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Boredom is Da Bomb

A favorite pastime during sophomore year while living at Rain Tree was the regular visit to Reams for a couple 2-liter bottles of soda and some dry ice. Yes, yes, we were sodaholics, and drank far too many caffeinated beverages. But our end goal was not to be hopped up on stimulants, but to blow things up. I'm not sure who told me about dry ice bombs, but I'm sure they regretted passing along the info, because it became a passion of mine. For those new to the practice, all you need is an emtpy 2-liter bottle, a couple quarter-sized chunks of dry ice, some lukewarm water, and some fast reflexes. Push the dry ice chunks into the bottle, pour in the water, and as quickly as possible, screw on the lid and throw it away. Its about as loud as an M-80, and lots of fun. One time in particular, I threw a bottle into the creek in the Rain Tree quad during a very busy afternoon, trying to annoy the ducks. Some guy had just come out onto his 3rd floor balcony. The boom was incredible. But the funny thing was that I had packed too much dry ice into it, and when it went off, it sprayed dry ice everywhere -- mainly toward the 3rd floor balcony of the observer, apparently hitting him in the face.

I ran, of course.

The Passion of Robbie

One particular event during our junior year while living in The Hole really stands out in our collective memory, and we're happy to share this story with the public.

It all revolves around the poetry of Rob Sorenson -- or Robbie, as we referred to him -- and his true love, Maren. Now, Robbie was on a mission in Argentina, and -- if you ask my opinion -- was spending a bit too much time thinking about his girlfiend back at BYU. But Robbie was a poet at heart, and, apparently, he liked to wear cheap, smelly cologne. How do we know this? Well, he spilled his heart out into a short book of really, really bad poetry, slopped some stink liquid onto it, and shipped it off to his girlfriend-in-waiting, Maren the Librarian, back in Provo. As the story goes, the package didn't quite make it to Maren. Not in book format, anyway.

There is some speculation as to how we actually came into possession of the fated book, which became our passion for so many months. Someone was living over at Branbury Park at the time, and it may have landed on the wrong door stoop and accidentally opened. I think the culprit was Iron Balls (more on him later), so if anyone knows Robbie or Maren and wants retribution, start with him. All I know is that this magical orange stink book of verse showed up one day at The Hole, filling our hearts with glee.

I can't express in words how bad his poetry was. I can't believe anyone would actually commit those words to print, much less send it to some girl. Good golly. But Andrew had a wonderful idea -- we'd commit the words to song, make a recording, and send copies to both Robbie and Maren. She'd be confused, he'd be embarassed, and we'd have a good laugh. All good, right?

So we wrote songs. Andrew played the keyboard and sang backup, Preston was percussion and backup, and I sang lead -- and let the passion flow. The songs were hilarious. This was all at that same time that we wrote the theme song for Nedball. After weeks of practice and a few impromptu performances, we invited a large gathering of 20 or so close friends to a night of light food, Nedball, and music at which we performed 3 or 4 selections from the Robbie Sorenson collection. I can't recall if we recorded it all, but I think we did. Andrew might have a copy somewhere, and I think he ended up taking the book too. Or maybe we burned it in a ritual to show our devotion to Robbie and the music. Here we are performing:

Notice the book at my feet, and the small pagan statue which held Robbie's photo underneath which we burned incense in his honor. Also on the wall behind me is my semi-famous fish painting, which I believe my sister has in her house these days. (I was also thinner in those days - I still have that jacket, but it doesn't quite fit)

It was a magical night, and the Nedball playing was fierce. The competition came down, as I recall, to Jeff Miner and Andrew, with Andrew ultimately victorious (as the game had very rough rules, it was usually one of the Hole dwellers who usually won).

Oh yes, I forgot to mention -- we knew who Maren was. She worked in the Harold B. Lee Library at the time, and we'd occassionally go and spy on her, and snicker to ourselves, knowing of the musical gem we were developing. No idea what happened to her or Robbie. Did they eventually marry? We have looked for them, but have yet to find any information on the couple. But if you're interested, here's a Robbie-inspired poem by Preston from a couple years back.

Underwear Follies

Two stories really stand out in my mind from sophmore year in Rain Tree Apts: stapling Tyler's socks and underwear to his ceiling, and the crotch staples incident.

Tyler Nebeker was a cool roommate (although he's living in Portland now, and won't return any of my phone calls) who always had a lot of energy, and could take a joke. One day -- again, out of sheer boredom -- Preston and I decided to raid Tyler's drawers and staple all of his underwear to the ceiling. I think he was rooming with Dave Hall at the time, who did not stand in our way for this rainy day project. When Tyler got home, I think the extent of his comments were "Oh, that's nice." Here you see him admiring our craftwork:

A day or so later, a random thought came into my mind, and just after Preston went and grabbed the double-decker bus up to campus, I went into his dresser and proceeded to put about 30 or so staples into the crotch of a pair of his underwear, and then put them back.

A week or more later, I was hanging out in the living room talking with Tyler and another roommate, Kirk Hedman, when all of a sudden we hear Preston scream out in pain, followed by a "What the hell is this?!" Tyler and I walk back to find out what the deal was, and Preston is standing there now in shorts, holding the modified underwear. Apprently, he had put them on without noticing the staples, and then had literally jumped into some jeans, trying to dress quickly -- and drew some blood. Of course, when I remember what I did and explain to it everyone, we all laugh hysterically.

Duck Stealing

Inbetween building and deploying dry ice bombs our sophmore year at Rain Tree apartments, we became fixated with the idea of stealing a duck. But the darn things were difficult to catch. Until the day we found a young duckling casually strolling near our ground floor apartment. If I remember correctly, we just reached out and grabbed it from our patio. I don't quite remember how long we kept it, but at some point I'm sure we let it go. I think. No, I'm pretty sure.

Letter to Preston Donald Green

Jenae Creeker Chairman
O.O.T.Y.M.P.S.S.P.S.A.R.

Mr. Preston Green
881 E. 200 N.
Provo, UT 84601

28 September, 1988

Mr. Green:

In conducting an investigation of your schedule, new evidence has come to light that your schedule contains certain unexplainable gaps. There seem to be 10 minutes during every hour that we cannot account for your whereabouts.
This is a serious concern. As you well know, Mr. Green, it is necessary for our Committee to keep track of its constituents. Therefore, we have instigated a new program for OBSERVATION OF TWENTY YEAR OLD MALE PRE-LAW STUDENTS STUDYING POLITICAL SCIENCE AND RUSSIAN.
For you see, Mr. Green, since the alarming release of the film No Way Out , we are terribly concerned that many more Soviet agents are posing as American college students atpresent time.
You are a prime suspect for a number of reasons.
First, your family has moved repeatedly during the past 20 years. We have two possible explanations for this strange phenomenon:
a) Your father is a Russian spy infiltrating the United States Airforce.
b) Sometime during the Green Family's travels, the Soviets substituted one of their baby agents for the real Preston Green, and they have been training you ever since.

Second, your interest in Russian and in law lead us to believe you are covering your uncommon fluency in Russian, and your law studies will provide the edge you need to enter the United States Government where you will begin your disintegration of htis great nation.
Third, you have dark, Russian coloring.
Fourth, you are posing as a naive, innocent Mormon boy at a religious institution to cast off suspicion.
Fifth, you live alone with your comerade in arms, Christian Buckley, so your Soviet Superiors can contact you easily, so you can further your plans to conquer the world, beginning with Provo, Utah.
This letter serves four purposes:
1) To let you know that we know y our true identity.
2) To let you know that we are watching you very closely.
3) To give you a chance to surrender.
4) To determine your whereabouts during the 10 minute gap in your schedule which we encounter every hour.
In order to avoid arrest, you must do two things:
1) You must write a detailed report listing your whereabouts every minute of every day.
2) You must run through the BYU quad from the Southwest corner of the Harold B. Lee Library to the Northeast corner of the Harris Fine Arts Center in your boxer shorts singing "My Country 'Tis of Thee," for our Committee Observers. You must perform this task at Midnight, Sunday October 2, 1988.
If you fail to accomplish these duties, the Committee will have no choice but to take militant action against you.
You are strongly encouraged to cooperate peacefully.
The Committee is watching you.
-- Jenae Creeker, Chairman
O.O.T.Y.O.M.P.S.S.P.S.A.R.

Potato Wedges

I don't remember how long that bag of potatoes sat in our pantry, forgotten and decaying. I remember complaining about the smell, but we all let it go for a long time before actually looking for a source -- each of us just hoping the stench would either go away, or one of us would break down and actually clean something. It was "The Hole" for goodness sakes - it was not supposed to be cleaned regularly. Anywho, we finally looked in the pantry, and discovered the hideouos sack of languishing carbohydrates on the side of our 1950's refrigerator, hiding underneath some crates and discarded Hagen Daas containers.

Oh, the many uses of a moldy bad of potatoes. But oh so quickly how we were all in sync on its grand purpose. For it was only a day or so earlier when Marla related her tear-strewn story of being ridiculed on campus in front of people by the snobby Ann, owner of the VW Cabriolet around which so many of our pranks revolved.

Potatoes + Cabriolet = an evening of laughs. Chopping them up was a painful process. The smell was incredible. Small creatures had already made a new home in the bag, whcih just made it all the more fun. A late night run found a car with its top down. The real question was whether fermented potatoes could peel the paint off a car, or permanently stain white leatherette seats? It was a question that needed to be answered. We descended on the site, staked out the parking garage, and when the coast was clear, we emptied our bag of fun onto the hood and into the drivers seat.

Apparently the paint and seats wsurvived, for those who are wondering. But it was quite some time before we saw the top down again.