You Will Discover the Power to Finish Strong (In the Bathroom)

Yes, it has been super long since my last blog post. Terribly sorry for the hiatus. Just blame the end of school. And exams. And block class. And Canadians.

Clearly, this guy caused all my problems. He is clearly determined to end this blog...and humanity.

Probably the class which I ended up doing the most work for this semester was Novels class. Our instructor can be properly described as "killer awesome." The awesome part comes from how she's so quirky and fun and friendly with the students. As for the killer part, well...let's just say that you have to keep your head above the water to avoid drowning. In the last few weeks of class, we had to read The Pilgrim's Regress (which is a shorter book, but allegorical and therefore challenging), complete two forum posts on the book, write a two-page paper on the book, and take an exam on the book. As well as complete a 20-slide PowerPoint on A Study in Scarlet. Doesn't seem too difficult at first, until you realize how hard it is to think of material to cover 20 slides. Fortunately, I was able to finish most of the PowerPoint before the due date on Saturday. All I had left was to format a few more slides before midnight and I would be covered.
Unfortunately, this Saturday due date also fell on the day when my church in Escanaba would be hosting a meal for some of the neighborhood folk. Of course I would enjoy going to it, but there is virtually no WiFi in Escanaba. Meaning that, if I wanted to turn in my PowerPoint on time, I'd have to get it done early that day.
Saturday eventually came around and, as it turned out, I slept a little later than I wanted to (Hey, give me a break; I'm sure you would too after a busy week). I was able to work on the PowerPoint a little bit before brunch, but after brunch I ended up hanging out with a friend for a bit longer than I anticipated. Oh well, I still had Plan B. Before we would leave, I could wrap up the PowerPoint in the remaining hour. However, my RA managed to talk me into playing some Ultimate Frisbee for fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes stretched to a half hour, and by the time I was showered off it was time to leave.
This was where I had to put Plan C into action. After the dinner, the students and I had plans on going to Walmart. I would hop into the McDonald's at the Walmart and use the WiFi there to submit my PowerPoint.
Here's where things get interesting: My computer decided to act stupid and remained on while sitting in the car, so throughout the dinner it was meaninglessly depleting its power. Just like a squirrel who saves up a lot of nuts for the winter and then gets hit by a truck. A robot squirrel made by Toshiba which ate little electric nuts. Of course, this could easily be conquered by plugging into a socket in the Walmart McDonald's and charge it up while working.

Aha, Watson! The game's afoot!

That is, it would be conquerable, if there were sockets there. Which, somehow, there weren't. I'm pretty sure Canadians built this McDonald's. I pulled aside the leader of our team, Michael, and informed him of my plight. He advised I try the McDonald's across the parking lot; the team would come and pick me up when I was done. Surely, there would be sockets in that McDonald's. It would be crazy if there were none.
Well, I checked every inch of those walls, and only one was there. Unfortunately, if I were to use it, I would trip everybody on a stretched power cable. Not exactly good for McDonald's and their business. However, I did think of one location which I hadn't checked yet, and it would have a power socket for sure. I shot this text to Michael: "No sockets in the dining place. Find me in the men's room."

"You will discover the power to finish strong" (in the bathroom).

Sure enough, there was a socket right by the sink. Unfortunately, it was too far away from the toilet, so I couldn't sit down and work. Instead, I had to kneel at the counter and tap away at the laptop by the sink, risking awkward encounters with anyone who came in the room.
Surprisingly, not too many people cared that I was there. Four out of six guys didn't even look at me. One guy did mention that I had picked an odd spot to do my work. The sixth and final guy asked if the bathroom was down for maintenance (Yes, of course, because this is a very technological bathroom and I need to use my laptop to expand the memory of the toilet paper and update the hard drive in the urinals). When Michael walked in, all he could describe it as was that "It seemed like it was taken right out of a movie." Somehow, the image of a college guy kneeling by a laptop in a public restroom would fit perfectly into a comedy.
Fortunately, I did submit my PowerPoint in time. Only to discover that there was indeed WiFi at the house I was staying at. I still blame Canadians, though.
#headdesk

A Hole in the Ice and a Hole in My Shoe

Around this time of year, the weather is turning from the icy snows of winter to the sunny skies of spring. However, there is an unpleasant transition. As the weather gets warmer and the sun shines brighter, The snow doesn't merely disappear. It melts. And then the ground is already saturated with water, so giant puddles form all over the place. The newly exposed grass is still brown and dry, and the mud carries an odor which brings back memories of petting zoos and goats. Frosty the Snowman's Winter Wonderland has turned into something more like Shrek's Swamp.

This could be a good idea of how things look around here.

This wet weather can really put a damper on getting places as well. For instance, there's this lake on my college campus called Reflection Lake. It's not the nicest lake in the universe, but it's a lot better than our other lake, known as Camp Lake. Actually, people aren't sure if Camp Lake is a lake. Or if it's even water. It's more like a giant puddle of Vaseline that the space aliens use to lubricate their ship while making a pit stop. Anyway, back to Reflection Lake. That's the nicer lake on campus, where people like to get away from the business of life or enjoy a bonfire or go fishing. My friend Kenny and I were discussing the possibility of heading down there sometime, however the trail is still too muddy-puddly-snowy to take easily.
However, this conversation did remind me of one particular trip I made down to Reflection Lake a long time ago...Except things were still a bit more icy.
The day began with the announcement that the sledding hill had closed down for the week due to weather conditions. Unfortunate, but not overly depressing. From there, the day seemed pretty normal. I was walking around campus, running some errands, when the thought came upon me like a Black Plague upon Europe. "You know, it's a nice day. I might just take a walk down to Reflection Lake." Of course, this sounds like a wonderful idea, until you remember the muddy weather. And the fact I had a giant hole in my shoe. I'd been meaning to replace those shoes for several weeks now, but never got around to it. But none of this stopped me from embarking on the adventure.

At least I had shoes.

My first obstacle was the path...or rather, a strip of dirt/mud/Play-Doh that happened to flow downhill through the forest. Said substance almost was like quicksand and tried to seep around my feet...and into the hole in my shoe. Consequently, I had to watch my every step, making sure I didn't end up permanently becoming part of the path. If you don't believe me, I had seen proof. Some footsteps faded slowly away in the mud, some tire tracks got stuck and ended where they were, and a dinosaur tail was sticking out of the mud in one place.
Eventually, I did get down to the lake, and it was beautiful as normal. It was still frozen over, so I thought "Y'know, I should try walking across this potentially unstable ice while nobody is around to rescue me." Of course, about ten steps onto the ice, my foot goes through into the ice-cold liquid...and, of course, the foot that goes through is the one with the holey shoe. So now not only is my foot muddy, it's also cold and wet. I eventually backtrack across the ice and get back to shore.
From there, I had to decide how to get back. There was the long way around the lake, which was just snow and possibly a lot nicer of a trail than the mud trail. And the mud trail wasn't really something I wanted to take again. Then there was the third and final path, which led in front of the sledding hill, which was mysteriously shut down earlier that day. I chose the snow path. It was alright for about fifty feet. Then my holey shoe fell off in the snow. After thirty seconds of hopping around like a march hare, I finally toppled face first into the snow. "Okay," I said. "Not this way." After slipping my muddy, icy, snowy shoe back on my frozen foot, I headed for the sledding hill.
I found out why the sledding hill was closed down. All the snow on the hill had melted and flowed to the bottom, forming a lake to rival Camp Lake. And so I had to walk around the icy perimeter of this lake, getting my feet even more wet than before. But finally, I was free and able to run on dry ground.

Liam Neeson, you do not know my suffering.

Needless to say, once I had the chance, I bought new shoes and threw out the old ones.

Flies and Flying iPods

What goes buzz, slap, bang-clang-clang-lol? Up Friday, nobody could answer that question. However, I solved the puzzle for the universe. Or at least, the people sitting in the back of chapel.

To catch up some of my audience, I'm at a Christian college. In our college, we have about an hour-long session dedicated to worship and Bible a lesson. I've found myself in the back of the room this semester. I get to have a lot of awesome people sitting around me, and the guests on campus sit directly in the row behind me. So when they come to chapel, I can turn around and help them feel welcome with handshakes, fist-bumps, and the like.

Another thing about chapel is that, in the warmer months, the building gets full of flies. In the winter, the flies mostly die out. As the days grow cold, they begin to fly so slow you could catch one in your hand, bacterial grossness aside. Eventually they wear themselves out flying and suddenly fall to the ground dead. However, somehow, flies will come back with spring. I have no idea how they do it, but they do. They should all die, but apparently there's some evil genius on campus ordering flies every March. Because it's right around that time when the flies start dive-bombing people in chapel again, serving as tiny distractions.

Also, it wasn't just any day. It was Friday. Fresh Friday. I had just bought a cool bow tie, so I knew I had to partake.

I wear a bow tie now. Bow ties are cool.

End explanations, cue story.

I was innocently sitting in my seat, giving no reason to be attacked by flies. In the row in front of me were several cool people, including a noble friend named Dan. My row had a lot of familiar friends such as TC, Jonny, Elly, Christina, Ally. Everyone else was pretty much hidden by those friends; if I wanted to see them I would have to do that deal where you bend way backwards and look really awkward. Today, I couldn't afford to do that. Not with an entire row of visiting high school students behind me.

But this Friday, one fly fancied to flaunt his fat flesh in my face. However much flesh can be found on a fly. Whatever milligram amount that is, though, this fly had double it. He was massive, and I kid you not. This fly probably ate wasps for breakfast. Apparently, his wasp diet began to effect his aggressiveness as well. The first thing this fly does is try to climb inside my ear. What's my response to this? "Sure, come in, little guy. make yourself at home. I'll help you unload the U-Haul when it comes. And then you can even borrow my grill for the moving-in party next week." No! I don't want any trash-on-wings making home in my ear, so I shooed it away. Apparently, it was quite humorous, because all the high school visitors began chuckling. Perhaps they hadn't ever seen anyone jerk their head away from a fly before.

Either way, I'm sure they thoroughly enjoyed it when the fly later came back around and started buzzing next to my mouth. Of course, I really didn't want it in front of my face, so I tried to scare it off by show of aggression. After the fly saw my gnashing teeth, he decided it was a wonderful idea to explore this cave full of white pointy objects. Fortunately, he never went in, but he managed to make me create a spitting sound as I blew him away.

Pretty sure these things are intent on destroying the human race.

What truly stood out in this clash between man and fly was the buzz, slap, bang-clang-clang-lol. The buzz came when the fly again flew by me and perched on my wrist. Specifically, my right wrist connected to my right hand holding an iPod I was reading from. When I saw this monster fly sitting there so peacefully, I thought "This is it. Let's end this menace. For all that value a time of no flies. For Narnia!" I raised my left hand, sneaked it over to my wrist, and attempted to smack the fly. That's where the slap came in.

Unfortunately, the fly escaped, which he shouldn't have. I'm pretty sure all flies have teleporters they use to get away from hands. But my wrist's getting slapped caused my hand to jerk as well, launching the iPod up into the air. It flew over the seat in front of me and fell on the floor. Hence the bang-clang-clang noise. The lol was shortly afterward when everyone in the immediate vicinity started chuckling again. To be fair, they couldn't see the whole thing. All they saw was an iPod flying up and landing with a crash.

To this day, my iPod still works. Thank you, silicon casing. The fly is still roaming the chapel building most likely, or he died of old age. Two days is quite a long time to live when all you eat is waste. I'm sure there are still people out there wondering exactly what happened.

Hey look, a blog article explaining exactly what happened!

The Art of Smashing Things

My senior year of high school was pretty awesome. Mostly because it was the first time I could do crazy stuff and my parents would never know about it. For example, hiding in the school's kitchen refrigerator and jumping out, scaring whoever opened it. Or another great example would be just before Christmas break, when all the guys in the class made a candle out of scratch, carried it around, and sung Ave Maria. Probably the single most crazy thing I ended up doing was Seamusizing.

Now you're confused. You don't even know what that is, less even know how to pronounce it. Don't worry; I'll explain.

First off, it's pronounced SHAY-muss-eye-zing. Second, I'll explain why it has such a name. My high school nickname was Seamus, also spelled Shamus. It's the Irish form of James. My class held an affinity for all things Scottish and Irish. As the first and only one who practiced Seamusizing, it was named after me.
And now, I shall explain to you the ancient practice of Seamusizing. It began a few years ago, during Physics class. Usually, Physics was my nap hour. It was right after lunch, and the room was dark, and the teacher was uninteresting. So under normal circumstances I would hibernate until class ended. Today, though, I was awake. I think it was a lab day. One would think that "lab day" means that a cool experiment happens where volcanoes erupt or chemicals change colors. Or "lab day" could be the day that we bring a bunch of Labradors into class with us. Unfortunately, neither of these are true. Lab day usually meant that I and the five other boys in class sat in a circle trying to figure out physics problems demonstrated on a VHS tape...and if you want to know what a VHS tape is, just hop by your local museum. They're sure to have one there nowadays.

Don't these guys help you understand that P=(V^2)/R=(I^2)(R)?

On this particular lab day, we were interrupted by an unexpected visitor. The junior high teacher, Mrs. Acker, needed the help of a particularly strong and courageous young man of unparalleled nerve and bravery. Naturally, all of us students stood. Our instructor laid aside his class time snack of diet soda and crackers and asked her what the problem was. Mrs. Acker explained that a spider was on the loose in her classroom and needed to be disposed of. All six students followed her back into the classroom.
Naturally, one would think that a request to squish a spider would be simple. Find the little bug and step on it while it remains lethargic. However, this spider was some unnatural spawn of the ancient world. It was faster than the Energizer Bunny on 5-Hour Energy. And this spider was huge, too. It probably had eaten a few Chihuahuas for breakfast, and then the Energizer Bunny for dessert. Just to prove he could run faster.
As Mrs. Acker cowered in fear at the hissing beast, we six men drew our weapons. Matt had a sword, Trevor readied his bow, Ted wielded an axe, Jake displayed an impressive six-gauge shotgun, and Zach grew bone claws out of his hands. I was weaponless...until I noticed a lectern sitting in the middle of the room. I grabbed hold of this and prepared to smash the spider.
Ultimately, the spider did escape our fury. It was no fault of mine, I assure you. I was new to using a lectern as a weapon, so I smashed wildly. I smashed a few toes, but completely missed the spider as it scurried into a dark corner, waiting for another day to reveal its wrath. Though the spider was still alive, a new art of defense had been formed. It was realized that one could grab a lectern by its top and smash things against the floor with the base. This art was known as Seamusizing. The art of smashing things.

The standard lectern. More deadly than it seems.

As the days went on, Seamusizing developed and grew. More things were smashed. Milk cartons, homework, pieces of trash, freshman lunches...anything we could get our hands on I eventually Seamusized, usually out of creating fun for everyone. Word of Seamusizing began to spread through the students. Its popularity grew to such an extent, it became a rule that only seniors (and Zach) could decide what got Seamusized.
Then there was the day when Seamusizing grew to its peak. Many of us students were gathered in a classroom, having fun and enjoying the fact that school was almost over. A call of celebration went up. Jake, the only other senior (aside from me) present, decided to begin a game of Seamusizing. Styrofoam cups were set up around the room, and the students would madly cheer as I grabbed the lectern and smashed my way through a speed run. A few times, it was requested I Seamusize a fourth-grade visitor. No, I never fully smashed him, but it was fun to see him run. I'm sure Trevor's little brother wasn't traumatized by it. They'll let him back out of the hospital someday.
What climaxed the day, though, was when Jake grabbed hold of several packs of mustard and Thousand Island dressing. He explained his idea, we all agreed, and marched outside to the elementary playground. a little, strategically-placed pile of mustard packets was built under the seesaw. Video cameras began rolling as I grabbed hold of the opposite end and smashed yellow condiments all over the place. Super Seamusizing was born. A grand festival revolved around it, and late into the night the students cheered I smashed all sorts of condiments with the seesaw. The earth had heard no greater cheer since the gladiators last crushed the skulls of tigers.

Yes, that is indeed me in the video, sporting a military-style haircut which makes me look bald.
Since that time, though, Seamusizing dwindled. School ended, meaning that lecterns were scarce. I left for college, meaning that my high school was now without Seamus and also without Seamusizing. To boot, my university's lightest lecterns are on legs, not on flat-bottomed boards. But some day, Seamusizing will return. One day, a flat-bottomed lectern will cross my path, and I will exercise my authority to destroy! SEAMUS SMASH!

A career with this fellow lies in my future...you are not alone, Hulk.

Vlog Time!

Hello! So, since I was really busy this week, I just threw together a vlog for you guys. Please watch and let me know what you think! Thank you!

The Station of Frustration

It was a dark and stormy night...okay; maybe not so much. But it was dark. There in a parking lot, ancient foes faced off against each other in a battle of skill and trickery. Who were these foes? One was me, a six-foot-something 170-some pound American with a little martial art training. The other, a tag team of British Petroleum pumps which were stuck into the ground.
Earlier that day, I was chosen to drive our extension team to church that Wednesday night. I was perfectly fine with this—the roads were quite clear and safe for this part of winter. Still, I decided to take an alternate way to our church in Escanaba. What I was concerned about was my gas tank—it was getting a little low. In a Wisconsin winter, it's a good precaution to never let your tank get too far past the halfway line.
On our way to Escanaba, I kept track of all the gas stations we passed, looking for the lowest prices. $3.79, $3.82, $3.87...the lowest I saw was $3.72, close to Northland. Hopefully, we would leave church soon enough that I could grab some gas and get to work on time.
On the way back, I decided to take the regular way back to Northland. Highway 8 wasn't too bad, so it couldn't be that bad on County Z. As I drove down the road, I happened to spy a tiny little BP station with a single sign on it, radiating light like a ruby disco ball: $3.62. A whole ten cents cheaper than the one in Dunbar. I couldn't pass this up.

A beacon of light becomes a cloud of darkness...

The station probably hadn't been cleaned since Reagan took a detour through that town. Only two pumps were outside. A semi truck that rivaled Paul Bunyan in size rumbled in the parking lot, letting his carbon footprint grow several shoe sizes. I climbed out to begin pumping while my friends, Michael and Sharée, stepped inside to grab some stuff.
The first pump was armored with multiple layers of dust, dirt, mud, exhaust, ice, and snow. A dimly lit olive-green screen stared at me out of the darkness, demanding I insert my card. The faded letters on the screen hinted that this machine was powered by agile snails. I pulled out my credit card and swiped it, only to face the greatest peeve of the first world... I hit a mental block on what my PIN was. Unfortunately, by the time I remembered, the pump canceled my swipe. "No matter," I thought. "I can solve this in no time. I'll just swipe again."
The pump was unsatisfied with the speed of my second swipe. Slightly annoyed, I went in for a third swipe, which finally worked. I entered my PIN and waited for the pump to recognize my purchase. Just then, I remembered...I wanted to use the debit card, not the credit card. Seems like a minor problem, but the debit could save me a bit more money. I canceled my purchase, which in and of itself took about thirty seconds for the pump to process. By this time, Michael and Sharée had gotten back into the car.
When your passengers climb into the vehicle before you begin pumping, it means something's taking too long. It means that the pump means business. It means...THIS IS ON.
Staring the pump in its ugly face, I slipped the credit card back into my pocket and revealed my debit card, swiping it through the slot so smoothly that the pump would never have a problem with the speed. I thought I had this nailed...this pump had no route of escape now. He was cornered, forced to fulfill to my will and fill my Ford with fossil fuels...actually, I drive a Chevy. I just wanted to say something that sounded cool.
But the pump had one more trick up its sleeve. Years of use had worn its processing units down to the wire. The screen revealed a message of frustration: "ERROR OCCURRED. PLEASE SWIPE AGAIN."
Cue headbanging on pump.
With no other option, I swiped my card again, only for the pump to pull the same trick again. I swiped one more time, knowing that the third time is always the charm. And so it was. I fist pumped the air in victory as my other fist grabbed the pump and slipped the nozzle into the tank. I pulled the lever, waiting to feel the gas kick the nozzle as it breathed sweet Arabian nectar into my silver chariot.

The time for victory had come...or had it?

But I never felt the kick. I stared back at the olive-green screen. "INSERT NOZZLE AND PULL LEVER," it commanded. I had pulled the lever, and continued to pull it several times as if more pulls would bring a kick. I even removed the nozzle from the tank and pulled the lever several times, looking for any gas that might leak out. Nothing.
Though it accepted defeat, the pump had one more weapon: confusion. Without gas, I would lose. No matter what I had done before, everything had come down to this moment, and the pump suddenly had the upper hand. But I wasn't about to give up gas this cheap. I would find my way. I could go the distance. I'd get gas someday if I knew I could be strong. I knew every mile would be worth my while. I could go most anywhere for fuel that lasts this long.
Yes, I did just rewrite a Disney song.
I tried one more time with this pump. Swipe, PIN, insert nozzle, pull lever. Nothing.
Cue headbanging on trunk of car.
As I lifted my aching head, I spied the second pump just ahead. Perhaps it would work. Perhaps it was willing to accept money and share the liquefied remains of a dinosaur fossil. Perhaps those kick marks on the side of the pump meant nothing antagonistic.
Perhaps it was just as much of a jerk as the first pump.
The second pump wasn't working either. I held the nozzle in one hand and ran my other hand through my hair as I dropped to my knees, asking for some sort of sign of what was wrong with this pump. Suddenly, light filled the gas station. Latin chanting began as a woman descended from the sky. She wore a badge. It read "Samantha."
That's what it seemed like. Michael and Sharée would say that an old lady waddled out of the station.
"Yon weary traveler hast traversed a great distance," she whispered. "And when he comes to water his mount at the well, it appeareth dry. Doest this be what trouble thee, pilgrim?"
"Yes," I replied.
"Ah, so many have said. Yon pumps have resisted to forsake their elixir. They hast performed a great theater of confusion in an effort to starve the needy. But there is a different reading of the screen, a reading thou hast not considered." Samantha touched the pump where the nozzle had been resting. "Thou must lift the support of the nozzle. Observe, pilgrim? Yon support also be a lever." With those words, the Latin chanting again sounded and she faded into a snowy breeze.
Again, Michael and Sharée would say something different happened, but my telling is a lot cooler.

Pie Jesu Domine, dona eis requiem...*smack*

I followed the instructions of Samantha. I lifted the support, and the pump beeped in approval. I placed the nozzle back into the tank and pulled the lever. There it was...that familiar kick from the gas flow. Latin chanting again filled the air, stirring the universe with such majesty that everything radiated with light.
Upon the spot, I invented a Happy Gas Dance as I grabbed my receipt and pranced back to the car.

Not a War Story

This story is real. Except it wasn't really a war story. It was more like a conflict between a couple over-theatrical college guys whose identities will not be revealed. And now, a far-fetched telling of a true tale.
I had been in battle for just a few days, but it seemed to be the longest period of my time. A long time ago, I had left my home far overseas. A long time ago, I had begun my training at boot camp. A long time ago, my training had finished and I was flown south, to the heart of this jungle. A long time ago, our front was weakened and I was sent in among the reinforcements.
I'm not going to bother you with the horrors of what I had seen in battle. That isn't why I'm writing. But what I had seen in battle had given me an extreme distaste for war. I didn't fight to kill...I fought to end this all. The sooner the war ended, the better. The military had given me good training, good discipline, good character...Everything about this worked for me; there was only one thing I feared: death outside of combat. If I was going to be a sacrifice for my country, I wasn't going down without a fight.
Which is why I was so disappointed when I was taken as a POW. Wounded in battle, they captured me after the fighting ended. I was imprisoned; my wound was treated. It wasn't long before the savages we were fighting determined that I wasn't worth keeping. I knew no information; I was insignificant in the ranks. The sentry said I had only until evening before facing the firing squad.
I can still remember standing against the wall. There were about twelve soldiers there, along with a colonel and a captain to witness the event. One thing about the enemy: at least two officers have to be there to witness their executions. Fortunately for me, the colonel was called away at the last minute to assert a problem in technology. With only one officer left, they couldn't shoot me; I was left standing at the wall. Quickly, I formulated an escape. I ducked into the deep grass around me and fled, disappearing into the forest.
I knew it would only be a matter of time before the colonel returned and the captain would have to explain the situation. Then, the search for me would begin. I tried to remember the map I had seen of this area. I was at the bottom of a hill; to the east was the enemy water mains. On top of the hill were native territories; the natives wouldn't mind me but I could still be easily found. Still, it was my best shot. I would cover my trail by sabotaging the water mains and then make it up the cliff.
The water mains were fairly easy to take care of. I loosened a few valves, letting water flow freely on the ground. This would distract them and think I might be hiding in the area, but that's not where I was. I navigated up the hill, finding a safe point where I could observe the enemy. the natives I ran across were quite friendly and agreed to not share my location. It took me forever before I could move, though. Enough time had passed that the enemy would be looking for me, and I would have to start moving. I began slinking around the area; I had a few close scrapes. At one point, I swear the colonel stared straight at me, but other things must have been on his mind. I was hiding next to a trail when the captain approached. Once he noticed me, things began turning blurry, like the world was melting away.
I found myself sitting on a table in a laboratory. Military officials were about, dressed in friendly uniform. A few scientists were assembled around me, gathering some sort of data and talking about their tests being a success. Immediately, I began asking what was happening. One scientist, bearing a strange resemblance to the captain, explained. I had been recommended as a subject for a new medical testing to be used on the healing of soldiers. The medication would remove a few hours of my memory, so everything from my wound in battle and that point on was all imagined. A noted side affect of the medication was a certain psychological affect exposing one's fears.
A test. All I had just gone through was just a test. None of it was real.

I Broke My Wrist during Choir Practice!

Yes, it sounds crazy. But this is what happened. I broke my wrist during choir practice. Not in gym class, or climbing trees, or pulling tricks in extreme sports, or defeating hordes of zombie vampire werewolves with my bare hands. It was in choir practice. Hence why our principal now boasts that his school hosts full-contact choir. And now, I shall proceed to explain how this became possible, as well as include as many life lessons as possible along the way.
A little over two years ago, I was in the school choir. And if you're wondering how I got into choir, this was back before anyone figured out that I cannot sing worth a wooden nickel. Plus, with a high school of just under thirty students, nearly everyone had to sing or else we'd be known as the Union Grove Quintet.
Life Lesson #1: If you seriously have no outstanding talent in something, but the group for it is desperate for people, it's at least great to sign up and make some friends...or enemies...or people that just stare at you and wonder...
Either way, whether I could sing or not, I was in the auditorium before most people got there for practice. Slightly bored, I spotted a loose triangular section of the stage near the piano, and decided to test my balance by standing on it and rocking back and forth. My balance was successfully tested. I wasn't quite at the "tightrope walker" level of balance; it was more like the "sumo wrestler on ice skates" level of balance. But hey, at least I knew that.
Results of balance test: one mighty fall backwards on top of my arm.
Life Lesson #2: No matter what Wii Fit tells you about your balance or BMI, it's just a game. Just like how most Call of Duty players probably couldn't actually get a kill streak of fourteen before dying.
Of course, I thought that the shooting pain in my wrist would subside. I mean, I'm a Zemke! My Dad and his family had grown up in rural areas forever, pulling all sorts of insane stunts and walking away with only a flesh wound. And my cousin's gone back through our family history, discovering great warriors and legendary heroes and even the German war god...okay, that last one's a bit questionable, but it's something worth saying. I mean, with a heritage like mine, a horrible pain in the wrist can't mean more than scratched skin, right? I decided to leave choir practice early and get it checked out. Hopefully, it was just a strain, and I would be back to normal soon.
Wrong. Something funny must have happened in my genes, and I didn't get the bones of iron. A few hours, a couple x-rays, and a lot of money later, the verdict was a cracked bone in the wrist. I left the hospital with a splint, and would be going back the next day to get a cast.

Doctor walks out; Mom immediately snaps a photo.  If this isn't in the family photos, chaos will reign.

Life Lesson #3: Heritage isn't always contagious. Just because James Potter was a wizard doesn't mean that Harry...wait a second...um...Just because Lily Potter was Harry's mom doesn't mean they have the same eyes. There.
It would be another six weeks before I could use my wrist again, so I had to eventually get used to the cast. I'll admit, it's a bit awkward to wear a chunk of plastic-y stuff on your arm, but fortunately it was my non-dominant arm. I could still write and do a lot of stuff normally. And granted, even though I had to duct tape a garbage bag around my arm every time I might get wet, I got out of a lot of snow shoveling.
Life Lesson #4: If you're going to undergo major physical injury, make sure it's before the biggest blizzard in decades comes rolling through your neighborhood.
There were times, however, where I got so used to wearing a cast that I completely forgot it was there. Such as one youth function I was attending. A game was being played where the objective was to get tennis balls into a garbage can the other team's goalie was guarding. "Hey, that looks fun. I'm not gonna let this cast stop me," I said as I volunteered for a spot.
Most of the game went well. With my cast, I wouldn't be able to hold many tennis balls, but I could be goalie. And I ended up being quite an excellent goalie. Not too many balls could get by me. I could slip in front of approaching people and club away the tennis balls they approached with.
However, my cast found a way of reminding me of its presence. There was the one kid who appeared on my peripheral, and I swung my arm in an attempt to get between him and the can. I was successful, but in the process ended up clocking him in the face with my cast.
Life Lesson #5: Be glad that Christian teenagers aren't prone to suing.
Probably the most interesting part about having a cast was that I was the school basketball team's manager. Every coach, or player, or fan that would see me sitting on the bench with my cast would drop a comment about it. Something to the effect of "Man, it must stink that you used to play, but you can't because your arm's broke, and now you can't do anything except sit there and watch you friends play."
To which I reply "I'm the manager."
To which they reply, "Oh."
Life Lesson #6: Never assume anything about anyone on the bench.
Life Lesson #7: It's this positive attitude while having a broken wrist that wins you the "Most Inspirational Player" award.

Me and Coach, the two guys who always had to explain how I wasn't an injured player.

Eventually, six weeks passed, and I could get that stinky piece of plastic-y stuff off my arm. It felt a bit weird, being able to move my wrist, but gradually the strength came back. I've also walked away from this with seven life lessons, so it was actually quite helpful to break my wrist. However, every choir practice since then, or every time I've been on that stage, my friends have made sure to keep me far away from that loose piece of stage. Granted, I'm glad they want to keep me safe, but it's not like I'm gonna try balancing on it again, right?
Hey, look! A teeter-totter! Let's stand in the middle of it!

It Is Winter

It is winter.

The joints stiffen as the cold sets in.

The north wind blows ice pellets into your eyes.

You wonder at its brutality and pointlessness.

Then, your mind turns to hockey.

—Red Green

Most of us probably  feel this way this winter. There's been a lot of talk about the excess of snow and the freezing cold. As a friend of mine put it, we've just received "fresh snow to cover the snow that was frozen solid by the subfreezing temperatures." Believe it or not, people feel comfortable when temperatures reach just above zero. From the local coffee shop (actually, it's the only place to get coffee for several miles), this is what the weather looks like:

This is where Santa goes on his vacations.

Believe it or not, I've seen weather worse than this. Actually, I've grown up in weather where everyone would rejoice if there was only this much snow. Because where I grew up, we would get around twenty feet of snow every year.

That's right. Twenty. Feet. Of. Snow. That's over six meters, for those of you who prefer metric (I don't blame you; it's a lot more practical).

First question on your mind is probably "How do you end up getting that much snow?" Well, let me give it to you straight. I grew up in Japan. Granted, winter is not the first thing that comes to mind when you think of Japan. Usually, it's cherry blossoms and kimono. Or ninjas and Tom Cruise, if you're a guy. But that's down in southern Japan, where you find dragons and emperors and...unfortunate things like war-torn lands and sumo blubber. I spent most of my growing years in northern Japan, on the island of Hokkaido (see my parents' site here). How far north is Hokkaido? It's about the same latitude as Oregon, Wisconsin, Maine...Quebec City, to you Canadians.
Now I hear you saying "Those places don't get twenty feet of snow!" Well, for Wisconsin and Maine and Quebec City, that's true. But Oregon shares something with Japan that other places don't...mountains. After a little research, I've found that the Cascade Mountains get just as much, if not more, snow than Hokkaido does. And since Japan is mostly mountains, when you go north enough to find a mountain valley for all the snow to collect, it's going to be a winter wonderland.
But hey, snow isn't that bad, is it? I mean, think of what you can do in a winter wonderland...snowball fights, snowmen, snow angels, snow sculptures, ice festivals, hot chocolate, skiing, snowboarding, snowmobiling, sledding, snow forts, running around in new snowfall and spell words for the birds to read...
...Oh, and shoveling.
It's all fun and games, until you need to clean up the mess that's been made. As illustrated in my brother's YouTube video, "Speed Shoveling":

Snow would fall almost every day in our city, meaning that we'd need to shovel every day to keep pace with twenty feet of snow. Often, it would mean shoveling more than once a day, depending on the severity of the weather. For instance, we have a large ceiling-to-floor window in our living room, as seen in the video above. If too much snow builds up against it, the window will crack and snow will pour into our living room. So every once in a while, we have to dig a trench out of the snow right by the window. That way, the snow will go into the trench and save our window from breaking. One long day after digging this trench, we headed inside, took off our winter gear, and got some hot chocolate ready, just in time to watch the snow fall...off our roof, and right into the trench, filling it to the brim.
Painfully, we bundled up and grabbed our shovels again.
Home wasn't the only place where it was an adventure to shovel snow. If you wanted to move snow, you had to do it in epic proportions...like, the type of proportion equivalent to fighting an army of time-traveling trolls with nothing but a plastic spork. And we happened to regularly clear out snow on this proportion. Every Saturday, we would head down to our church and clear what we could. What was in the parking lot went into an underground snow melter which led straight to the sewers. This was basically a heater in the ground covered by a metal trap door. Open up this door, push some buttons, and hot water would spurt out of some pipes to help melt the snow you throw in there. But this wasn't the adventure, not by a long shot. THIS was the battle to win:

Snow pouring off the roof into this tiny space...what more could you ask for?

To the left, you see a metal fence. To the right, you see our church, with a wall of ice frozen onto the side. In the back is (1) my dad (2) all the snow that we just moved. Before this channel was cleared, snow could be built up as high as that ice wall. How did we move it all? One old snow blower...to those of you who don't know, just look it up on Wikipedia. I'm not gonna try describing it. Now, after you've looked it up and compared the auger to the size of the snow, you're gonna wonder how all the snow fit in the snow blower. Simple answer is that it wouldn't...until someone stood on top of that slippery ice wall and knocked apart all that heavy snow. All the while trying not to fall into the snow blower. And considering that the snow blower had about 426 controls labeled in Japanese, it wasn't the easiest thing to run. But it was the only way we could get that giant pile of snow behind the church. Unfortunately, I have no video of this  path being cleared, because words can't do justice to the madness of the job.
Might I mention that we also had to do this on the other side of the building as well?
So, as you go about your day,when it gets so cold that your sneeze will freeze, just be glad you don't have to move twenty feet of snow...unless this happens to be your job. In which case, I have pity on you.

Ross!

Who would've thought that Ross could almost get us arrested?

Well, I suppose it wasn't Ross' fault. Ross was Scottish. And it was night in Washington DC. And the motorcycle drove by. At least we learned an important lesson for photographers.

I should probably explain what I'm talking about.

First of all, I'll begin with literature class, senior year of high school. Hilarious class, especially since we had Mrs. Neal as a teacher, who is so hard to define that the one word which sums it up is "Cheryl." Possibly "Trevor wake up!" and "Where's Erin?" would work as well, but it's been too long since Mrs. Neal's vocabulary lessons for me to find the right word.

Anyway, back to literature class. We were reading through Macbeth, adding pizzazz to it as we worked our way through (I'll admit, it's one of Shakespeare's best plays, but hey...we were in high school). In Macbeth, there was one character named Ross. Now, when I say Ross, I'm not saying it normally. According to us, the only way to say Ross was in a voice like you were a heavy smoker trying to break his habit by chewing gravel while sitting in a massage chair. Ross. Now you know. Rossss. Rooooss. And so on, repeating this name every time Ross' lines came.

Sorry, Ross, I hope we didn't offend you. We love you at heart. Long live Malcolm.

Jump ahead to the end of the semester. My class, having survived well over a dozen years of formal education, decided to spend our senior trip in Washington, DC. We had a great time, and not only while touring the monuments.

There was the one time I sat on the table in our hotel room and it broke completely in half. The hotel probably eventually found out that they needed stronger tables. I found out that I needed to lose thirty pounds or so...which I have. Can't say if the hotel's changed their tables.

There was the one time where a small Chinese town decided to fly to America and tour DC...and stay in our hotel. They loved the hotel. Especially at breakfast time. They made a game of seeing how many of them could fit in the food hall at once. I had to defend a table for my classmates while they tumbled out of bed and figured out which body part their socks went on. As I defended our table, I could glance to the left and watch a line build up by the waffle maker. Every one of them wanted a waffle—in Asia, waffles must be rare finds. But with no understanding of waffles comes no understanding of waffle makers, so every time a Chinese person tried to make a waffle one of the workers would have to show them how. I can say this from experience: If they were Japanese, they would've invented their own waffle maker right there.

There was the one time where we found the longest escalators this side of Jed Clampett's oil swamp. Two of us raced it up and then down while waiting for the train...fortunately, the race finished just in time that the train didn't leave without our two guys. After the race, they were as exhausted as a truck's tailpipe.

There was the time we conspired to compete with Tiffany & Co. by selling plastic and glass jewelry that looked just like their products.

Hey, if all your jewelry looks glass, you might as well have a rival that sells glass products!

There was the one time Obama cancelled our once-in-a-lifetime White House tour so he could have the Prime Minister of Israel over.

There was the one time the Potomac started flooding over the pathways, leaving dead fish in its wake.

There was the one time where a crazy Jamaican lady talked with the whole train car about pickles and Arnold Schwarzenegger. And the other time involving Matt and about three odd African-American teenage girls. Oh, the people you meet on the subways.

There was the one time we didn't meet Paul Ryan.

There was the one time where Ted and Taylor were asked to pose for a poster by the Washington Monument.

There was the one time I screamed loud enough to wake the dead...in Arlington Cemetery.

There was the one time Ted offered me $12 to catch a pigeon. Mice are one thing, but pigeons...Ew. I'll just stick a used hypodermic needle in my bellybutton instead.

There was the one time we drove a thousand miles on the last tick of the gas meter. Our supervisor, Mrs. Paczocha, was so afraid we might run out of gas that she almost began handing out burritos. Trevor, on the other hand, remained as cool as a bottle of antifreeze as he calculated how many miles our gasoline could take us. "Don't worry, Mrs. P," he would say, "This car holds what, sixteen gallons? And we're on the last tick? We've still got a thousand more miles, at least." I'd have to trust Trevor for that. He builds his own airplanes. However, this fact didn't loosen Mrs. P's grip on either the steering wheel or the paper bag she was breathing into.

By Trevor's calculation, this tank's got enough gas to drive from Chicago to Seattle and back.

There was the one time Ted and Matt stuck their legs out the car windows while riding down the interstate...just because they could.

There was the one time we got lost...wait; that happened a lot.

There was the one time we saw a guy get arrested at the Capitol's tourist center for taking a picture of the entryways, due to national security and the threat that a picture of an incognito doorway could slip into some anti-American hands...which creates a great segue back towards the story of how we were almost arrested.

It was our first day in Washington DC, so most of the above events hadn't happened yet. Busy traffic was on one side; random government buildings were on the other. I looked through a glass door of one of the buildings and took note of a sign inside. Among official-sounding words was planted the name "Ross."

Immediately, I informed my compatriots of the situation. The area echoed with high school boys crowing Ross over and over. Then one of us decided to take a picture, to enshrine this encounter with the famous name. As he raised his camera, though, we very suddenly heard a harsh command to stop. Actually, it wasn't quite like that. It was more like a policeman waddling out of the darkness yelling "STOOOOOOP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? YOU DIDN'T HEAR ME THE FIRST TIME, SIR?" Actually, no, Mr. Donuts, we couldn't hear you through the overpowering sound of a Harley. And we backwoods Wisconsinites were unaware of the fact that you can't take pictures of private entrances. So yes, try to come out of your aggressive state as you ask if we need any help. And give back the camera, please; thank you for your work. You might want to relax with some yoga back at home, if you can do any poses besides "The Bloated Bullfrog."

Almost two years later, I have kept my slate clean. That was probably the closest any of us had come to an arrest. I will admit, though, I haven't said Ross in a while. Mostly because the only Ross I know could use me as a toothbrush. I mean, I'm all for clean teeth, but my life comes before dentistry.

Of Mice and Men

It's hard to believe that I'll be back at Northland in just two weeks. Soon, a new semester will begin, and all I can say is...it's going to be nothing like the last one's beginning. I say this because nothing could ever be like last semester's dawning. Aside from in the Deep South, you never get to (or want to) have so many random encounters with critters.

One of my first episodes last semester involved bats. I was taking a walk through the south side of my dorm, reminiscing on the shenanigans that I was involved in last year, when I see this tiny brown bat clinging to the hall wall. Somebody had decided it was a good idea to leave the door open all day, neglecting to think of the critters it could bring in. So I simply fetched a bag, gently snagged it, and let it loose outside...only to find a second bat just a few feet down the hall. This one wasn't as easy to catch, as it was more awake and flew into a room. Which resulted in me climbing over people's beds and possessions while they evacuated for the sake of this self-proclaimed exterminator. But yes, both bats were freed.

The second incident occurred once rumor spread that a rogue squirrel was roaming our own hall. Every student was intent on claiming this prize. "Wanted" posters were hung in the bathrooms with a picture of the squirrel. One student asked the dorm supervisor if there was a bounty for this squirrel. I even had a close encounter with the squirrel, but it escaped from my knife as it fled through the heating duct. Ultimately, the victor was a man named Ivan. Ivan's from the Deep South, so of course he knew how to deal with this rodent—he grabbed his mighty slingshot, took hold of a single penny, timed his breathing, and valiantly slew the beast. He took his mighty trophy to the shower stalls, proceeded to gut it, and then took it to his mead hall and feasted on its flesh while the bards composed ballads in his honor. Ivan later went on to slay more rodents that semester, such as the legendary fire breathing beaver, the venomous mole, ninja rats, zombie gophers, and Alvin and the Chipmunks.

I've had some of his stewed squirrel. Awesome stuff.

The lethal power of United States currency...

But the next animal episode stands out from the rest—mostly because I was directly involved. Another animal had broken into our hall—this doesn't happen often, to those of you concerned for us. This animal was a much more common pest than anything I've said yet—a mouse. No, it didn't breathe fire or have vampire powers or throw cheese at us, but that doesn't mean it was lame. We turned this mouse invasion into something crazy and awesome.

As I've said, a mouse was traversing our halls, and the bounty hunters were out for their prize. But this mouse was crafty and avoided them all as he scrambled through the walls, hungering for popcorn. And he found popcorn—in our room, no less. My roommate, Kenny, was the first to hear it scrambling around in the trash can, trapped by its own effort to feed. If it was up to me, the mouse would have been knifed and buried in a hole three inches wide and six inches deep. Clayton, my other roommate, instead took charge of the situation. He wanted to give that rodent the biggest swirly in history—a trip down the toilet. I still wanted to stab the mouse, though.

"Who would kill this guy?" You say just before he eats and infects your food.

On our way to the community bathroom, however, two things happened. First, we attracted attention. Several guys and rodent bounty hunters came out of their man caves to size up our capture, including the legendary Ivan (who was now known formally as Sir Ivan Pennyslinger Marvelbeard, Squirrel Bane of the North). This attention filled Clayton with glee as he paraded around this trash can with the mouse inside—the mouse he took liberty to name Hans. Ivan was actually so impressed with our capture, he gave us his blessing to dispose of this vermin. One guy volunteered to help us in our endeavor to flush the mouse. We accepted the man, whose name was Tyler, and placed him in our ranks. But, as I've said, attention wasn't the only thing we received. Another student—I believe his name is Micah—gave us a warning that mice had recently been found carrying a horrible disease around our area. I could see Tyler’s face blanch at the thought of infection. I thought that we wouldn't need to worry about disease if we just stabbed it in the trash can and dumped it outside.

Our strategy was simple. Clayton would dump our offering into the porcelain altar. Tyler would start throwing a few strips of toilet paper on top of the mouse. Clayton would quickly flush the toilet, immediately dousing the mouse, and then flush down at least ten yards of paper to make sure the mouse stayed down there. Kenny’s post was to stand at the sidelines and laugh at Hans in his final moments. I was supposed to stay away; Clayton wished the mouse to drown slowly instead of face instant and honorable death, but instead I stood close by, pocketknife in hand.

Our selected method of execution...It's more dangerous than it looks, I assure you.

Almost everything in the plan fell apart. Yes, Hans had plopped straight into the toilet, but Tyler missed as he tossed in toilet paper. Unfortunately for him, he had no time to throw any more. Clayton flushed the toilet, opening a maelstrom to swallow the mouse. Hans began swimming for the edge of the toilet, trying to jump out for the sake of his own teardrop-sized life. Unfortunately, the mouse was swimming straight in Tyler's direction. Thoughts of disease raced through Tyler's mind as the mouse approached. The Jaws theme played in the distance. Tyler squealed, sprung straight upwards, and perched on top of the handicap railing, gripping that metal bar like his life depended on it. Kenny’s laughter turned from the passing pest towards the terrified Tyler.

The current in the toilet picked up speed, whisking Hans downwards. He fought back, swimming in the opposite direction, slowing his spiral. Near the bottom, he reached the point of equilibrium: no matter how hard Hans swam, he stayed in place. There he was for several seconds. I was afraid that the flush would complete, the current would slow, and Hans would jump out and maliciously spread his disease over poor Tyler. But Hans’ strength couldn't hold. The toilet sent out its last pulse of swirling water, generating enough force to weaken the mouse. He slipped down the throat of the whirlpool with a squeak of defeat.

Our victory should have resulted in thunderous roars of achievement, but too much was already going on. Clayton proceeded to flush about one and a half rolls of toilet paper. This mouse proved to be stronger than he had reckoned, and he never wanted to mess with something that strong again. Tyler’s heart rate slowly declined as he pried his fingers and toes off the handicap bar, whispering phrases about not getting his shots and creepy Mickey Mouse cartoons. Kenny’s guffaws devolved into small hiccups of giggles. I reluctantly pocketed my knife as we marched back to our rooms, but I was glad of one thing. We had become rodent slayers. We were among that blessed count of brethren whose ranks were difficult to join. We doused the mouse.

On second thought, it would probably be pretty awesome if next semester was like the last. Who knows? I might just find an evil electricity-shooting rabbit and get to mount its head on the hood of my car.