Ma'am

I love to hold doors open for women.

I enjoy doing it even if it ends up being one of those drawn out door-opening dramas. For example, many a'time I have held open an edifice's portal for a member of the opposite sex only to find that there's another person or two close behind. Not too close behind, but close enough so that if I don't hold the door open for them as well I look like an ass, which mitigates the whole intent of holding the door open in the first place. Invariably, once those stragglers walk through, taking advantage of my kindly door-holding-open nature, there will be yet another group of people nearing. It could be a group of predominately men, but there will usually be a woman or two at the front, so I need to hold the door open for those women too. This leads to an akward half-eye-aversion, half-mumbled-acknowledgement while I am forced to hold the door open for the men as the group makes its entry. This was not my original intent.

Every once in awhile I'll accidentally hold the door open for a feminist. This usually results in a swift shiv to the male sex organ, which always hurts, but I'll usually take it in stride. I'll only whisper a pained "darn it, lady" under my breath as they walk through my opened door. And then I'll bleed all over the floor as I make my way to Barnes & Noble's restroom.

Perhaps my favorite group to deliver a door-opening to would be the 30 to 40-year-olds. I feel that ladies of this age really appreciate a young, strapping buck such as myself ensuring that they don't have to sully their hands by touching a public surface. They are also always visibly flattered, as compared to the indifferent bubble-gum-popping of many younger girls to whom I bestow this service. Nay, these the fairer of the fairer sex always smile at me and deliver kind words. Then they immediately betroth their daughters to me, to which I tip my top-hat and stroke my handle-bar moustachio happily.

Now I know what you're thinking, but please remember that it's the 2000's. It is no longer taboo for women, in addition to men, to betroth their daughters. To me.

I'm moving and I need a break

So, I'm a pretty hairy guy.

It's under control, though. I don't have back hair and make sure to pluck those solitary, errant earlobe hairs that crop up every once in awhile. I clip my nose-hairs diligently and shave my full beard every day. Well, somedays I'll skip shaving if I want that rugged, rough-around-the-edges cowboy look—Yee Haw!

I refuse, however, to do anything to my leg hairs.

Even though girls tend to pluck at them in some sort of attempt at tourture, I will never bear shorn legs. Even though, when nagoy, I resemble a Satyr, I will not prune my pez. Even though twice this summer bumble bees have been entangled in the bramble, prompting a flick by my fingers to free them back into the wild, I will not fell my forest.

Bullocks—bullocks, I say!—to anyone who insists that women don't go for hairy men. I insist that if I do encounter troubles it's because I've spilled food all over myself or them, not because I sport leg hair—even if it's sometimes braided, either naturally or artificially through an afternoon of boredom. After all, what woman wouldn't want to feel like they're cuddling up next to a gentle, 5'10'' grizzly bear? Roar!

An Exchange of Sorts

Here's an exchange I witnessed tonight between two friends that I laughed ever so softly at.

Friend #1 is flicking cards into a box. Friend #2 is watching him. They are both inebriated.

F#2: "Why the hell are you throwing those cards into that box?"

F#1: "Because it's less of a felony than punching you in the head."

Yar, indeed.

Giggidy Giggidy!

I have a couple of vulnerabilities when it comes to members of the fairer sex, and they might not be what you think they are. Actually, they aren't what you think they are (after all, I know what kind of rascals read my blog).

Squiggly Hair

This is a pet name I give to either crimped or naturally curly/wavy hair. It doesn't matter to me whether it's artificial or the real thing--me likes the squiggles either way. When I walk into a room, girls with this feature are the first to be noticed by me and are visually locked onto via a Terminator/Robo-Cop style heads-up display.

Now, this doesn't mean I'm going to automatically talk to them. I'll probably just end up admiring them from a distance, as I'm shy (and can be clumsy) when it comes to meeting women.

Woman looks up from book at coffee shop to find mysterious 20-something gazing at her, but he is not making eye contact. Rather, he is looking at something above her eyes. He cocks one eybrow, betrays a small grin, and raises his drink to his mouth. She smiles back at him. His drink misses his mouth completely and he spills his beverage down the front of his shirt. He stands up to get a towel, but knocks over his table in the process, subsequently causing him to trip and fall into a game of chess-in-progress. Smile fades from woman's face as she resumes reading her book.

Back Dimples

Unlike squiggly hair, which any woman can obtain artificially if not endowed naturally, back dimples are only blessed to a lucky few women. If existing, they are the de facto sexiest part of the female body to me. I can't really explain why this is.

An ex-girlfriend of mine had back dimples (as well as squiggly hair), and she would laugh at my preoccupation with them. Evidently she had never heard of anyone having a proclivity towards such a thing and, I admit, I hadn't either. I thought I was a lone wolf in a world of back-dimpled sheep until I was watching an episode of MTV's Cribs in the TV lounge of my college dorm. Some R&B artist whose name escapes me was showing the crew his bedroom. Above his bed was a photo of a model with very predominant back dimples. He turned to the camera and said, straight faced, that "there is nothing sexier than the dimples on the back of a lady."

I stood up, "ah-ha"-ing, pointed to the TV and said, "See!? Other people like them too!" But alas, it turned out that I was the only one in the room and nobody saw this evidence of me not being some sort of an odd fetishist. I sat back down, but in the process broke the chair, spilled my drink on the front of my shirt, tripped and fell through the window and landed on the board of a chess game in-progress.

HNT!!11!!?!!one

Happy Half-Nekkid Thursday!

This is a picture of, indeed, my half-nekkid hand. It would be all-nekkid if not for the fact that a couple days ago I cut the cuticle of my index finger-inger-ingerton on a tetanused shard of metal on my way out of my "house." Thank God I move into the brand-new apartment this Saturday, for I fear decaptiation at any moment in my sublet.

Pushy, Pushy

Living in a major metropolitan area on the edge of residential neighborhood and an entertainment district, it's not uncommon to encounter people who live on the streets. Usually they're gracious and friendly--a pleasure to enounter. This afternoon, however, a fellow stepped over the line.

I was walking over to the grocery to pick up an Orange Soda, drink of choice on Mount Olympus, when I nearly bumped into a straggly but lively fellow. He said something incomprehensible through his thick Jamacian accent and, assuming he was asking for change or a cigarette, I replied to the effect that I don't have anything for him. I always carry money in my wallet, but I never give cash to beggars on the street for two reasons. First, because they'll be able to see all the money in my wallet. Second, because to me change == coins. I didn't have any coinage, so I was being truthful in my changelessness. As I walked away from him and into the store, he said something about my having change when I come back out of the store [-ed. this wasn't a menacing phrase, as I'm sure it comes across as such as I type this].

This struck me as odd and annoyed me slightly, but I brushed it off. I purchased my divine libation, Orange Soda, for $0.95, leaving me with only a nickel in change. However, as the guy outside of the store was being pushy I decided to leave in the opposite direction in which I came so I could duck back home through the laundromat and avoid him altogether.

"Hey!"

Great, he didn't get the hint. Next thing I know he's back on me asking for change. I reached in my pocket for the nickel, but made sure to express my displeasure with a sigh (one that required no coaxing) so that maybe I could convey the idea that being pushy and unlikeable, especially when you're homeless, isn't good business practice. I handed him the silver while emphatically stating that this was the only change I had.

Evidently that wasn't good enough.

"Aw man, come on! I'm having a rough time--I just got out of prison! [-ed. 'ding ding ding']. At least you could give me a dollar [-ed. 'foul! red flag!'] or something!"

Words don't do justice to how he delivered this phrase.

Now, I'm perfectly aware that these people are down on their luck, even though I'm sure life decisions, rather than luck, has had much to do with it. However, the insinuation that I, a working college student especially, owe him anything was very irritating to say the least. Compound that with requesting a certain dollar amount, and it was just too much.

I'm not proud of it, but I told off the homeless guy. It wasn't even purposeful--it was more of a knee-jerk reaction. My voice raised from my usual 3 to a 7 and I became visibly puffed up like some sort of male toad looking for a mate. I made it perfectly clear to him in no uncertain terms that what I gave him was the extent of my change and that I have no cash to give him.

Furrow eyebrows. Turn Around. Exeunt. Shake head and give incredulous face to passerby. Recieve knowing nod from passerby. Duck through laundromat.

If you've read this far, the only purpose of this post was to vent. No deep observation to be found--just venting. So, to make up for this venting post, I give you a picture of the cutest kitty kit in the entiiiiiire world.

The End?

Sun dogs

I was poking through my hard drive and found this delicious morsel that I took last Winter outside of New Ulm, MN with my four year-old Canon Powershot A20 digicam.

What you see is a parhelion, better known as sun dogs.

Sun dogs are produced when the clouds between the Sun and the observer contain ice crystals rather than droplets. They always occur at twenty-two degrees on either side of the sun.

Being a nerd, when I first saw this I panicked and honked madly at the car I was following to pull over so I could take this shot. My day was then officially made.

Centaur Porn

So evidently if you publish your blog to your own server via FTP, you don't get the 'Flag' feature on your nav bar from Big Brother Blogger. This means I have much more leeway than everyone else, and can do whatever I want without fear of retribution from the faint-of-heart. That being said, here comes the centaur porn!

What?

Things that don't make sense

• Braille on a sign 10 feet in the air
• "Please remove lint from trap before and after use"
• Gold dollar coins
• Orchestra music without wind instruments (except for Adagio for Strings)
• Solitary hairs on my body of great length and odd placement (one on my shoulder and one on the outer rim of my ear)
• Non-scientist journalists reporting about science
• Jane Austin's writing of books
• "Could God make a potato chip so big that..."
• A dancing robot
• "If you fall off a cliff in your dream and hit the ground, you die."
• Why head massages feel so good
• Backgammon
• Wesley Willis

Now, please note that just because something doesn't make sense, that doesn't mean it's necessarily bad. Examples of non-sensical yet good things would be head massages, Wesley Willis, and dancing robots.

Don't Touch That

Let me tell you about our house.

Nestled on an island of gravelly lawn in the middle of a sea of concrete and cars you will find a red brick house. It is surrounded by what I assume to be wild rhubarb and a genuinely enraged tree that must be wondering what it did to deserve such a location. As you approach the door, don't forget to wipe your feet on the welcome mat! As this mat is in the middle of the yard, you will have to wipe your feet again once you get to the porch.

As this house was deemed a fraternity by its more permanent, non-subletting residents, you will find the letters βαλλΣ in blue painter's tape above the door. I will let you use your greek prowess to figure out the meaning of this for yourself.

At this point, you can enter the house one of two ways. You can open the door via conventional means or you can duck through the missing panel of mesh on the screen door. Either method is socially acceptable at this place of residence. Depending on your mental state at the time, one will variably seem to be a superior option to the other. Take your pick and go in.

Welcome to the residence of Jake, John, Erik, and Chris. Please enjoy your stay and be sure to have proof of immunization to all variants of Hepatitis and Tetanus. Also, please wipe your feet on the first and second welcome mats that are located inside the house. Thank you for your cooperation. You've now passed what can be best compared to an airlock into the house.

While at this point you can remove your shoes, it is suggested that you keep them on for your own health and safety. Please note sanitation stations positioned every 20 feet in the case of emergency. Each one dispenses a sanitary gel via the plunger. To activate the eye wash, use the foot pedal at the base. Pull the chain to begin a full-body rinse. If you need to use any of these countermeasures, report immediately to our on-site doctor as an extra precaution.

Sterile tissue and gloves are provided for your convenience. Should you come in contact with any surface, please follow standard emergency procedure. Upon exit, please place all articles of clothing in the labelled incinerator chute and proceed to the decontamination tent. A two-hour quarentine is necessary to watch for symptoms of fast-acting viruses. Afterwards, you will be free to return to society.

Please come back soon!

Montage!

Friday I reached the 100 consecutive curl/50 consecutive pushup mark in my morning exercise routine. This arbitrary combination of numbers is a milestone worthy of reflection.

Query: When being active, what do you think about? I think of music. Whenever I'm doing any sort of repetetive (e.g., exercise) or mostly automated (e.g., lawnmowing) activity, my mind is filled with melodies either made-up or taken from popular culture.

What kind of melodies? Why, montage music, of course! (Thanks to the lovely Kalani for "turning me on" to Castpost)

Montage - D.V.D.A.

Download

Hearts on Fire - John Cafferty

Download

You're the Best - Joe Esposito
Download

Holding Out For a Hero - Bonnie Tyler
Download

I hope this music changes your life like how it completely and utterly didn't mine!

Good Eats and Angry Bleats

Good Eats

As some of you may know, I live in a neighborhood in Minneaplolis, MN known as Dinkytown. Dinkytown is an entertainment district where--generally--upperclassmen students live, work, and play. I love Dinkytown, and I enjoy unlocking new secrets it holds every day.

Yesterday, I decided to patronize a small (read: small) restaurant in the neighborhood called Al's Breakfast. I really hadn't given much thought to the restaurant because if you blink while you're walking by, you'll miss it. Case in point (taken with cameraphone):

When one walks into this restaurant--well, I suppose 'shack' would almost be a better term--not only is one greeted with the intoxicating smell of buttermilk pancakes and fried eggs, but also a line of people whose backs are pressed up against the wall as they wait for a seat. You see, there's only 14 stools lined against a long counterspace. I took the following picture without any zoom. You'll see how close I was to a sitting patron as I stood against the wall, waiting.

I wasn't quite hungry enough to try those delicious smelling pancakes, so I just ordered the Summer Special.

• Two eggs, over easy, topped with fresh tomatoes, fresh basil, and fresh mozzarella balls.
• Two slices of buttered toast.

I am not lying to you when I say that this was the best tasting eggs and toast I have ever had. The eggs were perfectly done, immensely flavorful, hearty, and filling. Their toast had some sort of unique quality that made it oh-so-delicious on its own. Furthermore, the coffee (a house blend) made my mouth water as I detected a hint of chocolate with my nostrils. Indeed, my opinion is not unique, as it's been voted the 'Best Breakfast in Minneapolis.'

As I ate, a fellow from Texas behind me quipped that he "has been waiting for this meal all year."

Why, even when I was sitting in a bathroom stall at work, surrounded by the din of a colon that would hastily reject such a divine meal, I shouted out to a merciful God that it was worth it.

It was worth it.

Wikipedia: Al's Breakfast

Angry Bleats

Blogger has added a new feature to it's navbar. It's a button with the text "Flag?" that allows anyone who finds a particular blog's content to be objectionable to report it to Blogger for examination. By Blogger's own admission, any blog that is found objectionable, yet not illegal, will be immediately set as "unlisted," which means Blogger.com stops promoting the site and leaves the blog to fend for its own on the big, bad Internet. You get to keep your account, but when it comes to items such as the navbar's "Next Blog >>", your blog might as well not exist.

"Who were you again? Oh yeah, we forgot. We HATES you, precious! You cannot haveit the Mango. *assslap*" (Pwease don't weport me fow the word assslap. I pwomise I'w never use it again. *puppy-dog eyes*)

I fear that "Flag?" is just the start of something. I hope my fears are unfounded.

If you're as offended as I am, send an e-mail to support@blogger.com to express your distaste.

Dear Blogger Team,

I find the very presence of a "Flag" feature on the navbar to be, in itself, vulgar and unacceptable. As a company that purports itself to be such a disseminator of information, how can you justify the addition of such a hideous blemish to the blogging community? In the most grave seriousness, whoever supports such a feature has no place at Google or its subsidiaries. If you support censorship, you have no business in the blogging business. Yes, even making "questionable" blogs more difficult to find is still censorship.

Furthermore, I see that you haven't put in a button that acts as the antithesis of "Flag," such as a "Thumbs Up." How short sighted can you be? One of your employees, Biz Stone, writes, "[Flagging] allows the blogging community as a whole to identify content they deem objectionable."

Excuse me? I don't see how you can get a valid verdict from the blogging community when there is only one decision to hand down! Here's a sample statistic I'd imagine you'd get from a maverick blog:

Blog: Tina Talks Frivolously About Sex
Users Offended: 100% (Out of 3 Flag Clicks)

Yeah, real nice, guys. I just hope that Google never opens a Google Federal Court service if this is any indication as to how things are judged in your realm.

In short, this is an infuriating feature that is a slap in the face to anyone that believes in the free and unfettered flow of information. Period. Where do you stand?

Sincerely,
Erik Axdahl

(note that you will only see this feature on blogs who have "republished" since the implementation of "Censor?" )

Half-Nekked Thursday?

So there's this guy, right? He's Osbasso, and he's the Grand Poobah in a certain circle of the blogging community of a tradition known as Half-Nekked Thursday. It's been going on for awhile and I'm late. But (aha!) I have an excuse! I was...dog ate my homework?

Now I realize that one of the guidelines is that facial shots be limited. Well, Captain Semantics to the rescue: this is a limited shot of my face!

Can you see the bottom of my chin? Didn't think so.

Sure, I could have taken a picture of my feet covered in Minnesota dew or a photo of my family-trait oversized ribcage. This particular image, however, has a certain sentimentality for me. When I study my mouth, I am reminded of my father; my eyes, my mother. My nose, a Roman. Pick your favorite Roman. I choose Russell Crowe.

This face is brought to you by France, Norway, and Montenegro.

Happy Panda!

There is a show on Comedy Central that holds the Tuesday 9:30 P.M. C.S.T. timeslot. It is called Stella. When I watch it with my eyes I am filled with a joy so complete that my old pirate bones regain their strength so that I may once again sail the seven seas. Let's see...there's the Mediterranean...China...Red...Hudson. Yep, that's all I've got. I'll start with those.

This brings me to my next topic: my height.

I am 5'10'' tall. While this may be average for a male, it rates a 'D' in terms of the height of the members of my extended and immediate family. Every single male of high school age or older in the Norwegian Axdahl lineage are understandably patagonian in their height, with the exception of three. Two of them are uncles that married into the family--they don't count for height comparison. The other is my great-grandfather, but he slouches all the time.

I am a genetic anomaly. A mutant, if you will.

On the other hand, my height of 70 inches does fall nicely between the astronaut selection requirement of 60 to 76 inches. There's hope yet for my being the first moonbase commander. However, that does nothing to keep me from feeling like an organ grinder's monkey when the family reunions roll around. A small, scurrying, chattering monkey. With a fez.

And a tassle.

And a little red vest.

And everyone throwing peanuts at me doesn't help this distorted self-perception all.

Aktiv

I was going through my morning routine when I noticed the subtext under the brand-name of a roommate's bottle of Garnier Fructis:

With Active Fruit Concentrate

I wonder what the science is behind putting active fruit in your hair. What's the difference between active fruit and regular fruit, anyways? Maybe I should be using apple sauce instead of Suave.

Today's exercise-o-gram: 90 curls, 45 pushups.

Trolls, Wizards, and Fairy Kings

I'll make an educated guess that there's a 68% chance whenever a group of friends coalesce into a chat-pod the topic of childhood television shows will come up. I don't care how old they are, the only exception being octogenarians. They'll probably talk about their first memories of penicillin.

Whenever the topic (sometimes forced by me) comes up amongst me and my friends, the standard fare is unearthed. Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. Gummi Bears. Pee Wee Herman's Playhouse. Mr. Roger's Neighborhood. Reading Rainbow. Sometimes even Doug and Reboot. The favorites amongst these shows are always debated, but there's one that always garners the same reaction from people.

David the Gnome

Some people remember it immediately, others are at first confused. That is, of course, until I start singing the theme song. During the course of the lyrics people will find a deluge of childhood memories rushing back into them like a typhoon of innocence from which they cannot take shelter.

Look around you...there are many things to see!
That some would say...could never be.
These things I know...It's true and I will TELL you so!
They are there to see...if you believe.
Trolls and wizards and fairy kings..birds that talk and fish that sing!
And if your heart is truuuuue then you will find them tooooo.
In every wish and dream and happy home you will find the kingdom of the gnome.

(If that didn't do it for you, I of course have the video of the intro for your watching pleasure. I hope that you wouldn't have expected anything less of me.)

As soon as I (and anyone else who may have joined in) would sing that final word, everyone invariably will be all bambi-eyed at the thought of their childhood friend with the tall red hat (so that the owls wouldn't mistake him for a scurrying mouse!). For some, such as myself, those lyrics create a more holistic impression of their childhood--years are relived in a single moment.

Cartoons today just don't invoke an emotional response from me (besides laughter, in the case of Family Guy). It's only when I see that characteristic animation of the 80's and early 90's that I get a stab of what can only be described as yearning. I miss David.

THE INTERNET

When I got back to work this evening I discovered that the Internet had gone out for the night with it's more fun, more-important-than-me friends. So here I am at a coffee shop using their Internet (nyeh!), which makes me feel crunchy. Coincidentally, that's the perfect forced segue to my next point of order.

My whole life I've grown up with creamy peanut butter, and I don't regret a minute of it. There's nothing like piping hot toast with some creamy, smooth peanut butter slathered all over it. Just pop it in your mouth and let it be overrun with a deluge of goodness. Do not distort the meaning of my last sentence.

However, when it comes to cold sandwiches such as PB&J, nothing quite compares to the heartiness (if one can use such a modifier in relation to peanut butter) of the crunchy variety. Those quasi-intact peanuts leave you feeling like you actually ate something of value rather than the flaccid, bready concoction that it actually was.

Now, Jif has another kid in the family: Jif EXTRA CRUNCHY Peanut Butter.

E.C. is what I've been putting on my sandwiches recently. I'll admit that E.C. is a little too crunchy for my tastes, even though I can still appreciate it. However, I really need a little more creaminess in there in order to emotionally feel the cohesiveness of the paste and be truly satisfied. Why, then, do I choose it over the Regular Crunchy (R.C.) variety? Because, my comrades, I have no choice. I have no choice because R.C. has been labeled (in a green banner near the top of the label) as "Reduced Fat." Any food that is so labeled has historically been red-flagged and black listed in my mind.

Why?

I really have no logical reason. You might as well add it to the list of my other compulsions. The fact of the matter is, however, that my taste buds shrivel at the sight. Therefore, until this ban of un-health on R.C. is lifted, I will be stuck in a peanut buttery limbo.

Not quite peanut butter heaven, but not quite peanut butter hell. Rather, it is a peanut butter purgatory in which I pay my penance.



Today's exercise tally: 70 curls, 35 pushups.

THEY Comin' to aMERicA!

I was watching the Today Show this morning and a local advertisement heralded that Neil Diamond would be in Minneapolis at the end of August. This excited me.

Furthermore, the thought to go to said concert, though fleeting, was present. Is this healthy behavior for a twenty year-old?

Also, would anyone be interested in going to Cirque du Soleil's Corteo with me when it comes to Minneapolis in September/October?



Morning exercise count: 60 curls. 30 pushups.

Seditentuatary

Now Mom, I am keenly aware that your only boy is the most handsome person in the world. That goes without saying, of course. However, he does need some exercise.

I lead a largely...oh...sedimentary lifestyle. I mean that specifically in the sense of sediment accumulation turning me into a rock. Now when I say "rock," I don't mean for you to conjour an image of a hard rock, one that has firm abs and a chiseled physique. Instead, it would be more fitting to picture a lava flow rolling down an incline, solidifying into odd shapes and dispatching squirrels and Bambies in the process.

Of course, I speak in the relative sense. Please allow me to explain.

Up until this previous year of college, I was blessed with a No-Work Required body that was lean and would promt questions as to what I do to work out.

"*chortle* Exercise? Why, I do nothing of the sort! This is my natural, classical, symmetric body! Now if you will excuse me, my father Zeus wishes me to return to Mount Olympus! *disappears in lightning flash*"

Indeed, if I ever did get any fat, it would deposit itself strategically as to appear to be muscle.

This year, however, was different. My plateau weight of 135 pounds (for a 5'10'' frame) suddenly jumped to 145 without warning.

"That's odd...I don't remember eating a 10-lb dinner. It must be all these clothes I'm wearing. *steps off scale, naked*"

Compound this sudden weight gain with a major that requires holding still for extended periods at a time while staring at feature-length equations and a full time job during the summer that requires sitting in front of a computer for eight hours while running scripts (*pushes nonexistant glasses up nose*), and it should come to no suprise that I might just be a tad out of shape.

So starting today I'm going to convert back to the way of the healthy. This morning, instead of buying an Orange Fanta from the breakroom, I bought an Orange Juice. It was a rude awakening, as Tropicana isn't exactly my favorite brand of the aformentioned libation. In fact, my reaction as I downed the stuff could best be compared to that of a pale, bald, pointy-eared, thin-framed Dracula who hisses at the sight water.

(Vampires don't like water, right? Or am I thinking of witches? Or is it just the Wicked Witch of the West? I hope the witches aren't offended at my generalization.)

I'll also try to get back into the habit of push-ups and sit-ups, a practice that I took up and abandoned one summer. The routine was going very well (adding 10 situps and 5 push-ups to the previous day's total) until I got my wisdom teeth out and discovered Codeine.

"Hmmm...I could exercise, be healthy, and hang out with friends. But...just sitting here seems to be a much better idea because wow, man, that wall...is just so deep."

Soooo Yesterday

Yesterday Evening

Yesterday evening, after a rejuvinating weekend in Duluth, I embarked on the two-hour journey back to Minneapolis. This brings me to my next, clichéd point.

When will people learn to use blinkers?

It seems that 95% of drivers use the signal not to convey the message "I plan to turn/change lanes soon," but to exclaim "I AM TURNING/CHANGING LANES RIGHT NOW! GET OUTTA THE WAY!" This is because, in most cases, the blinker is only turned on the instant that the driver is making a turn/lane change.

Yes, yes, I can see your car physically moving from one lane to another--turning on your blinker at this point would be superfluous.

Why, some even turn their blinker on midway through their lane-change. The line of thought that would accompany such an action is one that baffles and confuses me greatly, sometimes to the point of crocodile tears.

Yesterday Night

I went to a neighborhood cafe by the name of Espresso Royale to unwind from the drive with a Italian Soda and Albert Camus' The Plague.

Don't I sound like an intellectual snob?

My reading was interrupted at about 9 o'clock by an enthusiastic, talkative cousin of two collegiate sisters who were entertaining her for the week. Their names were Jenelle, Megan, and (?), respectively.

I'll admit that I was quite alright with being interrupted, whatwith having no roommate for two weeks starting last friday, and the friendly conversation lasted until approximately 11:45. Meeting new people is exciting for me because even though I consider myself friendly, I tend to not be outgoing when it comes to people I don't know.

Jenelle has a pre-occupation with the Playboy culture. In reference to the desire to visit the Playboy Mansion, she had this to say:

"I just want to walk in those big doors and look around--and then be escored off the premises because 'this is private property.' "

Fresh Air

Standard fare between two roomies:

HiImChrisx3: remember surge?
SenorPapaBear: I never used it
SenorPapaBear: I bet you were a user
SenorPapaBear: or Tyler
HiImChrisx3: frickin right
SenorPapaBear: ORBOTH
SenorPapaBear: Orboth
HiImChrisx3: tyler says he doesn't remember it being
that awesome
SenorPapaBear: I am Orboth, destroyer of galaxies
HiImChrisx3: www.savesurge.org
HiImChrisx3: but i remember it being "THE SHIT"
SenorPapaBear:I always preferred goat milk

So, in conclusion, may you all be touched by His noodly appendage.

Mama said there'd be days like this...

Yesterday was just one of those days, you know? I'm practicing my prowess in a little program I like to call MATLAB, so I've produced a graph of my day for you using a cubic spline interpolation to smooth the data. I've also placed nebulous annotations on the graph. You're welcome!
I assure you, my precious ducklings, that if I had a pair of glasses to push up my nose, I would.

However, sleep does wonders, and I'm happy to report that I'm up in the 75-80 range. Not bad, if you ask me!

This weekend I go to Duluth, an oasis of serenity for the mind and body.

Grilled Phesant

So I was recounting my dragon grasshopper story to one of my aunts last Sunday and I'll admit that she one-upped me.

"Well, you know," quoth she, "Sarah was driving on the highway the other day when a phesant crashed into her car."

My dad and I were amazed, and questions came up as to what kind of damage it did.

"Actually, it lodged is head in the the hood of the car. She called her dad to get it out for her because she said that she 'couldn't drive into town looking like this.' I suggested that she just open the hood. Sure enough, she did and the bird just slithered to the ground."

Now you have to admit that this is an amazing story, one that defies chance and coincidence. It was so unbelieveable to me that I had forgotten about it until I recieved an e-mail from my aunt at 9:13 this morning. There was no body to the message, just the following attached photo with the subject line "grilled phesant."

Corn, corn everywhere...and not a drop to drink!

Rabbit Rabbit! It's August!

Paul and Ingrid's Wedding: Episode Three

Every once in awhile I get to go on a little adventure. This past Saturday I embarked on a journey to Cottonwood, MN to act as an usher at my cousin's wedding. I was bewildered to find out that the responsibilities of said position didn't entail scurrying around the sanctuary exclaiming "Ush! Ush!" to frightened attendees. Instead, me and four others had to quote-unquote memorize a list of VIP guests who were to be seated in certain strategic positions in the first four rows. It wasn't long until the list was disregarded completely, with only the first, and most important, row being seated correctly with the exception of certain people who had to sit on the aisle for mid-ceremony duties. Luckily, this wanton seating on our part didn't derail the wedding in the slightest.

I also took on other noteworthy, high-stress positions such as "exusing people for communion," "excusing people to leave," and "miscellaneous excusing."

Congratulations, Paul and Ingrid. You will have a magical life together.

Paul and Ingrid's Wedding: Episode One

Highway 212 from Minneapolis, MN to Cottonwood,MN can be best compared to a snake: It's long, winding, passes through many towns, and screws you about midway through.

In small town "Cologne," US HWY212 alerts its users that there is construction in progress 10 miles down the road. Follow the detour. "Local Traffic Only." I follow the detour sign by taking a right and immediately panic. After all, I have never experienced a detour in a strange area which I am unfamiliar with. Therefore, I decide that I will take a left to turn back towards the construction so that I may bypass it closer to where the road work is being done.

I take another left, thinking that I'll just end up back on 212. The road winds a little bit, and I end up on "Frontier Road." Whaaaat?

I take a right and see a sign with a badge containing the number 212. I realize this is HWY212--it just coincides with "Frontier Road" in this town. Suddenly, US HWY212 alerts its users that there is construction in progress 10 miles down the road. Follow the detour. "Local Traffic Only."

How can this be? How did I end up backwards from where I took the detour? I shake off this bad omen of the road's cursed qualities and charge full steam ahead into the brewing storm.

10 miles...9 miles...8 miles...7 miles...6 miles...5 miles...4 miles...3 miles...2 miles...

"Road construction in 1 mile. No Thru Traffic"

By now I'm in Corn Country, USA. I foolishly follow a truck that bypasses the "NO THRU TRAFFIC" barricades and dive into the belly of the beast. So there I am, a lowly Pontiac Bonneville in the playground of gigantic yellow beasts that could reduce my vehicle to dust with the flick of an operator's joystick. In my own defense, there were homes along the construction, so I wasn't FORBIDDEN to be there, per se. Still, weaving around hulking masses of machines at work while getting queer looks from their human masters was not conducive to serenity.

I decide that I can't take it anymore, and I find the next road perpendicular to 212 and follow it.

30 minutes later, after dealing with T-Intersections and gravelly roads with long-stretches between intersections, I finally am graced with a county road that eventually takes me to the other side of the construction.

Paul and Ingrid's Wedding: Episode Four

After the wedding, the newly joined families met at my Aunt and Uncle's (the mother and father of the bride) farm. It was wonderful to see family, especially my Father, Step-Mother, and Half-Brother, who all live in Pierre, SD. When I say "Half-Brother," I actually mean "Brother" as technicalities in blood-line and semantics have no effect on me. I love him and miss him as if he were the son of my father and my mother. Pierre is 10 hours away from my hometown of Duluth and 7 hours away from my current home of Minneapolis. Sufficed to say, the drive to this part of South Dakota is prohibitive when done alone, especially when you're prone to driving fatigue. Therefore, I don't get to see them very often at all. In the photo album at the end of this entry, you will find a certain emphasis on one person in particular.

The Axdahl line is a musical one. For example, when in church we sing the actual parts out of the hymnal, not just the melody like the rest of the congregation. One cousin is a habitual contest-winning concert pianist of high school age. Another is the manager of the National Lutheran Choir. Three (including me) have sung in a cappella groups at their respective collages. My Aunt is a piano teacher. My other aunt played french horn through college (as do I). Everyone has had some sort of competency on an instrument or with their voice. The patriarch of the groom's family commented on how they were in awe of the muscality of our family in church, as well as in normal life. We had, after all, just sung the blessing for our brunch instead of speaking it. To be with the family is to be with joviality.

Usually.

Walking out of the house after using the bathroom I saw my great-grandfather standing in a corner of the expansive lawn with my Aunt. He was distressed, and my Aunt was crying.

A cousin of mine and I went over and hugged him, which he accepted lovingly. He then began to walk back to the family gathering.

"Great-grandma?" I mouth to my Aunt.

She spoke softly, "Today would have been their 56th Anniversary."

Paul and Ingrid's Wedding: Episode Two

I'm driving happily on post-construction US HWY212 in a car with no air-conditioning, enjoying the crosswind that is pouring through my driver-side window, when suddenly I hear a *CRACK!* that is reminiscent of a gun-shot.

My life flashes before my eyes and memories of sitting in class watching JFK tapes with my teacher saying "Back and to the right" are conjoured into my mind's eye.

Something lands on the passenger seat. It is a huge grasshopper. Actually, "dragon" would be a better word describing it. He had hit the frame of my open window, cracked his abdomen open, and was blown into my car by the crosswind.

Fantastic.

Lacking anything disposable with which to clutch him for the task of throwing him out of the window, I was left with this unwanted corpse of a passenger until I could get the the next gas station. I think I named him Gerald. We talked about fusion jazz.

Hey, don't judge me. The lonely stretches of US HWY212 does strange things to the mind.

Pictures from the Weekend