“Now, for some of you it doesn’t matter. You were born rich and you’re going to stay rich. But here’s my advice to the rest of you: Take dead aim on the rich boys. Get them in the crosshairs and take them down. Just remember, they can buy anything but they can’t buy backbone. Don’t let them forget it.”

– Herman Blume (Bill Murray) in Rushmore

Wichita, Kan.

Get that crow ready on a silver platter, because I’m ready to admit that I own a damn iPad.

Remember when I told each and every one of you how I had absolutely no need for such a frivolous device? Cast your stones, readers. In a moment of weakness, I drove over an hour to pick it up the same way others might grab a gallon of milk. Might as well, it could come in handy, right? So rather than wait for it to be delivered in 3 weeks, I found myself in Springfield’s Best Buy about a month ago.

But that’s done with, and also not the point of this piece. I’m sitting in seat 7A on my flight to Detroit earlier this month, pulling that damn iPad onto my lap in an effort to lessen the cardiac episodes of panic I get while flying, when the cute girl next to me says “ooh, is that an iPad?”

Well, you see…. uhhhh wow, what an accent! And yes, yes it is. Angels crooned, the light got beautiful and my stupid purchase suddenly made sense. It’s the perfect conversation starter: Stupid crazy expensive and new enough to attract attention. And I never even used it on that flight.

She’s a German au pair, tall with hazelnut/green eyes. Gorgeous, to borrow another G-word. And somehow, here she was leaving Peoria’s ramshackle airport on a plane that permanently damages my spine every time I try standing up. I remember peering at her during the wait at the gate, but we all know that natural law stipulates you’ll end up with the largest and smelliest person crammed halfway into your seat. No point in fantasizing, and yet…

She was returning to the family she takes care of in New Hampshire after visiting friends in Pekin, Illinois. This the suburb of Peoria that once proudly claimed “the chinks” as their high school nickname. I shudder to think of the mascot that went with that.

“My name is Mikeh,” she said. “Micah?” I asked. No no. Mike-eh. “I am not a sausage!” she exclaimed. Apparently Meica is a well known sausage brand in Germany.

I felt bad steering the conversation toward our differences, but maybe she didn’t mind. We talked and laughed the entire flight, and soon we were saying goodbye in Detroit. I handed her my business card, scribbled my personal email address on the back, and told her to write me.

Another one lost? Silence, at least for now.

UPDATE: ”It’s actually a pretty popular brand of sausage in the states,” says Micah. HEY-O!

swinging with Mike / Lawton, Okla.

“HELP US!”

Written in 5-inch capital letters on a sheet of notebook paper, these words sit on the sidewalk along Moss Avenue tonight. I’m lacking context, obviously, but I imagine two small children cradling the dirty sign with hollow eyes: a crappy M. Night Shyamalan flick.

Moments earlier, I made a beeline through the Bradley University campus. It’s no longer Deadsville, now populated with gaggles of freshmen taking wrong turns to their respective dorm rooms. Cutting across the quad, I perform a double double-take when I see a familiar face dash past me, turn around to flirt with a few people, then race off into the dusk. The dim light is playing a dirty trick on my poor eyes, I’m sure, but I’m unnerved enough that I put my hands in my pockets, my heart pounds, and I keep my head down. I’m ashamed of my reaction – I don’t fear this person – but my subconscious reacts like a balloon popping unexpectedly.

Sleep has been fitful and fleeting this week, and we know that days are growing increasingly shorter. Maybe none of this happened.

Far be it to use my own blog to complain, but daaaaamn damn damn.

I saw Bigfoot today. The Loch Ness monster. Or a Purple People Eater. While on a solitary march, attempting to shake the dust from my limbs after a cheerless two days as a shut-in at my own apartment, I stop into a neighborhood bar for a late dinner and beer.

I’m alone. And mopey. I finish my food, step outside into the humid dusk… and BLAMMO! I go from Saul to Paul as my eyes hit the horizon – murky purples (no, violets) and burning reds and velvet texture and beams of light radiating toward the top of the sky. An expletive escapes my lips and my hand reaches for the camera NOT in my bag. I remember saying to myself earlier in the evening, “you just need a walk, leave the distractions at home.”

This sunset is Halley’s Comet. I stop and stare for a bit, then turn my back on it and head home.

ADAM GERIK/JOURNAL STAR Lightning arcs across the sky in the West Bluff as severe thunderstorms creep through Peoria on Monday night.

It’s monsoon season in Peoria and we’re in this for the long haul.

All is calm at first glance: iced drinks contain more liquid outside than in, showers are taken cold for environmental fear of contributing even more steam, and papers no longer shuffle well. We sigh about the oppressive humidity level, a rocket launching, and soon give up. 75% humidity doesn’t tell us when clothes begin sticking to skin.

But every dam will break under enough pressure, and we issue watches and warnings and advisories to give us calm. Skies unadorned suddenly become imperfect, splotchy with meteorological poison ivy, and dirt clods of clouds pepper the dome. It cracks, releasing raw elemental energy, and after 30 minutes or so, it’s done and scheming the next round. Our CFL bulbs shudder and computers seize on and off, but we know this to be summer.

It’s like a scene from Star Trek IV: The Voyage Home. If you’re in the know, you’ll remember a scene on the planet Earth as it’s being decimated by some turd-shaped space probe that really, really wants to speak with our whales. Our extinct humpback whales, that is. Whether anger or accident, our planet’s weather systems go haywire and what I’m trying to say is that there’s a 4 second clip where pounding rain eventually is just too much for those poor windows at Starfleet Command and BAM – broken glass and wind and water, everywhere. A group of engineers, garbed in spacesuits, flail on the ground and it’s chiseled in my mind ever since. (Here’s a quasi clip, at 11 seconds)

Our edition repeats for the third straight day, without the Star Trek injury, and I’m annoyed for taking a walk when the radar screamed “DANGER, YOU DULLARD” in bright reds. I’m stuck at Starbucks, a supermodel walks through the door, and the tap is tapped and the rain falls behind her.

I do mean supermodel, too. Bean pole high and wearing a slinky black summer dress that displays 4 feet of leg, my eyes are making billions, trillions of saccades in vain attempts to keep glued to my laptop screen and away from the hem of her dress. She sits, and waits, and no coffee is ordered.

Eventually a dude that could either play the part of rock metal DJ or bartender arrives. He sits next to her, but in a way that screams “hey, I don’t need you, but I can be convinced.” And her miniskirt tries. Is it a job interview? I get that impression, but there are other less savory options to entertain.

The thunder intensifies subsonically, right in the gut with the bran muffin I had an hour ago, and I schlep home under heavenly attack.