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'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'm wiped. Exhausted. Why? It's called "moving out," and it sucks worse than the residence hall vacuum clear I spent 20 minutes trying to unclog with a mechanical pencil, terrified that the stringy chunk of grit was, in fact, the elongated tail of a dead cat.

I think my last joule of energy was used up when my roommate and I hauled Massive Stained Comfy Sofa down the steps. This had been immediately preceded by Miniature Stained Comfy Love Seat, so we were already a little tired. These things are awkward and smell funny, but they are wonderful for napping after a test or taking sexiling in stride (I should probably add here that all of the stains on them were present when we purchased them... don't give me all that 'Caveat Empor' crap right now). We managed to get both down the (descent to hell) three flights of stairs — at only one point did we become squished between two railings, which caused us to burst into laughter before briefly choking on our own blood. We finally got them into the lobby.

That's when I got the call. 

An on-campus charity group had posted signs describing some sort of on-campus garage sale through the Salvation Army. I'd been assured for the past week that they would OF COURSE take my furniture, including my beloved Massive Stained Comfy Sofa and Love Seat. The truck was to arrive exactly at 11:30, at which point I could lift these two pieces of furniture for the last time and never see them again.

At 11, the time when the napping apparatuses were being lowered into the lobby, my phone rang, and I learned that there had been some sort of miscommunication, and the truck was not coming. This left me high and dry in the lobby of Goodwin-Kirk Residence Hall with two lonely couches, stains and all.

I started panicking. I began to call agencies, Goodwill, the Disabled American Veterans — anyone. These couches HAD to go today, and they were too comfortable to throw away in the trashcan without kindling a significant amount of Catholic guilt, which I was unwilling to start out my summer.

I updated my Facebook. AND my Twitter. I considered updating this blog as well, but ultimately decided not to because I've had a low number of unique visitors lately, but a large number of page views (whoever is creeping, start leaving some comments!). No response.

I called my mom, the Attorney, who I suspect was in the middle of some sort of important legal procedure with several other people in the same room, because she kept responding with ambiguous Northern Minnesotan answers, such as, "Ya betcha," and "Well, I-da-no aboat that."


To make a long story short — I found buyers, thanks to my former Resident Assistant, who I call White-Trash Obsessed because of her fascination with tales of whiteness and trashiness. Less than an hour after I received the phone call from the campus charity, I had those couches sold, and my Catholic guilt was soothed.

Now my room is empty. The beds are stripped, the desk is wiped clean, the dresser is empty. I'm actually in here illegally; I checked out this morning, but decided to stay one last night after the Couches Ordeal put me behind schedule. I'm half-expecting White-Trash Obsessed to break into my room and order me to leave in that thick Mizzou accent she gets when she's angry.

It's a gone, a whole year of accumulated crap, piled in my car or in garbage cans down the hall. So many memories — the emptier a room gets, the more they stir in the mind.
 
 
When you're from Minnesota, you can't go apeshit like normal people can. It's called the "Minnesota Nice." If some short order cook creates a burger made of turds at a restaurant, you smile and eat it anyways and still leave a tip. If someone steps on the back of your flip flop three times in a row (and the cheap shoe breaks), you're always the one who says "Excuse me." And if someone brings an incredibly irritating distraction to a review session that you NEED to concentrate on in order to pass and not screw over your future, you sit in silence, fantasizing about ways in which you could exact your revenge, but still give him an extra pencil if he needs one. If he REALLY gets on your nerves, you furiously scribble a poem when he isn't watching.

Minnesota Not-So Nice
by Matt Nelson

Do you know how badly I want to smash your face in,
Annoying Chip-eating boy?
Or ram that cellophane package in a garbage can
shards of Martha's homestyle bakery chips
up your nose?
I'm waiting for you to choke, Annoying Chip-Eating Boy.
I would like nothing more than to call an ambulance
So you can gasp and wheeze while I
go Office Space on your noisy, Godless potato chip crap bag.
Annoying Chip-eating Boy, I want so badly
to interrupt this lecture and scream
SHUT THE FUCK UP
...
You put the chip bag down.
Are you done?Idon'tcare.
Go eat a burrito, and let me study modern physics in peace.
 
 
Enduring Readers of mine will know that I recently did pretty well in an on campus publication, Periphery, with a piece of fiction and a poem. I just got back from their launch party and man, do I feel great. After all, it's not very often that you get a chance to speak to an audience of people enthusiastic not only about the arts, but about things you've written. The event was held at Mars Cafe — a local legend of a coffeehouse (I recommend getting Earl Grey tea and Chips and Hummus — it's incredibly cheap and caffeinated) which was pretty packed.

I went in extremely nervous, and alone. YES I DO HAVE FRIENDS. It's just that I was embarrassed. When you read fiction, you put yourself out there. If I had it my way, I would have everyone read the nice little blurbs and ignore the actual story and poem. So I didn't tell anybody about the party, really, and didn't invite my friends.

I really regret that now. The Periphery staff started talking to me almost at once, making me feel welcome and comfortable. I was asked to read first — I accepted, because I wanted to get it out of the way. I was introduced, and given a prize for my award (NO, IT WASN'T A CHECK!) in the form of this beautiful moleskine notebook. I love notebooks, but I never buy anything other than 50 cent college ruled ones at Wal-mart. Having this is sort of like having a four course gourmet meal handed to you when you're used to burgers and fries — it's awesome!

The reading went from strange to intense in only a few seconds; my story, "The Wolfhound" is supposed to be suspenseful. I never realized how suspenseful it actually was, though, until I looked up at one of the most intense parts and realized the entire coffeehouse, including the Mars Cafe workers, had gone completely silent, and were giving me (ME! THE FAT PHYSICS MAJOR WITH A COWLICK!) their riveted attention. Man oh man, that was strange.

Afterwards, I was interviewed by my former employer and beloved student newspaper, the Times-Delphic. It made the event so — special, somehow. I'm always the interviewer, never the interviewee. I tried to give her good quotes, but I think I talked in circles a lot.

The Periphery staff did such a great job with this publication. The design, the layout — everything is just great. The other authors were great to listen to — their work is so outstanding, you've got to read it on peripheryjournal.com. (You can also view my stuff there.)

I thoroughly regret not inviting people that I knew to the event. There's a difference between being humble and keeping your talents hidden. Maybe I'm being a little egocentric with this post, but I know the attention won't last. A week from now, celebration of my work will be over, and I'll just be another body in the crowd. Got to live it up while you can, right?
 
 
So I haven't really blogged about this yet, but I recently kicked a whole lot of butt in my fiction writing endeavors. Two of my submissions for Drake University's "Periphery" journal were not only published, but THEY WON AWARDS TOO.

Huh? No... no I'm not getting a check... be quiet, okay?! This is the type of reward that comes with a warm, fuzzy feel and the knowledge that I can actually write worth crap. What I REALLY won were two very wonderful blurbs from people who actually know what they're talking about — I'm going to reproduce them here, and it's going to seem like my ego is similar to Tiger Woods' pre-Thanksgiving 2009, but I don't care. This is MY Web site. I can write all the nice stuff about me that I want, and if you don't like it, feel free to click out (although please, please don't leave me!)

The first blurb was from Johnathon Williams, a founding editor of Linebreak.org, a weekly magazine of original poetry, and an MFA candidate in the Creative Writing program at the University of Arkansas. He was writing about my poem, "Alive."

"Here I admire the poet's effort to tie the timeless to the temporary, the grand to the small. 'Now is the time of memories' is a bold, provocative opening line, the reach of which is made accessible by the many specifics that follow, such as the dandelions growing in the cracked sidewalk. Such juxtapositions are one of the many things that poetry does well, and here the technique is used with aplomb."

APLOMB! If I saw that word out of context, I would probably think it was a pokemon, but here it practically makes me jump off my feet and start fist pumping the air.

The other blurb was written about my short story, "The Wolfhound," by Andrew Porter, the author of the short story collection "The Theory of Light and Matter" as well as other awards I don't feel like typing out.

"From the opening paragraph of Matt Nelson's "The Wolfhound" I could tell I was in the hands of a natural storyteller. There's a certain confidence and honest in the narrative voice that immediately drew me in and made me care about his characters. Even more impressive, however, was the way Nelson subtly developed the conflict beneath the surface of the story, raising questions about the past, while at the same time keeping the reader firmly grounded in the present. A psychologically complex and emotionally powerful piece. If this story is any indication, I think Mr. Nelson has a very bright future ahead of him."

Not just any future, you notice. A very bright one. Not bad for a physics major, huh?

I shot off an e-mail to Mr. Porter and Mr. Williams, thanking them for their awards. Mr. Porter responded, and it turns out he's coming to Drake. TONIGHT. For a visit. And I get to meet him. In person. Better than Facebook.

I've been opening and closing doors all day, the most annoying nervous habit ever. I'm pretty sure the refrigerator has lost it's chill, and I'm probably driving my roommates crazy. The thing is, I've NEVER had someone other than a parent, school teacher or friend tell me my writing was any better than anyone else's. Any person who has ever read my work met me before they read it, never the other way around. That's why I was so pumped that he had such good things to say — there were no first impressions, no communication, nothing. It was just the writing he saw, and that's really what's most important.
 
 
I'm so glad this month is almost over. It's been a rough one, Enduring Readers. I had this funny idea that this semester couldn't possibly be as hectic or as time consuming as Fall 2009. In April alone, I created an 8-page section of the Drake Relays Edition Times-Delphic (Features A, you better check it out!), studied for and took a quantum physics test (I can summarize that awful experience in one Northern Minnesotan word: Uffda), developed what I hope is just a mild caffeine addiction and pretty much decided on the course of the rest of my life.

I'll begin with the latter. I am now enrolled in Drake University's School of Education program, going for an education degree plus endorsements in physics, journalism, general science and, believe it or not, possibly math. Also, I'm getting my BA in Physics — that elusive physics major, and, if it doesn't mean too many more classes, possibly a math minor.

Yes, this will mean a solid platform (I think) I can sell myself to employers on. No, it won't mean I can graduate in four years. That's okay. I've accepted that, for the most part. I wish I'd planned a little better earlier on, but hey, what can you do at this point? I'll sneak in a few summer classes wherever I can, but I'm not holding my breath.

I imagine that in the near future I'll feel the same way about my physics degree as I do about the Relays Edition of the Times-Delphic: intensely proud, but I still want to take it outside and burn it in a trash barrel.

Don't get me wrong. I've pushed myself to places I didn't know I could go to with physics and the Times-Delphic (like pulling two all-nighters in a row, for instance). But when I think about tearing up the Relays Edition, even jokingly, I feel this strange sort of catharthis, like I'm telling this thing that had so much of a monopoly over my time that it doesn't own me anymore. That I won. I beat it.

It's a pretty strange juxtaposition of ideas, I admit, but don't get worried; I'm not about to go Office Space any time soon. I haven't torn up the Relays Edition, and I'm definitely not going to torch my future physics degree. It's just my thought of the night, I guess.

Does anyone else have any idea what I'm talking about? Do you ever just want to tear up that paper you spent hours writing, because you suddenly have the power to? Or am I nuts?
 
 
After six months and a lot of frustration (including around 12 hours in the last four days), I think I've finally figured it all out. My schedule for next semester. The direction I want to take academically. Where I want to go with the rest of my life. It's all set in stone.

Sort of.

If you've been following my tweets, you've noticed that I've been in credit hell. My plan was perfect; get a BA in Physics and a degree in Education along with endorsements in General Science and Physics.

It took me about four hours last Sunday to realize that this was going to be completely im-freaking-possible. There was just no way I could complete the Ed program without sacrificing my Physics Major for a Minor, which I was okay with, until my physics advisor pointed out to me the possibility of me falling madly in love with a hot woman from Massachusetts. This, he explained, would be a major problem.

I'm not saying there's anything wrong with women in Massachusetts, but the fact is, I can't teach there without a degree in Physics. That's not the only state where I would be restricted either, although I've had a hard time finding concrete statistics.

There's no way I can pursue Education by pursuing my physics major, and there's no way I can be unrestricted by pursuing an education major. See my problem?

The good news is that I can get by another semester without making the major decision to stay at Drake another year or pursue my Ed major at some other point in my life, while still taking a couple of Ed courses next semester. Unless my Ed advisor says otherwise, that's what I'm going to do, and hopefully I can make a more informed decision sometime in the next few months.

Think I made the right choice? Maybe you could... Leave a comment, yes? Yes? Yes?
 
 
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As I took my second swig of Red Bull, my roommate looked over at me.

"Oh, it's going to be one of those nights," he said.

"Yep," I replied, as wings suddenly sprouted from my back and I zipped back into my side of the shoebox, I mean, University Suite. The fact is that my life, like many students at the University, is currently a living hell of papers, presentations and tests known collectively as Midterms. This week, I've got my first test (out of two) on Quantum Physics (my journalism friends will be unhappy to see that I have unnecessarily capitalized the Q and P, but I feel it is unwise to disrespect the subject. I'm a superstitious physicist, what can I say?), a 6 - 8 page paper about the films "Singin' in the Rain" and "Pride and Prejudice," (neither of which I have watched), a massive lab report due tomorrow (which I haven't started) and a physics presentation on "Dark Matter in Minnesota."

(Gulp) More Red Bull.

Actually, I completed the last entry, my physics presentation, earlier today. It went... alright. It got off to a rocky start. First off all, I had cut myself shaving, and whenever I craned my neck in a certain way, blood would start trickling out of my neck in a vampiric way. Second, I had drank two 24 fl. oz. bottles of Diet Mountain Dew, which had me wired and belching like the dog from "Christmas Vacation." Third, I was nervous. Ridiculously nervous. My professor, a relic from the stone age, scares the living crap out of me. It wasn't the actual presentation itself that worried me, but rather the 4-minute Q and A that followed.

Finally, it was my turn to talk. I bravely stood, carefully informed the class that they shouldn't worry if I burped, bled or barfed, and launched into my topic.

I hit the ground running. My overview, which normally took me about a minute and a half, lasted 30 seconds. If I didn't slow down, I was screwed. I began discussing the Virial Theorem, originally used by Fritz Zwicky to deduce that something was amiss in the Coma cluster of galaxies; using mathematics, I showed how he determined that some INVISIBLE AND MYSTERIOUS MASS was at work, bending light: DARK MATTER.

I was feeling better now. I gained confidence, describing some of the experiments going on in my home state of Minnesota, and finally, concluded my discussion.

I handled the Q&A relatively well. It helps to present on theoretical particles, because, well, most of the answers aren't known yet. So I can just shrug and look cute when I'm stressed, something another northerner has perfected.

Afterwards came the real terror: criticism from Mr. Professor.

Silently chiding myself for not attending church last weekend, I entered his office. He was smiling.

"Sit down so I can wipe the blood off the chair," he snickered, indicating the bloody pulp of the first presenter lying in a criticized heap on the floor. Sweet Jesus.

And then came the amazing... shocking revelation... He thought I'd done WELL.

Got an A, end of story. And I'm pretty psyched about it. Not so psyched about the fact I've wasted 25 minutes writing this. Back to beating my head against the shoebox wall-- doing homework.

(Gulp)
 
 
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Some presidents fly helicopters. Others control them via remote control.
SHOCKING REVELATION: Tuition at Drake is going up! Gasp! I could NEVER have expected that! Outraged, I decided to utilize my investigative journalism skills and have a look into this offense, and get to the heart of the matter by interviewing David Maxwell, President of Drake.

Actually, Maxwell is a pretty cool guy. I entered his office, pad and pencil in hand, ready to demand he lower tuition and give the starving students at Drake a break.

I was instead distracted by his electric helicopters which sat on his desk. They were SO FREAKING COOL — er, kind of neat. 

Every journalist knows that before you can slice, dice and extract those glorious answers to the tough questions out of your subject, you have to butter him up a little bit. Establish a rapport. Make them trust you, so they are willing to apologize to an entire country. I quickly realized that if I wanted to lower tuition and save the students around me, I would have to do one thing: talk about the helicopters.

It turns out that Maxwell originally owned the small one, but the larger one unexpectedly arrived on his desk one afternoon from a major credit card company, minus the remote control.

Maxwell was intrigued. Apparently, the package contained a sort of note. While I did not actually see the note, I imagine the gist of it went like this:

Dear RICH el presidente,

Enclosed is a electronic, equipped remote-control helicopter, a top of the line toy that every little boy and el presidente in America wants. These gadgets are so hot Santa's elves burned their fingers making them. And now it can be yours... for a price.

If you ever want to see her fly again, you must switch your corporate credit card accounts to ours. Otherwise, she'll be grounded... GROUNDED! (insert evil laugh)

I've never heard a story about a remote helicopter controller being held for a ransom of what probably amounted to several million dollars. TPFR. (That's pretty f**** random.)

Like Harrison Ford in Air Force One, Maxwell had to save this aircraft. Maxwell quickly phoned his VP, trying to find out if they could comply with the crazed captor's demands. She refused, citing some ridiculous reasons of contracts and legal liability or something. Whatever. 

Maxwell wasn't finished. He took to the Internet, scouring high and low for a replacement controller, anything that might give his plastic baby the gift of flight. But after weeks of searching, even the World Wide Web failed him.

Finally, he arranged a meeting between him and the peddler of plastic.

From what I gather, he basically pulled a Bill Clinton. Maxwell liberated that controller without a single punch or roundhouse kick. And the VP was happy, because Drake never changed accounts. Way to go, Maxwell. Way. to. go.

Oh, wait, tuition (yes, I DID do the interview). It really isn't that bad. It's only going up about 5 percent, and mostly is going to salary increases of faculty. The best part is that students actually have a partial say in which professor gets a raise because of course evaluations taken at the end of each semester. Besides, it's nothing compared to what California students are going through. 

I have to say, I'm not sure I've ever established such a random rapport. Sleep well, Fair Reader, and know that one helicopter is still out there, parading the skies, flying 65-80 feet into the sunset.