June 23, 2005
by Traci Gardner
Like the Schwan’s man, I always deliver. Sure, it may not be when you wanted it. You may have been perfectly happy already. But eventually, the Schwan’s man delivers. And who could turn down the tasty goodness of a juicy bagel dog with cheese when it’s there at the door, ready to come in and be served?
Yes, like the Schwan’s man, I deliver, and forwith, we have one giant, catching-up-on-all-the-details, majorly huge, and enormogimongous travelogue. So poo ot all you whinypants who are running around behind my back being all, “Why don’t you stop eating and write something?” Just hush up, and read whiner.
Now in the days of CIWIC, long ago in the land of Win, there was a boy named Bargeplay. His mother, while a sweet and gentle woman, had been a Girl Scout and she was all too pleased with that Barges song. Every night of her pregnancy, she sang to the little amphibian in her tummy.
Barges, I would like to go with you. I would like to sail the oceans blue. Barges, have you treasurers in your hold? Do you fight with pirates brave and bold?
And when the baby was born, she named him Bargeplay, because she hoped that he would grow up to play with barges and other large things. He didn’t mind so much. Sure, it was an unusual name, but so is Jori Hepart. And besides, there were sailor benefits.
Little Bargeplay grew up quickly over the next 30-some years, and he found himself at CIWIC. The important thing to note, however, is that as he emphasized, most emphatically, he just wanted to play his tunes. 
How could he be in a lab with proximity to a computer and not be able to play his tunes. “I’m not a prima donna,” he toned like Badger in HBO TV series Curb Your Enthusiasm (see image). “I just want my music.”
Little Bargeplay’s friends flew into action. On their knees, they attacked the three different machines that he huffily sat down at. “Stay down there,” he said, not for the first time according to sources, “I can use you like that.” When his tunes finally filled the CCLI, he sang out, “I’m in heaven!” and went back to the larger issue “at hand.”
See, I had shared, perhaps unwisely, that I was reading a young-adult novel called p: ¬) ChaseR (Candlewick, 2002). The protagonist in p: ¬) ChaseR is a bit over-zealous about ASCII art. In addition to the many emoticons and ASCII art of locusts (the bugs), I was given the opportunity to see in one of young Chase’s e-mails Nakedman:
{: ¬) : ·| 8=>
I shared Nakedman with Bargeplay and others in the CCLI. I even made Nakedman a friend, Nakedgrrl:
__/
{: ¬) 8 ·| --
--\
My sharing was meant to be so innocent. Nothing at all like the ASCII art that young Chase shares in the novel to portray himself at night, in bed, thinking of Maryanne:
p: ¬) \ |
---------------------------|
And yet, my CCLImates turned quickly from my innocence to their own pervy wonderings. Their question: What would Dickie’s new ASCII art signature be? Conjecture, there was plenty; but no my friends, I am NOT going to ask him. If you are truly curious, you must ask him yourself. If I had to guess, I’d say his sig will be something like this:
| | | o
,---.,---.|--- ,---.|---.,---.. ,,---.| .,---.,---.
| || || `---.| || | \ / |---'| || || |
` '`---'`---' `---'` '`---' `' `---'`---'`` '`---|
`---'
| o| | o
,---.,---.,---.. . . | .|__/ ,---. ,---.,---.| .,---.
`---.| || || | | | || \ |---' | || || || |
`---'` '`---'`-'-' `---'`` ``---' |---'|---'`---' `` '
| |
| | . .,---.
|--- |---.,---. | ||---'
| | ||---' | ||
`---'` '`---' `---'`
I had to leave the CCLI at this point. Nick was making me some wonderful paper airplanes, but the ASCII guesses were just too irreverant.
As always, there was a lovely dessert night, at which the Selfe’s served an unusual UP dessert: Brats and burgers. Cigars all around to burn away the itchy bugs. Marilyn Cooper arrived on her motorcycle—a big ol’ Harley with a sidecar for Pegeen. They roared into the Selfes’ yard, and not even the two giant poodles could convince her to park with the cars as she was supposed to. She drove right up into the house and parked in front of the fireplace. Pegeen, the singing prodigy, stood up on hind legs and belted out show tunes from Grease and Cats for 45 minutes, the beauteous melody broken only by the swatting of bugs and spraying of Deep Woods Off.
There was tequila, so it’s not clear in my notes what happened and what was simply pantomime of possible events. Several things were clear. The Super 8 is a happening place. Someone should invent Deep Woods On, then Dickie could wander into the woods and spray a tree or a rock or that pile of snow that he claims is in the woods with the ON and the bugs would go there instead of annoying everyone. And most importantly, pasty rhymes with nasty for the second year in a row. The evening ended, and I drove a friend to the Super 8 where he may or may not have met someone else.
Things Overheard at the Super 8 Lobby
- A brown bandana!!! There’ll be fun tonight!
- Random or shuffle?
- Does it dock? Dock and load, baby.
- That’s the way to get a head.
- That sucks
- FONDO!
- Check out his bratwurst.
- How do you feel about water sports?
- Smuggler, stiff upper lip, or spy machine? Tell me your pleasure.
Herbert Wainwright, well-known compositionist from the University of Vlad, stared amusedly at the drink in Gracie’s hand. He might not be one of the fifteen compositionists at Purdue in the old days, but he knew a good drink when he saw one.
Another night, another meal at Cindy and Dickie’s—and this time, I am initiated into the Secret Society of Important Rhetoricians. We play the party game that’s sweeping the nations: Name the Rhetoricians. One person at the party names a school and a time period. Others attempt to name all the rhetoricians at the school at that moment in time. It’s the kind of game that the kids will be playing for decades to come.
As the evening dwindled on, Gail the aggressive sitter regaled us with stories of feral ferrets in Japan, attacking those who innocently try to take out the trash. There were tales also of big chairs, and a short game of Do you think we can fit Gail in the woodbox? The hilarity was ended though as we all thought on Michael and the Summer of the Dead Cats.
(please observe a moment of silence)
Gracie is not a cat. She is the smartest dog. She is the one who quit doing tricks for the dog intelligence test when the snacks run out. Gracie is amazingly optimistic. When there is food, she believes it will be hers. When there is not food, she has other things to do and you’re just in her way. The only time you’re useful, assuming you’re not giving her food, is if you’re preparing food to give to her.
Bosco is less focused, but deathly afraid of running into tubes with parachute thingies on the end. So much better to leap up on top like a lumberjack. Dickie buys Bosco a cute little plaid shirt and an axe. Bosco is a lumberjack, and he’s okay! He barks all night and he barks all day!
Days sweep by. Never enough time. Never enough. Cheryl is polishing the brass with a guy. There are no speed interviews however. Many pink notebooks, but no more interviews. Houghton is a town where not even K-mart can survive as an anchor store. Diplomatically, Anne gestures and warns, “Do not park between stores at the outlet mall for it will rain.”
Aboard the Keweenaw Star we sail out into Lake Superior, passing by all the little children playing in the water. Nick and I do our duty, shouting tips and commands: Do your homework! Read a book! Write a journal entry! The children continue to pump hands in the air, hoping the Keweenaw Star’s chatty admiral will blow the horn. Reading a book would be so much more useful than blowing something, but they are children and do not listen.
The three-hour tour is relatively without marine incident, despite having to dodge the landing sea plane, which was clearly no where near a sea. I use the men’s room, just for the impish joy of it. What are they going to do to me? There are no potty police on the Keweenaw Star, and the 7 layers of the Quincy Mine, mimicking the layers of hell, are very far away. I cannot be sent to live, pasty-less with Satan. We are too far out and yet still not close enough to the Bambi gates.
The captain did lament these trips. Always. Always. People did their Titanic impersonations at the front of the boat. Leaning out over the water. Just once, he wished he could throttle the engine and knock those losers in the water. But just as this notion passes through his mind, the water-skiing Huskie zips by the ship. Who can think thoughts of evil to humanity when there is a water-skiing college mascot nearby?
“That’s the best thing I’ve seen all week,” says Cheryl, “And I was over at the Super 8 the other night, so I’ve seen a lot of things.”
As we deboat, the captain warns us: Beware the big headed carp. He may leap out of the water as you try to step to shore. Beware, or you may be eaten alive. There is no need to call in the sniper from Marquette. The six town police cars are able to corral the captain and take him in for questioning.
Another fine adventure at CIWIC completed, we all went our separate ways. Do not lament my friends if you find you didn’t make the travelogue. I hate to have to say it, but bluntness is sometimes best: “If you do not see your name, sorry. You are useless to me textually.”
Tags: tengrrl’s travelblog