122904
Ever wonder where I sit 16 hours each week during the school year? Get a glimpse into my world, also known as my cubicle on the 4th floor of the Star Tribune�s Portland building:
My cube
View to the right of my computer
View to the left of my computer
122804
I stood, arms crossed, looking at the Subway menu, squinting my eyes at the various ingredients. I scanned the hot menu, the cold menu, but it was a waste of my time; I�d known my order the moment I stepped through the front doors. The sandwich artist caught my eye over the top of the plastic partition, the only thing separating me from sneezing and coughing over the endless containers of condiments. �Six-inch ham on honey oat,� I spouted, adding a �please� at the end.
As the man diligently began work on my lunch, I felt a tap on my right shoulder. �You a writer?� an older woman with permed, pepper-gray hair and a smile the size of Texas asked me. �Yes I am,� I said without any hesitation. �Are you writing about the food here?� she inquired. Her question puzzled me, but I caught her gaze moving towards my waist.
Peeking out from the bottom of my jacket was my work badge. The white Star Tribune logo was barely visible, but she knew. I couldn�t help but laugh. �I�m not out to expose improper meat handling at Subway, if that�s what you�re asking.� She pleasantly smiled at me and sighed. I cocked my head to the side and scrunched my eyes, studying her body language.
�Why do you ask?� I said to her. I looked up to see the sandwich artist impatiently glaring at me. �Oh, sorry,� I stammered. �Lettuce and mayo, please.� I turned back towards the inquiring older woman. She was now clutching a photograph, which I assumed she retrieved from her worn leather purse. �This is my Julie,� she said, a shaky tone apparent in her voice. �She was a writer, too, bless her soul.� The woman kissed the photograph before returning it to her left coat pocket.
Unable to come up with words, we stood in silence until it was my turn to pay. I returned my wallet to my purse, picked up my sandwich sack and turned to leave. The woman grabbed my arm before I could make a clean getaway. �Can you do something for me?� she asked. It might have been my imagination or maybe it was the way the light shone down in that tiny Subway, but I thought I saw tears forming in her eyes. �Can you dedicate your next piece to my Julie?�
I felt tears begin to form in my eyes and I nodded, smiling through the sadness that now flowed within me. She patted her pocket and smiled back, releasing her grip from my arm. I walked towards the exit and pushed my way into the unseasonably warm December weather.
This one�s for Julie.
122104
Welsch's World
By Anthony Welsch, Molly World reader representative
My name is Anthony Welsch and I�ll be serving as your reader representative until I get too pointed and my news organization (Molly World) decides to fire me. At that point, Molly World will go back to being just another blog with no time for reader input or opinion.
We�ll begin by taking a look at the month of December and the unfair assumptions and journalistic mistakes made by everyone�s favorite editor in chief, Molly.
The first and perhaps most glaring problem with the Mol-log is the lack of consistency in voice. Kentala finds it necessary to jump from the heart of a gangster back into the shoes of a white girl from Burnsville seemingly whenever she chooses. Many readers have noticed a lack of consistent grammar and word usage throughout the blog. For example, on Dec. 1, Kentala chose to use the phrase, ��Nuff said.� Clearly she was refering back to her days as a high school student on the tough streets of Burnsville. But wait, the very next day she chooses words like �cannot� and �apologize,� and brings up the issue of second guessing herself.
A true thug would never second guess him/herself. This lack of consistency has made several of our readers uncomfortable in that they really don�t know who they are listening to. After all, only she can determine if she�s going to wear Keds or K-Swiss�and until she decides, how are we as readers supposed to know?
The second major issue has to do with commercialism in the blog under what appears to be an objective re-cap or preview of the day�s events. On Dec. 1, Kentala chose to include a passage about Stub & Herb�s bar near the University of Minnesota campus. Rather than mention it in passing, she went all out: �Come for the $3.25 mugs, stay for the fantastic company,� the entry states. Is it a necessary detail to include the price of a mug on a Wednesday at Stub & Herb�s? Many readers thought not, and several even asked if Molly World was accepting advertising dollars for such blatant commercialism of its articles. When asked, Kentala was unavailable for comment.
The third issue brought to my attention was the list. At what point did Molly World drop its flair for literary art and turn into David Letterman? Many viewed this entry as a cop-out. After all, Kentala never chose to explain why she had the characteristics outlined in her list. This could have made for an excellent dialogue, but she instead chose to simply list both positive and negative traits she has observed of herself.
On the list itself, several of the points made were clearly the opinion of the author and were not treated as such. For example, �I play with my hair when I�m deep in thought.� Can such a claim be made? Judging from the glaring errors throughout Molly World, Kentala is rarely deep in thought.
�I wish I was 6�0.� So do a lot of women. I don�t care. I wish I were a millionaire. This is clearly not what readers of Molly World have come to expect from their publication, and several have said if it continues, they�ll go back to reading random people�s livejournals instead.
And finally, in her Dec. 17 entry, Kentala clearly rips off a line from MTV�s The Real World without citing it or even making fun of the often mocked reality show. �It�s starting to get scary. It�s starting to get real.� Many readers were starting to get really scared and really sick when they read this. Leave MTV on television where it belongs was the consensus opinion of the readers.
I will leave you with that. As always, if you have any questions or concerns about Molly World, I�ll be here to answer anything I can. I�ll be fighting the �good fight� here in the Molly World newsroom.
From all, err, both of us at Molly World: Have a safe and happy holiday season!
121704
I�ve reached the point in my life where it�s starting to get scary. It began innocently enough on a blisteringly cold Tuesday afternoon. Having an hour to spare between classes, I donned my scarf, hat and mittens, and headed out of Murphy Hall. My destination: 49 Johnston; I was turning in my application for graduation.
I gave it to the girl sitting at the front desk. She told me to wait a minute and began typing away on her keyboard. I tried to peer over the desk to see if she was actually doing something related to my application or talking to a friend over AIM. She caught my inquiring eyes, shot me a menacing stare and turned the monitor towards her. Bitch. She ripped off the back sheet and grabbed some colored pieces of paper, thrusting the lot my way.
�You�re all done,� she spoke in friendly tone, complete with beaming smile. I was perplexed, but satisfied nonetheless. One more thing I�d just crossed off my mental to-do list. As I took the stairs two at a time from the ground floor of Johnston Hall, I glanced down at the top sheet. There was an X next to �Spring� on the paper, meaning I had applied to graduate in that semester. My eyes became glued to the word. Spring. I was graduating in the spring, mere months from now.
I suddenly felt lightheaded and rushed towards an approaching bench. I threw off my backpack with tremendous speed and crashed onto the wooden surface. The stack of papers fluttered to the floor. My heavy head thumped into my waiting hands. The world slowly got black around the edges and I thought I was fainting. I closed my eyes and waited for the worst.
�Are you okay?�
The soothing male voice caught me off guard and I jumped. I looked up to see an older man in a tweed sport coat, complete with elbow patches, staring down at me with a worried expression. �Oh, umm, yeah,� I stuttered. �Just tired. End of the semester, you know?� I managed to squeak out an uncomfortable laugh. He nodded his head, cracking an understanding smile. �Good luck,� he said and patted me on the back as he continued on his way.
I ripped open my backpack and dug for my purse. How long had I been sitting here, moments away from losing consciousness? My cell phone revealed the truth: seven minutes. I wondered how many others had passed, seeing a mass of fake blonde hair covering a pair of hands, a girl obviously stressed about something. I leaned my head against the wall and took a few deep breaths.
The stack of papers now sat next to me on the bench. Someone must have gathered them from the floor. I looked at the top sheet from the corner of my eye. The X stared back at me, mocking me, taunting me. I stuck out my right index finger and slid the papers away from me. I didn�t want to think about graduation.
For years, I�ve always known what comes next. Now, as the biggest chapter of my life comes to a close, I find myself more confused than ever. I seem to switch my mind every day about what I want to do. Fashion magazine editor, sports writer, the next Katie Couric � all ideas that have popped into my head lately.
I find myself �what if�-ing more than ever. What if I don�t get hired somewhere? What if I have to move back in with my parents? What if I meet someone and he gets a job in another city? What if I�ve been taking all the wrong classes? What if? What if?!
It�s starting to get scary.
It�s starting to get real.
121604
People ask me, �How can you write those things on your website? Don�t you know the people involved are going to read it?� like the thought�s never crossed my mind. Yes, I know people read my website. And yes, I know the people I write about will more than likely get their hands on it, but it doesn�t bother me.
First off, the people I write about are my friends. I would never post anything that could destroy the reputation of someone close to me. Will I write something that gets people talking? Yes. I�m not afraid to admit it. Everyone gossips � intentionally or not � and in my opinion, it�s better they hear it from the horse�s mouth than some random person in their 1001 class.
Second, I�m not out to divulge every last detail of my life. Sure, I write about personal things. It is my personal website, after all, but I�m not using it as a bragging tool. Every topic I write about has had an impact on me one way or another. Be it a dream that woke me up in the middle of the night, a new guy that I met or a fight with an ex-boyfriend, if it stirs me up enough, I have to write about it. Call it my journalistic instinct or something.
Third, when it comes to naming names, I don�t consider it a big deal. For the friends that I only see on school breaks, my website is one of the few ways to keep up on what�s happening in my life. The next time we see each other, I can say, �Remember so and so?� and they know exactly what�s going on. It�s is more of a communication tool than anything else.
Honestly, I don�t feel like I have to explain the things I do, but sometimes it�s necessary to clarify. Regardless of what you think of my writing tactics, I got you this far, didn�t I? ;)
121404
I have a thing for baby Goldfish crackers.
I put on Spanish songs I don�t know the words to and dance around my room.
I always blow dry the left side of my head before the right.
I don�t raise my hand in class.
I would like to be a photojournalist, though I�ll never admit that to my mother.
I can�t whistle.
I procrastinate like crazy, but always get the job done.
I sleep with a nightlight.
I always screw around at work for a half hour before my boss comes in.
I listen to Britney Spears.
I don�t consider my parent�s house my �home� anymore.
I am either super generous or super stingy.
I wish I was 6�0".
I like making lists and crossing things off when I�m done with them.
I love video games.
I enjoy being the center of attention.
I don�t sneeze out loud.
I relish a good pair of sweats at the end of the day.
I make my bed every morning.
I play with my hair when I�m deep in thought.
I cried when my younger brother left for college.
I hate utility bills.
I sweat from my hands and feet when I�m nervous.
I prefer the company of men over women.
I own a porno called "Nurses to the Rescue."
I talk to most of my friends through AIM.
I love the smell of fall.
I have seen every episode of Dawson's Creek.
I go to bed with two retainers in.
I am addicted to mint ChapStick.
I can't eat regular-shaped Mac 'n Cheese without gagging.
I am still searching for someone who'll watch �Gone with the Wind� with me.
It�s all a part of me.
That�s who I am.
121004
If you believe in love at first sight, you never stop looking.
120304
I carried leftover sweet and sour chicken in my left hand and a water bottle in my right. I walked quickly down the hall, passing the 20x24 photos that lined the walls with amazing speed, because I knew she�d be waiting for me.
Upon entering the cafeteria, I did a scan. Everyone sat in groups of two or more. To my right, a gathering of individuals scribbled onto notepads in between bites of taco salad. Straight ahead, four over-the-hill men and women played a card game, with one interested onlooker close by. I saw only one person sitting alone, but he had back-up: In his hands was the day�s newspaper. She wasn�t there, so plopped down at a table for two and opened my food.
As I sat and ate, ate and sat, an uncomfortable feeling washed over me. Whenever I glanced around the room, I met eyes that quickly turned away. I began to feel like everyone was watching me, watching this young girl who obviously didn�t belong. I tried to brush off the conspiracy theory, but while I panned the left side of the room, I met the same looks of inquiring employees and nosy journalists.
I instantly got a feeling in the pit of my stomach that surfaces whenever I visit my Grandma Gloria. Everyone in the village of Lake Linden knows everyone else, so when a cleavage-revealing, makeup-wearing city slicker invades their parts, I hear whispers wherever I go. I�ve always tried to fit in, become a �yooper� as they call it, but it never works. Going unnoticed in the U.P. is the only thing I�ve successfully failed at time and time again.
The cashier fixing her stool brought me back to the present. She tipped it upside down and was repeatedly thrusting the footrest into the cushion. Each loud thump against the tiled cafeteria floor made me jump. Satisfied with a job well done, she flipped the chair over and returned to her line of customers. A movement caught my eye and I saw Shruti waving at me while trying to balance a chili cheese dog and her wallet.
Glancing at the clock, I noticed I�d been sitting alone for fifteen minutes. �Hi hunny,� Shruti said as she approached. �Sorry I�m late. Oh, look, you�ve eaten all your food. Guess that�s what I get for running on Star Tribune time.�
And just like that, when you think life can�t get any worse, someone comes along and sits at your lunch table.
120204 - Part Two
I slowly opened my eyes. Shit, it�s dark already, I thought to myself. How long have I been sleeping? The 4 p.m. alarm I set had long been turned off; the clock next to me read 5:22. Not only was it dark outside, it was dark in my house as well.
Arms stretched out in front of me, I groped my ways towards the wall. I slid my hand behind the glass paneling and switched on the light. Nothing. I flicked the switch a few more times before admitting defeat. I sighed and made my way towards the living room. My leg hit one of our two $10 IKEA tables and knew I was close. I moved my arm upright towards the metal cord and yanked down. Nothing. �What the hell�,� I murmured aloud. Then it dawned on me. The fuse had blown again.
I blindly returned to my room to retrieve the Target-brand flashlight from my desk. As I flicked it on, I noticed it only emitted a small beam of light. Regardless, it led my way through the house towards the back entrance. When the light beam hit the back door, I stopped dead in my tracks. It was wide open.
Panic took hold of my body and I was frozen in place. I didn�t move the flashlight for fear of it landing on something (or someone) I didn�t want to see. I stood there for what felt like 10 minutes, my eyes nervously darting back and forth across the kitchen. Taking in a shallow breath, I inched my way forward.
I stood perpendicular to the door frame and peered around it. Before me, only darkness. More darkness. I noticed the second of three doors leading outside was closed, temporarily giving me relief. But as I glanced towards the open entry to the basement, the panicky feeling rose in my body. I saw something move out of the corner of my eye and spun my head to the right. My own nervousness had caused my flashlight-holding hand to commence shaking, so the beam of light began a dance across the slanting floor. Staring straight ahead and counting to three, I knew what I had to do.
I crept towards the door and gently eased it open. I slowly pushed it back towards the wall, but the odd angles of our house caused it to move faster than anticipated and it hit the wall with a bang. I flinched even though I saw it coming. Raising my shaky right hand in front of me, I aimed the flashlight at the fuse box. The small metal door of the box was open. Someone had cut the lights intentionally.
My breathing became sporadic and my entire body started to shake. As scared as I was, I forced myself forward. I took one step, then two, before I was standing in the back hallway. The flight of steps leading upstairs was directly to my right. Something made me turn my head. When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I saw him.
I had little time to react before he lunged and came to land on top of me. My head slammed into the ground and I instantly saw bursts of lights. My arms were pinned to my chest and I felt the full effect of his weight. With no ability to move the top half of my body, I kicked and squirmed my legs, literally trying to wriggle myself out from under him. The pounding in my head reached tremendous heights and I knew I was going to pass out. The last thing I remembered was his left hand working its way up my body, reaching for my throat.
I heard a beeping noise and sat straight up in bed. Glancing at my rug, I noticed my cell phone going off. I grabbed for it and pushed a few buttons, silencing the small silver phone. I held it in my hand for a few seconds, staring at the time in disbelief: 4 p.m. I sighed heavily, knowing it had only been a dream. I stood up and walked towards the wall to rid my body of the nap-induced grogginess. Sliding my hand behind the glass paneling, I flipped the light switch.
Nothing.
120204
I recognize that whatever I say on here is going to be taken one way by everyone that reads it, so I might as well come out and say it, no bullshit attached:
I�ve had this �blog� for two years now. In those two years, I�ve never second guessed myself on any entry I�ve posted. That changed recently. I realize that the content of my writing affects everyone. My words are more than just words. In my tiny corner of the web, I have the power to say what I want, when I want, but I�ve abused that power lately. There were some things posted on this site that should have remained private and I feel very bad about that. I did not think it would become an issue, but it did. Now I have to deal with the outcome.
I cannot do anything to take back what I said. That I know. But I do hope that those involved can accept my apology and forgive me in some way or another. I never meant to hurt anyone.
I�m sorry.
120104
November was a crazy month. �Nuff said. It�s time to flip the calendar and start fresh.
For me, there are only nine more school days until fall semester 2004 is officially over. In that time, I must complete a memoir, an in-depth article looking at the NCAA hockey rules enforcement, a Web site, and a travel tour that counts for 70% of my grade. And that doesn�t include a take-home final I�ll be getting Dec. 14. Think I�ll make it out alive?
Only one more semester, Molly, only one more semester�
P.S. The Jour 5174 kids are heading to Stub & Herb's tonight to celebrate sending our mag off to the printer. Come for the $3.25 mugs, stay for my fantastic company. See you there!