Dear Atticus,

[From the Front- Both sides nervously await the coming weeks. The White House is in talks with an as yet unknown ally to form a mutual defense entente. With luck, this might both provide us with shelter and erect a much needed barrier between the two sides. The remote lays undiscovered, but intelligence reports suggest that forces have been mobilized to seek it out. The first real engagement fought between the two powers was last week. The high handed enemy, always eager to flex its muscles over noise level disagreements, mandated that we abandon our post while we answer our home's calls for aid. Though the enemy had the high ground on Bunk Hill, we bravely met his ultimatum with a clear refusal. Outraged, the enemy retreated, regrouped, and hatched a new strategy, thus beginning a new phase in the war. The conflict now typifies a war of attrition. Trade embargoes and non-negotiation are our new weapons. Border disputes have been aggravated since the skirmish. Disputed territory at Refridgeraton Valley, Closetopolis, the plain of Televisionare, and the mines of Garbagio are the target of frequent aggression. Constant firefights have had an effect on the men, but morale remains high. Everyone, from the most lowly private to the most seasoned general, is awaiting the ratification of our new alliance with the still undisclosed power. The only thing they'll tell us is that its army will fight like wolverines to defend us and keep our location secret. Perhaps, their intercession could mean an armistice or even an end to this pointless war. More developments will follow.


Thanksgiving. Aw, there's really too much to say.

Most of my holiday was spent watching my Grandma henpeck the shit out of my amiable, ex-farmer, Greeklish-speaking Grandpa. Over the years, their relationship has become more and more like the one I share with Biscuit, my border terrier. Instead of words, they use hand signals; my Grandma will execute her commands with her hands now. One finger flick means, "Get the pillow." Two means, "Get the blanket." A "come closer" wag of the index finger is quite the chameleon. I've seen my grandpa respond with a drink refill, the phone, pills, and keys. I'll have to pay closer attention to the number of wags next time.

My grandpa likes four things in this world- professional wrestling, baseball, homegrown vegetables, and his grand kids. When I finally asked him why he likes wrestling so much at Thanksgiving, he said, "It's the only real thing on T.V."

My Aunt Cleo is approaching 90, and she can trace the royal family back to some mammoth hunting bastard from Stone Age London, as well as recall every soul-less clone from every single reality T.V. show. So congrats, reality television; your characters present quite the challenge to the memory, enough, in fact, to keep my ancient aunt's mind sharp.

My Uncle Dean nearly woke the mole people from their thousand year hibernation while playing Wii tennis. Earning his gravy, he put our concrete foundation to the test- delivering bone crushing forehands, punishing backhands, desperate lunges, and lightening volleys like a man possessed, all while hefting his large frame around our family room. Arching his spine like Roger Federer at the serving line, he looks up at our ceiling, Wii remote in hand, then plunges his racket down to deliver a perfect missile. Wiping his brow, he turns to my fifteen-year-old brother and says, "Game. Set. Match."

My Aunt Cindy and Uncle John, close friends of my parents who were given the honorary titles of aunt and uncle, came, too. My aunt won a gold medal at the 1964 Olympics. She set a world record, actually. My uncle has a talk show on WJR. I always like seeing them.

I'm surprised there isn't a mucus stream stretching behind me. Being home has made me a slug. When I need something, I wait for it to be on someone's route as they mill about. My quota for "While you're up"'s and "Since you're over there"'s has been met three times today alone. I've got chocolate chips lodged in the crown of each molar and some leftovers smudged on my shirt as I type this. All I did today was read this month's National Geographic, Scientific American, and National Wildlife. Oh yeah, I'm ready for finals.

Ever feel like you're just a barnacle on life's hull, grabbing feebly at any plankton that drift by? I'm riding a wave towards a rocky shore, and all I can do is keep from falling off my board. Ocean metaphors are easy today, for some reason. I guess I just see so many things that seem out of my control shaping my life like invisible hands, and my Blue Planet marathon from last night is still blowing my mind.

Things got pretty weird this week. I'm trying to get into U of M for the upcoming winter semester now, which would be great. However, it's a long shot. If I don't get in, I'll be stuck at MSU for another semester, earning useless credits while waiting until next fall to transfer: U of M will only let me bring 60. If I come in the fall, I'll have 88. Rather than wasting their money on another term at MSU, my parents wanted to pull me out of college and send me to Europe with the tuition money. The offer still stands if U of M rebuffs me for the winter. However, I don't think I can accept. I don't deserve a fucking vacation for this mess. I should get a swift kick in the ass, a slap in the face, a job application, and a room back at the science college. I should just tow the line, the one all the people tow in order to get a good job. I should just bite the bullet, the one everyone bites in their miserable classes, so they can have it all later. I shouldn't flee to Europe so I can sigh along the Seine and snap pictures of Roman marble. Even if I let them talk me into going, I wouldn't be able to enjoy myself. Guilt would ruin everything.

I told one good story about my dad at Thanksgiving. I drag him up into the U.P. about every summer- he dreads all three months of it, waiting for me to pick a weekend.

"August 14th, Hiawatha National Forest! We're going!" I said.

"I'll start stocking up on aspirin now," was his answer.

So, the date comes, and we're rolling down the highway with a freighter of deet, jerky, and batteries towards the wilderness. Once we get there, it's every bit as magical as we thought it would be. Glistening waterfalls, aromatic pines, scenic vistas, huge fish- everything was perfect. However, after the fifth night, I was offered a glimpse of the very ugly creature that is humanity. We were sitting around the campfire, munching on trail mix, when, all of the sudden, I heard a growl.

Wincing, my dad grabbed his stomach. "Arrrrghh, I can't do this anymore," he groaned. Dropping his bag of trail mix, he shot me a very predatory stare. My dad was going to eat me. "Nothing but trail mix for a WEEK," he said. "This is bull shit, man!"

I was too busy stretching my sprinting muscles, however, to care. "Oh yeah, heh heh, right," I stammered, noting the wet sides of his mouth and the suddenly pointy shape of his teeth.

"Get in the car," he said, firmly.

Oh shit, oh shit, he's going to drive me out, deeper into this back country no man's land, kill me, eat me, and then go home. Oh shit, oh shit! "Heh heh, why don't we stay here? We can see if anyone has any REAL food in the morning?" I said.

"Nope, get in or I'll leave you," he said, trotting over to the van.

Making my peace with God, I dragged my feet all the way to the passenger's seat. We drove for hours. Fall asleep, I told myself. Maybe he'll kill you in your sleep! That wouldn't be so bad, right? So, I drifted off. Dreams of my father hunting me in the U.P. forest gave my neck a seat belt burn. Scrambling up a tree, like a three-legged cat, with my father chomping at my heels, I finally gave up hope and slid down the trunk into his shark-like jaws, leaving me in darkness.

I don't know how long I floated in the darkness after being devoured, but I started to wake up after our van slowed to a stop and my father started talking. "Can I get three Big Mac meals, extra everything. Yes, I want ketchup. Ummm, make those Cokes. Hey, good, you're awake. Alex, you want anything? No? Okay, yeah, just the three Big Mac meals."

Pulling forward, my dad hauled his heap of food into the van, and began the restoration process, like a grizzly emerging from its winter den. I'd never seen anything so incredible. In some emergency instances, the human body can deny itself oxygen for over ten minutes. I saw it: Six meat patties dropped into a stomach without a breath or a bite. After it was done and brown-tinged lettuce and sesame seed litter nearly concealed the gas pedal, he sat back, eyes closed, and smiled. I was happy, too. I had survived.

"You drove two-and-a-half hours for McDonald's?" I asked, smirking.

"Yes, and if you think we're every fucking coming back here, we're keeping cheeseburgers close." I've honored the pact ever since. ]






I wish you were real.
You would hear it all.
Hear just how I feel.
Hear just how I fall.

The wind coughs white cold.
My life, shattered ruins.
I damned near feel old.
It might be your doing.

And yet I believe
that you do sit somewhere
reading my letters.
This helps me feel better.

"Always be the best, my boy,
and hold your head high
above the others"
Is nothing but words
Without you, my brother.

So Give me advice;
Show me solutions,
or trembling I'll wait,
The victim of fate,
Confused and alone,
before execution.