This is me pretending to dj... I have to admit I look pretty much like the coolest dj ever. 

We be Trip'in

Greetings all of my favorite people, the people who take a few moments out of their lives to read my blog. Kudos to you all, if you have a blog, I read it too. Oh, and HAPPY NEW YEAR!


-- -- -- Trip'in --- --- ---


The are seven of us.

We weren't always together. I guess you would have to say we found each other. A couple of us were friends in groups of twos or threes and over time we joined to form Seven. What a seven it is.

It's gotten to the point beyond casual. You know yourself, you can be just exactly who you want to be with your close family, you can be as weird or as quiet or as loud as you want and they won't think any less of you. That's a good feeling; knowing that you don't have to second-guess a random outburst or thoughtless gesture; knowing that you won't be judged or critiqued on what you look like or how you come across or anything like that. Know when you wake up in the morning no one will look at you and say, "yuck".

But it's beyond that - it's past that point with us. It's to the point past stereotypical "close friendship". It's to the point where, even if I tried to stay away from these people, I couldn't - I love them all, I'm drawn to them. And I know that no matter where life will take us all, whether it be closer together or far away from each other, I will forever be connected to them.

There are times when I think about that; the moment that will cause a lasting impression to be melted into my mind: Someone leaves. Another moves far away forever... Another moves the opposite direction...Another takes a job in Europe or some other far off place...Another, another, another...and there we all are - all apart. I dread that moment.

I don't know if it will happen like that, maybe it won't. But life is mysterious and confusing who can really tell? I know in one way or another life will lead us apart, but like I said before, life lived apart will still be together, because we are The Seven.

Let me move on. I don't mean to be emotional (which I am) or over the top (which I am) or even unnecessarily pessimistic (which I sometimes....dang) and I don't want this blog to be really "inside joke-ish" so let me move on to more entertaining things; for, let's be honest here, the only reason you come here is to laugh!... so I'll try not to disappoint you.

***Names have been changed in the following story to protect identities***

I went on a road trip a little while ago. There were only six of us Seven there. We missed dear Gretta terribly. Actually her name will be Lorally for this story... no, Laura... yeah, I like that better. Laura. We missed Laura terribly.

7:30AM Saturday
My alarm clock (my cell phone) goes off. It's buzzing and chiming and all I want to do is jump off my tall bed, pick it up and then smash it to bits on the floor (Groundhog Day anyone??) Stupid thing. I peel myself out of bed and roll to the bathroom where I almost fall asleep while soaping up. (Don't you hate that term 'soaping up'? It sounds like a really old-school book depicting people who used to bathe once a week (Saturday nights) in metal washbins.) Anyway, I didn't fall asleep, so I got on out of the shower and threw on some clothes. Then I tried to eat something, but "eating" and "before 9AM" don't go too well together for me, soI ended up consuming the amount of calories equal to a glass of water.

8:02AM
Nusheema's car pulls up. I walk outside looking like I used to look when I went to highschool... disheveled hair, rumpled clothes, puffy eyes. All I could think of was getting into that car and soothing my soul to the soft sounds of Delilah. Ahhhh... I opened the door. "Let me see you 1, 2 step! I love it when you 1, 2 step!" Whoa. B96 greets me with a bump...sensory overload.

8:30AM
There are Four of us now, pulling up outside Amber's house. No, I don't like that name.. how about Angel... yeah, that's better. No......... Amy. yeah, Amy. We pulled up outside Amy's house, jumped in her car and started our journey.

9:15AM
Miguel and I have some seriously close time. The back seat of a Mitsubishi (that sounds like some sort of sushi) Lancer is not what one might call Extra Super Deluxe Roomy, so we got to know each other reeeeal well. But it all works out, because Miquel is the brother I never had, and to him I'm the... uhhh, weird cousin he never had. (Oh, man!) Anyway, we like being together so even those reeeeally close moments suited us just fine.

11:00AM
Rest stop. You know the type, the shady trucker rest stops... a building consisting of two bathrooms and a lot of fat truckers. Sometimes there's a family from Montana... the dad is shouting at the two little kids to "go potty" and then get into the SUV. Oh, and there's always one of those really quiet caretaker people rustling around in the background, peeking out from behind a bush or cleaning a window here or there.

While we were stopping, Mike picked up an "18 Wheeler Singles" magazine which, before then, I never knew existed. Let me tell you, we had a good laugh over that paper. I brought it home to show my family (who were pretty creeped out by it too) but I don't think they ever read the one entitled "Sexy Grandma seeks sexy Grandpa" (that's not a joke, I have it at my house.) But enough of that...... yuck yuck yuck. (PS. If I'm ever old, single, a hick, and a trucker, remind me never to put an ad in "18 Wheel Singles" OK? Tell me to go marry my fuselage. Thanks.)

12:30PM
We arrive in Moorhead and are greeted by our dear friend, Junip. We quickly go up to her dorm room and chill out...she has a nice dorm (with nice amenities too!) along with the picture perfect college campus. Cool. We play ping pong, watch TV and then do a mini tour of the school. Then we head out to dinner.

7:03PM
Try to imagine your favorite food. Try to imagine your least favorite body part. Now combine the two and you'll feel almost like Junip did at dinner. She found something SICK in her desert. It's so rude that I can't write it on this blog because this blog is rated PG13 and not R. Anyway, we had a good laugh over it and it ended up well because we now have another ridiculous memory tucked away.

8:15PM
The sign is green, very plain and in white letters reads: "Motel 75". We pull in and join the two other cars in the massive parking lot (the two cars were probably the owner's and only employee's cars). Walking in, we stomp the snow off our shoes and sacrifice Junip to the creepy man at the front desk. He is about 20, has a bowl cut, a scraggly makeshift beard and shifty, puffy red eyes. He looks up and says, "How many rusty knives---errrr, rooms, did you want?"

*It actually ended up being a nice hotel. Junip threw a little towel into the toilet for some reason...she's sometimes a bit freaky...but other than that, no damage was done to the hotel.

10:37PM
We all stared, breathless, as the Fear Factor host continued, "All you have to do is eat these crusty maggot larvae, swim through that pirranah infested nuclear waste, climb that 7,000ft electrical tower (surging with 4 kilowatts of power) and then simply paraglide down to this 3-ft target that is on this spinning jetty, meticulously balanced over the Pacific Ocean... Ready?"

That show is insane.

3AM

The doornob slowly spins with a creek. My eyes flutter open and my heart skips a beat. Someone is coming into my room. I try not to let my quivering nerves show through my typically-hotel valour blankets. A figure, dressed in black, moves farther into the room. The moon beams dance on the floor, hidden momentarily by the moving window shades. A beam of dim white light reaches his face. It's none other than the 20-year-old crust factory who was manning the front desk when we checked in. I lay still, completely still, watching him move slowly. He bent down over our luggage and began rummaging through it. He stood up quickly, something in his hand flashed dully, moonlight reflecting off of it. I heard the crunch of a wrapper and craned my neck off my pillow to see what he was doing. What...? Was he... no! It couldn't be..... yes! He was! He was eating a granola bar! He walked briskly but quietly to the door and closed it softly behind him. My heart slowed and my mind churned. I laid awake until 4AM, my only conclusion being his sheer hunger and need for nutrients forced him to our room because we were the only people in the hotel! I went to sleep feeling pity for him. Poor kid. They must not have too much food 'round these parts. (***This section of the story has been partially changed due to boring content, i.e. sleeping***)

8:27AM
"Boys..." The voice was faint at first as I began to be pulled from the warm weightlessness of sleep. "Boys..." The voice was a little louder now and more earnest. I was almost awake. "BOYS!!!!!" A punching fist met my thigh made sure I was good and awake. Amy stood by us, smiling sweetly. "My mom called... we have to go....... NOW."

We argued (obviously) about leaving, but in the end figured we should leave or either, A) Amy would punch us and pinch us to death, or B) her mom would invent timetravel, morph into our room, rescue her baby, and then destroy us for our foolish insolence. (Her mom can be known to go to great extremes to protect her young.)

11:58AM
I'm standing at the pop refill machine at a McDonalds, filling up my cup and smelling dirty cat litter. "Does anyone else smell that?" A man next to me gives me a side-look and continues to fill up his cup. No one smelled it. I know there wasn't an option for filling your cup up with the new pop sensation "KittyKittySoda" so I concluded I must be going crazy. That is possible, I suppose.

1:10PM
I walk up to my front door and it swings open. My dad holds it open and then walks downstairs with barely a "hello". Hmm... I walk upstairs, my arms loaded with piles of stuff and I quickly find an empty spot in the living room to unload.
"Why are you home?..." Huh? It's so good to be home, isn't it? "I mean, we thought you were coming home later than this!" my mom looks at me inquisitively. I just shrug, "I'm home early."
We were gone for about 30 hours. It was a quick trip, but really enjoyable. It's amazing how many funny things can happen to a group of friends in such a short timespan! I love being with my friends, experiencing so many random and hilarious things. I look forward to summer when we'll camp (via indoor plumbing, heated pool, and complementary breakfast lunch and dinner,) when we'll stay up late laughing (9PM and I'm gone folks) and do the other random things we do like bike riding, bowling and terrorizing peticular adults.

This was long and took too much editing. I'm tired.

Talk to you all soon,
Jeremy.

Poems.

Wandering (Jeremy Dahlen 2005)

My mind wanders all day,
stopping here and there to think.

My eyes wander here and there,
stopping only to blink.

My heart wanders all around,
pausing when it sees,

Someone there who stops for it,
and listens to it's pleas.



Let's See (Jeremy Dahlen, 2005)

I look up to see,
something vast.

I never can tell the height, or depth,
Of the sky.

I can see the clouds that roam,
I can see the dust that blows.

I can see the floating bird,
or the diving hawk.

I can only see so much,
And I think I'm missing
more than I'm seeing.



Question (Jeremy Dahlen, 2005)

If I stop and wonder what I do,
I find myself just mad.

If I never stop and never think,
I always wish I had.

If I stop a little,
And think a little,
It would all be good.

But I wonder if I'll ever do,
All I know I should.



Books (Jeremy Dahlen, 2005)

It's sometimes vague and sometimes not,
for poetry is fickle,

When writing rhymes or you're forced to rhyme,
You must use words like "pickle".

So I don't know if I don't prefer,
A song or letter rhymless,

For rhymless works of art and word,
are sometimes viewed as timeless.

But writing is rarely good or bad,
it's somewhere in between,

And people whine and people gripe,
And sometimes school kids scream:

"I have to write a paper!"
"I have to write a book!"
"I have to go to class now!"
"My prof gave me 'the look!'"

But writer's young and writer's old,
don't think of that as bad,

For words and books and poems,
Lent you thoughts you never had.

What I Wouldn't Want to Be.

Winter strikes with brutal vengeance once again. It's mildly cold outside, we all anticipate a white Christmas, and then WAMMO - the temp drops to negative 5 and I start to think about tires.

The sound of car tires rolling on fresh snow has an very recognizable sound to it. It's kind of a long, drawn-out crunch that eventually fades as the car gains speed. For some reason in the winter I think about my car's tires. How hard and cold they are when I first start driving. They have been sitting all night it negative temperatures and have probably learned a slight imperfection of non-roundness. As they move , of course, they warm up and eventually run smoothly but sometimes I think about those cold, hard tires and how much... you guessed it, I would not want to be a tire.

There are plenty of things I wouldn't want to be: a woman, for instance. Women's bodies are so complex and confusing (along with their emotions) that it makes me crazy knowing them sometimes. I certainly would not know how to deal with being one... Luckily, I don't have to worry about that.

But there are other things I would never want to be. Inanimate objects, most the time. You've already heard one - a tire. But there are others... I think about obvious ones (underwear, toilet paper, syringes;) but there are less commonly thought of ones that occasionally mingle in my mind. Like a stick of deodorant. I would never ever want to be a stick of deodorant. Can you imagine being shoved into a warm armpit and then thinly applied to skin? The mere thought sickens me.

I also would not want to be the cold ceramic outside of a precipitous toilet. There's a little twist one this one, because I guess I wouldn't mind being the outside of a toilet as long as I was in a warm climate - but in the colder areas of the country, toilets "sweat" as I've heard it called, and I cannot imagine being cold and dewey and drippy 24/7.

I would not want to be a butt. Staring through the vastness of enclosed darkness, with only short, bright spurts of time to breath. Eww.

I would never want to be a pore on the face of a pubating teenager. I would live of life of an oily cavern - filled with toxins and too-much poorly placed make up (for the girls). I would never feel the fresh cool touch of water (if I was a boy). Overall, I would want to be scraped off (which eventually would happen due to the fact that bodies shed skin). I sure would not want to be a pore.

I probably would not want to be a pool filter. But I would want to be one of those signs BY a pool that says: "Welcome to our OOL - as you can see, there is no "P" in it - let's keep it that way."

I wouldn't want to be a shoe. I can picture it now - my face leaving and then hitting the ground with each step....ahhh...AGHH!....ahh....AGHH!... A pebble sticks in of the corner of my mouth and a wad of gum greets my nostril. Oh, and with my luck, I would be the shoe of a smoker and would always be putting out cigarette butts with my forehead. Boy that would sure beat all.

I wouldn't want to be you reading this article. You are probably wondering who deals my crack or if my dealer stopped dealing it. You are probably wondering why you are even on this site, when you could be doing something worthwhile, like breathing or eating of looking at something. So get out of here and do something worthwhile - but check back in a couple days; I hear that it's pretty dang uncomfortable to be a silk slip.

Quote of the week:

Quote of the week:

"Ever notice that people who are late are often much jollier than the people that have to wait for them?"

That is Sick.

I was laying on my bed watching TV this morning. I had just woken up, and if you don't know me that well, you wouldn't know that I am super crabby in the morning. (It isn't unusual for me to scream uncontrollably at whoever woke me up - Some of you can relate.) But anyways, there was this commercial that came on that made me want to barf yet laugh at the same time. It was this liquidy stuff called "Scalpicin" for dry crusty scalps. (By the way, this is an actual product.) The ad showed a guy who went up to this woman and she smiled very flirtaciously... but then she looked at his head and turned away with this, "Oh no you di-in't" look on her face. The man's face was suddenly wretchedly sad (good word, huh?) and he slowly turned and left the room. Then it showed the man using this Scalpicin crap and then (of course) he met the women again and they fell in love right then and there.

***Let me just interject here that even typing the name "Scalpicin" creeps me out.

It's almost as bad as that ad for nail fungus... you know what I'm talking about, the one where the little devil-creature goes up to this GIANT toe, rips the nail up (the nail is hinged on the back so it looks like an old cellar door) then DIVES INTO the red meaty toe. AGH! I hate that ad! But then I got to thinking about more ads, and realizing how many ads are on that are so stupid. Who comes up with these things...? Have any of you ever heard of the Injector? It's like a giant medicine dropper that inserts SOLID foods INTO OTHER SOLID FOODS. (It's on one of those channels that no one watches (6,11,12,13,14,15,16,17,18,19,20-23) except me and my friends.
The first thing they inject in three WHOLE cloves of garlic into this huge roast meat (I don't remember what kind of meat it is.) What in the the heck is the point of that?? What if you were eating a piece of that meat and you bite into a whole clove of garlic? Sick! I believe (and my friends agree) that if you are going to inject solids into solids you should take a slab of pork, inject it into a steak, and then inject those two into a pile of beef. Then you fry 'em all up and have a little something I like to call, "Pile 'O' Meaty-Meat-Meats".

Let's play a little game. I have listed three products below and given a small description of each. Your job is to guess which two are fake and which one is real. OK, here we go!

1. Extractor (designed in the late 90's)

Spins foods of any nature using centrifugal force. Meaning, any food (ANY food) can be juiced, including bananas, breads or even croutons. The juice flows down an outside cranny until it reaches the "Cook'n Chamber" where it reaches the un-sanitary temperature of 100 degrees... Warm enough to let it mildew and cold enough to keep it rancid.

2. Crustinator Deluxe (designed in 2002)

The Crustinator and Crustinator Deluxe crustify fruits and vegetables. Just put the item into the Cruster-Clamp and your foods are coated with a heavy bread-crumb-like coating. After this step the machine automatically dunks it into the inner "Dunk'n Chamber" where the fruit (or veggie) soaks for about a half hour. When your item pops out, it's golden-deliciousness you've never experienced.

3. The Easy Bake Oven (designed in '91)

The Easy Bake is a small convection oven made for small children. The set comes with little baking pans and even cake and cookie mixes. The cakes bake for about 18 minutes (or until golden brown). Children of most ages (but usually little rich kids) have the EBO and love it.

Can you guess which one is REAL?

I am sick of writing! Well, it's off to dig up more food....I'm hungry.

Save the Last Brain Cell

"Save the Last Dance" --- a hip-hop groovin', styl'in movie that will make your head bob to the urban beats and dance songs of the new millennium. This early 2000's contemporary-urban "street style" movie was seen by every pre-teen/teen-age girl entering or currently in junior high. Each had the same secret desire floating through their minds - "When will someone see MY talent and discover my hot dancing ability?" Women who now deny this fact are lyers.

Can anyone honestly think this thought: "I can relate to Sarah." ?

Picture yourself there; the flashing lights and bumping bass pulsates through the club... The dance floor is packed (yet cool and breathable) and the alcohol flows freely to 16 and 17-year-olds who look at least 21. Sarah (the only white girl there) is dressed in low jeans, a hankie (on top) and 3-Ft hoop earrings. She shakes her thang on the dance floor, perfecting her dancing routine with her perfectly synchronized boyfriend, Derek. The crowd erupts in chanting, "GO SARAH! GO SARAH!" Hands bob up and down as the two do their synchronized dance groove over and over....and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over until the viewer (ANY viewer, my 900-year-old grandma included) could do the dance with one hand, one leg, and a bunch of other necessary body parts tied behind their backs.

The next day in first hour, an energetic and alert Sarah looks around and smiles pleasantly. Her 3am bedtime has little to no effect on her studies, friends or teachers.

Meanwhile, out in the hall, a gun is being held to Derek's head. The principle walks by, "Good morning boys --oop, is that a 38? Oh, my bad, it's a 33... have fun guys." He continues his slow saunter to the teachers lounge where there is a massive teacher/staff party. He opens the door and beams of multi-colored light flood out onto the almost empty halls. He shuts the door behind himself and Ms. Benson, the librarian, grabs his hand and pulls him onto the dance floor...."aaaahhhhh.. FREAK OUT!"

"Yo, D - if you ain't got my back tonight, I don't know if I can let you date....her." Derek's "friend" holds the gun closer to his head. Derek, who has obviously gone to a different school for English class, replies with a professor-like attitude. "First of all---G--- (he rolls his eyes) "ain't" is not a word. And no, I don't have your back tonight. I will hang out with you and your "peeps" (he does the quotes thing with his fingers) but I am not going to hurt anyone. This highly violent culture has obviously intoxicated you in an irrepriable way."

"Dude...huh?" Home-G-Doggy-Dog Bone looks confused, but Derek continues.

"And please don't "diss" Sarah... there's something going on with her and I need find out what it is."

*** Later that night...***

With the covers pulled up close around her, Sarah cries uncontrollably. (Movie critics still wonder to this day how Julia Stiles has perfected the art of weeping with no facial expression.) Derek sits by her side as she sits up and immediately stops crying. "My mom died" she says bluntly as she clips on her new 7-ft hoop earrings and drops her fake ID into her purse... "now let's go do 'diss thang!" They jump up and start to do their synchronized dance (AGAIN) but then luckily TBS goes to a commercial.

What a movie!

PTG...

Part-Time Gardeners? Pre-Teen Girls? Party Time Gum? Pigs That Grow?

Nope, nope, nope. PTG actually stands for Piano Technicians Guild. Yesiree, the piano tuner is our next exciting topic of the month!

The PTG is actually something that exists... I assume it's an organization that protects the rights..of..the...piano...tuner.......err.... that's really weird. What are some rights that piano tuners have?

- "You have the right to tune that piano --- any note that's out of tune can be held against you in a court of PTG law."

-"You have the right to remain un-silent... any tools you need will be provided for your use (although will be from the 1930's and brown and rusty)."

-"You have the right to baggy pants, the more your butt crack shows, the better."

-"You have the right to being a really creepy, crusty old man like most piano tuners are. Any person(s) you creep out will add a bonus to your check."

-"You have the right to breath too deeply and loudly like you have constant asthma, like 68% of piano tuners do. The more flem on their carpet or inside their piano will result in a higher pay check."

Piano tuners have always given me this odd feeling... we've owned an upright a piano since I was born and every once and a while we have it tuned. The tuner is always an older, creepy, and very wheezy man. He's one of those people that makes you shudder....

Whoa, randomness.