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Yesterday, a buddy/fellow Rhetoric TA (who's been an AP writer embedded in IRAQ the last few, but is now regurgitating Foucault into the young, dilated corn-minds of U of Iowa) locked his own unkempt arse out of our (shared) office on campus. The batard called me at 9 a.m., "Help...need key."

"Yeah, sure." I then parceled up all of my entire kin here in the I.C., and headed to campus, which, on a Sunday, is land of lost-looking Lutherans and hollow-eyed corn dudes and ma'arms, just shy of pre-pubescent, and found him, the writer (he's also a g.d, writer in the Fiction program, keeps talkin' about "Bananafish" as the pinnacle, and yadda-yadda-yadda, chainsmoking, blazer over t-shirt, scarf over that, "AWP, AWP...embedded" unh), and sed, "Here thou art...yes, yes. Hurry back. We're headed to Fairfield."

In Maharishi's Fairfield, Iowa it is possible to stand in the middle of town while the railway seethes with traffic and simultaneously order a $2,000 organic cotton bedroll while observing a dying Norwegian choking down cheap tequila. Meawhile, a Maharishi-ite scoots by, with gomden under (be-hemped) arm, and I says "peace be unto y'all," and so, Iowa, basically, is more Colorado than Colorado, as here, the shit hits the fan...and then it flies, flings, floats to its most il/logical conclusion...right, yes, which is why I'm here. Part of the Big Fling. At last!

So yeah, you owe me one, Ryan. But whatever, I won't collect, 'cause I'm the Uberman Experimento - (yawn) - and I've got the Tao Te Ching-inscribed mug to prove it. But don'cha know in Fairfield we didn't need no mug or existential props to procure the most delicious Mexican food in Iowa, which is, incidentally, pretty bad, bad as Maharishi's student lounge (And I woulda had a shot of Redmeption to wash it all down, but a down-and-out Woody Guthrie-lookin' hobo was at the bar, pontificating about the virtues of Jose Cuervo himself, how dawg, and I reckon I'm close to a minor leftover nerve of some kind of American post-generational pathway when Eleanor leaps up, says, "I'm done!" and goes screaming down an aisle created by two huge palettes of Co-Cola. "Whoa!" So I run, relleno in hand, capture youth, then settle up, split with nuclear family in tow).

But anyway, this is our new rented home (as of August-ish).