Close encounters with the Rand kind

Before I begin, I'd like to mention that I had the hardest time getting a picture of Rand on here. I had a better one in mind, but it wouldn't load, darn it all. Oh well, the monkey look will have to do.

Rand is an interesting character. One minute he's your best friend, but mess around and he's your worst nightmare. You don't want to tick him off. When I first became a manager, I lived in constant fear of his wrath, especially on game days. As the season progressed, I figured out that I could relax and that he's harmless. However, before we managers ever do anything, the question is always, "What will Rand do if..." Being my mischevious and slightly rebellious self, I have had a few run-ins with this man. Fortunately, I'm still alive. If you've already heard these stories, stop reading now.

Run-in #1: The Bathroom Story

Once upon a time, it was very hot in English, and I took the hall pass to get a drink. I hardly ever use the bathrooms in the English hall (remember this). As I was getting a drink from the fountain in between the two bathrooms, who should come down the hall but Mr. Rand Rasmussen. It was just the two of us in this very long, empty hall.

I panicked because I didn't have anything to say, and I knew that he was going to say something to me on his way to the bathroom. The last thing I wanted to do was looked like a stuttering idiot in front of Rand, thinking it might have uncomfortable consequences later. So, I thought that if I went into the bathroom as if I was planning on it, stood in there for a few seconds till I knew he was in the bathroom, then left and went back to English, I could avoid an awkward situation. "Sounds like a plan," I quickly thought to myself.

Forgetting that the bathrooms are switched in the English hall, I nonchalantly stepped towards the boys bathroom, pushed open the door, and entered what I thought was a safe zone. Before I saw the urinals I heard Rand holler, "I wouldn't go in there Packard!" Confused, I turned around to see what he wanted, and then my heart sank as I read the words "Men's Restroom" on the door. He laughed, and I quickly replied "Yeah, good thing you were here to save me," as he entered and I exited.

As I walked back to English, I heard him talking to someone in there, so I'm glad I didn't go in far enough to be seen by anyone. I couldn't believe that in my attempt to avoid attention, I drew it all to myself. So much for being smooth.

Run-in #2: The Hat and the Stick Story

When the season's over, the managers get to sit up in Rand's room and do whatever they please once "The Book" is done. We check our email, talk, write on the board, talk, watch old games (yes, we are that bored) , talk, scrapbook, talk, and once in blue moon we do homework.

When the cat's away, the mice will play, right? One day Rand was gone, and I thought it would be fun to parade past occupied classrooms throughout the school wearing Rand's sponge-like Spalding basketball hat and his gigantic glasses while waving his pointer stick up and down like Professor Harold Hill. It was fun, actually, but I'm afraid the fun didn't last.

While practicing my baton skills, I dropped the stick and it broke. It was one of those "time stood still" or "life flashed before my eyes" moments. This wasn't just any break either, it was a wooden one. You know, the splintery, not very clean kind? I ran down to the woods room with two other managers, all of us feeling that this was my death day. To cut to the chase, we found some Elmers glue, and went back up to Rand's room.

As we opened the door, we could hear him and realized that he had come back. I booked it down the hall. Hate to admit it, but I went and hid in the bathroom, like a chicken. I was so scared standing in front of the mirror with his stolen hat and broken stick in my hands. I eventually worked up enough courage to go back, and I walked in like nothing had happened.

He was on the phone when I came back in, so he didn't notice me put his hat back on the shelf. He did catch me trying to rubber-band his stick back together though. To save time and space, I'll color code our conversation: "Why are you putting those on my stick?" "Oh, well, it's broken." "How'd it break?" "It was...uh...dropped." "Did you drop it?" This was it. I thought I was a gonner, seriously. Who gets away with breaking Rand's stick? No one. "Yes." "Hey! It's alright! I broke it yesterday, and accidentally swore in front of my class! Now I'm going to have to get a new one!"

Huh? The stick was already broken? Did that really happen? Yes, it did. I came off victorious again, with my life mind you.

I found it!

Awhile ago, I went to The International House of Pancakes with a bunch of friends for breakfast. This was during the UBSCT testing that we priveleged juniors and seniors did not have to take. Outside, twas grey and overcast, and as we were driving back to school, a really cool song came on the radio. I hadn't heard it before, and was in awe. Looking out of the rain-streaked car window, I imagined myself in Montana on some ranch, and then when I realized that the song was about a ship, I imagined myself at sea. This six-minute or so long song ended, but no DJ came on afterwards to inform me of the name of the artist or the song title. Disappointed, I walked through the school for the rest of the day with the tune in my head, convinced I wouldn't get to hear that song again.

Three days ago, I was messing around on iTunes and my dad came into the room. I showed him around, and he was impressed. He actually gave me a dollar to buy White Room for him. But anyways, as we were sitting there waiting for the thing to download, I told him about that title-less song I had heard a few months ago. He asked me to hum it for him. I did. He identified it immediately. "OH! That's The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald! By Gordon Lightfoot. You like that song?" I was shocked. For months I'd been thinking, "Gee, I wish I knew what that song was," and as it turns out, all I had to do was ask my dad.

I've listened to that song many times since then. Tis kind of my new love, or my "song of the week". Is it weird that I really like it? Apparently, it was overplayed in it's day (1988). The song itself is six and a half minutes long, the drums don't enter till one minute and thirty-six seconds into the song, it's the same little tune played over and over for fourteen verses, there's no chorus... but I still like it. It is a true story about the sinking of the SS Edmund Fitzgerald. How cool is that? It made for very interesting reading on Wikipedia. I've decided that I'm going to learn the lyrics to the song, though it will be a challenge. You all should too. And for the record, I think that Edmund Fitzgerald would be a sweet name for a fish or a big dog.

Why I love bagpipes:

I heard once that people who like bagpipes must have a reason for their liking. For some, it's because they are Scottish. If you're not Scottish and still like them, then the answer is that you are insane. That may be true of me, but I have another reason for loving bagpipes.

On Tuesday, March 14, 2006 I sat down to write my U.S. History World War II report paper about my Grandpa Brien. You just can’t sum up a war experience in two pages, 12 font, double- spaced. I wrote this paper using a book called “Reminiscence” that my grandmother put together after recording my grandfather’s experiences as he told them to her. It’s not very long, but it’s very powerful, to me at least. I’m not one to get emotional usually, but I was crying before I even got to the part that told of him being beaten by the Nazis. I can’t express in words how awful it feels to find all this out about my grandfather now that he’s gone. Just reading about all the training he went through, the places he visited, and thinking about him being up in an airplane dropping bombs over Europe made me think, “Holy cow! That was grandpa Brien!?!”

While I was reading about the Death March he was on, I stumbled across the story within the story that I had heard many times before: Grandpa and the bagpipes. He came down with dysentary, and he had to get out and walk alongside the sick wagon just to keep warm. At a halt, he rolled over into a ditch and decided that was it, he was done. However, right as he gave up to die, he heard bagpipes coming up the road. The sound they made, and the sight of the British prisoners marching by in their kilts revived him and kept him going the rest of the way. Hence my love of what Robert Kirby calls, "an instrument of mass destruction."

I didn’t appreciate him as much as I should have when he was alive. I honestly remember thinking, “What a grouchy, old fart!” a few times when I was younger. You know how old people are. They don’t act like the used to. My dad and I joke sometimes that the first lesson my grandpa will learn in heaven is manners. I wish that I had known about what he did in the war and after it when I would visit him. I love him a lot, and appreciate him and what he did. Blast my stupidity, and taking-things-for-granted-ness. Here’s to you, grandpa!

First post! Yeah, that's right....

So, I have absolutely no idea what to slap down here tonight for the first entry. I wish it were something excited, interesting, mind-boggling....or at least entertaining. I feel like the world is my audience, because this is the internet after all. I don't know what to do with all the non-existant pressure I feel to blog right now. Ok, I'll say this: The other day someone asked me if it would be OK by me to have Cafe Rio cater our orchestra banquet. I wanted to laugh. "Yeah, I think that'll work," was all I could say through my chuckles.