Details at 10!

Ramada: The Me Of Hotels.

2006-03-23T09:08:00.000-06:00

So when we were in Milwaukee last week to see Mr. Ben, we stayed at a Ramada downtown. Shortly after our return from Chicago, I got an email that was all "We're really glad you stayed with us, fill out this survey!" And I don't really do surveys, so I was like, delete. Then this morning I got another email from the fine folks at Ramada:

Dear Sarah,

Recently, we sent you an invitation to complete a Guest Satisfaction Survey concerning your stay with us at Ramada Milwaukee-Downtown, where you checked out on March 13, 2006.

We noticed that you did not have time to complete the survey. We are concerned that you may not have responded because we have somehow failed to live up to your expectations.

Wow, and I thought I was insecure. "You didn't respond so you must hate us! Whyyy? We love you!" (well, except when we were trying to figure out how to run the vending machine- but, don't have a dollar slot there if it doesn't take dollars, seriously.)

So let it be known, I thought the Ramada was a really nice hotel. It did not fail to live up to my expectations in any way, shape, or form. I mean, we loved it so much we stole the shampoo and towels!

In a couple hours I am heading up to the North Country for a weekend of hockey, and also my family being torn apart. Should be non-stop fun!

Spring Break, Baby.

2006-03-12T00:02:00.000-06:00

I get to see this ridiculously talented piece of hot in just under 24 hours. For the fifth time in four years. He will play his piano and I will want his piano-playing babies, as my best friend would say.

I'm even going to Wisconsin for him. That's true love, right?

After that I'll be spending a couple days in Chicago with my concert/travel companion doing something. Perhaps purchasing berets and hanging out at art museums using our pretentious voices, talking about art and society and the media. Or going to the Omni Hotel in hopes of befriending Oprah, so that she will give us some of her billions of dollars. Or drinking cheap wine in cheap hotel rooms. Whatever occurs, it's bound to be zany, or at the very least madcap, and most likely there will be photodocumentation.

Then I'll be back in the Mpls and may or may not be working on a secret, that will actually be writing, although not necessarily by me. Oh, it's all so cryptic, right?

I hope all of you, if you have Spring Breaks, have lovely ones that are filled with magic. And if you don't, well... sorry? Take care out there, and remember I love you, internets.

I Have To Write Something Tonight.

2006-03-07T00:40:00.000-06:00

Much can and probably will be said about the death of Kirby Puckett. Things about the Gold Gloves and the All-Star Teams and the World Series heroics and how things were just starting to turn around for him.

What they might neglect to mention is what happened to me tonight, and at least a couple of my friends. I found the news on the internet after returning home from my night class. I had sort of known it was coming, but I was unprepared. I spent the next three hours crying off and on. Most notable was a phone conversation I had with my father which had the underlying tension of one or the other of us bursting into sobs at any moment. It didn't happen. But it could have.

I just want to give everyone a hug. Seriously, that's all. When this happens, people need hugs.

In October, 1991, I turned 7 years old. I brought cookies to my first grade class and had the birthday party of the century at my grandmother's house, complete with merry-go-round cake. Shortly thereafter my father went to Minneapolis on a business trip and purchased Homer Hankies for the family. This was not the family dynamic it is now. College hockey was not our life then. Hell, the North Stars were still around. The Twins were in the playoffs, and it was serious business.

I have sports essays in me waiting to be written. I have a half-finished one on the very subject of the 1991 World Series, as well as a ridiculously sappy and awestruck one about my first penalty shot. Sports can mean a lot, and can reach a lot of places that normal, everyday life can't. The World Series in 1991 meant so much to me, to my family, to my town, to my state, that it's really hard to explain. But there are few things, when mothers are gathering up nightgowns and hinting that it might be time for little girls to start brushing their teeth and kissing their stuffed animals goodnight and saying their prayers and going to bed because they have Sunday School in the morning, that will cause fathers to look over from their recliner in the family room and simply state:

"Let her stay up and watch this."

There are few moments that are burned into my memory as that is. I was two weeks past my seventh birthday, and bedtime had just been deferred. This was almost unheard of. This was serious. This was the World Series.

Kirby Puckett made bedtimes disappear. Kirby Puckett made Sunday School the next day not as important as the here and the now, and the television. And when the home run was hit and "We'll see you tomorrow night" was uttered, I remember, vividly, looking over at my dad, then back at Kirby, then back at my dad. My dad, usually not one for big displays of emotion, clenched his fist in the air and said, "Yes sir!" loudly. It meant a lot to him. It meant a lot to me. It meant a lot to everyone.

I think that's the thing no one gets. Even if you didn't like baseball, even if you never watched sports in your life, if you were a child growing up in Minnesota at that time, you loved Kirby Puckett. I personally really didn't care that much about baseball, but my dad did so I was exposed to it indirectly. Kirby Puckett was awesome. He was always smiling and happy. And he was really good.

The next night, of course, the Twins won that World Series. The day after, that Monday, began the most amazing thing I'd seen and heard in my short life: people on television, not the local news, actual television from faraway cities, talking about the Twins, talking about Minnesota. As the week unfolded, my first grade classmates and I expressed to each other with awe the various things we had seen the Twins on. Tom Brokaw was the one I couldn't believe.

As if that wasn't enough of a miracle, one day shortly after my class was gathered up and allowed to travel to the sixth grade room across the library to watch the parade through the streets of Minneapolis. This was totally unheard of, first graders weren't allowed in the sixth grade classrooms! First graders didn't even *talk* to sixth graders! Most amazing of all, the sixth graders didn't seem to care, or really even notice, that small, snot-nosed children from the primary grades had infiltrated their space (my elementary school was K-6, so sixth graders were the top of the ladder). We watched together in silent awe as the parade unfolded.

Kirby Puckett brought first graders and sixth graders together. Kirby Puckett put Minnesota on the map for us, and we all knew he was the reason that our state mattered to anyone other than us and our families.

Tonight, a generation of children who grew up Minnesotan when Kirby Puckett made that cool and before "Fargo" made that lame have lost their hero. We have lost the man who gave us that moment in which we knew, we were ok. And now it's hard to know if things really are ok or not. We may live in a world without bedtimes now, we may have for years. No one brings cookies on their birthday anymore, there are no merry-go-round cakes. This has been the case for a long, long time for those of us that grew up in the era of the Twins' two World Series championships. But with Kirby gone, that door has been slammed shut and locked forever. We have to grow up now.

We'll miss you, Kirby.

Surprise- I Love You! The Legend of Little Baby Crackhead.

2006-02-06T01:24:00.000-06:00

Last night I was at a birthday party for a friend and one of my other friends tipped me off to a website which, after a few moments of looking around, I decided is the greatest website of all time. This website is called Retro Junk, and features videos of 80s and 90s TV show intros, theme songs, but most importantly, toy commercials.

My brain has a good chunk devoted to 80s and early 90s commercial jingles, particularly toy commercial jingles because, well, I watched cartoons and that's what was on. Going through the pages of toy commercials was like taking a trip back to my old family room in northern Minnesota, circa 1989. And sadly, I remember every lyric to more of them than I should.

Tonight, this website has served two awesome purposes. One, it solved one of the biggest mysteries of my childhood years: The Wish World Kids. Check out this commercial and maybe you'll realize how confused I was when I found a toy refrigerator that turned into an ice cream store in my closet (and the best of all, not shown in the ad, a tv set that turned into a tv studio). But thanks to this site I have finally placed them in my memory of toys.

The second purpose was it provided me with an awesome story springboard, something I have not had on this site for some time. Here is a commercial for a series of dolls known as "Baby Face". I had one of these, too- the hair is styled exactly like the first one shown, the surprised face, but her outfit is different and her mouth is different- instead of surprise, her mouth is like the third doll shown (with what looks like a showercap on), with her tongue sticking out. This is important for a reason, which will be revealed shortly.

But first, do you see why I love these terrible commercials? Seriously, watch it, it's from Galoob. The dialogue in these is so hilarious, and the little girl they've chosen delivers it perfectly. And terribly word choice sounded excitedly = comedy gold. "She's surprised, she's sorry. She's shy!" I'm not sure in which circles shy = dopey grin, but damned if I don't laugh every time I watch it, particularly when Surprise Face appears. There is one moment, right before the little girl talks about the hearts, where Surprise Face makes me burst into giggles every time I've seen it.

Anyway, fast forward to summer 2005, when I am going through a stash of toys and dolls underneath the window seat in my room to clean stuff out for moving. We find Baby Face. Her name was actually Dee Dee, it came with a tag. Her crimped ponytail remained intact but the rest of her hair is sticking straight out of her head. She still has the same wild-eyed open-mouthed tongue-hanging-out look to her she did in the early 90s. My mother walked into the room to bring me another garbage bag and looked at the doll in my hands, and with a level of disgust I rarely hear from her, she says:

"What *is* that... thing?"

Without missing a beat, I hugged the doll tightly and said, in my best little-girl voice,

"It's Little Baby Crackhead, and I love her!"

So Baby Face became Little Baby Crackhead, but man, if you'd seen her, you'd know why. I did keep her in the Bag O' Saves (as we called it during the packing days) along with Baby Rollerblade and Starbrite Sparkles (PJ Sparkles' cousin who had a projector in her head, not kidding). Because who knows, I might make a movie someday about a frightening doll, and there will be no greater star than Little Baby Crackhead.

That's all for now, I'm going to go all warm and fuzzy over Sega CD memories. Who wouldn't want to make their own Marky Mark and the Funky Bunch music video?

The Sweet Sound of Sconnie Silence.

2006-01-29T12:26:00.000-06:00

I love my team. :)

My New Friend!

2006-01-27T00:51:00.000-06:00

This cheered me up today. This goat and I are going to be hang out buddies, I can tell.

They Met On... The Internet!

2006-01-23T02:09:00.000-06:00

My best internet friend has been my internet friend for coming up on 7 years. This is complete madness, as June 1999 does not seem that long ago, but, apparently, it is. Her name is Ali, and her blog is linked over to the left (the one with the title suspiciously like mine).

She's feeling a little down of late due to issues involving loser gentlemen, and so I have taken it upon myself to cheer her up with this internet post.

Ali is my twin. I say this because we were born almost exactly 13 hours apart (I'm the younger one). We met because of our, at the time, rather obsessive love for a certain celebrity gentleman, one which we're both sort of ashamed to admit our previous like for now. But in our defense, we were 14. She is an awesome friend who has always been there for me through my evolution from middle school brat to... uh, whatever it is I am now. Oh, the internet situations through which we have lived! Crazy band stalkers, Mormons, internet stalkers, it's really been like a sitcom, with the theme song of John Tesh's immortal classic "Roundball Rock" (aka the NBA on NBC song). We created and wrote for two incarnations of the now defunct Cleverandwitty (but you never know, it might come back when you least expect it). And perhaps most memorably, we created characters for internet consumption: our sworn enemy, the evil Shirley Skogerboe (or Skoges, as we call her), and Matty Davis, who was my made-up boyfriend for two weeks when we were trying to get rid of one of the aforementioned internet stalkers. Ali even went above and beyond the call of duty and sent me a postcard with Cusack from Say Anything on the front and a love note from the fake Mr. Davis on the back. I found it in a box of freshman year stuff this summer and laughed my ass off, especially the PS: Your friend Ali is hot! And hey, maybe Matty will return if this crazy mid-30s dude keeps stalking Ali.

Anyway. Ali is awesome, and one of the funniest people ever. She'll laugh at super-offensive YTMNDs with me, and frequently cheers me up with our instant messenger conversations. Here is but one example from tonight, when I was describing a kind of awkward situation going on with another chum right now:

Sarah: yeah i'm like, uh, might have to pass on that.
Sarah: as you know there's nothing i love more than being in a large group of people i don't know.
Sarah: and the only two people i do know, fighting.
Ali: HA!
Ali: I love the way you put things.
Sarah: aw shucks.
Ali: http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v34/alibeaton/Charlie/blissedout.jpg
Sarah: oh, that crazy cat.
Ali: Sometimes I think he's all I've got. Ha ha ha.
Sarah: well, he's cute. :-)
Ali: Yeah, but he's hung like nothing.

This is why I love Ali. She makes me laugh. And sad truth, not a lot of people are funny anymore, especially the ladies. We're rare, so we need to stick together. :)

Winter Break Drawing to a Close.

2006-01-12T18:16:00.000-06:00

I'm not a fan.

Oh, I won't mind school when it gets back in session and all, but I'll miss these carefree days of watching television. I won't have as much time to watch Dave Dahl's weather report and yell "Bi-itch" when there's a forecast with which I disagree, or make fun of Anne "Helmet Head" Hutchinson.

No more lazy mornings like this morning, when I flipped between Celebrity Fit Club 3 and The Price Is Right (or the PIR, if you're down with Bob Barker as I am). This dude just ruled at the Dice Game today. Then, I had Spaghettios with Hot Dogs, and watched Press Your Luck (or the PYL if you're down... yeah, ok, not funny). Two nights ago my father and I discovered possibly the greatest television special of all time: The Press Your Luck Scandal. We were riveted by the tale of this dude who totally beat the PYL system, and chuckled at the description of death as "The Ultimate Whammy".

Spaghettios with Hot Dogs and The Price Is Right. Basically, I was 5.

The really scary thing is I graduate in probably a year and a half. Then I'll have to find a real job and there will be no more PIR/Spaghettio mornings. Lame.

This Says It All.

2006-01-08T22:09:00.000-06:00

Credit Cards accepted at the Holiday gas station in Alexandria, Minnesota:

-Holiday Stationstore Card
-Visa
-MasterCard
-Discover Card
-American Express
-Menards BIG! Card

And the Mills Fleet Farm gas station across the street thinks they have the hick market covered. Ha!

I'm sorry there hasn't been a lot of meaningful writing out here. I have some family issues that are making writing very difficult, especially funny stuff.

Here's something crazy to make up for it: Grab some headphones and listen to this. Try to focus straight ahead on the screen while you listen. And it only works with headphones on! (no, this will not require you to send it to 50 people in 10 seconds at the end. but it's cool.)

That's all for now.

Thoughts on an Early Christmas Morning.

2005-12-25T00:30:00.000-06:00

Every year since I was but a youngster, after I supposedly went to bed, I would crawl up on the window seat in my room and move the shade, and look out at what, I suppose, were I not too proud to be sappy like other relatives of mine who cry with any association of the place, I might call the most beautiful scene in the world. Even when I got older and grew to dread visits out to the middle of the woods, for those 48 hours, Christmas Eve into Christmas Day, the Boondocks were money.

It's 12:30am, Christmas morning. I have the lights off in my room and the windowshade open. I'm sitting on my dad's desk chair, cross-legged, laptop resting on my knees. This scene is so different from the old. It's not dark woods and crisp, undisturbed snow. It's the driveway, and my dad's car, and the berry tree, and the park. Across the way I can see Christmas lights on at neighboring houses. One's animated, I think, Santa Claus in his sleigh whipping reindeer into shape. A car is backing out of a driveway across the park, and I wonder where they're going so late at night. Maybe it's like that Kay Jewelers ad where the dude goes to surprise the girl with a necklace, or whatever, in the middle of a blinding snowstorm. Do those things even occur in real life?

In a way it's not right, in a way, we shouldn't be around other people, we should be in those woods, in that house, where the world stops and all you can see is Christmas, all you can think is Christmas. My old house, which isn't right, it shouldn't be old, it shouldn't be an animal carcass repository, was made for Christmas morning. My old house redeemed the rest of its year as an isolated corner of nowhere in those few hours, this morning. This was its time to shine. The sunrise would stream in through the kitchen window and illuminate our house in pinks and purples and oranges and yellows. The tree was always in the living room, the tree that was always at least 9 feet tall due to our high ceilings, and it was all natural, all real. We went fake this year for the first time ever, and I don't even know how I feel. I think, in a way, this has made me think Christmas isn't even Christmas anymore. How could it be, without that house, without that sunrise, without that tree, without that long walk down the hall Christmas morning and the blinding excitement of finding the Nintendo, or the bike, or the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles Subterranean Sewer Hockey (oh, 1990! what a year) sitting in the living room with a bow because Santa Claus had clearly brought it. Even after I figured out that the note Santa always left was written in a handwriting that suspiciously resembled my father's (I was 7, I think), that one big Santa gift was still huge. Even when I was 16 and all that was lying in the middle of the floor was a Charlie Brown Christmas CD, which meant nothing to me until I read the tag, "For you to play in the car". Car stereo freakout ensued, and rushing to the garage in pajamas and slippers. That house meant Christmas never lost its magic. In that house, Christmas was magic.

Christmas has come to Grand Forks, North Dakota, and a rabbit has just scampered across our front lawn. The ground is white, the sky has the "city lights" glow. I can't look up and count the stars, it's cloudy anyway. I think of all the kids in town that are trying in vain to sleep knowing Santa will soon be here. When I was very small I used to look out the window and see if I could see him coming. Once, I thought I heard him, but it was probably just my dad lumbering around in his closet.

Christmas also always makes me think of my maternal grandfather, who died five days before my 14th birthday. My maternal grandmother died when I was 8, and in between that year and the year of his death, my grandpa would always come and stay with us overnight on Christmas Eve. This was incredibly exciting to me as we had never had a houseguest on Christmas before, as my friends always had. He always made Christmas awesome with his hilarious antics, such as the time I helped him string Christmas lights on the dashboard of his car, or the very first time he came to stay with us when I gave him one of my stuffed animal friends to keep him company as I had 47,000 or so in my room. The one I chose was Snoopy's brother Olaf (the chubby one). Petee (I never, ever called him Grandpa, nor did I call my maternal grandmother Grandma, she was always Gram.) informed me on Christmas morning that he had not slept at all because Olaf had been snoring in Norweigan and keeping him up all night. He loved doing that sort of stuff (this is a man who dressed up in an Easter Bunny suit one year) and that, too, made Christmas awesome.

Grand Forks was his town long before it was mine. He loved it as much as anyone could. As much as my mom still does. And, as much as I expected Christmas Eve to be different at my grandma's new house on the west end of town, it was all the same. There was the ridiculous commentary and the hijinks and everyone's constant joking about this fireplace DVD my grandma bought and had on the TV in the living room. I must have said "Whoa, I'm gonna get burned sitting so close to this fire!"or an equivalent about 20 times, and Grandma laughed every time. And my aunt cried because someone gave her a farm-related thing, and my cousin and I gave each other the same gift (Itunes!) and my grandma accused my cousin of not giving me any wine because she couldn't see it in the glass (it was that tricky white wine). There were many loud accusations of box trickery, led by my father and I, my grandma wielded this ginormous kitchen knife around like a samurai, and, in the photo-op of the night, my aunt almost tripped over a pile of presents. My dad, who, like me, is a horrible person, said, "Where's the camera? That's next year's card!" I (also horrible) added, "Merry Christmas 2006!"

You see, I can't help but love this assortment of dysfunctional loonies I've been saddled with. As much as I make fun of them, which is ok because we make fun of each other, what would Christmas be without the hilarity? Normal. And BORING. And in that sense, I suppose location doesn't matter. People are what matters.

This year was rough. Incredibly rough. But I learned a lot. People, not place is one of those things. Another, which is somewhat linked, is that you should never miss an opportunity to show or tell someone you care about them. Because you never know. You think they'll always be around and it will be ok to talk to them and do stuff later, but you never, ever know. People, not place. People, not things. Sure, most people suck. But the ones that don't make up tenfold for the ones that do. I am very fortunate to have awesome friends that are always there when I need them, and I haven't always had such a thing. So appreciate your friends, and your family too. They're probably not as bad as you think. :)

In six hours the fam will be waking me up for Christmas morning gift opening, followed by preparation for dinner at noon. It won't be in the Boonies. But I guess as long as the three of us are together, it's all good. Awww, I know. I've gotten really soft this year. I hope you guys don't miss 2002 Sarah, because she was really sad all the time and I don't think she's coming back.

Merry Christmas. Or whatever you're into. Know that a lot of people love each and every one of you. And I hope you're having fun.

It's Like They're Trying To Make Me Laugh.

2005-12-06T22:20:00.000-06:00

"They're called sun dogs, you see here, they're kind of dogging the sun." -Channel 5 weatherman Dave Dahl discussing the weather photo of the day.

Why is lameness so funny? Oh, I just don't know. But I do know that I was laughing for a good long while. Part of it must have been delivery.

Cyndy Brucato has lime green eyeshadow to match her lime green suit. I'm not even kidding. Nope.

Required Reading and A Little God Damn Sports Talk.

2005-12-05T16:40:00.000-06:00

Firstly, before you do anything else, make plans to watch Arrested Development tonight, because it is awesome and sadly, will soon be canceled. 7pm central/8 eastern, on Fox, which, check your listings. :)

Secondly, read this article David Cross wrote on bobanddavid.com. It's an open letter to Larry the Cable Guy, and it is not only hilarious but completely awesome and insightful. I wanted to hug him after I read it. So go read it yourself, and maybe you'll want to hug him too. If not, you'll at least see what actual amazing writing looks like.

Alright, it would seem that there is something going on in the world of sports that I can no longer ignore. Yesterday the Cincinnati Bengals beat the Pittsburgh Steelers 38-31, bringing their record to 9-3 and guaranteeing them their first winning season since 1990. Yes, 1990. To put that into a little bit of perspective, I am 21, and the Bengals have not had a winning season since I was in kindergarten. I don't remember it, but strangely enough my elementary school's colors were orange and black. Of course we were the Ponies, a much less fearsome mascot. I know what you're thinking. Why should this even matter?

It matters because I love the Bengals. I love their tiger-striped helmets and their fierce orange and black uniforms. And if you do not choose your NFL team allegiances based on colors and logos alone, well, you're just not doing it right. And the Bengals, who have sucked so hard for so long, actually doing well and winning, is not only completely shocking, but it is totally awesome. It brings hope to the common folk like you and me, that even the most insurmountable goal can be achieved, because holy shit, the Bengals are winning games. It is an underdog story more powerful than the Miracle on Ice, Charlie's penalty shot in The Mighty Ducks, Barry Tallackson's overtime goal against Cornell last year. (Oh Condor- what a babe. I miss him.)

My love affair with the Cincinnati Bengals began by chance in the fall of 1998, when our completely pointless 8th grade gym class presented an assignment guaranteed to improve our physical fitness: Keep track of the win-loss record of one football team throughout the NFL season. The day arrived when we drew for teams. Everyone except me wanted the Vikings. No, I wanted my favorite team: The Jacksonville Jaguars. I had loved them since their inception. The teal! The ferocious-looking jaguar head logo! Clearly there was no reason not to fall madly in love with such an edgy team. Who cared if they won? They were stylin'.

But alas, it was not to be, as I drew the Washington Redskins. I was immediately accosted by one of my classmates, who bellowed something about the Redskins being some N'Sync "singer"'s favorite football team, and I should, no, WOULD trade with her. I, thoroughly enamored with No Doubt and Radiohead at the time and knowing nothing of the boy band scene, quickly agreed as I felt a fight would break out, and she would probably sit on me (she was what we might call a bigger gal). My new team: The Cincinnati Bengals.

Sometimes the most life-changing of moments are contained on small, nondescript pieces of paper.

I quickly developed a fondness for the Bengals. After all, they did have those hot stripey helmets. Their orange and black uniforms recalled the terror of Halloween. And they lost. Every game.

I believe they won three games that year. It became an absolutely sick fascination to watch the losses. It started out with me, then spread throughout my friends until it became a topic of discussion in my jazz band. Even my family got into it. "Man, those Bengals sure are shitty!" said my dad encouragingly after they lost one game 41-0. My friend Andrea and I would make up increasingly insane teams that could beat the Bengals. My favorite was me with both hands tied behind my back, her blindfolded, John Madden, and a three-toed sloth. I was so cruel to them, but it was only because I loved them so very much. Their tiger-striped charm was overwhelming.

At the end of the season I turned in my project, stylishly decorated with an orange and black cover page. It was then that our gym teacher informed us that we would not receive extra credit for the amount of wins our respective teams had, which was originally the point of the project. "It's really not fair," she said. "I mean, the Vikings won 15 games this year--" this was interrupted by a couple cheers and a smug smile from the girl who had the Vikings for the project-- "and some teams," she said, staring directly at me, "only won two or three games." At this point my friend Steph decided to stand up for me and said, "Hey, we all love the Bengals! They're a complete microcosm of society!" She is now at Yale.

It went on like this through high school. The Bengals kept losing and I kept making fun of them. When my real true love, the Gopher hockey team, was playing terribly, I would refer to them as the Bengals of the WCHA. However, my Bengals love entered a dormant phase during this time, I have to say. However, much like Mt. St. Helens in 1980, the Bengals re-erupted to the forefront of my consciousness when I took my friend Jon out for a birthday dinner this past February (February 2nd, actually, although his birthday is February 1st. I have a thing about knowing birthdays). SportsCenter was on television and we engaged in some awkward Superbowl conversation, which led to general football conversation, which led to how much we both loved the Bengals due to their losing ways. We began to plot for the coming Superbowl, and indeed, we, along with our friend Parker, had a party to end all Superbowl parties, where we pretended the Bengals were in the Superbowl. We wore our Sharpie-crafted Bengals shirts: Bengals Pride (me), Bengals Rule My Life (Jon) and I Don't Watch Football... Go Bengals! (Parker). As you can see, our cheering clearly led our team to victory:

Grand times were had, and thus I declared the 2005 football season the Bengals' year. Meanwhile, my father, who had spent years hating the Vikings and causing me to dislike them, cheering through the awesome last-minute '99 playoff loss and the classic '03 Cardinals game (you've heard the radio call-- NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!), decided that maybe they wouldn't be so bad without Randy Moss this year. This naturally caused my world to turn upside down, but I stood firm. I was engineer of the Bengals train, and everyone could jump on board. And my path proved to be the correct one when, in week 2, the Bengals beat the shit out of the Vikings. My father called me and apologized for allowing the media to persuade him the Vikings would not blow, and said that I was right.

I have to be honest- when I was telling everyone the Bengals were going to win the Superbowl, I was kind of kidding. But now my prediction has proved to be almost there, as the Bengals have a winning record and are on top of their division by 2 games. The playoffs are all but assured, and who knows, maybe even some homefield advantage could occur! Their biggest obstacle will probably be the Colts, but meh. I have faith in the Bengals. They'll step it up when their time comes, after all, how can they not be fired up after listening to their fight song?

I'm sure I'll be having a party for every Bengals playoff game, so if you want to invite yourself (but you'll have to provide your own transportation if you're out of state, Ali) you are more than welcome. Bring your orange and black and be ready to cheer for the underdog story of the millennium! Go Bengals!

Something From The Archives

2005-12-01T23:45:00.000-06:00

So I've taken some writing classes here and there throughout my life, and a lot of things kind of bother me about them. The main thing that bothers me (besides the obvious "many people that take them are actually horrible writers") is that a lot of people feel like they have to be really artsy and pretentious to make a statement or express themselves (which really means express that they are better than you, have you noticed?). I don't like that. Everyone's out to get them and no one understands and it's so sad, oh so sad. I did that when I was about 14 and then I grew up, so I guess I, perhaps unreasonably, expect everyone else to have grown up too, and start writing real words.

Last spring I took a nonfiction class and many of the people in said class were afflicted with this problem. To say I kind of stuck out is somewhat of an understatement. One day we were reading stories in small groups, and this one guy wrote this heartwarming story about how the 2003 hockey riot was basically an indictment of everything that was wrong with society. This was around the same time that the potential for 2005 hockey riots was occuring and my best friend and I were making plans to overturn Matchbox cars and set them ablaze should a national championship occur. Oh, what a glorious evening it would have been, but alas, they had to blow. Anyway! The moral of this fellow's story was basically that hockey fans are stupid. Naturally I, and the other girl in our group who was "one of the good ones", to quote David Cross in Racist in the Year 3000, took a little bit of offense to this since we were, and are, both hockey fans. Awkward silence ensued.

One day in that class, our TA told us to go outside and observe happenings around campus and write a little something about it. Everyone went out to the mall and sat and wrote things about how sad everyone looked and why nobody loved them and how the green grass is a metaphor for our souls and blah blah blah. Well, everyone except me of course. I mean, you know, I could have tried to be a team player and write some saddie stuff, but then I saw the Juggling Club or whatever it is on the mall. The following is what I wrote and shared with the class. A lot of them didn't really get it. I hope you do. I just rediscovered this the other day and it made me laugh, so, hopefully it will make you laugh too. And if not, um, sorry? (Oh, all the quotes are real, too. I started out with like a page and a half of jugglerquotes. I wish I still had the notebook.)

____

"If you have a show, it's best to have it on a slightly cloudy day," says a juggler in a ponytail.

Too bad it's sunny and 70 out, another juggler thinks a few steps away, mumbling into his cell phone while halfheartedly juggling two red and white clubs. He doesn't really know the other jugglers well, so he makes up names for them. Bambi Shirt is on the other side, talking into his cell phone. "If you want..." he says, "I'm a guy." A guy with a cartoon deer on his shirt. Run away honey! The juggler shakes his head.

Glasses is telling how he went to the emergency room in a horrifying juggling accident. He's trying to impress the one girl in the group, a redhead in a blue shirt. She is disinterested. "I broke my whole toenail off!" says Glasses.

"Did somebody eat all the beanbags?" says Blue Shirt, ignoring him.

"I did!" he tries again. She rolls her eyes and rummages in the duffel bag for those elusive sacks of beans. Shot down again.

The juggler adjusts his khaki shirt. He wishes he could hang out with cooler people, but the lure of the clubs is too strong.

"Seriously, where are the beanbags?" Blue Shirt exclaims. She is really freaking out about the beanbags, the juggler thinks. I mean, we totally have clubs and balls and even that weird hourglass looking thing with the rope. Who needs beanbags? That's so five-year-old's birthday party. We don't tolerate that kind of childlike shit here at the U of M Juggling Society. Next we'd need a clown's mouth to toss them into.

As if on cue, British Street Urchin Hat joins the festivities, striding onto the grass as though his hat does not make him look utterly ridiculous. Finally, thinks the juggler. The full Society is assembled. At least we can get some serious club tossing in before Glasses and Ponytail start talking about Star Wars again.

As-Yet-Untitled.

2005-11-27T01:06:00.000-06:00

(note from s: well, i thought i'd post my writing from the weekend, written over two nights in a slightly cold room up in the north country. no title yet, and this is very, very raw and rough- i don't even really want to post it due to lack of editing/tweaks, but i haven't posted anything on here and i feel like i should. this has basically been the tone of my writing this fall/winter- lot of nonfiction, which is odd for me, but i can live with it. i hope you all had enjoyable weekends.)

We could die out here, and no one would know.

We could walk across the street from my house, to the park. We could lie in the grass not yet covered by snow. We would look up, arms at our sides, legs slightly apart, ready to make snow angels if snow would fall.

It would be like a movie. They would shoot us from above, us in our hats and coats and mittens, in our boots, with our red cheeks, lying there motionless. It would represent something. Society would be critiqued, somehow. But no one would get it. Not even us.

If we did die out here, everyone would know. The local news would be all over it, and then other places would pick it up. We’d be two students from Minneapolis so those guys would be all over it, they’d do a live shot from the park, they’d interview our sobbing friends, our family, they’d say we had so much to live for, we had our whole lives ahead of us. They’d leave teddy bears and flowers and old piano books and stuff only we would get, if we weren’t dead. More people would miss him than me. Talk radio would wonder why it happened, Channel 8 would do a five-part investigative report with a tenacity unseen since the “Kids That Sit In Parking Lots” story, in a way it would be my legacy, our legacy. And it would be fitting.

On second thought, death seems too cliché. No, if it’s really going to be a movie, if it’s really going to be a statement about how the world is up here, it needs to be more profound than that. Besides, my mother would be too sad.

We would lie there, in the grass, he and I, and it would begin to snow. Fat, fluffy flakes. Floating. Our breath would come out in little white puffs, and we would catch snowflakes on our tongues, like you do when you’re six before you hate winter. And a cold wind would blow and flakes would get in our eyelashes, melting snow mixing with the watery eyes the wind would cause.

Or maybe we would cry. Maybe we would cry because it was beautiful. Or maybe we would cry because it wasn’t. We could cry because we were sad, or scared, or too exhausted to come up with any other emotion.

And then as the snow fell on top of us we would tell each other all our secrets. We would say everything we don’t know about each other, stuff we’ve never told anyone else.

None of this would ever actually happen in real life. So it would have to be a movie. With soft piano accompaniment, or maybe a quiet folk song, with subtle yet soaring vocals. Feist is coming to mind right now because that’s what I’m listening to.

I’m one of those people that subconsciously soundtracks everything. Walking to class on a cold winter afternoon has to have a song, as does cleaning the apartment, as does driving, as does sitting and writing. I think up here you have to make things interesting. You have to dramatize. Because a lot of times it feels like you’re living in a movie, you’re just an actor, reciting your lines, going where they tell you and doing what they say. No one talks about the real stuff, and so you imagine what it would be like if they did, if you did. Meaningful dialogue backed by music. And it’s weird, when meaningful dialogue actually occurs, all you hear is silence. And it says so much more.

Who are we kidding, we’d never say secrets. We never do. We’d lie out there and catch our death of pneumonia before we ever told. Because saying something makes it real, and if you live up here, you understand. That the most terrifying thing that can happen is something actually happening, that you can’t talk away, or pretend isn’t there, or distract yourself somehow. We would lie there and talk about anything, hockey games, Ben Folds albums, stupid stuff that happened to us in high school that neither of us care about now, but gives us something to say.

We wouldn’t even hang out, up here. We wouldn’t even call. Instead I call others, not in Minneapolis, and so does he. I’d put on old jeans and a red sweater that used to fit but now just looks baggy and sit in a Mexican restaurant with someone else and go to other people’s houses and hear about how he is unable to deal with things. They don’t mention anything about me but I wonder what they say when I leave, if they’re glad things are back to normal because me being happy might bring around the end of the world. It’s not written into my character. It wouldn’t flow well with the script.

I miss my friends from home. I’m not sure when home became Minneapolis and not the place where family is and old friends are that I have to go back to. Last June. Sometimes I pretend not to know things I actually do. It’s called selective memory, and it, along with compulsive lying, are tricks of the trade I learned up here. If it’s not going to get better, pretend it is, and sell it convincingly. I’m trying not to do that anymore.

Sometime, when he and I are back where we should be, I’m sure, we will get together, and we will talk about this weekend up here. We’ll chit and chat, and maybe we’ll realize that for not saying anything to each other, we seem to tell each other a lot. There will always be the big stuff that goes unsaid, but the medium-sized stuff gets shared, and that’s more than ever used to. And really, we do share the biggest secret of all: we know how it is up here. That it’s not something to idealize or irrationally hate, that it’s just kind of there, and there’s not anything you can do about it. A necessary evil, although by evil we may mean exercise in mediocrity and blandness.

It might have been worth it for the homemade stuffing, though.

Sunset Over Interstate 29

2005-11-23T00:48:00.000-06:00

Sometimes, even the Boondocks can be beautiful.

Greetings from the Northland, from my "room", which really does not accurately describe it anymore, it's my dad's office with a bed in the corner. I've begun referring to it as my cell, or my corner of a room, which greatly amuses my mother. No sooner did I stroll into the house when I had to fix a problem with our wireless network. Then, the completely bizarre and surreal experience of sitting on my bed killing time on the internets while my dad is sitting at his desk watching That 70s Show, which he loves. My personal space bubble was none too pleased.

So here's something cute. My mother saved a bunch of grocery bags from our local grocery store for me to look at. Apparently, as sometimes occurs in the town, the local elementary schoolchildren decorated said bags with some sort of theme. Now when I was a youngster I think we did anti-smoking ads, or something. This time around the theme is why education is important, I think. OK, I'm going to go get the bags and quote a couple of them, because they are hilarious. The sad thing is, they don't put name/age/school on anymore like we used to do, and that was always way more interesting because then I knew which of these kids are cool and attended my elementary school (Century, yeah!) But, I suppose it's an Amber Alert thing. Anyway.

"Education is important to me because it teaches me to spell, do math and to write stories. Education is important to me also because it will let you learn to be anything you want. Education is important to me also because it will help you be a good citizen. Education yourself! Learn more!"

Education yourself is my new phrase, by the way. I'm trying to education myself right now.

Here's my favorite:

"Education is important to me because I'm learning about math each day. There are special tricks about math."

This is my favorite because I was reading this aloud to my mother in the kitchen and then tried to describe the picture underneath and this occurred:

Me: Well, it looks like we have a little girl here, and, I don't know what she's doing, that kind of looks like a bed, maybe she's-

Mom and I in unison: Turning tricks! *hysterical laughter and high five*

Clearly, we are a family of horrible, horrible people.

On the Channel 8 news tonight the weatherman called the Thanksgiving forecast "hunky-dory", and then, the news anchor, Milo, said, "I'm really glad John used hunky-dory in his forecast. That really gives me a vote of confidence about the weather." Oh man.

New band for everyone to check out: Ladies and Gentlemen. Fabulous stuff, I'd recommend "Threw It All Away" or "Small Sins/Big Within". Although I thought enough of "We Won't Last The Winter" to put it on the Thanksgiving mix, for which I definitely patted myself on the back because it lasted all five hours with no skipping.

Time for sleep. More incoherence sometime this weekend as there's not much else to do.

Can You Ever Go Home Again? Yes, You Have To.

2005-11-18T00:24:00.000-06:00

Seventeen years ago today was my father's 32nd birthday (Happy Birthday, Dad!). My family celebrated by moving into a new house in the woods which was right next door to our old house in the woods, but was not infested with mice and actually had a garage. These things are important in Northern Minnesota. I was four years old, and remember the excitement of actually having my very own room for the first time.

On Tuesday, I have to go back. Not to that house, as it's gone. Back up to the North Country, the Boondocks, the Sadlands, the Last Outpost of Civilization... I have almost as many names for it as things I have to be while I'm there.

Thanksgiving is neck-and-neck with Christmas as my favorite holiday. I absolutely love it. The combination of turkey, homemade stuffing and gravy, homemade pumpkin pie, groaning over the ridiculous parade with my parents and waiting for the inevitable b-list celebrity train wreck, and of course the traditional post-dinner nap with the football game on. Thanksgiving. I love.

This year, though... haven't been fired up about it. More dreading it actually. This to me is ridiculous, as I normally love the holidays more than anything, ever.

And of course it's not really Thanksgiving that bothers me. I never dread what really bothers me. It's the fact that I won't be waiting for the b-list celebrity train wreck in my house. For the first time since 1988. And, for the first time since ever, dinner will not be at my grandma's house. (Dinner is the noon meal in the Boons, I should explain. Evening meal is supper, although I'm so confused I call both dinner at home.)

Here is a picture of me the last time I was home, in August, sitting on the front steps of that house. Our house that's not ours anymore.

And check out the view!

Yup. That's it. Desolation at every turn, except there are no turns, because it's the Boondocks and everything is flat and depressing. Why do I miss this house? I hated going out there at the end. 30 miles to nowhere. The only thing we had on North Dakota is we had trees.

I miss that house because it's my house. It was my house. Now it's someone else's house, and because my family lived in two places for so long I never had to say goodbye to it even when I was rarely there. Because there were always the three times we were. Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Year's. And now this is the first one where we won't be there.

Here (in Minneapolis) all anyone hears about is how much I hate the damn place. But it just isn't true. I mean, compared to Minneapolis, or really, anywhere, it's a step down. It was a house in the middle of the woods, with another house (my grandma's) across the road. Sometimes I wish I could have taken everyone there just to show them that when I say house in the middle of the woods, I mean house in the middle of the woods. But then I wonder why they would want to come in the first place, even to Grand Forks. Because I don't even want to go back, and I have family up there and lots of loved ones, and some well-placed hooligan friends who know what's up.

But I don't hate it. You can't hate your home. You can be ashamed of it and mock it mercilessly, and lord knows I do, but you can't hate it. Even my cold black heart warms a little bit when I think of all the charming ridiculousness the Boondocks has to offer. It's lame but it's OUR lame.

There's a special bond, too, between escapees of the Boondocks. I'm currently working on a mix CD for the five hour journey up there in just a few days, and I'm dedicating it to all my friends who were there and now are here. Here's what I have so far- "For anyone who has ever had to make the journey west on 94 and north on 29, for the five longest hours in driving history. For those who wind up taking stock of their life under flourescent light at an Alexandria Wendy's. For those who have a memory stuck in every business on 32nd Avenue, for those who used to spend their weekend nights cruising Wash and going to Perkins or I-29, for those who have ever told someone to meet them at Columbia Mall, for those who remember Deffenbaugh getting clunked on the head with a frying pan, for those who have sung at the Masonic Temple, danced at the Fritz, performed at the Empire, and made people laugh at First Night, for those who understand why college hockey is the most exciting sport in the world, for those who still hate Fargo South for reasons we don't understand, for anyone who has ever gone home and looked skeptically at the RR or GFC letterman jacket they used to wear with pride, and for anyone who has ever come back and grinned like an idiot upon seeing the Minneapolis skyline: this is for you. You have to go home, but you get to come back."

It's not the place. It's how the place makes me feel. It's the whole vibe up there, from my friends who haven't got out and never will, from my family members who are living lives they never really wanted to in the first place. Home feels hopeless. And that makes me feel hopeless. And that, in turn, makes me crash, or at least has the last two times I've been up there. I've actually been pretty up this fall, which for me is a little strange, and I feel like Thanksgiving might be the start of something none too good, me-wise. And that makes me dread it. I've kind of known since September it probably wouldn't be the most awesome thing ever, but the closer it gets the more I don't want it to come, and the more I don't want to have to get in the car and go. The worst part of it all, of course, is that now it's my doing. I'm the one driving. There's no blaming mean old Mom and Dad. I get to make a drive I don't want to make to a place I don't want to go so I can teeter on the edge of depression again. I go back to pretending to be about 75 different people, none of whom I like. My interactions up there are like a movie. Everyone knows their role and what they're supposed to say. Everyone has to be something to somebody. They can't just be themselves. Problems exist but no one talks about them. Things should be said but no one says them. There's a reason why I write and don't talk, guys.

It will be Tuesday soon enough, and then I will have to deal with this. I'm already doing a not too good job, as I haven't been sleeping or eating particularly well, and I'm already doing my pre-crash fluctuation thing, which is always a good time. "I'm fine! I'm not fine. I'm fine!"In the meantime, I'm going to try not to think about it as much as I can. This rarely works but why not give it a shot, right?

Next time I'll be funny. I promise. I need to refresh my memory anyway. They only want that from me up there.

"Army" and its influence on North Dakotan middle school society.

2005-11-06T20:20:00.000-06:00

The moments that I find most interesting in life are the ones right before something completely life-altering happens. Because they're always so mundane, looking back. You're sitting, or reading, or watching TV, or whatever, and then boom- fate.

Tonight, I was reminded of one of these moments when my friend Steph called me, and giddily informed me that she had been studying (yes, she actually studies. She's also at Yale right now.) in the room of one of her friends and "Army" by Ben Folds Five had come on.

"Army" is Steph and my song, at least, as much of a song as two straight girls that talk maybe five times a year now can have. But in those days, we were inseperable jazz band buddies (I played 2nd tenor, she played bari- these are saxophones) that definitely challenged the "People that live in North Dakota aren't cool" stereotype. I'm not sure we overcame it- we were in eighth grade. But we definitely challenged it.

I have to say this about Steph and I: we were experts at cutting gym class in 8th grade. The formula was quite simple- we'd tell our teacher that we had a band lesson. Sometimes we actually did, sometimes we didn't, but our band director didn't really care if we hung out in his room, in fact, he would usually provide us with ice cream bars from the teachers' lounge and turn MTV on in the band room. In return, we would sort band music- while eating ice cream bars and watching MTV. Truly a hardship. (Have I mentioned that said band director is one of my favorite teachers, ever? That might be kind of implied by his awesomeness.)

So that's what Steph and I were doing in the few moments before our lives changed forever. Sitting on the floor of the sunshine yellow band room, eating ice cream bars and making fun of the horrible commercials on MTV, sort of looking at various pieces of sheet music scattered on the floor around us, and trying to remember if there was some sort of order to the percussion parts. Then, the most awesome music video in the history of the medium began to play, and we were transfixed. I'm pretty sure I dropped a piece of sheet music I was holding. Oh well, we didn't have an oboe, anyway.

A quick listing of why "Army" is the best music video of all time, in order of the occurrence of video events:

-Ben's piano turns into a car, and he wears an awesome scarf and aviator sunglasses.
-Some Jeff Goldblum-y looking dude as a music producer with a cell phone.
-Cardboard people! (Really this is the defining moment of the video, the hilarious cardboard crowd with the cardboard crowd surfer at the end)
-The grand finale, which features all of the following: A huge artistic rendering of Ben/Darren/Sledge, balloons dropping from the ceiling, a *marching band* going down risers which seem to be placed for no reason, and the aforementioned cardboard crowd surfer. Plus Folds and his ridiculously grandiose and endearing one-handed piano moves.

Keep in mind, too, that we lived in the fucking sticks. This was the most amazing and hilarious thing we'd ever seen. "What band is this?" we asked each other, and thankfully MTV provided us with the answer: Ben Folds Five. "Oh, they did the video with the water!" (Brick) I'm pretty sure I wrote it down, but somehow we missed the name of the song, until Steph heard it on the radio a week or so later and told me, "I found the name of the song with the cardboard people!" Eventually after two weeks of trying I got the video taped, and dubbed a copy for Steph so we could each have one (and we both still have them, six years and ample opportunities for losing them later).

Now, this may not sound very life-altering to you. But some weeks later I decided it would be funny to have the CD with Army on it and made an impulse buy at the Grand Forks Sam Goody (now closed). Keep in mind that at the time my music tastes were mostly pretty horrible. I, thankfully, had not been dragged into the death pit of shame that liking those boy band things would have brought, but I was a huge No Doubt fan and yes, I even owned a Dave Matthews Band album or two (it was 7th grade! I wanted to be cool!). Seeing Gwen Stefani being all Hollaback makes me cringe at how cool I used to think she was. I took the CD home, listened to Army a bunch of times, and then got preoccupied with something and allowed the next track, Your Redneck Past, to come on. I was surprised, this song was pretty awesome, too! So I decided to listen to the album from the beginning- and Narcolepsy blew me away.

Basically, those cardboard people introduced me to not only my favorite band ever, but an entire world of music that didn't blow! I shudder to think of the sort of horrible taste I would have had I not cut gym class that fateful day with Stephanie. I'd probably be listening to that Jason Mraz business. Yikes.

Of course, Ben Folds Five decided to be lame and break up before I had a chance to be anywhere where I could see them, but finally, in 2002, I was able to see Ben solo on a Spring Break trip to California to visit my cousin. And then I saw him at Northrop in 2003, Northfield last year, First Ave 2 weeks ago... if you read this, you know me, and if you know me, you know that I'm a ridiculous Ben fangirl, so I'm going to leave it at that and try not to gush. Because that's a slippery slope, next thing you know this will turn into a weekly rant about Gopher hockey, or something. And no one wants that.

It's hilarious that both of us still have undying love for this video, too. But it is an awesome video. I showed it to a couple of my Ben Folds friends, Jon and Parker, 2 years ago and they were just as entranced by it as we were initially. I mean, a cardboard crowd surfer. What's not to love about that?

You see how things work out? It's scary sometimes. If that incident hadn't happened six years ago, I don't even want to think about what this blog would be about. I have a suspicion that it would probably be shitty, and said shit might even be bananas, b-a-n-a-n-a-s.

That's right. I'd go there. Don't you like cardboard people so much more now?

A Chance Encounter With Rolling R Kid.

2005-11-03T14:42:00.000-06:00

This morning the rest of my week finally caught up with me and I woke up sick. Well, sort of. Not sniffles or cough sick. More of the achy/woozy/unbelievably tired/even more pale than usual sick. It's really my favorite kind.

So this will be brief, but I had to share a small anecdote from my day today. I have a half hour break for lunch in between my anthropology lecture and lab on Thursdays (today we were accused of causing global warming, individually. Guess I fucked that one up, sorry earth!) So I purchased myself a blueberry bagel and sat on a bench in the basement of Blegen. Who should I see but a dude that was in my fateful Italian class last spring in the always dangerous Chuck Norris Hall, the one, the only, Rolling R Kid. Or RR, as we came to know him.

Rolling R Kid is so named because of the intensity with which he would attempt to roll his r's during class. Another one of those damn kids that tries to outdo everybody. He also is a total asshole. This was demonstrated to me one day when we had to break up in groups. My friend Bridget had abandoned me that day, as had one of the other members of "I Remediali", the group of five of us that sat in the back and generally disliked everyone else in the class- and maybe weren't the best with pronounciation or language skills. But we had the most fun, and that's way more important. Our semester culminated in a 10:30 am pizza party at Sbarro. It rocked. Anyway, I somehow was pulled away from my beloved Remediali and had to be in a group on the other side of the room. These people were none too friendly. There was the creepy guy, a couple people that didn't talk, and Rolling R Kid. We were due to get our tests back that day, and Rolling R Kid says to Creepy Guy and I, in the most snotty voice ever, "Oh. I had a dream that I got 100 on this test." Then when we're getting our tests back at the end of class, he looks at his, turns to me (keep in mind we had never had any interaction in class before this day, so I'm not sure quite why I was the target), smirks, and says, "I guess I dreamed correctly." This besides the fact that he was complaining that our professor, a crazy yet awesome woman named Laura, didn't like him because he was Jewish. Um, I'm pretty sure it was more because he was a total jackass.

My favorite Italian 1004 story, and there are so many, is the Legend of the Sweatpants. It's almost as good as the Deffenbaugh story I teased earlier, but nothing's that good. I'll tell that one sometime too, but now I'm going to get a couple sleep hours in before I have to watch television magic tonight.

National Novel Writing... yeah.

2005-11-02T22:27:00.000-06:00

So, for the first time in four years, I have decided not to do National Novel Writing Month. This is to break a pattern that occurs every year, in which I wind up having 70 million papers to write, tests to take and things to do, so I wind up not fulfilling my 50,000 word quota and then I go into sad bastard mode for a couple days. And no one likes sad bastard mode, unless it's Halloween! (My costume was totally a huge success.)

It's kind of odd that I bailed this year, as last month was one of the most prolific writing months I've actually ever had. I wrote a lot of intensely personal nonfiction, which has never happened before. I'm thinking about posting some of it up here, eventually. I do intend for this to be an actual coherent writing blog with essay/excerpt type things, and not the "omg i had a bad day lolz no one understands me" type. That's so five years ago.

If you read KZZZ (first link over on the right), you'll notice we've been stepping it up and posting something every day for sweeps. I think we just got our asses handed to us, though, by channel 9 and their hilarious, hilarious graphics. They're not merely traffic reporters over there, guys. They're the fucking Street Patrol!!!! Complete with angry CGI roadsigns, too classic. I love the Street Patrol more than even the Investi-blimp. Someday in this space I will retell the greatest story ever told, which involves a most unfortunate former local morning show host back in the northlands named Stacey Deffenbaugh. So that, along with Christmas, gives you something to look forward to. Trust me, it's a winner.

That's all for now. Go read Ali's blog, she's actually doing NaNoWriMo and is totally rocking it out right now.

Ghosts, Goblins, and Gulliver.

2005-10-31T16:05:00.000-06:00

Today is Halloween. Clearly. I knew this upon waking up, and staggering into the shower, and kind of sleepily sauntering into my Brit Lit discussion. However, the thought did not occur to me that, oh, I should wear a costume to class! Two years ago, Halloween was on a Friday, and I distinctly remember having classes that day, but I don't remember any people dressed up in costumes. Perhaps this was because I wasn't in my crazy Brit Lit discussion then. Every Monday at 10:10 I walk into Lind Hall and am reminded why I didn't want to be an English major. Because I can't be that quirky, or wear that much black.

Today I walked into discussion five minutes late (late is the new on time) to discover a girl dressed up as Hester Prynne showing off her costume to the class. She was talking about how she'd made it herself, or something, I stopped listening but tuned back in at the point when she was like "And, I thought Arthur Dimmesdale was totally hot! Tee hee!" Um, I'm assuming we saw different movie versions of The Scarlet Letter in high school, because the Dimmesdale I saw was not hot, but rather creepy. Then again, I feel the same way about Orlando Bloom, which I think loses me some chick points.

But this is not the end of my section experience today. Oh no. It's only the beginning. You see, not just one person had dressed up for Halloween. Four people had. Two of whom, were, apparently, sisters. One of the sisters was dressed up as the shark from Jaws, and totally had this plastic shark mask on. Now, that ruled. The other sister was someone from the Princess Bride, I don't really pay attention, and the one time I tried to watch the movie I fell asleep. Here's something you should know about me: as much as I proclaim to love media, I am incredibly poorly read, and have seen hardly any of the movies I probably should have. However, I can probably recite to you any commercial that was geared toward children with approximate airdates of 1988-1993. I was the kid young, savvy copywriters of the time would put in their personal profiles, whose eyes would light up with wonder at a perfect visual and a cheesy jingle. Hell, I once wrote an essay on how entire aspects of my personality can be traced back to a kids' toothpaste ad I saw when I was 5 (and currently have on my computer, after finding it again last year). Wow. It's times like this when I see that written out that I realize how truly strange I am.

But I digress. I have neglected to name the fourth costumed individual in my discussion this morning, an individual who, I must admit, I already disliked a bit. He's that guy. You know? The one you have in every class that feels the need to comment on everything and to impress the TA by showing how much more into the topic he is than the other, mere mortal students? Anyway, this dude can't just say what he is, no, he wants people to guess. "Here's a hint! We're reading it at the end of the semester!" The kid was Gulliver. And he displayed this by having little Lego men tied to him with string. Even plastic shark head girl was a little taken aback by that one.

Maybe I'm just not cool, I don't know. I didn't think to dress up as my favorite literary character. But where could I get a giant, papier-mache ham at this point? Still, I felt a need to get into the Halloween spirit, and started to think of costumes I could wear. I thought of some ideas, Cyndy Brucato, Gophers senior defenseman Chris Harrington... but of course these would involve purchasing things, which I am far too lazy to do. So I finally decided to wear my 2002 Ben Folds and a Piano Tour shirt (which is black, of course, and says "feel my pain" on the front), a gray sweatshirt over that, and go as myself, three years ago. This will involve me saying "I suck and everyone hates me", listening to Radiohead or Matthew Good Band, crying, and writing really, really horrible stuff. Kind of like this, wow! I guess I really get into my Halloween characters!

Don't stuff yourself silly on candy tonight. And above all, don't get tricked. I'm a little upset that I'm going to miss my three little pseudo-nephews trick-or-treating at the home of my parents. They are totally button-cute, and awesome.

As if the internet wasn't lame enough...

2005-10-31T00:01:00.000-06:00

Apparently I'm going to start another one of these. Uh oh!

I hate introductory posts kind of like I hate the "Quacker Factory" show on QVC. If you have not had the privilege of viewing that program, it's basically an older, uh, fluffier, woman who wears a sparkly headband and sells really garish sweaters with kittens or pumpkins or barns on them. I discovered it on Veterans' Day 2002 when I was home from school, and although I was initially horrified, I couldn't turn away. It's the car wreck of television. I subsequently hooked my mother on this show, and now when I am home and it's on, we will watch it together, and make fun of it. But yet even though it is lamer than lame, we continue to watch it, hoping for the ugliest sweater ever.

So here's where we're left, the introduction, which I hate writing and yet love writing. I hate introducing myself, the way everyone has to do during their first week of college: "Hi, my name is Sarah, I'm from (muffled cough and downward glance of shame) Minnesota, and holy shit, do I love butterflies!" Or whatever. I don't even really remember what I used to say for that. My real hatred of introductions, though, comes from the lame "Tell everyone an interesting fact about you!" school. I always have the damndest time coming up with an interesting fact. I'm usually too shy to demonstrate my double-jointed elbows (and I really don't want to be known as "Freaky Elbow Girl"), or that I can touch my tongue to my nose. I haven't traveled anywhere exotic, unless you count Canada. And since I've only been to Winnipeg, I really don't. Usually I have to resort to the "Uh... I really like to write" excuse, because I could never, ever use the "I lived on a farm until I was 12" one. It's a pride issue.

I also really dislike the "What did you do this summer?!?!" question. Everyone else is like, I went to Europe for like 3 months! And I'm all, hey, I took this class for a month, and then I went home and packed up the house I've lived in, for the most part, since I was four years old. It doesn't seem that exciting in comparison. I mean, my house was in the middle of the woods. But it was an awesome summer, and a ridiculous one. Good ridiculous and bad ridiculous.

The only time I actually enjoyed introducing myself was in my Intro to Fiction class I took my first semester at the U. The prof asked us to give a specific anecdote about something that happened to us the previous summer. This was delightfully fun, as I told probably one of my favorite summer anecdotes ever. Maybe I'll tell it on here sometime.

I'm being avoidant. This is pretty normal. Here is all you really need to know about me. I write, I sleep, I listen to awesome music and watch hilarious television, some intentionally so, some not, and more than anything else in the world I love being made to laugh until I can't breathe. And also I love making other people laugh, but I don't seem to make them laugh as hard as I myself laugh at some of them. I usually have pretty vivid memories of the times I've been made to laugh so hard I think I'm going to die for a brief moment. It's usually the random things, like a hobo wedding on cable access, a really bad local radio ad (read: all of them), or even my beloved Fox 9 Investigates. Oh, that drunk kid peeing on the Santa was so edgy, and that meat expiration date fraud story? Totally hard-hitting. Most recently this occurred on Friday night when one of my friends and I got drunk and watched the Magic Bullet infomercial. I love the Magic Bullet infomercial almost as much as I love the Showtime Chicken Rotisserie infomercial, and that's saying a lot. I love the "skeptical guy", the bald dude in the plaid shirt who isn't totally sure he's buying the magical properties of said bullet. There's this one part where the chick in the pink halter dress, or maybe it's the Superpan-like British dude, is putting a bunch of vegetables into the juicer, and one of them is broccoli, and skeptical guy goes, "Yuck, I hate broccoli." It's my favorite line of the show, and I always laugh, but this time, we were just dying. Probably due to the wine, but still.

There, isn't that fun? Aren't we going to have fun together? And by together I mean I'll write stuff, and you'll read it, and we'll probably never actually meet or see each other, except in the case that I already know you, which I assume will probably be everyone who reads this.

I can't believe I'm actually starting another one of these.