Category: Writings

the sun beam seeks its rest
the rays now travel not
they find an earthen cot
and forge a darkened nest

the shadows stretching out
upheave the solar beds
destroy the sleepy heads
and thrash the light about

creatures stir at night
their will is fraught with ill
teeth shine with evil still
sweet moon wanes at the sight

too far to flee for fear
the sunlit child shakes
at sounds this hour makes
two eyes are watching near

‘come quickly’ prays the beam
a prayer to reach the sun
the creature’s willing run
comes faster yet it seems

this night orchid of lore
not wilting with due speed
the victim loathes the deed
but hates the creature more

as creature leaps at prey
there leaps a solar yawn
the creature shrinks to gone
And so another day

/rant against things I love

If buses ran in this part of the country, I’d be on them. I’d bring a camera and a sketch pad. I’d pick out the freaks (as buses tend to attract them) and I’d sketch them or film them as I say things like, “How could you let yourself go THAT FAR?” or “I’m sure glad I didn’t look like that when I was getting treatment” or “I hope you can’t have children. So does God.”

I’d get looks, stares, and furrowed brows of disgust, but I’d laugh. What do these people know? Ugliness as a coping mechanism. Smelliness, dirtiness, unemployment as a coping mechanism. Mine, I guess, is insults. Loud insults, at that.

I start to get off the bus when “Dashboard Confessional” comes on the air. “Oh, MAN!” I yell to everyone who until recently had no reason to hate me. “Can you believe this cry baby??” I get off the bus, but I start to talk to myself. What is the deal with this kid? He’s obviously a suburban, big-city, well-off, rich, whiny-pants republican who spends too much time writing poetry and playing his six string sympathy attractor. Nothing worse than a white, spoiled brat with a nail’s head full of talent and plenty of backing funds from Mum and Pop. “Oh, I’m so sad. I don’t have a girlfriend.” Maybe that’s because you’re real love needs tuning when you leave her over night in your volkwagen beetle. Who buys it in bright red anyway? Red like the blood from your bleeding heart, pansy. I bet you pick flowers and give them to your mom. Looks like you should get friendly with your strumming hand there, Bra.

How about girls? I think about this as I near home, being dropped off an UnGodly distance from my actual location. Everyone complains about how badly the Jews and Pals are fighting, but the battle between Male and Female has been going on a whole lot longer. I can guarentee it’s bloodier, too. Girls, with their lipstick, lip gloss, lip highlighter, lip this and that. Who the hell cares. Lips get chapped and scarred and they are the most worthless piece of flesh on a human boday. Find me a good reason for them, besides spreading disease and heartache, and I’ll cut mine off gladly.

Girls, they sit in their groups, going to the bathroom, chatting about how evil boys are when what they are really doing is setting the bait. If you hate fishing so much, why buy the boat, girls? Perfumes, nail polish, clothing the Dutch would blush at and all so you’ll have more war stories when that same group of you sit around and watch “You’ve Got Mail” for the 90th time. I can’t believe you still cry for that movie.

I get home and pull out a Chuck Palaniuk book. Doesn’t matter which one, because they’re all the same. They all have some over intellectual main character with too many psychosis or neurosis to be one piece. This main character’s life starts to (or has been) falling apart. Go figure – none of Chuck’s characters are “normal.” Could this be because Chuck himself is more broken than a fat girl’s mirror?

It seems that whenever someone talks in a Chuck book, it’s like hearing Tyler Durden. You thought Tyler was a unique character? He’s not. He’s Chuck’s character. They all spew out these pretty little sound bites about God or the government or society in general. Everyone has a complaint and a solution, and the solution is never a logical one.

The only way to make these books more obvious is if he had a disclaimer on the back that said, “All these characters represent how I feel about myself. I need hugs now.” Someone hugs his brains out so he quits writing. He’s like gritty Dashboard in a book form.

I put the book down. I look around the house. It might be only 6:30 pm, but suddenly sleep is the only answer. Good night folks. I sleep on into the mist.

Color me stupid. I fell for it again. A girl walks into your life. She’s dazzling: intelligent, funny, and beautiful. You become fast friends (perhaps against your every instinct), and you never regret it. You come to realize that you love her. Not this kissy-kissy love, but a deeper, more intimate love that physical affection could never match so you don’t even bother. Plus, she’s married, so she’s physically out of bounds.

Everyone thinks that you two are dating, but you fight more like brother and sister, making a dating relationship sound sick and depraved, which actually would make sense for you two. You always end up alone. Not because you duck out the back, but because when you sit down in the middle of everyone, everyone finds a new middle. Perpetually alone, all you have are each other and that’s enough.

You make friends with her family. You fall in love with her three daughters. You make friends with her husband. You picture having your own family and having get-togethers at some unnamed, insect-infested park in Madison. You buy into all this.

Then she leaves. No word or warning. Just gone. The word “devastated” comes to mind. When you ponder the situation, it’s comparable to a death. It’s not that she’s on holiday. She’s gone and perhaps not coming back. It’s not an uncalled for reaction. This is a bold-faced rejection, a slap and a half, a kick to the throat.

Cryptic words come to mind. The music she played. All the songs seemed to be about leaving. You’d watch her mouth only part of the words, like you do when you only know the chorus, except she knows the whole album front and back. It seems eerie and fitting that on your way to work you heard a song by “All-American Rejects” which happen to be her band of the moment. When you think about it, it’s possible that you saw this coming.

You get word of the news at work, when your roommate comes to tell you that her husband borrowed his car, to get his kids, because she wasn’t at work, she was much further than that. You feel your stomach flatten and your neck close off. You sit to write, to get it out, way before you talk to anyone besides yourself. You use your words to heal you before you start hurting for real.

You worry for her children. What will they think? How will this affect them? One will remember this. Another might remember this. The last will probably not remember this, but it will still be as real for her, if not worse. You have to say something. They won’t understand. He probably won’t be able to tell them what needs to be told. You have made yourself the band-aid.

You think back to those tears she shed. You remember how she’d come over to your house, crying or angry, and talk to you until early. You two would sit on the couch, and you came to realize just how badly her life was going. The word “harboring” comes to mind. If not for your understanding of her pain, you’d hate her for this. If not for your understanding of his pain, you’d hate him, too. If you weren’t so damn understanding you wouldn’t be in this mess.

You have to be very understanding now. You have to be there for them, as they wait. What can you do? It seems so pointless, the part you play. You don’t feel up to it – keeping it up for how long? A month? Six months? This may be one of the hardest things you’ve ever done, and that gives you no comfort. You’ve failed before.

You think about how she hugged you tighter last night than usual. You think about how she stayed longer, and how she insisted on watching her favorite movie. You think about how she didn’t look you in the eye when she told you she was going to be at work. The word “foreshadow” comes to mind.

“I guess this is best for her,” you think, but you don’t entirely think that. You know that if she had told you, you would have stopped her. You don’t necessarily find the answer to be “run away” when you think of the problem. You think “stay and fight” as the answer. On the other hand, you think about what other options did she have?

She said she was suffocating in her house. You weren’t going to help hold the pillow. Her happiness means too much to you. You have to trust her, now. You hope this works, whatever plan she has. If it doesn’t, things will be so much more painful. You wonder if things will ever go back to normal, and you hope that they do.

For now, you mourn, but for a second. Then you put on your brave face and look normal for the world. Chin up, as they say. You glance across the street, and you say to yourself, “She’ll be back, and when she is, you’re going to chew her out for not telling you.”

I have a new wallpaper up. It’s called “Until They Mattered” and I have it in the wallpaper section.

They loved me, but I didn’t love them.
I cut them out of my life and scribbled over them.

It was only me, only the boys, that counted. I hated my family Until They Mattered.

But then it was too late.

See it at deviantart here or in the walls section here.

I’m the reason Christ is dead. I don’t mean that the way you think I do. You should be angry. Some of you are thinking, “We are all the reason why Christ is dead. He died for our sins.”

That’s so not what I mean.

This is actually a very twisted story for me. I’m caught between feelings even now, as I tell it. I was happy, feeling triumphant, when I did it. Then I felt remorse. Then I realized that I hadn’t actually won at all, so I felt anger. Now I don’t know what I feel. Maybe it’ll help to tell my story, too.

My name is Lucifer. My friends call me Satan. Well, my enemies call me Satan, too. And sometimes people call their enemies Satan. I’m a pretty popular guy. I’m in the bible, for God’s … crying out loud.

After our big fight I’ve held a grudge against God. He seems to have forgiven and forgotten (I hated that ad campaign) but I’m not one to be so Christian. I knew for a while that he was going to send his “I’m-Mister-Perfect-And-Can-Walk-On-Water-Holier-Than-Thou” first born to earth. I had a plan.

“Demons of Hell – gather.” They grudgeningly put down their shovels and made their way (still grudgeningly) to the Hell Colliseum. I’m not sure why we have shovels. Must be that shoveling forever was the best God could come up with.

My first mate, Cain, answered the call vocally, “What the here do you want?”

“Quiet. Or I’ll give you a smaller shovel. It has come to my attention that the Allslighty is sending his only son to earth.”

Cain snickered. “What does that matter? Earth is the last you’d send something you love. He’s given up. What does it matter to us?”

“Cain, how much of the Jewish doctrine do you remember? Do you remember that part where the Gates of Heaven are shut until the Savior of the World returns to offer salvation?”

“I was too busy killing siblings to recall old books by dead prophets.”

“Why did I make you my first mate?”

“Because I was the first person down here who had tenacity.” He nudged Adam hard in the rib. Adam muttered something under his breath and walked to sit down somewhere else. I almost felt sorry for that guy. It’s my fault he’s down here. Go figure; I’m good at what I do.

“We have to kill him before he accomplishes whatever it is that he’s trying to do. Intelligence is sketchy on exactly how he will open the gates. Watch him, people. Make sure he doesn’t get near any lock-smiths. If he buys a crowbar, kill him. If he asks for the price of an SUV, kill him. If he seems to be jumping extraordinarily high, kill him. I’ll give you more later.”

There was the din of people getting up and moving around. Then Cain came up to me. “You know, you could just kill him instead of playing this wait game. I have a contact in the government. I can get him close to the Mess. I can have things arranged.” As cocky as he was, sometimes he was useful.

“Alright. Start this.”

On earth, Cain roamed invisible. The power of a demon is temptation. We walk around, unseen, and whisper ideas to you. You don’t have to listen, but the fact that you’re thinking about greatly increases the chances of doing it. No one’s ever done something without thinking about it. He saw the official that was his contact. He had convinced this guy to extort money, sleep around, and kill criminals. His name was Scruyus; he was a tax collector.

Scruyus was talking to his friends Bilus and Judas, also tax collectors. Cain wasn’t sure how this was going to play out. He thought he’d just whisper his idea when it seemed right. He listened to their conversation.

“I’m sorry, my friends. I have a meeting with Jesus. We’re eating out and then we’re gonna go pray,” Judas was saying.

“Are you pretty good friends with this guy?” Scruyus asked.

“Yeah, I guess. We’re not best friends, you know. I don’t even know his middle name, but I know it starts with an ‘H’. I’m about as close to him as I am to you guys.”

Bilus didn’t like that statement. “Maybe we should kill him. The government is looking for buyers.” Scruyus laughed.

Cain saw his opportunity. He whispered into Scruyus’ ear, “No, Judas should kill him. He would never suspect it. It’ll be funny.”

The first seed was planted. I could already tell what was going to happen. Judas would be the one to betray him. It wouldn’t be enough, though. You can lead a horse to the cross, but you can’t make him die. He needed something else, but what? I would have to wait for the answer.

Soon Jesus was on the cross and bleeding. He’d been tortured, mocked, and now hung out to dry. I almost felt bad for him. And despite all this, he was not dead. There was a bit of a crowd gathered at the Mount. I had a plan.

“Find me the list of boys who tossed rocks at the Wailing Wall today.”

“Done.”

“How many are at the Mount right now?”

“6, sir.”

“Locate Judas and Bilus.”

“Done.”

“How close are they to any of the boys?”

“100 yards from one of them sir. Boy by the name of Thomas.”

“Excellent. Cain, I have a new assignment for you.”

Cain, again on earth, quickly located Judas and Bilus. Judas was feeling guilt. That stupid human. Cain walked up behind him. It didn’t matter what they were talking about – this was important. He whispers, “There’s a boy over there named Doubting Thomas. Get him to say an ‘H’ word. Don’t ask why, just do it now.”

They walked over to Thomas, who was sitting with a friend. “Hello boys. Is one of you Doubting Thomas? I heard that you were throwing some rocks at the Wailing Wall today.”

“Maybe I was.”

Cain whispered, “Son, you see Jesus down there? He’s in pain, son. He wants release. You can give it to him.”

“No. I will NOT kill Jesus. I believe him.”

As I watched this, I heard the voice of my lead intelligence officer. “Sir, we have new intell on this situation.”

“Go ahead,” I said.

“It seems that killing the savior is a bad idea.”

“What?”

Uptop, Cain was whispering, “You’re a good Jewish boy, aren’t you?”

“Intelligence has recently translated part of the bible that suggests that through Christ’s death the gates will be open. In which case, we don’t want him dead.”

The boy was furious at such a question. “Of course!”

“What did God give the Israelites in the desert?” Manna.

“Sir, if he dies, we lose.”

“What is the square root of 144?” 12.

“Get Cain back here now! Shut that kid up!”

“Do we serve Caeser?” No. It’s a ploy for us to save up money until we can move out, get our own place, and party all the time instead of study like we said we would.

Alarms went off. Cain’s cell phone rang. That’s right – cell phones originated in hell. And TV and rap music. Like you didn’t know.

Cain wouldn’t answer it. He was so close. What could it be?

Cain whispered, “What is Jesus middle name?” The boy froze. Maybe he didn’t know. Did Cain have to whisper to this kid, too? That would take time. They needed this guy dead now.

Then the kid spoke, “H.”

“No!” It was done. The sky became abruptly overcast and the ground quaked. The Son of God died before their eyes. Cain’s laughter was louder than the thunder. I could fell my authority shrinking as souls left my dominion. One by one, ancient servants of God disappeared in front of me. I got more than my share of raspberries.

Then, uptop, I heard, “Way to go, Tom. You’re going to hell.”

‘Well,’ I thought. ‘It’s a start.’

I’m the reason Christ is dead. I don’t mean that the way you think I do. You should be angry. Some of you are thinking, “We are all the reason why Christ is dead. He died for our sins.”

That’s so not what I mean.

I’m old. At the time of this writing I am 45 years old. It almost seems an insult to have lived this long. It almost seems like God is saying, “I’m putting you here for as long as I can, because when you croak it won’t be me that you spend your time with.” I’m writing this story because I believe it’s important. Maybe one day scores of people will read what I did and strive not to make the same mistakes I did. The mistake is that of egging on unstable people.

I hung out with Judas frequently. We were both tax collectors. We’d hang around the market, in a quiet spot, and crack tax jokes. On this particular day, I happened to walk over to Judas and Bilus just as Bil was finishing up his joke. “So I said, ‘You could call it Max evasion!'” I guess you had the hear the rest of the joke.

“Hey, Bilus. Hey, Judas. What’s up?”

“Hey, Scruyus. How’s your day?” Judas asked.

“Oh, let me tell you. It’s so BC out there today. I had two Nazareans who pretended they didn’t know Hebrew in order to get out of payment. So I killed one and the other was more than happy to pay me for his life. Oh, and he suddenly remembered his Hebrew, too. Miracle, eh?”

Bilus scoffed, “Miracle! Have you heard about this new guy? He’s a Jew. Actually, he might be Nazarean, too. He’s performing miracles around the country. He’s gotten awfully popular.”

“I’ve seen him,” Judas said. “Actually, I’ve hung out with him. I really get into the stuff he says. He’s a brilliant guy.”

“Judas. Come on. He’s a payer not a payee. You know how we feel about those kinds.” Bilus had a point. We’ve never been much accepted by the secular factions of the world. “I mean, come on. Does he even know the difference between a 1040 and a 1040EZ? I mean, one’s sandstone and one’s marble, but does he know which is which?”

“No, he probably doesn’t. But what does that matter? I lived most of my life with no idea we even paid taxes. Why can’t some people spend their whole lives not knowing? There really are more important things than deductables.”

“Says who?”

There was silence. Bilus really didn’t seem to like this guy. I, myself, didn’t know the difference between a 1040 and a 1040EZ, but then again most of the people in my neck of town didn’t pay their taxes. I usually had to kill one of them and collect the money that way.

“Look. Bilus, Judas, let’s go to the inn tonight and have our fill. We can get drunk, fill out tax return slabs for fun, and go home feeling better. Why not?”

“I’m sorry, my friends. I have a meeting with Jesus. We’re eating out and then we’re gonna go pray.”

“Are you pretty good friends with this guy?” I asked.

“Yeah, I guess. We’re not best friends, you know. I don’t even know his middle name, but I know it starts with an ‘H’. I’m about as close to him as I am to you guys.”

Bilus didn’t like that statement. “Maybe we should kill him. The government is looking for buyers.”

I laughed, “No, Judas should kill him. He would never suspect it. It’ll be funny.”

Judas pondered this. “How much money?”

“Oh, no way. I’m not listening to this. Judas, I forbid you to kill anyone. Allright?”

He was silent. He shared a look with Bilus. They were scheming.

“I gotta go. I’m due for a death tax payment. This is going to be tricky because I normally force people into giving me money by killing them. Maybe I’ll have Jesus come and raise him up for me.” No one laughed but me. “Hey, Bil. Stay out of trouble. Hey, Jude. Don’t let me down.” Then both of them, at the same time, said, “See you later, Scru.”

That was the last time I saw either of them again.

Then Frosty The Snowman hands Rogue some of his mom’s clothes, and they share a moment. Like, “Oh, man. I so want you. But I can’t cause you’ll kill me” sort of thing. Then they just go for it, death warnings be damned, and kiss. And then she does that “I can see my breathe” thing. Then they kiss again and she almost sucks his brain/life out through his gulliver.

Wolverine, however, has different tastes. He grabs himself a cold one and proceeds to get drunk. Just then the parents walk in. Talk about humour! They start to freak out because an overly muscular, surely man is drinking their beer and they don’t know him. Parents over reacte so much, don’t they?

Finally FreezeTag calms his parents down and explains to them. He tells them that he’s a mutant and that he has powers and that Wolverine is a professor at the school. “What do you teach?” “Art.” Oh, the laughs! Then he gets a call. That thing that he pulled out of the cool XCar (that looks like a dorky cell phone) is going nuts. It actually means that Storm is trying to talk to them.

Then the police show up. Oh, no! It looks like when the kid brother went upstairs to cry he called the police, too. Wolverine, sensing danger, unleashed his claws and stands on the porch. “Sir, drop the knives. Drop the knives!” “I can’t.” Things are getting a little heated, so Wolverine retracts his claws *schink!* and CopA shoots him in the head. He drops like last quarter profits for Enron.

Pryo, whom we suspected of being less than on stable ground, loses it. “You know those dangerous mutants you hear of on the news? Well, I’m the most dangerous.” *sizzle* He destroys cop vehicle after vehicle and toasts a couple cops, too. Everyone starts firing. He’s really giving mutants a bad name. Rogue grabs his bare calf and uses his powers to suck the fire up. Then the jet comes in. They all climb aboard and hoard it for home.

Meanwhile, one of the guys who works Magneto’s cage is sitting at a bar. On the television we see a report of what had happened in Boston. “Turn that off,” he says. “Why? Does it bother you?” Enter the only unbelievable part of the movie. This guy is fat, kinda disgusting and alone. What made him think that super-model/actress Rebecca Ramen-Almost would want to have a drink with him? She gets him into the bathroom (where all the parents cover their children’s eyes), but she knocks him out and fills him full of lead instead. I mean that last part literally.

Cut to the secret base. Here we see Xavior in (what appears to be) the splender of Mutant Mansion (or whatever it’s called) but *dun dun dunn* IT’S NOT! It’s an illusion thanks to Jason Stryker. He decides to make himself look like a little girl (with freaky eyes) in this illusion. Weird, huh? Mutany indeed. We now realize that the plan is to walk Xavior through the steps that he would use in the School. Stryker’s son is making it look like it’s just a regular day back home. The vision comes and goes (and it makes a cool effect) but he does a good job of overpowering Professor X’s psychokenetic abilities.

Back to the prison, the guard brings Magneto his food. He walks down the long plastic bridge to the room and sets down the tray. Magneto smells something in the air. “There’s something different about you today.” And he lifts the man up while still standing 5ft away. “Too much iron in your blood…” And he sucks it out of the guy so it forms three ball bearings. The guy is dead, and Magneto demolishes his chamber with the three balls. They wizz around him smashing everything.

The guards panick and begin to pull the plastic bridge away. Oh, no! How is Magneto going to get across?? Use the ball bearings. Flatten them out to disc size and float yourself over there. Hell, you can use the other two balls to kill everyone in your way. It looks like he’s free, folks.

The jet is in the air and so is the US Air Force. They are charged with the duty of “taking that plane down.” The X-Crowd gasp. What will they do? The planes are on either side of the jet and ask them to land now. They won’t; they just keep flying. The planes back off. “The planes are backing off,” they think with relief. It would be relieving except that they’re backing off to launch missles. Storm gets an brainstorm… oh, man that was bad. She creates her own tornado alley. One of the planes goes down. The other holds tight. She lets the tornadoes up and the jet fires it’s two missles before the pilot ejects.

The missles race closer and closer to the flying vessel. They try to shake it. Storm cannot out manuever the weapon. Jean sits still and concentrates really hard. Then her eyes catch fire and one of the missles explodes. I love Jean. I really do. She concentrates hard on the second one, but she can’t hold it off. It explodes inches from the plane and Rogue gets sucked out. Nightcrawler disappears in a puff of black smoke and reappears in midair, next to Rogue. He grabs her, disappears again (with her), and reappears in the plane. The plane, however is going down. The earth is rushing up and then they stop. With his hand up and a smirk on his face, there stands Magneto.

In the footsteps of so many of my relatives before me, I have decided to uphold a tradition that Rausch’s (and probably Miles’, too) have enjoy for years and years. This tradition is that of ruining a good movie for everyone who hasn’t seen it by divulging all of the pertinent themes, phrases, plot twists, and effects.

The movie started about the same way as the first. Can we say, “fill time with CGI”? There’s a nifty voice over that says something like “We’re freaks, this is our story.” I think it was Jean Grey, but maybe not. It could have been Storm.

Zoom Out to some lady talking about this retarded Lincoln picture in the White House. Hmm, Lincoln freed the slaves from the slavery. Does this parallel the story we are seeing?? Uh, yes. We are seeing the White House because, dun dun dunnn, there is a “spooky character” walking around with a tail.

Shoot ’em boys, but it’s too late. He’s really good and not being shot and manages to incapacitate all of the secret service men. The really really cool battle ends in the oval office where Nightcrawler is about to skewer the president with a knife, but he doesn’t. He gets shot and teleports out of there. He drops the blade which has a “Mutants Forever” or some such saying on it.

Then we see Wolverine who has clawed his way up to Canada. There’s a big dam and some weird wolf that leads him through this base. He then goes back to the school. Rogue and Frosty are about to kiss when she realizes that she could suck the bloody life out of him if she got too carried away, so they just laugh awkwardly at each other.

Oh, Wolverine’s back. Everyone loves Wolverine. He meets the boyfriend. *eek* Then he sees Jean. Can we say sexual tension. Then he sees Cyclops. *eek* “Your bike needs gas” Toss keys. “Then fill her up” Toss back. Come on guys, try to get along, please!

We are now introduce to a new character : Stryker. Yeah, the same one as in Airplane. Maybe not. But he tells the president that the Mutants must be stopped, yada yada yada. Of course this is terrible. Ok, so I’m blanking. Then, uh, Stryker goes to see Magneto in the ultra cool, plastic, transparent prison. Stryker drips some stuff onto his neck and then Magneto is unable to control himself.

Oh, no.

At this time, Storm and Jean Grey go to find the mutant who tried to kill Mr. Prez and they head to where he lives. Xavior and Cyclops go to visit Magneto to ask HIM about the assasination attempt (to see if he did or if he knows anything about it). Just at the juiciest part of the dramatic hot dog, things go wrong. As Xavior discovers that Magneto told Stryker the details of Cerebro (alllllll the details) gas begins to fill the chamber. Cyclops (in the out chamber) is attacked by some petty humans, but then Lady Deathstrike takes him out.

Cut to Wolverine having a nightmare about his stupid past. He gets up. This kid is blinking through the channels. He never sleeps. FrostBite is up, too. They chat as Stryker and his militia walk in. Holy bullet holes! Many of the kids escape by special, secret tunnels. Leave it to the principle actors (Rogue, IceMan, and Pyro) to get caught up behind the rest. There is a showdown where Stryker hints that Wolverine should know him a LOT better, but SnowBall puts an end to it. They escape and head to Boston.

Meanwhile, Storm and Jean trick manage to capture Nightcrawler who has a German accent and appears to be Roman Catholic (and a bit of a fanatic). He has body carvings for every sin. Yeah, glad I’m not a member of that congregation. They get in the plane and take off.

[abbreviated from this point on]

The kids and Wolverine have since been travelling to Boston where SnowBell’s parents live. Oh, no, he didn’t tell them he’s a freak. This may be awkward. Dr. X is being held in a base somewhere up North (hallowed Canada?) and has a device on his head that makes him wince whenever he glares.

Enter a key piece in the puzzle. His name is James. He’s Stryker’s son who is, dudah!, a mutant. He’s an illusionist. Turns out that Stryker thinks that being a mutant is a “problem to be solved” and Xavior couldn’t save his son. So, he turned his son into a weapon. (The son has a blue and brown eye. Very mutany.)

Cut to the quaint house in Boston. IceBall has changed clothes, (since it’s his house) and Rogue looks on at the picures that dot his walls. Downstairs, Pyro looks less than consumed with Jealousy. Oh, wait, he doesn’t. Perhaps a forboding??

This post is not a humourous piece. This is informational. I want to apologize for those of you who have tried to reach me by MSN : africansnowweasel@hotmail.com : or AIM : rauschpax : or ICQ : 161393312 : and haven’t been able to. For one, I just found out that AIM seems to forget when I go away, so everyone thinks I’m there.

I’m not.

For MSN I just appear offline – a lot. It’s been a hectic set of days (weeks, even) and it won’t slow down for another week and a half. I’ve had banquets, band reheasal, Bob Holly and Miles band rehearsal, meetings, and still had time to stare off into space while driving… fast.

What a rush that is. I love the faces of children as I speed towards them with a ton of metal surrounding me. I never much cared for playgrounds in my childhood, but now I never drive past them. I drive through them.

What?? *sigh* What is wrong with me…

That’s it.

When it’s in ruins. How do you ruin a party? Evidently, you invite me to go along. I seem to be either an attractor of bad parties or a destoyer of good ones. It works much the same way inviting your dog to the cat show works. Wait, how about inviting your rapid, hyper-active dog who can’t control his bladder. Yeah, that’s closer.

My first experience with a party wasn’t until college. You can call me a loser (or su><0r) right now and get it out of your system. I have never much been into drinking and that is the staple of a party. Unless it's a gay "Let's play hide and seek!" party. I like to show up to parties like that with a flashlight and a silencer. This particular party wasn't like that at all. I think it was Quinn who brought me here. It was a quiet looking inconspicuous house on the edge of town. We entered the house and proceeded downstairs. It was dark downstairs. There were blacklights everywhere and a strobe light set up next to a computer stereo system. God invented Winamp for geeks. The lights confused me and the cramped area made me feel disorientated and confused. I felt wasted and I wasn't the one drinking. Everyone else was. Suddenly someone from upstairs down and bid the musical din to silence. "Nobody panick, but... The cops are circling the house. They gave us 10 minutes to get everyone out before they give out tickets." There was commotion. "10 minutes is a long time. Just be calm and go right home." I got upstairs with the rest and waited for the rest of my group. I noticed two guys begin out the door with their alcohol when the owner of the house stopped them. "Are you guys idiots?? The cops will see that. Leave it." We got outside, sprinted to the car, and drove back to the dorms. My first party and it had been busted! This was a very bad scene. Jump forward to the week of the play. Enter Heather. Heather : "Let's DO SOMETHING fun!" How can a guy argue with that? Heather : "I found us a party. Let's go, girl." *sigh* We got in the car and drove out of Madison toward the Hillside Supper Club on the lake. Here is where Jake (who played Perchik) had a lake house. We got out of the vehicle (after several comments made to slight my manhood and sexual orientation) and we entered his humble basement "home." We all sat in the "kitchen." The girls sat in chairs. Heather and I sat on the couch. The other four guys (yes, other four guys, Heather) sat at a table playing a drinking game with cards. Why is it that drinking games are so complicated? If drunks come up with them, shouldn't they be simple and easily won? I mentioned this to Heather who said, "That's a great ide... what?" She hadn't had anything to drink, but you couldn't tell. You also couldn't tell that it was a party. We left when Jake was drunk. This took only about 20 minutes because he was being cocky and fate decided to teach him a lesson. Then this weekend. Jeff and I go to visit Collin at the Mount in Yankton. It's a long drive. I nodded off a couple of times and so did Jeff. Except, Jeff was driving... Oh, well, we made it fine. We found Collin and enjoyed some Theatre. Then it was off to get drunk. As Collin put it, "I'm wearing my 'drink beer' shoes. Notice how they are the shoes I wear everyday." Too long for MSN but not too long to Awayken.com. We found our first party with Susan Canton as our guide. We walked in, made introductions (she called Jeff by the name "Dave" which was weird), and then we watched 'Stealing Harvard.' Minute by minute people began leaving until it was only us and the girl who lived there. The girl, consequently, was asleep in her chair. We left quietly. The next party we went to was a little livlier. There were people drunk out on the sidewalk, even. This should be classy. We walked in to an attempt at swing dancing as Winamp (again, the geek's golden God) blared out a metal cover of a Rolling Stones song. There were chips in the "kitchen" and sprite in the fridge (score!) so I poured myself a drink and Jeff, Collin, and I discussed the finer points of blog authorship. Then some more people showed up. Then some left. Then the party began to slide down. It ended with XBox. Nothing is more depressing than watching girls try to play video games, but it's even worse when they try to play while intoxicated. The latest notch in the belt of my lameness came at Zimm Fest 2003. This was supposed to be the rockin' concert and social gathering of the semester. Of course, Zimmermann Hall was running it so you can guess how it turned out. No one showed up for two hours into it. The DJ played to a room full of people with "Staff" name tags on and no urge to dance and get groovy. At 9 the bands showed up. Punky Junior High kids with a bad full of power chords to let rip. You can tell a good band when they wear the shirts of OTHER bands while on stage. I wonder if Metallica does that... There were a lot of guitar and a lot of bass and a lot of drums. I really had no idea what they were saying. If you asked me what the song titles were, I had no idea. None. I can hardly name the bands themselves. I spent much of the night running the bar. This entailed making up how to make daquiris simply by adding ice, liquid, water, and blood. I guess that there's a way, a method, a form. After spilling six cups worth of strawberry flavored slush on my clothes and hands, I had about figured this damn process out. These nights went pretty well. Despite a ruined party, I usually had fun. Otherwise, why would I bother trying again? Well... now that I think of it. Why bother trying again? Oh wait, I remember. The chicks.

I hate driving. Quit looking shocked. As scared as I am of everything, you would think that propelling myself in a metal coffin down streets I’ve hardly seen before might result in a smile and a “Yippee!” of exuberation.

What are you, retarded?

There is nothing enjoyable about almost being dead every second you’re doing something. It could be that I’ve had more than my liking of accidents or that I’m pretty lazy, but I will do whatever (reasonably) possible to get out of driving somewhere. I walk a lot. I stay in a lot. I ask for rides a lot. I make friends, I meet people, everyone loves me.

My weekend’s automotive excursion was as exciting (and, oh, so much fun) as any I’ve had. This time I wasn’t alone. I had a goal. Much like Frodo and Saddam, I was put on a quest. Mine was to drive my cousin Brenna to my aunt Karin’s house so that she could get driven back to her little corner of Minnesota in St. Olaf. She’s a South Dakota native, so don’t hold MN against her.

The trip went mostly well. We listened to Radiohead on the way down. I didn’t realize that she was a fan and was happy to hear that she knew the songs and wasn’t just feigning enjoyment. I usually hear things like, “Radiohead? They’re weird. Kinda like you, you freak.” Yeah. That’s about right.

Then we got to Sioux Falls. My mom had given me instructions to get to my Aunt Karin’s. No problem. But I had a change of plans. I wanted to stop by the mall first and eat Chinese food. Brenna was game (and by that I mean captive) so we started to follow my mom’s instructions, but I decided to mix it up a bit. Like by getting lost.

Sioux Falls is a confusing city. I heard someone say, “No it’s not.” I say, “Shut’tup.” I could remember (from one or two trips to Sioux Falls that I actually paid attention on) that the mall was on 41st street, but 41st stretches from one end of the EARTH to the other, it seems. We found 41st street, the glittering street of hip downtown businesses. Except for the moment it was the half-dirt street of suburbian hell.

So… many houses… so … similar….

Brenna had a panick attack and we had to exeunt the vehicle so she could revisit her bowl of cereal from this morning. Some suburban kids began to approach us. They wore glittering clothing from Abercrombie and they had never seen a car made before 2000. I had to fight them off Brenna with a stick because they didn’t understand the girls without American Eagle clothing are not witches or criminals.

We got back in the car and drove down Bahnson. Then we got to Sycamore. Then we came back to Bahnson. “This can’t be right,” I thought. We were just here. Literally just here. I drove forward. No turning. The roads turned from tar to dirt and then back to tar. We ended up on Bahnson again. How does this keep happening?

I gave up. I called my dad. I pouted. I decided that there would be no Chinese for me (or Brenn) even though I LOVE Chinese and it’s my favorite food and YES I will marry it, if I can, so don’t even try to mock me. I drove us back the way we came. We were beginning to enter a dirty part of town. We were surrounded by way too many laundramats and mexican fast food places.

I gave Brenna the choice of a lifetime. “Taco Johns or KFC?” She chose KFC. Excellent choice, I thought. I normally don’t think of Taco Johns as being overly … clean. We entered the KFC were there seemed to be way too many Samoan people to be a normal establishment. I got the buffet, but, go figure, there was only one piece of chicken there. They didn’t hardly replace the food. The food was chunky and sludgey. That’s right, sludgey.

The food was fine, but the overall place was a ‘C’ establishment. I did get a gumball in the end, so I got that going for me, which is nice. We got in the car and we got going in the right direction. I had planned on us getting to my Aunt’s house at 200. We left a little early, but with getting lost we ended up at Karin’s house at 300. Ooooooo, woops. It was fine, though, because that was when they wanted to leave anyway.

I got some comments once I explained the situation. “You don’t know where the mall is??” *snicker* “Do you want to follow me out to the interstate, Miles?” *smug smirk* “Do you want some help getting back to your car, sweetie?” *guffaws* So, after some derisive but cordial ribbing, I followed Amber to the interstate. That’s right; I’m not ashamed to say it. I had to follow a woman driver. But at least I can say that I got lost like a man.

I thought about writing about the worse night of the play. I was going to recount all the horrible details of missed lines, painful disfigurings, destroyed props, and the conflagration (fire).

But I’m tired. So instead I’ll say this –

You can get to it by clicking “climbing up the walls”, at the top, whenever you want.

My apologies to those who are new to this site. What follows next is a somewhat depressing reflection on the end of the play. Usually I write happy, funny things of wit and … humour. Go figure.

I’m quiet right now. Very quiet. I should be working on Linear Algebra homework, since we have a test tomorrow, but I’m not. I should be completing the take home test that is due tomorrow, but I sit here listening to Radiohead and typing up what should prove to be a wasteful parade of letters.

I’m quiet because yet another play is over and, with the closing of another theatrical display, comes the depression. It never fails. Large production or small one, every play ends with this sadness that comes over me.

It could be the endorphins. Acting gets me high. It’s like sucking straight O2 for hours. It’s like hanging upside down and then spinning in a circle for 10 minutes. It’s like holding your breath for as long as you can and then doing it again over and over. It’s that kind of high. So after 4 nights of intense high, maybe my body doesn’t want to let go. Maybe my body NEEDS it.

It could be the people. A lot of those people in the play I won’t see ever again. Like I told some of them, “Unless I start hanging out at the Middle School picking up chicks, this will probably be goodbye.” Not that the thought hasn’t passed my mind, but I have no idea where the Middle School in this town is. I felt this after the first play. I didn’t know Heather or Jamie at all before ‘Heaven and Hell’ additions. And now look. Just look.

It could be more than all that, though. It could be that the play is a living, breathing (the most clich� way to say ‘alive’) organism. A play is comprised of so many people : writers, directors, musicians, constructors, actors. Could it be that when a play ends, the thing dies? The people involved are severed from each other. It’s like going steady for a month and then having no contact at all. It’s like having the walk of your life and getting smoked by a semi truck. It’s like enjoying the trees on a glorious hunt until the back of your head meets a 12 gauge.

I don’t really mean to be so morbid. It’s just the things that come to mind right now. Future readers, be not disheartened. Go into my archives section and check out what’s there. Or enjoy Pizza What ?, Train of Thought, or Lessons Jack Beuer Taught Me.

In the meantime, I think I’m going to go do some homework, listen to Radiohead, and try my best to ignore myself.

Hi. As part of my rehabilitation program, I must tell people whenever I act. This is just such a bulletin.

Come see “Fiddler on the Roof” this week.

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April 10th : 800pm
April 11th : 800pm
April 12th : 800pm
April 13th : 200pm
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Tickets are $8 and $4 (I think), and we’re hoping to play to a packed arena. The musical is being presented at the Dakota Prarie Playhouse in Madison, SD.

If you need directions, email Miles Rausch, or call him at 605 256 5623.

I hope to see you all there.