertises with in wintertime. They are cute. I want to buy cute salt and pepper shakers. Maybe I will give them as gifts. I must know the price.

-a solar powered mixing device. The product description listed such uses as whipping air into milk, mixing drinks, and the like. $40-$50 bucks. But remember, it's solar powered.

-conversation between gift shop cashier and another employee of the gallery, which was very one sided, dominated by the male employee, not the female register. It was not unlike I anticipated the conversation of an art gallery employee:

HIM: I can see after I would win the lottery, buying a bunch of luxury cars and things and then being pretentious, but they're already pretentious. I don't think that makes any sense, you know? They just won and they don't even have anything yet…"

Or something. I found his argument unappealing and went to the SuperFlat exhibit first. Japanese. Lots of vaginas – lots of those all over the gallery, really. Does great art need to be shocking now? Brutally honest? Nude? I overheard another gallery man talking to some friends – there had been complaints about SuperFlat. I was not shocked that the images of very young Japanese girls being sexually violated by Octopi, Frogs (this particular frog had a VERY large penis), and teddy bears proved upsetting to some Midwestern viewers.

Portraits (mostly) by Alice Neel was the main attraction. I found myself viewing the multilevel exhibit in close proximity to a gothic girl, age unknown. Eighteen? I have lost any ability to distinguish age – MTV's representation of young women and my own belief that I am still 16 or 17 are equally responsible.

She was pretty. She wore a blue T-shirt with the sleeves either rolled out of view or cut off neatly, and there was some sort of wording on it, but I am polite and cannot claim to have looked all that closely. Below the blue was a long – too long, she continually held a bit of the cloth in her hand while she navigated steps, etc. – black skirt, held up by a studded silver and black belt. She had short blonde hair that was short enough to be a little spiky but long enough to make the look feminine; she wore eye makeup that was marginally heavy. In short, she had just the level of gothic look that distinguished her as such, but not so much that you could dismiss her as such. She was very pretty, very feminine, and bright-looking – not bright/smart; bright/light.

The more I followed her ("followed" is an accurate word if it is not connotated, but accepted as an appropriate description; she was simply ahead of me and walked to places I needed to go) the more I appreciated this beauty, the more I wanted to know her age, the more I wanted to ask, the more I wanted to follow up that question with a proposition for dinner tonight.

How are you perceived in an art gallery? Am I the only one who thinks this is a place where you are anything but anonymous? I am a lone white male, age 20-25, whose XL Youngstown State T-shirt and tan shorts may or may not indicate that he is similar to the man to his left, age nearly 4 years older, wearing a tight camouflage shirt over his obviously gay torso. I am pretentious? I judge these paintings? I am here to look cultured? I care what people think? She is gothic?

The longer we move in the same path, the less and less likely it becomes that I can ask her…anything. Following someone for an hour or so qualifies as stalking. Stalkers do not get to speak or interact with their object of obsession.

I wondered, "Is this what hopelessness is?" I understood the gravity of my monologue.

The Other Archives - Dawson's Freak On

I'm out of it tonight. So here's an old e-mail I sent Heather:

Sent: Thursday, March 10, 2005 10:24 AM
To: Heather
Subject: RE: oops

I'm sick today. I'm watching Dawson's Creek. I would bang every chick on this show. Big time.

dn

The Other Archives - Love Song

Excerpt of an old e-mail Paul sent:

as for the cure lyric that i stole, i'm going to have to first give some background on the situation. this freshman girl who i had been seeing for like 2 weeks was over one night and she was in a really bad mood. it was fairly early in the school year, and she was really homesick. so, being the consolation type of guy that i am, i was telling her that alot of people get homesick. in my mind, i was really thinking "how can anyone be homesick? college is the best situation you'll ever have." then, the following dialogue occurred, as best as i can remember:

Her: "Do you ever get homesick?"
Me: (Lying like there's no tomorrow) "Sometimes."
Her: "What makes you feel better?"
Me: "You, because when i'm with you, it makes me feel like i'm home again."

when i told my friends the next day, they almost couldn't believe that i had stooped that low. since then, i've tried to decide if it's more pathetic that i used that line or that she went for it. also, i find it amazing that i was able to get that out without laughing.

The Other Archives - TNG

Star Trek: The Next Generation invaded the last two days of my life.

Tuesday, as I sat in the hospital for 3 hours avoiding the books I intended to read, I absorbed afternoon television. Rachel Ray taught me how to make italian mac & cheese within 30 minutes. MTV displayed vacuous dating programs and pimped one ride. MacGyver accomplished something. The real highlight, though, was Captain Picard's efforts to collapse a temporal distortion via a static warp shell...in three different time periods. Now that's good captaining.

Today I learned that a co-worker used to have dreams about Picard. Those kind of dreams.

In honor of my TNG week, here's an excerpt of an e-mail I once sent:

The Next Generation Star Trek on SpikeTV right now has opened with a poker scene. Apparently, in the future, poker is played with chips of one color: silver. Oh, and Security Officer Worf has informed the group that "Klingons never bluff."

The Other Archives - Canadian Karaoke

Paul sent this e-mail to me one year ago. Behold, his Independence Day weekend, 2004:

also, here's a tale from the karaoke mic that i thought you might enjoy. during my trip over the 4th, myself and 3 friends went up to windsor, ontario on the night of the 4th. the festivities kicked off around 4:00, and we found ourselves in a karaoke bar around midnight. for some reason, a hot girl started to karaoke the star-spangled banner. two of my friends and myself thought it was appropriate to join her on stage. so, you had 3 drunk guys and one hot chick singing the anthem to a bar full of canadians. if that wasn't enough to fuel the fire, i felt it was necessary to take the mic over to an american flag hanging on the wall after the singing was over, point to it, and say "these colors don't run" (which may also be the greatest wal-mart t-shirt of all time) while pointing to a table of canadians that had booed during the anthem. needless to say, it didn't go over too well, and we were quickly asked to leave the bar. apparently freedom of speech isn't as valued north of the border as it is here.

I'll be back with a post on Monday.