I'm driving Erin's car through the just-fallen night, and she's tired, curled up in the seat next to me, but not yet asleep. A scarf over her face blocks out the light and her hands are mittoned, fuzzy and orange like a muppet. Yesterday it hailed, and today they said it might snow, though it didn't. Yes, it's still June.
In the back seat, Mandi from Kansas, Chris from Arizona and Andrew from Liverpool are discussing the end of the world while on the side of the road vigilant white reflectors streak by in silent patterns. On the radio, country music plays so softly you can hardly hear the twang and I'm thinking about not much in particular. Today was a day of rainbows and train-rides and barbeque and talking during the movie but probably no one cared anyway. And secrets I can only guess about. And snapping pictures. And not snapping pictures because you forgot your camera, but not being sorry because it's the moment that matters anyway and who needs documentation? And mittens and scarves and of course, the end of the world, in the air, and on my notecards and buzzing.
And I am eternally alive, because I have been once.
Erin says she's really happy right now, but all day she fells like crying and doesn't know why. twinged with sadness she says. I say maybe that's the best kind of happy, but she shakes her head and we keep talking. Outside the clouds stretch for miles and light shines down like a waterfall.

One of my first days off and I’m out with Erin, my next door neighbor from Wisconsin, Kristjan, the tall native Estonian and Silver, one of the Russian Estonians who won’t talk to Erin no matter how much she pries. We go to Horsethief Lake where Kristjan and Silver want to go swimming. It’s an overcast day, and though I’ve brought some shorts to swim in, I doubt that I’ll actually use them. The lake is next to the highway, tucked in between the deep green trees and jutting, rocky cliffs that seem to have burst from the ground in a second and frozen in the Midwestern air.
We made our way up to the jumping point, about 30 feet from the water, 50 feet from the ground, though what it was that we made our way up is hard to say; it was too small and sheer to be a hill, to large to be a bank, and too forested to be just rocks. It was just like the ground climbed toward the sky, then got exhausted and stopped.
The boys jumped into the cold, clear air which changed to colder, clearer water and me and Erin watched them swim gasping to shore. She lounged on the rocks, hoping for some sort of tan and I snapped lazy photographs of what seemed then to be the most photogenic corner of the entire state, if not the world. The highway snaked below us, little yellow lines breaking up the broad black band that wound through the hills and hills and hills. Directly below us, the lake spread out calmly, its full expanse hidden around misty banks of tall pine trees and one fly fisherman. In the distance: mountains. Farther in the distance: clouds, grey and mysterious.
I could have spent the whole afternoon there on that fortunate ledge overlooking the world, but the Estonians were getting cold, and were unable to convince Erin to join them in the water. Hardly anyone tried to convince me, but I didn't care.
So we took off again, this time en route to Keystone, where I bought a lot of cheap post cards. We explored the downtown scene, essentially just one street full of historic looking buildings, wooden walkways and stores full of things no one could possibly need. We posed with Sturgis biker chick shirts and Kristjan looked at the “authentic” bows and arrows they had hanging up on the wall, promising to come back and buy one some day. He said that with a bow and arrow you could do anything, and I was pretty sure I believed him. In the sale rack of one store I found a red shirt that just had a bunch of dinosaurs on the front, and I was convinced that it was the coolest thing I’d seen since we got there, but no one else was very impressed.
We continued down the wooden walkway, the closest thing South Dakota has to a board walk, past a store selling only biker tee-shirts and faux street signs (ie. Parking for Harleys only), an ice cream shop, The Red Garter Saloon, which looked like a kind of cool restaurant fashioned after old western bars, with show girls and everything. Erin was a bit appalled by one of their signs advertising the Red Garter Special, where “you get to keep the garter.” “I don’t think I like what that’s implying,” she said. I laughed. We continued around the corner of the boardwalk, where early 50s rock and roll was playing and we were bordered on one side by a fudge shop and the other side by a store whose windows were pasted over with Sunday comics. No one had any cotton candy, but somehow it seems like some one should have. “Ah, now we are in America,” Kristjan said, calling the oldies rock “country music.” Erin and I objected to his definition, but except for his inaccurate label for our music, it was an America I felt proud of.
On our way back to the car we passed by a large hotel which was under some kind of construction or renovation and I snapped a few pictures of the tourists and construction workers.
We hit up the Presidential Wax Museum next, which did in fact have wax sculptures of every American president. They also had Ben Franklin, Al Gore and some pirate captain who Andrew Jackson was striking a bargain with. Also, one of the historic Florida voting booths, which every bit as confusing as they said on the television at the time.

About two weeks later I’m in the company van on the way to pick up people from Keystone before heading into work. Silver’s been gone for over a week now. He got fed up with the low pay here apparently, and set out for Chicago with another Estonian. Erin still hasn’t recovered from not getting him to really talk to her. A few days from now, while trying to put a new roll of film in my camera, I’ll break, and then expose the roll of film I took that day at the lake and the boardwalk. All that will remain of those photographs will be a dark brown ribbon with little square hole in it, unraveled at the foot of my bed.
And as we round the corner into the historic district someone says “look at that,” and I turn and say “oh lord.” The Red Garter Saloon is in pieces, charred and smoking. Through the open front door I can see out to the sky. Across the street a garbage can has actually been melted open from the heat of the fire that had blazed in the early morning and as we drive slowly down the side of the street not barricade off by orange cones I see what else the blaze left: almost nothing but ashes. The whole corner of the boardwalk is nearly completely gone, and half of the hotel, including the construction site looks melted halfway into the ground. Half a dozen fire trucks surround the site and for some reason the metal frame of an awning has been set carefully to one side of the destruction.
Greg, who is about 36, wears a Teddy Roosevelt moustache and busses tables is sitting behind me. I listen as he mutters a string of relatively un-notable exclamations, all spaced about five seconds apart, like a slash between a metrenome and a news commentator.
I add a few murmers of my own disbelief to his tempo and I glad that before it all went up in smoke I was able to spend a few minutes one sunny afternoon snatching up bits of that American carnival.

I feel the need to comment upon the world event that I have just recently become a part of. I did purchase my copy of "Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix" at 1.15 a.m. on June 21st (today). I had it reserved at Borders but I was able to purchase it wothout standing in the massive crowd because for the first (and probably last) time in my life -- I had an "in". The "in" in question was the fact that my store (Ralphs #135) was selling them at 12.01 a.m.. And guess who happens to work every night as a box boy until 12.00 a.m.. As a store employee I was able to keep my copy along with all my fellow coworkers' locked in the Bookkeeper's Office. In exchange I was charged with a potentially deadly task. My mission (if I chose to accept it) was to move five, light blue plastic tubs containing the precious cargo from the back room to a closet in the front of the store and lock it. The tubs were deceivingly marked "Store Ads for Week of June 22" but I knew that even Muggles can sense a ruse of this nature. I'm glad to say that I did survive.

The line began to form at around 11.00 p.m. although there was one middle aged man who had gotten there at 10.00 p.m.. We saluted him by giving him one of our Ralphs gift bags as a token of our esteem. He was the first in line but others were soon to follow. They were talkitive but tame. Only one 10 year old girl wore a costume. Hemione, of course. At 12.01 a.m. I gave a stumbling call over the P.A.. It was a rousing address: "Attention Ralphs customers! Copies of "'Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix' are now available. There is a limit of two per customer so please make your way to the long line forming at Checkstand 5 and wait for your turn. Thank you very much and have a good morning". They all came through -- each more upbeat than the last. And it was then that it struck me. This line was huge for 12.00 a.m. at my store. And not far down the road at Borders it was rumoured that the crowd had surpassed 800. But yet there were even more Borders's and Barnes and Nobles's with equally and perhaps larger crowds of excited people waiting for ... ... ... ... a book! It's not a movie or concert tickets. Even those never attract nearly this kind of turnout. It's a book these people want. Even in these days when doomsayers and Nostradami fortell the decline of reason due to the decline in American literacy we see all these people waiting for a book! And this brings me to the scene that restored my faith.

She couldn't have been older than 8 or 9 years old. She was with her Dad but broke away and stood in front of me and stared at me as I put the Book in a plastic bag. She had a blue Harry Potter jacket on. And as I finished wrapping the Book. She stuck out her hands in that outstretched, fingers-down, palms-up way that only a kid can sell. And when I handed it to her she grabbed it and hugged it like she might cradle a kitten or a puppy. Pivoting around with her eyes shut she had a contented look on her face. And she looked back up at me with big cow eyes; smiled and said, "Thank you" in the most genuine tone that I have ever heard those words spoken. I wish I could have said what I meant. But all I said was, "Little lady -- you are very welcome".

A kid who loves a book that much and what lies inside it is what makes my heart smile and believe that things will be all right on this planet of ours. It fills my cold, black heart with a number of powerful emotions for which there is no emoticon potent enough. Literacy is a gift. All of that stuff we learned about when we were kids on "Reading Rainbow" and the like was true. The book itself is so cold and sterile but it can colour our imaginations with imagery and emotion. The Harry Potter books are great though there are many who mourn that people never lined up for Steinbeck or Hemingway like this but that's incidental. The action of reading is self-perpetuating. All the lines to Harry Potter eventually lead to Hemingway and Steinbeck. It's literature, baby. Bludgers and quaffles or grapes of wrath. Reading is worthwhile in itself. It's a gift to be able to engage in this worthy activity. Little words on little pages. It's little things like this that we should be truly grateful for. Now I am. That's the magic.

In response to your comments: Our internal sense of self-loathing doesn't go back all too far. I remember those days past like a long lost summer. We used to climb trees and roll down grassy hills and come home every night covered in mud and algae with toads in our pockets and a smug smile on our face because we knew the true secret of happiness. It wasn't the life of virtue as Aristotle put forth. Nor is it a warm gun as John Lennon sardonically suggested. It was being alone without being lonely. But somewhere along the line (I can't remember how) it just fell apart. We just grew away from each other. We both had expectations of each other that neither of us could live up to. Then it happened. I decided to take myself out to the school fair (our place) and see if we couldn't get back to the way things used to be. We just snapped at each other right in front of the snack bar and got into a horrible shouting match. We haven't talked to each other since that day. It's been seven years almost since we broke up. We miss each other I'm sure but we'll never get back to where we once were. Not anymore. We were too high and fell too far. No one recovers from that.

[soundtrack insert "So Sad About Us"; Pete Townshend's 'Scoop' version]


Moving on. People are very interesting but after one year, five months and 22 days of working at Ralphs #135 where the customers treat you like the lowliest of slaves I'm ready to work in the back. I'm a box boy. The best one they have. They say it and it is true because I care. And I'll never be promoted because the Big Boss Man will not allow for my school schedule if I'm promoted. Chapman is my Rushmore so he can shove his promotion. I've decided to take a vacation. I'm going to take the train somewhere -- maybe Alaska. I've always wanted to go there. Tomorrow I may do it. Perhaps some other day. No one knows. I doubt the customers will care.

Zoey -- "Love in the Time of Scurvy". Just a suggestion (stole it from "The Simpsons"). Pirate romances are always cool. Swordfighting, sailing the sea, searching for hidden treasure (insert sexual innuendo here). Nothing more romantic than that! Incidentally, no excuses needed. Send whatever you want to Gabbo. Organizing it is a job for Aaron and me.

Aaron -- I've got a good poster going! I think you'll like it. It's big and grandiose and I've got bigger and more grandiose posters and publicity stunts in mind. Next year at Chapman will be the year of Gabbo.

Keep writing all (i.e. you two). Incidentally, on a personal note I picked up some cool LP's at the Amoeba Record Store yesterday. A whole plethora of Pete Townshend and Frank Zappa albums as well as one gem that I didn't even know existed. You see, I had a list of artists to look for. Among them was a man by the name of John Cale. He was the bassist and violist for the Velvet Underground and since I'm trying to learn to play the viola (the deeper and more depressing cousin of the violin) I figured I'd listen to some solo records by the man who inspired me to do so. I was also looking for records by a man by the name of Terry Riley who was a composer who was using synthesizers in the days before anyone in popular music knew how to use them. And since I'm currently trying to build my own synthesizers alongside my Dad I figured I'd listen to the guy who started it all in a sense. Well, as I was flipping through the John Cale records I found a record called "Church of Anthrax" which featured him and one other artist -- Terry Riley. It was way too much of a coincidence for me not to buy it. As I was at the counter one of the cashiers milling about was flipping through the records that I bought and out of all ten of them he picked that one up and nodded while mumbling "this is a great record" to himself. I'm really excited to hear it!

Keep enjoying yourselves. Perhaps I will see you sooner than you or I think. The winds of fortune blow us in strange directions. We shall see.

If you're reading this then I'm not a total idiot. Good for me!

Typical evening of fun at El Torito Bar and Grill (Orange, CA):

It's graduation night at half the local high schools.

In between smiling kids in big long robes, my coworker Timothy (who just confessed to being both stoned and horny) is giving me details about his "condition," code word for being gay (his idea).

Apparently, says Timothy while I hand an old couple a menu and a fake smile, Person B (a busboy) just told Person A (Timothy) that Person B would let Person A give him a, well, wink, wink, you know, wink, in exchange for twenty bucks.

"Um, Timothy," I ask hesitantly, ignoring the mental warnings telling me I should exit conversation now. "Isn't that kind of prostitution?"

"I know," he said, looking affronted. "That's why I told him I'd do it for free."

"Oh," I said intelligently and tried not to think about A and B doing dirty things in the liquor room (or roof--Timothy's idea again).

It's dark and it's late and my feet hurt. Timothy's disappeared in search of a cigarette or a bong or some other illicit pleasure and all the smiling ex-high schoolers keep on bringing up my own fuzzy memories of graduation.

It was sunset in the mountains and the singer was a little off key and everyone was crying. Some guys whose names I can't even remember stood up on the football field--right in front of everyone--and started hugging each other in that manly slap sort of way. Soon everybody was up and laugh-crying and no one cared that we were supposed to stay ridged in our chairs until the end of the ceremony.

Only then Timothy comes back talking about scary movies and everything's fuzzy again. And I suddenly feel very old. Not Timothy old (who's 23 and swears he has lines next to his eyes and needs Botex), just graduated old.

Typical evening of fun at the Mt. Rushmore employee dorms:
A bunch of people are hanging out in the lounge watching Blind Date and putting together puzzles; at least three languages are being spoken. I've set myself in the middle of everything and am sitting in a chair with my legs propped up on the couch my friends Erin (from Wisconsin) and Laura (from Colombia) are sitting on. I'm wearing a shirt that I got from a thrift store earlier in the week with a diagram of a pacemaker on it and am reading The Underground Press in America, a book from 1970. I say I'm hungry and Erin brings down soy nuts and dried fruit.
It's not a bad night until I hear The Ramones playing in the background of a cellphone commercial on tv. I rant and rant, but only Greg, who's probably 40 or so, seems to understand.

Is this thing working?

Until we meet again, perhaps we can bounce stuff around together across the wires and wavelengths that crisscross and transcend the states and countries we're boxed into.
Reading over that last sentence I am convinced that the Internet breeds nothing if not pretention.
But hey, Gabbo!

This is Aaron and I'm in South Dakota, where the hills dip and rise like a green ocean of land and geology seems to burst and bubble straight from the rocky core of the earth. Oh, and on good days the views are too terrific to believe.
But everyone comes here for the Presidents. You can't understand them from a postcard, that's for sure. The view you see when you get here isn't even the post card view -- there's a big gap between Lincoln and Roosevelt that they hide from you in the pictures. And depending on where you are and where the shadows happen to be hiding, the character of the mountian is always changing. Roosevelt's eyes are alternatly smirking and shifty. You can almost always see up Jefferson's nose, but from rare angles he looks transcendent rather than high. Washington's the most prominent of the four, and looks chisled (ha ha) and stately. Lincoln's offset from the rest of the gang, and he more than any of the rest appears to be actually coming out of the mountian.

The closest city is Keystone, which is only a few miles down hill from where we are. Keystone is a city where you can visit the Presidential Wax Musem, take Helicopter tours of the area, visit countless historical sites and "musems," and look at every single book in their library in about an hour.

If you live here you have to go into Rapid City to get anything serious done. Rapid City consists of three areas: the Wal-Mart/Rushmore mall sector, the historic down-town area, which is full of awesome old buildings and thrift shops, and finally the ghetto, which is all fast-food and abandoned motels. I want to take my camera down there sometime before I leave.

I've spent most of today writing postcards.