tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-48640802809522515282024-02-20T21:17:34.819-08:00Josh for ThoughtJoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.comBlogger181125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-1594394566936413312014-07-24T17:31:00.001-07:002014-07-24T17:31:41.203-07:00Day CLVIII: Jay<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXWmf8-qQ_z3BJipCBagnEQqiCSqMIrcrLGv0XWcEplCuyyxkeALYh6tTn2fdOrm1-RfLzgmm9DjQam8iVBsFmAUino5ojD4kNQFmDNuWGKKmdXhy2QNI9QxjSCtz7e8YsfnMrRL4fMWc/s1600/photo+2+(28).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXWmf8-qQ_z3BJipCBagnEQqiCSqMIrcrLGv0XWcEplCuyyxkeALYh6tTn2fdOrm1-RfLzgmm9DjQam8iVBsFmAUino5ojD4kNQFmDNuWGKKmdXhy2QNI9QxjSCtz7e8YsfnMrRL4fMWc/s1600/photo+2+(28).JPG" height="320" width="180" /></a>Last night, Garrick and I went to a concert.<br />
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If you haven't heard of Jay Brannan, you should give him a listen.<br />
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He's a melancholy sort of guy. His stage presence is calm, with a certain jitteryness that is so damn endearing. I appreciate his lukewarm demeanor: there's a gentleness to him, tinted with small tinctures of sadness, that give his aura a much more approachable feel.<br />
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Compared to his tour-mate, Bitch (seriously that's her stage name), and her partner, DJ Alligator, Jay is far more relatable. With a name like that, though, you can't expect to feel too enamored. Still, Bitch possesses a humanness all her own. She's fun, for one, and more than willing to connect with her audiences. I think the latter is pretty important, especially in an intimate venue like Triple Rock.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw1-yqrJjAxXLdir-sS8dxXsKd1hCVVZqLCUOEO2KpWW9FNj3r1HPGEV2bJwCgkMH-T11jq6tDYmxy_IBeVzAYwWvw8f6DyHqBjAaM7MbxdVfyuhG9E8zDy7TMXOKkJEnm9mhx9lSZ4OQ/s1600/photo+1+(28).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhw1-yqrJjAxXLdir-sS8dxXsKd1hCVVZqLCUOEO2KpWW9FNj3r1HPGEV2bJwCgkMH-T11jq6tDYmxy_IBeVzAYwWvw8f6DyHqBjAaM7MbxdVfyuhG9E8zDy7TMXOKkJEnm9mhx9lSZ4OQ/s1600/photo+1+(28).JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a><br />
My favorite thing about Jay, not counting his soothing voice, comfortable attire, and heart-breaking songs: his barbie toe. Oh, you're not familiar with the concept?<br />
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Allow me. <br />
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Barbie toe is a term that was first introduced to me via America's Next Top Model. It's a phrase that describes the pointing of one's foot to appear as though it might fit into a Barbie's stiletto shoes. It's an easy trick to elongate your legs and maintain a more poised, high fashion elegance.<br />
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And Jay is excellent at it.<br />
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Rarely ever did I spot a slip in the barbie toe. Especially in the right foot. It was always posed, heel-up-toes-down, a steep and beautiful angle between his ankle and world.<br />
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And, damn, doesn't it make you want to buy those shoes?<br />
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JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-35689153901783940962014-07-23T15:16:00.000-07:002014-07-23T15:16:22.409-07:00Day CLVIII: Sickening<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
Too many days, we fall down and lose the inspiration to stand back up.</div>
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It's nice to have the reminder that it's okay to make mistakes, as long as you remember that standing back up is most of the battle.</div>
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(If you don't know who Latrice Royale is, I suggest you go <a href="http://logosrupaulsdragrace.wikia.com/wiki/Latrice_Royale">here</a> and EDUCATE yourself.) </div>
<br />JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-27636837569758972822014-07-22T18:38:00.000-07:002014-07-22T18:38:04.506-07:00Day CLVII: Told<div style="text-align: center;">
<i>It's like walking through the heat all day with no water</i></div>
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Lately, I've had a great deal of success with my book choices. Nearly everything I've stumbled upon, paged through, or picked up has been remarkable.<br />
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Still, we have our favorites. And even in the midst of stellar selections, there are titles that are more poignant than others.</div>
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For me, Celeste Ng's <i>Everything I Never Told You </i>is that book. Ng's story chronicles a mixed-race family living in 1970s Ohio. Immediately--page one--the reader is told that Lydia, the oldest daughter of the Lee family, is dead. The following pages disclose a grieving family, long-kept secrets, and a stunning-sometimes-agonizing portrait of one family's struggle to move on. Filled with distressing family dynamics and several helpings of tragic, compellingly readable relationships, <i>Everything I Never Told You</i> is a thoughtful look at how we break and how we mend.</div>
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To me, the heart of Ng's work is the pain of the secret. </div>
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The secret that binds us, that exclude us, that haunts us, that breaks us, that defines us.<br />
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Renowned physician Paul Tournier wrote, "Nothing makes us so lonely as our secrets."<br />
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And I think he had a point.<br />
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<i>Or losing in an argument, can't get your thoughts in order</i></div>
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Vulnerability is a word I throw around a lot on this space. And I don't think it's too far removed from "secret." In a sad sort of way, they're opposites. When you're a practicing, vulnerable person, you cannot subscribe to secrets, at least not very often. When you do, there is this immense and painful guilt, a tumor festering inside your stomach, aching to be cut out.<br />
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Someone hand me the scalpel.<br />
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<i>Oh, the truth spills out</i></div>
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And perhaps I live alone on this planet of secretlessness. </div>
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But I doubt it.</div>
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And while there are times I feel that sickening pit swell within me and choose to go on living with its constant, pecking reminder, I'd rather not.</div>
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Sometimes, it's hard to open up your mouth and let those around you share in that misery.</div>
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Inhale.<br />
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Exhale.<br />
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Inhale.<br />
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Repeat.<br />
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<i>Oh, I, I've told you now</i></div>
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JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-86081025849186502642014-07-20T17:40:00.001-07:002014-07-20T17:40:09.052-07:00Day CLVI: Scout<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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I was working at Subway when my dad picked Scout up ten years ago.</div>
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He was picking me up after a rather long shift, and I nearly sat on top of her as I climbed in to the front seat. I remember how calm and friendly she was sitting there, just a little bundle of love and puppy breath, all nose and ears.</div>
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"Is she ours?!"</div>
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Of course she was. It was a dumb question and my dad made me feel silly for even asking. It's not like you just take a dog that damn precious on a trial. No, Scout was no trial dog, she was already a member of the family.</div>
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The older lab we had at the time, Katie, was my dog. Initially, we picked her up because Erick was dead-set on having a puppy. But as Katie aged and attached herself to the members of our family, it was pretty clear that she belonged to me. So when we introduced Scout to the family, I didn't think we would be particularly close. Katie already had that spot in my heart (and on my bed). </div>
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When Katie passed, less than a year after picking up Scout, I was already exceptionally close to the tiny ball of energy. Like Katie, Scout always had her nose to the ground and a tennis ball in her mouth. If she wasn't in the water fetching sticks, she was tossing her toys around for her own enjoyment, throwing and receiving all on her own. She had energy and spunk, and was exceptionally loyal and obedient. </div>
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Basically, she was ideal. The perfect dog. The kind of animal and friend that you spend a lifetime searching for and happen upon in only the most beautiful twists of fate.</div>
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Cynthia Rylant's book <i>Dog Heaven </i>is the sort of text you never <i>want </i>to read, but sometimes need. </div>
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And this Sunday is one of those days.</div>
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When I think of Scout, my mind goes right to our very first Thanksgiving with her in the family. </div>
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Black Friday, actually. My family decided to go shopping or were running errands or out on a drive. I can't seem to remember the precise reason I was the only one in the house. Regardless, I walked up the stairs from my room in search of some leftovers. When I reached the landing, however, and glanced over at the kitchen island, I noticed the foil and plate containing the stuffing and turkey was all askew. And there, just feet away, tail-wagging back and forth, paws splayed behind her like a frog, was Scout. </div>
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The only difference? Where her smiling face usually beamed was, instead, a turkey carcass, stuck on top of her head. The poor thing had gotten the turkey stuck on her head. It was straight out of <i>A Christmas Story</i>. </div>
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I think she was plumper in those two days following than she was at any other point in her life. She basically ate herself to near-death.</div>
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Over the fourth, I was lucky enough to see Scout in Walker. I can't help but think her efforts to hold on were for me. And for that, I will always be grateful.</div>
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For my baby Scout, my little perfect lab. </div>
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You were and will forever be the best.</div>
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And you will be missed beyond words.</div>
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JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-75319867928347466722014-07-20T17:40:00.000-07:002014-07-20T17:40:03.385-07:00Day CLIV: Island<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1deyJAq3vIZ-D5-znMzaMtroyfdFN0zzL3t573ac_bdXYffDzHW2CYrRpBGntQ7gm-TrM7_BPpem8pK6nCBFVOGfjIPhyphenhyphen1mO_3AjakYSr4cH3-JTRxa1PloLVJI-2JixGC66uKvBua_8/s1600/photo+3+%252819%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1deyJAq3vIZ-D5-znMzaMtroyfdFN0zzL3t573ac_bdXYffDzHW2CYrRpBGntQ7gm-TrM7_BPpem8pK6nCBFVOGfjIPhyphenhyphen1mO_3AjakYSr4cH3-JTRxa1PloLVJI-2JixGC66uKvBua_8/s1600/photo+3+%252819%2529.JPG" height="90" width="400" /></a></div>
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On the second day of our north shore adventure, we were lazy.<br />
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No, really, we were. We watched Anchorman and took a nap after lunch. That's how lazy.<br />
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But, we were also adventurous. And rather than tell you about how nice it was to be completely relaxed, doing nothing so well, I think it's more fun to talk about a journey Mike and I took to an island.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdE9bdvDXe2MJFY9YsUezcHzsZmr7Fwx3WurP56NQpl3g91E3IYa4BTGukFKVm9fXLWI-HxOKn2AwKZggQPRXTMlIzz8we-kAurEa02WpnaBRXqNMF1leqzCwETM0gD9loOymHrC9nLkM/s1600/photo+4+%252814%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgdE9bdvDXe2MJFY9YsUezcHzsZmr7Fwx3WurP56NQpl3g91E3IYa4BTGukFKVm9fXLWI-HxOKn2AwKZggQPRXTMlIzz8we-kAurEa02WpnaBRXqNMF1leqzCwETM0gD9loOymHrC9nLkM/s1600/photo+4+%252814%2529.JPG" height="300" width="300" /></a>Standing at the marina in East Beaver Bay, at the very end of the cul-de-sac, you are graced with the above view. An expansive stretch of Lake Superior, cut into by a jumble of massive boulders and rusty, moss-covered rocks. And at the very far end of this path-that's-not-really-a-path: Pellet Island.</div>
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The only way to access the island is via these rocks. Getting near the island with a boat proves exceedingly dangerous, and to do so would almost certainly mean the destruction of your ship. So you walk. You hike. You clamber as best you can across the rocks to an island far, far in the distance.</div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPT8xMe8FXSwhZXo8ZnBtIAJu4XhGuOc0-Noex4CcvezdERM_JWMjw5hcvbIW9SmkkoorAPqs5jEaKBNTwW8J_4J5RE_PR7e4QFy1-UDn5NgSq592DMCTYeAszSCqeJQQNn4u4dDUd5FY/s1600/photo+2+%252826%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPT8xMe8FXSwhZXo8ZnBtIAJu4XhGuOc0-Noex4CcvezdERM_JWMjw5hcvbIW9SmkkoorAPqs5jEaKBNTwW8J_4J5RE_PR7e4QFy1-UDn5NgSq592DMCTYeAszSCqeJQQNn4u4dDUd5FY/s1600/photo+2+%252826%2529.JPG" height="300" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">It's too bad it's so ugly out there, right?</td></tr>
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When you reach the base of the island, you hop from the rocks and onto a small landing of green and stone. Awaiting you, in a tiny corner of the island, a bundle of downed-trees and rope. Using these, you climb. You hoist yourself up and over the edge of the plunging cliff and on to the top of the island. From there, a path forks and winds across the walkable areas on top of the stony mass. Grasses tower over you, trees ache in the wind, and gulls screech and from mere feet above your head. If you take the left path, you find a small, downtrodden lighthouse.<br />
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Decorated in graffiti, the lighthouse is operated by a solar panel that feeds life to the small, minty light atop the crumbling structure. Just beyond the square base, the island stops. And all that exists is the potential to fall to your freezing, rocky death.<br />
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Let's pretend you went straight and slightly to the right instead. No lighthouse to be seen from this path. Rather, you're greeted by the most spectacular of views: a comprehensive glance of the Beaver Bay shoreline. And if you could see the resort just beyond the bend in the lake, you'd see the entirety of the town.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWwuKZxT2n_eW7EaDsWQj5w3yhSoX19KIvWMMcUmQVX26TXWezHhpPTNoz0Yo5cVQcl-6V-ga0dNleMJ859xl-tugj5vOKTAiG65XxvdwIMlG8mOeIhyM5F9bBBuAsMJ3bRAUiry355ms/s1600/photo+%252810%2529.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWwuKZxT2n_eW7EaDsWQj5w3yhSoX19KIvWMMcUmQVX26TXWezHhpPTNoz0Yo5cVQcl-6V-ga0dNleMJ859xl-tugj5vOKTAiG65XxvdwIMlG8mOeIhyM5F9bBBuAsMJ3bRAUiry355ms/s1600/photo+%252810%2529.PNG" height="300" style="cursor: move;" width="300" /></a>At the very tip of the island, the southernmost section, a small mass of rock and seagull poop separates itself from Pellet Island. A quick swim away from the main mass, if Lake Superior were not so damn cold, it would have made for an excellent mini-adventure. Regrettably, after stripping down and bracing myself for the water, I came to my senses--with a little help from Mike--and decided my health was more important. </div>
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It would have made for a great shot though.</div>
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Scaling back down the island, with the trees and the rope, was more difficult than the climb up. Just trickier and scarier, I suppose. The sun was a little lower, the water a little calmer. But every little bit was just as remarkable. On the north side of the craggy, man-made path to the island, the water was beautifully still. You could see for yards and yards into the depths just off the edge of the rocks.<br />
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We wandered back, quickly and with less time for photographs. The sun set and chilly air coaxing us along at a slightly urgent pace. Writing this, I realize that small sense of urgency was perhaps the only time I felt the sensation of a rush during the entirety of the trip.<br />
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And while climbing this little-seen island made us feel like royalty, I have the feeling that on Pellet Island, relaxation is king.<br />
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JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-18328176943398906842014-07-20T17:39:00.002-07:002014-07-20T17:39:56.218-07:00Day CLIV: BillyIt was my mom's birthday on Friday.<br />
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And what better way to celebrate with a visit than with a visit from her son?</div>
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A road trip was precisely what this weekend needed; the north shore is a pretty phenomenal place to clear your mind and relax. Sometimes, a clear head and a healthy does of doing nothing is all you need for your two day vacation. </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_aGwiOyny5wgCu5051x69wUdTCJ6EJBpEhm1P4ttdOpxYsqiExQztLtIonMVWgNQZkCvJF7Mi7vkXRIELanRqaTLSuZzLoQrRloOR1H0T9za4es_g7HWwHtCB2FjgNzHOfqWfGvtHT_0/s1600/photo+1+(27).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_aGwiOyny5wgCu5051x69wUdTCJ6EJBpEhm1P4ttdOpxYsqiExQztLtIonMVWgNQZkCvJF7Mi7vkXRIELanRqaTLSuZzLoQrRloOR1H0T9za4es_g7HWwHtCB2FjgNzHOfqWfGvtHT_0/s1600/photo+1+(27).JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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So, following a half day at the office, a few lunch threats from Kyle, and a half-hearted attempt at packing, Mike and I headed up to the North Shore where my mom works as the F&B Manager of Cove Point Lodge in Beaver Bay, MN.<br />
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After a very quick three hours, we arrived at the lodge, checked in to our room--a delightful corner unit with a fireplace and a deck--and, because Beth Wilson is who she is, we began drinking.<br />
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A few miles out of Beaver Bay, in a little town called Silver Bay, we visited the local favorite bar. It was basically a cleaner version of any VFW or American Legion, and it was cleverly attached to a liquor store. Great idea, right?<br />
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Anyway, after meeting a few of my mom's employees, the lovely Liz and Kathy, we decided to start the night off with shots of Patron.<br />
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Hey, your mom only turns 46 once, right?<br />
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Soon enough, we all had cocktails and were playing our favorite songs through the jukebox in the corner. It was only the natural order of things, then, that we started to play pool. Three or so games passed between Stewart, Mike, Mom, and myself before Mike and I were approached by a local.<br />
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His name, we learned, was Billy.<br />
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We learned he was a transplant from Seattle, from Sante Fe, from Reno. A vagabond of sorts, he was something of a local legend. The kind of friendly that's harmless, but increasingly unnerving. Every Budweiser he knocked back seemed to generate a new tale: his time in the Airforce, his lesbian sister, his commerce tycoon wife, his dog named Jabez.<br />
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And it was never once with context, these spun, inebriated stories. So, it only seems fair to share a few quotes from him throughout the night, presented without context...because, again, there was none.<br />
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"This dog knows how to fit between boobs since he was six weeks old." </blockquote>
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"I'm not fool. I don't believe in religion. I believe in god." </blockquote>
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"It could be raining pussy out there and I'd still get hit in the head with a dick."</blockquote>
At the end of the night, as we were leaving, and after he handed over his phone number in case we wanted to take a ride on his bikes the following day, he turned to the local ladies at the bar. They were giving him a hard time that his friends were leaving.<br />
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Without missing a beat, Billy retorted: "Pretty good trade off; those guys were way better looking than you."<br />
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And what kind of birthday would be complete without a shot of Billy and the birthday girl?<br />
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Happy Birthday, Mom. Hope you had a blast.<br />
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Looks like ya did!<br />
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JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-33928862990177218962014-07-16T15:35:00.002-07:002014-07-16T15:35:58.774-07:00Day CLIII: GameMy little brother, Erick, had a white Xbox 360 that he never let me play. Funny, right, that power dynamic? Not often does the younger brother keep fun and games and exciting possessions from the older sibling. Still, that seemed to be the case between Erick and I. His room was always full of thrilling, interesting goods. And mine? Books, a few stray photos, and a box of speech medals. Nothing nearly as exciting as a stereo, cigarettes, and a snowboard.<br />
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But when I purchased a game for the system--Namco's <i>Eternal Sonata</i>--I was granted permission to play the game as long as Erick was not in need of his space or didn't want to play games of his own. They were rare moments, but they existed. And, eventually, I made it through the game, some 40 odd hours later.<br />
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And though I'm not sure how it happened, I believe that's when I fell in love with the Xbox 360. Which, I suppose, is to be expected. That's how love works, after all: creeps up on you like a thief, steals bits and pieces of your valuable heart, and, suddenly, you realize you've been losing yourself all along.<br />
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<a name='more'></a>For whatever reason, it tends to catch people off-guard that I play video games. There's always this strange sense of shock, of uncertainty. That they must have misheard me, that something doesn't fit. And, sure, it's not something that I am entirely forthcoming about, but it's not entirely surprising, is it, that a lonely adolescent would be so fascinated with the connection, with the otherworldliness of a video game? That a safe space in the emptiness between the physical and fantasy worlds would sound so appealing to a young child and equally so to a working young professional?<br />
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Two years after finishing my first game on the Xbox 360, I purchased one of my own, a slim black model with 250GB of memory. If there was something I wanted installed, I'd have the space. And there was plenty to be installed: 62 completed games, over 5,000 hours logged, 21,000 points of Gamerscore. Plenty of video game time over the last six years, I would say. (And that's just on this system!)<br />
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So it's been fairly strange, as of late, to be experiencing these feelings of moving-on-ness. A readiness to move on from my 360, to move on from a piece of hardware that I've spent so much time interacting with, so much time enjoying. Do those 300 hours of <i>Skyrim </i>mean nothing? Do you just say goodbye to the days-worth of time you've spent wandering the terrifying world of <i>Dark Souls</i>? Will you ever miss the hair body suit of Bayonetta or the sensation of reaching disc four of <i>Lost Odyssey </i>for the third time?<br />
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Do you fall out of love? Does the thief somehow return every precious moment they've snatched away? How do you even know it was love in the first place?<br />
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Gathering dust in our living room, opening every so often for a DVD or a quick bout of <i>The Impossible Game, </i>a system that I loved so dearly for so long has lost its appeal, quietly replaced by more utilized Playstation 3 in the confines of my room.<br />
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The right thing, it seems, would be to sell away the system, hand it off to someone who would enjoy and appreciate more than I can, more than I will. And though I understand that selling it benefits me too, the selfish, ugly parts of my being cling to its presence like this hardware is the only thing holding me together. It's a lot of strife over a video game, isn't it? A lot of stress for something so seemingly insignificant.<br />
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But that's the other thing about love: it conflates, confuses, catastrophizes. And something that sounds so petty on paper can be unbearable in experience.<br />
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Perhaps, I am making to large of a deal? Regardless of whether I opt to sell or choose to keep, I'll be happy for the time being. Maybe the temporary contentment will be a necessary step back from the situation, a needed measure to see with unclouded thoughts.<br />
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Saying goodbye to something that has brought you so much joy is never an easy task.<br />
<br />And what if you make the wrong choice?<br />
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What then?<br />
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What then?<br />
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What then?<br />
<br />JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-35864984353433789032014-07-15T15:36:00.000-07:002014-07-15T15:36:34.575-07:00Day CLII: FirethorneI stumbled across the Firethorne Twitter account today during some research at work.<div>
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For you non-GACers, Firethorne is the literary publication put out by Gustavus Adolphus College. It features art, poetry, essays, and fiction from the students on campus. I thought today, on this gray, cold, windy sort of day, I'd share a piece I wrote for Firethorne my senior year of college. </div>
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I don't care to share my writing--which I know sounds ridiculous because I blog every day but believe me when I say this is writing of a different sort. But this is already out there. So why should I not take a moment to re-read, reflect upon, and share it with the rest of the world? </div>
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<u>Parallel</u></div>
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My orgasm was lackluster. My orgasm was the emptiest, most fallible moment of sexual release that I have ever, ever, ever had. And it’s sad: I knew it wasn’t going to mean anything, the sex. Still, he had charm, poise, status—he was as much a package as you could pick out of the human post office. He was the one you wanted to sign for, checked your e-mail for, religiously refreshed the page for. He was the one that mattered then, matters now, and matters still.</div>
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But he wasn’t the one that fit. </div>
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Her hair is pressed tight against her skull, pushing the skin of her furrowed brow into the foreground of her brain. She is cooking scrambled eggs. They are yellow like the pee I find in the snow on our porch outside. Lucee, the retriever we rescued from an abusive cousin of ours—jail, now, I think—is too frightened to venture off the front step and just squats on the cement while her hot pee runs over the steps like a waterfall, the only waterfall in the world you don’t want to see up close or thrust your arm into. I never blame her. It’s so cold out there and I certainly wouldn’t want my privates sticking to the snow.</div>
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“That goddamned dog is never going to learn if we just keep letting her back in the house,” my dad shouts from the table, his paper ruffling in one rough hand while he drops Bailey’s liquor into a mug of coffee with his other. “She’s going to have stay out there one of these days and learn her goddamned lesson.”</div>
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Erick, marching Legos across the kitchen floor, makes his usual case with all of the wisdom of his five years: “She’s a good dog. She’s a good dog, Dad.”</div>
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“Good dogs do not pee on the goddamned porch. Now put down those goddamned toys and eat your goddamned cereal or you’ll end up just as scrawny as this one over here.” </div>
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He looks up and shakes his head in my direction and I say, “Goddamned bones just won’t get any bigger!” and he laughs like everything between us is fine. I cherish that part of our relationship. I like being able to curse at the breakfast table and make my dad smile before the WHAP of a spatula comes down across the back of my neck.</div>
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“You will watch your language in this house, Joshua.” My mother has a no-tolerance policy for swears. Truth be told, I don’t care for them much either; I just like the way my dad’s laughter tastes when it mixes in with my morning eggs. It is a promising taste. A taste that says: everything is just fine.</div>
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The after burn of the spatula on my neck is never that painful, and it never leaves me feeling ashamed or afraid or upset. Oddly, I find it comforting. Sometimes when I get up from the table, I go into my room and finish getting ready for school by rapping the back of my neck with pencils or hangers or the spines of small books. It doesn’t seem out of the ordinary to me. Really, it feels strange that no one else seems to experience the same feeling of calm as I do. When I ask around in class if my friends ever tried replicating the sting of a kitchen utensil on their cold, bare skin, most of them pretend to not have heard—they look away like something is uncomfortable and even stifle a laugh. Still: there is something about these mornings that feel perfect. Eggs, family, and WHAP(!), the pain of wooden spoon or a hot tong or fork fresh from the skillet. It’s soothing. It relaxes me. It makes me feel like I’m alive. </div>
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It’s arousing. </div>
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Yes, arousing. That’s the word.</div>
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What I struggle with now is this terrible feeling of guilt that accompanied that arousal. A guilt that feels so similar to this present vacancy as the two of us breathe heavily, waiting in silence for other to clean up or at least grab a towel. Sure, it’s my room, but I don’t mind falling back to sleep even in this mess. Actually, I would prefer it. I would like nothing more than to drift back to sleep and hide from this rift that’s tearing at the world between us. But I get up and I grab an old towel because he asks: “Can we clean up?” I don’t want to. </div>
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What I do want is for this piece of existence to fit into my life. I want to break the edges and force the interlocking pegs into another set of slots and persuade myself that it somehow goes there. That, for now, that piece is going to work just as well as any other. The tendency to bust the puzzle before really understanding the picture has always been the issue.</div>
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My mom is sitting on the leather couch in the living room, drinking from a steaming mug littered with Shakespearean quotes. Her face is red with heat as her lips press against “get thee to a nunnery” and sip away at the scalding beverage inside. There is something in the way her eyes narrow and direct beyond the steam that is simultaneously puzzling, frightening, and engaging. I wonder how she keeps them open for so long, how they manage to avoid shuttering themselves amidst that terrible, terrible heat.</div>
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“You’re staring, Joshua.” Despite the flood of hot liquid, her voice is frozen. “You know better than to stare. I’ve raised you better than that.”</div>
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“Sorry,” I reply. “It’s the tea. It just looks so hot. How do you drink it so quickly?”</div>
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“I’m hardly drinking it quickly at all. In fact, I am only sipping it.”</div>
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“I mean ‘How can you drink it when it’s just been poured into your mug?’ Doesn’t it burn your throat?”</div>
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“Sure,” she says, setting her mug down next to the needlepoint that lays face up on the table in front of her. </div>
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“Somehow, I don’t mind the pain. I think it even helps me focus, keeps me young.” </div>
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“Keeps you young?” I cock my head. Lucee walks over and licks my face from chin to eyebrows. “You don’t need to be young when you have me and Erick. Don’t you always say that we’re the ones that keep you young?”</div>
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“You boys do your part, but you’re only part of the puzzle.” She takes another sip, this time kissing “whether ‘tis nobler,” and sets the mug back down. “Life is a lot like a puzzle, Josh. There are cuts to be made, borders to be drawn, and—often when you least expect it—there’s a piece on the floor that you’ve been looking for all night.”</div>
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The last part keeps me quiet, keeps me in thought. I am nine and somehow there is nothing more interesting to me than this notion that things happen when you least expect them. How could we possibly go through life not knowing what to expect? Her answer: “You look at the box and try to match the picture as best as you can.” </div>
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When I go to grab the towel, I opt for a V-neck shirt instead because I think it might add the personal touch that was missing from the mess on my newly washed sheets. I wipe the shirt over my chest and stomach, desperately flexing my abdominals and pecs, trying to create some illusion of tone and definition. I give up almost instantly. I am naked, and it’s hard to create something out of nothing, to sculpt without clay, to paint without a brush. It’s even harder to impress the permanently skeptical, the infinitely proud. But I still try. </div>
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“Here, I hope you don’t mind using a shirt. It’s mine. I can wash it quicker than I can wash a towel.”</div>
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He nods and grabs the simple, gray cotton from the air as it passes in front of him. He doesn’t so much as say ‘Thank you!’ or ‘Great!’ or even a sarcastic ‘Finally!’ Instead, he rubs down the bedspread and then cleans off his stomach, careful to wipe out his bellybutton with a little extra vigor.</div>
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“Wouldn’t want to find anything in there later,” I deadpan.</div>
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He looks up, meets my eyes, blinks. “I have to get back. I have a busy day.”</div>
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“Right.”</div>
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“Yeah.”</div>
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“Yeah. Well.” I stop and the moment of silence presses into my back and my neck is suddenly very, very hot. “Can we talk about last night? Can we give this a try?”</div>
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“Okay.”</div>
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“Okay?” The fire begins to creep across the base of my hairline and prickle through my shoulders and the tops of my ears. “Is that an ‘Okay, can we go now?’ or an ‘Okay, I’d like that’?”</div>
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He steps up from my bed and stretches his sweatshirt out and over his arms, his head, and pulls it down over his chest and lower torso. He turns away from sad, inquisitive eyes and walks to the door. I hear the knob turn, the lock click up and out of place as he replies, “Both.”</div>
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“Both?”</div>
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“Yeah,” he says, taking a few steps up the staircase. “I don’t see how they’re mutually exclusive.”</div>
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I reach up to give him jumper cables, to make him laugh, to make him smile, to crack the frosty veneer that’s making these stairs an unbearable exercise in tension relief.</div>
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<br />He stops dead, three stairs from the top: “Don’t.”</div>
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When Erick flits around my room, energized by the same sugar that gave him seizures when he was four, I roll my eyes and walk out into the hall that leads to the kitchen. I let Lucee out when she scratches at the door, and encourage her to take a step off the entryway so that dad might be able to see she doesn’t just pee on everyone else’s walking space. </div>
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“Go on, Lu,” I prod. “Just a little further, just a few more steps.” She never leaves unless I too take a step onto the frozen cement. And even if she does, I feel guilty because I am forcing her to dip herself into the snow and freeze her privates to the ground. I always crack myself up a little bit with this thought. I picture her stuck to the snow covered yard and then myself rushing inside to call the fire department just like if one of my classmates had stuck their tongue to the pole that the swings hang from. I put it in headlines in my brain: “LOCAL DOG STUCK BY PRIVATES!” </div>
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And then I realize that nothing like that ever happens to anyone in real life. That sort of stuff is better suited for movies, for books, for make-believe. It’s better suited for photographs, for pictures— for the pictures on the puzzle boxes that are stacked up inside the hallway closet.</div>
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It’s cold, and there is nothing worse than a silent winter morning after you’ve emptied your being into an experience that is, in itself, a sad and quiet vacuum. A door opens, shuts, and another door follows suit. A car starts up and pulls away from the curb of snow and ice, and its wheels crawl up a hill as the sun climbs higher through the silver-lined sky. The radio plays, but there are no words for this moment, there are no lyrics that describe the disquiet that exists in silence. The air is heavy with thoughts and you can tell they are there because they smother the sounds of an angry engine that does not want to work this hard in the frigid morning. </div>
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The breaks are pushed down and there is a kiss. </div>
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One door opens, shuts, and I try to say goodbye. But he doesn’t look back and, really, there is no reason for him to do so.</div>
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The car finds its way back to my driveway.</div>
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I park.</div>
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The music has shut off, though I do not notice the change. Instead, the back of my neck flares up and my ears begin to ring. I do not look up into my kitchen windows just in case my roommates are watching me through the glass.<span class="Apple-tab-span" style="white-space: pre;"> </span></div>
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One door opens, shuts, and I step out onto the driveway, and I have not said goodbye. I can’t help but look back over the hill and into the sun-lit, monotonous sky.</div>
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I hop from one scattered pile of snow to another on my way to the front door, keeping my head down in search of something in the chilly banks. If I look hard enough, I might just find the jigsaw piece I’ve left somewhere on the ground. </div>
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JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-43324238648459349102014-07-14T16:26:00.002-07:002014-07-14T16:26:47.796-07:00Day CLI: 151I was 18 the first time I had Bacardi 151. The night turned into a hoarder's nest of mistakes and "I'm Sorry's," but I don't find that entirely surprising. A girl I knew ate plants from the hotel railings. A boy slipped on a wet pool area floor, and his head cracked and bled everywhere by the hot tub and all we did was laugh. And when he joined us in the pool, freshly rinsed from the pool-side shower, his wound began to spill once more, coloring the bubbles like rust.<br />
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In the year 151 AD, an earthquake destroyed two entire terrestrial sections of Asia. Meanwhile, in China, the Han Dynasty was experiencing--as history would label it--its very first era.<br />
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There were 151 Pokemon in the original versions of the game. And while you could only access 150 of them in the games, Mew was available if you felt like cheating or taking a game-glitching trip to Cinnabar Island. To this day, my favorite of all 649 current pokemon, Starmie, is available from the very first round of games. Red and Blue were great to us all, weren't they?<br />
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Psalm 151 is contentious in that it may never have existed in Hebrew. Still the church recognizes it as canonical.<br />
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When I sampled 151, drinking it in gulps from a plain, white coffee mug, I made out with a girl--perhaps several--and watched a 19 year-old blonde give a hand job to her friend's brother. One guy spat his chew in a Mountain Dew bottle. Another drank sixteen beers and then ran a lap around the Best Western. A senior girl, and board member of the sorority we were celebrating, stripped for fun and laughed as she rode the glass elevator up and down and up and down.<br />
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151 is a palindrome. A prime number, too.<br />
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In the Padovan mathematical sequence, 151 is the twentieth number.<br />
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Unquintunum holds the atomic number 151. It's a temporary name.<br />
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The morning after the banquet, where I tried 151 for the first time, I climbed into a car and rode back--in near silence--to Gustavus. I cried in the car. The driver pulled over on 169, vomited, and continued to drive while not a single word was exchanged between passengers. Atop the hill, when we'd returned miraculously unharmed, we departed with no fanfare, no enthusiasm. We said our goodbyes in knowing, half-hearted smiles and lingering eye contact.<br />
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I haven't had 151 since.JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-15675583642956799182014-07-14T15:39:00.000-07:002014-07-14T15:39:36.066-07:00Day CL: MissedI've decided there are too many opportunities in the world to ever feel like you've missed out on something.<br />
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And even if that's untrue, or unhealthy, perhaps thinking it will keep it apparent, keep it salient, keep it alive.<br />
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There was this moment at work today, lost in mounds of emails, wondering when 4:30 would rear her beautiful (if not regrettably absent) head when I realized that I've spent too much time fixated on things that are outside of my control.<br />
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It's sort of my schtick, though, to isolate, to fixate, to hover above a moment in time, like snow caught on a mid-air wind. Is it that all I am is a flurry, a bustling little cloud of thoughts and questions, roiling above the ground, unsure of where to land, and wholly indifferent?<br />
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And when I land, will I feel appreciated, and will it matter? Will I be missed? Will I be anticipated?<br />
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Who will I disappoint, who will I please, who will care?<br />
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Questions like little fogs of gnats: bustle in and and out and over and under and pull me close only to drive me away with their incessant buzzing, their prickling hum of "and then what?"<br />
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Breathing comes too unnaturally in the face of so many little unseen questions marks.<br />
<br />JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-62840524395389984492014-07-12T07:49:00.000-07:002014-07-12T07:49:10.607-07:00Day CXLVIX: (No Name Yet)The sun was exceptionally hot and exceedingly bright the day I brought Apollo home.<div>
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So naming him wasn't much of a task. I knew I wanted something powerful, something representational, something impressive. I wanted my vehicle to seem as strong and alluring as possible. That's how I felt about Apollo. </div>
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Why shouldn't everyone else?</div>
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I am learning that I got lucky with the first car. It was an easy, very fitting name that came to me right away. </div>
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For this one, I think I need some help.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Everyone, meet (no name yet)!</div>
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A spiritual predecessor to Apollo--2013 Black Rav4--(no name yet) is in need of a few more drives before his name can be determined. Until then, here are the best options I've come up with.</div>
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-Simon: A classy, nerdy name with an edge.</div>
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(or)</div>
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-Neptune: God of the Sea, and it was a rainy morning the first time I took (no name yet) out for a drive.</div>
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Have some suggestions?</div>
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I'd certainly love to hear them. </div>
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And until I have a name for him, anyone up for a car ride?</div>
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JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-31670222913615976422014-07-11T14:03:00.000-07:002014-07-11T14:03:53.364-07:00Day CXLVIII: ApolloIn addition to being the god of the sun, Apollo is the name of my Rav4.<br />
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Back in 2001, across the pond in a large factory in Japan, my little baby was forged in a hot bed of flames, machinery, and able-bodied hands. From there, he was transported to Nevada (the poor guy) and lived with a man named Greg for six years. After a stint in the sand and sun, he was sold to a small dealership in Brainerd, Minnesota.<br />
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And that's where this story begins.<br />
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It was beautiful August day, a few short weeks before the inevitable return to Gustavus would send me spiraling back into the academic madness of the school year. I would be living in a house--the same house I'd spend the next three years of my life. And though it was not technically off-campus, it was a part of the city of St. Peter, street parking and everything. So, I suppose it made sense to have a vehicle. I didn't have a car my freshman year, so journeying home to see the family was a trip reserved for holidays and special occasions. By bringing a vehicle to school, I would have more opportunity to travel back home, and plenty of reason to explore the area surrounding my school.<br />
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So we stopped at Denny Hecker Toyota in Brainerd to take a look at potential vehicles.<br />
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You know when you meet someone and you have that sensation of upwelling joy and agonizing desire? That sort of love-at-first-sight thing?<br />
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I had that feeling...with a car.</div>
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Perfect size, perfect shape, perfect price. I knew from the very first time our salesperson brought us to the front door that this was going to be my car.</div>
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My parents insisted that we take a look at some other options. So we did. We looked at a Honda, some Camry across the street, and a little bigger SUV down the road. And while I must admit the browsing of the other vehicles was less than half-hearted: sometimes you just have to trust the 19 year-old to know what's best.</div>
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And I wasn't wrong. Apollo was everything I was looking for in a car, and I treated him well. Trips to Grandma's in New England, midnight romps around the lakes of Minnesota, a five AM trip for tires on Black Friday: we've been through quite a bit. </div>
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I remember feeling miserable when our family sold the Chrysler Van--the one we drove to Alaska. It was like someone took a member of the family out of my arms and sold them down the river. It was crushing. You have all these incredible emotions tied to one piece of machinery, which sounds so silly(!), and you can't help but feel like some little part of you has been taken away forever.</div>
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So, yesterday, when my sweet angel found a new home with Carlson Toyota, I totally cried like a baby.</div>
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Like a mushy-faced, over-emotional toddler. An ugly cry, if you will.</div>
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But I suppose that's how I know he mattered. That I had a pretty incredible ride with my first car.</div>
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And while I am excited for a new vehicle, there's something sentimental and wonderful to appreciate about your first.</div>
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You'll have to wait until tomorrow to meet his successor, but I think he or she (unnamed!) is a worthy replacement.</div>
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For now, a note.</div>
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Apollo- </blockquote>
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You will be achingly missed. Thank you for getting me to point B in so many ways. </blockquote>
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-Josh </blockquote>
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<br />JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-90518038317385231482014-07-09T21:27:00.000-07:002014-07-09T21:27:15.886-07:00Day CXLVII: Lavender <div class="MsoNoSpacing" style="margin: 0in 0in 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I grew up hating the scent of lavender. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Mother told me that it was good for headaches, and she frequently suffered from what the doctors called migraines: painful, nearly devastating bouts of light and sound sensitivity with just a hint nausea and discomfort. She would apply little drops of it behind her ears and on her temples and then leave the bottle open so that the aroma could waft through the room. I used to think that the aroma therapy notion was nothing but a hoax. Something about a smell being able to heal: it’s odd and doesn’t feel like it’s all that researchable. Certainly, it’s testable, but it feels more like pseudoscience than true therapy. </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I guess you could say I’m skeptical?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">There was a woman in my hometown that wrote this book called <i>Natural Beauty</i> that explored the properties of natural ingredients and their healing powers for the human body. Even now, I can see the green and purple cover, and the very alluring photo of the author—beautiful, by the way. But when I think about the information inside the well presented cover, behind the smiling blonde, I immediately start to think about lavender. The soft, floral scent; the gentle, cooling oil; the subtle, delicate color: hardly anything wrong with it on paper. Still: I could not bear to be around the flower. Not one bit. I would sit in the bathroom and hide the scented candles in drawers and put chapstick on my nostrils to filter away the minty, natural nastiness that comes with the territory.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I used to think that my mom would just leave out lavender products to annoy me. She knew I hated it (and I don’t even use that word), but would constantly leave it around the home because it calmed her, helped her, healed her. All I felt was ill. Funny, no? That one little flower can help a person so much, but hinder another to the point of discomfort and, on more than one occasion, disgust. Something about that purple plant: it’s just not for me.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I remember: River Rock brought it on board. Lavender coldpress, lavender simple syrup, lavender lemonade, lavender latte, lavender…I think you get the picture. It’s already an overwhelming product to be around: and now it’s permeating my workplace? </span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">There was this specialty drink: <i>Midnight Garden</i>.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“What’s in a midnight garden?” –Clueless Customer</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Well, our midnight garden is the result of one of our bakers’ favorite creations, the midnight garden scone. It’s made like a mocha, that’s our chocolate with milk, and two shots of espresso. Then we add our own simple syrup that comes from locally sourced and extracted lavender. It’s quite the delicate drink! If you’d like, you can try it iced or hot, or even with white chocolate…” -Jolly Josh</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">People would eat it up. They'd hear the word lavender and they perk right up. What is it about that little flower that makes everyone so delighted? It’s the color, right? It’s a nice, light purple so I can understand the appeal. But everything else about it is just so repulsive. It’s pungent, overriding, and—to be a little anthropomorphic—cocky. It’s an arrogant little plant; it’s pretentious and condescending. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">“Look at me! I’m lavender. I’m delightful!”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">Yeah, yeah. You’re nice. You’re soft, you’re friendly. You’re a lot of things to a lot of people.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">To me: you’re just that little flower that triggers memories of all those times spent in the bathroom trying to avoid my family. Memories of sitting in my room, plugging my nose, and finding ways to ignore the upper half of the house. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">If anything: lavender reminds me of being lonely. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">One night after work, I tried an Iced Lavender Latte. And just as the acronym suggests: all I felt was ILL.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">But worse than ill in the sick sense, I felt sad. I felt like that little boy in his room with his blankets and his books and no one around to say: hey, why don’t you step out of this box of boredom and enjoy some time with another person? Take your nose out of pages and your eyes off of words and talk to your friends, to your family, to anyone other than the lonely kid in the mirror.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I was surrounded, enveloped by movement and people and energy. Yet, standing there behind the counter, trying to wash the taste away with water and whole wheat cranberry bread, I was eleven. </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I was eleven and alone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">I was eleven and alone and dwarfed by a plant that any child could pluck from the earth.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">And all I could think?</span></div>
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<i><span style="font-family: "Times New Roman", "serif"; font-size: 12pt;">What did I do with my chapstick?</span></i></div>
JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-40932229157528822722014-07-08T19:07:00.000-07:002014-07-08T19:07:34.574-07:00Day CXLVI: AaronToday was the very last day of one of my very favorite coworkers, Aaron DeYoe. Don't worry, he hasn't passed, he's just moving on to bigger and better things. And while it's tragic to see him go, I'm thrilled for his new opportunities.<br />
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I guess when you're a member of #TeamTalent, you have no choice but to get yourself to the next level.<br />
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Aaron is one of those quirky characters that holds raw denim meet-ups and has soft spots for 30 Rock and Star Trek. The kind of person you'd read about in and want to drop kick; but, in person, he's great.<br />
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But he's also not one to shy away from a series of ugly photos.<br />
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So that's what we do. We send exceptionally flattering photos to one another throughout the work day.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDyc6uI2ciCqT_Vf2CK4dxRzlAtLG9hP3MJLQ9vhTHo5yKAFtyoH76opziQ0OiFyE7amYWjdRmxEpBwGTpKKeqVFAbngTTT10UzG9aunQBkk2F0dZPPzDsqQgcI-dYtynPjX1yxyv2U6w/s1600/photo+3+%252816%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDyc6uI2ciCqT_Vf2CK4dxRzlAtLG9hP3MJLQ9vhTHo5yKAFtyoH76opziQ0OiFyE7amYWjdRmxEpBwGTpKKeqVFAbngTTT10UzG9aunQBkk2F0dZPPzDsqQgcI-dYtynPjX1yxyv2U6w/s1600/photo+3+%252816%2529.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Egg</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxJrFfDBCtFAb65Q-UdqcMXDwxTDFxohQnSzgo8nWivzV5oSlFdEGr3D0N8I4syBMX-k4tcDJ4eMYU34mW-YE0nD0FBL-DPa0y6HrtsvEBwWXEQBfTvQ8V8aNpfEgIebEgLmfzLWDv3kk/s1600/photo+2+%252824%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjxJrFfDBCtFAb65Q-UdqcMXDwxTDFxohQnSzgo8nWivzV5oSlFdEGr3D0N8I4syBMX-k4tcDJ4eMYU34mW-YE0nD0FBL-DPa0y6HrtsvEBwWXEQBfTvQ8V8aNpfEgIebEgLmfzLWDv3kk/s1600/photo+2+%252824%2529.JPG" height="320" width="213" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">29</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI5pEC9V57PxV_bpTV9jYZes7fk-FzehBJRRK9d8mFZt0DdfsQAzeQ74ynGl0682yv48gQrB4otvOUvMnZnUO58IALV4A2lGqJDbAEZ94CRBX8BL_D_yNsOBhxp9TZ5vk3OZrk4wdYn2U/s1600/photo+1+%252824%2529.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhI5pEC9V57PxV_bpTV9jYZes7fk-FzehBJRRK9d8mFZt0DdfsQAzeQ74ynGl0682yv48gQrB4otvOUvMnZnUO58IALV4A2lGqJDbAEZ94CRBX8BL_D_yNsOBhxp9TZ5vk3OZrk4wdYn2U/s1600/photo+1+%252824%2529.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Beauty</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
So here's to Aaron and all his future successes.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
You're the worst person I know, and I really really hope nothing goes your way.</div>
JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-59987100763560343012014-07-07T17:31:00.001-07:002014-07-07T17:32:28.093-07:00Day CXLV: PuzzleTrying something new today. Sibley timed me for fifteen minutes of uninterrupted writing, from thought to page. This was the result.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
= = =</div>
<br />
Or how water doesn't always taste like water.<br />
<br />
Or how fire can be cold to the touch.<br />
<br />
Or how ice burns.<br />
<br />
Or how hearts fail, or smiles lie, or losers win.<br />
<br />
Every day is a puzzle full of pieces, and always missing so many.<br />
<br />
Sometimes I wonder if death is just the last corner piece everyone thought was missing but was just under the box the entire time.<br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: center;">
= = =</div>
<br />
I am six. I am in bed and listening to the furious clipping of cardboard puzzle pieces. They snap together in a hurried rhythm, as fast as my mother can put them together in their neat little lines. My room is lofted above the rest, the quietest room of the house, about seven or so miles out of town. On my bed is draped a pair of jeans, caked in mud, dried and flaking, baking on top of a dirty towel and dusting my room in tiny little accidents.<br />
<br />
I'd fallen in the yard next door. I kept sliding in the mud and rain down the hill for yards. Rocks and twigs and bugs built homes in my knees, made camp in my shins, forged families in the soles of my feet. That's how filthy I was was. Covered. Completely covered in one giant accident.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
In one little stumble: a ruined lifetime.<br />
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Or, at least, that's how it felt.<br />
<br />
Mom had warned me, <i>don't get dirty</i>.<br />
<br />
When you're clumsy, it's sometimes hard to listen.<br />
<br />
So, spinning through the grime and making my way to the bottom of the hill, my mind said things like: shit damn oh god please no why how what no no no.<br />
<br />
Derek is at the top, grinning, ready to double over with laughter. Hands clutched at his sides, arms powerfully crossed along his stomach, he looks as though the chuckle he's holding back could rip him at the seams.<br />
<br />
But Sunday's made everything so difficult.<br />
<br />
<i>Church. You have to be ready for church.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Go up and get dressed for church.</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
<i>Are you ready for church?</i><br />
<i><br /></i>
I was ready. And then I fell.<br />
<br />
The funny thing about mistakes: they don't care how much of the puzzle is put together. Or what picture you're trying to recreate.<br />
<br />
Or how many pieces get lost on the floor.<br />
<br />
So I guess you're stuck picking them up.JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-85384197406590902672014-07-06T19:23:00.001-07:002014-07-06T19:23:47.948-07:00Day CXLIV: HumidityI can't decide if the wind or the humidity is worse.<br />
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
In general, I mean. Not necessarily in the moment.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
There are weather conditions that are nearly impossible to tolerate, because they're never enjoyable to be out in or experiencing the day.<br />
<br />
And wind and humidity are two of them.<br />
<br />
Unfortunately, today has been both. Stepping outside is like walking through cake, through a sticky, damp fog of batter. It clings to your skin, get's tangled in your hair. Sits underneath your hat, seeps into your brain.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRCU8SHc51t-nAdrNneOV1hqS7o0WJNwy2H8tFTQEBcGMoqMEe3fXU2bud9HXrhqWtOQEUN-EjLGtxfU0UIXymv8IEyMG8EXiHz6GHCAPVTke4fZKATaVrXTJ56O5Ez2ICPFnORCEzq9M/s1600/photo+(51).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRCU8SHc51t-nAdrNneOV1hqS7o0WJNwy2H8tFTQEBcGMoqMEe3fXU2bud9HXrhqWtOQEUN-EjLGtxfU0UIXymv8IEyMG8EXiHz6GHCAPVTke4fZKATaVrXTJ56O5Ez2ICPFnORCEzq9M/s1600/photo+(51).JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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So here's to staying indoors. </div>
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And watching so much America's Next Top Model.</div>
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And playing so much Shovel Knight.</div>
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And napping three times.</div>
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Sunday: you've never been lazier.</div>
</div>
JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-10372685170001973352014-06-30T22:52:00.000-07:002014-06-30T22:53:56.654-07:00Day CXLIII: PrideI've never been to Twin Cities Pride.<br />
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<br /></div>
<div>
Do you even understand how much that hurts?</div>
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<br /></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU9geay577MHB3iLe7Jp9la0UpLgIPwlE2TKngF9n9AetGe3NLuIJU2AV6xSYoUCmXy38kxZl5xMjmwN1FFuEti6-jJYGxyRgirlWcVMBDBvwPcKWf_SNqC_YWl5TMyUuUjB8zZST9igo/s1600/photo+(7).PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgU9geay577MHB3iLe7Jp9la0UpLgIPwlE2TKngF9n9AetGe3NLuIJU2AV6xSYoUCmXy38kxZl5xMjmwN1FFuEti6-jJYGxyRgirlWcVMBDBvwPcKWf_SNqC_YWl5TMyUuUjB8zZST9igo/s1600/photo+(7).PNG" height="180" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Stone Arch Bridge (thanks, Ashley!)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div>
<br />
The last few years, I've been out of the area for work.<br />
<br />
No parade down Hennepin. No queens in feathers. No dykes on bikes. No dogs in rainbow glasses. No same-sex couples displaying their love and affection for the world to see in a place that is both tolerant and welcoming.<br />
<br />
And, for whatever reason, it really bothered me this year. It sucked to be so far away from something that I feel so fortunate to be a part of.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
I think the Twin Cities has an incredible LGBT community, and I wish I could have been home to celebrate that with the whole lot of 'em.<br />
<br />
I grew up in a very tiny town. And, not unlike the small population, the mentality was less than receptive to the homosexual lifestyle.<br />
<br />
And I say lifestyle because that's a word that Walker would use, that would be perpetuated throughout the community. To me, "lifestyle" is a phrase that implies choice, that my gayness is something that I have opted into.<br />
<br />
For the record, I didn't.<br />
<br />
There's this argument: <i>why would anyone choose to be gay, choose to be persecuted, choose to isolate themselves from the world?</i> But the argument is pointless. Regardless of if you feel sexuality is a choice, the issue doesn't lie in someone choosing to be some sort of way. The issue is that someone would be persecuted, regardless of their choice. That's where the wrong is: that there is judgment and hatred and oppression of a group of people for <i>any</i> reason.<br />
<br />
So that's not really a defense, and, really, their shouldn't be anything to defend against in the first place.<br />
<br />
And that's what Pride means to me.<br />
<br />
It means that, guess what? Who I am is different from you at a very natural, unsurprising, who-the-fuck-gives-two-shits sort of level. I just happen to be a male who likes other males. And celebrating that difference--especially in the face of consistent maltreatment and marginalization--is an exciting prospect.<br />
<br />
To me, Pride is nearly as important for the straight community to partake in. Celebrating our differences is an easy and painless way to knit us together.<br />
<br />
Pride is not an exclusive party for the LGBT amongst us all.<br />
<br />
Pride is a way to bind us together, in love and understanding, as one community, my favorite one of all.<br />
<br />
A community of humans.<br />
<br />
The kid next to me at the airport has been showing his Minecraft skills off every three or so minutes with stage-whispered one-liners like "wow, I didn't even realize I could make something that cool!"<br />
<br />
<br /></div>
JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-65078973673231725692014-06-30T22:19:00.001-07:002014-06-30T22:19:32.109-07:00Day CXLII: FavoritesDo you think it's possible to avoid playing favorites?<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
It's something I've been wrestling with lately.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Too often I find myself in situations that require decisions to be made based on my feelings toward two (or more) separate entities. And when those things are too entirely similar, too equally rewarding-and-wonderful-and-lovely, it becomes almost impossible not to select between the two based solely on which is your personal favorite.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Today, at ALA, I fell victim to this all familiar situation.<a name='more'></a>Every Sunday, the biggest feature of my blog is my Sunday Selfie. Unless it's for Snapchat purposes, my selfies are limited almost exclusively to this blog for Sunday Use Only.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
This week, because I was at ALA, I figured, hey, lemme take a quick selfie with my favorite spring book from Scarletta! I had a hand in every one of the titles, why not take a picture with a book I helped create? And then: the realization. I'd have to pick a book! <i>Shit</i>, I thought, <i>I have to pick a favorite!</i></div>
<div>
<i><br /></i></div>
<div>
Now, for many editors, this might be an easy choice, especially if you have more than just a three or four titles. You're going to have a bigger hand in some titles and less influence in others. At Scarletta, that's not really the case. And picking one to take a photo with is sort of like choosing a favorite child.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
So, I tried to include most of the spring titles in the photo, while keeping my, ahem, favorite in the foreground.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghS8Dm2KlvvzbgkCjY6eCdJVK0wtnEICCqM26HYy1M9OAKNxj8ovAGTDkCcUgtCRb8950lgtBvQIfbhn02STUV-Lt5oqM2-TpQlaMFKAYzhjc4zll8QhuZwfbz5FCUAZZMss05aIBtRqY/s1600/photo+(50).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghS8Dm2KlvvzbgkCjY6eCdJVK0wtnEICCqM26HYy1M9OAKNxj8ovAGTDkCcUgtCRb8950lgtBvQIfbhn02STUV-Lt5oqM2-TpQlaMFKAYzhjc4zll8QhuZwfbz5FCUAZZMss05aIBtRqY/s1600/photo+(50).JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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I love you, <i>Monster Needs His Sleep</i> and <i>The Shark Whisperer</i>, but there's just something so damn charming about an armadillo with a fork and spoon.</div>
JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-61845442927599462482014-06-30T21:59:00.001-07:002014-06-30T21:59:43.177-07:00Day CXLI: Saturday-L-AThe title is supposed to be a play on "ALA," the conference I've been attending this weekend, but, I dunno, dear reader, I am pretty tired and that just might be an awful, awful attempt at a clever phrase.<br />
<br />
Do you get it at least? Satur-DAY-L-A? Like Saturd-ALA?<br />
<br />
No, you're right. It's terrible.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
Saturday is the first full day of the conference, which means everyone is out of their minds. Reference librarians maul presenters for free shelving samples. Public librarians make mad-dashes for anything they can get their quaint, scurrying hands on. Dudes in black cargo shorts and decorated in anchor tattoos wear shirts that say "Guybrarian" and haul sacks of catalogs and zines back to their shuttle buses. Elementary educators ask "who's signing line is this?" and turn to the next best thing before they can even get an answer.<br />
<br />
And exhibitors? Exhibitors stand on their feet, chat away the day, and charm the pants off of anyone and everyone that cares to lend an ear.<br />
<br />
Well, that's what <i>we</i> were doing at least.<br />
<br />
Nancy and I manned the Scarletta booth all four days with as much charm and gusto as we could muster. And while today, Monday, was a little more difficult to do with a smile, it didn't stop us from giving out all our books, sans three lonely copies of <i>The Shark Whisperer</i> by the end the show.<br />
<br />
Saturday was an awfully entertaining experience at the booth, though. Our author, Paul Czajak, was at the table for an hour signing away copies of his books <i>Monster Needs a Costume</i> and <i>Monster Needs His Sleep</i>. The amount of people we went through--nearly 200!--was reason enough for celebration. Add that to the amazing reception we had from everyone in line and the amount of people we were able to add to our database? To quote my least favorite America's Next Top Model Winner, Lisa D'Amato, "That's pretty damn cool, man!"<br />
<br />
Oh, and this happened:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnwSaDIgPmp4IDvCvumTTlP-P7foYaFXmbae5wxDNXeRt-vMmgl80d1J2_6gqTpNhMS-S0Pej5forhyYoPlDFdMMvJn0PqvEX2uOnjnc_yRM0_SEHnPl3Oxc7NzdBxzklDmrr1RSTdn8w/s1600/photo+(6).PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnwSaDIgPmp4IDvCvumTTlP-P7foYaFXmbae5wxDNXeRt-vMmgl80d1J2_6gqTpNhMS-S0Pej5forhyYoPlDFdMMvJn0PqvEX2uOnjnc_yRM0_SEHnPl3Oxc7NzdBxzklDmrr1RSTdn8w/s1600/photo+(6).PNG" height="320" width="180" /></a></div>
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<div>
See that boys and girls? Josh Plattner in a pair of footed pajamas to match our very own Monster. And if you haven't worked as a representative for a book signing in a pair of fleece pajamas during the hottest summer Vegas has had, like, ever: you have not lived.</div>
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I am not kidding: the button I had pinned above and off to the right of my chest was actually perspiring. </div>
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Do you know what that means? I SWEAT THROUGH FLEECE PAJAMAS.</div>
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<br /></div>
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But I would do anything for my books because, dammit, I believe in them. And if I have to look a damn fool--and receive some lovely compliments about how well I could pull them off--then so be it.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
Saturday was a fun day at the conference. Everyone was excited, dripping with enthusiasm, and ready to face the eight hours on the floor. But for all the things that happened during the first full day, I don't think you could top a costume change like ours at Scarletta.</div>
<div>
<br /></div>
<div>
And, c'mon, I looked pretty freaking adorable.</div>
JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-55118454991377353052014-06-30T21:27:00.000-07:002014-06-30T21:27:48.554-07:00Day CXL: Flashback (II)Remember when I said Flashback Friday was going to be a thing and then I did it that one time and never again? Well, friends, bite your mother-effing tongues because Flashback Friday is BACK!<br />
<br />
For today.<br />
<br />
And, god, it's Monday. This is so late.<br />
<br />
You'll have to forgive me: did you know Las Vegas doesn't grant internet access in their hotel rooms? What gives, Vegas?<br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<a name='more'></a><br />
So I have been in Vegas for the last four days participating in the American Library Association (ALA) annual event called, wait for it, "The Annual."<br />
<br />
Creative, no?<br />
<br />
I digress. Last year, ALA took place in Chicago where we were busy hyping up a little bitty series by the name of Monster & Me. You might have heard of it. Target just picked it up to sell nationwide and it won the Mom's Choice Award last year?<br />
<br />
Yeah, we're a pretty big deal.<br />
<br />
The first book in the monster series is titled <i>Monster Needs a Costume</i>. And while this year has seen the release of <i>Monster Needs His Sleep</i> and will see <i>Monster Needs a Christmas Tree</i> in September, Costume holds a special place in my heart because Halloween is one of my favorite times of year. So, today, as we finished up ALA, I got to thinking about the various promotions we've run with the Monster series. And the first that came to mind was the Costume Contest we had last October.<br />
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Wanna see my submission?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDE4P6GF-R3InHuExyDHbL71Pit3Q2YTzNBMnOT-mazoPOnizkFOM9_1z8C8rIZ_UwWSc-Iv1WaPN3pIFDh-YoAqalcacjdSbHhRDpcHyRp2ZJGn8zYuY66vt_n1gXg6iKGkGIKrOZ9Ag/s1600/541448_10151776185716185_23222925_n.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDE4P6GF-R3InHuExyDHbL71Pit3Q2YTzNBMnOT-mazoPOnizkFOM9_1z8C8rIZ_UwWSc-Iv1WaPN3pIFDh-YoAqalcacjdSbHhRDpcHyRp2ZJGn8zYuY66vt_n1gXg6iKGkGIKrOZ9Ag/s1600/541448_10151776185716185_23222925_n.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a></div>
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That's a pretty damn cute Harry Potter, right?</div>
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JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-50128065060364913252014-06-30T21:14:00.000-07:002014-06-30T21:14:15.041-07:00Day CXXXIX: Suffer (I)<i>"We follow this figure into contradiction, into a confession that wounds are desired and despised; that they grant power and come at a price; that suffering yields virtue and selfishness; that victimhood is a mix of situation and agency; that pain is the object of representation and also its product; that culture transcribes genuine suffering while naturalizing its symptoms." </i>-Leslie Jamieson<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ZXjJXTVKTI2PM8jbDPsx9cXFoYSeU_rfvvU6pein8Ec_PUplMcDUWNIS105UnzInEnIAqyy-N0_ZWK-MeCpOHt3RD0_aAT-bEjt2Zlc-abXz49Yj-J6L-_FdBikMccR0CObD57RcNIQ/s1600/9781555976712_custom-ed6d216f73ed55eb053921dc630688676bb0dbe4-s6-c30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi4ZXjJXTVKTI2PM8jbDPsx9cXFoYSeU_rfvvU6pein8Ec_PUplMcDUWNIS105UnzInEnIAqyy-N0_ZWK-MeCpOHt3RD0_aAT-bEjt2Zlc-abXz49Yj-J6L-_FdBikMccR0CObD57RcNIQ/s1600/9781555976712_custom-ed6d216f73ed55eb053921dc630688676bb0dbe4-s6-c30.jpg" height="320" width="213" /></a>Briefly, I've mentioned Leslie Jamieson's <i>The Empathy Exams </i>in past posts. Perhaps the most unyielding book, let alone nonfiction collection I've ever read, Jamieson's work has been weighing heavily on my mind as of late.<br />
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And I'd like to tell you why.<br />
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In the above passage, there's this notion suggested that being a wounded spirit, hurt, or otherwise upset, is a desirable state, a fleeting and recurring phantom that we both seek to destroy and embrace. Initially, this is a hard concept to attach to. I don't think anyone wants to immediately acknowledge that suffering is something they look for. Rather, we want the world to be void of it, completely harmonious. Suffering? Why would we seek out pain?<br />
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What is suggested by this? That we wish to see hurt in the world? Do we believe that others deserve pain? Is it an attachment to justice? A twisted notion that suffering exists because it is necessary to punish? Is that even a twisted notion?<br />
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Jamieson outlines a few possibilities throughout her collection of essays. Throughout, she explores what it means to hurt, to empathize with said hurt, and what it is to desire those same, similar feelings.<br />
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But I'm not convinced that we necessitate suffering. I think, perhaps, we crave it.<br />
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Suffering is melodrama. It's an excuse. An exercise. A choice?<br />
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No, suffering is not a choice.<br />
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But, to extent, I think we reach to suffer because we're bored. We want to experience more in our lives than we currently are. We seek to destroy ourselves because we love the idea of our own saboteur more than we love ourselves. And through seeking this suffering, we gain attention.<br />
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I don't think to suffer is to seek attention. That's not what I'm trying to say.<br />
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But I suppose that's a small part of it.<br />
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Is it clear that I am working through my feelings on this idea as I write this? It should be.<br />
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To suffer is, perhaps, to be human. And maybe that's a majority of it?<br />
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As this conversation (with myself, ha!) continues, I'd like to close this part with a quote.<br />
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<i>"When bad things happened to other people, I imagined them happening to me. I didn't know if this was empathy or theft</i>.<i>"</i>JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-42641354614163527212014-06-25T17:47:00.001-07:002014-06-25T17:47:08.909-07:00Day CXXXVIII: Pube<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: left;">
There are some gross things in the world, you guys. </div>
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Poverty. War. Famine. </div>
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Just to name a few. </div>
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But there are a few nasty things that are gross on a very superficial level.</div>
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You know, like a dislodged pube in a public bathroom.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtuI2y3GaldbbydQGpQb6PdmIBS3NRQq-G3YmaAUbn2rnBrs2YxK_z-EDIENknUiezHGVN1YhAJbyH4xovLXz_SaUzCy-cBeIg0TvRVT2kAmaQo9rYcLv9KGe2T3sp2Ftehh7GM82g5IE/s1600/photo+(4).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtuI2y3GaldbbydQGpQb6PdmIBS3NRQq-G3YmaAUbn2rnBrs2YxK_z-EDIENknUiezHGVN1YhAJbyH4xovLXz_SaUzCy-cBeIg0TvRVT2kAmaQo9rYcLv9KGe2T3sp2Ftehh7GM82g5IE/s1600/photo+(4).JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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I had to do a double take, standing above, because I was pretty sure what I was seeing was a curly fry.</div>
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Nope.</div>
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Just the longest, most terrifying hair I've ever seen from a nether region.</div>
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And why blog about it, right? That's pretty gross.<br /></div>
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But, honestly, I leave for ALA in 24 hours and I am mentally wiped. This icky moment seemed like just the right thing to share.</div>
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<br />So, enjoy, and watch your step.</div>
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<br />JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-73519589693349576512014-06-24T15:28:00.000-07:002014-06-24T15:28:44.445-07:00Day CXXXVI: Snow (Sorta)For such a remarkably warm June, this morning's snow came as quite a shock!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmwefeG5Xz7tKcNZ_80ip2iPa9-gepVF0zS5LVpXJKP2mIl8zC_qrol9GpJoQLvthu_AFlgZif-2Qr1z7mh-ocolDhEneRL0_BV_FcElQEiyjNejmbRbprEEw7s1nh5NwIRGOU0itXm5A/s1600/photo+(48).JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmwefeG5Xz7tKcNZ_80ip2iPa9-gepVF0zS5LVpXJKP2mIl8zC_qrol9GpJoQLvthu_AFlgZif-2Qr1z7mh-ocolDhEneRL0_BV_FcElQEiyjNejmbRbprEEw7s1nh5NwIRGOU0itXm5A/s1600/photo+(48).JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></div>
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But, seriously, what the eff is this stuff and why is it so bountiful! It's everywhere on Colfax Avenue South!<br />
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We were walking to Bogart's this morning, because doughnuts, and everything was covered in this polleny, fluffy, downy not-quite-feathery madness!<br />
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I suppose I was happy to find out it wasn't snow after all.<br />
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My initial reaction was somewhere between fear and surprise; I might go so far as to call it a mild, suppressed PTSD-like shriek. And then common sense kicked in: it's hard for snow to build up on the ground in 80 degree heat.<br />
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Which got me thinking: how lucky are we with this weather? I know, I know. It's a bit humid. A little sticky. Perhaps the air is a tad too thick. But isn't it so much easier to smile when the sun is showering us in warmth, rather than a bright escape from thirty-below?<br />
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We'll see how I am feeling in an hourish. My roommates and I are throwing a cleaning party for our less-than sparkling home. And in a home without AC...well, it might be a sweaty situation. Check back tomorrow to see just how damp we're talking.<br />
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My guess? We're all going turn into sad examples of Alex Mac. (hat not included)JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-24281889858801821792014-06-23T17:47:00.000-07:002014-06-23T17:47:14.303-07:00Day CXXXV: HomewardThere are fewer joys than the sensation of returning home.<br />
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After a month, an extended stay, a long weekend, or even a stressful day at work, there is no better feeling than finding your way back to your own space, your own room, your own bed.<br />
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But, if you're lucky, the journey home can be as gratifying as the feeling of finding your way back. Such one return trip took place this weekend.<br />
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Before we got out of Fergus Falls, we needed gas. So, because Fergy Ferg just happens to be in the 218, we made a pit stop at Casey's, everyone's favorite general store and gas station. Inside, donuts were freshly baked (pulled from a box in the back with thawing instructions), quality meat was available for purchase (Slim Jims were on sale if you bought four or more and, let's be honest, who is ever buying less than six?), and slow cooked, artfully prepared hot food had just been gingerly pulled from the oven (a slice or two of breakfast pizza had just popped out of the microwave and found it's way to a rotating heat rack).<br />
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Ah yes, everything was right in the world.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwwofOd2L3PSFK-J696Wg-SlrjxMfijTTlOc4W6B69pfkt7pumXAKlwwvVySg3Ok9DQMC60Eo3ETu9tF2KKBIcVggjsJVgwgoosFqUEd3krEReXX01v5KvWZNww3qhooPBZ7rCzDfiF6g/s1600/photo+1+%252819%2529.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwwofOd2L3PSFK-J696Wg-SlrjxMfijTTlOc4W6B69pfkt7pumXAKlwwvVySg3Ok9DQMC60Eo3ETu9tF2KKBIcVggjsJVgwgoosFqUEd3krEReXX01v5KvWZNww3qhooPBZ7rCzDfiF6g/s1600/photo+1+%252819%2529.PNG" height="320" width="180" /></a>Inside, we bought snacks. Gardettos and a water for Kyle; string cheese, water, and a pack of pistachios for Sib; and string cheese, peanut butter and crackers, and water for me. Sibley also purchased a glass bottle of Coke, which I happily opened using a cement fence and my bare hands because I AM THE FUCKING MAN.<br />
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We spent the first while in silence, listening to music, commenting here and there about our night (during which we recounted the intensity of how I share a sleeping space. Spoiler alert: there's very aggressive spooning. See picture.), and closing our eyes behind our shades. <br />
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After a period of slight boredom, I suggested we play a game. So Sibley told us about "I Going on a Camping Trip" which, basically, is a car game that requires a knowledge of the alphabet and a good working memory for ridiculousity. It starts like this: "I'm going on a camping trip and I'm bringing (word that starts with A)." The next person repeats the phrase, the item with the letter A, and then adds something with the letter B. And so on. Twenty six rounds later, you repeat each of the camping provisions together.<br />
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Here was the start to our second shot at the game.<br />
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Eventually, we decided that Sibley reading to us from <i>Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire</i> would be more enjoyable than music and, goodness, were we correct.<br />
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As it turns out, Sibley's interpretations of JK's famous characters were more or less spot on. She did, however, take some liberties with the storyline.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBwestad15Umda-VxF0mropRN83yKXbOueYEtSZ2LeranH0CWDwWnTC4oao0ICvsG7p1t9So6QhB7jh3cBmHVmWPf-NR0dvrVS7IUBlVgWocxlM-EkJgz2nJW8F7esbX72h1w7o25X-84/s1600/photo+2+%252823%2529.PNG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhBwestad15Umda-VxF0mropRN83yKXbOueYEtSZ2LeranH0CWDwWnTC4oao0ICvsG7p1t9So6QhB7jh3cBmHVmWPf-NR0dvrVS7IUBlVgWocxlM-EkJgz2nJW8F7esbX72h1w7o25X-84/s1600/photo+2+%252823%2529.PNG" height="320" width="180" /></a></div>
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I think they call it creative license? </div>
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After a grueling crawl home, we arrived in the City of Lakes. </div>
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This weekend served as a much needed reminder that life outside of Minneapolis can be just as rewarding as time spent in the city. Perhaps 48 hours away from downtown drivers, uptown hipsters, an unhealthy addiction to Bull Run Coffee was precisely what the doctor ordered.</div>
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But, damn, did it feel nice to be home.</div>
JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-4864080280952251528.post-73494659813034299582014-06-23T15:58:00.002-07:002014-06-23T15:58:23.850-07:00Day CXXXIV: Snapchat VII<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimQSXbH4Kb-Qf8FGYe43jg63b4yCW35nvartnknN4g0KdctgYWEJfavaoJzarJkPDA8XZ2gxE2cSiiqO34Xay0l0noIpbUmP9TCak1Y4k0lllVwhIwCHWoN5NT7TznZbUxcoM2M_8mj4Q/s1600/photo+1+(18).PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimQSXbH4Kb-Qf8FGYe43jg63b4yCW35nvartnknN4g0KdctgYWEJfavaoJzarJkPDA8XZ2gxE2cSiiqO34Xay0l0noIpbUmP9TCak1Y4k0lllVwhIwCHWoN5NT7TznZbUxcoM2M_8mj4Q/s1600/photo+1+(18).PNG" height="320" width="180" /></a></div>
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Can someone let me know when they're cooler than Lindsay Lelivelt? I get the feeling that I'll be waiting a long time. Dat hat! Dat necklace! Dat glitter! Dat smirk! Is there anything this gem cannot pull off? If you're not the only one missing music festivals, this photo is here especially for you.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitLWau_rOVnbLPvgRkBGT-53ZHzGsIQgGUdvxRDqTwRJ99wudVodow4cFbB2LrZW-TQvQblsoTOK9Cy_zaByfb2e_LUFnwsXXexNLVDPN2F2pn2Q1Sms_iOo0-qdKADTpDmgzqBl28BKQ/s1600/photo+2+(22).PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitLWau_rOVnbLPvgRkBGT-53ZHzGsIQgGUdvxRDqTwRJ99wudVodow4cFbB2LrZW-TQvQblsoTOK9Cy_zaByfb2e_LUFnwsXXexNLVDPN2F2pn2Q1Sms_iOo0-qdKADTpDmgzqBl28BKQ/s1600/photo+2+(22).PNG" height="320" width="180" /></a></div>
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Karen Stenoien--I spelled that correctly on the first try, by the way--snapped me this lovely photo of one of the critters she shares her home with. Wouldn't it be so nice to just be a mantid? Hang out all day on you're beautifully elegant, long appendages, have some food splayed out for you, eat your mate. Sounds like a rough time.<br />
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Let's take a second to analyze this somewhat terrifying letter Sibley received this week. In an envelope, sealed with wax: a paperclip. No indication who it's from, no explanation, no additional contents. A single, frightening, twisted piece of metal and what has to be the grossest seal job I've ever seen.<br />
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Sometimes, you go to Wal-Mart against your better judgment because you need to snag some grub for your upcoming murder mystery party. So why not take a Wal-Mart snap to commemorate the experience? I guess I somehow missed the peace sign memo. My bad, ladies.<br />
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I think the phrasing could have been much, much better than this...<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWUdDkqv3tkg0WFaPEM795dPaIkeZzo_z2QZsAmaYp1ja4m7_MvYcGc45oNYoMZyaW2n2UooO74RH8u294L_XXgQBCHxV3ODDsd3jJ3cQTvWYa2BXiEMqsbKa1UoBbq-0zugHlbV_CAa4/s1600/photo+2+(20).PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWUdDkqv3tkg0WFaPEM795dPaIkeZzo_z2QZsAmaYp1ja4m7_MvYcGc45oNYoMZyaW2n2UooO74RH8u294L_XXgQBCHxV3ODDsd3jJ3cQTvWYa2BXiEMqsbKa1UoBbq-0zugHlbV_CAa4/s1600/photo+2+(20).PNG" height="320" width="180" /></a></div>
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But, seriously, don't you wonder how that night turned out for these four? I am picturing a disheveled campsite, pillowcase-less pillows, a litter of empty PBR cans, and the signature scent of confusion, regret, shame, and sexual climax.<br />
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Woof.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipruxMIqVe3mnuqtKPRn_pnPCMQZtMF_Mdl0qCLSWKOjhPp-X5wLBHXyPzR_IqNwazxbIxDKmpOxSPhO2Bz_UysYpxo6ZVU1cFMcg71aeZIBHiCLr-6gjZZ7Q6ACWaaNVwubgM51HUfu4/s1600/photo+3+(15).PNG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipruxMIqVe3mnuqtKPRn_pnPCMQZtMF_Mdl0qCLSWKOjhPp-X5wLBHXyPzR_IqNwazxbIxDKmpOxSPhO2Bz_UysYpxo6ZVU1cFMcg71aeZIBHiCLr-6gjZZ7Q6ACWaaNVwubgM51HUfu4/s1600/photo+3+(15).PNG" height="320" width="180" /></a></div>
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Dem eyes doe.<br />
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But, really, would anyone be opposed to Steve taking over the mayorship of any city?<br />
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Finally, how nice of Anna Johnson to send over this snap of her classroom's first harvest! Precious! They're probably not to thrilled, these small children, that they're about to chomp down a bunch of radishes, but, hey, what doesn't kill 'em makes 'em stronger.JoshPlattnerhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/05360158314529590413noreply@blogger.com0