Minnesota Nice

Gyp, (myself) was doing laundry last night, and saw a pile of clean laundry sitting on the table. This is a common happening. There are only so many dryers, and people forget their stuff is in there, and the rest of us need to do laundry before break too. It is sort of an accepted, humbling annoyance. BUT. What set this particular mound apart was that someone had written the forgetful student a note, on a page torn out of a notebook. It read:
"Dear dryer user,
I'm sorry I had to be that person and take your stuff out of the dryer. Let's still be friends. Okay, good."
1. There is no way on earth the person knew whose stuff it was. Yet they are desirous that they have no hard feelings towards them.
2. This just personifies Minnesota Nice to me. Of course, at the U, there is more than a chance that they are NOT from Minnesota. We do rub off on people though.
3.I want to go to the witch hat tower. (capt'n....)


Signed, Gyp.

P.S. you should all read Keats. He made my empty-cafeteria breakfast this morning quite delightful.

Me Mug.

Here I am. Along with the hat I acquired today. It was five bucks. The lady asked me if I desired a bag. "No thank you" I replied, put the millinery on my head, and walked out feeling killer classy. It makes one feel quite gentlemanly. Later, I was walking down frat row behind some fellow with a snazzy sport coat. Just as I was beginning to think favorably of him, he strutted up the steps of a rather notorious frat. darn, thought i.
Signed, Gyp

Mug'd.

As the Brit has done, so have I.

The Capt'n.

Getting to know you.

Hey people. It's the Brit. Soooo...we (the three co-bloggers) wanted you to know what we looked like, so there's my mug. Fun, eh? Not as ugly as some, but definitely not Tyra. Cuz she's...yeah.

Solidarity.

So, the Gyp an the Capt'n are here with a couple other chums, chillin' in the inspirational Hard Times Cafe, this magical pit of art aficionados, bums, and urbanites. So, we're sitting the in back of the cafe, near the speakers, where loud indie/every music types but mainstream plays sporadically.

On this particular evening, one long selection of experimental industrial sounds blasted from the speakers behind us. It became more and more grinding and repetitive, until only one phrase kept playing over and over and over and over for a good solid 10-15 minutes. No joke. Grinding industrial is not to my taste anyway, but this was just bad. The four of us complained to each other for quite a while, hoping with all out might that the music klunking and scraping above our heads would someday relent. Broken record record record record record record...

Finally, the music came to a complete halt, as the guy behind the counter finally shut it off.

The cafe broke into enthusiastic applause, followed by foolish laughter, as we all realized that we weren't the only ones going crazy from the relentless audio oppression.

Gyp and myself decided that our cheerful living capacity would reach an all time high for a week or seven. It was amusement in it's most sublime form.

If y'like it than you should have put a lamp in it.

Tis Capt'n.

So, last night I was researching various fixtures and furniture pieces for a design project, and stumbled upon these beauties: the Jeeves and Wooster pendant light fixtures:

(the bowler derby being Jeeves, the top hat Wooster)

If you did not ever let yourself be informed of this, Jeeves and Wooster is an old British comedy that contained that Hugh Laurie fellow, and such peoples. I personally have never seen it, but Gyp has, and most likely the Brit has to, of course. But the funny end of it is that Gyp named her lil' MacBook Pro Jeeves a while back, and I decided to label my Pro Wooster after she informed me of this comedy.

And, whether or not you even have interest in British comedies, you cannot deny that these are some of the most glorious lighting devices known to modern man and woman and animal and geological formation.

End.

communication.

Whenever I sit in the Cube by Starbucks, two things happen. I fall asleep temporarily, because those chairs are seductive, and I quit doing homework and just listen/people watch. Here's the result(s).


communication.
Lovers talk in rippling whispers, ruffling hair, the sound of a kiss
Old friends talk with ease, personalities fitting like Legos
And customer communication....oh I'm tempted to write a book
Some treat you like a small beetle
Others are kind, remembering when they wore your shoes
And parents. Oh how many times have I wished
Slapping strangers in public was not taboo
In waitressing particularly
Some parents wait, hawkish, for a murmur of rebellion
Pouncing without mercy
Or they ignore, letting society do the job for them
Then complain if the kid doesn't come home for Christmas
Some parents
Like mine
Use their years to light the way. they delight in you.
And that is immeasurably important



Also, as I walked down to the bathroom in Coffman, I saw this fellow weaving all over the floor. He was drunk, naturally. Remember the sidewalk crack game? Well, he was playing it, and failing miserably. I chuckled all the way to the bathroom.


this was written to M. Ward's version of Rave On, on repeat.
Signed, Gyp

And today.

Greetings. It's the Capt'n.

Capt'n's dern tired at the moment, as it is three in the morningtide, but nonetheless, I am here to thrown down a sighting today.

I was I in an appointment with my college advisor today, and noticed on her computer desktop the picture of a grayhoundish dog curled up in a chair, assumedly hers. That's cute, I thought, and noticed a minute later that her handbag had the same dog on it. That's nice.

But as I looked closer, and actually read what was on the bag, I stifled a hoot. Things just strike one extra funny in situations where it would be utterly humiliating to explain why your are guffawing. Here was the image (some something close to it)

nice.

I believe it.

And I'm tired. Time for only four hours of unconscious bliss.

Squirrels are gonna take over the world, just you wait...

Hello peoples!

How have you been? Today I have a story for you...a story about squirrels.
One day, The Brit was sitting in Astronomy class (aka the bane of her existence) and her professor was talking about the Jovian planets (Saturn, Jupiter, Neptune and Uranus). Now, this professor is very expressive. He speaks with his arms and hands in a very grandiose manner, and when he wants to accentuate a point, he closes his eyes. Actually, he's pretty awesome to watch. Anyways, for this particular moment, he was speaking about Jupiter. Jupiter is a pretty cool planet, for those who haven't visited. There's a picture over there of it...take a gander. Anyways. During the lecture that I only ever half listen to, he was speaking about the swirls on the surface of the planet. I looked straight at him, just to try to fake him into thinking I was listening (which I definitely was NOT). He opened his mouth, and by all that is good in this world, I swear that he said: "At ease, Squirrels." Oh. my. goodness. I nearly died trying to suppress my laughter. My friend Megan looked at me and of course wanted in, so then TWO of us were dying. I suppose it would be smart to tell you what he actually said? He was actually saying : "And these swirls..." Yes. Stupid. I know. But very, very funny. Especially when you're expecting to be bored out of your mind.

Post number three: the third post

Here's the Capt'n.

So, I feel inclined to post something right now, being that the three of us are initiating this whole operation here, but I'm afraid I'm going to be a useless source for quippy quips and regurgitated observations tonight. My stomach is too full of coffee, my brain rattling with music, and am just overall too mentally incapacitated to divulge any sort of interesting material. But, here I am, proclaiming my existence. I promise I'll put my two cents in when the concentration mechanism in my cranium decides to stop burping and sputtering all over the joint.

Maybe I can just tell you that I have been noticing more and more people lately who need to rethink their pants.

Peas haute.

Don't Cry For Me, Argentina...I Love Thom.

Hello, all...It's the Brit. I have a happy life, I'm always in love, and in a constant state of happiness. This blissful state is only interrupted by HW, bad music, and obstreperous personalities. Today, while terrorizing the U of M campus (through devious tours led by a co-blogger), I was introduced to an "echo spot." I had come across these illustrious joys before, but today presented me with an experience that I fear I will attain a proclivity for. So, while experiencing said echo spot, this Brit was seized around the shoulders by a drunk. If that wasn't bad enough, he started serenading me with "Don't Cry For Me, Argentina" by Andrew Lloyd Webber at the top of his lungs. I stood there, completely shocked. I have never wanted to be serenaded, but really honestly? It was kind of pleasurable. My wonderful co-blogger-turned-tour guide couldn't contain herself, and neither could any by-standers; I couldn't blame them...I probably would laugh too. In fact, I believe I did. I basically stood there, being held by a man I had never met, allowing his beer drenched breath to wash over me in song. It was a beautiful, awkward moment that I hope is never trumped. In fact I was so saturated in the magical triviality, I finished the song by harmonizing with him on the ending line. Bring on the cheesy, eh? Oh what a life I live. Now the darned lyrics of said song dangles above our heads like mistletoe that can be so dearly avoided.

Hmmm...how does one transition from that story to another? Let's just use this one:

Later that night, the co-bloggers and I were enjoying steaming mugs of various teas (tonight's choices were Jasmine and Licorice) and cookies (Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup and Oatmeal Raisin, respectively) at a wonderful cafe in Minneapolis named Hard Times. We were sitting there, simply enjoying each other's company and discussing life. I looked over to the kitchen area of the cafe, and behold, a wonderful thing happened. There was a man...a tall man. Being a Psychology major (and a definite creeper), I observed his little bumblings as he made his way around the shoe box size of a kitchen, sighing. I wanted him. He was not good looking, and he certainly didn't have an appearance of put-together-ness,but I wanted him. Luckily, my co-bloggers were willing to indulge me in my dreamy circumstances. We called him Thom, and he was the inspiration (for me, at least) to create this blog. His expression was soft, his demeanor calm, and he can whip up a quesadilla like nobody's business. I love him...at least when he's behind a stove.

Beginnings?

Lu.

Found poetry, also known as eavesdropping

"So I made some bad decisions..."

"The announcer was like "That's a BIG whale!"

An odd coincidence.



Sitting in Coffman, studying
Listening to Hoppipolla, Sigur Ros
Hear someone playing piano
pull earbuds out. He is playing
The exact same song
Flawlessly

what happens in a neighborhood where freedom rings a little louder. specific spot being hard times cafe, a place defiant of words, but poetic. these things happened there.

Studying happily by the picture window, and some dude FLIES by in a motorized wheelchair, top speed, two little kids hanging on the back, giggling ecstatically. I try not to burst out laughing, and he comes back the other direction, burning rubber on the sidewalk.

One night, a man tried to give us 130 dollars cash. repeatedly. also empty cd cases. We don't know any reasons, darling.

A University's quirks....
On the sidewalk on the the Mall side of Washington, there is a sticker, of a dapper headless gentleman, of a lime color.
Signed, Gyp