vol 02 / issue 01 / 01’10

SHE PICKED UP THE HABIT

TO BE LIKE HIM
 Features
Pg 3 . . . . . . . . Liberty in the Media
Pg 4 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . Local Suds 5
Pg 5 . . . . . . . . . . Fuzzy Advice
Pg 6 . . . . . . . . . . . Poetry by Cliff
Pg 7 . . . . . . . . . . . Extreme Beers
Pg 8 . . . . . . . Pro-peace Brookings
Pg 10 . . . . . . Coffee Cover Story
Pg 11 . . . . . . . . . . Cats and Dogs
Pg 12 . . . . . . What an Ugly Hill
Pg 13 . . . . . . . . . . . Edgar Allan Poe
Pg 14 . . . . . . . . . . . Gina Fiction
Pg 15 . . . Lois Lane and Beer Pong
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1234567890 PLU 01’10
What the hell is wrong with freedom?
That’s what it’s all about.
T
he quote above is from the movie Easy you fresh, new content focusing on subjects
Rider, a tale of adventuring motorcycles as interesting as Dennis Hopper for months
and the free-spirited men who ride them. (maybe years) to come.
I learned recently that my father shares Thanks to our merry band of scribes and
in my appreciation for the film, and I’m fairly artists, this issue contains the most pieces we’ve
confident that anyone who watches the movie ever published.
at least partly envies the main characters. Due to a fellow editor publishing under
(Though I’m sure we’d all like to avoid their a Creative Commons license, a story on our
unfortunate demise.) media graces the adjacent page.
To me, the quote speaks perfectly to PS>flux experienced a buffet in Toronto,
current events and trends in our area of the and his creative log appears on page 4.
world. Texting while driving, boarding an Papa Bear once again tells it like it is
airplane and lighting up a smoke are just a few on page 5, and page 6 contains a poem from
of the activities we are now forbidden from or a rather good writer hailing from a certain
inconvenienced in doing here in the U.S.A. monarchial island in Europe.
Yet we are still able to go about our lives Mr. Bell shares his fancy for over-the-top
in a relatively free manner, compared to many beers on page 7, and I included a short piece of
other citizens around the globe. mine on a great group in Brookings starting on
I don’t mean to recall images of a certain page 8.
gray-haired former owner of the Rangers and Kate admits her addiction on page 10,
his proclamations of “freedom” in the past and Simeon tells of a great organization (and
decade, nor do I wish to ramble on about how previous supporter) on the following page.
far we’ve strayed from Jeffersonian democracy Then comes some strange stuff. Catey has
in our country. a wonderful story on page 12, a biographical
All I’d like to do is point out that we here piece on the master of short fiction rests on
at The Peg Leg Update are a peculiar bunch. page 13, and our eastern friend Gina starts a
We do our best to bring you stories of strange series on page 14.
characters, interesting places and under- Our content ends with a look at stereo-
mentioned events every month. types, and don’t be too alarmed with the beast
And it’s all possible because of our on the back page.
advertisers, whom I’d like to personally thank. Above all, enjoy. And be happy: the
The publication you hold in your hands purple monsters from Minnesota made the
(or read on the Internet) comes to you with no playoffs.
charge, and we’d like to keep it that way. We - Mitch LeClair
have big plans for 2010, and we hope to bring Editor
We have published The Peg Leg Update once a month
in the town of Brookings, S.D., since the beginning of fall 2009.
Thanks for taking a look.
Editor: Mitch LeClair - leclairmitch@gmail.com
Advertising: Stuart Ensz - stuensz.plu@gmail.com
Nychole Swanson - nlswanson@jacks.sdstate.edu
Scribes: Kate Wegehaupt, Catey Watkins, Cliff Cawthon, Simeon Brown, Jay Albertson,
Gina Caciolo, David Franke, William Anderson, PS>flux, Mitch LeClair, Ross Bell
Cover art: Trevor Drawdy
All illustrations + logo design: Siri Boyd
Layout: Brandon Henderson
For more information: visit our blog, e-mail us or send a few pointers for a solid meld.
Is There a Constituency for Liberty in the U.S. Media?
by William L. Anderson

W hen I was a journalism student at the

University of Tennessee 35 years ago,
one thing we were told over and over again
compel Stewart to meet with prosecutors and
investigators in order to stop the bleeding.
(In fact, Stewart was convicted of lying to
the NYT had a lengthy article condemning
Khodorkovsky’s imprisonment, but apparently
believes that denying bail to an American
was that journalism served a “watchdog” role investigators during that fateful meeting.) businessman and holding him in conditions
in keeping tabs on government. I had assumed It is a felony to leak grand jury informa- reserved for those on death row is perfectly
(naïvely, of course) that the term “watchdog” tion and is punishable by up to five years in acceptable.
meant serving as a counterforce against the prison. Yet, the feds did it and no one – no one As one who was involved in the infamous
predations of the state. – in the media complained about this episode Duke Lacrosse Non-Rape, Non-Kidnapping,
Alas, what I have found that it really of lawbreaking which was done in order to and Non-Sexual Assault case, I can tell
means is that modern journalists and their trick someone into committing a “crime” so you that the MSM will swallow just about
mainstream organs like the New York Times, that the press could have its Big Story and the anything from prosecutors, providing it fits
Washington Post, Vanity Fair, Time and prosecutors could indict and convict its Big the anti-capitalist and anti-Bill of Rights
Newsweek, not to mention a gaggle of numer- Fish. narrative that dominates the American media
ous smaller wannabe publications, are making So, who is above the law here? The today. Even though most journalists think of
sure that the state is using all of its powers “watchdog” media assured federal prosecutors themselves as being far superior in intelligence
and then some to push people into line. As a and their minions that both they and the than most Americans, the leaders of the
college professor who works on a faculty that media could do what they darned well please, “Newspaper of Record” were True Believers in
is overwhelmingly left-liberal, the one thing I
and the law be damned. (After all, the law only the “Magic Towel” that allegedly appeared in
hear time and again from my colleagues is that
is for “little people,” not for Important People the Duke case, a towel that managed to make
people need a tough, “kick-ass” government to
like prosecutors and reporters for the NYT.) the DNA of Crystal Mangum appear while
make them behave.
There was no mention of this situation on any not wiping away the DNA of anyone else.
The modern mantra of journalists is “com-
editorial pages of our “prestigious” newspapers; Yes, the same journalists who want us to
fort the afflicted, afflict the comfortable,” and
instead, we saw only the self-congratulation believe that simple cotton towels have magical
we see that theme pursued time and again. This
that happens when the media allies itself with properties also want us to believe that it is OK
leads to situations that tell me that the press
dishonest prosecutors to railroad “chosen” for government-funded “scientists” to fake
sees itself as the entity that will ensure that
people into prison. data and engage in outright fraud just to save
the government keeps all of us in line, as we
Lest anyone think I am simply “defending us from the fate of “climate change.” Oh, and
cannot be trusted with anything as individuals.
the rich” (which, apparently, is a crime in and these are the same people who believe that Al
And Lord help someone who really thinks that
of itself in this present time), I also look at Gore is a genius, an “intellectual’s intellectual.”
the Bill of Rights was a restriction against the
the behavior of prosecutors across the country (Actually, I had some dealings with Gore when
powers of the state against individuals; such
who regularly violate the law and certainly the I worked in Tennessee and can tell readers that
thinking is “so 18th Century” or worse.
U.S. Constitution, all with the blessings of the the guy was just another fat, scripted politician
Take the Martha Stewart case, for
media, both right and left. It is very rare that who enjoys average intelligence at best.)
example. According to the Usual Pundits on
any news organization calls for any sanctions Indeed, the MSM is no “watchdog” of
both the right and the left, the conviction and
to be placed on prosecutors who are exposed as government. Journalists are lapdogs of the
imprisonment (albeit rather brief ) of Stewart
lawbreakers. state, and little more than that. As for the
represented a triumphant moment in which we
Tom Kirkendall, a Houston attorney who constituency of liberty, I do find it telling that
once again affirmed the Principle that No One
actually cares about the Bill of Rights, has the one politician who does speak out for real
is Above the Law. Actually, it demonstrated a
written many posts on his blog about the pros- liberty, Ron Paul, is derided in the MSM as a
more fundamental condition fully supported
ecutorial wrongdoing in the Enron case and “kook” and a “nutcase.” Somehow, that makes
by the mainstream media (or MSM): the state
the prosecution of R. Allen Stanford. (The only sense to me, given what I have seen in the
and its prosecutors are above the law, and the
thing the feds have not done in the Stanford media. From Sean Insanity at Fox News to
press will make sure of that.
case is to declare him an “enemy combatant” Rachel Mad Dog at MSNBC, we see that the
Why do I make such a charge? There
and hold him in the same conditions they held media loves dictators, “take-charge” people
was no way the feds could charge Stewart
José Padilla.) who throw around their weight. As for liberty,
with insider trading, and they knew it. Thus,
Yet, there is no outrage in the media. well, that is passé at best and dangerous at
they hatched a plan with the NYT and Wall
Ironically, Stanford’s treatment is not much worst.
Street Journal being complicit in lawbreaking:
different than the treatment given in Russia
prosecutors fed secret grand jury information
to Mikhail Khodorkovsky, a businessman who [This article originally appeared on
to those papers that was designed to damage
apparently angered Vladimir Putin. However, LewRockwell.com on December 29, 2009.]
the stock price of Martha Stewart Living and

thepeglegupdate.wordpress.com 1234567890
Local Suds 5: “Sabbath in Toronto”
by PS>flux
S unday Dinner is a solid rural institution,
rooted in the knowledge that, once a week,
it’s good to have a day of rest, appreciating
relaxation, community and spiritual renewal.
The tradition, although not unique to the
region, fits well into the Midwestern ethos; in
ag-based communities, food production and
consumption is a way of life and industry. One
will benefit from taking time to appreciate the
bounty around us: meat and grains.
In this spirit, I hope you visit the Toronto
Café & Lounge; a few close friends are all but
required. The Toronto Café offers a hearty
Sunday buffet from 11 a.m. to 1 p.m.; it only
costs $5.75, a couple bucks more if you want
the salad bar, but you did not come this far up
the food chain to eat rabbit food. Besides, it’s
a recession. The lounge is airy, has lots of win-
dows and plenty of space between tables; this
kind of warm setting with friendly dust motes
suspended in horizontal columns of window
light is the proper place to eat fried chicken on
a sunny Sunday afternoon. The buffet features
ham, fried chicken, gravy, mashed potatoes,
cheesy scalloped potatoes and carrots. When
you finish, the waitress will bring out a piece
of cake. And all God’s blessed children said,
“Fuck yeah.”
The majority of your fellow diners will
look like they just got out of church; this town
of 175 people, 26 miles away from Brookings,
has three churches, all Lutheran. Interspersed
in the dining room are a few farmers and wind
turbine builders. I suggest going back to the
bar to eat; the Café’s second room is just as
spacious as the front, closer to the beer, and
your dinner party will have the whole place to
themselves. If you’re eating in the bar, they’ll
even let you bring in your dog. It’s the perfect
place to quietly consume with those close to
you.
Beer at the Toronto Café is $1.75 for a
tall tap. Use the extra couple bucks to tip away
the waitress’s frown at somebody ordering
Budweiser so early on a Sunday.
I feel the contentment of a cow after a feeder
full of corn; my closest friend, Kanut, lays at my
feet, licking the taste of buttered dinner role and
ham on his lips. This is the true Spirit of Sunday
Dinner. The bottom of the glass of Budweiser
tumbles down my throat, following the carrots
1234567890 PLU 01’10
I forced myself to put on the third plate of food;
Momma told me “Eat your veggies.” I order
another Budweiser and nibble at the delicious
He’s from Portland or somewhere like
that; Jake’s lived in towns all along the West
Coast many Midwestern college kids dream
lemon cake; stomach full to bursting but mouth of. “Nowhere like this place, dude,” he says in a
unwilling to end the feasting. pothead-vague, Big Lebowski, dude voice. “Space
Time slows down on three heaped plates to yourself, shit’s cheap, it’s clean, no cops, nice
of meat and potatoes into foggy tunnel vision people…” I exhale and look at cows crossing a
as the body metabolizes half-a-dozen pieces of path horizontally across a steep, forehead-shaped
ham amidst a dense, narcotizing sludge of white hill; the path furrows into the brow like a terrace.
carbohydrates. My vision swims with the vibrat- Wind – clean, brisk, South Dakota wind – ripples
ing, golden Budweiser as she sets the pint glass grass and a nearby the creek gurgles. “Fuck yeah,”
on a napkin in front of me. There is a Budweiser Caveman Jake says.
clock over the bar; the closest thing I’ve heard to a
sermon this Sunday: Most be born on or before 29 So there’s your Local Suds destination
November 1988. Lagging cerebrum fixates on the for this month, oh loyal readership. I sincerely
red flashing digits: it’s 1:14, 29 November 1988. hope you take time to enjoy a Sunday Dinner
I am a baby; it will be my first birthday soon. buffet in Toronto. An afternoon of restful
The eternal power struggle between the contemplation gains a distinctly American
Packers, Vikings, Bears and Lions progresses in flavor when commenced with massive helpings
the background on boxy television sets – week by of meat. Remember, Mom & Dad, PS>flux is
week, quality measured and marked in years, days made up.
of preparation for hours of performance; the same,
slow time scale my metabolism rides on taters and
beer.
I hope you visit Toronto on a sunny
afternoon. The front of the café faces south;
in front, on the sidewalk, sits an inviting
bench, lounging in the sun’s warmth, begging
companions. This bench is where one should
observe the next, equally important, Sunday
institution: the Sunday Afternoon Nap.
On the seventh day, God rested, and the
Midwesterners didst do the same, dozing to
the dim cheers of NFC fanatics, drugged by
bounteous vegetables and meat.
Sunny benches. For your spiritual well-
being, explore one on a slow, quiet afternoon.
Your back against the store front’s stored heat,
sidewalk reflects the light of nourishing solar
radiation into your face – nap.
If you’re lucky, and you’ve got a cool
dog, Caveman Jake might stop by. He’s real
friendly, likes metal, looks like a caveman,
name’s Jake. He builds grain elevators, and
has four awesome dogs: two pits and two labs.
Chat with him for a bit; if he offers, cruise
around and see the country with him, half-
harvested, autumn fields separated by creeks,
groves, and gulleys from hilly pastures filled
with cattle, passively grinding molars together,
on green, like you.
photo by Trevor Drawdy
More Fuzzy Advice
by Papa Bear

DEAR BEAR: How does one properly eat a banana? I always peel it, then place it on a small plate and eat it by cutting it into small pieces.
When suggesting this method to my co-worker he became very defensive. His method is much more traditional, peeling the banana and then eating
it much like a monkey. Who is right? — Nanners in Oregon.

DEAR NANNERS,
Christ, day in and day out I have to deal with shit. Are you getting this readers? “Nanners” over here (who must just be so pleased with her cute little
pen name) wants to know the proper way to eat a banana. Do you spend your days seeking my approval? Can’t you just eat your banana your way and
let your co-worker eat it his way? But, if you must know, here is the proper way to eat a banana. You may be surprised to discover that you are both
wrong! That’s right, according to Miss Stinky Fingers House of Humiliation’s website, the proper way to eat a banana is to have your mistress insert it
in your mouth and let it dissolve.

Hope that helps!

DEAR BEAR: Our neighbors “Alf ” and “Jackie O” (that’s not their real names) are the best neighbors ever! I don’t really know them that well, but
that’s what makes my predicament even harder! Several times a week, just as the moon is rising, I see a woman get out of a cab and walk to a ladder
that goes directly to the spare bedroom. Several hours later I see Alf let her out the front door. He then kisses her on the front porch! Bear, they even
have open mouths! He must be sleeping with this woman! I want to tell Jackie O but don’t know how to do it! What do you suggest? - Nosy in CA

DEAR NOSY,
Do you really want to involve yourself in this? Consider yourself lucky, most of us wait
our entire lives for this exact situation to arise.

Here’s what I would do:

Go to talk to...ahem, “Alf ” himself. Say that you already know what’s going on, say that
not only do you know what’s going, but you find it titillating. Ask if you can watch. While
watching take several snap shots of the sexiness that is occurring. Afterwards blackmail
him, ya know for money, sex or whatever a person such as yourself desires. Maybe
some Precious Moment figurines, or a gift certificate to a stationary store is more your
fancy.

Either way, regardless if he complies or not, show the photos to “Jackie O” anyway.

If you don’t have the nut sack to go through with all of this, I suggest minding your
own business.

DEAR BEAR: Please help me get the word out about Donder! The reindeer in “’Twas the Night Before Christmas” is DONDER, not Donner!
God! No one gets it right! TV, Music, the media! EVERYONE calls him Donner, his name is Donder! Help me, Bear! Clement Clark Moore
would thank you! - Donder at the North Pole

DEAR DONDER,
YAAAAAWNNNNN. Jeez, I’m sorry but I fell asleep half way through the letter. Listen, people give less than a shit about Donder, or Clement
whatshisface. Did you know that the author of that book is dead? Did you know that? Even that guy cares less than you. Are you listening to what
I’m saying? The author of the book, who has lost his ability to care about anything, cares less than you! You must have a pretty sweet life if this is
what you time to take write letters about. By the way, quit trying to suck up. Every time you write to me its always about the holidays, (“Remind
people what Halloween is really about,” “Christian Easter too filled with Pagan practices,”) regardless of the holiday, that lousy wife of yours always
sends cookies. You know what I do with those cookies? I take one bite, spit them out and then give them to the neighbors kids. Kids will obviously
eat anything.

thepeglegupdate@gmail.com 1234567890
 ADVERTISEMENTS

Untitled
by Cliff Cawthon

As my heart beats I feel the weight of a

thousand suns
A grey- green Venus gives me a pleasure
Two minds and a single contradiction
The grey skeleton enjoying an arsenic joint
It is a constant and easy drunkenness
With a real, fleshy actualization of the fallacy
of nations.
The flesh of reality has left the debauched
skeleton bereft.
The taste of the flesh however, drives the light
The taste of the real as opposed to the
truncheon of the deal
It defines me.
Oh what is this dulling of the senses?
Is it slowing down the rat race?
Is it making me finally feel.
Feel the dark, feel the right.
Feel my suppressed fire, making me feel the
light.
Oh what we can get through compromise and
conciliation,
Is it me telling the Guevara, Debs, Martin,
Malcolm, Douglass, DuBois, and the Nader,
the West, and the Negri to wait?
I do understand,
Know
And appreciate;
Wait.
The evil dirty word that has caused so much
pain
The drunkenness that inspired me to be sloppy
The euphoria of the skeleton but, the life of
the flesh
I do understand.
My consciousness transformed, Tuesday, April 20th 2010 @ 7 PM
Through the melancholy windows of a foreign Tuesday, April 20th 2010 @ 7 PM
South Dakota Art Museum
land, to the multitude at hand South Dakota Art Museum
My Venus fades to a commodity, Open Call for Entries
My skeleton is without calcium *Running
OpenTime:
Call
Lessfor
than Entries
10 minutes
All Genres accepted, Winning entries will be screened
The drunkenness of debauchery has been *Running Time: Less than 10 minutes
conquered by the actualization of sobriety All2nd
1st, Genres accepted,
and Audience Winning
Award for 3rd entries will be screened
$150, $100, $50
It was fun, oh it was fun.
1st, 2nd and Audience Award for 3rd
The clock does not strike for we, the chasm Submission
$150, $100, Due
$50 by
may one day be closed. March 19th, 2010
Submission Forms
However, as the skeleton runs smokes with the Submission
CONTACT Due by
Zack Vos zjvos@jacks.sdstate.edu
flesh, I know what is me. or pick up in the UPC office (Union 150)
March 19th, 2010
Submission Forms
[ed: Peglegger Anthony Castillo met Cliff during SUBMISSIONS
CONTACT Zack MUST BE PRESENTED DVD
Vos zjvos@jacks.sdstate.edu
his voyage to perfidious Albion this fall. Visit his WITH A up
or pick SUBMISSION FORM
in the UPC office (Union 150)
blog at http://cliffpeaceleft.wordpress.com/ ]
*Alumni Submission running times can be negotiated
SUBMISSIONS MUST BE PRESENTED DVD
if project runs longer than 10 minutes
WITH A SUBMISSION FORM
1234567890 PLU 01’10 Sponsored by The SDSU Film Society and The University Program Council

*Alumni Submission running times can be negotiated

if project runs longer than 10 minutes
Extreme Beers
by Ross Bell

O ne of my favorite beers is Goose Islands

Bourbon County Stout. At 13 percent
alcohol, this jet black stout is definitely a
beers have sat in barrels that once held brandy,
sherry, cognac, bourbon and muscatel. I have
a hard time wrapping my mind around how
I am one of four extremely fortunate people
in South Dakota to have a bottle of Sam
Adams Utopias. (One bottle went to Monks
sipper. This beer behaves exactly like a fine ridiculous this beer is. House of Ale Repute in Sioux falls). Very
stout should, in that the flavor becomes more Unfortunately, few people get the chance soon several friends and myself will crack the
and more potent as the beer warms up. I have to try Utopias. There are two reasons for this. bottle open. Hopefully we will survive the
six in my cupboard that are out of site, but Given the brewing circumstances, it is released experience. Always remember, good beer is
rarely out of mind. They will age for five years, once every two years, and only 9,000 bottles best when shared with friends. Make sure to
always getting better. are distributed. South Dakota was allotted five check The Peg Leg Blog for a full review of
This issue’s topic revolves around my favorite bottles. Reason number two: the price. The this truly remarkable beer.
types of beer: ridiculous beers. Ridiculous suggested retail price for a bottle of Utopias is Rossabell@gmail.com
beers is a term that I am making up right now. $150. However, most liquor stores boost this
More commonly labeled as “extreme beers” up to $200 because they know someone will [ed: I had the opportunity to enjoy a few small
they are those that have been hopped to hell, buy it. At $200 for a 25 ounce bottle, the price sips of Ross’ Utopias recently. It burned a bit like
used more malts than water or put in oak bar- comes out to around eight bucks for a single cognac and had more flavor than any other beer
rels that once held some sort of liquor. These ounce of the fine nectar. I would bet that I’ve had in my life. As Ross said, be sure to check
totally absurd and extreme beers generally one ounce of this beer has more flavor than a our blog for a review of his Utopias experience.]
have alcohol contents well over 13 percent. tongue would know what to do with.
All have a flavor that cannot be matched by
any other beverage. Sometimes they can get
so ridiculous that you might only be able to
handle a few ounces. These are the beers that I
am constantly seeking.
The most ridiculous beer that I have enjoyed
is Dog Fish Head’s 120 Minute IPA (India
Pale Ale), the holy grail of hop-heads. This
Delaware born beer is absolutely ridiculous,
boasting 21 percent alcohol.
First the beer is boiled for two hours, hence
its name. During the boil it is continually
hopped. Once this process is through, it is
dry hopped daily for a month. This essentially
means that the beer sits in huge barrels while
hops are steeping like tea, every day for a
month. Afterwards the beer will ferment for
another month before being bottled. Splitting
a 12 ounce bottle with three people will likely
be plenty.
Pretty ridiculous, right? Not the most
ridiculous. The king of them all would be a
beer from the Boston Brewing Company, Sam
Adams Utopias. Utopias’ alcohol by volume
is 25-27 percent, making it illegal in 13 states.
It has zero carbonation to it, and it is enjoyed
at room temperature. Utopias is brewed with
a variety of roasted malts and hops, with a
healthy dose of maple syrup to boost the
alcohol content. Champagne yeasts are then
used to eat up all the sugars. The beer ages
for the better part of the year and is combined
with different batches, some of which have
been aged for up to 16 years. These well-aged

photo by Ross Bell

thepeglegupdate.wordpress.com 1234567890
Pro-peace Brookings
by Mitch LeClair

A small group of active adults gathered on

Mother’s Day two years ago and stood
near the intersection of 6th Street and Main
Ave in Brookings.
One rang a bell, and all stood silently
for 15 minutes in remembrance of people
worldwide who have lost their lives to war.
On May 13, 2007, the tradition began,
and it has continued every Sunday at 1 p.m.
ever since.
According to Michael Feikema, one
of the original individuals in the Stand for
Peace group, the participating members had
“stumbled into each other for quite some time”
before finally banding together to publicly
display their frustrations.
He said the initial motivation was when
Jeff Heinle, professor of film studies at SDSU,
had asked him to sit on a discussion panel at a
film series focused on the occupation of Iraq in
the fall of 2006.
Ordained minister and former educator
Carl Kline also sat on the discussion panel.
Heinle, another original “stander,” said he,
Feikema and Kline seemed to get along great.
Along with a few more individuals, the
loose collective began meeting together for a
Ghandian study group before expressing their
opposition to the war in Iraq.
Shortly thereafter, the Stand for Peace
group formed and chose their demonstration
spot: directly in front of the Army recruiting
building.
“When you think about public space,
you see nationalistic images instead of public
space,” said Heinle.
“We want to show residents of Brookings
that there are people questioning our foreign
policy,” said Heinle. “Symbolically, that’s why
we use public space.”
Feikema echoed Heinle’s opinion of the
group’s purpose.
“We just want to let people here know
that there is an organized opposition group
in the community that meets regularly,” said
Feikema.
Kline, founder of a Non-Violent Alterna-
tives group in Brookings, has been leading
non-violent activism here for over two decades.
Feikema said he has played a large role in
keeping the Stand for Peace group active.

photos by Trevor Drawdy

1234567890 PLU 01’10

 “I’ve never been anywhere with a group
that displays this type of devotion [to its
cause],” said Feikema.
Besides a few small incidents - neither of
which resulted in anything but civil discourse
- he says the people of Brookings seem to be
receptive to their message.
“Overall there are way more positive
responses than negative ones,” said Feikema.
He added that approximately one out of every
20 or so vocal passers-by shows animosity
towards the group.
An altercation last year involved an Army
recruiter driving a tall silver truck.
“It crossed the center line,” Heinle said.
“He aimed it at the group.”
After his attempts at intimidation,
the recruiter confronted the demonstrators
and voiced his opinion of their actions. The
conversation ended peacefully, and Feikema
said that’s about the only backlash they’ve seen.
“I think the vast majority of the people
in Brookings are very polite,” he said. This
is a contributing factor in the community’s
acceptance of the group’s message, according to
Feikema.
Heinle said the tight-knit group com-
monly finds themselves in conversation past 2
p.m. or later, and any member of the public is
free to stand with them on Sundays.

Taking off my objectivity hat and replac-

ing it with a subjective, self-admitted look at
the Stand for Peace group here in Brookings,
I will say that I have been active in this group
for a few years.
Unfortunately, I cannot brag that I’ve
been there every Sunday like many of the
other participants. Rather, I have joined in a
few times and learned a great deal from these
people about commitment and dedication.
I would repeat Mr. Feikema’s comment
about the group’s devotion. These people are
out there peacefully and voluntarily displaying
their displeasure with the state of affairs every
week - no matter the weather or administra-
tion.
To me, not much has changed in the
transfer of power from Bush to Obama, but
I will refrain from ranting and simply say
this: People everywhere in our country, even
in Brookings, are incredibly upset with the
continued engagement of our troops overseas,
for a variety of reasons.
Like U.S. Marine Major General
Smedley Darlington Butler said years ago,
“War is a racket.”

[For more on the group, please visit

The Post here: http://www.thepostsd.com/index.php/go/item/205-prayerforpeace
and watch a video I recently made of a Wednesday night stand here:
http://thepeglegupdate.wordpress.com/2009/12/07/stand-against-the-escalation/ ] thepeglegupdate@gmail.com 1234567890
I Need My Coffee Fix
by Kate Wegehaupt
I love coffee, which by all measures officially
makes me an adult. Visions of editors
racing to meet deadlines, doctors saving lives,
and executives firing employees, all with cups
of coffee in hand, leap to mind. For me, the
start of my work day means measuring out
grounds, scooping them into the coffee pot,
and listening to the percolation, a routine.
I think most people have associations like
these with the drink. In fact, I even have a
theory: coffee is a reminder of the adult world
as seen through our little-kid eyes. Sound
like a great research paper? Let me explain
before you get out your red pen. I remember
early Saturday mornings awakened by the
smell, with toast cut diagonally, made by Dad.
Others chatted around a Christmas table with
family, reminiscing and making plans over
pots of bottomless black coffee. I imagine still
more saw adults drinking mugs, ushering kids
out the door to school and work. Personal
memories vary, but the end association’s the
same.
Regardless of the origin, the coffee
mythos was still there in middle school.
Before morning classes started, the cool kids
would run across the street, buying gas station
cappuccino. They were mature, practically like
high schoolers, holding styrofoam cups and
gossiping about The Osborne’s, a show I didn’t
watch. For those of us stuck in pre-puberty,
we made due with hot chocolate, trying to
look cool, but spending more time cleaning
our fogged-up glasses than actually drinking.
But our throats still burned from the steaming
liquid and we still got a buzz from the sugar;
surely this is what being an adult was all about.
I started drinking the real-deal in high
school, when one of my best friends got a job
working at a coffee shop. I’d do my homework
in some dark corner, pretending I was in
college and feeling ambitious (two things I’ve
since learned do not generally mix), sipping
my frilly drink. When my mind became too
crammed with osmosis and the Battle of the
Bulge, a good distraction was to watch others
order their coffee. You could tell the younger
crowd by the frozen slushy-drinks they’d
order, pseudo-coffee. The especially confident
people would order something meditative,
like tea, making sure to follow the opposite
of trendy. But the people I most admired, the
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ones I wanted to be, were those who’d walk in,
not even glance at the drink-menu, and order
some “mocha double shot, no whip”, obviously
citizens of the coffee world, a place I wanted to
live.
Another friend orders like that; always
lattés, no flavor, with three packets of raw
sugar. We were chatting over coffee once,
when she mentioned that she isn’t even sure if
she likes her drink of choice, but that her dad
always drank it. She picked up the habit to be
like him. Which leads me back to my original
conclusion. I started because I wanted to be an
adult.
However, a slight problem has developed
from my love for coffee. By most accounts,
I’m a happy person. Skies are blue, birds are
singing, etc. But on days when I don’t get
my caffeine: watch out. The chance of rain
increases, bread fails to rise, little kids cry
and communism wins. In other words, try to
avoid me. So does growing-up mean I have to
become somber (and apparently cranky), too?
The “go-go-go” attitude provided by caffeine,
mayhem caused when things don’t go accord-
ing to plan? Is it too idealistic to hold onto my
eight-year-old memories?
Here’s the thesis statement. What I’ve
found is that coffee, like adulthood, isn’t
always equivalent to sunny mornings and
friendly chats. But it is what you allow it to be.
Sometimes it’s a pick-me-up after procrasti-
nating on projects that count for 20 percent of
your grade; other times a mean to whirlwind
through meetings, classes and practices before
crashing into bed; it’s a mediator or a peace-
offering, depending on the situation, and good
for working out kinks. Consistent throughout,
is that I can rarely go a day without it, and I’m
pretty certain that isn’t changing.
I’ve reached adulthood (or the verge of it,
anyway), as evidenced by my need for a coffee
fix, though it’s not quite what I expected.
Being a grown up is hard. Now, doesn’t that
sound intelligent. But it’s true. There are
moments when I would love to go back to
drinking my hot chocolate, just pretending
competency. When I could revert to little kid
mode, a good day ensured by Dad cutting my
toast diagonally instead of across. It’s not so
simple anymore; more is expected that just
looking cool while sipping coffee or ordering
without looking at the menu. Part of growing
up is learning who you are and what you want.
Let’s get this straight, though: I’m by no
means the most mature or sensible person.
People tend to look at you funny for twirling
unexpectedly down the sidewalk (it’s officially
the holiday season!) or holding a conversation
with your dinner (don’t you feel a little badly
about ignoring it all the time?). I’ve struggled
against the typical attitudes of adulthood. Just
because I’m getting older doesn’t mean I have
to drink coffee morning after morning, no
longer enjoying the smell and taste and reasons
for doing so in the first place. There are perks
to growing up; but there is something to be
said for keeping a little-kid perspective, too.
When it comes down to it, coffee doesn’t have
to be a substitute for energy or enthusiasm, just
an added benefit of getting older. Now please
excuse me; I need my 11 am fix.
photo in The Kitchen
Cats and Dogs
by Simeon Brown
T he Brookings Regional Humane Society
is a fun place to hang out. Visitors are
encouraged to come hold the guinea pigs
and pet the rabbits, chill in the cat colonies
and play with the dogs. The Society’s new
building – they moved this summer – has
five rooms full of cats, each containing six to
twelve kitties in colonies of shelves and boxes.
The Animal Shelter has 45 cats, two rabbits,
two guinea pigs, two little birds, and 14
dogs. Twelve of the dogs are housed at foster
homes during the weekdays, but currently,
Jack the Whippet and Malaysia, a pure white
pit puppy, live in the back kennels and await
visitors with excited smiles.
Tiffany Haynes-Reed manages the
Brookings Regional Humane Society and
explained the NPO to the PLU. The BHRS
receives the animals Animal Control finds on
the street. The strays are kept at the pound
for five days, then, if untagged and unclaimed,
transferred to the Humane Society. “Everyone
should know Animal Control works very hard
to place animals,” Reed expressly explained. If
the Brookings Shelter has no room, the ani-
mal moves to Sioux Falls, or another location
in the region with room. This happens with
moderate frequency, as the Society currently
carries cats at capacity and needs more dog
foster homes.
Handling as-much as-possible with
available resources is a balancing act
the Humane Society has constantly
navigated in its decade-long existence.
The Brookings location, unlike some
animal shelters, is completely donor
funded, and currently in the red.
Haynes-Reed mentioned vague
discussions in the City Council to
take some municipal responsibil-
ity for the shelter, putting the
organization under the same
roof as Animal Control, but, “I
think they have bigger things to
worry about – events centers and
stuff…” she trails off. BRHS began forming
in 1998 and ’99, but did not have a location
for housing animals until 2006; up to this
point, the only animals that could be placed
where the ones lucky enough to coincide
with an open foster home. The first building
allowed them to begin housing some cats and
other small mammals, but this summer’s move
enabled them to shelter dogs and provides
a more humane, spacious habitat for the
homeless kitties.
The Society receives a lot of support
from volunteers; about 30 large-hearted
animal lovers assist the five employees
thepeglegupdate.wordpress.com 1234567890
with endless, but rewarding brushing, exercis-
ing, cleaning, and feeding necessary to care
for so many animals. As this NPO is donor-
(read under-) funded, it has struggled to stay
afloat recently. Alongside the concern of
keeping the balance in the black, the constant
growth required to help Brooking’s homeless
animals presents incessant new needs. “We
could really use some anesthesia equipment
so we could fix the stray animals here,” one
volunteer mentions.
Membership is one obvious opportunity
for Brookings residents to become involved
and help the shelter, but BRHS offers other
opportunities for people to benefit from, and
contribute too, this admirable, animated
establishment. One may sign up to foster
a dog (I’ve already got dibs on that gorgeous
pit puppy), or simply show up and play with
some cats; the animals crave interaction, and
lovingly reciprocate benefits to the person
willing to scratch some tummies or roll a ball.
The Society has recently instituted a Low
Income Spay/Neuter Voucher program to
assist area citizens in the effort to control
the animal population.
December 12th featured a couple
fundraising activities; the Shelter hosted
a bake sale table at the Brookings Festival of
Trees. Also, pet owners can bring their animal
to the society on Saturdays in December to
have a Christmas picture taken. The photo-
graphs cost only five dollars and the proceeds,
of course, benefit the Brookings Regional
Humane Society. Further information and
applications can be accessed at brookingshu-
mane.org, but the most pleasant course of
action is taking an hour to visit the shelter
someday and take turns with the animals
putting smiles on each other’s face.
What an Ugly Hill
by Catey Watkins
I t wasn’t really an ugly hill, it was just
another hill. She hadn’t said it out loud,
but she was sure the hill had probably heard it
anyway. She walked, well no, mostly trudged to
the top. It wasn’t a fun climb and it had been
much harder than she had anticipated. Who
knew there were hills with that kind of slope
around here? She’d stopped to rest several
times on the way, if she had liked nature more
she might have enjoyed the view. As it stands,
the outdoors mostly just annoyed her. Even the
darting rabbits and chirping birds annoyed her.
And she was missing Grey’s. She’d never admit
that her life was now based around what times
certain shows were on, but it had been reduced
to just that. A TV network dictated her life.
She let out an audible sigh.
Once at the top, she plopped down in a
clearing. The hill came to a peak, then it just
sort of dropped off into this half dried up
stream below. It was kind of picturesque, but
mostly kind of depressing. She stared at the sky
turning into warm autumn shades, forgetting
to be azure. She was so sure this moment was
supposed to be beautiful and stirring, maybe it
too forgot. The wind had died down, but the
cold rose from the ground through her thighs
up to the tip of her nose. The grass was clearly
dying, but it was still thick enough to pad her
from the hard ground, even though it let some
of the dirt be exposed. That stringy hair that
she hates so much kept falling into her eyes,
maybe if she cared to be looking at anything
particular, it would’ve annoyed her. If someone
was standing close enough, they might have
heard her laugh to herself, not unnecessarily
out of spiteful irony—more or less just another
lesson learned; more time lost. She stared
down at her dirty tennis shoes, how the shoe
laces frayed, how well-worn and under appreci-
ated they both looked and were. She thought
about his stupid crap music and his crap jokes,
she thought about how she smiled and played
his crap games. She didn’t like how uncomfort-
able she felt around him; restless in her own
skin. She rolls her eyes after realizing she’d
been wrinkling her nose just at the thought
of him-a habit she’d noticed much more after
he’d told how cute he thought it was.
“Cute, yeah freakin’ adorable...” She’s been
mumbling to herself a lot lately... Especially
when she thinks about all the stupid things
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she’s said and done, her friends probably think
she has turrets the way she suddenly curses at
herself. She realizes she was supposed to do
something, remember something. It’s starting
to get dark and grow cold and she’s looking
around at the ground...She’s searching for
something that just won’t come to her. She
gets on her hands and knees, feeling with her
hands.
“Tell me I didn’t lose the damn thing.
You can’t just lose that sort of thing at a time
like this....stupid crap.” She trails off into
mumbling as she scours the ground frantically.
Suddenly, she stops, she curls her hand around
the small object. She stares intently at it while
forcing herself upright. This had to be done. A
normal person would probably call her crazy,
she probably was. It didn’t much matter at this
point what someone else would say or think. If
she didn’t do this, she was afraid she WOULD
go crazy. She came to that edge for what she
was determined to make her last time. She
clinched her right hand even tighter while
she slipped her left into her jacket pocket.
Fumbling, she pulled out a lighter and her
last photo of the two of them. They’d been
fighting all day, but looking at the picture now
you’d never be able to tell. In the picture, she
was leaning into him and his arm was draped
around her. Her hair was in his face but his
smile was clear though it any way. Their eyes
were sparkling; her smile was more bash-
ful—embarrassed probably by how petty their
arguments had been.
She realized she was staring at that damn
photo again, as if looking into it might answer
all her ‘why’s. It wouldn’t and she knew it, but
she was always mesmerized by how perfect the
two of them had looked in that picture. They
probably had appeared that way to everyone,
oblivious of how their opposition had kept her
awake at night. Snapping herself out of it, ran
her thumb over the lighter. With a sharp “flick”
it was lit. The colors of the photo wavered,
and then rolled up into itself. She watched his
perfect smile disappear before her eyes. There’s
something so attractive about fire.
So warm and destructive, it was the
perfect ending for that perfect photo. But that
was just a prelude. She opened her chilled right
hand. The diamond, too, had been perfect. She
loved that ring, she really did. But every time
she looked at it she saw his lies. The times he
was hanging out with the boys, the times that
it was his mother calling him, the times “it will
never happen again”...she couldn’t bare that
constant reminder. She probably could’ve sold
it, or given it back. But she didn’t want anyone
else to have that ring. She felt like it was
cursed, as if it would ruin the life of who ever
wore it. She didn’t want another girl to feel like
she did—to cry like she had.
She just stood there for a moment and
collected all her memories of the two of them.
She put everything ever said and done between
the two of them in a ball: all the “sorry”s, all
the laughter and tears, all the slow dances…
all of it. And then she chucked it. She threw
that ring and all her hurt as hard as she could.
She even let out a triumphant yell as she did.
She couldn’t even see where it landed if she
had had any second thoughts about keeping
it. But she didn’t. That ring had weighed a
thousand pounds on her soul. And then, she
did something she hadn’t done in a while. She
smiled. Not big, not joyous laughter, but a
smile nonetheless.
Her journey down that hill was the last
she ever took, she never made it to the bottom.
The girl who did make it to the bottom, most
certainly wasn’t the same that had gone up the
hill-that girl would’ve never got into that beat
up mustang smiling and humming a song. No,
that girl had fallen into that dried up stream
along with her bad memories and perfect
diamond.
Edgar Allan Poe, Virginian
by David Franke
[ed: The book pictured below got me through
some turbulent times last May. I spent a night in
the Leipzig, Germany, station on my way from
Poland to the Black Forest, and I had to make a
3 a.m. train. So, in order to stay awake I bought
shot after shot of horrible German espresso from a
vending machine on the tracks and circled a bench
reading Poe.
Yes, he might be one of the most talked about
American writers ever, but he’s far from overrated.
Open a cheap bottle of Pinot Noir and lose yourself
in his prose for evidence.
When I saw this article on the internet, I
immediately wanted to share it with our readers.
Anything to promote ol’ Edgar.]
T
he purpose of my last writing was to
draw attention to a great movie: The
Planet of the Apes. Of the two quotes I listed,
the 29th scroll was the most poignant to me.
I got a lot of work done on Sunday and
Monday, so I took advantage of the beauti-
ful weather today to drive to the Library of
Virginia in Richmond. This is the 200th anni-
versary year of Edgar Allan Poe’s birth, and all
year they have had a major exhibit on Poe. It is
photo in The Basement
ending this week, so I wanted to catch it before
it closed. I took the curator’s tour – the curator
of this exhibit was Chris Semtner, who is also
curator of the Poe Museum in Richmond. He
was very knowledgeable.
As a long-time fan of Poe, I knew, of
course, that he is the father of the detective
story – that’s why the Mystery Writers of
America call their annual awards “Edgars,”
which physically are small busts of Poe. But I
learned that he also invented science fiction,
having great influence on Jules Verne, who
then went on to write some pioneering science
fiction himself. Poe loved to have fun with his
readers – to see what he could get away with.
He wrote a story for a New York newspaper
about a man crossing the Atlantic Ocean in
a hot-air balloon. People believed it, and the
newspaper sold out, so they repeated the story
the next day. I don’t know when (if ever) read-
ers learned that this was fiction. Calling Orson
Welles!
One exhibit exclaimed, “Poe was the first
American writer to earn his living by writing.”
I took that as a cautionary tale, since Poe was
impoverished most of his life.
There was also a lot of bragging, claiming
that Poe was the first American writer to
win international fame, or something to that
effect. What about Washington Irving, I asked.
“We’re talking about INFLUENCE,” Chris
answered. Irving, he claimed, echoing Poe,
really wrote in the English style, merely sub-
stituting American locales. Poe, on the other
hand, established new writing genres and styles
that had great influence on literature not only
in America but throughout Europe. As just
one example, he broke with the Gothic horror
tradition of having a moralistic lesson and
ending on a happy note of virtue triumphant.
Poe had no morality lessons in his tales, and
often it was just the opposite, which infuriated
the leading Yankee writers. There was no love
lost between Poe and the Yankee scribes – both
excoriated the other in print. (I’m getting to
like Poe more and more.)
Poe was quite a character. In addition to
being broke most of the time, he was also a
drunk, of course. He was quite a ladies’ man,
and there were some interesting stories about
the lasting impact he had on a number of
ladies before and after he married his 13-year-
old cousin, who died tragically of tuberculosis
at, I think, age 24. (That decade was probably
the only happy time in his life – they really
enjoyed life together.) He would write one
of his romantic love poems, and change the
name of the woman in the poem to whomever
he was courting at the time. He unabashedly
lied about his bio, too – saying he graduated
with honors from the University of Virginia
(not!) and that he fought in the Greek War for
Independence (he never got close to it). Fact
and fiction had a way of blurring and merging
with Poe.
Interesting tidbit: Manet illustrated one
of Poe’s books before going on to become one
of the leading French artists.
I asked Chris for his recommendation as
the best biography of Poe, and he said “Edgar
Allan Poe: A Critical Biography,” by Arthur
Hobson Quinn. It’s a fairly old book, but you
can get it on Amazon.com.
[This article originally appeared on
LewRockwell.com on December 5, 2009.]
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26 yrs old: Fight, Fix, & Flight
by Gina Caciolo
S he was half an hour late and I hadn’t
noticed. I fixed small bothers and replaced
tools I had sold in the morning on shelves that
would lay untouched for hours, knowing all the
same, but keeping busy all the same.
The door still hung a little lower than the
framework, allowing a draft to pull in through
the top, and I’d fix that next. It still opened and
closed just fine. And you couldn’t feel the cool
breeze every day. Only on windy days. But a
draft is still a nuisance and can be fixed.
The table, which held the screws, rocked.
Two legs were stuck in the back floor which
held itself slightly higher than the rest of the
floor because of a problem my father had when
placing the tiles. I wasn’t concerned. The tiles
would be filed and flattened. I had reordered
the new ones weeks ago in case the other
method didn’t work. Mended. Repaired. Done.
The hammers, strung so close together
they were impossible to peel off, needed to be
separated. Racks of books were piled without
any regard to alphabetical order.
There was a sweeping noise and then a
loud slam. “Dakota!” said a light, but grinding
and shaky voice. “I’ve been waiting in the
parking lot for forty minutes. There aren’t any
other cars. Why haven’t you come out?”
I turned around and saw Veronica’s face.
Red eyes, pale face, and a slightly chubby
cheek. I took in the rest. One foot stuck
away from the other, hands rubbing over her
basketball stomach. I was stuck, a hammer in
one hand, all dead weight.
1234567890 PLU 01’10
“I didn’t,” she paused, and held her hand
over her mouth, “keep her.”
I felt the hammer slip from my fingers
and then clenched it. My feet were nailed to
the floor. My empty hand balled into a fist.
“Or him…” she added. Over tears, she
pushed out, “I don’t really know which.”
I continued to stand still. “Get out of my
store,” I said.
Veronica looked at me with disbelief in
her eyes. “Dakota,” she said sternly. “I needed
you right now.”
I threw the hammer at the pile of books
stacked next to her. She flinched and sobbed
harder. “Get the fuck out of--” but she had
already ran out at that point.
My body attempted to move forward, but
I held my place. I saw, out of the corner of my
eye, the table holding the various screws, begin
to rock. With all my strength, I turned towards
it, let out a throaty roar, and flipped it onto its
back. The screws made all sorts of pings and
clanging noises as they landed on the tiles,
scratching each one as they came to rest. I fell
to the floor, in a prayer-like stance, and wept,
gently picking up screws, and placing them
back in the box.
Lois Lane and Beer Pong
by Catey Watkins

“W hy hello there, strapping young man!

Ah, I see you’ve pulled a chair out
not that most of the females wouldn’t be cool
with that, it’s just that we’re not all really built
I guess what I’m trying to say is: if I let
you be you, can’t you let me be me? It’s not just
for me and already ordered me a salad and for that. But for the record: I’m supposed to be a label, it’s these unspoken expectations that
thoughtfully calorie-free water.” a flawless, strong, smart, beautiful, sex symbol, people have of one another; these ideas about
My, my, how the times have changed…and but not a whore. But if I look sexy, you’ve who the other person should be and what they
expectations. There’s these crazy stereotypes already decided that I am a whore. And don’t should like. How about you like “The Note-
and ideas going around faster then herpes— say that’s crap. I know it’s true, because I do book” and I like “Fight Club” or you can watch
and just like the gift that keeps on giving—its the same damn thing when I see a girl in a “Twilight” while I go see “Ninja Assassin” or
doesn’t care if you’re a guy or a girl. And super short skirt. I’m sitting there laughing and you cook supper while I drink beer? Well, that
believe me, I’ve ran into this a few times, (the high-fiving with the best of them: “She was a last one is sort of non-negotiable.
stereotypes, not the herpes—get your mind out ho…fo sho…” The sooner people understand that
the gutter) and to be honest, it’s a bit frustrat- So in my experience: If I flirt, I’m a slut. If personality and uniqueness are not clearly
ing. I know what you’re thinking gentlemen: I turn you down, I’m a bitch. If I’m disgruntled defined characteristics placing one person into
“Uh oh, some feminazi crap.” But hang on by these various labels, I’m either touchy or a specific group that dictates how they should
here, because I sort of feel women should shut some militant lesbian. If you want to use act at all times, the sooner we can actually
up and make sandwiches too. But it’s not like grunting sounds and hand gestures to win me enjoy one another’s company. And by “one
I don’t think men shouldn’t fix my car and stay over, fine. Try it. I could maybe learn to enjoy a another’s company,” I do mean me kicking
out of my tanning beds either though. I’m not good clubbing to the head before you drag me your ass at beer pong. And don’t worry, all that
really a sexist or a feminist. I’m just decidedly back to your rape cave. But you try it at your salt from you crying because you got whooped
pro-me. own peril. by a girl will at least make your beer less foamy.
But I digress—ok, I get that I can out
drink most men; I can change my own tire
(GASP) and parallel park. I play a sport where
comparing bruises is fun, and I’ve been to basic
training and back. I’ve been called “intimidat-
ing” a few times. Ok, I can see that. Something
I can’t fathom is how I get called “emasculat-
ing.” Really? I’m what you find emasculating?
Not the fact that women today expect you to
wax your eyebrows or shave your chest hair?
But you’re right, a girl like me expecting to
be treated equal is pretty outrageous: heaven
forbid that I think we should take turns paying
for dates or that I don’t need you constantly
hold my hand to make sure I’m ok.
I just think it’s fair that people stop
expecting that every person should be able
to fit in some nice neat little box already full
of ideas that no one chooses for himself or
herself. If I go on a date, I don’t expect to be
sitting across from Indiana Jones or Leonidas
(not that I’d complain on either one). So if you
aren’t Superman, why would you expect me to
be Lois Lane?
Let’s pretend instead that I’m Wonder
Woman—I’m not, last I checked those blessed
by mythological deities don’t still burn grilled
cheese sandwiches occasionally…but if I was, if
I’m this strong, smart girl, why am I expected
to be a sex symbol as well? It’s the generation
of Playboy where all women are supposed to
look like Carmen Electra or Jessica Alba; it’s

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bosspizzaandchicken.com • 692.4949

Reach the best demographic in Brookings.

Advertise in The Peg Leg Update.

Our rates are outstanding,

and our people smile often.

Contact us:
thepeglegupdate@gmail.com