University of Northern Iowa

6 Aug 2009. Campus was deserted but I got to see the Unidome and two healthy young ladies checking me out. Checking my merchandise out, that is. Ostentatious purple plastic yards on clearance for two dollars?? In Cedar Falls, a jaw falls.


Jethro trudged through the wet gravel, the cool water between his paws the only relief from the unfiltered country sun.
The water from the Black Hawk river was clear and fresh, but the sparse diet of roots and grubs was inadequate for any bulldog. Jethro's nose was dry and his haunches were weak.
Occasionally, he saw Sir Francis Drake or the rest of The Golden Hind's crew in the distance. They would wave him onward, he would obey, they would disappear.
This time his hallucinations grew feline.
"Hey cat. You got any food." mumbled Jethro.
When the cat stalked away instead of evaporating back into his mind, Jethro realized he was dealing with a real wild animal. He stood at attention the best he could, trying to still his shaking legs.
Rustling and thumping sounded around him.
Left? No, right. No, behind!
Now right. Or left.
Jethro retreated from the open riverbed up into the wild rose shrubs.
To be pounced upon.
Dog and cat - large cat - rolled back down into the shallow water.
Jethro could barely see straight. The dizziness overtook him. His adrenaline hit empty. Conceding defeat, he lay on his back, thinking of England and its lost captain.
"I'm sorry, Drake."
The cat paused, blinking, before rearing up. Jethro's collar charm glinted in the cat's eye. It took only a second for the cat to recognize the Royal Seal.
"Sacre bleu!" said the cat. Off it ran.

Jethro gathered himself under the shade of a willow, gnawing on its fallen bark.
The cat came back to drop a dead pheasant in front of Jethro.
Jethro stood up and backed away from the cat, growling. He stopped when the cat nosed the pheasant toward him.
Jethro peered at the cat. He snatched the bird off the ground and wrapped his jowls around it. In two minutes all that remained was beak, bone, and feathers.
Jethro spit out a claw spur. "Thanks."
"De rien."
"Do you speak English?"
The cat licked its chops, saying nothing.
"Er....parlay voo Eenglaze?"
"No. Français."
"My name is, oh...jay swee Jethro."
"Napoléon." said the cat in a weighty baritone.
"Where are you from? What's up with the freakout about my collar?" Jethro dingled the charm, hoping to get through with some basic paw language.
Napoléon furrowed his brow and emitted a low, gurgling mrow. He pointed his nose skyward and ran away.
"No, wait, hold on! Uh...par-ay! Alto! Aw, jeez. What a head case."

Jethro continued vaguely east. He figured with several days behind him, it was another couple weeks till Chicago.
A purple mass of fur and a toothy smile popped into Jethro's view.
"Aah! Okay, okay, now you're freakin' me out!"
Another cat joined Napoléon's side, this one with a silver coat.
Napoléon introduced her: "Joséphine."
Jethro was near starving an hour ago. Now he was having meet-and-greets in broken French with wildcat lovebirds.
"Hi. Listen, it's great that you can talk. I mean, you, me, in the middle of Iowa territory, what are the odds? And I really appreciate the bird, Napoleon. But I don't speak any French and it's taking a lot of mental - "
"You don't have to." said Joséphine with a spotty French accent.
"Oh, praise the queen."
Jethro sat, all ears now.

Napoléon and Joséphine came from the western mountains. They had learned French from the trappers in the frontier. Napoléon was just fine, thank you, with French, but Joséphine didn't hesitate to also pick up English from other pioneers. The couple's position as liaisons to humans moved them to the top of the cats' social order. But when the other cats got tired of their God's-gift-to-the-animal-kingdom attitude, or as the raconteur put it, their "jealousy and inability to carry on a conversation", Napoléon and Joséphine were exiled to northern Iowa.
Listening to Joséphine's retelling, Napoléon recognized the word exile. He bristled and hissed, "Nous avons été traités comme des chiens."
Jethro looked over for a translation. Joséphine explained, "It was our Waterloo."
"Why can't you just go back to another part of the west? It's enormously huge. You can find a new pack of wildcats or panthers or cougars or whatever the correct term is."
"All of those names are fine. But the mountains are no longer our home."
"So what now?"
"We would love to make it to Paris. The trappers tell us it is a glorious place, where the streets are filled with endlesss rats. Enough to feed the largest cats. It was only a large and fancy dream until Napoléon saw your Royal Seal. We are willing to put aside our countries' differences if you can help us get to Europe! ...That is where you were going, yes?"
"I wasn't going anywhere really. Drake and the crew are gone. Taken by prairie rodents, catapulted from buffalo-mounted coyotes in headdresses. My initial goal was Chicago."
"Oui, oui, Chicago! Nous connaissons le chemin!"
"Yes, if we take you there, can you put us on a ship to Europe?"
"I really don't have that kind of pull. Sure, I may be English, but I'm still only an English bulldog."
"Oh, please help us get home, Jethro! We will do all the hunting for you!"
"S’il vous plaît, Jethro!" Napoleon and Joséphine activated their big-kitty-eye glands.
"Aw, jeez."

Have you ever met a cat who wasn't manipulative and French?

Iowa State University

6 Aug 2009. 'A Snack In The Face' was closed, so I settled on breakfast at their next door neighbor. Angie's Kitchen was decorated with old timey knickknacks and ads, including a questionable pro-coal bulletin. Across the street in the ISU bookstore, there were no 'spinning bird logo' gifts, only things like a hammer with the blocky 'I STATE' on the head. ISU fans who approve of this new design are difficult to find.


Aching for an escape from the midwest, Persephone Evelyn Bumbaugh had auditioned for every season of MTV's The Real World since her 18th birthday.
Five years later, she finally got the call.
Unfortunately for Persephone, the reality show's producers were getting tired of the 'bright lights, big city' format. They decided to strip it down to the essential core of opinionated group interaction. The usual urban distractions and tony digs were to be eliminated. The diverse casting remained the same save for one requirement: a token midwestern local.
This is where Persephone fit in.
Later she would realize the catch-22: being cast for a glitzy show would only happen when they eliminated the glitz.

******

This is how Persephone found herself atop a 300 foot wind turbine as a cast member on The Real World: Ames, Iowa.

******

Perhaps because of the odd location, the first two weeks of the broadcast drew low ratings. So the producers had cobbled together some 'challenges' to give their program more of a game show feel. Their first idea was to split the house into three teams and harness volunteers to 6x6 platforms atop windmills in an endurance test.
Ish, a 20-year-old student from D.C., represented the East Coast team and Siobhan, a 25-year-old dancer from Orange County, led the West Coast team. And poor Persephone, with two of her teammates from Chicago and two from Texas, was the only genuine midwesterner on the Midwest team.
They were each on top of windmills a quarter mile apart, only close enough to see each other make sweeping gestures, but they could still communicate with radio headsets. Safety crew and viewers at home could keep watch thanks to cameras affixed to both the participant's hard hat and the windmill itself. Backpacks of food and bathroom breaks were to be provided three times a day. Their furniture was a single vinyl cushion, and their entertainment, aside from three way chats, was a preprogrammed video iPod.
So, clearly, with such a well thought out plan, nothing could go wrong.

******

"Dang. I just dropped half of my protein bar." said Ish.
"Y'ain't getting that one back." said Persephone. "Siobhan, how's your Philly cheese steak sitting?"
"Not well." West Coast did not have the hardiest of leaders.
"Maybe cuz it was made in Iowa, not in Philly. I've never had the real deal. Or even been there. Ish, how about you? You live close to Philly, right?"
"Philly's like a 4 hour drive from me! Never been there."
"Well, maybe we can check it out someday."
Persephone started singing the theme song to The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air. "In West Philadelphia, born and raised..."
"...on the playground is where I spent most of my days!" sang Ish.
Persephone and Ish continued, Siobhan clearly not knowing the words but happy to sit and shimmy to it. "...I got in one little fight and my mom got scared, she said you're movin' with your auntie and uncle in Bel-Air..."

******

"You've got to be jerkin' me. The forecast was clear. In fact, it still...dog balls! That's a lot of red. Okay, pull 'em down."
The Unit Production Manager slammed his fist on his trailer wall. He wanted compelling TV, which this highwire act was proving to be, but he didn't want his three telegenics in real bodily danger.
The UPM just experienced the uselessness of midwestern weather forecasts. From the safety of his trailer.
Ish, Siobhan, and Persephone would get to experience it a touch more vividly.

******

The sun was setting, but fattened clouds were accelerating the darkness.
Ish's excess fro, Siobhan's midnight ponytail, and Persephone's ribbon locks were waving from beneath The Real World: Ames, Iowa hard hats.
Siobhan slipped on her The Real World: Ames, Iowa fleece jacket. "It's getting chilly."
Persephone said, "I'm not liking this."
"Can't take the cold, Seph?"
"Uh, look at what we are standing on, Ish. Giant lightning rods! Any sign of clouds is enough to postpone this. I can't believe they didn't check the forecast."
Static crackled over the trio's headsets. The UPM's voice cut straight to the point. "Ish, Siobhan, and Persephone, there is an extreme weather warning for the area. This challenge is cancelled. Stay where you are, you will KHKKHK in fifteen KHKKKKHKHHKK."
His voice merged into static as needlepricks of water began to fall.
"Stay where we are? Like we'll jump or something." said Persephone.
"What was he saying at the end??" whined Siobhan.
"Probably 'dog balls'." said Ish.
Persephone ignored Ish's remark. "I heard the word 'fifteen'. And I hope not fifteen minutes. We need to be picked up sooner than that."
"Why?" asked West Coast and East Coast.
Midwest didn't have to answer.
Not like she could anyway.
The wind picked up intensity. Random pops of syllables and frantic arm-waving was the only means of communication now. Dust, corn husks, and pieces of hay swirled in the air. The spin of the turbine blades increased. It reached top speed, the tips of the blades topping 200 mph. The whir abruptly ceased, with a sickening metal on metal SCRKKKKKK, an automatic response to high winds to prevent overheating.
With the constant hum of the turbines silenced, opposing weather fronts provided the only audio.
Persephone heard a crack below. A wooden power pole snapped and tipped over toward the base of the turbine. One of the cables ripped off and snaked out of control, spitting sparks. Persephone's eyes widened, only to be bombarded by the thickening rain.
Well, it wasn't that thick.
She could still see the newly formed cyclone.

******

A convoy consisting of The Real World: Ames, Iowa van, two police cars and an ambulance approached Siobhan's turbine first. Both Persephone and Ish stood up and watched the ants in uniform sprint to the tower and disappear up the internal ladder.
Three minutes later they unlatched the top door and hauled Siobhan inside.
Ish was between Siobhan and her, so Persephone knew she would be last in line. She had experience with tornadoes but was never forced to remain outside, let alone strapped on top of a 300 foot metal pole.
The rain intensified. Wayward cardinals were tossed helplessly in the gale. Long distance vision was naught. She could only make out the headlights of the rescue brigade. She screamed "Hurry up!" but she could barely hear her own voice. Amping up the decibels, she unleashed a primal roar skyward. The rain didn't bother her anymore; she was soaked to the bone.
Nature once again reached into its bag of tricks.
Ice balls tinked off the white metal of the turbine and the yellow plastic of her hard hat. They attached themselves to Persephone's hair and fleece jacket. They gathered in every nook: on the cushion, in the backpack, down her shirt, and up her nose.
The hail grew larger. Persephone batted them down like frozen volleyballs. She emitted a grunt with each direct hit. One smacked her in the nose, another on the lip, a particularly fat one on the funny bone.
She couldn't keep up anymore. She shrunk down and laced her fingers over the back of her neck. She volunteered for this?
She looked over towards the other towers. The headlights had advanced to Ish's turf. But on the edge of her platform, another light caught her attention.
The tiny red power light on the camera.
Which sparked the light in her eyes.
It hit her.
Why she was cast.
Why anyone on the show was cast.
She stood back up. She flipped off her hard hat and placed it on her backpack, opposite the other camera. She aligned herself in the middle of the platform. She squared her feet, hips, and shoulders. She brushed off her face and inhaled her lungs full (through her nose).
"Keep it comiiiiing! I love it! I love it!! This is what I'm here for and this is what I do! Persephone Evelyn Bumbaugh, Indianan by birth, midwestern by the grace of God! We can take whatever you give us and we'll shout for more! For mooooore!"
The hand gestures and fist flying were at full pump.
"Wind, rain, hail, it's just another day. Doesn't matter. Ooh, Iowa cyclones? Waterspouts, tornadoes, twisters? Nothin' new! Why don't we sing about it? In west Indiana, born and raised, on the playground is where I spent most of my days. Chillin' out, maxin', relaxin, all cool, and all shootin' some b-ball outside of the school..."
Persephone carried on with her cover of The Fresh Prince theme song. The hail passed. She interrupted herself.
"What's that? You givin' up? Out of steam? That was barely anything."
Thunder boomed, clearly insulted.
"Bah ha ha! Do your worst! Oh, you already did? And I sang all the way through it, how 'bout that?"
The rain spread thin. Persephone wrung out her hair. She did a little dance.
"Look at this. Look at this. Look at these moves. You got nothing! This tornado is just my dance partner."
She looked over at the other two turbines. Neither Siobhan nor Ish were there. Down below the rescue vehicles were parked in front of the live wire. The whine of a fire engine grew near. Her throat was scratchy as she laughed. She kicked ice gravel off the platform and stomped down with both feet.
KTH-THUNK. The wind had slowed to the point that the turbine could reactivate.
Clapping and pointing at the receding cyclone, Persephone sucked in air down to her abdominals. Her final scream was filled with some triumph, but mostly showmanship.
"YEAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

******
After the cyclone incident, ambitious outdoor challenges were scrapped. Persephone led Team Midwest to sweeps of piddly little scavenger hunts and obstacle courses. But save for the episodes on the turbines, ratings drew series lows.
Viacom, MTV's parent company, had to pay fines to the Iowa State Police for endangerment and royalties to NBC for broadcasting The Fresh Prince theme song.
The small town experiment was a failure.
The following season, the show reverted back to its original format for The Real World: Philadelphia (technically the house was in King Of Prussia). Persephone parlayed her temporary fame into repetitive speaking gigs at colleges, a thankless MTV consultant job on location in Philly, and, when she got bored, graduate studies in business and dentistry.
All because she was the young woman who out-blustered a cyclone.

Sure, but can coal coerce blondes to cry to the heavens?

Drake University

24 Jun 2009. The closest College Cups has had to a chase scene was in Des Moines, Iowa. I left Iowa, Iowa, at 4:00 PM. The Drake bookstore was set to close at 5:30 PM. Could I make 119 miles in 90 minutes?? I mentally calculated that my average speed would have to be in the 75 mph range. If I went for it and made it, I could get the cup and log some after-dinner miles before setting up camp for the night. But if I missed it, I would have to stay in Monktown and make my purchase first thing in the morning. And that would put me way behind schedule in my cross country trip.
I went for it of course.
The bookstore was relatively easy to find from the interstate. I parked at 5:31 PM, and luckily the doors were still open to sweaty, jittery, numb-butted customers like me! Not only that, the cashiers recommended a great local barbecue dive. Jethro's and Lake Anita State Park: A+, would patronize again.


Sir Francis Drake stroked his chin. He was lost in the American continent.
"Will you stop fondling your goatee and ask for directions?" asked Drake's talking bulldog, Jethro.
"Never!! Not for all the naked lady scrimshaw in Connecticut will I accept help from a Frenchman or a savage!"
This was not the first time Drake regretted having Jethro take English lessons from a parrot. Yet he was still the most intelligent companion out of the whole crew.
Their tall ship, The Golden Hind, was dangerously out of place up the muddy Des Moines river. And it had been spotted by the natives. The natives knew it was only a matter of time before a ship of that size was permanently moored. It just came quicker than they thought.
Minutes later, The Golden Hind came to a sludgy halt. When Drake and Jethro disembarked to survey the damage, they were doomed.
"Look at the condition of the hull, Jethro. What a damnable catastrophe!"
"You're the damnable catastrophe. How many miles off course did you put us?"
"You are not being man's best friend right now."
Drake reached back to deliver a slap to Jethro's golden hindquarters. A large tailless squirrel dropped into his open palm.
"Ye Gads! A flying prairie rat!" It scampered down his shirtsleeve and disappeared into his vest. Dignity suddenly dropped low on Drake's list of priorities.
"Oof! Ahh! Gah! Jethro, help!"
Jethro was busy with small mammals of his own. He was barking and thrashing, trying to ward off the strange new species.
The enemy artillery emerged from the pines. Drake addressed them. "By the power of the crown, I order you to stand down - ahh - that we may - erg - engage in a humane discourse!"
Jethro flipped a couple rats aside. "Drake, you and your weak nose. They ain't humane cuz they ain't human!"
The crew of The Golden Hind finally finished their poker game and came deckside. They had a better view of what Jethro meant. Instead of charging Sioux, they saw the inexplicable: bison-mounted prairie dog catapults operated by trained coyotes in feathered headdresses.
A new round of prairie dogs were flung close to the ship. They climbed up the sides and populated the crew's faces. The animals not busy with facial mauling were gnawing through lines and masts.
The coyotes dismounted from the bison and identified Drake as the party's leader. Sadly, they made quick work of the captain.
Hopelessly outnumbered, Jethro ran.
He subsisted for two weeks on river water, grass, and prairie fowl eggs. He made it to Chicago where a settler recognized the royal seal on the lapels of his sailor suit. Jethro recounted the story during his convalescence, but as veterinary medicine was primitive back then, he had little chance of long-term survival. A few days later he succumbed to doggy dysentery.
Drake and his crew became heroes in England.
Much later, when a town sprang up around the Des Moines river, the founders paid tribute to them by christening their new school Bulldog University. Their sports teams were nicknamed the Drakes.
Days later the names were reversed.

Jethro's golden hindquarters

"Bow-wow to me!"

Drake is home to the annual Beautiful Bulldog competition.

University of Iowa

24 Jun 2009. There should be more merchandise trailers dotting America's campuses. Something about making a credit card transaction out of doors makes one feel...primal. Excuse me while I hunt some fierce wild corn.

"Jesus is a lot like a surfboard."
Blank stares.
This is the moment Peter diScala quickly learns, talking surfing to Iowans is like talking bobsled to Jamaicans. Even for a religious man, it takes a leap of faith to connect with students on such a level.
"The perfect wave is a holy moment. Experiencing God, in a way. And you can only partake in it when you are one with your surfboard."

When receiving their mission calls, surfin' Mennonites Peter diScala and Royal Bristlermartin were first hoping to be assigned together. Near the ocean was a close second. Royal lucked out. He got sent to Hamilton, Bermuda. Peter got Iowa City, Iowa. (Or simply, Iowa, Iowa.) Peter was disappointed at first, but soon was eager for the culture shock and the challenge.

"Okay, I see I will need some help here. Don't go anywhere, guys."
Peter's two dozen students, not much younger than him, complied out of curiosity. He returned twenty minutes later with his bold red striped surfboard, detained overnight in Quad Cities airport on suspicion of being a surfboard in Iowa. The five footer was a first for the entire class.
"That thing's pretty big," said one of the students.
Peter beat out the that's-what-she-said's with,
"That's nothing. I got an eight footer back home in Hawai'i." He flops it down on the ground.
"The thing about classrooms and teaching is it's all theory. You can only learn so much without active application."
He points to one of the many blondes. "What's your name?"
"Julie."
"Hi Julie. Come up here for a second. Come on guys, give her a hand. I'm going to need participation for this class to work for all of us."
A few people clap politely.
"Thank you. Julie, would you lay face down on the board? The rest of you, don't worry, you'll get to do this too. Now you're in the ocean, Julie. It's warm, the water is clear blue, clearer than anything in the Mississippi, you hear nothing but waves and birds. Perhaps a stray hawkeye. So you're paddling around...I said you're paddling around. That's you, Julie."
She starts flopping her arms kinda circular-like.
"Good! You see a swell coming up. You get yourself turned around so you are facing the beach. Now you start paddling like crazy! Fifth gear, let's go! All right!"
The class, still not sure what this is all about, cheers her on anyway. "Julie, go! Gooooo!"
Peter smiles and continues. "It's time to ride! Bring your right foot up to your left knee, toes facing right."
Her shoe catches a tailfin and rips it half off. Peter winces.
"Oh, sorry!"
"Don't apologize, I'm not here, just you and the water. Grip the sides of the board. Keep your chest on the board and push your shoulders up. Now get ready, time to stand. In one smooth motion, bring your left foot up in front of your right. Feel shoulder length apart, toes facing right, head facing forward. Use your arms and core for balance. Yes!! You're up! You realize you're not alone any more - all the guys on the shore are admiring! Strike a pose, you've earned it. Okay. All right, that's hot doggin' it too much, now you fall off. Splash, wipeout. Saline in the face, pride in the water. Ouch. Thank you, Julie."
The students applaud her again. She takes her seat.
"Now how long would it take you to master that on the classroom floor? Two, three times maybe? But on the water, how long? I've done it two or three thousand times and I still don't have it all down. I want to to make sure we are applying what we are learning here with sincere effort. Plus I'll throw in some surfing lessons to mix it up."
"Where can you surf here?" asks a student.
"I'm sure there's some wave pools around, right?"
The class discusses and shakes their heads.
"There's one in Des Moines I think," offers another student.
"We'll think of something."

A converted baptismal font and a few high-powered water jets later, SURFIowa (Spiritual Understanding, Recreation, and Friendship) gets its primitive beginnings. By the end of Peter's time in Iowa, Iowa, SURFIowa becomes an integral part of the community, Mennonite and otherwise. It is the first of its kind in the state. It wins widespread praise from Peter's superiors in the church. His students all chip in for a custom-designed black and gold Iowa Hawkeye board as a going away gift. Still, he wonders what it would have been like if he had been dispatched to Bermuda at Royal's side.

He got the gist from the title page of the summary report. While Peter's was called Immersive Learning: How SURFIowa Got Off The Ground, Royal's dared readers to continue on with the title Wasps, Wasps Everywhere: The Debilitating Effects of Migratory Insect Patterns on Service Missions.

Not pictured: Totally rad merch trailer