Travel Log: Vegas 2012 and the rules of the game

The rules to the game
The rules to the game

As if the excitement of gambling wasn’t enough, Janelle and I came up with our own rules for a game where we compete against each other with slot machines.

Yes, we were there for educational purposes. Yes, we were there to learn. Yes, we gambled.

We went to the NCTE conference during the day, hung out at night. We met a couple of friends who were also there for the conference, and we ate at Wolfgang Puck’s restaurant at the MGM. It was a really fun time. We got to screen a pilot episode of a pretty stupid TV show and give our opinions. I wasn’t kind. I walked the strip several times, and bought the best shoes I’ve ever owned (and the most expensive!)

My neck and shoulder were killing me the entire trip, I’m pretty sure it’s due to the all of the cramped flights. But no complaints, because I always remember the best parts.

Ehhhxcellent…Meh heh heh.

In Tulsa, we stayed across from Oral Roberts University. It was an interesting hotel experience – at one point we needed a corkscrew for our wine, and we called the front desk. They had one – I mean one! – and handed it to us. The lady said, “Please don’t tell anyone we gave this to you.” Weird.

So, the big ORU sports a gigantic statue of praying hands, which is creepy in itself, and a little extravagant for a religion that tells you to feed the poor. I assumed they were praying hands, but Janelle pointed out that they looked more like Mr. Burns’ (of Simpsons fame) hands.

burns
Excellent. Meh heh heh.

 

 

The Tennessee witch project

20130809-002344.jpg

Camping in the woods of mid Tennessee, we decided that it would be a good idea to burn an apple core so we didn’t attract critters. This had the opposite effect, as we were immediately surrounded by some persistent raccoons.

They kept coming a little too close for comfort so I gathered a bunch of stones to toss at them as they got closer. This worked wonders. (No animals were harmed during the writing of this post!!!! Just scared a bit.)

When it came time to retire to the tent, I dumped the stones out of my pockets and put them in front of the tent. Good idea except that as soon a the stones were down, I couldn’t get “The Blair Witch Project” out of my head. This didn’t make for comforting sleep at all. Solitude in the middle of a large woods is not peaceful if you keep thinking of that movie.

On a side note, I left the tent to use the bathrooms later and saw that the raccoons did indeed attain their goal. The burnt apple was gone.

The Amish Trip: Part 3 – The Amish Tea Party

NCI_iced_teaA non-fiction short story from the collection Don’t Take My Word for It by Matthew Bennett

I will begin this by saying that we were the only guests in a five-suite bed and breakfast, otherwise I don’t believe the incident would have gone down as it did. During the initial tour earlier that day, our hostess (Mary Lee, the owner) opened up the refrigerator and showed me the top shelf, with all the cans of soda. She told us to help ourselves to the soda. We were also informed that we could use the refrigerator to store whatever we needed. “Plenty of room,” she said.

I liked the ambiance of the B&B. When I booked the room, the phone call was much more pleasant than booking a hotel room. Very homey. For example, check in is from 3pm to 6pm, but the owner asked us if we could definitely make it between 4 and 6pm. The specific time line was requested because Mary Lee was taking her Amish neighbor to the doctor (earlier) and had a local community ice cream social (later). Upon our arrival, after our tour, she left us with her phone number and said if we needed anything we could call, and that she would be home around 9:30. She was precisely fifteen minutes late. I won’t forget.

About 9:40 pm after watching the fastest sunset I have ever seen, Janelle and I headed into the house. I headed for a soda from the fridge, and asked if she would like one.

“I’d rather have some of the iced tea,” she said.

“Um…the lady didn’t say we could have any of the tea, she only mentioned the soda.” I am sometimes embarrassed to step beyond the boundaries, especially if the boundaries were set by a sweet lady who runs a bed and breakfast, and sets cookies on the counter for me all day long. I suggested that we make some hot tea, which was provided for us at the coffee station, and put ice in it, as that was also offered to us.

“Well, I think I’m just gonna grab some from the refrigerator,” I was informed.

I sat my laptop on the table and prepared to do a little bit of writing, when I heard her cry for help.

“What?” I said, because that’s what I almost always say (even when I understand the questions perfectly. This may be something to explore in a later essay. It may be a habit to simply holler “What?” to every question asked of me, but there are times when I suspect that I am buying time to come up with an answer).

“Just help!” she requested more forcefully this time. I looked up to see Janelle running to the sink, holding the glass jug of iced tea, a small drinking glass underneath it, with tea pouring non-stop out of the pouring mechanism, overflowing in the cup, leaving a trail of tea all the way to the sink.

Years ago, I would have thought that such a scene would be out the the ordinary. That was before I met Janelle, though. She has a tendency to be the anomaly in the most normal situation than can be imagined. In Douglas Adam’s Book “The Long Dark Tea Time of the Soul”, Adams tells us about the fictional character Dirk Gently. A scene described in the book has Gently buying a couch for his upstairs apartment. The moving company gets the couch stuck in the hallway/stairs, and after a long time of attempting to get it un-stuck, they give up and leave it where it is. Gently calls in a team of physicists and mathematicians to help him figure out how to get the couch into his apartment, and after a time of calculations, they determine that it is physically impossible to get the couch into the position that it is currently in, unless the apartment building was constructed around the couch.

Since I met Janelle, Adams fiction has literally become an everyday reality for me. If there is something to get stuck on, she will get stuck on it, and in an almost impossible way. If there is nothing to get stuck on, she will still get stuck on it. This soars high above an average level of clumsiness, into Heisenburgesque uncertainties.  A few months ago she walked past a baby stroller while holding a Bungee cord from our car trunk, and caught the stroller. In a fraction of a fraction of a second, the strap was caught inside the stroller in such a manner that I had to disassemble the baby stroller in order to remove the Bungee.

So I was not surprised at all by the leaking tea, the stuck nozzle, or the cry for my assistance. I was however, slightly embarrassed since I felt as if we were stealing tea from the B&B, and the less we had to do to cover our tracks, the better. With Janelle, though, it’s not so easy. I took the tea jug away from her and held it on its side so that the tea was no longer pouring forth. As she started cleaning her tracks, I began to examine the spout apparatus to see if I could understand and repair the damage. I was standing at the sink trying to figure out how the rubber piece is supposed to fit back inside the plastic piece in a way that would not only allow the tea to stay inside the jar, but also hide the evidence that an iced tea swindle had occurred. And I wondered to myself, “What time is it?”

“What time is it,” I said again, this time aloud.

“Quarter to ten,” Janelle answered.

“What time is she supposed to be back?” I whispered.

“Nine-thirty.”

“Wonderful.” I used some rather fast Zen, shoved the rubber piece inside the plastic piece as hard as I could, and I felt the positive contact as it snapped into place. Handing the jar to Janelle, I began cleaning the sink. Not ten seconds after the jar was back in the refrigerator and the washcloth was folded and back where I got it from, the front door opened and the owner walked in.

Every parent is able to sense that their children have been misbehaving. The posture the kids take when they are trying to look innocent; the gears spinning in their little heads trying to figure out if the parent knows that “something is up”; casually glancing around the room looking for any signs that might be a testament of their mischief.

I haven’t felt like an eight-year-old since my time in college. But we looked guilty as hell. I was trying to look innocent. And the gears were spinning in my head. And I glanced around the room, looking for the evidence.

I don’t really know if we weren’t supposed to drink the tea. Nothing was said. We had another nice little chat with our hostess, and then she went off to bed. And the whole time, there was my lovely fiancée, standing there with a glass of iced tea in her hand.

We went downstairs into the sitting room to hang out for a little bit, laughing at all that had just occurred. I asked Janelle if I could have a sip of tea in payment for all my assistance and hard labor.

“You can have the rest of it,” she said, indicating her nearly full glass. “It’s not very good at all.”

The Amish Trip: Part 2 – Where we saw a ghost

400px-Amish_Buggie_signA non-fiction short story from the collection Don’t Take My Word for It by Matthew Bennett

After getting settled into the bed and breakfast, we drove into town to get some genuine Amish cooking. We both ended up getting veal Parmesan, which didn’t seem very Amish at all. My side dishes were applesauce and cottage cheese. The only thing that made this seem like anything but a regular diner is that the food was a bit worse, and the waitress actually seemed to be rushing us out of the place. I shouldn’t neglect to mention that the staff was either Amish or dressed Amishly enough that I wouldn’t know the difference. Fortunately, we stayed, or we wouldn’t have seen the ghost.

Both of us try to stay abreast of current events, and we both read quite a bit. This really helps us keep our relationship vital, especially because our reading habits only intersect by about ten percent. I had been reading the book “The Theory of Almost Everything” by Robert Oerter, as another jaunt into the land of quantum physics. We talked about the book over our side dishes, which came about 37 seconds after we ordered our dinner (the first sign that we were being rushed in and out).

I was just getting to the good part, about the ant on roller skates in a bowl (yes, Theory explains physics in a way that even I can understand – highly recommended reading) when one of our bowls, and a saucer, on the table, moved toward us about four inches.

I asked Janelle if that just happened. She replied that if I meant did that bowl just move by itself, then yes, she thought that it did in fact just happen.

“I see,” I said.

Now, when a man is feeling all smart because he is currently discussing quantum physics with a beautiful woman who is interested in the conversation, he would (as I did) think that there must be some rational explanation for the moving dinnerware. The first thing that I did is check to see if the tablecloth was wet. It was not. Secondly, I tried to recreate the phenomenon myself. I placed the bowl and saucer back into their original position and watched them for about ten seconds. They did not move. I bumped the table. Nothing.

I finally took the actions of an impatient scientist, and practiced some bad science. I tried to move the bowl with my hand. There was so much friction from the tablecloth that I couldn’t slide the bowl without the tablecloth itself moving as well. Not the easy glide, as I had expected. As absurd as an Amish Restaurant séance setup sounded, I looked under the table for invisible thread, magnets, or anything else that might have assisted in the illusion. But there was nothing.

When I want to sound open-minded, I will tell people that although I’ve never seen a ghost, and although I think that most ghost stories are a cry for attention, (or overly sensitive people who have one unexplained noise in their house and decide that since they can’t explain it, their house must be haunted by “Great Uncle Joe, because he always tripped going down the stairs”) I also believe that there are too many stories out there for all of them to be fabricated cries for attention. I tell people that I believe there must be something to some of the stories. In reality, after a two year stint as a paranormal investigator, I really began to think that ALL of the stories are fabricated, and then passed along. People  have such a strong desire to touch the unknown that they will say almost anything to relay the “experience” to their peers, and this desire also strikes such a chord in their own minds that they convince themselves that their stories are true. I have found to be the case, time and time again, and most strongly in paranormal investigators.

I don’t know how I lasted two years with people who carried around books describing all the different “types” of ghosts. I do remember our group leader explaining the types to us before one our investigations. Most strongly, I remember that demons were considered a type of ghost. After explaining some of the qualities of a demon she said, “If you think that you are in the presence of a demon, don’t talk to it, don’t do anything. You come and get me!” Apparently she was the only one among our group who was qualified to deal with a demon.

After two years of spending the night in condemned hospitals, ancient cemeteries, and world’s-most-haunted-libraries, watching people walking around with digital recorders, night vision and heat-sensing cameras, and all other manner of ghost-finding tools, it strikes me as ironic that the most paranormal experience of my life happened in broad daylight, in a crowded Amish restaurant, during a discussion of quantum physics, and within a few inches of a bowl of delicious applesauce.

When we got back to the Bed and Breakfast, we watched the sunset from the front porch. I have never seen a sunset so fast. It seemed to take less than a minute, which seemed to add the the spooky atmosphere. I relayed to Janelle that this is how most horror movies start. Small town, middle of nowhere, a little diner a the beginning of the movie with an ambiguous odd moment. All of this lent to the fun but creepy ambiance of the journey.

I know it’s not nearly as exciting as Demi Moore and Patrick Swayze in a phantasmic encounter in wet clay, but at least it was real.

Ten things that I really think you should try on April Fool’s Day

Leuchterfigur_Narr_makffm_67371. Keep an Oreo cookie in your pants, and leave your fly down. If someone tells your fly is down reach down and pull the cookie out. Offer it to them as a thank you.

2. Ask everyone you see for directions to the bathroom that is opposite your gender.

3. DELETED*

4. Put “Pig Latin” somewhere on your resume. Send the updated version to your current boss, and mention that you’ve added to your skill set.

5. Get the longest email address you can and start giving it out to people.

6. End every sentence with “but I digress.”

7. DELETED*

8. DELETED*

9. Refer to everything that happened before today as “before The Change”

10. Let me know how it goes. Tell no one that you found it here. And for the love of all that is sacred, don’t forward this, don’t share it, don’t tell anyone else about it. It already sounds like an email forward, please don’t let it turn into one. Prank responsibly**.

*I could only think of six. 
**People may think that you’re a little weird if you do any of these things. Also, if you do any of these things, you are weird. It’s ok.

“I got this one” -AKA- “Another gold star” -AKA- “Holy batsh**” -AKA- “Not just for Halloween anymore”

126093089848454997zjl0le-hiI am posting this hopefully just a few short minutes before I go to bed – I’ve been awake for about 26 hours, the last 9 of which were spent searching my bedroom for the bat that was flying around my house last night. The bat that I failed to capture until a couple of minutes ago. I tried sleeping a few times, but it just didn’t work. This morning, my wife saw it in a corner of the room.

I sent everyone downstairs with instructions to open the front door in case it flew down. I opened the windows upstairs, took a broom, and tried to, kind of, um… like, sweep it off the wall and out the window. As I swept, it flew to another wall and landed. I took an old coffee container and put it on top of him, called downstairs to get some help finding a manilla folder or something to slide in as a cover. Bat in trap, I walked him into my woods. Far, far into my woods. Knowing that bats have a hard time taking flight from the ground, I put the container in a tree, pulled the folder away, and watched it crawl out onto the tree.

One life saved. You better kill a lot of mosquitos in my yard this summer, my friend.

(Thanks to http://clker.com  and the Library of Congress for the image. I wasn’t in the frame of mind to start shooting pictures.)