Guest Column

Foreword by Ian Voorn. Many thanks to Austin Mierow for writing this article about his freshman struggles. He is truly the second best thing to ever come out of Wisconsin. Dietz, you'll always be the best.

Dearly Beloved-
I'd thought I'd take some time to let "all ya'll" (yes I am in Texas) bask in the glory of one of my most recent victories in college life - I call it

“Adventures with Laundry”

or

"The Moment the Universe Rested on My Effervescently Large Shoulders and the Lesson I Learned Thereof"

I have to start off by profusely thanking you, Mom and Dad, for your incredible wisdom and foresight in sending me a huge bag of quarters after my first month of college. Without those vital funds I'm afraid, my clothes might not get clean until Thanksgiving break. But alas, I know after reading this story you both will realize your humble investment of quarters did not go to waste, but instead proved the turning point of my existence. A foundation, if you will, from which I hope to use as a springboard into the rest of my life’s journey.

Today at approximately 12:34 PM I traveled to the first floor of my dorm to fight a battle every college student must struggle valiantly through and eventually conquer although some never do, the laundry.

The quarters jangled happily in my pocket as I jovially sauntered down the stairs to complete this rather mundane, but ever so necessary task.

I found the laundry room easily enough, and to my surprise there were actually two different washers available. I scoffed at the idea (two washers indeed, where was I — Beverly Hills?) and proceeded to neatly situate an entire two-week’s supply of slightly used attire (that by my careful planning and apportionment of resources had lasted the entire month of August) into the washer. I was quite vigilant in the careful placement of my garments, for I realized that doing laundry is as much an art as a responsibility.

After five minutes of gently, yet firmly, trying to shove the lid shut on the endless fountain of shirts and shorts, I began to think that there quite possibly was a divine purpose in that second washer being available.

I sighed, because I knew this meant I would have to go through the precarious process of dividing lights from darks. In the clothing community that is my wardrobe; I had always encouraged a more forward-thinking, integrated approach to washing. Separating the whites and darks, to my understanding, was something of a dark past here in America: lights against darks, cotton fighting polyester, and socks turning against their boxer short brethren. In my humble opinion, there is no legitimate reason for prejudice based on dye color nor textile orientation in modern day society. If you aren't a part of the solution, you’re a part of the problem.

It all starts with washing separately. Next thing you know my white shirts will be demanding different drawers and better hangers than their “less significant,” colored counterparts, which inevitably leads to my khaki shorts demanding some sort of reparation (usually in the form of extra fabric softener) for the years of oppressive injustice and so on and so forth.

But when in Rome . . . and my predicament certainly demanded some type of division, so this would have to be a segregated washing. I made sure to give each washer the same amount of detergent and same meticulous placement, because although lights and coloreds would be separate, they were still equal.

Sorting through my many different colors and styles of clothing brought forward many deep philosophical and theological questions that I can only attribute to the fine institution of which I am now a part.

Questions like, "At what point does shade of grey qualify as a light and not a dark?," and, "How did a packet of soy sauce arrive in my pocket?," all the way to, "Is there really such a thing as color-safe bleaching action?," and, "I understand the motivation for prestigious clothing establishments to advertise their name on such prominent places as the front of t-shirts. But what demographic of society are they trying to reach by embroidering ‘Abercrombie and Fitch’ on the inner lining of my shorts zipper?"

Such questions may plague man and society until the end of time, and I can only attribute such fine provocative thinking to this superior educational environment in which you cannot even do laundry without wrestling with the fundamental questions that define mankind.

Having successfully segregated my clothing and assuring the more equalitarian pairs of socks and boxer shorts that drying would be an integrated activity; I proceeded to find the price and method of payment for my venture. To my surprise, it was only 75 cents per load, a mere dollar and a half for this enlightening endeavor. It was a steal I assure you. And I still had drying to look forward to! I could barely contain my excitement.

After much anticipation I placed three quarters into the first washer, pressed the button for whites and watched this miracle of modern society whirl and churn. To tell you the truth, I was a little disappointed that everything went so smoothly. I was expecting more questions to ponder, inquiries that would shift the entire paradigm of how I looked at the world, or at least a trigonometric function or two. But alas, it appeared my adventure with laundry was over.

With a reluctant sigh I put a quarter into the second washer. My disappointed but nevertheless acute mind observed a silence . . . yes a silence . . . when there should have been the happy clinking sound a quarter makes as it tumbles into a marvel of modern science like the one before me. Instead an eerie silence hung over the room like the dense fog I saw drifting over the pool last Thursday (I have since been informed that the janitor that tried to clean the chlorine filtered pool water with ammonia will not be returning). My senses perked as I looked curiously at the coin slot ahead of me.

Questions burned in my mind as I realized the quarter had not fallen into this mechanical wonder also known as the washing machine. “What could this mean? What elementary law of physics has faltered that would allow such a catastrophe? Is it a sign? An omen? The fundamental glitch in the framework of cosmological law upon which the crux of our entire universe rests could very well be the loose thread from which reality as we know it unravels!”

But I contained my excitement, though I nearly succumbed to the enticing temptation to poise my body into the yogic position of “Penguin in Flight” while meditating for hours on the sound of a quarter not falling in a washing machine.

But no . . . my place in this event that could shape the entire future of our small planet was not merely the role of observer. No, from the beginning of my conscious memory I knew I was different . . . special . . . destined for a choice only I could make, from which the path of humanity might be forever altered.

So I took a deep breath, calmed my nerves, and put a second quarter into that infernal machine.

Again . . . silence.

That ear deafening silence was enough to drive any normal man crazy. With pulsing heart and racing mind I gripped my head in my hands and tried to think.

After moments, which seemed like hours, which passed as decades, which very well could have been mistaken for millennia or two, a neuron sparked in the endless tangle of nerves and electricity that is my marvelous brain and an idea came to mind.

With feet so swift, it was as if they wore the winged shoes of Mercury, I dashed up the stairs and into to my second floor room, opened my desk drawer, and reached into my highly structured and meticulously organized heap of school supplies. What my hand pulled out would be the miraculous, divinely appointed tool that would change my life forever:

a paper clip.

Bearing the paperclip tenderly, like a squire asked to carry the legendary sword of King Arthur or a mere mortal bequeathed with the mighty hammer of Thor, I raced to the only loose thread of the space-time continuum known to man . . . the first floor washing machine of Moncrief Hall.

But I didn’t just use the paper clip in its original form. No, like a potter at the wheel or a blacksmith at the hearth I molded my blunt paper filing utensil into an apparatus worthy of saving the world from eternal oblivion.

As my heart pounded through my chest I poked the paper clip into that infernal slit through which an entire vortex of matter, time, and space might burst at any millisecond - the coin slot.

Like a neurosurgeon involved in open brain surgery or a nuclear physicist precariously trying bring his plant back from the brink of meltdown, I fiddled with the paper clip in the coin slot. And after a few anxious moments, upon which I could feel the weight of the world on my shoulders, a quarter slowly emerged from the slot.

With a sigh of relief I raised my arms in triumph, thankful to have completed my task with the diligence of a good and faithful servant. But woe to my overflowing pride of victory – the puncture in the very essence of reality still cried out to me. There was more work to be done.

Of course! I had unthinkingly forgotten the second quarter I had placed in the awe-inspiring example of American machinery appropriately adorned across the display according to the unquestionably solid principles of feng shui with a “made in China” sticker.

With some more sweat educing work with my carefully manufactured instrument previously known as a mere paper clip, (for I have now deemed it “Tal’Ratha the Destroyer” and as such it will be known until the end of time) the second quarter rolled lazily out of the coin slot.

An overwhelming sense of what can only be described as benign demonic intervention swept over every fiber of my being. I had done the right thing. Nirvana could not be far from how I felt at that moment.

But wait . . . the ebb and flow of karmic force that kept the very world in balance was still off kilter – I could feel it in my bones. I licked my finger and raised it in search of the four winds.

Yes . . . the normal coursing of chi energy through the veins of Mother Earth was still being disturbed by the vile slit between worlds - the coin slot. There was still work to be done.

With some more perilously slow and vigilantly cautious fiddling, yet another quarter came out of the coin slot, then another. I shook my head in bewilderment, looking at the two quarters I had put into that unbelievably wonderful clothes washing miracle machine next to the ones I hadn’t. And an epiphany flooded the neurons of the never-ending well spring of knowledge that is my mind.

I had just doubled my investment! A complete 100% increase of resource capital. If I had gone public with this entrepreneurial world-saving venture, I would be rolling in as much overstated profits as an internet company.

And with more careful fiddling, the multi-function, dual rinse, dual soak feature marvel of the modern world reared yet two more quarters.

Yes my friends, the universal powers that be have smiled down on me with a 200% return on money that was never really mine. I can’t think of a more undeniable sign of what I am supposed to do with my life. I have even come up with a title, for my future career is nothing less then groundbreaking. The human resources of this trend-setting new profession will be called: Coin De-Stuckers, exciting isn’t it!

So, Mom and Dad, I wanted you to know that your investment into the prestigious university of which I am now a part has bestowed upon me a gift I doubt could be given anywhere but down here in the humble state of Texas. I have resolved to be a Coin De-Stucker, and nothing with deter me from this end.

Some may laugh at my noble career choice; in fact some of my less accepting scholarly brothers and sisters did five minutes ago, but I know that 200% return on investments don’t lie. And someday I will be laughing at them, all the way to the bank.

But don’t worry; while fine tuning my skills and expertise in this celebrated new field, I will pursue the mundane and materialistic academia that this world has to offer. But while drudging in the mire of common knowledge one thing gives me hope. I know that I work for a higher power . . . money.

Sincerely yours – Austin Mierow

THE VOORN PROJECT
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