Month: August 2003

I shouldn’t be angry, but I am, in a way. This weekend I attended the annual DSU Student Senate retreat. Besides a lot of drinking, there was a lot of decision making going on. Some of that came into my camp.

I was asked if I would write up a “jazzy” version of the minutes for the paper. Sure, I said, no problem. The deadline is Monday the 25th. That gave me a short amount of time to write something up, but I did it.

I was proud of what I had. I don’t know if it was terribly funny, but it gave people a realistic look at the Student Senate, with some humour thrown in, and it also gave people a chance to see that we do something.

As far as the retreat went, we didn’t do much. So, I wrote that. I was honest in my writing and kept my hyperboles to a safe distance from the truth. I sent it off to Eric (the president) and Sarah (the vice president) right away. Sarah replied back to me with suggestions for making it better.

I have come to realize that I am not a politician. I should have, if I was a freedom fighter, sent off the original to the paper. But I folded and made her exact changes. I shouldn’t be angry, but I am, in a way. Below is what I wrote. In bold is the text she asked me to delete and in italics is the text she asked me to add.

Hi. My name is Miles Rausch. I am a member of the Student Senate here at DSU. The Student Senate is a collection of students charged with being the voice of the populace. This means more than just being loud and hard to understand. This means having meetings. We have one meeting a week, usually on Wednesday, almost every week a month for every month of the school year. That’s like twelve meetings a year!

Having so many meetings during the year gives the populace (for which we are speaking) a chance to see us in hot legislative action. Rarr. The turnout for meetings is relatively poor (given how many of you there are). My duty with the senate is as the Administrative Assistant. This means I am the secretary, but I get paid for it. So, in an effort to give the senate more visibility, I am also charged with the duty of sending a “jazzed up” version of the minutes to the paper. This is my first attempt so bear with me.

On August 22, 2003, most of the members of the Student Senate gathered at Terry Ryan’s house on Lake Madison to discuss ideas for the new year. We do this because we usually get so behind on our ideas that at least we can say we had good intentions and an early start. I bet SAB doesn’t have an End Of The Summer Super Fun Pre-Planning Retreat like we do. I’m not drawing any conclusions, I’m just saying.

Our first item of business was eating. Terry had two charcoal grills flaming hot for us when we got there. I missed out on a lot of this since I hadn’t realized that my steak should have probably been defrosted BEFORE it was time to cook it. I spent a lot of time in front of the microwave. We ate, we drank, and we finally sat down to start the meeting. The meeting usually starts with me marking down those people who were too lazy to show up. If this was a sport, they’d be running laps during the first meeting. If I had my way…

The first interesting topic we discussed was managing traffic for Dorm Bloat 2003. Eric Saugstad, the president, said, “Okay, we need teams of two people to watch the different major areas. One group will watch the Emry/Richardson Parking Lot and the other will watch the Higbie/Zimmermann Parking Lot. It’s only about two hours a day for Sunday and Monday. Who wants to do it?”

Silence. The meetings never get quieter than after Eric asks who wants to volunteer. We sat there for several minutes listening to the crickets. Then even the crickets got uncomfortable, and all we heard was the lake. After some time we tricked people into raising their hands, myself included, by using something called a ‘guilt trip’. The conscience is a wonderful tool in the hand of those who wish to misuse it.

Next, Kayla Ratcliffe was asked to talk about the Homecoming Bonfire. Last year Kayla had organized a bonfire for Homecoming week. She had a location, wood, and even fire. The only thing Kayla hadn’t gotten was permission. Oops. This year is a different story. This year it’s going to happen. If it doesn’t, I would suggest that everyone avoid Kayla for the first month of school while she her rage ebbs away. She’s not one to reckon with.

A big topic of the night was “tradition”. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but the student population is a big fan of apathy. Hopefully the apathy bug waits until after registration to strike, but one can never tell. In an effort to curb the epidemic, the Student Senate has decided to try a campaign for instilling traditions. Don’t laugh. You’ll thank us when your kids start staying at college instead of wasting your money, food, and shelter.

It’s hard to create traditions, though. It is thought that a tradition that people get into will bring them all closer together, but, what that tradition is, we don’t know. Chances are it won’t involve illegal activity, though. I know I heard groans, but there is really no way around it.

One idea that has been put into effect is “Freshmen Adoption”. Various organizations around campus are being given lists of freshman. For the senate, every person gets 5 freshmen. The idea is that, within the first couple weeks of school, we meet with these students. We talk to them, welcome them, and tell them why we’re involved in things around campus. The real benefit of this is we now have five freshmen indentured servants. We were all very excited about this prospect, and we recessed the meeting (it being very dark and me being very unable to see what I was writing anymore) with plans of just what we were going to do with our freshmen.

After a long night, most of which no one remembers, we reconvened about twelve hours later. The group was considerably less excited and talkative than it had been the night before. Go figure.

Exciting topic number one was the Certificate of Merit. This is an institutional pat on the head for clubs around campus. You do nice things for the community and students, and you get a plaque. It’s a quasi-Pavlovian way of getting people to help out the community “just cuz”. I’m not sure it works that way, most of the time, but it does get us involved. Who cares that greed and esteem are our motivators and not good will? There were eventually a lot of ideas, but I can’t tell you what they were until they are declassified. Sorry, my hands are tied.

Exciting topic number two was WebCT. Have you heard of this? It is responsible for quite the uproar around DSU recently. It’s an all-in-one package for grade books, online quizzes, and general mayhem. Despite an outcry from faculty, the Board of Regents has gone ahead and mandated a change over to WebCT. One professor told me that, thanks to his four classes, he has four web pages to make, four email addresses to check, four grade books to update, and sixteen message boards to moderate. Some teachers have flat out refused to use it. We’ll see how the change over goes.

The final topic, the big ‘un, was our goals for the year. If you thought last night was quiet, you should have heard the reaction when Eric suggested we each come up with something. Everyone was antsy to leave. We had just eaten pizza, and now everyone wanted to sleep. We did manage to squeeze out a nice list of ideas (and a larger list of “I don’t know”) before Eric gave up. We did come up with quite a few good ideas, like more student involvement with campus activities, and plans are forming about the possibility of a radio station on campus. Anyone want to be involved? Become a DJ? We�ll see if this idea flies.

When everyone began getting up off the grass in front of Lake Madison and collecting their bags, Eric decided the retreat was over. With a formal motion to adjournment at 1:18 pm, we helped Terry put things back the way they were before we started relaxing all over his property.

As we drove away from the Ryan residence (skillfully hid in a location no human could ever find), I paused to reflect. They wanted a write up of the minutes for the first edition. Then I realized that the first edition deadline was Monday. Well, I guess that doesn’t leave me enough time to write a conclusion, does it? Maybe next time, folks. Keep your eyes peeled for more from “The Minute Waltz.”

Aqua Teen Hunger Force is Back and Ready to Annoy
Master Shake, Frylock, Meatwad and Carl Return Sunday, August 31, at 11:45 p.m. (ET, PT)

Aqua Teen Hunger Force, the animated comedy about three human-sized food products that live together in a rental house in New Jersey, returns to Adult Swim on Sunday, August 31, with a new season of peculiar adventures. New episodes will air every Sunday night in September at 11:45 p.m. (ET, PT). Sometimes the members of the Aqua Teen Hunger Force solve crimes. More often, they bicker and hang out in their neighbor Carl�s above-ground swimming pool.

Master Shake, the self-appointed team leader, has a big mouth, a short attention span and no work ethic. Frylock, the only reasonable member of the group, is a box of french-fried potatoes with mystical powers. Meatwad, a round mound of meat, completes the squad. He is talented, too: at any given moment, Meatwad can take the shape of a hot dog or an igloo.

Sunday, August 31: �Super Sirloin�- At the request of a rapper named Sir Loin, Meatwad collects food and garbage for a very dubious hunger drive.

Sunday, September 7: �Super Squatter�- Frylock tries to teach Shake a lesson about responsibility by making him pay the bills. Shake decides he’d rather move in with Carl.

Sunday, September 14: �The Meat Zone�- Meatwad acquires an amazing ability to see the future. Shake immediately tries to cash in on it.

Sunday, September 21: �Super Trivia�- Frylock drags Meat, Shake and Carl into his insane quest to defeat his arch-nemesis at team trivia, Wayne the Brain.

Sunday, September 28: “Universal Re-Monster”

Jeff Gabhart used to write. He was modest. He wouldn’t come out and say, “I’m a writer,” but he had a blog once. Isn’t that proof enough? I remember sitting for hours, listening to him type out his latest masterpiece. He would turn to me and say, “What word should I put here?” and I would answer, unabashedly, “sexellent, of course”, and he would put whatever word he had been thinking of in the first place.

When he wrote, he loved. He loved the world and its people and especially kittens. Often times he would look longingly at the cat dish he had bought for the dorm room and mournfully ask, “Why don’t we have a kitty? When we get a house, we should have a house kitten.” This isn’t about kittens though, however cute they are.

This is about Jeff and his writing. Rather abruptly Jeff gave up on the blog. He even went so far as to delete the blog entirely, leaving him with nothing left to remind him of what he had loved so much. Soon a forum was implemented where he could still “blog”, so to speak, but the focus was on the others who went to his site.

If you were to ask Jeff in those bruised months why he had suddenly changed over, he would look at the floor, mutter “kittens…”, and quickly change the subject to Weezer before the topic could be pursued. Despite my own repeated attempts to get the truth out of him, I was unable to ascertain anything.

Jeff had, however, changed a great deal. He was nervous and shifty and refused to pick up a book, even for class. He locked the door at all times. We pretended that this was because of Wayner, but the truth is that he had grown alarmingly paranoid. My friend was deteriorating from the inside out.

The worst was yet to come. I had left a note for Jeff saying that I was going to be in the library doing some group studying (email checking and chick ogling) if anyone needed me. Suddenly, while I was talking up this fly sweet honey, Jeff came bursting into the library.

“Jeff, what’s wrong?”

“Get out of the library!!” He grabbed me quite roughly, especially for Jeff. He didn’t manage to move me very far, but I gave in and pretended to be yanked out of the library.

“What the hell was that?”

“Don’t… you can’t – the … library, danger … ous…” He was breathing very heavily. He had obviously run there.

“Well, my bag’s inside, so I’ll go get it, and we can discuss this.”

“NO!! I’ll talk. I’ll… talk.”

And he did. It soon came out. The reason Jeff had stopped writing and reading was the same reason he had tried so desperately to get me out of the library. Jeff had had a run in with the Word Mafia, the Illiterati.

The Word Mafia is responsible for making sure that every word gets fair use. They look out for special words with special interests: transfer, intensify, and quadradical for starters. One of most prized words they watch, however, is “yippie”, a version of “yippy” or “yippee”. Yippie is the Don Corleone of the Word Mafia, and Yippie didn’t like what Jeff had to say anymore.

The violation can be read at Jeff’s old blog’s last entry entitled Webspace – Moving. The text, in its entirety, is below.

Not only did he use the offending word. Not only did he spell it the same exact way. Not only did he lowercase it, but he also exclaimed it. What is the penalty for such a conflagration?

The Word Mafia has long held a tight, iron-like clasp against the literary community. It’s not spoken of loudly but whispered. The Illiterati has broken such gifted spirits as Edgar Allen Poe, Emily Dickinson, and Collin Janes. Recent newcomer to the fall of the bard is Lacey Arneson, long time commenter on Awayken.com (this site you’re reading right now.)

It took a long time to get Jeff calmed down. He made it clear that there were certain surefire signs that the Word Mafia is on your tail.

1. You notice someone following you who always carried a dictionary
2. You wake up to find severed newspaper clippings in your bed
3. A brick comes through your window with a note attached that says “Stick to numbers”
4. An email threatening to put you into a “comma” keeps being sent to you
5. You come back to your room to find everything alphabetized
6. The bookmobile follows you around
7. Some starts shooting hyphens at you
8. And finally they break your legs with textbooks.

With the words off his chest (pun ? or was it ?), he slept much easier that night. I heard no mid-nightmare murmurings of “past participle… not the gerund phrase…”, though they did quite amuse me. I enjoy other people’s pain.

Maybe with the truth out, Jeff can once again restore Lazydesert.net, the blog, to it’s original splendor. Of course, the original splendor needed has some broken links, but that’s easy enough to fix.

Please be responsible, people. This story, too, has an unlikely message. Watch what you write down on paper or the internet. Remember, friends, that talk truly is cheap.

This is an informative post because I am still sick, and right now I am extraordinarily tired, and I don’t feel much like writing. I do not, however, wish to alienate you, my audience.

There is a new addition to the Lazydesert community. It’s called “Snatch.” If you were thinking it has anything to do with the movie, you’re wrong. There is a marked absence of Brad Pitt on the site.

Jeff, or Lazydesert, explained it on his forum, converse.lazydesert.net.

It makes Snatch into a (hopefully) fresh and exciting blog.

It is our duty to find interesting and varied entries to post. Other sites do it with links. We are doing content instead.

Hey – it may be your site that we snatch next.

Posting on the selected person’s site/post shows them that there is benefit to this. Give a little, take a lot.

We might never ask that person to borrow a post, but this is a way we can make connections other ways.

It’s kinda funny, though, that we’re briefing our “audience” on this. “Please go to the Readme section before reading this webpage.”

Check it out. There are two entries thus far : Dischordia @ blog-city.com, halogen rain drop @ deadjournal : but more soon to come.

If you haven’t, sign up for the forum. There are some great conversations going on there (some with myself involved). Best of all, signing up is free (unless you count ridicule).

The kids all thought he was weird. All the old man ever did was sit in his house and look at the window. Kids, you know, can be cruel for no reason. I had been walking around town with a camera and a mindful of ideas. I came across his house the same time they were laughing as the man took pictures of them.

His name was Mr. Avery. I never understood him myself, but I was far from berating an old man’s idiosyncracies. He would walk to his window and take pictures of the outside. His windows were unusual. They were not single panes of glass, but a pane broken into squares.

The kids rode off and I remained. I had been meaning to ask Mr. Avery why he did this for a long time. Today was the day. I walk up the long walkway to his house. His was one of the nicest in the small South Dakota town I’d grown up in. Made of the finest brick and granite, this had been a mansion (respectively) and a smaller house to the south had actually been the servant’s quarters.

I rang the doorbell and stood, waiting, in front of the heavy oaken door. After a nominal pause, the door opened. There he stood, camera slung around his neck, peering at me.

“Yes? Can I help you young man?”

“All I ask is for an answer to a simple question.”

He chuckled. I think he knew what I was going to ask. “Go ahead.”

“Why do you take pictures from inside your house of the outside world?”

“You’ve noticed my windows, haven’t you?” I nodded. “The world seems so much simpler when you divide it into panels. It can be quite … overbearing to take it all in at once. I divide and conquer, so to speak. I trust this answers your question?”

“Yes, Mr. Avery. Good evening.” I headed back down the walkway, and the door shut carefully behind me. Back on the road, I turned to his house, camera in hand, and snapped this picture (complete with blades of grass that belie his lawn grooming techniques). It only seemed fitting when I got home to divide it into panels.

I have to say, I think Mr. Avery is on to something. Too bad not everyone can have their own panels.

Download it at deviantART.

You can blame the Scottish for a lot of things. One of these things is golf. Golf is a sport, they say. I always thought it was more like a crime. I’ve never gotten along with golf, but I have had to endure it for a long time. My family loves golf. Want proof? Show up at the next Rausch Reunion. Every two years we have a reunion. First we usually gather at some exotic location, like Stillwater or Bismarck or Big Stone City. Then we greet and hug and kiss our beloved relatives. Then we sleep. Then we have the Rausch Golf Classic.

No joke. Our reunions are mostly a golf tourney.

This puts me at quite an awkward position. If this were medieval times I’d probably be dead by now, but, as it is the 20th century, I am still alive. Alive and usually left with nothing to do at family Reunions. This is why I bring a book.

A couple weekends ago we had a family get together. This wasn’t as expansive as a reunion, but there was a nice gathering of family. Guess what they wanted to do. Everyone in my family knows that I despise golf, so I figured there would be no question in my participation. I would just go to grandma’s with my guitar and serenade the wildlife (and grandma).

My mom says, “Dan thinks you should go golfing. If you don’t play, then he could use a good caddy.” There must be a misunderstanding. I haven’t golfed in years. It’s like being told that the Pope is actually a robot. Suddenly, nothing makes sense.

“Well,” I said, “I ain’t no damn caddy. Bring me my clubs.” So began a horrible golf experience with plenty of witnesses. It started off bad. When dad got home, as he was golfing, too, he braved the jungle of his garage and located my bag. The former glamour that had been my set of golf clubs was now a macabre mix match of other people’s hand-me-downs. Frankenstein’s clubs would be like this. Head covers of all different shapes, sizes, and artists sat upon a spectacular variety of woods. They were all different numbers at least.

The irons were the same I had come to loathe the last time I set eyes on this bag. Good to know that they hadn’t abandoned me. I even had an ample set of tees in the bag (and a fair amount of old trash, too). I didn’t have much for golf balls. I had a stolen range ball a bright yellow women’s ball.

I got stocked up on balls, found more head covers, tossed out some old, empty bug spray cans, and we journeyed to the course. We got there and, after a heated argument on who was going to golf with who, we teed off. Dan went first, Bryce went next, and both made respectable progress. Then I hit.

The ball took off. I would say if you were to draw a line from me to the pin, and then from me to my ball, there would be 45 degrees in between. I managed to pass over Hole 1, over Hole 9, and almost hit someone at the driving range. I was too shocked to yell “fore” but I did mutter “dmmt” under my breath.

I managed to play like that pretty much the whole game. Since I hadn’t managed to secure a putter (and I know I had a putter last time), I sat out all the putting. See, putting is like pool, but you only get one pocket. At least there an eight ball, and you don’t have to call your shot. Though, sometimes the game would be more interesting if people had to. “White golf ball, my golf ball, in the only pocket. Oh, I scratched.”

Some holes I just decided to hike out. In golf you can’t sit out, because part of the fun of the game is all the landscape you get to see. However, using the game of golf as a hiking adventure is like using the stairs in your house to simulate rock climbing. If I want a real hike I’ll go to Adirondacks.

Golf is a demeaning game. Take the par system. When you get to a hole they have a rating. This is called the par. The higher the number, the harder the whole is. Hole 3 at Ortonville’s golf course is Par 5. That means, “We don’t expect you to get less than a 5. Five total hits is our average. You look about average. Maybe you should just pretend it’s a Par 6, there, buddy.” I didn’t play Hole 3, not after that. I wasn’t giving him the satisfaction of a 12.

We traipsed onward. Dan and Bryce had by now taken to using my driver (affectionately named the ‘Killer Whale’) whenever they’d tee off. A driver is a wood on steroids. It’s like the Robert Paulson version of a regular club. It gives your ball that extra “HUZZAH!” that it needs for most holes. Most holes would not be the Par 3 Hole 6.

Dan tees off using an iron. Bryce tees off using an iron. I step up with ‘Killer Whale’. There are nervous chuckles when they realize I’m not joking. “What? Are you nuts?” Look, guys, just trust me. I hit the first one and it lands in the lake in the middle of Hole 2. Dan says, “Try it again.” I set up the shot and hit. It sails through the air – straight! It climbs higher and higher. I can picture it sailing past the green and right into the traffic at the back of the Hole. Oh, right. There’s a road there – I had forgotten that.

It hit the green and stayed. Sure it was the back, but I couldn’t have asked for a nicer shot. Well, I could have, but I would have gotten scolded for asking more than I deserve. I putted and finished the whole with a 6 or so, but feeling pretty good. We walk across the road to Hole 7.

Set up, tee off, watch the ball rocket dangerously far to the right. My spirits are immediately crushed as I trudge off to find my ball. It’s in the fairway for Hole number 8 which runs parallel to Hole 7 but in the opposite direction. Hit after hit I keep getting closer to the Hole 8 tee box, but not the Hole 7 green. Finally we finish that hole and I promptly forget whatever score I might have had. We walk on to Hole 8. Almost done. Please be a good hole.

Dan tees off. Bryce tees off. I stand up there. No pressure, but I really want to play this hole. I pull back and hit it. The ball shoots out from the front of the club. I can’t believe how high and how far it’s going. Too bad it’s going right for the road. Too bad it hit the road and has now bounced into someone’s yard.

“It’s in Hartman’s yard,” I say. Confused and incredulous looks from my friends prompt me to repeat my statement.

“It is not. Really?”

“Yes.”

Stunned silence.

“Wow.”

“Well, I guess I’ll meet you guys at Hole 9.” I walked over the fairway for Hole 8, where my dad gave me a confused look, crossed the street, and entered the yard. Outside was Mrs. Hartman, coming to see if she could help me with something.

“I hit my ball into your yard.”

“What hole were you on?”

“Number eight.”

It seems to be that time of day for people to look confused and incredulous. “Oh. Really? Wow. Well, I’ll help you find it.” She did and there is lay under one of the trees not 13 feet from her front door and her large living room windows. “I hope your luck improves. If you straighten them out, you would be doing great.”

“Thanks Mrs. H,” and I pick the ball up and walk to Hole number 9, stopping to talk to my dad a little. I don’t know why, but he’s grinning at me like I’ve just discovered that Rocky Mountain oysters are actually testicles. I meet the guys at Hole 9 where, despite the foreboding in my heart, I tee off. The ball again takes off in an all-together new direction. My heart sinks.

I really do hate this game. After hitting that dimpled freak a couple more times, I pick the ball up and go to lay in the shade, on the grass, and wait for the other family members to finish the first nine. My mom is standing there.

“So, how did you do?”

Silence. “On number 8, I ended up in Hartman’s yard.”

Silence. “Oh, wow. Hartman’s yard?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, if you could only straighten it out, you’d be doing great.”

I wasn’t sure how to respond to this. What would I say? ‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that. That is true, isn’t it?’ All I can think to say is, “I hate golf.”

Silence again. Then I hear her chuckle. “You’re going to golf the back nine then?”

My mother is so funny. Funny like a heart attack.

This story comes with a message. It is one to take to heart. So there I was, knee deep in New York City. To say that I was a little out of my element would be like saying that Hitler upset some people. They say you can do anything in New York, but the problem is, the things an old country bumpkin like me likes to do are the few things that you really cannot do in New York. So, I figured I�d best make myself as comfortable as possible in my home…after all, it was going to be a long few years.

The first order of business was security. Security gates for the windows that were on the fire escape with locks you could use to hold down your house in a tornado, and the mother of all dead bolts for the door. External doors in New York are not made of wood, they are steel. Whenever you see some television show where somebody in New York kicks in the door in an apartment building, it�s FAKE. These things are HUGE, but the dead bolt I got was bigger. The hole in the door had to be widened, so after considerable drilling by the locksmith, I had bajillions of these hot little twisted SHARP metal slivers all over everything. Yep, even found them in my underwear. You MIGHT think this was unpleasant…

With security is taken care of, I�m STILL sleeping on the floor. Furniture is imperative. So I call up this company, �This End Up�, that makes all pine furniture in a design reminiscent of packing crates…very cool, very TOUGH furniture. Also, all wood, so now not only do I still have the STEEL slivers, but I have pine splinters everywhere.

Now, I�m single. I�ve lived alone for many many MANY years. When you�ve lived alone as long as I have, there are certain, uh, customs, shall we say, that one begins to question. There is no doubt that these are important in a social setting, but when you�re alone, and there is nobody around to be offended when you break these rules, who�s gonna care? So, as a single man, I tend to spend a lot of time, oh, how can I say this gently, er, BUCK NAKED!

So, I�d get home, get BUCK NAKED, shower BUCK NAKED, prepare dinner BUCK NAKED, eat BUCK NAKED, clean the dishes BUCK NAKED, watch a little late-night TV or do some reading BUCK NAKED, and go to bed BUCK NAKED. Why not? It saves a step, although, I HAVE since learned that one OUGHT to put on clothes whenever preparing dinner involves any stir-frying. When you stir-fry BUCK NAKED, then certain body parts tend to get splattered with hot grease that, er, shall we say, are best left unsplattered.

To save splattering on this particular day, as I had already showered, I decided to have a simple, easy lunch. Usually I don�t eat hot dogs, but I often have a few stuck up in my freezer along with buns because I make Cincinnati chili, and my favorite way to enjoy Cincinnati chili is on a cheese coney. Since I�m broke anyway what with my new locks and furniture and whatnot (what exactly is whatnot anyway) I decided to have a couple dogs. So I start up some boiling water for the hot dogs, but what to do about the buns?

I had tried nuking them in the past, and it worked great. I had bun crispies. Couldn�t open them to put a hot dog in them, but they crunched better than any potato chip I�d ever had. What would have been ideal is a bun steamer, but, I�m a man, what are the odds that I would have a bun steamer? It�s a miracle I even know what one is.

Being a chemist, I decided to improvise. I happened to have oven-safe Pyrex mixing bowls. In the lab, Pyrex glassware is always put to all kinds of torture. If it endures direct flame for a while, it glows, for crying out loud. Now, I knew they were oven safe, and I knew they were microwave safe, so I thought they must be stove top safe! Yes, I knew I was mistreating them, but what�s the worst that could happen?

So I take the large mixing bowl and put a little water in the bottom of it. Then I take the medium sized mixing bowl and put it inside the larger one. I place the buns in the middle mixing bowl, and a glass lid from my large pot on top of it all. It was just perfect. The lip of the lid just barely fit down around the outside rim of the large mixing bowl, and the entire thing was clear so I could see EVERYTHING happening on the inside.

I set it on the stove. I turn on the gas as low as possible without causing the flame to go out, and watch the ballet of matter and energy. The water began to boil on the inside, and steam began to circulate around the edge and into the middle mixing bowl. It was beautiful. And as much as I enjoyed watching it, I didn�t want the buns to get soggy, so I figured I�d best lift the lid off and let a little of the steam escape. Carefully I lifted the lid, and as soon as the lid was a couple inches off of the bowl something happened.

BOOM

The large mixing bowl had EXPLODED! Not just cracked, not just broken, but exploded with a tremendous noise, throwing glass shards all over the apartment. It disintegrated so completely that the medium mixing bowl was now sitting on the burner, which no longer had a flame, as if I had placed it there myself. The largest glass pieces were about a quarter of an inch in length.

And there I stood…shocked. Holding the lid still where I had lifted it, wide-eyed and completely stunned. As reality began to invade back into my mind, I looked down and saw that I was not bleeding. I closed both eyes in turn and realized that I could still see.

�COOL!�

Of course, not only did I have metal splinters and wooden splinters, but now glass splinters as well. I eat, I clean up, pull out the sofa-bed (which I�ve since decided is even less comfortable than the floor), and I�m lying there watching a little TV before bed BUCK NAKED. I�m lying with my legs sort of flung over backwards, and I�m, er, again I have to be tactful, FONDLING MY OWN ASS I think is the way to put it. And sure enough, right there in my right cheek, I feel it…a SPLINTER!

So, I start picking at it. I�m thinking that if I can just get hold of it, I can yank it right out, but, you see, I like to pretend like I play guitar. Not that I really DO, mind you, I just run the pick over the strings and make a dreadful racket! Anyway, since I pretend like I play guitar, my fingernails are almost always extremely short so as to avoid their interfering with chords, and since I had very short nails that night, I couldn�t get hold of the splinter. What I need, I thought to myself, are tweezers.

Now, my mother bought these tweezers for me. They�re not your typical flat rounded tip tweezers, Oh NOOO! These things have to come to a POINT, the likes of which you can find on the tip of almost any new hypodermic needle, and they are SHARP! So now I have an instrument that, if I can only find it, it could easily grasp hold of it and yank that splinter out. The problem is, see, I can�t see my own ass, regardless of where many people claim my head to be. So instead of finding the splinter and pulling it out, I�m poking myself in the butt and beginning to draw blood.

Like any other man, I have no mirrors that can be used below shoulder level, including, of course, hand-held mirrors. I do, however, have a toaster with a shiny surface. So, I set my surface up on my counter, hike my buttocks up into the air and try to find that splinter. By the way, my toaster MUST be distorted, there is NO way my ass is that big! So, anyway, now here I am, BUCK NAKED, buttocks in the air, poking myself in the ass with razor sharp tweezers and contorting myself to see a splinter in my toaster.

Now it is serious…it became infected. Now it HAS to come out. To say that I didn�t know anybody in New York isn�t ENTIRELY the truth. I knew my boss, of course, and several people who worked in our department, although still relatively few since I was still so new. In addition, I knew the head nurse at the employee health service. She gave me my check-up before I could begin working. So I sort of knew her, and since she is a nurse, she�s not allowed to laugh when I tell her that I have a splinter in my butt.

So the next day, I give her a call. I make a little small talk, and in a rather bashful manner, I mention that I have a minor problem.

�What�s the problem?� she asks.

�Well, I have a splinter that I can�t get to.�

�Where?�

�Well…it�s, well, it�s in my butt.�

�How�d you get a splinter in your butt?�

Now, a problem presented itself at this point in time that I had yet to consider. What would I say as people asked me how this should happen. I could hardly say �I was sitting BUCK NAKED eating dinner and SAT on it!� So my mind started to race. In a brief time, I shot back an answer that would have made any man proud.

I said, �I don�t know how it got there.� Brilliant. �But it�s infected now and it has to come out.�

�Sure, we can take care of that there,� she squeezed out between snickers. �Just get the health form and come on in.�

I get the required paperwork from work, and, after answering the same question with the same brilliant answer bajillions of times I end up at the hospital. I walk into the waiting room. I walk up to the receptionist and hand her my papers.

�Why are you here?� she asks.

�I�ve already spoken with the head nurse, so she knows what it�s about, and I�d rather not say.�

At this point, every single good New Yorker looks up over their magazines straight at me, as the receptionist says �I have to put you down for something or I can�t let you in.�

�I have a splinter in my butt,� I blurt out.

�How�d you get a splinter in your butt?�

�I DON�T KNOW! But it�s INFECTED, it has to come OUT!� So, laughing, she writes my name down and tells me to have a seat. I go to one of the unoccupied seats and sit down. The two people on either side of me IMMEDIATELY stand up and move to the other side of the room. Well, at least it�s finally over. I�ll get the head nurse and get it taken care of. Eventually they call my name. I�m waiting for the doctor. In walks this one hundred nineteen year old man.

�Why are you here?�

�Doesn�t it say in the chart?�

�My eyes are shot, I�d rather hear it in your own words.�

*sigh* �Fine. I got a splinter in my butt.�

�How�d you get a splinter in your butt?�

*searing glare* �I don�t know,� through clenched teeth, �but it�s infected, it has to come OUT!�

�Well, lemme see.�

So, I drop trou for this one hundred and nineteen year old man. �Yep, it�s in there,� he agrees. �It�ll have to come out.� The next thing I know, he�s standing over me with the BIGGEST damned needle you�ve EVER seen!

�WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU�RE GOING TO DO WITH THAT?!�

�Well, I�m going to take this sharp end here and cut a little hole in your butt.�

�There�s already a hole back there, buddy!�

�No, I�m going to cut you a new one and take out that splinter. I�d use a scalpel, but that would constitute surgery and I�ve lost my license.�

OH, GREAT.

Now I�m praying that the holes that are supposed to remain open remain open and the holes that are supposed to be closed will be closed. Sure enough, he tears me a new one and takes it out. �Wanna see it?�

�No.�

It was my hope that, this embarassing procedure over, I’d never have to talk to anyone about this ever again. I have, however, chosen to tell my story once more, for you people. Remember the dangers inherent in living BUCK NAKED. This whole incident could have been avoided if I had worn the same dirty, wrinkled clothing I wear to work. Let this be a lesson – stay clothed. Also, do not try to steam your own buns.

Thank you.

If either of them hadn’t been seething at the moment, they would have laughed. Neither of them could get home by walking the tracks. To tell the truth, if they had actually wanted to make it home that way, they would have to switch directions.

Neither looked back. Neither paused for consideration.

There was only the jarring, painful sound of their feet against the gravel that cushioned the space between the rails. Progress was difficult; it was not an easy path they took. The argument had almost completely disappated between them. She had had the last words.

‘Fine.Goodbye.’ Her tears, her emotions, wouldn’t allow a pause in between the periods. Her quavering voice slammed the words together before kicking them out into the summer evening air. Now that they walked, she was sure she recalled her voice still chanting.

They walked. They walked toward their sunsets, their ends. But, as he made farther and farther from her, he scrutinized her words harder and harder. He came to realize the truth behind them. This would be the last time they would see each other. This place that they walked in, this was more than a railroad track. It was the space between the periods. This was the space between ‘Fine.’ and ‘Goodbye.’ They stil had a chance.

At this, he smiled. Somewhere behind him, she smiled, too.

Download it at deviantART.

Well, I still haven’t gotten around to writing the three or so posts that I’m mulling over. I’m still sick. I feel awful. I have to do a lot of stuff, too. Anyway – keep on keeping on, is what they say.

What’s new? There is a new poetry author. erin has submitted one poem entitled “An Unmuffeled Thank You”.

There are also a LOT of new artwork up. I’m proud to showcase, on images :

Absolute Zero : these are drawings I made for TShirts that never came to be. This was during the boyband craze, and some friends and I contemplated forming our own band called “Absolute Zero.”

Brenna : made this sketch of Bryce’s name and I really like it and am submitting it sans permission.

Heather and Miles : this is the creative output of myself and Heather at one of our Thursday lunches together. We sure got a lot of weird looks after explaining the pictures.

Jaime : a picture that Jaime made in photoshop one day when she visited me in Zimm. She used the paint brush tool.

Jeff : a student ID that Jeff drew on a napkin. I scanned it and took out the fold in the napkin.

Lacey and Miles : on one of Lacey’s excursions to Madison, I drew some pictures and she colored them for me. These are they.

Logos : that I made way back when the site was Sepia. I never really integrated them into the design like I wanted to. Here they are.

Miles : all the other stuff I did on my own (and usually instead of taking notes).

Spider : these logos I made for the Center of Excellence’s end of year technology summit. They were not accepted, but, hell, I love them.

&

Unwin : this is a sort of alter-ego. These drawings were barely touched up at all, I just scanned and saved.

I was going to write a post today (or two posts, you lucky doggs) but I don’t feel very good. I will work on them, but I don’t know when they’ll get punished.

However – if you wish – exploding dog has some new updates. He hasn’t put pictures up in a while, but I like the new ones.

Here’s some comedy to read.

If I Ran My Own Company by James Pinkerton as seen on Modern Humorist.

Jungle Attack He-man. Somewhere between his royalty phase, his Samauri phase, and his outer space phase, He-man was battling Skeletor (I assume) in the jungles of, hopefully, planet earth.

You people suck. I happened to have enjoyed that last post very much and I got nae a response.

Why do I even bother? I do this for you lazy internet junkies. Can you come up with better content? Content is hard. I don’t just sit at work and type whatever little thing pops into my head you know. I have to profread it, too.

Here’s a post that you might find on other sites :

: but not on mine. I have a higher standard. You say what I wrote to Nancy when I was late to work. It’s not that person who “rulez”; it is I.

*sigh* If I didn’t love you guys so much, I’d just shut this down and concentrate on my dance lessons. All I can say is, ‘You’re lucky I can pirouette.’ And do not make me repeat that.