A Love Letter to South Dakota

Dear South Dakota,

I fear this will be brief, since so many others have raved about your majesty before me.

Half-kidding.

Great things about South Dakota:

• The Badlands
• Mount Rushmore (well, just coast past the thing)
• Peter Norbeck Highway
• Wild Bill Hickock/Calamity Jane graves
• Deadwood
• Corn Palace
• Laura Ingalls Wilder shit
• Beauvais Heritage Museum (in all honesty I've never been there, but I've been to Beauvais in France and it was possibly the worst place in the world, so the fact that there's one in SD is gigglesome)
• Wild Horse Sanctuary 
• General Lee (the only surviving General Lee car from Dukes of Hazard!)
• Pioneer Auto Show in Murdo (see above)
• Wall Drug HOLY CRAPs
• Porter Sculpture Park
• Black Hills (I named places in the Black Hills above, but it's one of the most beautiful places I've been)
• Seriously. The Black Hills.
• random roadside sculptures 
• probably like a gazillion other rad things

That's not my picture, there. I found it online. I've driven past that sculpture twice and both times it was sunset and I had no way of stopping. But I WILL GO THERE.

When you're in South Dakota, you're still a stranger. They won't let you forget it. It's not the overbold welcome you can find in Midwest. It's not the indifference of New England or the general wariness in Appalachia or the confusion of the Rockies. No, South Dakota tells you you're an outsider, dangles prizes five feet away from your face and dares you to jump for them with maniacal glee. It has an unabashed approval of and tolerance for tourists while still blatantly making them feel like outsiders, but in a good way.

That's a mark of greatness, to me. South Dakota is a place of worth, a place of history, beauty, art, and tourist traps.

There's something to be said for a place that treats you exactly as you are instead of, for example:

a) what they assume you should be
b) what they wish you were
c) what they hope you are not

I love Chicago with my very soul, but we're a surly and defensively sociable people, and that dichotomy is off-putting. Chicago hates you for visiting and hates you for ignoring them.

New York waves its shit in front of your face like a child with a really big leaf he found in the backyard that he insists he discovered, and then when you're not impressed he scoffs and says, "It's a New York thing." Shut up, New York. You're fucking relevant, okay?

California is a pretty name with a pretty face, and it knows. It's definitely a flirt. Sometimes it's a tease. And sometimes it's a rapist. California is all, "You like that? Do I feel good, baby? Huh? Does this feel good? Huh? Stop crying, you whore! This cock is always seventy degrees and you fucking want it." And it's like whoa, hey, California. Calm the fuck down. Stop forcing yourself on me, okay? No means no. You're pretty, okay? Dude, you're being a real dick about this.

Denver is a mash up of people who think they're better than you because mountains. Fuck off Denver, you're not better than me. Go back to REI. Besides, stop bragging about your damn mountains. Salt Lake City has waaaay closer ones. Speaking of SLC...it is very nice (fin). Portland is so smugly focused on being different that it just sounds boring. Boston and Philadelphia survive on sheer will and historical relevance, Texas works on being Texas and Austin works on being as Texas as possible while simultaneously being not Texas. Atlanta plainly does not give a fuck about you unless you married into them or took a midnight train. No one belongs to Vegas because it's about lingering where you shouldn't stay and no one belongs to Florida because it's about escaping to a place you shouldn't want to be (gaters, yo). Oklahoma is just the worst. Oh, and don't even get me started on NORTH Dakota. Fuck off, Oklahoma and North Dakota. Fuckin fracking.

There are others, and if I didn't include your hometown or your favorite US location, I apologize. As of right now my familiarity with your area is sub-par, or at least undistinguished enough that I don't want to make generalizations off the top of my head. And even my generalizations are probably wrong from your perspective, but as far as I'm concerned the greatest places in this country are South Dakota and New Orleans.

I think it's just...a celebration of differences is more appealing to me than a celebration of pre-approved differences. Almost everyone wants you to recognize the greatness within them, however beautiful, humble, or terrible, and they want you to react accordingly.

Maybe the distinction is that South Dakota is like, "you be you, I'll be me, but it's good to see you, and thanks for stopping by. Whatever. Cool." Then again, I'm a straight white girl who smiles at strangers, so that could be part of the reason why I felt so welcome. And pleasantly solo.

South Dakota invites you to relish the sheer ridiculousness of things, and it does so without irony or shame. It takes your notions and your hatred and your love and accepts them and discards them, because it knows it can only be South Dakota and nothing else.

Have you set foot in South Dakota? Did you hate it there? Did you love it? Were you apathetic? My view is from the perception of a tourist ambling along I-90, and when I say I love it there, someone responds with, "you fucking would" and then goes on about their business.

Maybe it's because other places are focused on living up to the expectations of their name, while my expectations of South Dakota were so low that the state could only surpass it.

I love you, South Dakota.

Love,
Rassles

Terribble, Powerful, Wondrous

Apparently yesterday was Draw a Dinosaur Day and I didn't get the fucking memo. It sounds like the most asinine thing I've ever heard of, but far cooler than Talk Like a Pirate Day because I've never been very piratey and I've always been very terrible-lizardy.

You should see me at the Field Museum: it is my meth. I just creep around, twisted and cranked and ready to burst in a euphoric fury of rushing, chatty blood, suddenly expertly obsessed with every -ology they got cased up in there. Honestly, any guy that asks me to go to the Field Museum with him will be gettin some, or at least fling himself into danger by being the victim of one of my soul-crushing crushes. Museums are so dreamy.

It's been a few months since I had a decent museum trip (and by "museum trip" I mean "museum trip," this isn't some sick, dinosaur-induced analogous reference to "doing it" (and by "doing it" I mean "doing it")) and I'm thinking about just heading over to the Field this weekend (which I have been saying for weeks) because it's my favorite museum in the world. Ever. All other museums are barren, dank, desolate establishments, and the Field Museum is the sun. It's the place against which I judge all other houses of artifact.

I understand that in most internet lists created by professional museum analysts (because if it's on the internet, it must be true) the Field Museum doesn't even crack the top fifty. Most of them are art museums.

I don't give a shit how important your art is.

FACT 1: A museum without bones is not a real museum.
FACT 2: My art should be at the Field Museum. See above sketch for reference.

Argue with me all you want, my mind was made up twenty years ago. Best museums in the world, ready? GO.

1. Field Museum
2. National Museum of Ireland - Natural History
3. Creation Museum

Do not argue with me because I am right.

Okay, fine, argue with me. You are entitled to be wrong. But if you're going to spout off some shit about Jurassic Park and how the velociraptor was actually the size of a turkey and blahgiddy blah blah: duh. I know. I been to the Field Museum, bitches.

...

Edit: I don't know if you know this about me, but I have a gift: I can draw a decent sketch of anything. After doing this quick dinosaur...I miss drawing.

...

Dino-Fight

I don't know if you know this, but smooth digital imaging is a thing of the past, man. The future of blogging is all about fuzzily-rendered image borders and poor photography, I fucking swear it.

...

Standing Was Exhausting

Man, I am not allowed to get drunk anymore, because then I send emails like this:

I haVE DEVELOPED THE BAD HABIT OF EMAILIN O=YOU DURING PERIODS OF INOTOXICATION. I ALSO CANNOT PROPERLY NEGATE MY CAPS LOCK. APPARENTLY.

To poor, unsuspecting souls.

More importantly, Furry Vengeance is the same thing as Avatar edited with clips from America's Funniest home videos. Also - no wearable robots with secret swords.

Yesterday me and Schmee got drunk at the Cubs game from the lofty confines of a luxury suite. They had shrimp. And I hit random speed-dials on the suite's phone asking, "Is this where we get more beer? No? Thank you." And Schmee was all logical and shit and, "Why don't you call catering?" And I explained that...I don't know what I explained, but I gave her a damn good reason for my decision to call every department but catering.

I also stole the uneaten blocks of cheese from the cheese plate and carried them around in my purse for eight hours while we struggled from bar to bar. I was all spinny. Standing was exhausting.

Neither of us know why we kept on drinking, meeting up with new people at each bar and just telling the same story over and over again (and I'm doing it now) (and then I called to get more beer! and then I put cheese in my purse! and Schmee sat next to the owner of the Brewers! OMG so drunk!).

Whatever. I WRITE BLOG.

...

Mimickry and Intelligence Are Two Different Things

Let's get one thing out of the way right now: I get more annoyed by the fucking Olympics every time they start up again.

Shut up. Don't argue. For a whole month no one has any opinions about anything, they just regurgitate what they read online about the Olympics.

Now this is important, because even outside of Olympic eventing, very few people have their own opinions at all. Most of them just repeat bullshit they read in an article online, and when I ask some derivative of, "So how do you feel about that article? What does it mean?" my conversational nemesis will be all, "fucking right on" because they have no substantive deductive reasoning skills and are most likely an African Grey Parrot.

And I'm accused of "looking into it too much," but all I can think is, you aren't looking into it enough.

Here is the thing: you want to talk about the Olympics? Fine. I will pay attention if you give me an original assessment other than a variation of "that was cool" or "that was not cool."

Otherwise, every single fucking person tries to have the exact same fucking Olympic conversation with me, one they heard someone else talking about on the fucking news, and I just say, "Yeah, I heard that same exact thing." Hopefully that response will rightfully give them impression that don't I care about their mimicry skills. Skills as a mimicist. Mimicksist? Mimicker?

But no, they will keep talking. Suddenly everybody in the world is a fucking luge expert after reading some article where Shaun White says, "the luge is totally dangerous, bro " and then they wikipedi for two hours until a rabbit trail leads them to the entry on parity transformation, and then they overload and update their Facebook with “Just spent two hours on Wikipedia. FML.” And then all these grammatical geniuses respond with “ur to funny!”

Fascinating, I know. I'm a snob.

Sure, Olympians deserve some recognition. They work hard and make their bodies do crazy endurance business. They are fearless, which is incredible. But there's no rush watching people get a rush. It's just frustrating reminder that I have never been bobsledding. Which must happen someday.

Actually, if the Olympics were full of people like me, you wouldn't be able to tear me away from the television. Because believe you me, my grace is peerless. Like strapping skiis on a triceratops.

...

I Totally Fight Back

As some of you know, it is my birthday, and I will accept any of the following gifts:

1. shiny six-legged horses that you can plug your hair into and steer with your mind
2. flying fluorescent dragons with chocolate stains that you can totally ride
3. hammerhead rhinoceri with feathers
4. big giant robot suits with secret knives that you can wear

From the above list, you may have guessed: I saw Avatar.

It was pretty, but really dumb. Like James Franco in everything. Or Mark Wahlberg (I am a fucking sucker for those Wahlbergs). Or me, with my super hot 3D-hindering glasses and turtle legs and sweet fighting moves.

I just made up this rule: I am awesome at segways (segue is a stupid, downright unAmerican way to spell it). You see, mentioning my skills as a fighter is a charming, slippery segway sentence into the following very important story:

So I got into a fight on New Year's Eve which involved getting accidentally felt up and assaulted by some random dude who was in a completely different fight while I was waiting in line for the bathroom. He was thrown into me from close range - pinned me against the wall, slamcracked my head into the plaster with one hand and then wrapped his arm around me. I mean, it was probably to steady himself, but dude snatched my boob right after he hurt my head real bad. So, in suitable drunken retaliation, I grabbed him by the neck and jammed my hand into his lower back. Damn near folded him in half, but come on, don't do that shit, dude.

Apparently I fight back.

I didn't know that I would actually fight back, you know? Like you always want to be able to say you would fight back if someone attacked you (yes, I know this was accidental, but it still hurt and surprised the hell out of me) and now I know. I will fight back. I probably know judo.

And then the guy at the coat check jumped over his half door yelling, "break it up, break it up!" and I let go and held up my hands while the Accidental Assaulter called me a crazy bitch, and I gently reminded him not to fucking touch me again.

I was embarrassed for the rest of the night. Still am a little, which is why I'm telling the story over and over again until I'm comfortable with my sanity.

Oh, and then some stupid bitch asked if she could cut in front of me in the bathroom line because, and I fucking quote, "I just got engaged, so it's kind of my special day." It was hilarious. Being engaged doesn't make you special, girl, unless your fiance is James Franco. Or Mark Wahlberg.

...

Spontaneous (Something Intelligent and Relevant)

This was inspired by Rachel over at Diary of Why. I was going to leave her a comment, and then I realized that I wasn't talking to her. I was talking to myself. Therefore, it became a blog entry.

I'm going to offer some unsolicited advice. Personally, I hate getting advice, because I feel like people are just telling me shit I already know. The only advice worth hearing, in my head, is the stuff that feels like religion and math and blood, and so few are able to appeal to all three of those things, as much as they might try.

But being me, one who embodies hypocrisy and embraces with zeal, here's my advice, to anyone who wants it. But mostly, I say this to myself:

I don't believe in destiny or karmic retribution, and I sure ain't no precog, so I can't offer reassurance that “things” will get better, although I hope they do.

I don’t see any evidence that your life is so bad, so unsuccessful. Your life, my life, our lives.

You know what’s easy to change, and completely free, and only requires action on your part and no one else? Your mind. Just change your mind about the definition and degree of success.

Because success can't be measured; this isn’t the fucking metric system. There can’t be a standardized scale to grade something so multidimensional.

It’s actually impossible. I promise. Stephen Hawking couldn’t do it. Go ahead and ask him. Call him up and say, "Hello Stephen Hawking, how do we measure success?" and then Stephen Hawking will generate a big "ummmm" with his vocal synthesizer, because let's face it: Stephen Hawking totally doesn't know. And if Stephen Hawking can't measure it, then...okay, you know when people discover dinosaurs and name them after themselves? Stephen Hawking discovered the theoretical collected radiation of subatomic black hole particles and named those fucking things after himself. And he uses that to figure out how to measure the gravitation of one thing to another, which is the only consistent type of interaction between every single thing that exists in the universe. Ever.

To put it another way, for all of you Christians out there: Stephen Hawking is theorizing how to measure the effect of God.

His job is to discover how to measure ridiculous shit. That is all he does.

So if Stephen Hawking can't measure something like success, well...fucking no one can.

Because success isn't theoretical physics. Success unraveled is legacy and happiness, and both of those are built up by time, love, energy, audience, failure, contribution, risk, and most importantly, the reactions to all of those factors that filter through your own brain. So, to be considered a success, here is what you need to do:

Do not listen to me. I make shit up as I go along.

...

This Conversation Lasted About Five Minutes

Sean: Okay, Alien/Predator films from best to worst go
Predator, Aliens, Alien, AVP2, Predator 2, AVP1, Alien 3, Alien 4

Me: No fucking way
Alien, Aliens, Predator, AVP1, Alien 4, Predator 2, Alien 3
haven't seen AVP2

Sean: no way
dude they just keep getting better
seriously?

Me: Alien is totally better than Predator

Sean: you're outta your goddamn mind

Me: I am devoted to Ripley

Sean: me too, but what about Arnold?

Me: dude, you are obsessed.

Sean: you have to love Arnold as Dutch.

Me: Arnold is so your boyfriend

Sean: it is rather unhealthy
"This thing is hunting us. ALL OF US. You know that?"

Me: I'M GONNA CUT YOUR NAME RIGHT INTO HIM

Sean: awesome
Dave rented the AVP's yesterday and I watched them twice.
You seriously need to see 2

Me: I'm working on it, you have to be patient.
you think I watched it since you messaged me fucking ten seconds ago or something?

Sean: Have you ever considered the timeline ramifications of the AVP series? Because in order it doesn't make sense

Me: You'd think by the year of Alien, the alien would be a legend.

Sean: Exactly. Everyone would have heard of their battle.

Me: You know what this means?

Sean: Totally illogical
what?

Me: Dragons are real.

Sean: Duh, I could have told you that

Me: They are going to start crawling out of the earth and reign destruction...

Sean: Where is Matthew McConaughey when you need to fight fire with fire?

Me: And we'll never see it coming.
Stupid dragons

Sean: You're a dork

Me: Whatever, you totally knew exactly what I was talking about.
I need to get back to work.

Sean: That's okay I gotta go
Time to make the beer

Me: You know, you do kind of remind me of the Time To Make The Donuts Guy.

Sean: Well I don't really make the beer
more like transport it from one side of the warehouse to the other

Me: So you're like the Jason Statham of beer.

Sean: That's funny

Me: Duh. Have you met me? I'm hi-larious.

Sean: Late

Me: Peace out

...

I seriously love/hate the fact that people can instant message me on Facebook.

...

Psychological Warfare

For Fat Tuesday, Gyna finds out about a bar with $3 liters of something that sounds delicious. We leave right after work and take Bowser dze German, who introduces us to his friend Philip, who is also from Germany and visiting Chicago.

"So how did you like the Field Museum?" I ask after a few. I am a Member of the Field Museum, which means I have a fancy tote bag and my name on a bunch of mailing lists.

"It was nothing. It was crap," Philip shrugs.

"What?" I bug out at Gyna.

"I know, I told them to get Mold-A-Rama dinosaurs and everything.”

“The whole thing was a little Discovery Channel," Bowser laughs.

“Exactly. That’s why it’s awesome,” I mutter. Philip looks at me and mouths egzakilty? I nod.

“Ja, egzaktily, with the gift shop and Sue dollies,” he mocks. “Tell us where we find out about dze real American dinosaurs. Wie sagt, ah, intelligent design and wonderful nonsense."

“Oooooo, like the Creation Museum." Gyna raises her eyebrows.

"Egzaktily! There is one?"

"In Kentucky,” I explain. “I went last year, and it is hilarious. They hate Darwin because he’s the devil. And they murder lambs like over and over and they have their own Garden of Eden and the guards have rifles and it’s goddamn wicked ridiculous."

"It is good? Are you a Creation…nista?”

“No, but I also don’t believe in talking mouses, and I—“

“Mice,” Gyna and Bowser correct me, grinning. Simpatico, those two.

“What?  What did I say?”

“Mouses. You said mouses.”

 “Yeah, well. Mice. Whatever, I would go to Disneyland tomorrow if I had the funds. Oh! And they have hip archangels who wear drug rugs and sunglasses and talk like they’re from California and talk about how science is wack and Jesus is your homeboy.”

"Well, that is what I want to do then." Philip turns to Bowser. "We will go tomorrow?"

"I can't. I have work."

"But it is so...America. Christians...und, and...and guns! Don’t be wack."

"I want to go, but I leave for Houston tomorrow," Gyna whimpers.

There's a slim needle of silence. The last time I went to the Creation Museum I caught a lot of atheistic hell for ‘supporting ignorance and everything that is wrong with America’ and ‘giving them money so they can teach our children mythology instead of science’ and I’m like, yeah, but, you know. Funny. "Fuck it. I got personal days.  Let’s go.”

"You'll go? Really? Wickedawesome!"

"Ausgezeichnet!" I say, which is a German word I think I understand but really don’t.

We agree on a five-thirty am departure and slow down the beer before scattering home.

"I made a friend dzis morning when you were late with your car," Philip says at five-fifty-five, coiled with patience while I house my coffee.

"And how is that?”

"A young man came up to me, ja? and he said to draw my portrait. So I gave him ten US dollars."

"Dude. Schmuck."

"Schmuck? Schmuck. And yes, I know, I know, but it was such a nice portrait." He pulls a pencil sketch out of his jacket and shows it to me. It's horrible.

I laugh like a wrecking ball. “He gave you a ponytail.”

He smiles with pride. "Yes, well I now know I need haircut. I think it’s wickedawesome."

"It's on the back of an excel spreadsheet."

"Axel spredshit? Oh I know, I gave him dze, ah, the paper."

"And apparently ten dollars. You could have just given that to me, you know."

"I like to think dhat I pay for a story to relate."

Philip flicks the sentence aside with his odd translational English and admires his shitty portrait. I’m jealous. No young man ever asked to draw my portrait for ten US dollars, and I’m a nubile lady. A friend of mine has a face like a gently carved bolt of lightning, and artists are always trying to catch it on paper and hilariously failing. She isn’t a professional model or anything, just a breathing muse.  But you can’t capture the shattering sincerity of lightning bolts without the right lens, yet they keep trying.  Now I’m jealous of her too.  Dammit.

We drive for a while.  Kentucky is far from Chicago and we don’t have any directions, but I don’t think we need them since I read road maps when I’m in the bathroom.  Perhaps maps would be more useful in the car.  “If we hit Indianapolis, we’re going the right way.  All the roads lead to Indianapolis.”

“Similar to Rome. I think that is wickedawesome,” Philip grins.  “We will arrive.”

“Good. I don’t stop in Indiana, even for directions. People here keep bodies in their basements.”

“Why would they do that?”

“I don’t know.  Because I have unwarranted prejudice.”

“Why is that?”

“I think it’s the accent.  There’s a soft, um, hostile—?” I glance at him and he nods—“pattern to speech here.  As if people don’t trust you. It’s probably unintentional.”

 “Are we driving between the Bible area of America? Perhaps they know you have so little respect for them."

“I guess.  But we aren’t in the Bible Belt.  Not right now.”

"Belt? As if for trousers? It supports what covers the sin—that’s intelligent. I wish we were.”

“We will arrive.”

 Two hours in and I have to remind myself that I should not speak English like a river, but a light rain. I apologize to Philip about this but he thinks it's hilarious.  I complain about Journey for like a bajillion minutes. After five hours and only one false exit all that quality bathroom time with maps proves worthwhile and we turn onto Bullittsburg Church Road where the museum lives.

Families scuttle around the parking lot like beetles, and the Creation Museum thrums dead center with the Garden of Eden dinosaur topiary rolling muddy and green beside it.  Philip strolls towards the doors and opens them with flourishing reverence, on the cusp of jest, but only because I realize that doors should always be opened that way.  I mean with honesty and zeal, never as a flippant remark on genuine excitement.

I watch him marvel as we walk the path through Genesis. There’s an alien alchemy to the Creation Museum, where bunnies and Velociraptors share honeycombs and drops of morning dew. I touch Philip’s shoulder and point to a red snake in the trees, glittering like a Chinese dragon while Adam and Eve bathe in a pool. I blush at their nakedness. Bearded Philip looks eerily like Naked Adam and I tell him so. Naked Adam is not necessarily a dreamboat, but it makes me picture Philip naked. I glance at his jaw. There is something about jaws, but not Philip’s jaw, which is good. Who needs a crush inspired by anatomically biblical mannequins and frivolous jawlines?

 He snaps a picture of the exhibit.  “A second portrait,” he explains.

I watch Philip as Adam and Eve slaughter a lamb on an altar for clothing, and study his curious face while Cain shadows over a bloody Abel. He thoughtfully regards the miniature model of Noah’s Ark where giraffes and horses and Brachiosauruseseses board the vessel in pairs.

I drag him to the flood diorama because it’s my favorite: scrappy, quarter-inch figures scramble on scarred rocks, wrestling bears and punting each other into the waxy, jagged sea. They’re determined to survive even after Noah didn’t pick them for his survivor team. I loiter for a while, memorizing their sins. “I just love how they try,” I say, and then turn to smile up at Philip, but he’s across the room.

Philip floats through it all, casual as a sonnet. He is here without a trace of irony, I realize.  It makes me jealous again, so I counter these bursts of jealousy by repeatedly calling myself a stupid, jealous bitch and or telling myself to drop it. Like a dog. Drop it. Drop et. Humanity has come so far from the days of sharing honeycombs with Velociraptors.  We hear drums in the distance, horror over the death of Christ and mourn for him. It is, after all, the greatest story ever told. In this building, and nowhere else, I want to believe. Only when I am here, I think, because they deserve that much. Science really can be used to verify a predetermined outcome. (No, it can’t.) But the museum is beautiful. We take lots of pictures.

“They don’t do, ah,” Philip makes the sign of the cross on his forehead, “Ash Wednesday.”

 “No, Creationists think Catholicism is evil.” Up ahead, an animatronic prophet is writing ancient texts.  “Are you Catholic?”

Philip sniffs. “Germany is very Catholic. And yes, we are evil. Remember the Holocaust? And Indiana Jones films?”

We stroll through the garden because that is how one is supposed to walk through gardens, stopping at the petting zoo to admire the zedonks and there’s a terrifying turkey thundering next to a camel. Philip pets a pig. I try to feed a wallaby but it runs away.

We decide to stop in Cincinnati for a bowl of chili and hit up a White Castle instead.

“White Castle,” I explain between bites, “Is the quintessential American food. It’s our entire cultural mindset packed into a square. I always want more White Castle, but in reality I don't need it. Ever. Because the idea of White Castle fundamentally opposes its physical manifestation – what we have is this. And then I have to pay the price for fantasy and indulgence. With my bowels."

“So...America makes you shit?" Philip winks. Why don’t people wink anymore?

I laugh, burning words. "No. No, not at all. But—yes. Because everything we love becomes shit. Because we smash it til it’s unrecognizable and then we mercilessly ridicule that which was once good until all that's left is poorly executed snark.”

"So...White Castle is snark?"

"I guess this has nothing to do with White Castle."

Later on Philip asks if we can stop in Indianapolis for a pair of Vans.

“What are you thinking?” I ask as we browse Shoe Carnival.

“I am thinking today was, ha, wickedawesome. I think when you come to Germany I know where I will take you, egzaktily.”

I've been given so much crap for supporting this museum just by paying to go there. But seriously, it's like Disney World, but with Jesus and dinosaurs and mass slaughter, and dead sheep are just lying all over the place. Completely macabre, like they're trying to scare you into agreement.

The propaganda tactics employed throughout the place are genius. Sometimes very, very subtle, and sometimes outright obvious. Every exhibit is designed with the distinct purpose of making non-believers feel guilty and the believers feel righteous. Perfectly constructed psychological warfare.

Although I believe that Creationism is firmly rooted in mythology, I believe even more strongly that people reserve the right to believe in what they want. So, I will support the Creation Museum, because no matter what, different mindsets are worth noting. In the end, it's just exciting and fun, like a Voodoo or Scientology museum, or watching Ghost Adventures.

...

The Man With The Van.

I have to, have to, have to link this thing. Must.

Del-V, a man who has mastered the art of the aptly titled blog post, posted pictures of The Vanasaurus on his site. Trust me on this, and scroll to the end of the post. Even better, read it.

It is easily, like, the greatest vehicle manufactured on our rock.

Perhaps it was never technically manufactured, and it's an alien autobot that has lain dormant in undiscovered areas of the earth since prehistoric times.

I want it.

I wouldn't even need to drive the thing. I'd be content just parking it on the sidewalk and calling it "Modern Art." As long as I can see it every day.

...

Dreamgifts

So, after reading blogs about dreams and having a long conversation about them the other day in between episodes of Buffy, here's a recent recurring one that I've been having for nearly a year. Some of you might have already heard about it, because I talk about dreams all. the. time.

Yeah.

Dreamwise, It's my birthday, and Alan Dale* bought me bad ass presents. Basically, I have no fucking clue why Alan Dale gave me dream gifts. Most likely it's because he's on Lost.

The dream gifts are four vehicles, all taxicab yellow:

1. Civilian Jeep, with a roof and tires made from bonded bouncy balls

2. ATV with clashing WWII sidecar

3. Magic carpet (fuckin’ what what)

4. Honda Civic Hybrid

I start test driving them in a parking lot. Which, of course, is fun.

You know how dreams work. It’s like, you start driving slowly in the parking lot, loop left around a gothic streetlamp shaped like a dragon, and then in one minute you’re bouncing down the side of Mt. Schilthorn in an elastic Jeep, the next you’re flying on a woven carpet and shattering through waterfalls, then you’re coasting quietly on a quaint country highway in your Honda, and then you’re popping your ATV across the Alaskan tundra.

I fucking love dreaming.

So like I said, I’m riding my ATV in the tundra, and in the distance I see this soft pink glow, and I can’t think of anything better to do than get my ass over there.

Six hours later I hop off the ATV and start walking down into a valley, where there’s a small backwoods cabin.

The front of the cabin is dominated by a chopping block and a heavy-looking axe, and although there are shavings, there’s no firewood. The cabin itself is illuminated from within. With like, pinkness. The polarity is awkward.

The door opens easily, and inside it’s nearly empty, all but for a shredded couch perched on cinder blocks, an open, toppled refrigerator, and a broken grandfather clock. I walk slowly around them towards the glow, which is coming from the back.

After exploring for about thirty seconds, I note that there’s only three rooms: the entry room, a kitchen, and an enclosed back porch. The door to the porch is backlit with this pink fire, so I need to go there. I unhinge the door trying to get it open and shield my eyes, since hovering in the middle of that porch is a burning, rippling, pink sun.

I walk slowly towards it, because the heat is intense, and I don’t like it. Once I’m within arms reach, I stare at the sun for awhile, then quickly stretch my hands out and snatch it from the air.

It burns, it freezes, it alternates between the two. It fucking hurts, and my hands are on fire. I carry the sun outside and it lights up the valley. I laugh and chuck the sun straight into the trees, and the trees throw it right back. Catching it again is easy, even though it's like catching a smoldering kickball that's on fire. We play catch for awhile, and I throw it straight up in the air, where it stops abruptly and starts to spin. Rocks and sticks and shit are flying and gravitating towards it in this like superfast orbit.

So I’m sitting on the chopping block, watching this pink, glowy galaxy grow right in front of me, smiling and captivated for several dreamdays. Eventually I get bored, and I reach up and grab the sun out of the sky, yank the axe from the block and head back into the cabin. I walk into the kitchen and lay the sun on the countertop.

My stomach growls.

I raise the axe over my head and slice the sun right in half. I carve it all up, put it in a bowl, and go sit outside and eat the whole thing like a melon.

* Why it's Alan Dale, I don't know, I've never had a thing for him, but I used to have a crush on the idea of the character of Alan-a-Dale, even though I'm not the biggest fan of Alan-a-Dale on the BBC Robin Hood. Which is probably because he's completely overshadowed by the supreme sexiness that is Robin Hood. I used to believe that it was impossible to make Robin Hood unattractive, and then Kevin Kostner made it his own personal dharma to prove me wrong. So, thank you BBC, for restoring my faith.

...

Dragons are real.

Wearing a knowing smirk much like the Archangelic Mike and Gabe, I would like to picture Heath as looking at us from heaven saying, "Is no one going to comment on the size of my massive man-parts? I'm the fucking Joker, that's me naked—right there—and that's my giant dick. Even in death, I fucking rule." And then River Phoenix glances sideways at him and says, "Shut the hell up, Heath, at least your last movie wasn't Silent Tongue, you've got goddamn Batman. I'd even take Ned Kelly over Silent Tongue, jackass."

But isn't it kind of odd that Heath and Brad Renfro died a week apart? I'm not saying it's murder, or that they're even connected…but if I were Joshua Jackson, Tobey Maguire, or Hayden Christensen right now I'd watch my back and start reading pill labels in grave, painful detail.

Of course, speaking of Archangels, went to Kentucky on Tuesday so I could check out the Creation Museum, which I've only been talking about for several months.

Everything I ever dreamed about and more. The Men in White (Mike and Gabe—like if Michael and Gabriel were superChristian alterna-hippies circa 1992 who talked like surfer dudes) told me about how Darwin was a douchebag and that the world is only 6,000 years old instead of 4.2 billion years old. How did they pick 6,000? Well, they counted back the generations in the line of Jesus all the way to Adam, and realized the world was created in 4,000 BC. So, the dinosaurs are that old. And lived in Eden.

Ah, but do they have scientific proof? Of course - Helium leakage in zircon, of course. And then Mike and Gabe further prove their point by sitting in the back of a classroom wearing skullcaps and drugrugs, making fun of their square science teacher for teaching about isotopes and Darwin, who is nothing compared to the big JC.

The Creation Museum is basically about the fall of man and how Darwin is evil. See, Adam and Eve lived in the Garden of Eden with the toucans and the lambs and the cougars and the dinosaurs and the dragons (what? No unicorns? I call slander) and everyone ate pineapples and carrots and Adam and Eve would walk hand in hand beneath a silvery moon on a path lit by the firebreath of the lamb-gentle Eden-dragons.

Then the treacherous snake peer pressures them into eating the Fruit of Death, and then they realize they're naked and start slaughtering sheep so they can wear their skin per Buffalo Bill and Eddie Gein.

All of this, by the way, is exhibited using morbid and painfully detailed mannequins all around the museum.

So they get locked out of Eden and the begatting begins. They make some babies and some of their babies' babies kill each other very evilly, and dinosaurs start eating meat instead of pineapples and dragons kill people and everyone is just constantly fucking with the lambs. Sin enters the world.

And then eventually Noah builds an ark to avoid the upcoming worldwide flood, which totally happened, and we know this because of vertically floating logs. The ark is a boat that is, according to the Creationists, 510 feet long, which is enough space to house two of every species INCLUDING the 50 or so types of dinosaurs and dragons, all of which behaved themselves like little sacrificial sheep. There was an entire exhibit on how Noah fit the dinosaurs in the ark.

Then, see, after the waters dry up, the plants that the vegetarian dinosaurs eat don't grow as frequently, and it starts getting really cold and muddy. And the dinosaurs die.

Dragons, however, may still be around today, hiding up in the Scottish Highlands or Tibet or something.

I guess I just can't respect a belief system that bends the rules of science and treats theories as opinions to justify their own means. On top of it they built an entire museum which functions solely on a poorly constructed mockery of beliefs that differ from theirs.

If they ignored the concept of science and focused on Creation, their museum would be much more credible. You can believe what you want, but if you have to promote it by putting down others, who in their right mind should believe it?

So obviously, Creationists are not in their right minds. And they were all about over exclaiming things.

Imagine giant wall posters that say: WORLD VIEW - WRONG! GOD'S VIEW - RIGHT! They believe we were monkeys! Monkeys, I tell you! They are idiots and we are smart, because we know the truth about the Lord! Hahahahaha! Down with evolution!

At least museums that are dedicated to science show respect for Christianity, instead of laughing and beating it to a bloody mass. Science don't give a shit, Jesus. It has nothing to do with you.

Oh, that's why you don't like science. Because you're not in charge of it.

Because it's the atheist scientists, like Darwin, that brought all of the bad things into our world, like murder and rape and homosexuality and weed. Atheist scientists are also trying to suppress the truth about God and the Earth because they are aligned with Satan.

It's a world-wide century-spanning Godless scientific conspiracy.

And according to the Creationists, why does everyone in the world listen to Charles Darwin, anyway? He was just one guy who got stuck on an island with too many birds and was unable to understand that G.O.D. put a variety of species on this planet, including a variety of finches. Virtually everyone listens to Charlie boy because we are all immoral and barbaric and don't believe in dragons. What's so special about Darwin?

Yeah. Why would anyone base a major belief system off the teachings of one man?

They also have their facts all twisted and fucked. The theory of evolution did not originate with Darwin. He just gave proof. In fact, the theory itself has been around far longer than Christianity. Robert Chambers was far more controversial. He's the one who said we were monkeys. Lamarck came up with species transmutation. And that one Taoist Chinese guy who is not Lao Tse. He talked about it too. But his book is like, impossible to work through if you don't speak Chinese, and the translations are a little jarring. But still, that guy talked about it. Fucking Aristotle talked about it. Don't blame evolution on Darwin, crazy creationists.

It's so hard to take them seriously when they aren't taking themselves seriously.

But, sit on this: Dragons are real.

Living hidden dragons seemed like the most plausible of all the Creationist dogma.

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