PSTL 1368, Literatures of the World: International Perspectives

18 May, 2005

Back in the day, years before it would implode under the weight of its meth-head owner's extensive abuse of the company bank accounts, Shinders was in the habit of sponsoring and hosting events that at least marginally involved a certain segment of the population who tended to patronize one of its thirteen locations in search of precious goods.

No, not dirty old men looking for porn!

Geeks, of course! Looking for comic books. Or role-playing games. Or card games. Etc.

One of these events involved the midnight release of a movie that would finally, after just shy of thirty years, bring to a close the story of one Anakin Skywalker; illucidating his transformation from a terrible child-actor/mechanical genius to a black-clad, heavy-breathing right hand of the emperor (and eventual savior of the Republic).

This movie was called Episode III: Revenge of the Sith.

As one of the members of the mostly unofficial 'event-team', I was offered the opportunity to don the guise of Anakin's alter ego: Darth Vader. Given my well-established propensity to wear garish outfits in a ploy for attention, the fact that I accepted this chance should not be surprising. A costume rental of this magnitude set Shinders back no less than $120 for one 24-hour period, and I was positively thrilled to serve as the face of the Dark Side for this particular venture (Jake, another member of the oh-so-exclusive 'event team' was chosen to be Chewbacca, the [debatable] emissary of the Light Side).

On the eve of the night in question, I painstakingly fastened and configured the many layers and pieces to my costume, giddy to be getting paid to do something I would have gladly done for free!

Over the course of the evening I helped judge the costume contest, played DDR against my hairy companion to the cheers and laughter of the many people attending the festivities, and basically relished in my role as silent (the voice modulator part of the outfit was cumbersome and prone to malfunction, so I discarded it early on) photo companion.

On one such occasion, a gaggle of virile young ladies approached me and demanded I pose with them. All too eager to comply, I did my duty and suffered their many hands wrapped around my cape and belt. For the sake of the photo.

After an acceptable portrait configuration had been captured, their excited chatter turned to another topic: just who was that mysterious stranger under the mask?

I blushed (though they didn't see this) and insisted that my visage must remain hidden to preserve the overall mood, the reality of the fantasy.

They giggled. And then put their feminine wiles into overdrive, urging me to allow them just a peek under the hood.

I was helpless to resist.

With great trepidation, I slowly removed the hard plastic helmet and face mask. My hair was matted down with sweat. My admittedly oily face lit up with a smile.

They frowned.

"Oh," one of them huffed.

Without another word they turned toward each other in a huddle, cutting me off from the circle of conversation and making it crystal clear that I was no longer welcome among them.

I hung my head, and then walked away solemnly.

I made sure to keep my mask on the rest of the night, disregarding the countless requests for its removal.

Later, I fell asleep in the movie.

Content!

There is a certain class of edible substances that, when subjected to intense heat, tend to retain their temperatures for deceptively long periods of time while then drastically cooling down in the blink of an eye. This phenomenon causes those who brave the tumultuous realms of preparing these foodstuffs to—in the case of the former—burn the roof of their mouth and possibly look ridiculous spitting bits of near boiling, half-chewed mush all over themselves, and/or—as in the latter situation—be forced to eat a luke-warm sludge whose taste somehow is only a shadow of its potential (if it were to be consumed in that precarious threshold between too hot and too cold), or, far more masochistically, heat it up and begin the cycle once more.

Some items that fall into this category:
- oatmeal
- hot chocolate
- cheap frozen pizza (more specifically, cheap frozen pizza sauce)
- Hot Pockets
- lasagna

Strangely enough, most of these things are essential to my diet, leading me to believe that I'm either a) an impatient idiot who can't determine when food is safe to eat, or b) into self-inflicted pain.

I guess maybe it's both.

:)

^_^

FYI: Things Are Going to Be Okay; XOXOXO Teddy Bear

It's been a while, I know.

Perhaps this post is an indication of a shift in paradigms. A change in mindset. A heralding of a new age.

Or perhaps I'm just bored and you won't see me for another eleven months.

===

Day One

For no particular reason whatsoever, Shane and I decided to make a break for it and split for the Badlands.

We took his car because mine is in dire need of coolant, a new timing belt, and a smattering of other repairs that require more effort than I'm willing to devote at this point in time. Plus: his is faster.

Our eight hour drive started at oh-seven-hundred hours, Friday morning. Being that we are both such great planners, we had all of the gear necessary for a weekend foray into the arid landscape of South Dakota consolidated, packed, and ready for departure, and we didn't forget a single item.*

*note: this is a complete fabrication and we** ended up leaving behind a camera, phone, hiking shoes, and more.

**also note: by "we" I mean Shane.

Along the way we stopped a few times, most notably to replenish our and the car's nourishment, and to pose with oversized ceramic buffalo.

Oh, and oversized ceramic jackalopes.

Oh, and also undersized ceramic Mount Rushmores.

Upon reaching our destination we sought out the cheaper (read: free) 'primitive' camping area and set up our tent. As you may have noticed in the previous photos, Shane's right hand was mangled in a fist fight, and he was basically useless when it came to clipping tent poles in their place, attaching the tarp fasteners to their requisite loop, and essentially just being an altogether self-sufficient contributer; thusly I ended up being his go-to guy for anything involving effort of any kind.

The views were spectacular along the windy roads upon which we traversed, searching for adventure and excitement.

As we sat atop a butte (pronounced: bee-yuuute), watching the sun go down, I couldn't help but wonder... did I bring clean underwear?!

The rest of the evening was spent watching the Night Sky program put on by the park rangers and driving very fast* down back-country dirt roads.

* though, without full use of his shifting hand, Shane claims it was not fast enough

Day the Second

The whipping wind of the prairie left Shane to toss and turn most of the night. Thankfully I was not so unfortunate (requiring at the minimum a few hours of mediocre sleep to fully recharge each day), so, at dawn, I went for a four mile run before jostling my cranky compatriot out of his sleeping back for our daily activity: Mount Rushmore.

We drove the one hundred or so mile trip in good time, making it to our destination before the crowds had really showed up. We wandered about the grounds and took the required tourist-y pictures:

I beat a bunch of kids at the limbo and got Thomas Jefferson's autograph. We ate ice cream and speculated as to the species of visiting rodent. Shane said funny things about people who wore star-spangled banner clothing.

We discovered that Crazy Horse was only seventeen miles away, so we figured we might as well see how things were going there. Turns out that not only was the admission twice as much as our previous stop, the so-called 'memorial' was also half as finished. We watched* the documentary video on the mountain sculpture's conception and construction, and then figured we'd seen enough and went on our way.

* I slept

Shane was kind enough to stop on the side of the road so I could go swimming in a nice, cold lake. At the recommendation of a local girl wading about at the time, I climbed up the rock face and stared down fifty feet into the water below. Eventually, the cat-calls of a few of her friends enticed me to launch myself off.

Due to the fact that I was watching the water approach with my head pulled a bit too far forward, when I hit the surface I blacked out for a second and surfaced with a massive headache. Once I reached the shore, Shane diagnosed me with a mild concussion, on account of my non-dilating pupils. We decided I should not nap for a few hours, just in case.

Additionally, as I was getting dressed, I discovered that I had accidentally crushed my glasses while getting into the swimsuit, leaving me mostly blind for the rest of our trip.

After a long drive back to the Badlands (during which I successfully didn't die while sleeping), we made a quick stop at the Prairie Dog Village to feed the gophers. We soon learned that by charging 50¢ a bag for unsalted prairie dog food (shelled peanuts) the proprietor has ensured that no prairie dog in the vicinity would ever want for peanuts, nor would they react with anything other than quiet incredulity when two saps--like Shane and me--try in vain to get them to accept our humble offerings.

After failing time and time again, we hung our heads and trudged back into the Badlands proper for our final night of holiday.

After a short rain shower, we hiked a bit into the wild and set up the tent out of sight of the roads and trails. The rest of the evening was spent stomping about barefoot, reading, meditating, unraveling the mysteries of the feminine species, and drinking whiskey.

No real progress was made.

Day Tres

We woke up at dawn, jumped in the STI, and drove home. Tremendously uneventfully.