Rambling Josh

The avalanche of technology that has inundated every nook and cranny of our world over the course of my lifetime is a bit overwhelming. Most of it was intended to make our lives simpler but as Randy Travis sang, “The road to hell is paved with good intentions.” Paved with good intentions and littered with obsolete electronic devices and their shiny “you really need me” packaging.

Most of this technology is forced upon us and we are forced to learn and adapt. Learn and adapt for three weeks and then learn and adapt to the new best thing since sleep number beds and sliced bread. Sliced bread, compliments of Otto Frederick Rohwedder circa 1928. If your old enough to remember when sliced bread came out your probably too old to remember.

I wonder what drove Otto to invent a bread slicer? Did he lack the manual dexterity to properly slice bread with a knife leaving him to be mercilessly mocked during lunch breaks for his misshaped sandwiches and nicked and cut fingers? Perhaps he suffered from aichmophobia, a morbid fear of sharp things, and grew tired of having to slice bread via judo chop. Or maybe he was just lazy.

Whatever his reason we can now reach into a plastic bag, past the first few slices of course, and pull out a perfectly calculated cut of carbohydrate and slather it with whatever makes our lips smack and stomachs smile. Ketchup and mayonnaise, braunschweiger, peanut butter and bananas, SPAM, pimento loaf, or any other variety and combination of mystery meats and condiments you can rustle up.

With the exhausting chore of slicing bread a thing of the past the people of 1928 found themselves with an extra fourteen seconds of time to do as they pleased. Most spent those fourteen seconds lamenting about how great sliced bread was.

So it goes with most new time and labor saving thingamajigs. We have to invest large amounts of time and effort to learn how to use whatever it is we are made to think we can’t live without.

Do you know how long it took me to master the rotary dial telephone? About as long as it took to dial a number with lots of nines and zero’s. Do you know how long it took me to master the iPhone my employer thought I needed? I’m in the second month of my kids daily tutorial so I’ll keep you posted.

If the time it takes to effectively utilize a time saving device elapses the actual time it supposedly saves which direction have we traveled in time?

I once had such a time travel experience where one of me sat down to figure out how to install and use a mapping program on my phone while the other me grabbed a map from my desk drawer, packed a small nutrient dense lunch (bacon, stick of butter, two licorice whips and a berry burst juice box), gave my dog a flea and tick treatment, loaded the same dog up and drove 37 miles into the hills, hiked 27 hours uphill against the wind with nary a thought of Chapstick, drove back 37 miles, unloaded the dog, removed 48 wood ticks from the same dog, had a beer, round about two chunks of beef jerky, a handful of smoked almonds and watched an episode of M.A.S.H..

That’s when I heard the other me produce an agitated whimper of discontent as he peered helplessly into his handheld electronic black hole awaiting the download of yet another hollow promise of excitement, joy, and utter amazement.

I just ignored me and with chapped lips, sore feet and Hawkeye in the middle of some controversial lifesaving procedure I drifted off to sleep dreaming of a time when sliced bread was something and we enjoyed spending time more than futilely attempting to save it.

I woke up this Sunday morning with that good Sunday morning feeling of not having to get up and get going to get anywhere for anything. I glanced at the alarm clock for no real purpose other than I like to look at the alarm clock on mornings when it’s not demanding anything of me, when we’re both just minding time.

This Sunday morning wasn’t unlike many other such Sunday mornings I’ve had the privilege of listening to from the comfort of a warm bed drifting in and out of light a sleep as the household wakes up a little at a time. I hear the kitchen sounds from my wife baking this and that, the sound of my son doing anything but cleaning his room, and the occasional rattle of the dog collar coming and going hinting as subtly as a Labrador can that he would like to be fed.

Very rarely will I hear any Sunday morning scuttle I can attribute to my daughter as she is generally a shoo-in for the Sunday morning sleep in award. Twenty-five years ago I would have put up a formidable challenge but my bed sores don’t heal as fast as they used to and my bladder has become more persistent so I’m forced to let youth prevail. So it goes.

Back when my youth was prevailing my room was in the basement of a hundred year old house. They didn’t build basements for bedrooms, pool tables, romper rooms, and bean bags in 1900. They built them for coal furnaces, piles of coal, canned goods, and salamanders. They were only fit for occasional human occupancy to seek refuge from those angry North Dakota summer storms. Even then the men folk would rather stand out on the front step and face Mother Nature’s fury than chance a run in with a salamander while trying to choke down a twelve year old can of pickled muskrat.

Despite all that my Dad did a great job of turning that old dirt basement into my own little windowless cabin in the ground. Egress windows? My mom was thoughtful enough to hang an old window pane on the wall and there was a coal chute that I may have been able to tunnel out of in a pinch. Besides how often do 100 year old houses with 100 year old wiring really burn down?

I loved that room and I enjoyed lying down there listening to the Sunday morning sounds. The loud rhythmic thumping of Dad’s cowboy boots as he made his way across the kitchen, just above my cabin, to refill his coffee cup and stir in two teaspoons of sugar. The soft quick shuffle of Mom’s bare feet to the stove to try and get to the bacon before it burnt bad enough to even make bacon taste bad. The sound of Gabe running…always running…sometimes being chased by Amanda for good reason or by Jarvis for no reason.

There wasn’t much on our three television channels on Sunday mornings so the sounds of Faron Young, Elvis, Barbara Mandrell, and Charlie Pride would filter down the stairs from the hi-fi providing musical accompaniment to all the bumps, shuffles, and shouts. Some sounds you never forget. Sunday morning sounds, then, now, and always.

Happy 17th Birthday on November 5th to my daughter Sierra…enjoy the Sunday morning sounds from your basement bedroom.

When I first rolled onto the Northern State University campus in my 1958 Chevy Biscayne in September of 1991 I sort of had a plan. I had planned on my mullet and I to play a lot of baseball, attend a little class, and…well that’s about as far as I had planned. My poor mullet, having caught the rueful eye of my college baseball coach, only survived a week of college life before its life was literally and figuratively shortened in a mall hair salon.

Thinking back I should have saved the honor of relieving my mullet of its duties to Martin Halverson, commander and chief of Martins Barbershop on Main Street Lignite. As I look back it seems so crass and careless of me to have abandoned my stalwart friend in a foreign place to be swept up into a pile of stranger’s hair. At least the hairs strewn about the floor of Martin’s Barbershop would have been of those familiar to me and my mullet.

The hairs of those that we had seen day in and day out during the daily goings on in a small town in upstate North Dakota. Martin passed quite a few years ago as have many of those that he clipped, buzzed, and sort of styled. He, like the others, are the cast of characters that I see when I think back to my childhood. Growing up in a small town may not expose you to as many experiences and opportunities as the big city but I think it creates a greater appreciation for others and what they do to make the wheels of your town go round and round.

Whether you want to or not, you most likely know almost everything there is to know about everyone, which makes the encounter with the cashier at the grocery store a much different experience than the one you have at the Buy Everything You Never Needed Super Store.

The cashiers at those stores won’t chit chat about your Grandma’s bunion surgery and don’t really care to hear the response to their mandatory, “How are you today?” It’s not their fault, they don’t know you and you don’t know them, so you shuffle through barely having time to pay before the next customers cart bumps you out of the way.

I guess getting bumped along by the rest of the herd kind of sums up living in a bigger city. Rapid City is about as big of a herd as I ever want to live amongst and our close proximity to the beauty and solitude of the Black Hills and Badlands effectively lowers the mind numbing rattle of the herd to a tolerable level. Once removed from the herd you can sometimes hear yourself think which can be frightening and discerning if yourself is not accustomed to such a phenomena.

Living in a small town not only provides the opportunity to hear yourself think but also provides the opportunity to hear everyone else think as well. A mostly entertaining experience.

As I close this week’s column I beg each of you, my fellow herd members, to assist me in wrapping up my journey to attain a PhD by completing my dissertation research survey so I can put this thing to bed and get on with my life. I promise it will take less than five minutes of your time and will serve to make this world a better place…eventually. All you need to do is go to <www.surveymonkey.com/s/5CKMTXB> right now, complete the survey, brow beat everyone you know to do the same, then sit back and enjoy the satisfaction that comes with helping progress the greater good of society. Thank you.

I am aware that my taste in movies could be considered not so good by some, strange by others, or just simply bad by a few. I admit that I’ve come home from the video store with a few flicks that have turned out to be turds but generally I’m a pretty good judge of predicting whether a movie is going to be good or not. Just for clarification that would be my opinion of good.

My wife knows it’s risky to send me into the video store alone with no specific list of movies. When I get home with my latest cinema master piece in hand my wife will ask what I rented and I’ll say, “I’ve never heard of this one but I thought it would be good.” To which my wife will explain, yet again, that there may be a reason we’ve never heard of the movie. Well there’s only one way to find out if “Get Smoochie” is good or not.

Like most things in life everyone has their own likes and dislikes which is why I don’t really care what critics have to say about a movie. It’s all a matter of personal opinion and why should I care if someone else liked or disliked a movie? I only care if I like it, since I’m the one plunking down two hours of my life let me be the judge of whether it was worth it or not.

My opinion is that a good movie sucks you in and makes you think and feel both during the movie and long after you’ve ejected it and made a mad dash back to the video store risking an eighty dollar speeding ticket to avoid a one dollar late fee. Whether a movie accomplishes this is also a personal matter as a movie may suck you in but could possible just suck for someone else.

I try and keep this in mind when someone suggests a movie to me and I watch it and hate it. I don’t go beating on their door and demand to be reimbursed for the two hours they just stole from me by suggesting that I would enjoy “Facing the Giants”. I’m sure they meant well and I won’t let their poor taste in movies become a tipping point in our friendship. Don’t insist I will love your brand of entertainment and I won’t insist you will love “Northfork”.

Recently I brought “Touchback” home from the video store. As usual I had never heard of it, and as usual I briefly entertained the idea that there may be a reason I hadn’t heard of it, and as usual I ignored that reasoning. This time it worked out. “Touchback” was a good movie that the entire family enjoyed and it met my stringent movie requirements of making me think and feel.

The main tag line of the movie hooked me, “Would you give up everything you love for a shot at everything you’ve ever wanted?” It’s a good question and the movie does a nice job of exploring this possibility in a “It’s A Wonderful Life” sort of way. The movie will make you ponder the glory days of your youth and the various paths you’ve chosen, the ones that have chosen you, and the ones you looked up but for some reason didn’t follow.

Of all the paths I could have stumbled down this one suits me just fine.

With another summer shot in the backside the kids are preparing to drag theirs to school this week. Neither of them is all that excited about getting penned up in the big house for the next 9 months and I can’t say I blame them. No more staying up until you fall asleep and sleeping until you wake up.

There are schedules, rules, alarm clocks, bells, whistles, and the occasional tornado siren (it’s just a drill) that are assembled at the ready and demanding your undivided attention. Have you ever given anything your undivided attention? I know I have, but never on purpose.

The growl and unmistakable sound of a dog collars jingle jangle coming up behind you while you’re running or riding bike is cause for undivided attention. Suddenly trying to remember the third verse of “Forever In Blue Jeans” doesn’t seem so pressing when you have sharp teeth and a less than sunny disposition to contend with.

During my time sauntering the hallowed halls of Burke Central there were some teachers that were better than others at gaining or grabbing your undivided attention. My sixth grade teacher, Mr. Christenson, was a great teacher and one that you learned in short order demanded your undivided attention.

Of course free will being free will you could opt not to give it but you had better be good at feigning it or you would experience a gentle uplifting of your short hairs that would bring your undivided attention front and center. Unlike the dog there was no jingle jangle to warn you of the impeding attention getter just that eerie classroom silence that you become aware of much to late.

Mr. Savelkoul was another teacher that didn’t have to ask for your undivided attention he just grabbed it, figuratively and occasionally literally. When you’re a runty 90 pound seventh grader looking up at a not so runty German man with hands that could and did dismantle many shop projects that didn’t meet his approval your attention does not divide.

And on the first day of shop class when he matter-of-factly states, with more than a hint of satisfaction, “We’re all alone down here and accidents do happen” your attention not only does not divide it multiplies.

Now that attention getters, not so idle threats of physical pain, and good old fashioned terror tactics are not socially acceptable in our schools I’m not sure what a teacher has to do for undivided attention. Especially when kids nowadays have a laundry list of gadgets and what not that are constantly dividing or completely capturing their attention.

It’s much easier for a kid today to sneak some music or other form of entertainment into the classroom than it was for us. There was no sneaking a boom box or ghetto blaster (lots of ghettos in upstate ND) the size of a Shetland pony into a classroom. Secretly watch a movie during class? That wasn’t going to happen.

You would need that Shetland hooked up to a rickshaw cart to drag the 1200 pound television and 200 pound VCR into the classroom (beta max if you were really hoity toity). There were a few teachers that may not have noticed, or simply ignored, the electronics toting pony with the 26 extension cords trailing behind it but I had no room in my locker for oats, carrots, a curry brush, and road apple disposal.

This past May after the last day of school my son said, “Dad I’ll do better next year.” If he starts slipping Mr. Christenson is going to have to head south to provide some tutoring and the occasional attention getter. My daughter is a short timer now with only two years left before she gets booted out into the cold cruel real world or the warm fuzzy college campus. Choose wisely.

Enjoy the school year, and remember, there is a direct correlation between undivided attention devoted to your teacher and improved test scores, clearer complexion, and pleasant breathe.

NEWS FLASH: Latest Statistics Reveal “Parenting Gig Not for Faint of Heart.” Roughly 327% of parents interviewed stated in various ways and words that parenthood is similar to dodging bolts of lightning while treading water in shark infested waters with your pockets stuffed with raw meat. Similar, but more difficult, more dangerous, and more frightening.

Last week my children and my father-in-law were involved in rollover accident while returning to Rapid City after a few days of fishing and fun with Grandpa on the other side of the state. Everyone got banged up to varying degrees but are, for the most part, okay and on the mend. It could have been much worse but everyone was wearing their seatbelts. My son buckled up a few minutes before the accident.

I was roaming around in the Badlands, out of cell phone range, when the accident occurred. My good friend Paul came and found me and let me know that there had been an accident and provided what little information he had at the time. Being the optimistic sort I immediately assumed the best case scenario and relied heavily on the “bad things happen to other people” mind set.

As I drove out of the Badlands and the reception from civilization gradually bumped the bars upward on my cell phone I listened to the several messages that had been left while I was briefly removed from contact. In short order I realized that something serious had indeed happened to our family. Nothing prepares a parent to deal with this sort of thing and even after learning that everyone was okay my mind ran circles around itself.

Even after I saw my children, spoke with them, and had confirmation that they were going to be okay I couldn’t stop the “what if” thoughts from entering and shaking me up. What if they hadn’t been wearing seatbelts, what if the cuts had been deeper, what if, what if, what if. The “what if” thoughts come and go and when they come they bring along emotions and feelings that are overwhelming and indistinguishable from reality.

I’m sure in time the edge of the “what ifs” will dull and they won’t cut as deep but I doubt they will ever completely subside. I suspect all involved will be changed to varying degrees for a very long time. My children lost some childhood innocents that day and were put in a very serious situation without the availability of the usual safety net provided by their mother and father.

We can’t always be there for our children but if we teach them the simple things through our words and our actions, such as the importance of a seatbelt, our protective reach can extend to wherever life takes them.

I don’t like to think about what would have happened if my wife and I hadn’t been so diligent throughout the years in expressing the importance of always buckling up to our children. I don’t like to think about it but I do and it’s not pleasant.

Buckle up so those that care about you can cry with you not for you.

In London England the 30th Olympic Games are in full swing with athletes from all over the globe competing in a wide variety of this, that, and another thing. Olympic athletes always amaze me. Not just for their talent and skill but more so for the extreme dedication they have made to their sport or event of choice. Copious hours, day in and day out, year after year they bust their hump striving for perfection, striving to be the best they can be.

Practicing, working, and hoping that their best comes through during these few summer days during the Olympic Games. The Olympic motto Citius, Altius, Fortius was proposed by Pierre de Coubetin when the International Olympic Committee was created in 1894. For those of you that are a bit rusty on you Latin it means “Faster, Higher, Stronger.”

Bill Bowerman, the legendary track and field coach at Oregon State University and inventor of the Nike kicks we like to swaddle or feet in once said that “Faster, Higher, Stronger” did not necessarily mean that you should just strive to run faster, jump higher, and be stronger than your opponent but to ultimately strive to always push yourself to run faster, jump higher, and be as strong as you can be.

As is the case in many areas of life, not just sports, we cannot control nor should we fret about the prowess of our opponent or fellow competitors but rather concern ourselves only with controlling that which is within our reach to control. These “controllables” amount to a pretty short list but if you can focus on that short list you will most likely be successful in being the best you can be. Sometimes the best you can be ends up besting everyone and you stroll home a hero with a gold medal hanging around your neck and get to gaze at yourself on a Wheaties box every morning at breakfast.

Even though many of these Olympic athletes will go home without the weight of a medal swaying from the nape of their neck they had the opportunity, they gave it their all, and they will forever be an Olympian which is more than many can ever post on their Facebook page.

Could you dedicate the prime of your life to being an Olympic badminton player? I taught badminton when I was in graduate school but I don’t think anyone in my class ever had aspirations of whacking a birdie for the U. S. of A. Maybe some of them had the potential but I lacked the trained eye of an Olympic badminton scout and they fell through the cracks.

I knew very little about the game and had a hard time saying “shuttle cock” without smirking so when I went to my advisor and told him I wasn’t sure if I was the man to teach the class he dug around his cluttered office, tossed me a book on badminton and said, “Read up…class starts next week.” I couldn’t control the fact that 30 college students had signed up for the course, some actually expecting to learn something, but I could control how much I knew about it, and how well I could teach it so I quit whining and did the best I could do.

So as you watch the summer Olympics you will see for some “the best they could do” earned them a medal and for others their best earned them a pat on the back and a picture of themselves in front of the guards at Buckingham Palace.

Until next time…control what you can control, do what you can do, and infallibly the rest will take care of itself…if you’re in the neighborhood swing by for a rousing game of badminton. Loser mows the yard and gives foot rubs…in that order.

By the time you read this column my son, Jackson, will be a few days into his rookie year of the wild and wooly teenage world. 13 years old…do you remember your thirteenth year on earth? I remember I was going through a black clothing phase and received a black muscle shirt and black pants. The muscle shirt was necessary for the proper displaying of my bulging assortment of arm muscles which bared a striking resemblance to my arm bones.

As was the case most every year my birthday coincided with the North Dakota State Fair and I set out to rock the midway in my new duds. I believe it was around 170 degrees that day at the fair which as you know is the perfect time to wear all black. Nothing has a greater cooling effect than a black 100% cotton muscle shirt and matching pants. Other than the hallucinations it may have been the least productive fair day I had ever been associated with.

When you place your body in such a situation it has a little powwow with the brain and they agree to not allow any thoughts or movements that are not in some way associated with the attainment of a cold beverage, shade, a fan, or air conditioning. If anything other than this short list of demands was sought after it was met with instant physical and mental anguish to help refocus on the necessities.

I was cautioned about my clothing choice of the day prior to being transported to the fairgrounds but my new teenage brain was on break and missed the finer points of the conversation which described in great detail the discomfort I was about to bring upon myself and my assortment of arm muscles.

My faith in evolution is vilified on a regular basis as I observe the growth and development of my children above and beyond the development their father was able to muster. I suppose now that they are both teenagers the evolutionary progress may slow a bit as there is no reason to progress forward when you already know everything about anything.

Those of you that have been scoring at home over the years are also aware that any and all of my son’s birthdays are quickly followed up by one of my birthdays…40 of them now to be exact. I hate numbers. They claim you need one every year so they keep coming year after year after year after year. By the time you read this column I will have reached the summit and had a brief look about. As I looked about some heartless fiend will have swiped my half full glass and replaced it with a leaky half empty one.

Statistically speaking I will most likely spend the next year or so trying to find a way to stop the leak. Throwing in the towel on this battle against aging is signified by the sudden urge to wear black socks with sandals and to hike my pants up to the point where I can reach over my shoulder to retrieve the AARP card from the wallet in my back pocket.

“Hi, my name is Josh and I am 40 years old.” Don’t cry for me…I will do it myself thank you very much.

Summer is typically the time of year when families, classmates, and other such groups decide it to be a good time to get together to celebrate their common bonds. Through the haze of a sunstroke and campfire smoke and all hopped up on smores we peer at those that have shared in our lives and can’t help but think of what used to be, where we’ve all been, and where we’re all going.

My family came from far and near to congregate in Lignite for the Chrest family reunion this past week. As far as I could tell everyone enjoyed the gathering or decided it was in their best interest to fain enjoyment and I even heard some scuttle of it becoming an annual event. Of course you always hear that sort of scuttle during the event when everyone’s caught up in the goings on of the moment with the other part of their lives on hold.

The part that continually vies for their attention, time, and energy. The part that pays the bills and keeps their immediate family life afloat and drifting ahead. The part that those that care about you want to hear about and have a genuine interest in. A few days a year doesn’t seem like much to ask but it does take effort and interest to have a family reunion. Typically an effort by a few and the interest of many is the formula that keeps these things going…keeps a family together.

I enjoy reunions and look forward to these types of gatherings. Gatherings where everyone knows just about everything there is to know about you and you them. There’s comfort in familiarity…comfort in family. We human types are tribal creatures and I enjoy the company of my tribe. They make me laugh…they’ve always made me laugh…and as they say, “laughter is the best medicine.” Whose they? Larry, Curly, or Mo? More like Rosalin, Joann, Mary, Beth, Tim, and Susan.

Laughter is much better medicine than the blackberry brandy Grandpa Ardell prescribed when I had a cough as a child. You ever seen a twelve year old gag on blackberry brandy? Made him laugh so I guess the medicine was more for him than me.

It seems as though every family has someone that without much effort serves as the glue that holds a family together. What amazes me is the effort it takes by many to regain or maintain that closeness when that one individual passes. I’m glad the Chrest family puts forth that effort and I look forward to our future gatherings.

As you partake or prepare for your gatherings, get togethers, reunions, and what have you this summer I wish you safe travels and lots of laughs…even if they’re at your expense. You’ll come away carrying some good memories and most likely few extra pounds. Low carb the Chrest family is not.

Happy Independence Day my friends. May your sparklers sparkle and your bottle rocket hit your brother square in the back.

The number of subcultures in our society is mind boggling and more than a little interesting. There are groups of people, large and small, that get together for activities, gatherings, and what have you on a regular basis that most of us are completely unaware of for various reasons. The main reason generally being that the particular activity of interest to that group is not of interest to you for various reasons. That main reason being that the activity is strange and the people that immerse themselves in it are even stranger.

I found myself in the middle of one such subculture awhile back when I attended a lecture at the local library on Fairburn agates. The lecturer was a gentleman that has written the most researched and informative book on the subject of Fairburn agates. You would be correct in assuming that the subject of Fairburn agates is not one that scientists and authors clamor to research and write about on a regular basis.

For those that don’t know a rock from a road apple or could care less about stumbling around a barren, treeless South Dakota landscape under a blazing sun in search of the rock in a pile of rocks the Fairburn agate is a banded agate that can only be found in southwestern South Dakota and northwestern Nebraska. I’m sure I’ve explained this before but some of you may have been absent, drowsy, or heavily medicated that day so I thought it best to review a bit.

So I decided to attend this lecture by the guru of the elusive Fairburn to see if the old chap had anything useful to say. I soon realized that everything he was saying I had read in his book so this offered me a brief pardon from having to actually listen and pay attention and allowed me to people watch while people were preoccupied.

My first observation was that there were a lot of strange people in the room, people that looked like they had spent so many hours looking at rocks that they had lost their marbles. Marbles are round and smooth so they roll away and get stuck in small hard to reach places and are generally irretrievable once lost. Many of them were clutching rocks they had brought from their personal collection for the guru to gaze upon. Did they bring their rocks everywhere? Why did everyone there seem to come by themselves…not counting their rock?

When you are observing a lot of strange people in a room and you are in the room it just might be that you are one of those strange people. The thought that I had briefly thought about grabbing my favorite rock to bring as a date to the lecture and introduce to the guru made me cringe a little. The fact that I had left it home somehow made me feel a marble or two heavier than those seated around me gentling cradling their prized rock as the lecturer read exerts from his book that he also conveniently had for sale in case anyone in attendance didn’t have one.

At the conclusion of this lecture we were allowed to take a gander at the many rocks the lecturer had brought with him. The guru had fashioned a brief case into a handy rock hauler/display case that held about 30 Fairburn agates. I looked at the brief case and thought, “This guys nuts” while several others inspected it and made promises to their rocks that they would make one just like it when they got home.

My second thought was, “While these wacko’s are setting up play dates for their rocks I could snag that entire case.” I was confident none of them would throw their rocks at me and even more confident that the rock landscaping in front of the library would provide the perfect distraction if any of them attempted to run me down.

If I ever become the Grand Poobah of the Fairburn Agate subculture my first order of business will be to mandate that all members must bring an actual person with them to gatherings. This mandate will be enforced through a 1:1 ratio law stating that a member must bring an equal number of rocks and people to gatherings. You come in packing a brief case full of rocks you better have arrived with a bus load of people. Section two of the 1:1 ratio law will state that for every conversation you have with a rock you must have a conversation of equal length with a person.

Well I better go. I promised my rock I would take it out for a twist cone and a dilly bar. Your assignment for next month is to locate and infiltrate a subculture…be careful out there.