all the news fit for a pint

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Issue 7: February 24, 2012 Published in, by and for the Laramie Community

In this issue:+Miss breakfast? Just in time for brunch

+Blind Medusa turns our stone-coldhearts to jelly

+Car crash terror+Poems, poems, poems (actually, just two)

+Four lanes of CHAOS

Love, death, time. By Blind Medusa (in Memoriam)

Well-intentioned friends with gifts of food, lowers, cards, sympathy. This is a celebra-tion, a culmination, a moment in time. You stop, everyone else moves on. There is a inal-ity to death, of course, but not like you’d think. Death is not concrete, not ash, not the end. No new stories will be generated about you, no new adventures will be had, you will be ab-sent when toasts are made, but not really. Old stories will continue to be told, old songs will remind us of you, perhaps new songs will be written to your memory. Still, you will become a random echo bouncing back through time, a photograph or an audio clip, static. Nothing changes, not any more. I will miss your voice, love, your wry words, skewering observations,

The Wild BrunchBy Paul Weaver and Madison Graulty

This last Sunday we went to Luciano’s for Brunch. We didn’t eat the Italian menu at the Italian restaurant, because for some reason they are known for their legendary breakfast-lunch hybrid, served once a week buffet-style.Luciano’s is the establishment that uses the space once known as the Overland in down-town Laramie. The brunch features a large va-riety of breakfast items for the hungry diner. Usually people associate buffet style with awful little nuggets of stale found in mall food courts. Not so at Luciano’s—this place makes a more than an acceptable backup plan if you stayed out too late to make it to breakfast at the Prairie Rose. The place does its best to look classy and present the brunch buffet in a

Photograph courtesy of Sam Parks

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A Modern Crusoe Tale:Defying Death on I-80

By Marissa McIntyre

There is nothing worse than the feeling of being com-pletely alone; especially during a traumatic experi-ence. Daniel Defoe perfectly illustrates the battle and struggle between man and nature in Robinson Crusoe. In the novel, Robinson Crusoe experiences many dan-gerous, life-threatening encounters with nature while isolated. Multiple times he prays for God to save him and demonstrates his terror and distress in the situa-tion. Each time Crusoe experiences a natural disaster and survives the situation; he has a different outlook on life. While sailing from Brazil to Guinea to obtain slaves for his tobacco plantation, the ship’s rudder is broken by a series of giant storm. Crusoe escapes to an island and realizes that all of the other men have died. When he reaches the island he realizes God has kept him alive and safe: “I am singled out, too, from all the ship’s crew, to be spared from death; and He that miraculously saved me from death can deliver me from this condition”. Other natural disasters have a similar outcome regarding Crusoe’s afterthoughts and actions. I am sure almost all of us have experienced the terrors of 1-80 during the wintertime: the hurricane-grade winds, the never-ending torrent of snow, the windy turns through the pass, and, of course, the treacherous black ice. The road is a test of mental strength and endurance; it is strong, unforgiving force of nature. It is a force I found myself ighting against when trying to get home last November. I decided to make the drive home despite the winter

storm warnings and advisories, reasoning that since I was used to the driving in the snowy conditions of Colorado I would have no problems with the drive. Of course, I had heard the horror stories of the prob-lematic road; seen on the news the deaths it was responsible for, and had been told countless times by my parents not to ride on the road during a storm, but, unfortunately; I am a very stubborn individual. I planned on going home for the weekend and I was not going to let a little snow scare me out of my plans. Just like Crusoe, I ignored and set aside the warnings to follow my own ambitions. I thought I was prepared for the slow, challenging drive ahead. Since neither my parents nor my boyfriend wanted me to drive in these conditions I decided not to tell them that I was making the trip and instead surprise them when I got home. I neglected to tell my friends in order to avoid their arguments and warnings; no-body knew I was making the drive. When I started, I felt calm and conident; I had taking driving class; I would be ine, right? The drive up the pass was slow and slick, a multitude of trucks rested on both sides of the road, leaving a narrow path for cars to move through; their bright lashers served as a warning for what was on the other side of the mountain. As I got to the top of the mountain, I saw my fate turn before me. Like Crusoe, I will never be able to explain the magnitude of what I saw, “No one that shall ever read this account will expect that I should be able to describe the horrors of my soul at this ter-rible vision.” Looking down from the top of the pass I was met with horror and utter chaos. Trucks had slid off the road from losing control on the black ice down the windy hill. Semis were trying to slow down to avoid the stuck trucks while others were speeding up, continued on page 5

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Blind Medusa, continued from page 1

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your leaping into passion, wild and intent as a trout. I will miss you and I would rather have had you for those few bracing moments than to have stepped aside when it would have been prudent, to have not engaged, and forgone the pain that was also a part of knowing you. I will hold you in mind and heart for all those things you were, and the dancing too. Friendships cycle over the years, lovers too, sometimes. Not a lot of distinction between them, sometimes. Hopefully you have been able to stay friends with lovers who have cycled through your life, shared the blissful highs, gentle sure love and also survived the horrible wrenching lows that leave you dark with self-doubt, insecure. Is it okay to cry? Was this worth crying about? Why am I cry-ing? Thinking of taking the irst train to take you away from this feeling: a bottle, a pill, another lover who will make you feel wanted, alive. Be careful. I am not Gretel, retracing my step, watching the crumbs I dropped be-hind me, but I have learned something about the past, and I keep an eye open behind me. The past, you know, it follows you, ghost-like, and sometimes it jumps out in front of you. Startling, yes. Sometimes fun, not always, and don’t think to run. There is a circularity to life, people who meant something to you once, who have something to teach or learn with you, may well show up in your life again to play their second act, perhaps with an encore. Will you move forward too? Leaving the crumbs be-hind you, birds pecking them away, oblivious, ubiquitous. Done gone. But always with you. Voices in my memory whisper back a refrain, “and also with you, amen.” Nacreous time, cementing that prick of memory, every year another layer of pearl obscuring the details until they no longer matter. Who can predict this new form, un-derlaid by the old? What is it now, what use is this accretion to me? It relects, but it is not my true relection. A tool, a resource, I could punch a button out of this shell to admire, to sell, to swallow or sew on. I could seed it with

spawn, sunk in the mud at river’s edge. Leave it for the next oyster grubber because I will most certainly not be back this way again. Odd turns the world has though, and life loops back, old friends, old lovers, old enemies, they pop back up again in curious coincidence, a connection that may never be severed. Not by wishes, not by decree, not by any strength you thought to apply. What to do? I can only look to my intentions, to my center, and do as I think best, to be who I am the most. My path to this place is pecked away by birds, the path before me is ill lit, but I can see it, if I squint and focus and think my way there. So, in this moment, I will button my shirt, dust the crumbs from my hands, stand and face the sun. Sing. This is not a blues—okay, kind of. This is a celebration, a culmination, a moment in time. You ask, what to do? I say, love ‘em while you got ‘em, miss ‘em whenthey are gone.

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McIntyre, continued from page 2

clean and appetizing manner. They manage to pull this off quite handily (with the exception of the bacon-slinging tattooed creepers in chef jackets who look like roadies forSocial Distortion). The brunch selection is big, homemade, and on our visit featured tasty French toast but no freedom toast (commies!), wonderful pe-tite blueberry pancakes, cheddar biscuits and gravy. The biscuits could be dry if you show up at the tail end of brunch, but I had a good one, and the homestyle gravy put together by the punk rockers was, according to my dining companion, fantastic. They had sausage pat-ties and the obligatory bacon, not to mention home fries with rosemary and olive oil, and an excellent salad bar with a lot of veggies from which to build a healthy start to your brunch. Naturally, I skipped that part of the brunch. The winning selection at the brunch last Sunday featured lamb, crepes and an omelet station. I hear ham and prime rib are on the menu later this month. On this occasion, my review partner had the crepes, and she claims

that they are amazing, especially the option of (get ready for this) homemade nutella. This little concoction was strongly chocolaty and has the hazelnut chunkiness that a real nutella fan would love. The roasted lamb was really good and whatever seasoning they used worked. I also went for a small tomato and bell pepper omelet that was simple and delicious. My editor opted for only coffee as he apparent-ly doesn’t eat food and absorbs all nutrition in liquid form or via cigarette. The coffee is pass-able and goes well with the homemade coffee cake made by a band member from Laramie’s own Shotgun Shogun (with his bare hands, as he made sure to tell us—we hope hewashed them). Overall our little crew found the Luciano’s brunch to be of a high quality, presented in quite a pleasant ambiance, but as is often the case, it is spendy. But if, once a month or so, you want to get a good brunch, they can put it together for you at Luciano’s.We will review Luciano’s Italian fare in a later article but the brunch is recommended—espe-cially since it continues until 2 p.m.

trying to pass through. A two lane road had turned into four lanes of chaos. Most cars began to pull over, believ-ing there was no way through the mess without getting stuck in it themselves while a few continued to drive onwards. For better or for worse, I was one of those few.As I continued barely coasting down the hill, I saw a line of trucks in the distance. About forty minutes later I found myself in the unmoving line. Chaos does not begin to describe the situation. It was here that I realized the danger and extent of the situation I was in. I was only twenty miles outside of Laramie and I had been in the car for about two hours. I could not call anyone; it was pointless since they would not be able to help the situa-tion, and it would only cause them unnecessary stress. I was completely alone. Like Crusoe, I turned to a higher power for help, crying something similar: “Lord, look upon me! Lord, pity me! Lord, have mercy upon me!”More and more cars pulled over until I was the only one on the highway. The full moon vibrantly relected off the road, displaying the degree of the black ice. I felt doomed. Even coasting, I barely had minimal control over my car. One strong movement of wind would send me spinning out of control and into the ditch. Again I prayed to God as Crusoe did, “beating my head and face, exclaiming at my misery and crying out, ‘I was undone, un-done!’”. I continued to slowly crawl along the eerie and barren highway, praying for God to spare me.Eight long hours later, normally a two hour drive, I was home. Like Crusoe eludes, “Through all the miseries that had to this day befallen me, I never had so much as one thought of it being the hand of God, or that it was a just punishment for my sin- …or my present sins, which were great- or so much as a punishment for the general course of my wicked life…But I was merely thoughtless of a God or a Providence, acted like a mere brute…” This trying, solitary experience made me thankful for every day and allowed me to rethink how I live my life. As cliché as it sounds, I now try to live every day to the fullest, realizing it could very well be my last.

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More Poetry Please

Knowledge For JohnGrace Rollingwheel

Sasquatch opened the door and sat downin my kitchen. He came throughthe back door, that is.My intuition told me he was coming to warn me about the multiple universes. He read about it in Harper’s.So did I. We drank some Maxwell House blackand pondered over the situation.I guess he felt it didn’t matter anymore if he came “out”since all the geniuses from all timeagreed that we know almost nothing, actually,about the multiple universes.

What do we know? We pondered.SQ said he knew he couldn’t trust any one human,even though he is sort of human but not really.I said I knew he was real, or really here drinking coffee and chatting with me.That is what I knew. What I know.

He bid me good day. Thanked me.I watched his huge frame duck through the door.I wish he knew how happy he made me.Maybe, he does.

REVISITEDBy Paul Weaver

Terrible patterns like bad plaidfrom a 70’s catalogWe repeat them and we lull ourselvesA neck tie, a stone around the neckImagination, guiltSome dried-out husk ofsomeone we used to know They judge us with watery eyes Confessions leave me empty and nothing else

Inner deceptions and neglected phone calls both made and to makeself preservingwe take away inadvertently, non verbally

Always the creeping feeling,This awareness that I am not any goodat real things.Anything with which I demonstratethe dimmest spark of talentIs uselessEverything I like is waste

I tell a lie sincerely convinced of its truthAnd look around hateful and disgusted with everything I seeawaiting a psychological Bastille Day.

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The RhoneBy Brian Schueler

Robert F. Wooley stood at his post, looking up at the swirling clouds. He was only slightly worried about the dropping barometer, and darkening ho-rizon. It was late October 1867, and by all accounts hurricane season was considered over.Concerned for his 146 passengers and crew, he decided to an-chor the Rhone in the harbor. Another ship, the RMS Conway, decided to do the same and ride out the coming storm. As the storm grew iercer, the ships pulled hard on their anchor chains, dragging their anchors across the bottom of the harbor, tear-ing through the coral reefs. As the eye of the storm passed overhead, Captain Wooley and the Captain of the Conway were very concerned that the second half of the storm might drive both vessels against the shore. Because the Rhone had been deemed un-sinkable by Her Majesty’s Navy, the passengers on the Conway were moved over to the Rhone, and all were tied down to the beds to prevent them from falling and hurting themselves. The Conway head-ed out of the harbor, but the Rhone was stuck, with her anchor held fast. With the time in the eye of the hurricane slipping away by the minute, Wooley ordered the anchor cut away, and made a run at escaping the harbor before the storm hit. He ran a course that would put him only 250 yards away from Black Rock, a large rocky outcropping, in order to miss a hazard in the middle of the channel. Just as the Rhone was exiting the channel, the storm hit slamming the Rhone’s iron hull with category 3 force hurricane winds. The initial jolt threw the captain overboard, and ran the Rhone side on into Black Rock. The hull split open, and as cold seawa-ter gushed into the ship, the red-hot boilers explod-ed, tearing the ship in half and sending her to the bottom of the ocean. Of the more than 146 on board, only 23 survived, all crew. 138 years later, the Island of Virgin Gorda is a trop-ical paradise. I had come to the island with my par-ents and some other people my parents knew on a scuba diving vacation. As an adventurous 11-year-old, I was excited to have received my Open Water Dive certiication by diving in the open ocean, and by performing a few exercises to promote safety. Safety was a very important thing to consider under the ocean. At a depth of 50 feet, the surface seems miles away. Even more ominous is the fact that a rapid ascent to the surface (in the case that you run

ShipwreckedBy Marcella Means

“So what do you think?” Courtney, my com-rade in crime, peers at me expectantly, await-ing my perspective on her newest conundrum. But something else grips my attention. My hand drops from my mouth, plunging the ciga-rette I was holding into a pile of snow at my feet, where it lies smoldering, seemingly igno-rant of the chaos beginning to unfold around it. Darkness had long since fallen, but by the light of the streetlamps, I see the sharp silhouettes of students waiting to cross 15th and Ivinson. From the North, a rapidly approaching shape makes the silhouettes recoil back; however, the distance is so short and the igure so fast that none of them cover a notable amount of ground. The igure, a small, bronze sedan from the late 80’s, isn’t turning to follow the curve of the road; it’s barreling straight forward. Even though mingled shock and horror freeze my body, es-timations coursing through my mind peg the pace of the vehicle at roughly 50 miles per hour. Standing slightly away from the rest of the stu-dents, like an animal separated from its lock, moments before a predator strikes, is one, lone-ly igure. And then, it strikes. The low-statured car connects with the igure’s legs with incredible force. He buckles and rolls limply onto the hood, where his body jostles around with the car churning beneath him. The sedan easily clears the low curb bordering the sidewalk and the underside of the car erupts

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out of air) is very dangerous in and of itself. If you’re lucky, you’ll only get the bends, a painful condition where tiny bubbles of nitrogen form in your blood stream. If you have really bad luck, and hold your breath as you ascend, you can explode your lungs as the pressurized air you’ve been breathing expands. But I wasn’t worrying about all of this, because to-day was my irst ever wreck dive. As our dive boat bobbed in the waves near Black Rock, I listened to the story of the Rhone with inter-est. Our dive master detailed how the explosion of the boilers caused the ship to break in half, leaving the stern in shallow water, while the bow had slid about 30 feet deeper. Because I was such a novice diver, I was told by the dive master that it wouldn’t be smart to dive to the bow, and so I got grouped with a few other divers who were only diving on the stern. I was disappointed, because the bow of the ship was the most intact, but content with the prospect of being able to dive at all. Jumping into the water, I felt the warm water ill up my wetsuit, and heard the mechanical sounds of other diver’s respirators. Delating my vest, I slid underneath the waves. I could only see about 30 feet any which way, and so as I descended following the dive master, it appeared as if I was sinking into a never-ending sea. Unless I was looking straight up at the glow of the sun, it was dificult to see the surface. Gliding along, it seemed to take only mo-ments before we had arrived at the wreckage of the Rhone, covered in coral and full of sea life. It seemed so strange to be enjoying my vacation at a mass grave. The sounds underwater are eerie. The ish, and crustaceans make pops and snaps, so that it sounds like a TV on static in the next room. Over this muted static is the mechanical sound of respirators. Every breath of my friends resounded in my ears, sound-ing like a hospital ventilator—a constant reminder of our mortality. As I swam on, taking in more of the wreck, the dive master motioned me over to an oddly shiny brass porthole in a torn piece of hull. He motioned to me to rub it, which I did hesitantly. I thought about the passengers of this vessel, tied down to their beds, getting only glimpses of the harsh waves and wind through this porthole. What were the last moments like for the last passenger to look through this win-dow? Did he or she die instantly with the blasts from the boilers, or was the death a slower one, trapped and drowning? My time was more than up

at the porthole however, as I was motioned away to allow the other divers a chance to rub the brass. I drifted off farther towards the stern lost in thought about the fright that a sea voyage must have been back in those days. I found myself a good distance away from the oth-ers in the group, but not out of sight. I had been warned about getting lost underwater, especially in low visibility. Without warning, I found myself forced inexplicably upwards. Fearing decompres-sion sickness, the bends, or even worse ailments

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that could affect me in a quick ascent, I swam as hard as I could against the sudden current. Nothing can describe the confusion of thought which I felt. Everything got slower, and as I was kicking for the bottom, I looked around and was frightened to see that no one had noticed. I was fully alone, even though I could see my parents, and friends off in the distance. I couldn’t yell for help, because I was underwater, and I didn’t have anything to hit my tank with to make a noise. 20 feet off the bottom, and 25 feet from the surface, I was lucky to slip out of the freak current. As I descended back down to the wreck, I received some funny looks for being 10 feet above everyone else, but now that I had made it back, I knew I would receive a lecture about sticking with the group if anyone had seen. As we inally made our way to the surface, the world of sun, and cheerful music and talk greeted us. The weight that was so easy to disregard underwater came back as I needed help to pull myself, weight belt, and scuba tank up the ladder and into the boat. As I wrestled my wetsuit off, the dive master came over, and told me that if I had stayed closer to the group, I wouldn’t have gotten caught in that upcurrent. I was quite embarrassed, but I was incredibly grateful that the slight reprimand was the only setback I received from my adventure. Needless to say, I was relieved to hear that our second dive site that day was a shallow, easy reef dive. I had experienced enough adventure for that day.

with sparks as the undercarriage drags across the concrete. The outline of the vehicle and its unwilling passenger, illuminated by sparks and trafic lights, might as well be a branding iron pressed against the lesh of my memory. The car gathered enough momentum on the street to propel over the higher cement bar-rier between the sidewalk and the parking lot outside of White Hall. Despite the driver’s ap-parent lack of directional sense, the car hurtled perfectly between a sizeable coniferous tree and a map of the campus. Some disconnected part of my brain likened it to a skilled shot on apinball machine. Until this point, the entire event unfolded in utter silence. As if someone suddenly unmuted the world, noise loods my mind. Without warn-ing, the screech of metal on pavement assaults my ears; and then, the sound of breaking glass

coupled with crumpling metal. The sedan slides and careens into not one, not two, but three cars before it inally comes to a rest, its puck-ered hood pressed into the side of a cherry-red Pontiac Grand Am. The force of the impact sent uncountable issures through the windows, shrouding any view of the driver under a mo-saic of wreckage. Upon collision, the car bucks the hapless hitchhiker, linging him several feet forward, where he contacts the pavement and does not stir. For a fraction of a moment, the reactions of everyone in the vicinity move with a sluggish air, as if we are collectively coming off of anes-thesia. It does not take long, however, before the quickest stream into the scene of the crash. Clamoring above all other sounds, a chorus of voices cry for someone to call 911. Robotically, just as the irst syllables are leaving the mouths

Scheuler, continued from 8

Centennial InvasionJeff Duloz

It happened again last Wednesday. That un-nameable nebulous thing. Three, four, maybe ifty-ive people congregated within the Century Bar of scenic Centennial, WY. The snowmobilers were asking questions. The locals smiled at the familiar string of youthful faces as they entered the bar. Some sat their musical instruments down around the walls. Some sat their asses down at the bar. All ordered beers. Some followed it up with a shot. And somewhere along the timeline, somebody plugged in. The irst note was played, and the weekly Wednesday openmic commenced. There were friends of the musicians and friends of the music. And The Friendly Store’s Century Bar was host to them all. Patrick Harrington and the Libby Creek Original played the tunes of a bluegrass hymn. The joy in Patrick’s preacher smile spread amongst the audience. His happy tone looded the bar. The message was heard. Here we were. We stepped outside to smoke and chase it with the pristine air. The mesmerizing stars hugged the heads of our friends. There was freedom in the crunch of the snow beneath our feet. There was community in our huddled conversations.Back inside the bar, the angelic voices of Meadow and the Larks rose above the bar. Their harmonies freed us all of gravity. We were becoming the one thing nebulous. They sang and we responded. Our sound was our entity. The guitar strummed and the lyrics sung. You could hear the clap of hands. Our foot tapping rhythm upon the land. We would holler and shout to maintain the sound. And we all were listening. Evan Cook took his turn upon the stage, reeling with us into the passionate soul of each song. Max Harrington’s trumpet helped to guide that soul like the heralds call. He announced the arrival of serotonin to our cerebrum. Like the psychedelic days of our American past, we tripped into a merging of the subconscious and conscious. We took another shot and Flatrat Love Trapper took the stage. Brandon Passow took time out of his 2014 Sheriff campaign and stomped down on a the single kick drum that marched us into the church of funk. MC Samsquatch played his words like the Pied Piper of Hamlin and all us funky rats were trapped in line. And there we were. That nebulous body. That un-nameable thing. We moved as one. We swayed and bounced and our feet stomped and danced. Nick Park called into the molecular blues of our body and we responded with a holler. Carter Parks played a country gospel on the keys and we clapped with joy. Niles Mischke was the heartbeat of the un-nameable nebulous body and his bass lines pumped through our veins. A crazy blue angel fell out of Holland and there was an epiphany of singing out of the speakers. And I was caught up in the middle of it all. I wasn’t even there. I had transcended. There was a metamorphosis and I sang. There was a metamorphosis and I strummed my guitar. It happened again last Wednesday. And it’ll happen again soon enough.*Thank you to all the Centennial locals. Thank you to Tony5 and Derrin for singing songs and letting us participate in the Centennial open mic. Thank you to Anita for being the welcoming bartender, and to Jennifer and Kelli, for general awesomeness.

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of alarmed bystanders, I scramble to punch numbers into the cell phone that somehow made its way from my pocket to my trembling hands. Before long, dorm residents ling windows open, lean out and call down suggestions on how to best manage the episode. Perhaps the most popular phrase to decorate the evening air was exclamations of “Somebody call 911!” I start shouting to anyone who would listen that I was already doing that very thing. I can feel time ticking with the crescendoing urgency of the situation. Ring. Ring. It feels as if an eternity passes in the time I spend with the ringing of the line drilling into my ear. Just as I think I’m turning to stone from waiting, an operator answers. With the story tumbling out of my mouth at top speed, I’m surprised the man understands a word of my babbling. When he reassures me that help is on the way and asked the condition of the injured pedestrian, I edge around parked cars to get a better look at the damage. Students pil-ing mounds of jackets upon an immobile igure greet my curiosity. Another group is trying to reach the driver of the vehicular weapon. The drivers’ side door is inaccessible, squashed into the dented body of another car. My peers go in through the passenger side doors, but wisely elect not to move the igure in case of aggravating wounds. There is nothing to do now but wait. RA’s arrive to conduct the chaos; one directly to my left bugles “If you saw what happened, stay and give the police a statement. If not, go inside and get out of the way.” I tug on Courtney’s jacket sleeve, near the elbow. “We can stay here, right? I mean we saw it. We deinitely saw it… oh boy.” We saw it. I’m partially submerged in a vivid recollection of the events of mere minutes ago; Courtney grasps my arm and starts guiding me away from the parking lot to the other side of the building. “Marcela, dude. I don’t know about you, but I’m drunk. I can’t talk to the cops right now, we need to go inside.” I taste my breath. Wine. Knowing she’s right, I give one long, last look at the ambulance, its lights still whirring and lashing silently. I can’t tear myself away from the scene; yet somehow, I take the long elevator ride to the seventh loor and make myself comfortable on a crowded futon, desperate to ind some reprieve by burying myself in a distraction. “After I had solac’d my mind with the comfortable part of my condition,… I soon found my comforts abate, and that in a word I had a dreadful deliverance.” -Daniel Defoe, Robinson Crusoe

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