Back in the day of awkward high school dances, geometry and hallway drama, yours truly used to spend around 13 hours a week in the Hibbing Public Library in the role of the coveted "Library Aide" position.


Let's be honest. As a job, it sucked. My time was spent alphabetizing items and yelling at people looking at porn. The paycheck wasn't great: $5.15 minimum wage.


But as a freshman in high school, when I didn't drive or pay bills, it was actually a pretty sweet gig. Get a couple hundred dollars every two weeks, use a little to avoid the vomit served in the school cafeteria and the rest to spend on DVDs. Hell, what wasn't there to love?


I've got a lot of stories from back then... there was this one 90-year-old guy, Norm, who worked at the library for Only God Knows How Long. He was sharp as a tack, but his vision wasn't so good. He'd come back while I was putting away books and enliven my dreary day by talking about baseball, Hibbing lore or proving his sharpness by reciting various alphabets of different languages.


There was this lady, too, who apparently knew my parents and me quite well. She would stop me in the library and engage me in conversation whenever she could, often about random topics such as bathroom facilities in Europe and her daughter's battle of the bulges. She talked to me off and on for the entire two years I worked there, and I bullshitted every single conversation. I have no idea what her name was.


But my most important memory of the Hibbing Public occurred on my first day of work. It was a two-hour shift. I was being trained in by a girl named Adrienne. I remember everything, because I was nervous for my first real job, and so I was concentrating hard. 


I remember walking through the basement, checking the toys.


I remember choosing my locker (number 12, but the 12 was scratched off).


I remember the snow falling, and one of the librarians, Roberta, saying how we were supposed to get six inches that night.


And I remember, so strongly, three hours later when my Nokia Brick rang, and how I answered it, and found out a good friend of mine had been in a car accident, and was dead, on the way to one of those awkward high school dances. And I remember the week that followed, concentrating so hard on the letters and call numbers on book spines so I didn't have to think ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE.


I can't help but think about that whenever I'm in this building. I'm here now, home on Spring Break, taking a quick break from my Day of Homework. This building is important to me. It's where I first mourned someone I was knew. Once you've been in a place that profoundly affects you, some part of you never really leaves it. Coming here, despite the negative connotations, feels good. It feels important, like there are some things I shouldn't forget.


Time goes by. Adrienne got married, Norm passed away, and I moved to Des Moines. But when I'm back here, it doesn't feel like so much has changed.


Any readers want to share a similar place of importance to them? Doesn't necessarily have to be a workplace, just somewhere that a piece of you still remains the way it used to be.

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.