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!