Keep those scorpions out of my car. 05/16/2011
The last final has been taken, the last paper has been written and I am done, done done (at least until tomorrow when I start two summer classes)! I still, however, had to move out, a task I was dreading because of the ordeal it was last year. I decided to make things easier by planning ahead — so last Thursday I headed over to my friendly neighborhood Hyvee to pick up a few cardboard boxes. I was directed to the produce section and ushered into a back room by a man named Nick. He brought me to a tall stack of banana boxes, and I asked, "So do I have to worry about any — uh, stowaways?" I expected him to laugh jovially, but no. He got serious. "Oh yeah — you'll probably want to shake them out before you go. Sometimes tarantulas or scorpions show up in there." !!!  Those who have read my blog before know that I hate HATE scorpions. It's my only phobia. It started when I watched "Honey I Shrunk the Kids" when I was a little kid — you know what I'm talking about, the scene where the scorpion murders the ant? F***** terrifying. What scares me the most is that those suckers are almost impossible to kill. If a scorpion can survie a nuclear apocalypse, then it could definitely hijack a ride in MY banana box. I broke into a sweat while walking the boxes to my car. The holes on the side of the boxes were menacing; inside was thin white paper wrapped with plastic. I was certain I would feel a sting before collapsing to the ground while shrieking like a girl. I put the boxes into my car. Two of them were on the front seat next to me. I thought I heard a rustle as I got in, and my bowels threatened to release. I reminded myself that I was, in fact, a male. I made it a minute of driving before my involuntary and sweaty palms nearly caused me to run over an 80-year old juggling four sacks of groceries on top of a motor scooter. I pulled over into the corner of the parking lot and shot out of the car, quickly looking around to make sure that I wouldn't unintentionally be the subject of a hit viral video. Then I threw those banana boxes to the ground, where I watched like a hawk for the menacing claw of a sadistic arachnid. I spent the next ten minutes alternating between being terrified and then furiously emptying out the banana-scented boxes onto the pavement and stomping their contents just to make sure. Thankfully, I didn't uncover any of the little bastards (although a shriveled brown banana nearly caused me to crap my pants). The sturdy boxes worked great for hauling things — but honestly, I think next time I'll just go to Walmart. They don't have scorpions in China, right? RIGHT?! Add Comment Ding Dong! The Wicked Witch is Dead! 05/01/2011
Nearly three years ago, I totally called this. Check out this column I wrote on why Osama Bin Laden needed to die in order for this country to move on. Food for thought on First Avenue by Matt Nelson Staff Intern Published: Sunday, August 10, 2008 6:13 AM CDT Yesterday I went into one of the local establishments on First Avenue to order up something delicious. While I waited at the counter, I caught out of the corner of my ear a tinge of news; ....Osama Bin Laden has been captured... I jumped about a foot just like a kid being scared by his vindictive older brother, and I turned every iota of my attention to the black box blaring the precious news; it only took a minute for c me to realize the full newscast had been The driver of Osama Bin Laden has been captured and tried... I realized my tongue had stuck to the roof of my mouth and my palms had clammified the way they do when the body undergoes a rush of adrenaline that leaves it reeling. I have been thinking about that feeling for the last day — how suddenly some far-off impossible promise had almost briefly become reality. I don't think a lot about the man responsible for the worst terrorist attack of my memory. I don't ponder much about the Pentagon’s new fifth wall. I don’t think about the brave passengers of Flight 93. I don’t wonder about the photographs splattered across television screens in mid-September 2001, and most of all, I don’t dare consider the implications and consequences of Bin Laden’s actions, because they seem as politically far-reaching as any conspiracy of the X-Files might have gone. I read the papers every day (I work at one for crying out loud). I’ve seen headline after headline that read “CAR BOMBINGS CLAIM LIFE...” “SOME DEAD, MORE INJURED...” I think when a person sees too much of something for too long, they get the impression that it has always been around. The concept is certainly true of the Internet and personal computers. I’ve slipped into a mindset where the war has become a casual and everyday notification of events; I hope I am unique in the regard, but I doubt I am, and that idea sickens me. The report I heard triggered something inside of me, something deep and strong I had forgot existed. It has made me recall those uncertain, but beautiful fall afternoons when the country mourned and rose up in fury. Our convictions changed color as the leaves did, from green to red, from peace to bloodlust. And there was that face of a bearded man painted across television screens — the man responsible for what had happened, and his picture inspired both great and terrible things in Americans. Some courageously took up arms and went across the sea into Afghanistan to stop the Taliban and eradicate the cancer of terrorism; some became terrorists themselves and attacked Islamic mosques around the country. Hearing the newscast incorrectly made me realize how the wounds left by 9/11 are still as fresh as ever in the undercurrents of America’s unconscious. The savage gash left by the terrorists will not heal until the day Osama Bin Laden is brought to justice — at least in my mind. And when he is caught and condemned — and he WILL be caught — well then, maybe the country can really move on from his legacy. #tdrelays 04/08/2011
What the hell Matt? It's April, and you haven't blogged since January, and when you did it was this weird sort of popular-culture crap? What happened to the insightful posts we loved to read, with the witty nature that impacted our lives in strange and mysterious ways? ...Okay, I'm probably dreaming big there, but I do have a reason I've been absent. Since roughly the middle of February, I've been devoting several hours a week toward the creation of a 56-page edition of The Times-Delphic, the Drake University student newspaper, for the Drake Relays. Last year, I served as the Assistant Relays Editor of the publication, and this year I moved up in the world as Relays Editor. Helping with the Relays Edition last year was one of the most stressful experiences of my life. Imagine two-and-a-half weeks of caffeine-pill/redbull binges fueling consecutive all nighters, arguments that often became confrontational, passing out in semi-public places and occasional vomiting. It was like the greatest 21st birthday of all time without any alcohol. Still, it was worth it. Last year's edition won awards, including a nomination for a Pacemaker, effectively the highest award a college newspaper can receive. It's my job to follow up that success with... something. Going into this year, I knew we had to change our approach. We couldn't assign stories at the start of the year and then hope they all came in by the deadline, which happened to be two weeks before we went to print. We couldn't expect that writers could understand exactly what we needed without giving them guidance for their articles. That's why the guns got rolling in February, and why I've been absent from this blog (and any form of a social life, for that matter). And — remarkably — it's going extremely well. Almost too well. We currently have 97 stories ready for the page or going through edits. All of the photos have either been taken or are assigned to be taken, and from what I've been able to tell the photo editor is doing an outstanding job of coordinating with the respective section editors, who are doing a fantastic job keeping in touch with their writers, who are in turn doing some of the best writing/reporting I've seen on this campus. I have never been more excited to read the newspaper. We have the right people doing the right jobs, and despite a few hiccups here and there, it's slowly coming together in a wonderfully cohesive way. We've still got a long way to go. As yet, there is not a single page completely designed in any of the sections. We have a strong need for photographers to help us cover the multitude of events (email our photo editor Connor at connor.mccourtney@drake.edu if interested!). Still, despite my nervousness, I haven't yet popped a single caffeine pill, and there appears to be more of a feeling of excitement regarding the issue than of dread. If you're interested in jumping in on real-time updates, including snippets of stories, we've got an active Twitter feed (#tdrelays) going on throughout this whole process, and a staff blog that's about to get a whole lot busier. I also want to start bringing you "Writer Debriefings," where writers have the chance to talk about their involvement in the story they covered, and some of the interesting things that moved them. A serious blog? Well Shore! 02/05/2011
 I had intended for the next series of posts in this blog to turn into a funny and yet poignant collection of entries, spending an substantial amount of time dreaming up provocative, fascinating entries relating to themes within my life. I started to write — and then I discovered Snooki Book Reviews.
I know, it's been a while... 01/29/2011
 I'm going to start out this post with a graceful quote from my favorite blogger, Dingo: "The hardest part about blogging is what to say after a lengthy absence. I’m going to forgo the Compulsory Retroactive Asskissing Pity Party and the tale of woe about antidepressants, side effects, life, death, and all that other bullshit that had my muses screaming like whiney little bitches: 'Ohhh, I’m too sad to write! Oooohhhh! I’m too tired to write! Ooohhh, zombies!'" While my last few months were probably not as emotionally taxing as Dingo's, her message still applies. Sometimes things happen that we can't control, and they successfully briefly suck the talent from our lives (briefly being four to five months).  'You called me beautiful once...' 'Babe, you got real ugly.' -Evil Dead, the Musical Two weeks ago, my Macbook had reached its limit. My baby had a cracked screen, a 20-minute battery life and a six-month expired warranty. Sorry hon. It was a good three years, but this relationship is over.
I've seen that movie. I don't make it. 08/20/2010
 Creepy hallway #1: Photo by Jeff Gunderson Thursday, early August. 9 p.m. The first thing I see when I enter the Parkside Homes is a note scotch taped to the banister of the ancient staircase.It reads: "MATT. You're the only one here tonight. I'll try to get weekend renters. MARION." This is bad. This is really, really bad. Let me remind you that the 100-year old Parkside Homes began its life as a hospital, complete with a maternity ward (a creepy pink room with a crib awkwardly placed in a closet) and and operating chamber. Some of the construction workers in Tower, who have lived in the Parkside numerous times while working nearby, said they heard a woman scream violently on two occasions and never found the source. Were they hearing a woman's final few seconds of life during childbirth? An operation gone horribly awry? But the history of the Parkside gets even more colorful. When the hospital ceased operation, it was transformed into an assisted living facility for mental care patients. Or, as Ken so delicately puts it, a nuthouse. Speaking of Ken, I found a second note upon entering my room that informed me that he was now the former manager of the Parkside, without explaining in the slightest why he was removed. To summarize: I'm forced to spend a weekend alone in a century-old haunted mental hospital while the former manager is somewhere out there with a potential axe to grind on my face. I sprang into action, quickly updating my facebook status.  People began to issue tearful goodbyes.  Where ghosts are concerned, I have plenty of experience. Last year, I went hunting with a legit group of ghosthunters in Hibbing. I've also seen Paranormal Activity. This pretty much makes me a pro. Basically, all you gotta do is not piss the ghosts off. You should also turn on lights. It's a well established fact that ghosts only get frisky after hours. I kept the hall light, the one next to the creepy attic door, fully lit. I decided to phone a friend, because almost no one in horror movies is killed while on the phone. The conversation was going fine... until it became very apparent that I wasn't alone in the Parkside. Me: Hey bud, how's it going? Buddy: Aight, I'm just hanging and-- Me: THERE IS A BAT IN HERE. It swooped down, actually grazing the top of my head with its mandibles while I dived down and recouped, attempting to find a broom to chase or kill it with. It disappeared, something that was also reflected in my facebook.  Around 11, I stumbled on the perfect way to survive a night in a haunted mental hospital: watch Elf. I lived. End of post. Go check your twitter or something.  Creepy attic door right outside my room: Photo by Jeff Gunderson I'm in the middle of working hard on my FIRST FREELANCE ARTICLE EVER. There is some pressure associated with this, as I've never written for this paper before and it could (cross my fingers hope to die stick a needle in my eye) potentially lead to more stories. So of course I'm wasting way too much time. I happened to come across this video, and it made my night. 9. " What's in a name? That which we call a rose. By any other name would smell as sweet." - Shakespeare To keep track of the multitudes of Speechians, hosting high schools will assign each student a code. These numbers are carefully arranged in rows on pieces of paper underneath other numbers that correspond to the room of competition. At the start of the meet, students are assigned a number (usually by a beleaguered coach who got up waaaaay too early for this) and pick up their corresponding form, then go about their day. After three rounds of knuckle-biting competition,final rounds were the shiznit, especially at the big meets. It was amazing to see your name up on the board — that was the only time they ever really gave you a name in speech. A member of the Hibbing team became enthralled when he saw his name on the finals board — J. Anderson — for the Humorous category at Denfeld, one of the largest meets. Because hardly anyone had made it into the finals (yours truly included — I wasn't always the charming, witty and charismatic individual I am now) a sizable chunk of the team decided to go watch J. compete. The first few speakers were excellent. We began to get eager to see J., knowing that there was no way he couldn't get up their and annihilate the competition. Finally, the judge called it out -- "J. Anderson." — and the team burst into wildly enthusiastic applause as J. proudly walked up the left aisle, strutting confidently to his battlefield, where he nearly ran face-first into a much more attractive brunette, who had simultaneously walked up the right side of the room while her team clapped and cheered. The applause died in mid-clap, the room froze with tension. J. Anderson and the wench stared at each other, mouths open, like an unexpected and awkward meeting between Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt. The girl — Joelle Anderson — broke the silence, tipping her head toward the judge. "What code?" she meekly asked. The judge looked down, and read it off — alas, our J. Anderson turned and came back the way he had walked, with his head high. Finally, with a smile, Hibbing's J. Anderson began a slow clap, which exploded into a cacophonous eruption of applause and laughter, the entire room joining in the moment. Speech is just like real life in the sense that you have to get used to the idea of people constantly judging you on how you look, how you act and what you say. And, like real life, it always pays to look beyond a name.  The HHS Speech Team, circa 2006 Man, I was such a dork in high school.
For five years of my life, I gave up every Saturday between February and April to board a schoolbus at the crack of dawn, a vehicle that was usually UN-heated and driven by a maniac who hit every damn pothole in the road. By the time we arrived, we were usually strung out on coffee and hoping to God that SOMEBODY had black paper. We went into the school wrinkled, bleary-eyed and smelling faintly of bus; two hours later, we were the best looking kids in the school, complete with sharp suits, crisp blouses and the cool face of competition. It was Speech, and it was wonderful. |  Author
Reporter. Physicist. Film-maker. Teacher. Welcome to my random life. Matt Nelson maddoxnelson @gmail.com CategoriesAll ArchivesJanuary 2012 |
