Dress Your Family in Carhartts and Camo

Help Me Find Anna!

2011-10-06T00:51:00.000-07:00

I realize that it has been almost a year since the last time someone posted on this blog. I'm a little saddened that it has been under utilized. Our class was filled with some of the most talented student writers I have met. It may even qualify as my favorite class. Perhaps I will post something in the future, but right now I have a very separate motive for posting. I am hoping that someone will see this and be able to connect me to Anna Vodicka. I need to speak with her and her University email no longer works. I even talked to the University and they have no contact info for me. I am in a slightly desperate state, so anything to help would be amazing!

-Megan Elizabeth

Writing Exercises

2010-10-24T10:40:00.000-07:00

I need Legitimate feedback.
Let's give it to each other.

Also, opportunity to be published for us all?

check it out:

My literary magazine, Poigod, needs content.

Send creative submissions for possible publication in December's issue of Poigod. All mediums capable of publication are encouraged. Essays, articles, poetry, recipes, erotica, photographs, flash fiction, short stories, lyrical pieces, pornography, comics, schematics, drawings, paintings, non-fiction, and so on, are accepted and appreciated. There is no theme for this issue, send your favorites.

Send content files via email to: poigodmagazine@gmail.com

or manuscripts via postal service to:
The Editors at Poigod Literary Magazine
110 S. Almon Street Apt. #312
Moscow, Idaho 83843

Pieces submitted must have no mention of your identity (exceptions would be if your identity is an integral part of the piece-- i.e. a personal essay), so that the editors can make a blind decision based on the merit of the piece.

With your piece must be a cover letter to the editors that includes your name, address, and email address.

The deadline for submissions is Friday, November 26th, 2010. The day after Thanksgiving.

After all submissions have been received and read we will notify contributors of acceptance or rejection.

Everyone is welcome to submit, and more than one piece is also welcome. Pieces must be no longer than 20 pages.

Submission deadline is November 26, 2010. Poigod will be published in early to mid December.

Poetry doesn't have to rhyme?

2010-10-24T10:21:00.000-07:00

I am taking a poetry class this semester. When asked to list off poets that we were inspired by I found myself totally at a loss. Up until that point, my exposure to poetry was Shel Silverstein and whatever Maya Angelou says when she's a guest on the Oprah show. So for this last assignment I chose to work with a medium that I have more experience in. Choose your own adventure.

Tear me to shreds, please:

Creeping over my eyes

With gently sprouting dreams,

Sleeping fast while your arms

Act to conserve me.

Two softly rock

While you whisper and sigh:

For directorial reading flip to page 4

For sternums flip to page 2

“I cracked

Open this sternum and

My heart crawled through,

Still attached by aorta, it brought

You.”

Flip to page 3

Moving up through

My veins

You leak on top of

My head.

Using pores as

Your guide,

Threading yarn through

My scalp,

Yousewpromisesintomyhairwhileyoushout.

Yousewpromisesinto my hair whileyoushout:

For leaky brains flip to page 5

For skin wallpaper flip to page 9

(Reader sighs)

“We’ve all

Heard of taste buds

And stomachs

Just slowslugs,

(Reader whispers)

But only I

Know how

Your arms

Hammock me.”

Flip to page 3

“We look at our

Brain drips,

Oar ears

Hearing slowships,

But only I!

Know.

Your soft, lovely teeth.”

Flip to page 6

Eyelids overgrown

With canopied dreams,

And my mind bleeding yarn,

That runs down to my feets

You say one last thing

That will sew you to me:

For breath flip to page 8

For cardiothoracic surgery flip to 7

“ You laughed

While pushing my heart back into my chest. As it

Spun out the words

That at first I’d regret,

It forced out

Our secret

As you forced the heart back in…”

Flip back to cover

“You know?

In the sheerest of modesties

And in

Blanket tipped aepathies

It’s only your hot breaths

That could

Nourish me." 8

“The things my heart said

I’ve barely thought before,

Pumping word after word

While I died on the floor,

'The scent from your neck

Is my wrists great perfume

And with the skin from your palms

I would wallpaper my room.'”

Flip to page 6

Figuring It Out

2010-10-20T10:44:00.000-07:00

Lately I’ve been thinking a lot about sending my work out. To, you know… potentially be published. I’m confident in my ability to write, revise, etc—the problem being this fear that my family will read and be offended by my interpretation of the truth. Joan Didion said, “Writers are always selling somebody out--”
and it is true, in my correct or incorrect version of Things That Happened in My Life I am going to be joyful, pained, and inevitably hurtful.

I have a friend who publishes nonfiction under a pen name, and while I’ve toyed with that idea, it is, for me, dishonest. My pen name, I think, would be something vaguely reminiscent of the authors of drugstore romance novels, and while the pseudonym appeals to my sense of humor, it doesn’t suit my writing. I write openly and as myself. I do not change names. I admit when there is a potential inaccuracy, and I do not share my work with my family.

Except for the time I did—and my mom felt like a bad mother. My sister felt sad and mildly under-victimized, which is sort of her thing. I don’t know why I worry—say I did get published—my family does not read. Unless I submit to and am accepted by Guns and Ammo or People (which is unlikely since I do not hunt and am unfamiliar with most celebrities) my work would go unrecognized, which is perhaps the problem.

check-up

2010-10-05T11:15:00.000-07:00

Does anyone ever look at this page and quietly think, "someone really ought to post something new"?

Jack In Four Acts

2010-06-12T00:22:00.000-07:00

Act One- He is strong. He is security. He drives a Jeep. He is from Oklahoma. I am in love. I am sure. I am engaged. I buy a wedding dress. I plan a wedding in Oklahoma. I smile all the time. I sell my car. I give up my apartment. He meets my parents. I smile when it is done. We workout. He was engaged once before. He offers to buy me a different ring. I like this one. I am sure.

Act Two- I am confused. I am concerned. She contacts Him. He reassures me. He promises me. We workout. He will never leave me. He will always love me. I am sure. He changes his mind. I cry. He wants to still be friends. I collect my things. I cry. I give Him the ring. He decides to marry Her. I cry. He leaves. We will not be friends. I will not let this happen to me again. I am sure.

Act Three- I am alone. I have lost my friend. I have lost my future. I cry. I spend the last of my money on a new place. I cry. I workout. I sleep. I cry. I workout. I sleep. I sleep. I cry. I sleep. I cry. I workout. I don't talk about it. I workout. I look for a job. I sleep. I sleep. I cry. I don't let people know my pain. I move into my new place. I cry in the shower. I workout six days a week. I get a bike. I am going to be fine. I am sure.

Act Four- I am determined. I accept any offers to socialize. I hate to be alone. I workout. I cry. I joke when people ask about Him. I never stop thinking. I distract myself. Then one day I don't cry. I don't always think about it now. I can't forget him entirely though. I am ready to begin again. I workout and go to a job interview. I pick up my wedding dress and I don't cry. He does not control my life. I am happy. I am sure.

Urban Diamond

2010-06-04T10:31:00.000-07:00

On the corner of a busy urban city, lies the twinkling light of a finely polished diamond. If I were Audrey Hepburn, I would be wearing a black satin gown designed by Givenchy and an elegant necklace would hang snugly across my neck. As I would chew on my warm pastry and sip on my steaming coffee I’d admire the diamonds and hope that someday they would be mine. Although I am not Audrey Hepburn as you may have guessed, I am also standing outside the windows at Tiffany’s.
“When I get a degree those diamonds will glint across my neck, and not on a mannequin in the window.” I think to myself. “When I get a degree, I can wear jewels and dress in Givenchy.” When you get a degree, you get a future. And while we might not all be able to buy designer duds, we can be confident that a secure future is probable. Diamonds are like the best universities in the country. If you’re going to buy something that sparkles, you don’t buy a pearl, you buy a diamond. The University of Redlands is like those Tiffany diamonds; sparkling, beautiful, and full of promise. When you get a degree from the
University of Redlands, you are investing for a future that you deserve. Humans are all like unpolished diamonds. But when you get a degree from the University of Redlands, each year you spend, and each class you take, you become a little more polished. Until that final moment when you walk in your cap and gown and graduate; it is then that you will sparkle like the inside of Tiffany’s.

A Short Story

2010-05-07T14:56:00.000-07:00

This is my ploy to secure an A for my online literature class, English 257.

Prologue.
This is short story. Sometimes a very difficult task when long stories are generally needed. Being the skilled wizard of words that I am, it is possible only for some. When I say this is a short story, I really mean short. Why? Because I have something very important to do and the self evaluation for this class is due tonight. This is not to say that my short story is any less important to me than the other important thing mentioned above. This is the story of how Idaho came to be.

Chapter 1:
Zeus was lonely one day, atop his mighty mountain Olympus. Hera was on vacation in Mexico with her three girlfriends from the city, because one of her girlfriends was just left at that alter by her boyfriend of ten years called Mr. Big. I know this sounds a lot like Sex and the City, and your right, this is exactly what happened in Sex and the City: The Movie.
Since Zeus had no one to talk to before he went to bed that night, he decided to create a state filled with beautiful gems that would sparkle from deep below the earth. He would call this state, The Gem State. Zeus really liked vodka as well, so he made this land bountiful with potatoes. He would call this new Vodka, Spudka.

Chapter 2:
When Hera returned from Mexico she was really pissed because Zeus had made a bunch of gorgeous native women and she found them lying around the Mount Oly Resort topless. Hera was jealous of these women and so she sent white settlers to move them off their land. Zeus cried because he loved these women, and blessed them with beauty and many buffaloes for generations to come.

Chapter 3:
Zeus and Hera consider getting a divorce. Marital troubles. They fix their issues and decide as a celebration of their renewed marriage to build a learning institution for the inhabitants of this beautiful land. They call it the University of Idaho.

Chapter 4:
Zeus really likes this young woman named Liz Sandoval and bestows upon her the gift of story- telling. Zeus comes down and invades the mind of her English 257 professor Rick Fehrenbacher and gives Liz Sandoval and A in the class because she is so funny.

Epilogue.
Liz Sandoval remained happy and told many more stories to the people of the gem state. She remained forever grateful to Zeus and Mr. Fehrenbacher. She then received a Grammy Award for best narration of an audio tape for this story.

The End. *Applause. *

Cinco de Mayo

2010-05-05T19:48:00.000-07:00

Happy 5th of May!

"Cinco de Mayo" stands for "the Fifth of May" in Spanish. It is a holiday held on May 5 that commemorates the Mexican army's unlikely victory over French forces at the Battle of Puebla on May 5, 1862. While Cinco de Mayo sees limited significance and celebration nationwide in Mexico, the date is observed nationwide in the United States and other locations around the world as a celebration of Mexican heritage and pride.

I have numerous friends that are Mexican here in Moscow, and all of them insist on significant amounts of drinking during this holiday. My friends and I typically play drinking games on Cinco de Mayo, accompanied by watching recorded wrestling or fighting videos. Last year, we played a drinking game called "asshole," which is a card game. The loser is designated asshole, and has to deal the cards and remove them suring the game when the piled is cleared (the rules are highly complicated to explain in text, so I'll spare you). However, my friends and I always create an "asshole hat" that the designated asshole has to wear. It is typically made of s beer box and cans of the chosen drink. We also like to wrestle, box, and have a BBQ consisting of chicken, hamburgers and hotdogs and a warm fire. I love living in Idaho at times because it means being able to have a firepit in your backyard and loud music because most of your neighbors are just like you, Nine times out of ten, your neighbors hear the commotion next door, and instead of calling the cops, they come over and join you for a few beers and a celebration of just living another day.

I Still See You're Shining Today?:Soft Shifts of Lovelies

2010-05-04T12:16:00.000-07:00

His knees prayed for a battery that would last

Her knees wondered if that bump in the dress was just fabric

His knees shifted and balanced and went over speeches

His knees bent and shook while he walked her down to meet them

His hands pushed and clicked and focused and apertured

Her hands held little boys shoulders to keep from floating

Her hands caught single tears that formed in dark slits

His hands had to let go.

Its eye remembered things most didn't see

Its breeze collected the soft lovelies around them

She whispered, "Should I try to hide the way I feel inside?"

He whispered, "I can tell the way you smile."

Last Thursday they began again

Leaving worried knees and fluttering hands behind

This Thursday they barely remember

Their eyes were so focused on the other

that they married.

"The Way I Feel Inside"-The Zombies

My Last Minute Blog

2010-04-30T19:41:00.001-07:00

So... It is my turn to blog again. I have to be honest and say that I have not thought about what to write until the moment I sat down at the desk and opened my scratched and beaten Toshiba laptop a few minutes ago. I then proceeded to think of the ridiculously self centered things that I could tell you about. I do not dillude myself with the idea that anyone out there actually cares what I ate for breaskfast, whether or not I am getting good grades, or my opinion on political or local events.

I do not think there is someone reading write now who actually cares that I was up until three this morning watching an opera with subtitles on TV-or that I was both intrigued by and mocking of the magnificent costumes, giant stage, and lady in her late forties who was playing the lead (male) role, kissing a woman in her mid forties who was the lead soprano (female) role. You are not interested in the fact that I was up to three, wondering about the history of cross dressing in theatre, because I have insomnia, or that I have insomnia as part of a condition called post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD).

Your life would be fine without knowing that in my Creative Non-Fiction Writing class a guy named Mountain ripped a page out of a brand new book to write a question to the author of said book, and thought nothing of it. Why would you care that I think Mountain is an amzaing name, even if that makes me a little hippie-ish, or that this action disturbed me. You have no way of knowing that when I was a child I stayed up until three in the morning most nights, sitting under the window in my bedroom for starlight, or hiding under the bed with a flashlight I stole out of the emergency kit, to read, or that this reading was the way I escaped the causes of my PTSD.

There is no point in telling you that my hardest assignment this year was to rip, tear, cut, glue and reinvent a perfectly good book as an art project, because most people would not see why this is difficult, why this felt like I was destroying a best friend. I can not explain to you that the only way for me to spend four hours doing this was to create a piece about my Fiance and I, and I can not explain why this made it acceptable to me because I was turning it into another testament of hope and a witness of the protection and safety that Jack represents for me. You might laugh if I tell you that I cried when Jack placed it next to a picture of us as the second decorative piece of "us" in his bachelor pad living room. It is almost as cool as his pink flamingo neon light. It would be foolish to think that you, my fellow reader, have an interest in my life, and I would be surprised if you are not reading this because you are in my english class.

But maybe you do care that I watch opera in the early hours. Perhaps you are reading this because this is the way you express the basic human need of connecting with another human. It is possible that there is universality in each person's experiences and you know exactly what it is to stay awake until three because you will not-you can not-fall asleep. It is possible that you know what it is to love books and all that they represent in the form of safety and escape and hope and stability-that they represent something missing from other parts of your life. It is possible that you care, but it is more likely you are getting graded on this. If that is the case, I more than understand. I wouldn't want to read what I have to say.

2010-04-30T13:31:00.000-07:00

Let me first start off my saying: Happy Belated 420!
That being said, I hope everyone had the chance to swing by East City Park two weeks ago for the annual Hempfest.

Some of you are probably scoffing now because the word "hemp" conjures up pictures of strung out hippies, gyrating their hips to local bands around the city park stage. Some will imagine booths filled with paraphernalia and signs claiming that pipes and bongs are "For Tobacco Use Only." But, come on. We all know what Hempfest is about! It is a time for locals from The Cow to get together and petition for the legal use of marijuana. It's also a time for hippies and "tobacco" smoking. Mostly though, it's a great time to chill the fuck out, a welcomed opportunity as finals are upon us, and we are all looking for some kind of escape from the tedium of cramming.

Here is a little tidbit for all you Mikey's-Gyros-lovers: on 4/17 (Hempfest), Mikey's had their best grossing day ever! This is funny, because the day before had been their best grossing day. I left Hempfest at about 4pm and walked downtown to Mikey's with a few friends where my pal, Ren, who works there, informed us that they were already at their pinnacle by 4, but they planned on having live music and alcohol that night. I'm not exactly sure of the estimated income, but we can be sure that Mikey's is likely not going anywhere anytime soon. Score one for downtown Cowtain!

Upcoming event: Moscow Renaissance Fair
When: Tomorrow and Sunday
Where: East City Park
What: 37th Annual Renaissance Fair--A bitchin' good time! Tons of people coming together to sell and exchange homemade and handcrafted goods. This is an excellent time to grab something for Mom for Mother's Day! For those of you who have never been, I suggest you come with a full wallet, because you will be wanting something from every stand in the park! You will find all sorts of cool things here: facepainting, ceramics, metal-work, paintings, jewelry, rockclimbing, a maypole, soul food, live music, and lots of other people!
Hope to see you all there!
P.S. Bring your umbrella, it tends to rain...

Big Dog Syndrome

2010-04-29T13:02:00.000-07:00

Have you ever seen a mini dog like a wiener dog or a toy poodle that thinks it truly is a big dog? These dogs always make me laugh. They go out of there way to try and yank their owner to the side while they charge the "big" dog, and try and show it who's boss. I always find myself thinking that big dog is going to squash you pup!!

I think the little dog syndrome has something to do with seeing the bigger dogs. You see big dogs all around you all the time, and you think well I must be a big dog--dog's don't have mirrors to constantly look at, just dog bowls full of water.

My family just bought a puppy last summer--and by family I mean my mom--we came up with a bunch of names, but my mom settled on Kangaroo. We now call her Roo, Roo Dog or Roo-Roo. My brother calls her the terrorizer. She is an Airdale Terrier (think a Jack Russel but black and brown and a whole lot bigger). She weighs 120 pounds of muscle and is barely a year old. The thing about raising Terriers and especially Airdales is mastering them--Roo is our 4Th Airdale-- they have a tendency to do what they want, and when they want to do it.

Airdales back in the day were bred to be a bear catcher--they have a square jaw that truly locks into place--, and somewhere along the line someone thought it would be fun to try and domesticate them. In Europe because of how big and strong they are, they were bred to be police dogs. In the movie Titanic you can see an officer get onto the boat with two of them.

So imagine our surprise when this huge dog who can pretty much destroy anything and everything turns out to be a complete wuss. She has big dog syndrome--she thinks she is a small dog. Roo now only thinks that she can fit onto your lap, and she will try. She doesn't just try and get on your lap while your watching TV or eating something, but when you're doing homework or just sitting outside.

Roo although she she stands with her head coming up well past my hip cannot jump onto the bed or the couch. Now of course she can pretty much walk onto the couch. Her operation of getting herself onto things is to stand on her back legs and stretch her paws as far forward and dig her claws in and try and hoist herself up--sort of like climbing-- She doesn't realize she can jump.

Even more wierd is that when you've gotten tired of hearing her moan and whimper, and help her up onto the bed...she can't get OFF the bed. If dogs could be afraid of heights I would think she was, but it's more than that. She jumps fearlessly off the deck, big rocks, and trails. She doesn't THINK she can. She will scoot herself to the edge and slowly tip herself towards the ground--those big paws stretching to reach the ground before her face does. When she gets close she usually backs up and sits herself up and whines and moans at you--hey it worked before--to try and get you to help her off.
After a long battle she finally will get too much momentum going and her paws will reach the ground before she has a chance to pull up, and she's free! You can see the relief of it on her face-- the accomplishment-- as she runs towards you only to knock you down with her excitement.
I know that little dog syndrome and little man syndrome are closely related, but I don't think I ever want to meet a man who has big dog/man syndrome. Getting Roo on and off the bed is bad enough.

I have included 2 pictures of Little Miss Roo Dog.. She was only 8 months old....

Why?

2010-04-28T23:33:00.001-07:00

I am the luckiest person in the world. Which is a lie. It seems that whenever somebody gives me a paper or item they want me to hold onto and not lose I lose it. I put it in a safe spot and think "oh I could never lose this" Wrong. I am dead wrong. I can, will, and do lose the item in question.

"Fuck" I'm irritated. I've been searching for three days through papers I shouldn't even have kept just to find the draft of my essay for my science class. "Where is it?"
I ponder knowing I saw it Saturday and that I put it in a spot I wouldn't lose. The only question now is where was that spot?

"Shit" I am a sailor. The bars of soap in my my bathroom cupboard are cringing and wishing they could wash the foul words from my mouth. I'm flipping through a notebook filled with math I know I won't find this paper there. Oh well.

"Jesus I swear I'll go to church more often, and I won't curse." I look at the knots in my wooden ceiling, "If you'll just let me find my paper." This is a useless tactic. I know that I'll find the paper when I don't need it. Probably tomorrow after I've turned in the essay and all of its steps.

My luck with finding lost things totals to:
*Car keys. Lost and found multiple times
*One snake, found two weeks later lying in the hallway waiting to be found and to terrify me.
*papers after I've found them.
*My missing hamster Pockets who ran when his cage was left open.
*My cellphone
*An overdue library book also put in a place where it will be "safe"

Thirty-one cent ice cream: the ploy to make us all fat

2010-04-28T14:56:00.000-07:00

What is the crazy motivation behind Baskin Robbin's 31 cent ice cream day? They know that we lard-loving Americans crave the comfort of a cold, creamy chunk of sweetened dairy. We can't resist the allure, even on the chilliest of days, when it only costs the change we found hiding in the gummy recesses of our car seats or couch cushions. Clinging to our pennies, nickels, dimes, and maybe even an occasional quarter covered in old pop or gum, people waltz into Baskin Robbin's by the dozens. Taking a few minutes to mull over their 31 or so flavor options -will it be jamocha almond fudge, rasberry sherbert, or chocolate chip cookie dough?- the customer will slide into line to wait their turn to hand the cashier their grimy 31 cents. In return, said customer will recieve a sweet or rich ball of creamy or chunky goodness. Complete with a delicious styrophome cake cone or a crunchy sugar cone. The rest of the day for this customer, you would think, would be nice as their attitude would be significantally happier due to this cheap dessert. But instead many of these helpless people are pursuaded to buy more ice cream, mainly because of the sheer low price. If you didn't buy more it would be like not taking free ice cream... because 31 cents these days seems almost free. Especially when you can find it in places, like your couch cushions and back yards, where you didn't even know you had money. And no one can turn down free ice cream! So the customer gets sucked into an endless cycle of ice cream buying that never ends. And before the day is over Baskin Robbin's has made a ridiculous amount of money off of you and you have gained ten pounds.
I'm glad I have a fiance that tells me I don't need things just because they are cheap and I don't need more than I want, or this would be the story of my day.

tweet.

2010-04-27T11:59:00.000-07:00

So there was this thing called Myspace. In fact, it still exists. But mainly it was huge when Jr High and High School hit and everyone was all over it. Uploading pictures, creating your own web page with your favorite song playing in the background, friends posting on it. Everyone and their mom knows who Tom from Myspace is. And if you don't..you might be behind on technology.
Next came Facebook. Some first discovered this for college while others have been using it for ages. Regardless, it is a toned down and more mature and faster way of using Myspace, with extra features like networks, gifts, games, and more. The only thing it lacks is the song playing, but who needs that? It is a social networking website to get straight to the point.

But the latest? The latest is Twitter. I just discovered it this past week, while my roommate rambled about Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt's posts on their Twitter. So why in the world would I even go to Twitter? It is a whole different world. If you haven't been on it yet, definitely take a gander. It's new and it's hip. The only thing that makes it different is the way it posts constant status updates with nothing else to offer except the latest gossip, celebrity gossip. You can "follow" whoever you want, and they can "follow" you too.
@ creative writing class, does anyone use twitter?
In fact, all it is, is a constant update of simple thoughts and opinions.
Tweets.
Kind of cute.

Here are also some facts to think about. With the fastpaced change of this computer based world, here are some crazy thoughts:

1 out of 8 couples married in the United States last year have met online
There are over 200 million registered users on Myspace
If Myspace were a country, it would be the 5th largest in the world (between Indonesia and Brazil)
We are living in exponential times
There are 31 billion searches on Google every month
Today the number of text messages sent and recieved, exceeds the total population of the planet.
Predictions are that by 2049, a $1000 computer will exceed the computational cabilities of the entire human species.

Times are changing, till next time, tweet tweet.

A Small Town

2010-04-26T17:13:00.000-07:00

She has moved approximately thirty times in the forty years that she's been alive. Nearly all of her moving has been confined to the small town of Moscow Idaho. Three attempts have been made to escape the stigma of people saying, "You've lived HERE your whole life?" A large majority of young people that live in Moscow are college students, just here for a short time to earn a degree. They come from all over, a good many from other small towns throughout Idaho. Some dream of getting out and doing something different than what their parents did, moving on to better things not yet realized. College students and young kids finishing high school often express their eagerness towards leaving--how they can't wait to get out of this place. As if "this place" is a dirty word and to stay would mean death or worse yet, settling.

The first attempt at leaving was rooting in fleeing from what she had always known; the same people; the same drunken nights of boredom; family; old boyfriends; and dead end jobs. Fleeing a whole eight miles away, yes, you guessed it--Pullman Washington. A person could argue that this was not really escaping, but if you don't own a car, it makes the eight miles seem like a hundred. You are transported to a new world, one that you never really got to know through the years of only being minutes away, but instead, just passed through to get to somewhere else more exciting. The second attempt was a more concrete move to Tacoma Washington, (so near the big metropolis of Seattle) so many cars, more clubs, and a place to stay that included a swimming pool. No sooner had she finally gotten up the courage to drive in this fast paced new city, when it began to rain. Giant drops of rain that fell harder than she had ever seen in her life--it felt like the car was being pounded with tiny balls, and the windshield wipers couldn't swipe away the river of water pouring down. Pulling over and waiting the thunderstorm out was the only option as she couldn't even see to drive. She lasted just two weeks and was quickly running back to the safety of good old Moscow. Her third breakout was a little less of a challenge, only thirty-eight miles south of Moscow to Clarkston Washington (It seems interesting that all of these flights have been to the state of Washington). Clarkston, and the bordering town of Lewiston Idaho, share the unfortunate smell of the paper mill that employs most of its' inhabitants, along with being ten degrees hotter than Moscow. Locals promise that you will get used to the smell, but you know if you do, you will never get out so you complain every chance you get.

The last time that I tried to get out of Moscow for good was nearly sixteen years ago. I'm drawn to this place with the rolling green and brown hills, with fluffy white clouds that looks as if they should be in a painting. The smell of the land when they burn to turn the soil; walking through town seeing familiar faces; businesses that have been here for years, and concerts in the park with people dancing to their own tune. A place that people feel comfortable enough to leave their doors unlocked at night, where you can go to town for ice cream and be eating it within five minutes. I've come to love this place that I've called home for so long, a place where people are born; pass through; stay for just a little longer; retire; decide they love as adults; and those who just can't leave--even though they thought they despised it as children.

Call of Duty and Steve Almond

2010-04-26T14:24:00.000-07:00

Before we begin on a diabolical narration on something ridiculous that my mind has inevitably dug up from the reservoirs of my memories, I would like everyone to know that Steve Almond has agreed to marry me. I know that this is tough for you guys to hear, but just deal with it, I win. I am the winner. I am victorious. I wonder if I should invite his wife to our wedding? Or would that be weird? I want a house in the Upper East Side New York, a little dog I will call King Louie, and a ferret that I shall affectionately name Steve after his father. Beyond the fact that I hope he never actually reads this in fear that he might find me creepy or strange,as a precaution I will inform my readers that I am simply joking. I actually intend on marrying that one guy from Avatar and Clash of the Titans. I know most of my blog post are not what one would ever classify as 'deep' but I feel this is more like a diary for me then a collection of pieces worthy of being in the New Yorker. There are times when heart warming insight is necessary but I think I'll save that for later. Peoples lives aren't always a bag of joy and so to spare people from having to mix their non bags of joy with mine, I'll keep this blog light and fluffy like that weird marshmellow spread my sister used to love.People love a lot of weird things, but loving Call of Duty is oh so very hard.
It is the one game I cannot play.Actually who am I kidding, its one of the numerous games I cannot play. My guy friends will wake up at 5pm on a Saturday, make some weird chili concoction, and then plug into Xbox live. By the time I come over they are still in their satin pajama bottoms that their girlfriends left over, with a keystone light and its 10pm. "We are leaving NOW!" I'll say after having been there 45 minutes. "We are going to a party." I tell them, "Well alright..." they say. But that isn't the weirdest thing to me, the fact that they don't want to go to a party with real live people. The weirdest thing is that they would rather stay and talk to 12 year olds on some shooting game. These children swear worse then sailors, and by golly its appalling. I voice my concern, "So don't you think its sort of weird that your wearing your girls satin pajamas and talking to little boys?"
"Yeah its super weird."
"So...why are we still here?"
"Cause I'm winning."
"God."
"These kids are actually really annoying which is why I don't usually use the head gear. They are always singing Lady Gaga and saying 'take that bitches. I tell them to 'Shut up kid!' and they say, 'so mute me bitch.'It is very strange."
"So then we can go now...?"
"Yeah after this games done."
It's midnight now.

Guest Blog: Steve Almond on "Rock and Roll Will Save Your Life"

2010-04-26T10:16:00.000-07:00

Last week in class, we discussed Steve Almond's smart, poignant, and highly entertaining new memoir, Rock and Roll Will Save Your Life. We lucked out: Steve was generous enough to field a few questions from the class about music, Drooling Fanaticism, and writing. Read on to hear Steve Almond (a.k.a. "Drooling Steve") on writer's block, critiquing famous people, and not taking yourself too seriously:

Dress Your Family: Because you seem good at this, is it possible to, as a writer, not take yourself too seriously?

SA: Of course it's possible. Please. It's easy. Just Get Over Yourself! Realize that You're Just Not That Into Yourself. My thing is: we're all basically idiots who do dumb shit constantly and feel self-conscious and embarrassed and lame and rather than trying to deny that, I'm just like: Yep, I'm an idiot. Here's why and how and when. And the funny thing is, readers really appreciate that kind of honesty, because -- super high-level trade secret! -- they FEEL THE EXACT SAME WAY.
DYF: Have the people in your book responded to your interpretations of them? Did their responses influence the way you wrote about them?

SA: Yeah, I mean, I was writing about musicians I'd worshipped for years, and about whom I had all these complicated envious borderline creepy feelings. So of COURSE I worried about what they would think. But the bottom line is you've just gotta be honest. If Bob Schneider turns out to be a really sad, isolated guy, you've got to say that. Because that's what art is: you tell the truth. Anything short of that is a form of marketing. And the cool thing is that Bob Schneider (who I was most worried about) was totally cool. He send me this brief email saying, basically, "I'm okay with this. You described what you saw and felt."

DYF: Your book is full of strong scenes. How do you choose when to write in scene?

SA: My theory is that you're best to move into scene and slow down when the character -- whether it's me or some fictional character -- is in emotional danger. So that's what I try to do. The reader is there for danger, first, last, and always.

DYF: What is the hardest aspect of writing a critique of a band or performance?

SA: For me, it's describing the music. I can talk all about how the music makes me feel, but what's actually happening musically is very tough, both because I don't really understand the language of music, and because (as the book points out, over and over) you can't make notes into words. Music is experiential and intuitive and physical.

DYF: What is your remedy for writer's block?
SA: Forgiveness.

DYF: How do you make your personal experience relevant to a wide audience?

SA: It's really just about telling the truth about the shit that means the most to you. That's what people want to plug into. I don't worry about what's relevant to the reader. I worry about whether I'm getting
to the ugly bottom of my own experience.

DYF: If you could be the lead singer of any band, what would it be?

SA: The Beatles. Why not? They wrote the best songs, so even a dork like me would stand half a chance.

DYF: Will you marry me? [This question posed by two students, male and female.]

SA: Yeah, I'll marry both of you. And I'll make sweet, gentle love to both of you. But don't tell my wife.

Your secret's safe with us, Steve. Thanks for sharing your time, insights, embarrassing truths, and super-high-level trade secrets. We remain SA DFs.

Personality: A Seasonal Disorder

2010-04-23T14:09:00.000-07:00

I might have four different personalities, but it’s hard to tell. I recognize this statement can be interpreted in a couple of ways: 1) That I’m trying to attract attention through the construction of mysterious attributes; 2) I’m actually crazy. Neither is true. I have simply noticed that annual changes in my character correlate with the movement of our planet. As the earth tilts towards and away from the sun, certain predictable patterns follow its path. Living in Moscow, far north of the equator, is just the environment in which these traits are best expressed. As is the case with nature’s seasons, my largest transformations occur at high latitudes.

At the moment, spring has decided to stick around. It may disappear under a few inches of snow tomorrow, considering that this town uses sunrays as a tormenting device, but at least I have felt its effect. My coffee consumption has decreased and my mood has been uplifted by the sounds of life. It’s like God turned up nature’s version of Stevie Wonder and now every critter feels like it’s baby making time. I also am beginning to care about each day again. I’m not a nihilist in winter, more like a bear. I simply hibernate and growl at whatever disturbs my hibernation, especially school, but that season is long gone. My blood has started to flow again and I now feel awake, optimistic, and energized. When I walk around town it's with new eyes. My vision, with my thoughts, has expanded beyond just how to get from bed to school, to food, and then back again. I want to talk to people, be social, and express the revitalization that has occurred within me. Summer and fall will bring their own unique changes, but right now I’m content with Moscow while Moscow is green. I had almost forgotten what it is like to wear shorts. Enjoy it.

You Know You Live in Idaho If...

2010-04-22T18:16:00.000-07:00

Forget Rednecks! Here we have Idahoans! Recently, I received an email "Idahoans by Jeff Foxworthy." Though I am not originally from Idaho, it seems that living here seven years has taken its toll on me. As I read this email, I couldn't help thinking how true some of these statements were. If you can't relate to at least one of them and presently live in Idaho...well...you are lying to yourself. "If you've worn shorts and a parka at the same" and "if you find 10 degrees 'a little chilly'" you live in Idaho. hmm let's see, this winter anyone? I saw several people on campus in shorts and a coat, never mind those that were in flip flops (guilty as charged). "If you measure distance in hours you live in Idaho." It takes me 10 hours to get home from Moscow. Do I know how many miles that actually is? no. "If you have switched from 'heat' to 'A/C' and back again in the same day." The last two weeks are a perfect example of this bipolar weather. Sun, rain, snow, hail, wind. Today for example, pouring rain in the morning and as of now (6:30pm) its sunny and warm. Dear weather, make up your mind! "If the speed limit is 55 mph--you're going 80, and everyone is still passing you" and "if driving is better in the winter because the potholes filled with snow" you know you live in Idaho. Back home, Ashton Id, we would get upwards of six feet of snow, and though the roads were icy and you couldn't drive on them most of the time anyway, when you could the ride was smoother because the potholes were gone. "You design your kid's Halloween costume to fit over a snow suit." I do not have a kid of my own, but I do have two little brothers. My mom and I would purposely by their costumes several sizes to big so that they could wear them with a beanie, gloves, scarf, snow pants, and a heavy winter jacket. "If 'vacation' means going anywhere north of Salt Lake City for the weekend." Facebook statuses prove this one correct with things like "I get to go to SLC for the weekend" or "Boise here I come". "If you know someone who has a deer more than once." Not to name names Mr. Hildebrand (high school government teacher). oh and my dentist who managed to hit a deer while on his motorcycle. "If you know all 4 seasons: almost winter, winter, still winter, and road construction, you live in Idaho." When you still have snow in your yard in June, it snows on the 4th of July, and you get snow in September, you live in Idaho. When the snow finally goes away in June, out come the orange hats, bull dozers, and "fine increase in construction zone" signs. Don't you just love Idaho? PS: Sorry this is late

Ala Steve Almond: 5 Songs that Saved Me

2010-04-21T10:21:00.000-07:00

Which is not to say they are my favorite or even good, though I happen to think some of them are-- in their own sort of way. The fact of the matter is, as Steve Almond points out in his book, Rock and Roll Will Save Your Life, these songs make me feel and smell and taste the time in which I heard them. These songs are the songs that transport me, almost immediately, to another self.

1. The Judds, Mama He’s Crazy

In the early nineties, my mother drove a metallic blue Buick with a barely functioning cassette deck and velvety blue seats. Riding shotgun, I cranked the volume knob as far right as it would go while my sisters, still in car seats, covered their ears in the backseat. The sultry harmonies of mother and daughter filled the car, the bluesy voices of The Judds wafting out the open windows, the sweet smell of springtime wafting in.

2.Matchbox 20, Girl Like That
I was sixteen when I went to writing camp and the kind of student who, at sixteen, spends her summer at writing camp. Embarrassed by my perceived lack of taste, musical and otherwise, I packed just one CD in my big round player and listened to it for two weeks straight, during which time I lusted after a boy who wrote poetry and made me watch the sun rise. The effortless vocals of Rob Thomas lulled me to sleep and to write and for the first time in my adolescence, I came to see myself as a writer.

3. Alanis Morissette, You Outta Know
When I was fourteen and virginal, I listened to Jagged Little Pill in my bedroom, scribbling my rage onto the legal pads I used primarily for debate. When Morissette’s melodic screams screamed “fuck,” I turned the volume down so as not to alarm my parents, but I mouthed it with growing pleasure. After I turned twenty-one, You Outta Know became and remains my number one choice for karaoke, followed closely by Ironic—

4. Oasis, Wonderwall
which is ironic, given the reason Oasis makes the list. It was like
raaaiiin, on my wedding day, except it was rain, and the DJ couldn’t set up. Matt never dances, but had learned a series of fancy dips he wanted to show off. Our friends gathered in a circle and sang the only song they knew most of the words to, which happened to be Wonderwall. They sounded the way all groups of people sound when they sing together, beautiful and whole.

5. The New Pornographers, Challengers

In 2008, I became part of my first music festival, Sasquatch, at the Gorge. For three days, I didn’t shower or sleep, instead sipping cheap beer from plastic cups and questioning Canadians about their health care system (a topic I cared deeply about, I’ll note, before it became “cool”). When Neko Case stormed the stage, the audience became one, which seemed significant despite the copious amount of substance abuse happening around me. I felt bigger than my sweaty self, more profound, more complete, more music loving.

The Best Time of Your Life

2010-04-21T10:00:00.000-07:00

An incoming college freshman, driving with my parents to Moscow Idaho where I was to earn a bachelors degree or be thought of by my friends and family as a fool for not going to school, I complained aloud about having to pay lots of money for four years of misery. I had just spent the last twelve years of my life in school, why would I want more? and have to live there at that. Amidst this whining, my mother tried to explain to me that years at college would be the best years of my life, and so far, she has been right. Now that I am graduating, and am supposed to get a real job and go on with life, I, like most other people who are where I am at, don't want to grow up and live "real life." Now, my college career is supposed to be over, but I am now convinced, like my mother said, that college will be the best years of my life, and I do not want them to end. The schoolwork has been grueling however. I have always hated schoolwork, and still do. Due to this work, I have also had the most miserable times of my life in college. This I do want to end. However, I have found the answer to my dilema. I will take the best of both "unrealistic" worlds. I will return to college next spring, take some courses like "theater" and other nonsense (no offense to hard core thespians, I envy your career choices) classes for fun. I will reap the benefits of being a student (the rec center, free plays, concerts, seminars, discounted movies, intramural sports, etc.) without actually having to do anything. In the last four years that I have been here I have always thought, "man this lifestyle would be like heaven if it weren't for the schoolwork forcing me to waste my time away." Just one more month and I will be free from ever HAVING to do any sort of school work ever again. Besides the school part, being a college student is awsome, and I plan on being a college student that doesn't HAVE to do ANYTHING. That seems like the life. My mother also told me before I went to college that as long as I get a degree, after that she doesn't care what I do. Allright mom, I almost have a degree, guess what I'm going to do now, go back to school, because like you said, college is the best time of your life!

The Ballad of Mr. Freckles

2010-04-16T11:23:00.000-07:00

Freckles has left, never to return.

Everyone misses him, the whole town and you.

Where he is at, is my main concern,

Mr. Freckles, my man, I bid you adieu.

*

I remember last December, when I wasn’t with you,

And then in July on my arm your tattoo.

Then the bb in your ear came out.

The bb, I have, and you I’m without.

*

It was said Mr. Freckles was a mean prick.

He was never seen twice, with the same chick.

Buy him a pack so he won’t steal your stash.

Freckles, you junkie, we loved you for it.

*

One day he went missing, my dearly loved cat.

Friend that I miss and pet I once had.

I looked in the streets, but you weren’t there all splat.

Freckles I hope you checked into rehab.
---
I miss my cat is all :-C

Common Near Death Experience of a Native Idahoan

2010-04-15T13:11:00.000-07:00

It is March 2006, my dad and I are clearing brush two hundred meters up the hill behind our house. The brush is becoming a problem because it is about six feet tall and is so thick that you can't see anything more than four feet aways from you; mind you bushes should never be more than four feet tall. We are also trying to open up more room so we can plant trees, due to our shortage from the bark beetle attacks and the Tusic Moths that came through and ate almost all of the needles off of our trees four years back. The moths seemed to prefer the Douglas Fir but the Grand Fir in our region does not grow as hardily and therefore almost all of our Grand Fir died off during the Tusic Moth Caterpillars' reign of terror. My dad works as a steamfitter at Washington State University but we rely on logging to help pay the bills and buy groceries. We need all of the trees that the bugs have killed so we must replant. I also enjoy our local ecosystem so it needs repairing after the insects have damaged it so badly.

It is our second day of cutting brush in this particular spot. We have already cleared about five hundred square feet of brush. Now we are working our way up toward a large Rocky Mountain Maple, which is on a small bump in the hill. Rocky Mountain maples can hardly be considered a tree. IN some places they can, but in our region they grow to be about fifteen feet tall in a cluster of somewhere between eight and maybe twenty shoots per each "tree" making them more of a tall shrub. The brush that we have already cut is all over so we decide to make a new slash pile next to the small bump. The fire flares up as my dad inserts the propane torch and resumes cutting once more. While Pa is running the chain-saw I start piling more brush on the fire.

Under closer observation I find that the bump has a hole in it about two feet in diameter. I have seen holes like this numerous times before. There are no tracks around it so I figure it must be an abandoned coyote den. Rather curious I go in for a closer look. Crouching down I stick my head inside. Almost immediately two yellow eyes the size of bouncy balls are glaring right back at me. I pull my head out of the hole with a jerk only to have a large black bear poke its head out at me and snort. I hopped right up the hill to my dad.

"Pa, we'd better stop cutting because there's a bear in that hole!"

Bounding down the hill we come across my mom, younger sister and both of my younger brothers heading up the hill to bring us lunch. My dad says "We won't be cutting anymore up there for a while..." Giving a brief explanation to my family members on why they shouldn't go up the hill because we accidentally woke up a black bear from its long winter's nap by running a chainsaw and building a bonfire next to its den.

Most people don't get the chance to look into the eyes of a bear... or stand nose to nose with a startled black bear for that matter. Take my word for it, its a life changing experience... It will be years before I stick my head in a hole again.

Terror in the Water

2010-04-13T21:47:00.000-07:00

"Alright," my coach says, "this afternoon we're going to be doing our first open water swim of the trip!" The team cheers with excitement as I sit glued to the bench, fingers wrapped around the metal as though my entire life depends on never letting go.

It's December 2007, the University of Idaho swim team has traveled to Kona, Hawaii for two weeks for our annual Christmas training trip.

I'm terrified of swimming in the ocean. There are scary things in the ocean. You can't see what's out there!

The tears start flowing freely as my body quivers and sobs erupt from my chest. About half the team, as well as my coach looks in my direction in confusion.

Did I mention that I'm terrified of swimming in the ocean?

One hour, that's how long until I had to somehow manage to pry my hands from the bench, make it back to the hotel room, change into my swim suit, walk down to the beach and force myself into the water, and hopefully not pass out of fear in the process. But maybe if that happened I wouldn't have to swim.

The hour passes much too quickly and before I know it I'm standing barefoot in the sand, my goggles slowing filling with tears and completely fogged up. Shaking in an unhealthy manner I inch myself towards the water knowing that I have no other choice. One of my teammates Sara is right by my side promising that she won't leave my side during the entire swim. Katsumi, our athletic trainer, apparently unaware of the situation at hand, looks back at me from the knee-deep water where he stands to laugh and say "Hey Aly-son, watch for sharks!" That does it, I lose it again. "Oh, no, no! So sorry, I'm kidding! No sharks!" he says.

Bawling my eyes out in near hysterics I stand on the beach not willing to take another step. Somehow Sara manages to convince me that I will in fact not be eaten alive. It takes nearly an eternity, but comes all too quickly. I'm knee-deep in water, I'm waist-deep in water, I'm swimming.

Stroke, stroke, breath, stroke, stroke, breath. Haven't died yet but still have a long way to go. I manage to distract myself by watching the fish swim by. This method works for a good while and somehow I find myself enjoying the swim. That is until I look down and suddenly realize all I see is blackness.

They say the number one cause of drowning is panic in the water. Well, that day I panicked. For those that have never experienced a panic attack, you lose all ability to think clearly, you freeze, your breathing increases, the only thought in your mind is that you're pretty sure these are your last moments and they're not going to be pretty. When you're in the middle of and open water swim you have no way of escape other than disappearing into the back of your brain and getting out of the situation.

"Alyson!" Sara says, "you have to keep swimming!"
"No...no...no...no..."
"I'm right here, you're fine, you need to get around the buoy and keep up with the rest of the team!"
"I can't...I can't...I can't..."
"You know the sharks eat the slow ones!"
And I was off.

Somehow we all made it back to shore unscathed.

It was the first of three open water swims we did during those two weeks, and each time we did one my fear slowly became less.
We rang in the 2008 New Year by doing the Kona Ironman swim, 2.4 miles, during which I experienced the most amazing thing in my life, swimming with wild dolphins.

It's about overcoming fears to get the opportunity to experience something extraordinary, but believe me when I say that I still avoid swimming in the ocean if possible. :)

The Disregard of Authority in Professional Sports

2010-04-12T17:55:00.000-07:00

It's quite apparent that many young Americans grow up in places where professional sports aren't commonplace, especially here in Idaho. At early ages we grow disillusioned with athletes as being above the law that the everyday common man abides by. Viewing professional athletes in such a light is a mistake we all can make at times without the full realization and consequences of the law and those who break it. Over the past ten years in the realm of pro sports there have been a multitude of infractions of the law among many pro baseball, basketball, and football athletes. In Major League Baseball, steroids and the dealing of steroids has put America's grand sport under fire. Position players such as Barry Bonds, Mark McGuire, Roger Clemens, Andy Pettitte, and Alex Rodriguez have all been tied to the purchase and injection of performance enhancing drugs since the turn of the century, and all have lied about their past involvement in these scenarios. These men are among baseball's elite but not above the law of illegal substance abuse in any right. If an average person, such as myself, were ever tied to such allegations and illegal activity in our society and lied to a grand jury in Congress about it, my life would be wrecked. If I committed perjury under oath, lied to my friends, family and nation, I would never receive the treatment an athlete or one with massive amounts of money would receive. Last I checked perjury under oath is a felony offense but to an athlete the punishment can be as subtle as a slap on the wrist or a fine. The guilty parties involved in such a scandals and or crimes go about their business as usual at the end of the day whereas I myself would be heading to Leavenworth prison in a six by eight cell for five to ten years. Where's the fairness in that? Have our morals been depleted that much in glorifying the so-called chosen few of professional athletes? In the NFL, players like Tank Johnson, Adam Jones and Ben Roethlisberger have all been involved in multiple crime cases where each man was simply reprimanded by the law and their respective league and were able to play and practice as such. Tank Johnson, a former Chicago Bear's defensive tackle, was charged with illegal firearm possession twice and the worst thing that happened was a four game suspension during the season. Adam Jones was arrested five times in his first couple years in the NFL when his worse crime got him a trade to the Dallas Cowboys but not jail time. Jones walked into a stripclub with 81K in a briefcase and taunted the female dancers with it while ultimately assaulting a dancer by slamming her head on the stage as she lusted after one of the wads of green he produced. Quarterback Ben Roethlisberger has been accused by multiple women of sexual assault in different states. Although, he was never charged he constantly puts himself in these situations eventhough he is held to a higher expectation in being a pro athlete with millions of dollars under his belt. I understand getting away with one claim, but multiple claims seems highly suspicious when seeing his sense of intent and guilt through his demeanor but he'll play come Sundays in Autumn. Delonte West of the Cleveland Cavs in the NBA was caught last summer speeding excessively on a motorcycle with unregistered firearms concealed in a guitar case. West claimed he has bipolar disorder and it caused him to think irrationally. I don't buy it as money is what caused him to act in such a manner, and he is now playing on a team bound for the playoffs and a hopeful NBA title just months later. If that were me on the motorcycle with illegal firearms I'd be in San Quentin rotting for the next few years due to my less than affluent status. These over privileged men and athletes are supposed to be upstanding and productive characters of society, but seemingly forget that. These athletes are in the national limelight year round and show their immaturity and lawful neglect through their illegal actions. Being a role model and recognizable citizen among the commonplace means using your money and status wisely. Just because you have the power and money doesn't mean you need to exploit it through deviant acts. The morals and reasoning in pro sports is all but gone and we as spectators and advocates long for more athletes to step up and take responsibilty for their actions by acting accordingly with the law.

Accidental Accident

2010-04-12T11:35:00.000-07:00

Soooooooooooo...
I forgot to post...
Forgive me all it was not what I attended to do, I just got side tracked a lot and now I'm here apologizing to you.
I don't really know what you people want from me. I like posting my poetry for you to read and tell me what you think, but no one tends to do that so I don't know where to start. I'll post one, but just one, but first there is a story I would like to share with you as to why I look at life the way I do now.
"OH GOD ONE OF THOSE STORIES!" I know I know but this is important to me because I myself almost caused the death of a couple people I had just met, and it was never my intention to do it. A car accident almost made me suicidal. A car accident broke me mentally and would leave me to stare into the abyss for hours just going through images and audio in my head. Scary how something so crucial can just take your life and turn it on you.
I had been recovering from a day of work in California when I had been given a job to pick up my coworker's girlfriend and baby from the airport as a suprise to them. An awkward meeting seeing as I had never met them before. After picking them up we were on our way back to the hotel the crew was staying at when we started conversation so things wouldnt be as weird for both of us. Talking about music and different songs I found out she was a fan of Eminem and I told her I had his new CD in the backseat if she wanted to reach around and grab it. Reaching around her baby started to make a fuss so I tried to make a face and grab his hand so he would be comforted and not start crying. I wasn't looking at the road...
Looking back I twisted the wheel to avoid another vehicle. Hitting my right side as I was traveling at 55 mph doesnt exactly keep you on all fours. We teatered onto the two left wheels and then back to the right as I corrected. I corrected again not wanting the truck to fall to the side the baby and mom were on, and let the truck go. We landed on the driver's side and slid 50 feet across the highway. Glass shattered in my face from the window. Trying to stay calm I knew I had to keep her calm.
"Unstrap your baby," I told her.
Her screams were hard to get over...
She did as I told her and soon after someone stopped to help us out of the truck. The top door opened and I can remember vivid detail of grabbing the baby by the stomach and lifting him from the car as glass slid into my arm. She as soon after pushing more glass into my head.
The rest is cop talk and hospital...
I was supposed to go home tomorrow...

I am now amongst those I judge!

2010-04-07T22:14:00.000-07:00

It’s almost summer here in Idaho! Spring break is a sign of this. I’m in Sandpoint for the break and the warm weather is inspiring. Having pulled my bike out of storage, it’s time to retrain Jayda, my 10 month old yellow lab puppy, how to heel beside me as I ride. This is something she had mastered by the time she was 4 months old, but that was months ago. She picks it back up quickly and we start getting into a routine.

The first day we go for two short mile long rides and the second day about 2 ½ miles. The third day, having arrived in Sandpoint, I get a bit overzealous and take her out for 5 miles. She’s struggling some the last mile or so, but I attribute this to her being tired. Little did I know that the pads of her feet had just been worn completely down. I felt so bad I was nearly in tears. I never meant to hurt her and honestly, I had no idea that could even happen. After about 24 hours of guilt ridden nurturance to her poor feet, I take her to the vet. I walk in and say very seriously to the woman, “I need narcotics!”. Her expression is a cross between shock at my bluntness and annoyance towards my apparent drug seeking behavior. I then explain to her about Jayda’s feet and how I feel so bad that I just want to knock her out for a week while they heal. She laughs at me and says, “Honey, just give her aspirin!”

This is how my puppy came to get her first pair of shoes. Secretly, I have always judged those that dress their dogs up in clothing. I am now amongst those I judge! I’d like to think a distinction can be made though; made between pink dresses and black running shoes. They serve their purpose though, so laugh if you will!

A special PSA for our friendly climate change skeptics

2010-04-07T11:46:00.000-07:00

Wikipedia's handy list of where the world's scientific organizations stand on the issue:

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Scientific_opinion_on_climate_change

A "start here" list of links to statements from NASA, the NAS, NOA, NSF, the AAAS and IPCC:
http://www.realclimate.org/index.php/archives/2007/05/start-here/

Many of those same sources, arranged in an outline of common objections to the AGW theory:
http://scienceblogs.com/illconsidered/2008/07/how_to_talk_to_a_sceptic.php

A quick summary of the history of the theory, going back 150 years:
http://www.aip.org/history/climate/co2.htm

An exhaustive review of the "climategate" emails:
http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/34392959/ns/us_news-environment/

If you aren't sure which link to pick, the first and third are probably the easiest to skim. The third is especially helpful because it will make you sound smart in front of a crowd.

Homies

2010-04-06T21:36:00.001-07:00

Only in Idaho can you find homies like these.

In Idaho (and possibly numerous states), you and your homies - also considered your close friends - can go camping, bar hopping, shooting, hunting, fishing, etc.

When I first moved to Moscow, Idaho, I figured that everyone I met would be a sorority or fraterinty member, or a redneck. I've come to find that there are many different diverse people who live in this society.

The boys you see in this picture are (left to right) Avery, Vince, and Ralphie, who love to party, who love to chill, who love to do pretty much anything. When I was in high school, I had some friends... but going to college is a different ordeal. You meet all kinds of people with different interestes who spark a flame in your life. Avery taught me how to swing dance and belly dance (as weird as that sounds), and every time he visits me when he comes down from Spokane, he teaches me a new kind 0f dance. Now, every time I go to a bar or dance club, I think of Avery when I'm showin' 'em Mah moves!

Vince taught me how to meet people - he told me how to talk to people I have never met before... I'm generally a pretty shy person, but now I can open up to anyone I have a class with in college, I can talk to people about common interests or schooling... I can socialize with people at parties...

Ralphie taught me how to play hacky sack. I've beein playing since I was in eight grade, since I met Ralphie and his friends, and now I can do certain tricks, such as stalls. I have a record of hitting the hack with my foot 59 times in a row.

Life in Idaho is probably similar to everywhere else - you meet people you never thought you would, and you learn things from them. However, the homies you meet in Idaho stick.

Kosher on Easter

2010-04-05T13:38:00.000-07:00

Last September I made the decision to follow kosher dietary laws.

Why?

The reason I like to give people is 'personal challenge'.

Though up to this point it hasn't really been that challenging- around 40% of items on grocery store shelves are certified kosher- so I can't eat ham? I wasn't that attached with it to begin with.

Yep, no challenge up to this point of...

EASTER POTLUCK.

And here the point had happened. Challenge had finally caught up with me.

The entire day-7 to 7-was spent in a potluck situation. While I swallowed down dressingless romaine my peers and their parents feasted on ham and broccoli casserole, jello infused fruit molds, bbq chicken; each cry of "not another bite!" caused my stomach to growl in protest. My traitor hands itched to fill my plate as my eyes turned their tempted gaze upon spread after spread of holiday treats.

I tried to remain pleasant, to not let my plummeting blood sugar cause the people around me to turn into the absolute cretins they were.

I may have lost a few friends. But I made it another day.

Kosher on Easter.

You Can Come Home Again

2010-04-02T15:36:00.000-07:00

When most people consider the distance between East and West Coast, they imagine a good four day drive, stopping at rest areas and cheap motels off the interstate. Cheap coffee and bagels in the morning, and hours and hours of driving. I think my sister and brother-in-law were quite happy to conclude that trip in two days.

Ask either of them, and they will call shenanigans on Pennsylvania, their home for the last two years. Hayley and Mitch both drop comments about what a miserable place it was; they called it a prison. They'll tell you the only redeeming quality about Scranton was the fact that The Office takes place there. That's all they having going for them, my brother-in-law said. Then he made it clear that people there didn't have quite so much personality.

Last summer, I flew over to visit. When I got off the plane, I looked out the airport windows at the spread of elms, oaks, and maple trees that littered the countryside, and I thought, wow this is really beautiful. As soon as my sister picked me up and we began driving home, I uncovered what was really going on here. Every few blocks, we would come to a small fenced area, in the center of town, between shopping centers and neighborhoods, full of tombstones. Now I knew why those trees were doing so well.

The next day, we drove into town. My sister had told me stories of the townsfolk, but I kept my enthusiasm, and trusted I could make my own decisions. I can't say it was particularly hard. Most people in the mall stared at me. Everyone wore matching clothes and nobody smiled. I was the outcast in this social enigma. The same thing seemed to happen no matter where I went. I grew up in a Catholic family, attended a Catholic school, so I immediately realized by necklaces, shirts, and aesthetic, that the Pope would fit right in here in Scranton. Scrantonites got one look at me and my sister, and it was a regular stare . We're such hooligans, with our piercings and tattoos. We're hedonists. I was surprised when I walked by a head shop and the owners were chill. They talked about glass and prices and deals. They were new here, just starting out. I asked, where are you from? They said California. Naturally.

A few weeks ago, when my sister came home, she told me she didn't feel like it had ended yet. She was still having nightmares about being there. She says that being here, at least she has real people to talk to. She says, at least West-Coasters keep their dead where they belong.

The Wall

2010-04-01T17:40:00.000-07:00

Walking through the commons on the University of Idaho campus, one may pass a wall which is packed with politically charged papers and posters, placed in this proximity to the classrooms undoubtedly to provide students with s proper excuse for postponing their preparation for, and even their attendance to, professionally presided classes. The content of this wall is regularly maintained with varying themes of political issues, parties and opinions that give me the impression that different parties vie for the coveted spot; I imagine they pay for slips of paper on which they write their names, toss into a hat and have a weekly drawing for who is next to bombard the student body with bias information (if the process in anyway represents most governmental procedure the hat is then tucked away while the thrid party hat owner then takes donations to fund the hat, awarding the next week to most helpful group).
This wall has been home to everything from "facts" about gay marriage to "facts" about conservatism. Reading the wall and discussing it with my Fiancee is probably the extend of my political involvement. Many people may claim that I do not care what happens to our country, or that it is unpatriotic to not be involved in the politics that, for better or worse, keep our country going. I am not against politics or people who choose to be intimately involved in the going ons of government, and I am not someone who refuses to vote and then complains about the president or legislature that is passed. I am against the wall.
I understand the goal to better inform the voting public of today about topics that are prevalent in our political system, such as the health care bill or the beliefs of various parties, but I feel that the wall is neither the proper place, or proposed information in which to accomplish this. First of all, the information is terribly slanted towards certain views and the bias opinion interferes with the objectivity and efficiency of "facts". Secondly, the posters are often graffitied by people with opposing views in slanderous ways, and then those remarks are responded to by students wishing to reposess the poster for its original purpose, so that they become less about informing and more about disagreeing and fighting over who is right. This leads me to believe that the wall is creating more of a division among who is republican or democrat or right or wrong then it is helping to unify our country under the banner of decency and respect for one another's beliefs. The last reason I am against said wall is because all students at the University of Idaho (the wall's target demographic) have access to the internet through campus computers, and if they really wanted to know this stuff they would research it themselves instead of believing an invisible group of people who are claiming to post fact. Anyone who uses the convenience of the wall to decide their politcal beliefs instead of figuring out the truth and their own opinion on matters might as well use the National Enquirer as a staple guide in their life. I advocate political awareness, but I do not condone the wall, the barrier that it is forming among students, or the unquestioned consumption of "facts" on brightly colored wall-paper.

Voice Mail Blues

2010-03-30T17:25:00.000-07:00

I remember when I got my first cell phone I was so excited that people could call me that for the first week it was plugged into the charger every time one of the bars in the battery went away. The little voice mail man would glow in happiness that someone had left a message. I would check it right away.

This didn't last for long. My first cell phone was a virgin mobile piece of crap. The first real cell phone I got was a red juke from Verizon. I felt so cool flipping the phone up to answer it or read my text messages. The voice mail man was my new friend, my first job had a way to get in touch with me, and I could text anybody I wanted without any limits. I was a bad ass.

I know a few things about the person who had the number before me. Firstly, he was male. Second, he had a lot of debt. Third, or rather three times a day, or week if I was lucky, I would get a recorded message from a debt company asking the previous number owner to call them back and square away his debt. From November 2008 to May 2009 I would get messages for this unknown man, and to top it off I kept getting calls in the middle of my classes from my job.

Every time someone leaves me a voice mail I try to guess what they will say depending on who called me. If it's one of my jobs here in Moscow it goes something like this:

"Hi Melanee this is,_____ call me back when you get the chance."

It's a polite message. However, I have this problem where my imagination kicks in and I imagine worse case scenarios. Things like
"You're fired."
"You're client just died."
"You were supposed to be at work thirty minutes ago. Where are you?"
"You made a mistake on your time sheet. I need you to come fix it."
"Your insurance ran out today. I need you to come by and bring me an updated copy."

Just the thought of these problems happening to me makes my stomach act like it's a dryer on tumble dry. And the little man on the screen? The one I see in the middle of my classes looking at me with his smug little blue face and the two bars beside him as if he's telling me, "You're gonna get it." Each time a new taunt. I worry.

My favorite messages go like this:
"Hi Melanee this is ________ I need *insert reason for call* from you. Give me a call when you have a second." To tell me what you need is to save the remaining class time for learning rather than worrying.

It's almost that time of year

2010-03-29T13:47:00.000-07:00

For some people, a holiday means another pain in the butt. Possibly torture as family members come over for a big meal where you may even be forced to sit for hours talking and repeating things over and over for old gramps and grammies. Yeah, there is lots of food, and yeah there is lots of drank, but what else really? People have seemed to throw aside the meaning of whatever holiday in particular it may be, thanksgiving, christmas, and instead enjoy recieving gifts and forgetting the meaning behind that holiday altogether. Then comes Valentine's day, which we all know is another reason to either appreicate your loved one, feel bad for yourself if you don't have someone, or maybe even celebrate being alone. Although my valentine's day consisted of getting wine drunk, falling in the mud, taking a $3.50 taxi ride home, and falling asleep eating a hot dog in my bed, it is definitely safe to say that the celebration of holidays is still on the rise.
What about the little holidays though? The ones we idahoans sometimes forget about, the ones like halloween that bear no meaning in particular but chaos or a little white lie. I guess what I'm getting at is did you forget the next holiday? For if you do, you will only be prone to lies beyond lies, tricks beyond tricks. They are coming for you no doubt. And if they aren't coming for you, you are coming for them. For April Fools is right around the corner and you have to be on your best game. We all have been fooled. It is the one holiday a year which we are allowed to lie, fib, make believe. It is the one holiday that is as meaningless to some as the rest; but that is the whole point. Make no sense, lie your heart out, get someone to believe some kind of fallacy. It's almost here...

The case of the disappearing 2nd vasectomy

2010-03-29T12:01:00.000-07:00

We all have laughed at friends in hilarious situations that you would give your left pinkie to not be in yourself. This weekend I had a bunch of friends over for some dinner and fondue and just plain fun. In between funny memories that worked your abs and stretched your smiles with laughter, one of my friends asked another "Remember that time when your dad got a vasectomy?"

The inquirer was one of the strangest people I know. Tall and sporty, Andrew, or Fife as most call him, is a Mormon runner who is not afraid of what people think. He can ask any question and perform any task if he wants to. While he was working the A&W drive through, for example: he listened to an apparently very attractive voice ordering her fast-food and decided, presumably by the sultry way she said "mozzarella sticks" that she was pretty enough to be asked on a date. So when she drove up to the window, before he could even give it a second thought, they agreed on a date. Which I might add she had to cancel for an AA meeting.

Sean, the person whom Fife posed his question to proceeded to answer with a quizzical Wow Fife look saying "Yeah I remember... before we moved here." Fife was sure this was wrong. "No I remember he was walking funny with a limp and couldn't move very well."
"He pulled his hamstring bad but he didn't have a second vasectomy" Sean said laughing at the absurdity of the question. But Fife wouldn't believe it.

He was so set on proving his point that he decided to call Sean's dad and ask himself. So he proceeded to call Sean's house and went into the other room while we all strained to hear the conversation catching little snidbits: "I was just curious..." "Well we were talking and I was trying to remember..." When Fife came back in the room he said "Well, she said you were right but it took her a long time to remember..." We all burst into laughter realizing it was Sean's mom who had answered the phone and been put through this awkward conversation.

But it only got better. As we were just resuming normal conversation, Sean's phone rang. He answered and we listened to the side of the call we could hear. "Hi dad... Yeah sorry I tried to dissuade him... Well it just kinda came up... He remembered when you pulled your hamstring... Yeah I'm sorry I told him not to... No it just randomly came up..." By the end of the fiasco, Fife was still not convinced that Sean's dad had only one vasectomy.

Things To Do On Your Spring Break Vacation

2010-03-25T16:24:00.000-07:00

Take your two daughters, ages twenty-four and ten and
your granddaughter, age four, on a girl trip.

Drive six hours to Seattle, get stuck in traffic for fifteen minutes while a parade goes by, find your hotel downtown after taking four wrong turns, re-routed by GPS (Global Tracking System).

Walk on the pier thinking “Pike Place has got to be here somewhere!” not realizing you had walked right past it. It begins to rain and everyone now has to pee, laugh a little – or you may cry. Stop to take photos of the kids holding the Space Needle in their hands. You see a statue of a naked man, try not to pee your pants laughing as you hold something else in your hands for a more adult photo. Walk five more blocks and up five flights of stairs and finally find Pike Place. Try to remember why you wanted to bring two small children to this place.

Return to fabulous hotel and walk to Irish restaurant T.S. McHugh’s and think, “How strange that people are wearing green t-shirts with Irish slogans!” Drink a Guinness beer and eat soda bread. Yum.

Go to the zoo in the morning passing runners with numbers pinned to their shirts. Runners in green and black striped long socks, green top hats and tails, green fuzzy big hair and giant glasses. Pass a sign that says its Irish Festival Weekend and think, “Ah, Ha.” See the zoo in speedy like fashion, taking photos of your daughter holding a Gorilla in her hand.

Drive three hours from Seattle to the cabin that you’ve rented by the ocean and pass through a town that looks like it has been destroyed. A town you later Google, nicknamed in the past as the “Hellhole of the Pacific” for its high murder rate. Try not to scream. Houses boarded up, with shingles missing and “For Sale” signs on each street, businesses with signs declaring empty, and see very few people. Blanch at the Tsunami warning signs that are posted every mile. Drive another thirty minutes along a sketchy road seeing the same scary looking houses that you think no one could live in, passing the occasional new gated beach home, between the thickest forest that you’ve ever seen as you think, “This is where murderers must hide their victims.” Get to the cabin and beach community as your GPS locator finally catches up with you because you now have service. Giant sigh of relief, thank God for GPS.

Eat out for lunch; you deserve it after that drive.

Walk the path to the beach and put your feet in the cold, freezing water as it travels to your heart and think, “Am I dying?”

Watch your two daughters and granddaughter play the “Hot Lava” game against the waves rolling in and capture their smiling faces on film. This photo alone is worth the trip.

Eat out for dinner, even though you brought a cooler full of food, again, you deserve it after that drive and the Café waiter and cook are the only other inhabitants of this area so it makes you feel less scared.

Stay for two days, hot tub in the back of the cabin and think about the cougars and bears that the cabin manual said to beware of and think, “Oh My God.” Don’t tell your daughter that you heard voices in the night and that you are a little freaked out that we don’t have cell service.

Eagerly drive home via Portland, stop and visit your daughter’s school friend. At Mother’s Bistro eat some of the best food, sample everyone else’s dishes. Eat a decadent dessert because it’s a twelve hour drive and you may as well as you think, “Who am I trying to impress?”

Stop at Multnomah Falls on the way home to see the big waterfall. Take photos of your ten year-old holding the bridge in her hand in front of what looks like a film crew. Realize that they ARE filming some guy on the bridge and that it is Nick Cannon from America’s Got Talent – whom your ten year-old LOVES. Get photo of her with him – wait until we get to the car to see her flip out.

Drive the rest of the way home feeling very giddy, wrestle tumbleweeds at the rest stop, take photos of birds, giant windmills, watch an episode of iCarly – the kids show on the iPhone and once again, thank God for GPS.

Mean Girls

2010-03-24T22:26:00.000-07:00

I'm here to inform you lovely English classman of mine about the horrors and misery of bitchy roommates and their "BFF's." I have created a mission that I fondly refer to as 'Kitchen Impossible.' It will be epic! In order to help you understand the meaning of my mission, I will start at the beginning...

Let me take you back a few weeks to a time before the title ex-boyfriend ever existed. He was tall, built, handsome...and bald. It was my 21 run and I had been wasted for roughly an hour. While "dancing" at a club I call CJ's, as I was gracefully strutting my stuff, he appeared. The night lived strong as we rubbed our way to a telephone call two days later and a date for coffee. Of course the date went perfect! Duh, it was with me (joke)! Surprised by how well those two whole hours turned out I was asked later that evening for our little get together to expand...Margaritas at La Casa?

PAUSE!

Here's the first misguidance: When you ask your roommates politely "Should I or should I not say 'yes' to this boy who dated your bff (Code Name) Purple for five years and has been broken up with her for two, who, by the way, I have maybe spoken two sentences to in my entire life?" and what do they say . . . "Go for it, no, they're just good friends, go for it, he's a sweetie, a really nice guy." And I quote myself, Are you sure? I don't want to cause any DRAMA . . . woopsies?

NOW as I was saying, currently thanks to my two month long (now) ex-boyfriend, the title bitches does apply and the battle lines have been drawn. . . cue drama. As the dates kept coming and the nights got longer (and I mean longer), my roommates got meaner. Their meanness manifested itself in the housework. Who does that?

Not only am I no longer invited to small sit downs, girls' nights out, or any event that would acquire a run-in with the 'BFF,' but now I am the verbally, fix that, memo-ed live-in maid. I have been tortured with notes demanding 'kitchen attention' on days where nothing had my fingerprints. I have been kicked to the curb and ridiculed by their weapons of poor penmanship. Over what? A boy you swore was NOT off-limits?

SO...

I have finally decided to retaliate by creating mission 'Kitchen Impossible.'

Dear Abbey,

Do the dishes because beat up girl with my timid words!

Sincerely,
Captain Mean Girl

And I say to you....

Screw you! None of its mine because I'm a ball-a! Foo!

Now don't get me wrong, I love this school and I'm a Vandal Fan for life. But is it just me or are Idaho woman the only real woman on this planet? Face it. We're the real deal. None of that prissy I'm too good for you body language. I've never met a true Idaho girl who gives a cold shoulder and causes drama every waking moment of her life. We're simple, easy going and down to earth. Could this be the reason my roommates hate my guts? Because they're not from Idaho? Are they upset because I stole one of the many decent men Idaho has to offer? Are they jealous I'm not afraid to get a little dirty? If a mud fight is all it'll take for some type of RESPECT to start happening here then don't think I won't do it.

A bad roommate.

2010-03-24T16:07:00.000-07:00

College means roommates. Sometimes these roommates aren't our first choices. Since my freshmen year I have learned this and have come up with slightly creative ways to deal with such people.

The rules are simple you have to be friends of some sort, meaning that you both chose to live with each other and thought it would be a good idea. You have to have mutual friends who come over to see both parties. You have to be of the opposite sex and not dating, hooking up, or whatever you want to title any sort of sexual encounter. Although I guess you could just alter the list to fit the gender. Lastly you have to like the person just not like living with them.

Now for the fun. All of the below "activities" have been done by me or done to me. It's all fun in games when you live together.
1. Not allow parties because you're tired when roommate and friends are talking about getting drunk.
2. Counter attack: throw the party anyways.
3. Counter attack 2: throw a party when roommate has a test to study for.
4. When throwing a party together hide the toilet paper in your room and tell only YOUR friends where it is. (this is really effective when the other bathroom is upstairs and makes great for awkward conversation of roommate's friends asking for squares of TP)
5. Make friends with roommate's friends.
6. Invite roommate's friends over.
7. On everything you buy write your name in all caps, just to show it's yours.
8. Hook up with roommate's friends.
9. Have sex with girlfriend so roommate and friends can hear.
10. Counter attack: make loud noises during their sexy time. Very funny.
11. Take lots of funny pictures of drunken roommate and post them on Facebook.
12. Turn music on really loud early in the morning when roommate is hungover.
13. Party with roommate's friends when roommate is studying.
14. When watching TV with friends turn on TV in your room loud.
15. Counter attack: say I love that show and all go up to room to watch show together. VERY funny.
16. Talk about what a "tool" your roommate was last night to your friends and roommate.
17. Put all your movies, Cd's, and anything else that could be shared in your room and always close the door.
18. Counter attack: Bring the apartment football to your fraternity.
19. Come home late at night and be really loud and talk for as long as you can (This keeps roommate and girlfriend up wondering where you were and angry the next day they didn't go.)
20. Together drink anything in the beer fridge left by friends for longer than two days and talk about all the funny stuff you pull on each other. THE BEST.

I LOVE my roommate and love that we can do these things to each other and still be civil. Note: Before you pull any of our stunts make sure your roommate has a sense of humor. I recommend putting clear cling wrap on their toilet... You will find out real fast what type of a person they are.

My Quarter LIfe Crisis

2010-03-24T14:02:00.000-07:00

Like David, I used spring break as a time for reflection. It is very interesting where the mind goes when it is not bombarded by the obligations of school. Instead of constantly trying to keep up with my work, I had time to simply do whatever materialized in my idle mind. What emerged on the cognitive surface, I have to admit, surprised me. As a teenager, my days usually consisted of arguing with my mom and skating. School was obsolete. Who needs academics when there are cement waves to ride and goggling teenybopper babes to impress? My dresser was filled with the customary garb. I had skate shirts galore, tight, black jeans, and my Emerica skate shoes. Andrew Reynolds was my hero at the time. My taste in music conformed to the non-conforming punk of the day. Anti-Flag, Rancid, and whatever else was popular provided sustenance for my angst-ridden soul. With earphones in and music turned all the way up, I would ride around town without a single care. All that really mattered was maintaining some semblance of political radicalism, but now, as a busy college student bustling around, the list of cares and concerns has tripled in size. Spring break was a nostalgic break. I couldn’t shake thoughts of my pubescent past. I dedicated all of my Pandora radio stations to punk and stole my roommate’s skateboard. The Moscow Skate Park is located right next to the high school. This provides the perfect opportunity for me to re-experience the tempestuous years of adolescence. Seeing those little kids ride around is like living in a flash back. It feels good. It’s what I need. My quarter life crisis deserves a little attention.

Double LIfe

2010-03-19T10:00:00.000-07:00

In the spirit of Spring Break, I have been thinking about where I am going and where I have gone and the things that I want to do and the things that I have done. I like to travel and explore other places and weekends are the chance that I get to do those things. For Spring Break I will be in Utah exploring the canyonlands. Spring Break is a very long weekend in which I will forget everything about my actual life except for who I am. I will forget that a I am college student in his senior year. I will be living in the moment, taking in what is there as if this is my actual life instead of that other one that has homework to do and tests to study for and bills to pay and jobs to apply for. This is how it is most of the weekends I have when I go somewhere else, which is quite often. I totally forget about reality and live in a fantacy world for just two days out of every week., sometimes, If I am lucky, more. Without those two days or so of unreality, I think that I would go insane and there would really not be much of a reason for me to live. Weekends were I think built for escape from the drag of our daily lives; a chance to live how we want to instead of how we have to. For me, it is like living a double life. During weekends, my life is like I wish it was all of the time, and during the week, my life is like it actually is most of the time. Sometimes it is like I am two different people, depending on the day of the week. I have a much different attitude on a Saturday than I do on a Tuesday. A few weeks ago I went to Missoula, Montana for a big dance called the Foresters Ball. I had so much fun and the weekend seemed so long. During this time, life was good. On the way back to Moscow I stopped at my parents house in Coeur d' Alene for dinner. One of their typical questions was: Do you have a lot of homework this week? (They think that I think my life is about school and that I care a lot about it). This question actually took me by surprise and caught me off guard. What? I thought for a brief second, I have homework in this wonderful life I am living? It is still Sunday right? I replied to them: "Umm, I honestly haven't looked into it, maybe, I don't know, I forgot about that whole school thing on Friday." It was like they were asking me a question about someone elses life, not my own. I told them that I live like I want to live during weekends, and live like I have to live during the week. I told them that right now, I am living like I want to live, and I don't really want to think about school, so I won't. This is my double life. I am, what they call, a Weekend Warrior.

A Cup of Joe (and Bill and Hank and Ted)

2010-03-18T16:09:00.000-07:00

It’s Friday morning in Moscow, and as always, I’m having an Americano, two sugars. In the dim cavern of One World, my favorite— and undoubtedly Moscow’s finest—coffee shop, I select a wooden table that insists I slip folded paper under the base for stability. Today, I’m here to write.

A group of four men enter, I can tell they’ve been here before by the way they secure their table and then stand in line for coffee. They laugh and joke, they’re enjoying the later end of middle age, perhaps the beginning of their near-elderly years. One says, “Mind if we snag this chair?”

“Please, go ahead,” I say, smiling in a way that’s meant to tell them I’m friendly too. Their voices overlap, richly layered like the green and gold hills of the Palouse, and they chuckle, “You’ll probably regret it.” As far as I can tell, one or two work for the United States Post Office, and they warn me again, “He was just released from the asylum.” “It really is a sort of an asylum, the USPS.”

Now I’m pretending to write, which isn’t exactly accurate because I am writing, transcribing bits of their conversation, which I had not planned but am happily—energetically—doing. “Did you hear I applied for a Missionary position? Didn’t get it, because the woman came out on top.” “Come on guys, that was funny. It wasn’t even a pun. Come on guys, now that’s funny.”

The conversation turns to old age, and the funny one who asked for the chair says to the one who is noticeably older, “In your old age, you’re always getting up at night. It’s making it really hard to be with your wife, you know, I never know when you’re going to be up.” It seems that sex, with or without those tiny blue pills, sells at any age, or at the very least, fuels the male fire. This, it seems, is the universality of the human experience.

They discuss Broadway and Hollywood noting that they too should try their hand at movie making, though, like the investments of Groucho, this might not be the best choice. These men are wise in the ways of wealth, a characteristic, two remark, they share with David Letterman. The other two are more skeptical, admitting they like Letterman more than the other late night talk show hosts, though he looks and sounds like a drunk.

One has traveled to Costa Rica where he stayed with a 300-pound man who snored so loud that the earplugs didn’t help. One finds it improbable that the man was both 300 pounds and an aggressive snorer.; one remembers a story about a man who asked him to travel abroad and ask for a tall gringo who used to kick for the University of Idaho.

People have a fascination with people watching (the other people watching me…thanks, Jack Johnson.) For example, the popular website, overheardinnewyork.com, sparked the creation of similar sites, Craigslist popularized missed connections, and texts from last night documents the alcohol indulgent lives of college students around the United States.

In 2006, The New York Times published an article about people-watching, and the role it plays in understanding a city, which I believe to be true. In Moscow, Idaho, we prefer the old fashioned approach to getting to know a city. We observe from afar, we initiate conversation, and eventually, we get to know each other over a cup of coffee.

The Mystery of the Siriously Strong Neighbor

2010-03-17T12:37:00.000-07:00

Does anyone have neighbors; rude neighbors? Or, if you somehow manage a lonely commute between Moscow, Idaho and the Moon these days, have you had disagreeable people-next-door in the past? I have neighbors. And I'm not talking about the nice family in their blue Buick; they smile and wave as they pass my house on their way to the next furry convention (day care and hopefully a petting zoo will be provided); different, yes, but at least they're decent people and throw one hell of a barbeque.

No, I'm talking about the other guy; the hardcore body builder, head shaved so that everyone will recognize his ass-kickery, holed-away with his exotic wife, imported all the way from Minnesota. Sometimes it sounds like they're building an amusement park over there, other times it's more of a kittens through a paper shredder sound. Together though, they have experienced the tragedy of lifting weights without electrolytes, the horrors of pick-your-own fruit farms, and a regular following of Minnesota Public Radio (and to think, for all these years, Garrison Keillor has led me to believe Minnesotans are friendly people). Neighbors whom appear mid-twenties and worldly in the ways of protein shakes and spreadable butter, why are you so distant and reserved? Are you so much hipper than me because your ex-governor helped Schwarzenegger defeat the Predator? Is it because my ex-senator was caught toe-tapping in your airport bathroom; is that why when i say "Hello", you glare at me like I'm suggesting a three-way, and then walk off without so much as a handie?

Here's a new exercise to throw into your glamour-muscle work-out calendar: Smile. Smile and say hello to me, your neighbor. Be more like the imaginary Furries next door, and strike up conversation, about anything. Hey, maybe I've got a calf muscle that I'm particularly proud of and we could compare lifting schedules. Are you going out to get a sandwich? And I'm just smoking on the porch? Invite me; I eat too, especially sandwiches. Are you doing anything tonight? Lets watch a movie; you have a t.v. I have the Rambo box-set!

... I'm getting all together too imaginative with the severe situation of the seriously strong stranger, who is at this moment, breaking kittens. Christ, can he hear me typing this right now? what if he finds this post on the internet? He'd probably post a comment, on my face, with his frightening fists! Help! Someone call the vet; this guy's pythons are syck!

Over the river and through the woods....

2010-03-16T21:57:00.000-07:00

I still get excited about visiting my grandma. She's my favorite person in the world, my 79-year old grandma. 'Over the river and through the woods' pretty much explains where she lives - Stites, ID...around Grangeville, past Kamiah, literally on the side of a mountain and down into a gulch. My pop was raised in the little brown house my grandma and her husband, Doug still live in tucked back off the tight corner of Luke's Gulch. That house is still the same brown color its always been, with the same fence around the outskirts of the yard it's always had, the same carport filled with three Toyota trucks just off the kitchen, the same thin windows by the front door looking into the dining room, and the same front door that sticks just so.

When I was a kid grandma had a few horses in the barn around the back of the house, a chicken coop full of chickens and an annoying rooster, and a garden about 10' x 20' in the front yard. Unfortunately the wandering deer overtook the garden enough times to make grandma throw her hands up and throw in the gardening gloves on that idea (now there are hanging tomato plants by the carport). There has always been a big dog roaming around the property. There have been at least two or three hounds, back to back in my lifetime (all with the same name, of course).

25 years later, there aren't any horses in the barn, the chicken coop has long since been replaced by a food storage shed and there is a fat, round black lab mix named Digger - definitely not a hound. The area is still as secluded and beautiful as ever. I couldn't ask for a more serene drive from Moscow to anywhere but grandma's house to clear my head and rejuvenate my mind. I wonder, though, if it's the tantalizing scenery filled with excited anticipation of going to grandma's house or the thought of grandma's homemade pies, warm cookies and endless hugs and kisses that get me there today.

The Bright Lights of... Moscow?

2010-03-15T15:52:00.000-07:00

The other night while driving home from my girlfriend's house outside of Viola, Idaho I went over a ridge on the foothills of Moscow Mountain and saw the lights of Moscow. Now for many people they would look at this and say "Isn't it beautiful?" But for me was something a little different. The town was so bright with lights even though it was one o'clock in the morning. Our country says we have an energy demand and need more power, and yet our towns have every street lit, every store sign lit up in bright neon colors and lights on practically lights on in every business even though the store closed at nine or maybe even six. Then I thought "are all the lights necessary? Do we really need a street light every hundred feet in town even though our cars were built with these funny contraptions called headlights? And how would our lives be different if electric lights were turned off at eleven or twelve o'clock? Or what if electric lights didn't exist at all?" After some pretty extensive pondering (it is one in the morning), I began to wonder, if we lived without electric lights would our eyes be better adapted to the dark? Every time we turn a light on or off our eyes have to adjust to the difference in lighting. So if we don't use electric lights our eyes would not have to adjust so dramatically and so frequently. Then maybe our eyes could fully adjust to compensate with either the complete darkness of night or the relative brightness of day.
So how would we function without electric lights? Would we be able to use our instincts that God provided us with? We seem to have manipulated our lives so that we can be ultimately lazy and not even use the full extent of our natural senses. I decided to experiment. I turned off the headlights of my Jeep and drove the twelve more miles of country roads home with my lights off...
Within a minute I could see perfectly fine! It wasn't bad at all, of course some moonlight helped out a little bit. But this experiment convinced me that if we were willing to give up a few lights we could get by comfortably with half or even fewer lights, and then just maybe everyone will get a better look at the stars that the city lights seem to blot out.

Whiskey: A Girl's Best Friend

2010-03-13T12:56:00.000-08:00

Whiskey: warm and comforting, a safety net helps me to never be alone. I can always rely on Whiskey. Without a doubt Whiskey will always be there. Relaxing me when I need it, and comes with a bite to keep me safe. My 3 year old Skye Terrier Whiskey Lullaby is my best friend. Whiskey, with his white and grey long hair coat and signature large ears, is always able to make me laugh. With his warm, brown, eyes he is capable of making me feel as if someone actual gets what is going on in my life. Curling up with me when I am sad or sick lets me know that he really does love me. Whiskey was given to me after a tragedy in my life and he was been with me through several more. He is someone that I can count on to always be there when I need, and always listen without judgment (and that's not only because he can't talk back). Last year (my freshman year) I lived on campus and had to leave him at home. It was difficult for both of us. I was born and raised on a ranch, so I have always had animals with me basically at all times. Occasionally when I called home last year, my mom would put him the phone next to his ear while I talked to him. She said that he would immediatly roll over on to his back. This is something he has done since I got him. He rolls onto his back and looks at you like come on you know what I want. And we do. What he wants is a belly rub. It is his weakness. If I playing tug-a-war with him and feel like cheating all I have to do is start to pet his stomach and he stops what he is doing and rolls over. That is also one of the first things he will do when I get home from class. It's like he is saying, you left me alone all day, you owe me. I was grateful to be able to have him with me this year. It has made things better for both of us. Last year, he lost weight (making him underweight) and sulked around. This year my mom says that when I come home with him with me, he seems happier and so do I. I've spent a lot of time alone this year with living off campus that I don't know how things would have gone without him being here. I love my Whiskey; he really is a girl's best friend.

The Befuddlement of a 20-something Gal

2010-03-11T15:51:00.000-08:00

It may or may not be that I am indeed a 20 something befuddled gal, or that this is merely Idaho, or that they are merely boys, or maybe it's all three, who knows? It would appear that said girl above seems to only know guys who will either fall in love upon first sight or despise upon first sight as well. The middle group of "I might like her" seems to be completely overlooked. And while I am indeed speaking for myself I know a plethora of other 20 somethings that are befuddled right there alongside with me. To compensate for this lack of middle ground that I have above stated, I will now recount a tale of a girl, a bed,a cabin in the woods, and a boy whose love turned to hatred upon rejection,a night that should have been fun, a night the ended up bad, and all in all a really great story for anyone who has ever had or is a stalker.
For the sake of the stalkers morale we shall call him Tina. Tina is a man-bitch. Upon ones meeting of this Tina one realizes that the definition of man-bitch in regards to Tina is quite accurate. (For the sake of those who can't read between the lines, Tina is indeed a male). A man-bitch is a man who acts like a pregnant women right before they are about to go into labor.Hormonal. A man bitch is like your fat cousin who cried when they dropped their cupcake; your fat cousin is 16. A man-bitch is that person at the party who doesn't quite make it to the garbage can and pukes on your fake Ugg boots.
This story takes place on a complex of cabins on Hayden Lake, in Coure d' Alene Idaho. They are my friends family's cabins and she had invited my friends and all of her friends to stay for the weekend. Her friends include the lovely Tina. Lovely Tina has been telling me ever since freshman year of college that she is in love with me, I keep telling Tina that I don't reciprocate that emotion towards her, (not even as a friend), but I spare Tina's delicate emotional soul and leave that part out. Tina followed me home once, Tina waited outside my bedroom for an hour once, drunk, Tina bruised my wrist once, Tina is kind of creepy.
After hours of drinking at my friends cabin everyone is starting to pass out. I go to cabin next door and crash on the fold-able couch, four people are in the bedroom next door and that includes Tina and her other friend Sally(also a male), my friend who owns the cabin, and my one of my best girlfriends. As I start to doze off into drunken slumber land I hear the creak of door, I look around, the front door hasn't moved at all. I lie back down, and there is an even larger creak that comes from down the hall, something was stirring. I shoot up in bed and stare at the dark figure that had come wafting down the plank. As I squint in the shadows I notice who the intruder upon my sleep is, it is Tina. Tina is staring down at me from where she stood,
" Sleeping were we?" she says slyly.
" Yeah Tina, go away."
"I just want to talk, Liz, is that ok? Can a friend not talk to a friend."
"No Tina, its 3am in the morning, we aren't friends, and this is defiantly not the time to talk."
"But Liz can't i just hop in bed with you for a minute?"
"No TINA! Go away!" Tina hops in anyways and stares at me from across the bed. My heart is racing and just as I am about to get up and run to another cabin...
STAY TUNED TO HEAR MORE OF THE CHRONICLES OF LIZ AND THE VILLAINOUS MAN-BITCH TINA.

One Team

2010-03-10T20:50:00.000-08:00

It comes around once a year. It's not Christmas, New Years, Easter, St. Patrick's Day, birthdays, Valentine's Day, or any other holiday that we like to use as an excuse to get together with family (or dread because you have to). To me this time of year is much more than that. It's the Western Athletic Conference Swimming and Diving Championships. The third week of February each year we lay it all on the line. All the work we put in since the first day we step onto the University of Idaho Swim Center deck, all the miles we put in following a black line, all the tears we shed over devastating loses and outstanding triumphs. All the Friday nights we as collegiate athletes give up so as to rise much too early on a Saturday morning and throw ourselves into the always ice cold water. All the hours of sleep we lose trying to balance swimming and school. All of our excuses have lost all meaning because when we get off that plane in San Antonio, Texas it all comes down to one thing: who can get their hand on the wall first.
This year was no different than any other year. We trained for twenty-six weeks starting back in August, knowing that this is what it would come down to. The meet goes from Wednesday night to Saturday night. For me this was an interesting year. I managed to place ninth in all my individual preliminary swims, which in swimming is the worst place you can be. From prelims to finals one cannot move above or below the bracket of eight that they placed in the morning swim. Ninth place means you can place no higher than ninth no matter how fast you swim, and you can drop as low as sixteenth. I personally have had the ninth to sixteenth thing happen before, thankfully not this year though.
Each day we compete in one relay, and to me the most memorable of this year was the 4x50 yard freestyle relay. Idaho is loaded with sprinters which puts this relay as our highest placing one. I am one of the ones lucky enough to earn a spot on it, which makes me overcome with pride and nerves. Each stroke on this relay matters, each breath, each turn, each start, each finish. There are no mistakes in this relay.
We start in the back room, lined up with five other teams, my iPod headphones are shoved deep into my ears so as to block out every other thing going on around me. I'm focused, excited, nervous, slightly nauseous, really needing to pee (which somehow is the case before every figgin race!). I'm cold, I'm shaking, I'm blocking out the world. Tick-Tok (which was my pump-up song of choice for the duration of the meet) blasts through my headphones into my brain taking over everything that I know. I'm have conscious when they signal for us that it's time to walk out onto deck and do exactly what we're here to do. My head down, my eyes trying to block out all the screaming teammates, (ours and others), I walk numbly through the crowd to behind the blocks. Each team is given a brief introduction and I'm dully aware of us being announced. I focus on nothing but myself now, our first swimmer steps up on the starting blocks, I still feel like I'm going to throw up, the buzzer goes off and the race begins. Six girls sprinting their hearts out. Twenty three seconds later our second girl is flying through the air the crowd is screaming and I'm in my own little world. I've removed myself from where I am and I'm in my "zone". In no time our third swimmer steps up behind the block and gets ready to go. I force myself back to earth, back to this pool deck and the task at hand. I take my headphones off doing my best to continue to keep everything else out. I step up on the blocks. Everything comes down to this, all the hours we've spent doing everything, all the relay exchanges we've practice for this moment. I'm ready, toes curled over the edge of the blocks ready to spring through the air. I'm ready, my arms swing in perfect timing for when I dive in. I begin my wind up, I'm leaning, she's touching the wall...she's not touching the wall. I'm in mid air and I can think only one word, "shit". My world comes crashing down on me with the realization that I may have just disqualified this relay, this one relay that is so important to this whole weekend. My body goes on autopilot as my mind reels. "I know I did it, I know I did it, I know I did it" is all I can think as I pound through the water, breathing exactly where I need to, feeling the burn of every single muscle in my body. This is what I've done not only for the past 144 days, but the past ten years. It has all lead me to this, I push past my fear and through the water. I slam my hand into the wall.
Cheering. Tears.
I look over to my team, who with a third place finish should have been ecstatic. They saw it too.
Silence.
I numbly crawl from the water and can't stop the tears that begin streaming down my face. I nearly collapse into a worthless heap on the side of the pool but my teammates come over and pull me towards my coach.
No disqualification.
The officials didn't see it. Maybe it just seemed that way to me. Maybe we just got lucky.
I process this, trying to turn my terror into joy.
One race, one breath, one stroke, one start, one turn, one finish, one relay. But most importantly, together through the tears, the triumphs, the successes, the failures we will always be one team.

GO VANDALS! :)

funny, depressing things that are real

2010-03-10T17:37:00.000-08:00

In Saudi Arabia, the country we send probably more American dollars to than any other, women do not have the right to vote, drive a car, seek employment, testify in court, or even leave the house (unless a male accompanies them). Also, sorcery is a crime punishable by death (magic is legally REAL) http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Women's_rights_in_Saudi_Arabia

Much of the world still believes marijuana is the key to failure in life, even after the leader of the free world admitted to using it, as well as 14-gold-medal winner and 37-world-records swimmer Michael Phelps. Meanwhile, tobacco continues to slaughter 400,000 Americans each year (http://drugwarfacts.org/cms/?q=node/30).

We are destined to end up a cold and lonely galaxy, ignorant of the fact that there once was a whole universe out there to explore...but that's a hundred billion years away, so smile in the meantime =) (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7ImvlS8PLIo skip to 51 minutes in)

The ichneumon wasp has adapted it's evolution to the point where it exists solely to inject mind-control fluid directly into cockroach brains and turn them into zombies. They then lead the roaches down to a burrow and plant an egg inside of them that hatches and eats the paralyzed zombie-roach alive over the next seven days. If a God designed this, it had to of been the Old Testament version. This was the bug that shook Darwin's faith, hah. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qN2XMyxAs5o)

The top 1% of Americans have more financial wealth than the bottom 95% combined. Capitalism dropped the ball, not as hard as communism, but the numbers don't look good. (http://sociology.ucsc.edu/whorulesamerica/power/wealth.html)

It is physically impossible to care for more than 150 people in the world. Your brain literally does not have room for any more sympathy than that. Another tragic design flaw you'd think God would seen coming, but he also overlooked that whole appendix thing so I don't know how much credit we can reasonably give anyways. (http://www.cracked.com/article_14990_what-monkeysphere.html)

There are people in the world who think President Bush was like Xanatos from Gargoyles, meticulously planning to have the WTC bombed with retarded amounts of hidden explosives that he'd smuggled in over a period of months past the bomb dogs and cameras, paying off thousands of witnesses and controlling everything behind the scenes, completing his gambit by manipulating American fears into Operation Iraqi Freedom. Yet somehow he couldn't smuggle one.little.WMD into Iraq to make it look like he hadn't wasted 4 years, a trillion dollars, and 4000 American lives. Also, there is no such thing as an eclipse. The sun only gets blocked because Stephen Colbert swings his testicles in the way. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qa-4E8ZDj9s)

There are more Komodo dragons in Indonesia than everywhere else in the known universe combined! Kinda makes you proud, doesn't it?

Drunken Sobriety

2010-03-10T13:38:00.000-08:00

The mess of two worlds collide when arriving to a college party completely sober. Ever done that? Although this has slowly become my routine as of late it has also slowly become a reality to the truths of college. The sex driven world of fraternities, the sex driven world of football parties, the sex driven world of university; they are all the same. Parties remind me of a loss of self control, a loss of control at all, chaos that can be beautiful with your beer goggles on or all too ugly without them. It doesn't matter which party you go to. University of Idaho can often resemble something close to Lord of the Flies. The children that have been tightly bound in younger years of adolescence have suddenly been released into the wild air of Moscow, realizing the lengths of freedom they are so willfully given. Perhaps some of us have always had that freedom, perhaps some of us have never dreamt of it, while others like me are already bored of it. These drunken walls of peope, the slur of words, the beautiful messes of sorostitutes and frabots.
The lingo of Greek life was like another language to me, but now I speak it fluently, knowing all too well the games played within these beautiful kingdom mansions. The lines that the fraternity boys use to lure you into "shacking" with them in their "butt huts". It is a sex driven world, it is college, and we are all apart of it. The clash of a sober world and a clash of a very drunken world are all too different, and the distinguishable difference between them become very clear. Try it out. "Isla!Isla!" A drunken girl looks my way and crumbles on her eet through the crowd; we dash to pick her back up. These parties remind me why I am from Boise, why I am stil young and still innocent and that although I have made great choices. We have all been at these parties. We have all either been the drunk ass or the one who sees from a completely new perspective, a sober one. Who wants to skip prefunking an event like this? It is easily accepted that to be apart of this world and enjoy yourself while in it, joining the crowd activity is inevitable. I do it, we all do it. Down your drink and wait for the craziness to begin. Because it will. Whether they are the best times of our lives, or the worst, there is no denying these wild young college kids their freedom. To what lengths are they willing to flaunt it?

My Personal Manifest Destiny

2010-03-08T16:04:00.000-08:00

Living in this great state of Idaho has been a true and utter blessing in my time. I have been an Idahoan since 1990 moving westward from North Dakota, a flat desolate land of the socially backward and dissenters of any foreign influence. My family decided it was time to leave for a new opportunity along with knowing that "Nordak" wasn't the best of settings to raise a young family of five. I came here without any subtle inclination what this new state had in store for me or my family except better paying vocations for my parents. We hit Coeur d' Alene when I was four and I immediately fell in love with Idaho's scenic presence. There are relatively no natural disasters here in Idaho except the occassional summer fires and at times hard hitting winters. We a truly blessed with four beautiful seasons whereas North Dakota has only two seasons and those being terrible summers and drastic winters. My recreational life was bolstered by far with numerous outdoor endeavors and the availabilty to enhance our community in positive ways. I can't fathom living in another place where one can hunt, fish, hike, ski, boat, swim or relax like we can in Idaho. It seems that there is always something brewing in this state which is filled with the most delightful people that would go out of their way to help a fellow citizen in a time of need. During my early years here, I heard that Idaho was ridden with racism and neo-facist organizations, mainly the Neo-Nazis of Northern Idaho. As of 1997, Idaho was nationally seen as a place of ridicule and so-called 'white pride.' Knowing our state was in jeopardy of being labeled a Confederate sympathizer, our population in Northern Idaho sought a time for change and modernization in which we sucessfully irradicated the hate in our community all the way to Pennsylvania where the Neo-Nazis that once infested our district had all gone to. We burnt down their old communes and now live in a time were acceptance reigns supreme and the beauty of Idaho remains undeterred. Since that time in our history, Idaho has been open to all newcomers looking for pleasant residential living and a chance at happiness. Coeur d' Alene has become a hot spot for tourism being that it is a resort town filled with lakes, rivers and various recreational activities. I guess it's safe to say that Northern Idaho has placed itself back ontop in the national limelight thwarting the once negative outlook many once had perceived. And if there are any naysayers that live among us, I would tell them to come down to our great college town of Moscow where diversity flourishes freely. Ten to fifteenyears ago this would have not been relevant seeing our student population full of kids from nearly five other continents living the American dream listed on the Constitution. Just like America, Idaho has become a land for all to live equally and freely while thriving in their own environment. I wouldn't dream of being anywhere else that is until I find a job after school that may take me elsewhere. For now I am happy where I am at and am thankful I didn't come of age in North Dakota. The chance for new opportunity here in Idaho has never been better and I am content with my personal manifest destiny here in the Gem State.

The Most Hideous Bullets in the Gun

2010-03-04T16:42:00.000-08:00

These most hideous parts torture my unconscious, my dreams, my fantasies, my hopes and aspirations.

These most hideous parts resurface no matter what I do to keep them at bay. No matter how hard I fight to deny what is real, to deny the truth, to deny the past. These most hideous parts make it impossible to forget, to move forward, to accept. These most hideous parts haunt and tease, wait and seep. These are the parts that I have tried every means to bury deep inside. To lock away in that untapped cellar at the depth of my soul. The cellar doors are rotting, there are cracks in the cement that was built to keep it together, to maintain this illusion. The illusion that I am sane and whole, that I function and thrive. These most hideous parts threaten my very existence. Threaten my life, my right to survive, to live and flourish. Honesty brings them to light where they grow and overtake like the milfoil of a polluted lake. My soul is being polluted, tarnished, and darkens with every passing day. The progression is slower with small repairs to the cellar. With heavier chains to the doors and sealant on the walls. This is not the answer because with this comes isolation and despair. There is always an underlying current, this hideous current. It courses through like electricity, as if I have a fist grasping tightly to an electric fence. This week I have felt this current stronger than ever. This week the electricity has doubled. It's a finger curling, fist clinching, eye twitching, leg jerking sensation. Crawling out of my skin has never been so desirable as now. Never with more intensity have I sought in desperation to stop this cycle. It's as if I am in the death spiral, the last inches of water being sucked out of the tub, the tornado that rips through uprooting everything in its path. My life is upside down as I walk through life being complemented on my accomplishments. Look at how far you've come, look at all the positive, all the good that's transpiring. Sure I see the good, but in a moments glimpse it is ripped right from my hands. Even the death grip can't maintain. I am drawn towards this darkness, this darkness that is so intriguing, so comfortable, so familiar. The answers lie in this darkness though I will not open the cellar to know, to really know. It's too scary, too ugly, too hideous. I am afraid of what I will find, I am afraid of not finding what is there. A rock and a hard place. I long to know yet I am terror stricken to find out. The small glimpse I have had took my life and turned it completely upside down, altered the entire course of my life indefinitely. That brief glimpse has tortured my every waking moment for years. Not only the waking, my every moment, my every breath. The numbness is now ineffective, there is no escape. I knew this day would come. Secretly I was waiting in anticipation, knowing it was the only way out, knowing it was the only way up, knowing it would heal. Through the fear, the terror, the disgust there will be a light. Intellectually this is easy, emotionally this is paralyzing. Brought to my knees once again, yet I refuse. I refuse to kneel, I refuse to heal… Rock and a Hard Place!

I am it...

2010-03-04T10:43:00.000-08:00

I'm not depressed, nothing is wrong with me. I am actually quite happy with the way my life has gone to date. Minus the fact that I have had a few events in my twenty year life which I suffered greatly. I write to get those experiences out, and however personal they may be I'm not too worried about what everyone thinks because this is for me. The story is for your enjoyment, but it has always been my release and always will be.

Life or Death

In life there’s death, in death there’s life.

You take your choice, but in the end the knife.

For to me, to live is Christ and to die is gain,

But is what Philippians said in vain?

You choose your life, you choose your dame,

But in death you may never choose the pain.

You watch as the people you love are gone,

And the island your on is a lonely one.

So take your choice, so choose your pain,

But to take your life will not be the same.

Life after death won’t take pity on you,

Taking advantage of, and torturing, you too.

So is to choose a life of sorrow and solitude,

Better than the knife, to change your attitude?

Superbia

There was a time when I was known

as the man with the last name "Ever"

first name "Greatest"

There was a place where all bowed

before me, and I bowed to no man.

But that time is no more,

as I laid there broken and confused,

faded and abused...

There was a time when every one noticed and cared,

and the town chanted my name.

And now I listen to the winds.

I used to sleep next to a new beauty every night,

but lately I've been sleeping next to a ghost...

There was a time when suicide seemed absurd,

but then again my neck did wrap itself around

that dusty noose. And my mother held my lifeless

body. There was a time she smiled, but no more.

"There was a time he was full of life... so full of pride."

Dead set on Livin’

Oh the suicidal thoughts of man.

Broken and beaten, left and forgotten...

so few look for a savior.

so few look to god.

I have battled the pain and crushed

the shame that left me clinging

to the little hope had left.

Clutching the knife I drew near to my chest

I contemplated suicide...

Was this life of mine something divine,

or was me living becoming a crime?

Sucking the air others breathe with a touch of Greed.

Stuffing my Gluttonous need to be #1.

Would my strive and fight for life

be taken as too much Pride?

And is the longing for a women to trust

taking me as just another victim of Lust?

Is this swelling of hate dwelling deep in my stomach

destroying the man and evolving the Wrath?

Will my lack of hope and thought of life

bring me to the speed of the miserable Sloth?

If this be the case, I’m guilty of Envy.

Time slows, and thought distances

Life flashes, and my savior floods my head…

I see family and friends gathering, all of which smile

And not cry, my father and mother’s embrace

Is warm and welcoming, two brothers’ smirks

Bring a laugh, and my sister’s voice

snaps me back to reality…

Yes I contemplated suicide, but only so I may

appreciate this life of mine.

Ill lower this blade, and if you don’t like me

don’t stress, God isn’t finished with me yet...

The poems are unique in their own sense. Each has it's own meaning and that's what I love about poetry.

The Plant

2010-03-02T18:30:00.000-08:00

I step inside The Plantation, expecting a cloud of cigarette smoke to immediately engulf me, but smoking has been banned here; this is unfortunate for me because I am a smoker, and when I was underage all my friends always talked about how nice it was to be able to sit down at the bar, have a beer, and enjoy a smoke.

It is my 21st birthday, and I plan to have a shot of whatever the bartender recommends, and whatever drinks my friends plan on buying me. The bouncer immediately asks for my identification, which figures... I still get carded for cigarettes.

Me, my fiancee, and my friends Pete, Karlie, Zack, Nate, and Erica head up to the front to get a few drinks. I have no idea what to order. The bartender can tell I'm fresh fish.

He tells me that he'll make me a shot that I'm sure to love - it's free. What's not to love? When he places it in front of me, I look at all my friends wearily. They're smiling and waiting. After it goes down, I taste tobasco sauce. Yuck. I nearly throw up.

After the grossest shot I've ever had, we head over to the ping pong table. I'm really good at this game, but none of my friends really like it. The bar is fairly crouded tonight because it's a Saturday, so there are already people playing at the table. Lucky me. New competition. I ask to challenge the winner, and they agree. His name is Silas, and he beat his other friend by fourteen points. This guy looks like he'll be difficult to beat.

As I begin playing Silas, my fiancee comes over with two pitchers of Kokanee, and seven Jager Bombs. I tell Silas that it's my 21st and if he could wait a moment while we all take a shot together, and he says he doesn't mind. I'm thankful that I can no longer taste the tabasco sauce after we shoot the Bombs. I poor myslef a glass of Kokanee and go back to the table.

While I play, my fiancee and Nate leave to play some pool. I suck at that game, but I'm sure I'll be tipsy enough to later to at least try it out. My other friends want to play some darts, but that won't be possilbe until we leave for the next bar scene. I end up breaking a sweat playing ping pong with Silas, and I only beat him by two points. I wanted to take on the next competitor, but since it was my 21st I couldn't spend all of my night at the same bar... there are at least four bars my friends and I want to hit tonight. Let's just say I didn't even make it until 10:00 pm that night. I heard that is how a "21 run" generally turns out, and now I can see why - EVERYONE wants to buy you a shot!

Physics: A character study

2010-03-01T09:10:00.000-08:00

Physics. The study of motion. The study of matter. The study of space and of time. The study of the backs of classmates heads and the students ability to roll their own tongues. The study of Physics as man.

Physics dresses himself in denim. His Levi's patched with an iron-on square of jean stuck straight to the hole on the lower right corner of his fly(the classes right, not his), and a faded blue denim button down sports the proud polo player of Ralph Lauren poised to take his shot. His mallet held aloft. His horse rearing back on hind legs.

Physics smokes before class. Walking into the front you can smell the scent of cold and of fresh and of camels wearing sunglasses. Or maybe of cowboys with their spurs. The smell of his science thick around him at the top of the hour but that will fade through the 50 minute lecture until, just as the scent turns to leave you, the class will be declared dismissed.

Physics flips through powerpoint slides adorned with lazy cats and the equations and proofs of his trade, he tells us, "I have been a cat owner for 25 years, and as serious cat owners know, cat's are often smarter than humans". We nod, some of us in agreement, some of us in wonder as to what this statement has to do with the impending exam, many of us to places off behind our eyelids.

Physics holds up stacks of coupons at the beginning of class and tries to hand them out to his students. We look away. We look away because Physics has a disconcerting habit of looking us straight in the eye, of addressing us one at a time. Of asking each of us in turn, "would you care for a coupon to Jack-in-the-Box? Two-for-one, that will save you quite a bit of money." Catching one students eye, he again poses the question...she, reluctantly or perhaps heroically, takes the whole stack.

The rest of the class continues on with the private study of tracing their own hands onto the blank pages of their own notebooks labeled,

Physics.

Dragged to the Drag Show

2010-02-26T14:59:00.001-08:00

A man in tights and a blond wig stumbles drunkenly to the curb outside the Moose Lodge in Moscow. His belly boils under a thin layer of spandex and the tail ends of a pink feather boa. He rears back his head and hawks a thick wad of cigarette slime into the street. As he does, a pasty strip of skin curls out of his spandex shirt. My friend Mikki and I are watching this as we approach the door to the lodge. Indignant, Mikki comments, "Honey, you need to be wearing a slip with that."

Inside the door, a man perches at the top of the stairs with several piercings and no hair. He yells down at newcomers to please have your IDs out! He carefully mulls over my card for a good minute and hands it back to me, waving me inside, where I pay seven dollars for entry. My group of friends part ways, half of us wandering into the crowded bathrooms, the other half timidly shying toward the dance floor where a battalion of heterosexuals, homosexuals, transvestites, and glorified teenyboppers grind up, strip down, and rock out.

Let me first convey to you before anymore is said that I, myself, am gay. I am not here to criticize or condemn this sub-culture, but to recount, in my own words, what a Moscow drag show entails.

Pushing through the throng, Mikki and I swipe rough and tender glances with each pair of staring eyes. I am reminded of being twelve years old again, decked out in chic club clothes and frosted tips. Everybody here sporting Hot Topic clothes and dyed hair. Everybody looking for a cue for action. Everybody transmitting signals of incertitude through invisible antannae.

I stand out here. I'm not your stereotypical Abercrombie-loving gay man. I'm wearing clearance jeans from Ross and a green sweater from Goodwill. Mikki wears a schoolgirl cardigan, a short black skirt, and black tights. Some people look at us like we don't belong here. So when Mikki starts grinding on me, heads turn, eyes roll. We just laugh.

Guys I know from the gay community look down at me and I keep laughing. They stand in gossip groups, masquerading as wannabe victims, masquerading as predators, masquerading as innocent onlookers. I see through their disguise. One of them turns to me as I walk away, my back telling him, don't waste my time.

Things here happen in clips. Nothing is fluid. Everything is moment to moment, without transition. One minute, my friend Sydney runs up to me screeching a confession about her desire for the woman announcing the beginning of the show. Next minute, guys with plastic breast replicas and tucked in genetalia begin gyrating to the sounds of overhyped pop artists. They swing their hips as they dance down the aisle in stilletos and tickle-me pink tops. By now, you have probably come to the assumption that this is not my scene, and you are not mistaken. However, I cannot deny that some of these "ladies" are quite impressive, lip-syncing cliché lyrics to Avril Lavigne and Ke$ha. Equally impressive were the girls in flannel and skater shoes, stomping, flinging their arms in the air. Performer after performer, the crowd goes wild. People whistle and cheer. They throw out their arms with exuberance to arouse the entertainer and everyone else watching. People thinking, "I wish that could be me." This goes on for a long time. By the end, my ears ring from the din of claps, hoots, and howls.

As people flood the entrance to leave, Mikki and I join the rest of our group. After deciding to crash a house party, after listening to Sydney go on about her new fantasy girl, after more of our friends show up and we get yelled at for blocking the entrance to the lodge, we scurry off into the night. Outside, we see the same drag queen we encountered walking in. She scowls at Mikki, but I'm the only one who notices.

My drag show experience reminded me why I am the way I am. So much of the time I was there, I felt like an outcast, but for all the right reasons. I don't need to make a spectacle of myself to be proud of who I am or what I stand for. I am perfectly happy to skip the drag show, next time, and go straight to the party. I know, at least, that the music at a party won't make my ears bleed.

Mighty Morphin Remix

2010-02-25T23:36:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago I went home for the weekend. I walked in to my house on Saturday morning to find my psuedo-brothers Ammon and Aerik entranced by the television. While I am used to seeing them focused on the living room color box, I noticed that they were watching with particular interest and glanced at with curiosity. I was immediately captivated by a young teenage girl wearing shoulder pads under a purple t-shirt. She was quickly joined by a teenage boy wearing a button up shirt with exagerated geometric shapes in a wide array of colors. There was something familiar about these characters, but I could not quite remember why.
Then I realized that this glorious display of early nineties fashion was an episode of the original Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. I cannot recall the last time I saw this epic show, and was in a state of shock that they were playing it with the other Saturday morning children's shows. I sat down to be transported to the time of my youth when I accepted the ridiculous special effects and giant monster costumes as realistic and empowering. Then I saw it flash across the bottom of the screen.
"You are watching a NEW episode of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers."
What? If this episode was new, then Dolly Parton has never had plastic surgery. I did not understand how they could legally market a show that was almost twenty years old as new. Then I saw it.
"Slip" popped on to the perfectly good scene as though the viewers were too stupid to realize that the character was slipping. But still smart enough to read it. They had taken this show of my youth and applied a technique reminiscent of Batman in the 50s and 60s. Apparently this was just enough to trick the children into thinking they were recieving a new product without any legal repurcussions.
I began to think of how often our culture remixs perfectly good products to create something new. I think it is because we have gotten too lazy to be original in most cases. Sometimes it works out and sometimes it is disgustingly lame and destroys the integrity of the original product. From songs, to artwork, to medicine, our culture has decided that it is easier to change one verse, or the medium or one chemical and introduce it to the world as new and exciting and orignal. Our laziness has destroyed the beauty of the original products, and it has tainted my love of the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers forever. Corporate bastards.

"Insert Name Here" Likes this.

2010-02-23T17:19:00.000-08:00

I'm not quite sure why I feel the need to write my opinions in letter form. It's only ever going to be seen by my friends on Facebook. Maybe it's because I want my friends who don't talk to me very much to see that they should tag me as the "creative one" on those stupid Internet popularity contests that they put in their photo albums. I'm never going to tag them back, but as long as I am not marked as the "loud one" I don't have a problem with being tagged. It could also be that I am reminiscing to when I owned a diary, or perhaps I like to use flowery images to complain about things.

I only ever seem to write letter statuses to things that won't answer back. I enjoy writing to the weather, weekdays, my jobs, the noisy neighbors upstairs who won't ever see it, and to things that I've lost that I can't find and have given up looking for. Or occasionally an explanation on how to do something.

Dear Tuesday, I believe that you owe me some money. I also accept checks and can take an IOU as well as you don't try to move out of town. You are misleading with your bright sunshine but cold winds. You are still technically winter why are you trying to be something you are not? I'm not asking for snow or ice. I'm just asking that you get some professional help for your problem. Sincerely, Melanee.

Here is another example. This is how to steal somebodies sandwich:
"You see Melanee, the Titanic was way before your time. How did it happen? WELL lets have your toasted cheese sandwich represent the boat itself. Now I'll be the iceberg. NOM NOM NOM. Let me dunk it in your soup and we'll pretend it's sinking."

Does anyone else have the urge to start all of their status updates in the third person because your name is always shown first?

When it Flips it Flops

2010-02-23T14:40:00.000-08:00

Growing up in Idaho as a kid means learning to love the outdoors. Kids learn to run across black pavement and gravel roads bare foot without hesitation. Living in Idaho means jumping in the lake in May to 'test the water' until it becomes warm enough to swim in. Most of all living in Idaho means being tough enough to wear your flipflops or sandals year round.

I have lived in the Northwest part of Idaho for 21 years now. Ever since I was little I have hated the feeling of shoes, so my brother and I decided long ago that we wouldn't wear them anymore. Shoes are for sports and working. Flipflops are for life and everyday wearing. I own about 15 pairs of flipflops and 2 pairs of shoes (one for working out and one for work). Flipflops are just more comfortable and easy going and you don't have to worry about shoe laces. If your foot is swollen it wont fit into a shoe, but the flipflops are a perfect fit. In the summer they're easy to slip on and off and you don't have to worry about drying your feet off. Flipflops are the only way to go. (I recommend Reef Sandy Flipflops.)

Now while flipflops are amazing there are some rules that go along with wearing them. We can them the 10 commandments of the flipflops.

1. Thou shalt not be a warm weathered fan. (wear the flops in the rain, snow, and sunshine and all that falls inbetween.)

2. Thou shalt not wear socks with flipflops (not even toe socks, this only makes a mockery of all that flipflops stand for.)

3. Thou shalt not 'flip; on purpose. (your arrival can be stated in other ways.)

4. Thou shalt not wear 'fashionized flops' (anything with jems, heels, or made of astroturf.)

5. Thou shalt not throw away flipflops until thy foot touches the ground. (all the padding is worn down.)

6. Thou shall master the art of pant rolling. (wet jeans don't dry quickly.)

7. Thou shall master the 'flipflop prance' (a quick/light step on ice/snow to get from point A to point B without falling.)

8. Thou shall master the 'flick' (walking through water/mud and not spraying the back of your legs.)

9. Thou shall let thy foot form perfectly into thy flipflop.

10. Thou shall understand that "When it flips, it flops."

Along with wearing flipflops year round means that you have come to terms with the side glances and the "OH! Aren't your feet cold?" remarks from elderly ladies and the expressions on peers faces that seem to say "You're crazy". Once you come to terms with this and can follow the rules flipflops become a way of life, one that you can't leave.

2010-02-22T16:36:00.000-08:00

There are only two foods that were handed down to the humans from heaven: oreos and bacon. These sacred recipies are the divine food of life that fill the void in our own lives with one bite. My next two blogs will be devoted to these supreme foodstuffs to better educate you on these delectable delacacies. NOTE: the background of the oreo in this blog is based purely on myth.

THE OREO

Two black round cookies, chocolate flavored and crumbly stamped with a classic oreo logo, sandwich a white creamy center. There are many imitations of the oreo but none come close to the perfect combination of crunchy chocolate cookie and white vanilla filling. Each cookie containes 50 calories of goodness, a price that is well worth the surplus fat and sugars you are injesting.

MILK'S FAVORITE COOKIE

There are many methods for consuming the oreo. Some peel apart the two cookies and scrape off the cream with thier teeth or tongue, leaving them with the delicious black shell. Others eat them with penut butter. One of the most popular methods of injestion is with milk.

While milk is not one of the divine foods, it works to make a perfect compliment of the oreo. This is because the Gods were inspired by the cow's black and white color to make the first oreo. By dunking the oreo into milk it softens its texture and allows the cookie to spread and dissolve in your mouth, becoming even more effective in stimulating your oreo-sensitive nerves.

NEWEST INNOVATIONS

Since the oreo goddess, Oreothola, gave the fountain of oreos to her glutonous lover Fred (who capatalized on her foolish lust for a couch-potato like him and sold the divine secret to the world), humans have developed their own adaptations to better the oreo. For instance, today we have packaged them in peel-open plastic coated containers. We have made them halloween and easter themes with orange and yellow fillings. We have even made double stuffed oreos. The best and newest technique to increase the availability of the oreo, however, is new boxes that contain a third of the oreos of a regular package for a low price. The major flaw in human-oreo relation is that oreos are difficult to stop eating, but this package creates a limit in order to keep from overwhelming a human's oreo capacity. It is also cheap enough for college students (like us) to buy!

The question is: does the oreo comaper with the crunchy, flaky, salty, meaty bacon? Continued in episode 2....

An Unlikely Place

2010-02-17T15:27:00.000-08:00

Two good friends of mine will be visiting this weekend in order to find out what Moscow life is all about. I’ve built it up, naturally, through stories of mostly forgotten nights and how much I enjoy my classes, but I feel like I have forgotten to mention one important detail: Moscow takes some time to get used to. I remember entering this town for the first time thinking, “what the hell have I decided to do?” All that my young, freshman eyes could see was an open expanse of farmland interrupted by a boring town. The place seemed void of any excitement. My dorm room only made matters worse. Having to live in a space the size of a large bathroom with another person didn’t warm my sentiments. Over time, however, every little idiosyncratic detail grew on me. I began to realize that what separates this place from other college towns is the people. Although far from having substantial ethnic diversity, there are a lot of seemingly contradictory personalities coexisting on campus. It’s surprising that so many rednecks, jocks, bros, hippies, hipsters, grad students, punks, intellectuals and alcoholics can get along so well in such a small space. It has to be an Idaho thing. There is no set identity or even dominant trend. All one has to do is be congenial over a drink and all is well. When my friends arrive, I think that I’ll just tell them to toss aside any stigmas and relax. Having a good time is the Moscow way, and through its inhabitants, plenty of entertainment can be found.

I Saw a Man Today Wearing a Skirt and Rollerblades

2010-02-16T21:25:00.000-08:00

I saw a man today wearing a skirt and Rollerblades. He whizzed past me, nearly touching me and it all happened so fast, I wasn't sure of what I had actually seen. I turned around just in time to see him weave in between a group of students, the muscles in his bare pasty legs bulging from the swift movement. As I continued walking to my class, I giggled softly and then smiled wide as I looked up into the beautiful cloudless blue sky.

I love the differences.

Sorority girls with their lovely legs in tights and high-high heels, maneuvering through the snow and the mud caked walkways on their journey to class, void of backpacks they carry designer handbags instead, bags that could simultaneously fit several books, a purse, lunch, extra panties, a bowling ball, gum and a pen.

There are the UGG generation group of girls, light brown, dark brown, black, and the occasional color mixed in, pink, purple, aqua, maybe even a brave white. The Ugg's are paired with a skinny jean or a lazy sweat - sporting good ole' University of Idaho. The Ugg boot is slowly morphing into the tall faux leather riding boot - THANK GOODNESS!

Walking along this green campus, unusually warm and devoid of much snow for this time of year, there is a lot to see. Few and far between are new young lovers, nose to nose, forehead to forehead with no one else in the world but them, their eyes locked they can't stand to say goodbye for the brief fifty minute Biology class that she must attend. If you are lucky enough to see this, don't look away - instead, watch the lingering kiss that happens, that moment that says it all.

We might see cowboys - TRUE cowboys with plain black or blue backpacks, faded blue wranglers and brown cowboy boots (maybe even spurs!) with dirt and mud worn deep into the cracked leather. Their cowboy hats are not for show, they are a part of their DNA, perhaps one of the first items of clothing that they put on in the morning.

I love to watch the football players in their Idaho gear and wonder at how slow they walk around campus but how speedy they are on the field. They walk as if they have no where to go, bundled in their hats and black sweatshirts, their intricate tattoos and wonderful strength hidden underneath.

Most of us don't really fit into a category, we wear what feels comfortable, what works for us and what fits for the ever-changing Moscow weather - layering is what we know. We carry our backpacks, we wish for a snow day, we walk to class, walk home, walk to the gym, to the coffee shop. Do we really see what's around us?

We may see the 70 year old grandma who came back to finish her degree, or the growing population of non-traditional older students, back in school because of the drowning economy - they are confident yet a little uneasy in this new atmosphere. They have kids, had successful careers, lost jobs and are starting again - they walk with a purpose. Look around in between the old brick buildings and you may find things that make you smile, conversations overheard that make you laugh out loud and you will find all of this at little ole' Idaho.

A Valentines Day Turned Sour

2010-02-16T18:57:00.000-08:00

Who would have thought that perfect men really do come from Idaho? After a long and boring day of anti-Hallmark mood swings and moments where I was at least a pinch relieved I didn't have to join the other half of America suffering in the single life...it hit me! An unbelievable amount of agonizing pain. It felt like cramps on hiatus running through a field of knives and professional boxers. This was now, officially, the ultimate "anti" V-Day! As I mourned in pain for hours on end, my Valentine sat next to me with the most intense eyes of worry I had ever witnessed. Sharp pains rippled through my body. Tears of raging pain stayed hidden behind my outer layer. After random moments of pain struck my body every two hours into the night, after putting the manliest man of all men through anxiety and stress from refusing to go to the hospital. And so my story goes on to a bunch of rambling of nothing. 1 p.m. finally hit and I gave in. I booked myself in the Grittman hospital and there I stayed til midnight. McPerfect managed to find his way to my side and held my hand in hopes that all would heal. (Im currently doped on hydro's as I write this p.s.) With a fat needle in my arm and wires all around me, a doctor finally came in with a shitty diagnoses. You had a golf ball sized cyst on your left ovary and it ruptured. You're bleeding internally in your stomach now because of it and on top of that...you're dehydrated. Thankfully the morphine did its duty well and the pain was a billion times less extreme than the night before. On that note, all day I had the most caring and genuine people next to my bedside including McPerfect Idaho Man. A dear friend I call Emma refused to leave once except for the sake of McPerfect and his worrysom mind. While he held my hand and she kept me positive all I could think about it how amazing and caring people I have in my life. How lucky I am to have such wonderful beings take care of me. Where in the world did I find this man and what did I ever do to deserve such people by my bedside. Especially for something so little. All I can say is...Idaho. You'll never find people like this anywhere else. Its the people I love about this place and the grass truely is greener in Idaho.

What is so cool about trees?

2010-02-12T10:47:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, my entamology class (entamology is the study of bugs) walked around campus looking at trees that have been attacked by insects. One particular tree that our class was looking at was a subalpine fir (one of my favorites) that was located in the big round planter with the steps all the way around it between the library and the TLC. This is sort of the centerpiece of this part of campus and is elevated and seen by everyone. While our professor was talking about the Balsam Wooley Adelgid, the bug that is attacking the trees in this planter, I couldn't help but think how the people in our class must look, standing in this elevated peice of landscaping crawling through the trees and feeling the branches and looking for bugs. To the normal student walking to class or to the library at this time of the day, our class probably looked pretty weird. "What in the world are they doing?" probably came to mind to several people on campus during this time, "What is so cool about trees?"
I am a forestry major and I think that trees are one of the coolest things in the world. When I am walking around with my friends and I see a neat looking tree, I run up to it and feel its bark and leaves and try to decipher what kind of tree it is. My friends just role their eyes and laugh at me. This also happens with cars. I am really into cars also and if I see a different or rare or new car in a parking lot I go up to it and peer inside to see what the interior looks like and sometimes I even crawl under it to look at the undercarriage; the driveline, the transmission, the suspension setup. It is all very facinating to me. Allthough it is very embarrassing to the friends that I am with at the time.
Everybody though has their own interests that they are facinated with or are close to the point of obbsession with. There are many things that other people care deeply about and talk about that I don't care at all about and wonder "What's so cool about that?" For instance, my roomate is really into sports, and he'll tell me who won this game or how many goals or touchdowns or points this particular sports star made last weekend, and I just role my eyes and say "That's great, I don't care." I'll be looking at a car magazine and start telling him about some new or old car that has some nifty feature and he'll say "I don't get it, what's so great about cars."
Everything that other people like that we don't really care about seems weird to us. We can't possibly fathom why someone would be so interested in this thing that if it went away forever it would not make much of a difference to us, however it would totally change the lives of the people that care about it. I think this is very interesting, how we are all people but have such different interests and tastes. But I think that this is what makes society function properly, because after all, somebody has to care about the trees.

You Are Beowulf

2010-02-10T21:39:00.000-08:00

Even though I wake up early every morning, things aren't always very clear. That is to say, after two cups of coffee or four, there is really no guarantee I will be able to perform any academic feat, or read, or perform basic math. On Wednesday morning, I began my walk to the University of Idaho campus with wet hair that made my temples pulse when my boots touched the ground, my scarf breathing moist air back into my mouth when I exhaled.
In front of the Administration building doorway, in bright sidewalk chalk, someone had written a message. And on the other side the same message. And by the door to the Commons the same message. Which I read.

Which I read incorrectly.

Which I read to be "You are Beowulf." And I thought. YES. I AM.

And I carried on. I did homework, I ran errands, I thought, Yeah. I can do this because I AM Beowulf. A strange way to advertise, but if the Christians can hand out peanut butter and jelly, in the Commons, at lunch, the whoevers can write in chalk in front of every building. Except of course that it didn't say Beowulf. Why would it say Beowulf? It said

YOU ARE BEAUTIFUL.

Which doesn't mean the same thing, but does mean that strange men will approach you and hand you business cards that don't mean business. That say, "You are Beautiful" on the front, and "You are a beautiful individual, full of life and promise. We appreciate all that you do and support who you are" on the back. As you should. And maybe it is nice or uplifting, but I am approached by a number of men which means either: 1. I am one sexy lady 2. I am NOT one sexy lady 3. I look very sad and in danger of behaving irrationally and could therefor really use a card from a man who would never talk to me under normal everyday not women-loving circumstances.

Either way.

There is a man in a bear costume and its not happy or comforting, but creepy. What sort of man is in that costume, and does he think I'm beautiful too? Or not? He's smiling his brown bear smile which is creepy and hairy and makes me feel uneasy and not safe and certainly not beautiful. It makes me feel like I need to make a phone call, which is fake, to avoid more of the man bears that might send me well-intentioned not business cards.

I appreciate the sentiment. I appreciate that you love women, because I think they're pretty great too. I appreciate your stance on domestic violence. I, myself, think you men are, yourselves, quite lovely. Beautiful, even.

However, instead of writing "You are Beautiful", I would appreciate more candor. More feminist-in- me hates it but humorist cheers it on candor. More brutal college man, say hello at the bars,which you wouldn't, candor. Please consider writing the following:

-"You have low self esteem"
-"I'd certainly, after a number of beers, ask for your number on a dare"
-"You got a butt that won't quit"
-"You look like the kind of girl who is into role play"
-"I'd take you to dinner and never call you again"
-"I'd tap that"
-"You're average but you seem pretty smart"
-"You're pretty hot, but I'm not looking for a relationship"

What would you write?

Trout Fishing in Idaho

2010-02-10T15:36:00.000-08:00

Of all my hobbies and entertainment sources, the finest way to pass my time is fishing. And it can be yours' too! I'm going to clarify how to properly do some serious fishing.
A few basics that we'll need: an entire day off from school, work or any other obligations. Got it? Good. We all have our Idaho State Fishing License, right? That's also important. Lets find our pole and tackle, its around here somewhere; maybe its at your parents house. I'll wait while you find your gear.
All right children, selecting a spot is not hard, and after we've made a few fishing trips, you'll all have a favorite spot or two. I've already got a couple spots in mind, so if you don't have a preference, you can pick one of mine. Whoa!, important note here: I don't drive unless i have to, so we'll be fishing within skating or biking distance of my place. Which means leave that tackle box here; who needs all that excess doo-dad-ery when we know where we're going and what we'll need.
Our fishing options will be: Black Rock Dock, Shore of Lake Pend Oreille, or Dover Bay. Bobber fishing, spinners and spoons, or jigs. Well? Good choice, Dover Bay it is. Its a bit further of a ride, but well worth it for the shaded shallows and quiet calm of the off shoot from Lake Pend Oreille, pungent with the smell of algae and nearby moving freshwater; it mixes in the breeze. All we'll need from our tackle boxes are some jigs. Maybe bait and hooks, a spoon for good measure. Definitely assorted size weights. And we will need our needle nose pliers for pulling hooks from our catch. You don't have a pair? Buy 'em, steal 'em, get a pair. It will make life so much easier.
Leave your cell phone on the counter and we're ready to go. Your lures and bait are in a little plastic container in your back pack, as are mine. The poles are strapped to our bags as well. Lets go. Bare in mind, fishing is a solo activity for me, your just coming along this one time. Next time, you'll be on your own. Also we need to stop at the convenience store. This is crucial. We need a six-pack of beer. The beer also comes with a plastic bag to carry the catch in, so we won't have to swing a dead fish in full view on the way home.
And I know there's probably some law against drinking beer in public, middle of the day, but we're way off the beaten path and I myself have never been harassed as a fisherman with a beer. So as your lawyer I advise you to bring the beer.
A long skate later, we're here. Mountains rising in the distance, so far away they are only slightly darker blue than the sky. Trees and wild grasses cradle your small bit of tackle. Beers in the shallow muddy water. Select your lure and cast. And reel, tug, reel, cast. As long as you want.
Don't forget the main reason we're all here, on this sandy shore, on this sunny day. The birds, breeze and sounds of the lake is part of it. Getting away from the responsibilities of town life is also key.

We're here to relax.

Empty Lockers

2010-02-09T20:32:00.000-08:00

Why is it that we are so interested in what everyone else seems to be doing or saying about everyone else? How did gossip become a language of its own, twisted into words of exciting, colorful expressions, gasps and wild energetic prose? How did the latest People and InTouch magazines become two of the most-read, must-have periodic publications in North America? Is our society so small-minded and trite as to forget how hurtful rumors and gossip can be? I admit it, I'm guilty of buying those little morsels of useless, colorful versions of other people's lives. In fact, I had a subscription for many years. Thinking back to high school, I realized I was never bullied or "picked on" neccessarily. However, I was talked about ... constantly ... by everyone I knew. Between my parents grounding me for rumors from people at church saying I was "the bad kid", to boys at school telling my boyfriend not-so-nice things that had never happened. I wished I had been bullied, beaten up, shoved into lockers. Now, ripe with age and supposed wisdom, I still experience my fair share of tasteless fiction at my expense, and it still manages to get to me, corroded as ever, haunted like those empty lockers I wished I had been shoved into. Funny thing, though, it still feels like high school and I'd still rather be shoved into an empty locker.

Why don't Californians wave back?

2010-02-08T16:14:00.000-08:00

It's unspoken knowledge that everyone driving a Jeep Wrangler will wave to every other person driving a Wrangler. The moment that you take the wheel of that four-bying cube you become part of a special community. A cult of Jeep enthusiasts who drive iconic vehicles and worship the ability to take their car through any landscape God can put in front of them.
My dream car changed as a grew up. In elementary school I wanted a camouflage Dodge Dakota, mostly because it had my name in it. In Junior High I wanted a 1953 Chevy Pickup truck, painted candy apple red and to look just like it did when it came out of the factory. Then I got to High School and my idea of the ideal vehicle changed once more. I admired the versatility and manueverability of the Jeep Wrangler. A Wrangler has enough clearance to make it down my mile long driveway of pot-holes and a stream crossings every spring, and yet has a sharper turn radius than any other car I can think of... well, except maybe those little Japanese smart cars, but anyways, a Wrangler was the perfect car for my purposes. Little did I know that randomly in November of 2008 my parents would buy my dream vehicle. It was black Jeep Wrangler with silver pinstripe flames on the hood, a three inch lift, big tires, a winch, cb radio, and even an on-board air compressor! More than I had ever dreamed of! But the Jeep fit more than my purposes, it also fit my personality. I don't mean simply because I am a cowboy and the name of the vehicle is a little ironic. With driving a Jeep came a sort of statement about who I was. The whole world could know that I wasn't the redneck that everyone stereotyped me as on their first glance. I didn't drive a pickup truck too tall to look normal with giant tires and untasteful decals in the windows. I was at another level of sophistication, "I'm not a redneck! I drive a Jeep!" seemed to run through my head. The Jeep Wrangler seems to catch the idea of my outdoor enthusiasm, it describes all of my hobbies; backpacking, hiking, hunting, fishing, rock climbing and just about anything else outdoorsy that you can think of. This Jeep was special though becaus not only did it describe my hobbies and the type of person I was, but it also fit my Music taste. The Black body and silver flames scream "Beatles!" everytime I look at it, the colors are the exact same as those used for the classic Beatles logo. Silver Lettering on a Black background.
The best thing about driving a Jeep is the community though. The moment you take the wheel every other Jeep driver is a close friend. The moment I see a Jeep Wrangler driving towards me, way off on the horizon I ready myself for that non-chalant wave that says "hey you're cool, so am I because we drive the same type of car." All of the other Jeep drivers wave to you too. It's the most wonderful feeling in the world. That brief wave between Jeep enthusiasts tells you that you belong, you have friends amidst the frantic stream of angry drivers and people lost in cell-phone conversation on the roadways. That simple wave tells you that you are recognized, and a feeling of confidence and self control comes over you. It doesn't matter what everybody else thinks or is doing because that random stranger waved back at me. All of the Jeep drivers wave back, except the californians... I haven't had a single Californian Jeep driver wave back... Did they not get the message, do they think they are better than the rest of us Jeep drivers? Why don't the Californians wave back?

Coffee: My Liquid Drug

2010-02-05T17:10:00.000-08:00

The aroma of fresh ground coffee beans being steamed, ground, and brewed envelops me the moment I walk through the door. It sticks to my clothing like honey to toast so that even when I leave it will still be with me. Soft music plays in the background, something I haven't heard before but it is calming. Whispers of chatter flitter in and out of my ears while I wait behind a tall guy--tall meaning he stands several inches taller than my 5 foot 4 inches--in a leather jacket ordering a caramel latte. While waiting behind him I am holding an internal debate--cold or hot drink? It's cold outside so my body wants something warm, but I always get a blended drink. A shiver up and down my spine makes the decision for me and I order cappuccino. It arrives a few minutes later, steaming, and just right. I take a sip and sigh in content as the hot liquid heats my throat first and then my entire body.

Settling down on a multo striped green colored chair, I tuck my feet underneath me while cradling the hot mug in my hands, breathing in the heat along with the smells of cinnamon and ginger. I almost forget about how cold it actually is outside until another customer walks in bringing the icy wind with her. The smells of numerious other drinks overtake my senses and I lose myself in their aromas. I catch myself lost in a trance, watching the steam rise from another girl's coffee mug. I wonder what she is drinking. I glance back at the menu listing drinks behind the counter and wonder what i should order next time. i take a sip of my cappuccino before setting it down and pulling out my laptop from my backpack.

I am addicted to coffee. I think that half of the campus may have the same condition. As I walk campus on my way to classes, I pass numerous people with coffee mugs in hand. In my classes there is always at least one person with coffee. In my nonfiction class the other day, I noted 3 people with coffee from two different coffee shops. It is a campus wide epidemic. Hence the reason there are so many coffee shops on and off campus in Moscow. People use coffee as a way to become more social. Coffee shops, such as the one I currently sit in, are full of people, sitting, sipping, and chatting away. Not only does coffee serve as a great sorce of caffeine and in turn an engergy booster, it helps break tension.

I am addicted, but at least I know it. At least it's not a drug or alcohol addiction that I can't break. Do I have a problem? Probably. Am I willing to do anything about it right now? No. So I will sit here--curled in this chair with my coffee, and ponder the reasons why I love coffee--my liquid drug--so much.

iS tHe JuiCe RealLY wOrtH tHe SqueEZe?

2010-02-04T16:16:00.000-08:00

The walk of shame almost comes hand in hand with college drinking. Some girls, and even some guys have all had to hang their heads and walk the streets wearing last nights outfit and smelling of really cheap whiskey. For some lucky people who had the unfortunate circumstance of going to a theme party dressed as a ho of some nature and not returning home get the pleasant experience of walking home as a ho or dressed as a boy.After a night of heavy drinking and engaging in scandalous activities with the opposite sex one must come to a realization (especially if again sober at this point)that the night has defiantly ended. The you have two choices; you can stay there and risk a possible awkward morning or leave an risk a possible sex offender wandering the streets at night. For men this is less likely to happen because I have checked the sex offender list in Moscow and there are no female rapists. Go figure. What you should have done in the first place was the classiest option of them all and that would be to go to your own house to sleep. Congrats to anyone who has ever accomplished this. On a Monday last week as I was walking home from my last class I noticed a certain sorority girl coming out of a certain fraternity dressed in her bed mates basketball shorts and tank top. It was 2:30 pm and I can only imagine how much of a winner she must have felt like. And if you stop to look around especially on a Saturday you will start to notice the hoards of students crawling out of the Moscow woodwork's trying to make it home. It looks like the great flood and all the animals are trying to get back safely to their ships. Except this ship is filled with promiscuous people not animals in sets of two. Some travel with regret written on their faces, others triumph, but either way, the next time you plan on going home with a stranger always ask yourself, "is the juice really worth the squeeze?"

A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words...

2010-02-03T08:16:00.000-08:00

The wet brush glides across the canvas; I live in my own little world. This world I’m in, I’ve created. This world is full of the unknown, each stroke of the brush changes what was there before, sometimes making it better, sometimes worse. The stresses of life seem to just melt away as my mind turns itself off. Nothing matters now but transferring the wet masses of senseless color to the image slowly forming before my eyes.

Before September 2006 I’d never picked up a paintbrush and created anything worth looking at. Seeing as how at this point my career aspirations include nothing more than culinary arts I decided to try my hand at it. Painting comes naturally to me. It has become one of the precious moments of my day that I can focus on something other than the stresses of school and training. Waking early in the morning while everyone else remains asleep is my escape. Light streaming relentlessly through the blinds to the unknown darkness beyond gives away the secret of my secluded world to would be passerby. But I don’t care. Time has stopped moving, the world has stopped spinning all together and everything else has disappeared. All that remains is the brush in my hand. Hours seemed like mere minutes. Before I can realize what’s happening the blanket of darkness recedes as though the sunlight is fighting for its place in the sky. Reality comes rushing back, hitting me in the face like a cold wet snowball; startling and unwelcome.

I miss it like an old friend; I can’t tell you the last time I picked up a paintbrush. The early mornings became less and less until they were gone all together. Somehow I’ve lost the ability to switch off my brain and think of nothing but the blank canvas before me, maybe it’s because I haven’t put one there for awhile. Somewhere along the line something happened. Life got in the way of the fantasy world that I’d created for myself. I want to start painting again someday. Maybe when life figures itself out, and once again I have the chance to lock myself away and not worry about what’s going on with the rest of the world for a few hours I will. Now is not that time though. Now is about getting through each day and somehow managing to maintain a small scrap of sanity while doing so. My little world will still be there when I come back to it, exactly the same as it was when I left, but for now it’s just a memory.

What is and What May Never Be: Zeppelin, A Reunion Thirty Years Trampled Under Foot

2010-02-01T15:20:00.000-08:00

When Americans take the month of September into perspective, there's most certainly one event that triggers a mass effect of remorse and human emotion, and we know it to be September 11, 2001. A day where countless innocent lives were taken from us by a freedom hating group of peoples known as Al Queda. Death in this piece is prevalent but nowhere near the losses occurring on 9/11. I am taking it to a personal level, and a rock and roll level at that. What dark times the month of September has wrought in American History, and the History of Rock and Roll. Legends such as Johnny Cash died in 2003, The Who's drummer Keith "the Loon" Moon in 1978, and guitar vitruoso Jimi Hendrix in 1970 all passed on in September. Though, through all the previous deceased artists listed above, two deaths on September 25, 1980 shook the rock and roll world to the bone. Eccentric drummer of Led Zeppelin, John "Bonzo" Bonham, was found dead at fellow band member Jimmy Page's mansion after consuming the equivalent of forty shots of vodka in a two hour span. With Bonham's passing, the band imploded and disbanded as well.

Led Zeppelin had formed in England in 1968 and put out their first self-titled album the same year with only spending thirty hours in the studio. We had Bobby Plant on screaching vocals, Jimmy Page on his Gib Les Paul, John Paul Jones on the Fender bass and Vox keyboards, and of course the anchor for the rythym section John Bonham on drums. At this time in history the British Invasion started to dwindle and the people felt entitled to something new, vibrant, and radiantly fresh. That something new was Led Zeppelin and it would take less than year until Zeppelin exploded onto the American scene just as the Hindenburg had previously done in 1937.
The U.K. had somewhat of a cold desposition toward this new bluesy, electric, heavy rock and roll band so ultimately, Zeppelin found a calling in America and gave its disinterested youth something to talk about and years later even blog about. Over a twleve year span Zeppelin produced and released eight solidified albums in the U.S. and U.K. Hell, they were even so good that by 1974 they created their own record label called Swan Song Records and signed a young and upcoming group lead by vocalist Paul Rodgers of the band Bad Company previously the singer for the band Free. A little factoid about Paul Rodgers is that he would go on and create a band in the mid 1980's called The Firm with Zeppelin's Jimmy Page. Zeppelin's last successful studio album "In Through the Out Door" came out in 1979 and it seemed the band would last for another twelve years. But the constant flow of drugs, alcohol, permiscuous sex, and life on the road is enough to break any bond or spirit.
Zeppelin's road manager Richard Cole got the call about a member's death in 1980 presuming it was Pagey due to his heroin addiction. Never did he suspect the strongest and most boisterous personality of Zeppelin would be the first to meet his demise at age 32. Since that melancholy day, Led Zeppelin's three remaing members have never set foot on stage together since. They have made appearances but nothing like the way Iwould like to see take place on stage. Plant states that without Bonham there is no Zeppelin. I agree to a certain extent but look at success stories such as the Who. They lose two original members and yet they're even playing in Super Bowl XLIV. Did the Rolling Stones quit when Brian Jones died in 1969? They most certainly did not, in fact thier old wrinkled carcasses still light up the stage to this day. These three bands in Zepp, the Who and Stones are arguably the greatest rock and roll bands ever. Without them there is no rock, there is no roll, just a little synthesizer bar and a club beat. I have been praying for the three remaining Zeppelin members to say, "Hey it's been 30 years, I think 'ol Bonzo would be cool with us tearing it up again." All three men are in good health and John Paul is the oldest at 63. Shit! I mean Mick and Keith are pushing 67 and still give us what we lust for.
All I want is for Zeppelin to make an appearance or two and that can't be too much to ask, can it? They have been beating around it for years and I am sure they can still put butts in those seats. Please, Zeppelin fans it has been too too long that we have been waiting for a reunion so band with me and say to John, Jim, And Bobby, " Stop being Heartbreakers, cuz we gotta Whole Lotta Love for you to Ramble On with your careers, and take our hearts and minds Over the Hills and Far Away to the Misty Mountain Hop."

Why must cigarettes be so cool?

2010-02-01T10:05:00.000-08:00

Why can't it just be what it is? A 5 dollar pack of poison? Why, instead, when we watch our generic, action-movie protagonist gently breathe in that cloud of smoke and emit it softly into the billowing wind, do we think of him as doing something sexy and adventurous?

It's a statement to the world.

We only get one life. In a world fraught with danger and disease at every turn, no sense being afraid of the little things.

That's much sexier than the alternative:

No way, I could get lung cancer in 25 years after developing a decimating, expensive habit.

Danger is sexy. Rationality and logic is boring. Live on the edge. Don't think, feel!

What shoddy craftmanship, on your part, God, to create such a flawed organism. A creature that sees danger and is inexplicably drawn toward it. Even more ludicrous is that I can foresee my own fall from grace ahead of time.

I'll be a smoker eventually.

As a nonbeliever, it's customary for me to think that we're all just worm food when we die (or we can sugarcoat it and call it 'returning to the planet' for the kids). Since we only get one life, what motivation is there, honestly, to arrive at your grave all clean and tidy and unspoiled? By the end of our lives, shouldn't we be totally used up and worn out because of all the fun we had?

My idealism about personal safety will die out. I can already see it weakening. By late-30's, I'll be that novelist who sits at a screen with a Marlboro hanging out of his mouth, the wall behind me marred by years of smoke.

At least we'll have universal health care by then.

A metaphor for life.

2010-01-29T13:59:00.000-08:00

I can remember it clearly as if it were yesterday and not a day earlier. The scent of chlorine filling my nostrils, the hubbub of laughter and conversation throughout the park. Yet a tension filled the air. A dark dragon rearing its monstrous head, refusing to back down to the proverbial sword wielding hero. It was not a dragon I faced, but instead a troop of villainous competitors wearing speedos and wielding goggles. A nefarious group for sure, but there they stood, lean and muscled, staring me down, staring each other down, sizing each other up wondering who would come out on top. I let them play their little mind games, it is no concern of mine whether or not they consider me a threat, I have the experience, I have the training, and I will not be defeated by thugs in speedos. The competitiveness inside me refuses to accept anything less then excellence. I will not fail, I cannot fail, I refuse to fail.

At that moment the announcer's voice took me back to reality "Swimmers, to your blocks!" commanded the nasaly voice the all announcers seemed to possess. I was in no hurry to get my goggles on, they could wait for me, I was in no rush to deliver the debacle that would be my competitive fury. Securing my goggles to my face I took my position on top of the diving block, first looking left to glance at the man beside me, then to the right to confirm the swimmer on the other side was just as ready as I. "Swimmers take your mark!", it was the nasaly voice again, probably a woman, I couldn't tell but women are always so demanding. CRACK! went the starting gun, and then I hit the water like an arrow.

Looking back I realize now that the State Swim Meet was more than a contest between swimmers, it is a metaphor for my success. I will not back down, I will not lose, and definately not against goggle wearing speedo enthusiasts!

2010-01-28T13:54:00.000-08:00

I have been through a lot in this life of mine, not all of it taking place in Carhartts. I have learned to accept various life lessons I have discovered through moral or immoral methods. Trauma has also impacted me pretty hard and with that I have turned to writing, and most of all my poetry to help me get it out instead of letting it build. So with that I will post some of my own work so you may further understand the feelings I have felt, or what maybe even everyone else has felt at some point in their lives.

"Begin War..."

The stench of a thousand corpses floods my nostrils thrusting the day's intake adn whatever was left in the pit of my stomach through the cracks of my teeth. Choking and pleading with my throat to swallow it back down, my teeth fail and release the acidic dwellings of my paunch onto the cobble walk. I gasp for air...

The view is paralyzing.

No sight,

nothing but the wretched stench

that has already claimed my nutrition.

I shuffle my feet to only hear a clink and clank.

The ground is uneven and cracked

with the feel of rubble that shifts with movement.

A liquid trickles down my countenance.

Thicker than water, lighter than sweat.

What has happened to me?

"Stupid Prompt"

I am not Tony Hoagland, so fuck

this attempt to scribe as another scribe

did to his scroll so many years ago.

I will not Rhyme or Capitalize

words that need no such thing.

To write a prompt asking this, is asking

a drunkard to give away his bottle, however

it may change him, he will not become

him.

I am a poet because of my style

such as a designer is to his feng shui...

I drink out my own bottle, and will

not be fed by the bottle Tony Hoaglands's

Bitch of a mother used to feed him.

I have nothing but Respect and Courtesy

for Mr. Hoagland, but to take the pen

of another, would be to kill my sould, and accept

another...

A Middle Eastern Woman Encounters Holly

2010-01-26T23:25:00.000-08:00

I camped the night in Bryce Canyon, ten feet from an overlook where I watched the sun set over many miles of redish-orange hoodoos, the naturally sculpted rock formations. I awoke in the middle of the night to yelling and cussing and people near my tent, only to learn that I had accidentally set up camp in someone else’s reserved spot … opps!

The next day on my way out of the park I stopped at one last overlook. As I was walking down the hill admiring the scenery I came upon a Middle Eastern family. The older woman, probably in her 50’s with a very noticeable maternal nature to her, was photographing her daughter who was in her early 20’s, about the same age as me. The daughter was posing for the photograph like she was going to jump off the edge of the cliff. As I walked up chuckling at the scene, the woman looked at me and said "I wonder if anyone has ever really jumped from here?" I said, "Probably lots!" She looked at me inquisitively so I said, "Well if you were gonna jump, this would be a GOOD place to do it!" The woman was taken aback by my comment and not sure how to respond. She looked very concerned and like she wanted to ask me if I was feeling suicidal, but knew that broke some social norms. I smiled inwardly at her reaction and continued down another 10 feet to take pictures. The family was ready to leave and I could tell that this woman did not want to leave me down there alone, for fear I would jump. They left anyways and I continued on as before. When I was done I headed back up the path where I encountered the family again. When the woman turned and saw me, a look of relief spread across her face. She smiled, I smiled and life went on.

Welcome!

2010-01-26T16:27:00.000-08:00

Welcome, one and all, to "Dress Your Family in Carhartts and Camo," a blog about Idaho from a group of Intro to Creative Nonfiction undergraduate students living in Moscow, ID. Moscow is home to the University of Idaho and is the state's self-proclaimed "heart of the arts." And as Brenda Miller proclaims in her guide to writing creative nonfiction, Tell it Slant, as writers "[w]e are artists creating artifice." This blog is our attempt to make something literary and meaningful out of the people, places, and things we encounter on a daily basis, to make them come alive on the page (or, more accurately, on the screen). We'll look for the extraordinary in the ordinary. We'll try to make connections, discoveries, and meaning. We'll try to be funny. We hope you'll laugh, enjoy it, and read on.