Category: Writings

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.

I was eating cereal this morning and took a moment to read the back of the box. My current cereal of choice is “Kellogg’s Special K Red Berries”. It’s just like Special K (corn flakes genetically engineered to kill you from the inside out in the name of health) but they include these dehydrated strawberries in it.

I love strawberries. I love them like I love chinese food. If they were to make strawberry flavored rice or noodles or Orange Chicken, then I would never have any reason to eat any other food genre. As it is, my letters to China go unanswered as I plea for red berries from the red devil.

The back of this box had a woman crouching on a scale, staring at the reading, and smiling like she just found out she’s Miss America. Surrounding her is a series of numbered tiny paragraphs. The title for this list is “12 little things that can help you manage your weight!” If I were naming this, it would have been “12 disorder free tips to not be fat anymore!!” I would add that extra “!” just for kick. A kick in the fat. Kickin’ impossible.

1. Quick snack.
Try some cereal with yogurt for a quick, low-fat snack that’s good anytime. Remember to use Yoplay because other yogurts will chemically react with this cereal and cause complete blindness.

2. Thirst vs. hunger.
Many of us misinterpret thirst as hunger. Drinking plenty of water (an 8 oz. glass every 2 hours) wil help you keep from overeating. 8 ounces every 2 hours?! Holy crap! The person who drinks that much water is senile. No one drinks that much water. Of course you wouldn’t overeat – you can’t eat. You’re all bloated on water. When you go to eat, you realize you have to drink more water, and then you pass out from all the bloody water you’ve had to drink or your bladder explodes.

3. Avoid eating from the bag.
Don’t eat directly out of a bag or carton. Place a normal amount on a plate or in a bowl. This one is going to get them in trouble. Those poor construction workers. Their food comes in bags. There goes lunch, boys. And how do they define a normal amount? “Less than the entire bag or carton, please.”

4. Graze throughout the day.
Eating several small meals a day helps keep you blood sugar levels stable so you suffer fewer highs and lows. Carry healthy, low-fat snacks such as fruit and veggies to nibble on throughout the day. So, now they take it back. In between drinking water, make sure you snack on something. But whatever it is, put it in a bowl or on a plate first. Eating constantly, but only a little, and drinking after every thought will keep you from being manic-depressive. Your bloodsugar will flatline.

5. Mix it up.
Make your own low-fat trail mix with this cereal, pretzel sticks and lower-fat soy nuts or seeds. measure out single 1/2 cup servings and place into plastic bags. AhHA! “Place into plastic bags” violates rule number 3!! What’s going on here? I can see how they thought, “We say snack, but what can they snack on? Hell, our cereal and some fodder or pretzels.” No one was paying attention there. The plan is to confuse you into just eating their cereal for all your meals, in between the potty breaks of course.

6. Stay alert.
We are more likely to munch when we are bored or tired. So if you stay alert, at least then you will realize that you are snacking and bored and tired. Perfect plan, Kellogg’s.

7. Move it.
Walk whenever possible. Take the stairs instead of an elevator or escalator. Walk instead of driving short distances. Not only do they seek to improve your body, but they want to help the environment. Before, if the top of the escalator was too far a distance for you, you would just drive. Now they’re saying ‘no’ to both those options.

8. Clean it up.
Do at least three physical chores a day and reap the double rewards. At least three. Shovel the coal, clean the vomitorium, and rebuild the pyramid. Tomorrow you can maim the dog, kill the neighbors, and torture the rest. The rewards being only “reaped” if you’re not caught doing any of this.

9. Stretch it.
Get up, stretch and move often while sitting at a desk for a long time. It must be a desk. Sitting in a chair with nothing in front of it doesn’t count. Lying on the couch curled up in the fetal position does not require this stretch break. All those who are actually working must get up (in between water, snacking, and doing chores, etc) and stretch. Touch your toes if you can.

10. Avoid temptation.
Stock up on healthy and low-fat foods for your home. Limit or ban high-fat snack foods. This rule does not include drinking, smoking, sex, or high-fat non-snack foods. Romp free, my vicers.

11. Include this cereal.
A daily serving of this cereal can help you manage your weight without sacrificing taste. Oh, of course. THEIR cereal makes the list. It might have been better (at least from a comedy stand point) if they had said “Include Alphabits. Really, it’s actually extremely healthy. It will help you manage your weight without crucifying taste.”

and finally

12. Plan ahead.
Visit our website for great recipe ideas. What? I can go to Betty Crocker and get recipes. How is this a tip? “Visit our site” does not equal “Plan ahead.” That’s not planning ahead – that’s reaping popup rewards.

It’s amazing what they print on the back of cereal boxes. If I ever have my own cereal (Miles and Miles and Miles of Goodie Strawberries And Nothing Else) the back of the box is going to be my own list. “12 little things to read that have nothing to do with each other but I think they are positively the best ideas ever.”

Beat that, Mr. Kellogg.

After fixing my sandwhiches, pouring my root beer, and stealing some pretzels, I sat down to color and eat in front of the TV. I put in a Radiohead CD that Jeff had and thought it would be interesting to watch TV with the CD playing.

In much the same way bad over-dubbed movies do it, I completely replaced the existing sound track with the music on the disc. I tried movies, but there wasn’t anything fitting. I tried some TV shows, but there was nothing interesting.

Dr Bleil says ‘Hi’.

My last stand was music television. I flip to one of them and some bling-worthy rap star and a half is pronouncing his love for buxom bottoms. He shakes jewelery around and pulls at his shirt and he spits curses from between his gold teeth.

Then I saw it. The next video. It featured a girl. She looks like your classic blond-haired, brown-eyed cookie cutter teen singer. Then I realize that I recognize this girl. Her name is Hilary Duffy. She’s the star of the Disney show ‘Lizzy McGuire’ where she plays Lizzy (go figure).

This angered me to no end. “No way!” I shouted (much louder than Radiohead was playing) and forcibly turned off the television. Luckily, my gorilla-like grip didn’t break the remote. My eyes closed, my face turned red. I ranted.

What is it? Is it the actors or the studio? Here is Hilary Duff. She’s a child actor. She’s 16 years old. Her stint as a Disney lead is going quite well for her. Acting came make a person good money. You basically do nothing. You do what we all do everyday of our lives – you lie.

So, this teenage liar makes her fame gracing the screens in between rodentia. She lures thousands of kids every show into believing that her life is typical and teenaged and frustrating. Then wakes up one day and says, “I wanna sing”?

People say, “Why not? It’s all art.” I agree. Acting is art. Singing is art. ‘Lizzy McGuire’ is crap, and ‘So Yesterday’ is crap. There’s a fine line where what you do in front of a camera/microphone isn’t worthless. There is a shaded gray dash that marks off respectible from retarded.

I fail to believe that Hilary Duff has crossed that line. My little sisters may love her but there is a rare chance that she will show up on “Inside the Actor’s Studio” next to the Olsen Twins. God help us, it could happen.

Assuming that she knows where she stands on the timeline of Art and Pfft, how does she think that a singing career is a good idea. It’s a lot of work to sing. You have to act (lie) like you believe what you’re singing about. In her case, topics like ‘boys’ and ‘staying out past ten’ are going to be a staple for the refrains.

You have to make sure that the people put in charge of actually writing the music (read: self-hating art school dropouts) make a good song. If your image is “popular teen girl” then a song like “Down With The Sickness” might belie the facade you were going for.

I suppose a close look at the lyrics (because I never heard the song, per se) is in order.

Here they are :
(So yesterday) (So yesterday) (So yesterday)

You can change your life (if you wanna)
You can change your clothes (if you wanna)
If can change your mind
Well that’s the way it goes

But I’m gonna keep your jeans
And your old black hat (‘Cuz I wanna)
They look good on me
You’re never gonna get them back

At least not today Not today Not today, ‘cuz

If it’s over let it go and
Come tomorrow it will seem
So yesterday So yesterday
I’m just a bird
Thats already flown away
Laugh it off Let it go and
When you wake up it will seem
So yesterday So yesterday
Haven’t you heard that I’m gonna be ok

Ha! Okay

You can say you’re bored (If you wanna)
You could act real tough (If you wanna)
You could say you’re torn
But I’ve heard enough

Thank you
You’ve made my mind up for me
When you started to ignore me
You won’t see a single tear
It isn’t gonna happen here

At least not today Not today Not today, ‘cuz

If it’s over let it go and
Come tomorrow it will seem
So yesterday So yesterday
I’m just a bird
Thats already flown away
Laugh it off Let it go and
When you wake up it will seem
So yesterday So yesterday
Haven’t you heard that I’m gonna be ok

If you’re over me I’m already over you
If it’s all been done What is left to do
How can you hang up If the line is dead
If you wanna walk out I’m a step ahead
If you’re moving on I’m already gone
If the light is off Then it isn’t on

At least not today Not today Not today, ‘cuz

If it’s over let it go and
Come tomorrow it will seem
So yesterday So yesterday
I’m just a bird
Thats already flown away
Laugh it off Let it go and
When you wake up it will seem
So yesterday So yesterday
Haven’t you heard you’re so (yesterday)

If it’s over let it go and
Come tomorrow it will seem
So yesterday So yesterday
I’m just a bird
Thats already flown away
Laugh it off Let it go and
When you wake up it will seem
So yesterday So yesterday
Haven’t you heard that I’m gonna be ok

I haven’t read lyrics this good since I read “Whip It” by Devo. Which I will use to prove my point. Do not act and sing if you are 16 and only doing it for money. You will end up like Devo. Gone forever.

Whip It:
Crack that whip
Give the past the slip
Step on a crack
Break your momma�s back
When a problem comes along
You must whip it
Before the cream sits out too long
You must whip it
When something�s going wrong
You must whip it

Now whip it Into shape
Shape it up Get straight
Go forward Move ahead
Try to detect it
It�s not too late
To whip it Whip it good

When a good time turns around
You must whip it
You will never live it down
Unless you whip it
No one gets away
Until they whip it

I say whip it Whip it good
I say whip it Whip it good

Crack that whip
Give the past the slip
Step on a crack
Break your momma�s back
When a problem comes along
You must whip it
Before the cream sits out too long
You must whip it
When something�s going wrong
You must whip it

Now whip it Into shape
Shape it up Get straight
Go forward Move ahead
Try to detect it
It�s not too late
To whip it Into shape
Shape it up Get straight
Go forward Move ahead
Try to detect it
It�s not too late
To whip it Whip it good

You know that old saying, “a turtle is like a tank”? You might not because I just made it up in the Greenhouse when I was smoking some of the desert plants. The agreed upon meaning of this ancient metaphor is “just because one object looks like another, doesn’t mean you have the right to stay out at all hours of morning, you fool.” The meaning that most people have accepted is “you need a lot of explosives to kill a turtle.”

The creamy center of the turtle (called the “TurtleMan”) is the brain control. It looks like an ugly, angry old man who can’t get up because you pushed his fridge on top of him. So he lays there, sprawled out on his stomach, streching his neck and limbs out as far as they can go, reaching, pleading with his beady eyes.

I would imagine.

Turtles, despite their looks, are actually quite intelligent creatures. A given turtle may appear slow and dullard, but it may in fact be planning your death. The truth is that scientists have no idea what makes up a turtle. It could be a “shell” and “muscles” or it could be “satan” and “magic”; we really have no idea. What we do know is that they have an organized religous society.

This I came across accidentally with my brothers. Bryce, Ishmael, and I were having ourselves an enjoyable Fourth of July. At the time our ages were 11, 10, and 12, respectively. Behind our house in Big Stone is a large wooded area. We had shot some of those parachute fireworks (the lame ones that we didn’t buy from that day onward) and the parachute man had ejected into our wood.

The three of us raced into the woods to find it. Ishmael was in the lead. He had decided to bring his bag of fireworks with him (and a punk) as we might spy something that we wished to destroy. We happened upon a turtle.

This was no ordinary turtle. He wore a flowing purple robe with a white pointed hat. He stood upright and stared at us with his wizened, wize eyes. We stopped, the three of us, at his feet. He began to speak.

“My friends, I am the Master Turtle. I am a true Hero in a Half-Shell. I want you all to know a very important event is about to -”

“Let’s blow him up!” Shouted Ishmael. That kid. He grabbed the turtle before we could grab him. He took off running, shoving a bottle rocket down into the Master Turtle’s shell.

“My son, please do not -”

“Shut’tup! It’s lit!” He tossed the turtle as far as it would go and covered his ears. The rocket let out a whistle and the turtle hit the ground. Then there was a loud *pop* and a spray of green shot out of both ends of the shell.

“You idiot!” I screamed. Bryce has started to run back to the house. “He could talk! That didn’t seem weird to you?”

“It was just a turtle, Miles,” Ishmael said. I could tell that he felt less sure about his “ultra-cool” stunt now. The sky was getting dark. Suddenly, all around us, sprang up turtles in different colored robes.

“Who destroyed our Master?” Both Bryce and I pointed at Ishmael. “Take him away.” From the dark of the forest came two very very large turtles both of which stood about 10 feet tall. They each grabbed one of Ishmael’s arms and began to drag him off.

“I’ll tell Mom you love her and all that,” Bryce said.

“We won’t set you a place at dinner. I have a feeling you’ll be eating out,” I called after him.

“Guys! Help!! Save me!! PLEASE!!!” His cries echoed into nonexistance. He was gone. One turtle remained. “We can spare your brother if you wish. We are not without compassion.”

Bryce and I looked at each other. “No, that’s really okay. I didn’t like him.”

“Yeah, he’s yours. Do whatever. Just leave his sack of fireworks here. We can go torture frogs.”

“As long as they don’t talk, that’s fine with me.”

The most glorious thing about the western part of South Dakota is the bug population. Well, it may not be the population as it is the lack of population. I know this because Tyler knows this. And Tyler went to a wedding for his cousin in Rapid City. Well, not his cousin, but his second cousin once removed.

The trip began on Thursday. Jeff and I met Bryce and Dan (my cousin) in Brookings. We went to eat at a friend’s house/apartment/shanty where she made up hamburgers and chips and etc. It was a good meal. The conversation was a bit jilted at times. I don’t think that I really fit in with her new friends. This is good or bad. I guess it means that I/we wasn’t/weren’t replaced. It also means that when she invites me up there for supper, I have to expect a series of awkward silences.

We saw Pirates of the Caribbean, which was better than expected. I really enjoyed J. Depp’s performance as a slightly efeminate, thick-accented pirate. Who knew?

Stayed the night in Madison. Took in Chinese the next morn. Started our journey to Rapid. The trip was mostly uneventful. I created and began drawing an online comic strip (which may or may not ever see the light of cyber space) called Stellar. Dan and I had a row which ended with the help of Brian Regan. Then we finally ended up in town.

Dan split off from Bryce and I and went to visit friends. Bryce and I made our way to where my Great-Uncle Herman and Great-Aunt Jane live. They have named their home, like Thomas Jefferson and Lizzy Borden before them, and chosen to call it “The Rainbow’s End” because of how impossible it is to find and climb up to. Well, maybe that’s not true, but this thing is a sniper’s dream location. BF1942ers, you know what I mean.

Nothing much happened that night. Many plans were constructed but none were to come to light. The night became “Go and Decorate” or “Stay and Storm Watch” and I opted for the second. So, it was I and my cousins Chad, Janelle, Bethany, and Emma. Emma is 3 years old and not shy. She loves to talk and to ask the same questions over and over. Someone (I think it was Janelle or Beth) described her condition as senility for children.

The storm was fairly spectacular. There was not much rain. There was not much lightning, but the lightning we did see was quite the show. It would be dark as my heart one moment, then you would see a line trace down the sky in front of you. The next second you are blind, and as the spots disappear from your eyes, you realize that it was that bolt that blinded you. Wait for four or five seconds and a clap of thunder loud enough and deep enough to shake the house apart stomps over the hills. Repeat until too tired and cold to sit out on the porch anymore.

I played a small concert for those same persons (minus the uber-gabber, Emma) up where we were to sleep that night. As I retired the rest of the cousins came in and soon we were all sleeping.

Saturday’s agenda was the wedding. Thankfully it was in an air-conditioned church. The service went as I expected. The theme of the wedding was “Happiness is…” and the only answer Bryce and I could come up with was “a warm gun” but the priest said “being blest.” At least there is a song about the Happiness I know. Bryce and I got caught with gum, but it’s okay because we taught a little kid how do the “No, you the man” hand guesture. God speed, Joe.

There was a reception and eventually a dance. The dance was nice. I actually did. It gave me a large headache, though. Those things usually do. By the end of dances I usually feel like dying. It’s an odd thing to have happen. One second you’re making up the most contrived, inane dances ever with your Brother and the next second you just want to disappear into the dark and never walk back out. Dancing is dangerous for me.

Bethany, however, did pretty well. She got a phone number and an email address from a drunk kid there. Now that’s what you call a score. I didn’t like him that much. I have this strong aversion to drunk people and, it gets stronger with each person of said state of being that I encounter. I might never drink in my life if this keeps up.

Retired again. The next morn was church. Church at 8? I don’t think so. The little known secret of the morning was that there was another service at 11. Bryce and I (and my cousin Jenny and Janelle and several others) made it to that service and took up an entire row. We dominated. After rocking God hardcore, we made for a country club close by and had ourselves some food. I got to sit next to Nathan who is about a year old and has just enough short term memory where a game that involves passing a spoon back and forth between us is interesting.

We ate and went to the church where we were. This was where Herman’s birthday party was. After set-up, there was food (cake and punch) and Herman’s children told stories of their father versus another topic. The whole thing was probably more interesting to someone who had been born as a grandchild into that family. Then there was playground time. Chad and I climbed some rocks, admired the view, then walked off in our own directions.

The clean up went well, and eventually we were off. Dan, Bryce, and I were charged with bringing rented movies back to the house. We decided (while we’re in the area) to visit Dan’s house where he is going to be dwelling this year (and anon). We met his friend Climber Tim the day previous and we met Ben that trip. Ben is cool and shares our sense of humour (mostly), so it was easy conversation. Did you know that you can use a dragon to heat your water? And that using Girl Scouts to shovel coal is an effective way to keep your house heated.

We hit the house. We watched Zoolander and Shanghai Knights. Then we went to bed again. The next morning we spent cleaning up and saying goodbye. Another trip back that was just as good. We listened to the rest of the comedy MP3 cd that Bryce made. It was interesting listening to Mitch Hedberg for the full hour for the second time ever. He’s a different sort of drink.

We made it to Madison all fine and dandy. That night (last night) Holly came over and made dinner for herself, Bob, Jeff, Heather, and myself. It was honey-barbeque chicken with pork and beans. Note to self, buy more vegetables for future use.

With the trip fully over, I sit here and contemplate it. It was great to see those cousins I usually don’t get to hang out with. Katie, Jenny, Molly, Chad, Beth, Janelle, Mark, Holly, Andy, Zack, Nathan, Abby, Emma, Isabelle, Joe, Grace, Claire, Kent, Mike, and Dan. I miss all of you. What I don’t miss are these mosquitos. East river sucks.

Dear Nancy:

What I told you this morning was a lie. I did not oversleep before my meeting. In fact, I was very much up in time for work. I’ve found that I cannot live with the lie I told you this morning.

And, so, the truth comes out.

It was 6:15 or so when I woke up. This was unusual considering it wasn’t “Scare the crap out of Brandon by playing really loud music in his ear early in the morning” day. I sat up and looked around the room. Something seemed different.

Jeff was downstairs cooking bacon and eggs and toast. We ate, read the paper, discussed the economy and Edgar Allen Poe. Then Jeff departed for work and I remained to shower and dress. As I was drawing the bath, I heard a peculiar noise out side of the house. I threw on some clothes, stopped the water, and walked to the door to investigate.

Sitting on the sidewalk was a golden box. The box was decorated very peculiarly, with each side depicting a wildly different scene in a wildly different setting. One side appeared to have been done by a caveman and displayed a barbaric act of hunting. I turned the box over in my hands.

The next site was done in an Egyptian style drawing. Delicately carved into this golden box was a depiction of animal against man. It appeared that a town was being eaten by a pack of wild jungle cats. I turned the box over in my hands.

Side three’s picture seemed reminicent of Renaissance-era work. It showed the apparent torturing of a man. The man was lying on a rack, with arms and legs bound. A masked attendant turned a wheel designed to increase the distance between the wrists and ankles. I turned the box over in my hands.

The final side was blank. All that I could see in the golden surface was my reflection. Then I saw something behind me. It was a dark shape over my shoulder. I quickly turned around, but no one was there. I looked back at my reflection and there was only my face.

I took the box inside. Checking my watch, I had much less time to get ready now. In fact, it was 8:25. I decided to just go to work as is, and shower at lunch time. This would all work out fine.

I left the house, made it down the steps, onto the sidewalk, and began my short journey over. I had gotten about halfway when the box shot out of my hands and landed, lid-up, on the ground. I knelt down and examined the lid with a curiousity and an unease. The top of the lip had words written in English. They had been carved in a careful, flowing hand and read, “Contained beneath this lid of gold are strife and dischord ages old.”

‘Note to self,’ I thought. ‘Do not lift lid.’ The lid lifted slightly. Was it the wind? Or was it the spectre? I forced myself and weight upon the top of the box. It took all of my effort to hold it down, but I felt myself being lifted up. The lip rose higher and higher and suddenly I felt myself being sucked in.

“I’m going to be late for work again,” I said. With a great sucking sound, I was pulled into the black guarded by those golden sides. It was quiet inside and dark. Then I heard a voice. “Welcome to Eris’s Box.”

“Eh, what?”

“Eris. This is her box. Please wait to be seated.”

The lights came on with a *klunk* and I saw that I was in a restaurant. The restaurant was decorated quite lavishly. There was much lace and gold frill. There were chandeliers in chrystal excellence and many elegant tables set for two or four. I was the only person in attendance.

The waiter led me to a table near the center of the room. “Here is your special table, sir. We will bring out your meal shortly.” I felt a bit strange not having been given a choice of food, but I decided that perhaps the help here knew best.

I sat and waited. The space was large. The lighting for the room was done mostly by the chandeliers and some halogen lamps placed around the dining area. There were no windows that I could see, but there was a regular spattering of paintings (some I knew, others I had never seen before) along the walls. The walls were papered in an eggshell-colored paper that had flowing lines of gold leaf. The carpet that my chair sat on was deep red and very plush. The eating utensils, also, were gold.

The waiter came back, pushing a cart upon which sat a golden serving tray covered in a dome shaped lid. He rolled the cart up to the table and moved the serving tray onto my table. With a flourish he lifted the lid to expose my meal. Writhing on the golden plate was a horrible looking creature. It was reminiscent of a human infant, but had a fan of cartilage at the top of the head. It was black from cooking, but the arms (I assume) and legs (still assume) waved in the air. The mouth opened and closed speaking the name “Eris” over and over.

I cried out and stood quite quickly from the table, forcing my chair over. I covered my mouth and looked away. “What is it?” I screamed.

“That, sir, is evil. I see that you don’t realize where you are.”

“No. I don’t. Where am I?”

“You are in Eris’s box.” He paused, as if waiting for a sign of recognition. I just stared at him. “Are you familiar with Pandora’s box?”

“Yes. Opening the box let loose the evil upon the world.”

“Precisely. This is quite the same and quite the opposite. Here, you don’t release evil – you swallow it down. Then it grows and mutates. It’s a much more explosive means of getting evil into the world.” He smiled.

“I have to go to work now. Please let me out.”

The waiter frowned at this. His eyebrows came low on his face, and he stared at me for the longest time. “Fine.” Things went black.

When I woke, I was on the lawn in front of Beadle Hall. I sat up and looked around. There was no box anywhere. I got up and looked at my watch. It was 8:55am. I sprinted into the Science Center and ran into the bathroom. Did that really just happen? I splashed water on my face. I looked the same. It was time to get to the meeting.

I took off from the Science Center back over to Beadle Hall. I couldn’t remember what had happend now. Why was I looking for a golden box? Who was Destiny? I shook it out of my head. It was probably nothing. Other than the questions, nothing was out of the ordinary.

I did fell strangely full, though.

Sorry for lying. I hope the truth clears some things up.

Sincerely,

Miles