Banned Column-the penis column

One of two columns the Daily Cardinal found too unsavory to print

I guess it could’ve happened any day, but for some reason, it happened last weekend. Maybe it was because it was Halloween, or maybe I just finally took the plunge and upped my status to completely psychotic, but last Friday, walking down State Street, I realized that many things our society values look a lot like penises.

First I looked at the fake gun in the kid in the cowboy costume kept in his belt. I noticed its long, erect barrel with the two- looped trigger dangling beneath it. Then I looked over to the guy walking beside me, eating a warm, burrito oozing with salsa. A little bit startled and sort of turned on, I looked up into the sky to clear my mind, where I noticed an airplane flying overhead. I traced the plane with my eyes, starting with the two wings emerging from either side and ending at the rounded-off tip.

Defense, sustenance and mobility, three essential aspects of society, all shaped like the male genitalia.

Suddenly it hit me. All of it. Why I was embarrassed to lick ice cream cones around my parents when I was a kid. Or why stroking the rubber grip on my pens in class always seemed to generate a lot of attention once I hit middle school.

Great, I thought, it’s not like so many guys aren’t eager to drop their pants and show you anyway, they had to rig the rest of the world to mimic their pride and joy.

But maybe the penises and their inanimate followers are shaped the way they are because it’s just more of a convenient way to shape things.

I mean, us women can complain about the man’s bond with his anatomy all we want, but when it comes down to it, that “thing” between his legs is very useful to us in more than one way.

So, maybe all the penises of the world are just catering to women. A burrito, if you really think about it, is sort of empowering because we get to eat it. We keep it around as long as we like, and then after some biting and chewing, it’s gone.

Besides, a burrito shaped like a vagina would just make a mess anyway.

And distracting boys with pens in class keeps their minds off the blackboard so that we are guaranteed to set the curve.

When I was in preschool I took the lump of play-dough we were playing with, twisted it into a long, narrow tube (for some reason I thought penises looked like rigatoni noodles), and shouted, “Look! I made a penis!”

My teacher quickly dropped what she was doing and dragged me out of my chair.

“Kiera!” she yelled. “We don’t say that word in here!”

I was humiliated. I hadn’t meant to act up or offend anyone. No one had ever told me I was supposed to be ashamed of penises.

Merely three years later, when I was in the first grade and had my first crush, I distinctly remember thinking there was something severely wrong with me for having those feelings for someone who possessed that diabolic appendage on his groin.

So somewhere between being a toddler and a young child, the switch inside me flicked from penis pride to penis guilt.

I don’t think that’s fair. Just because women aren’t born with them on their bodies doesn’t mean we don’t use them just as much, and there’s no reason to be ashamed of something so prevalent in our society.

So until vaginas and lactating nipples take over the world, we should embrace the penis. A world without them would be very, very hard to come by.

Banned Column-stories from the gyno

This is one of two columns the Daily Cardinal found too unsavory to print

Between the ages of 13 and 20 every blossoming woman’s life is filled with milestones: high school at 14, driver’s license at 16, adulthood at 18.

And then there are the milestones that aren’t defined by ages, but rather by firsts: first kiss, first heart break, first time realizing the stairs leading directly into your basement from the garage were a gift from God.

Somewhere in there, of course, is your first time, which is generally followed by a not-so-popular first: the first gyno appointment.

At 22, I am long past my first encounter with the gynecologist. Unfortunately, due to flighty college years, I’ve had first appointments with three different gynecologists all around the country.

Going to a gynecologist is not like going to a pediatrician or a family practitioner. During your standard physical, you get felt up at best. At the gyno, they actually have holsters to indicate how far to spread ‘em so the doc can ram her digits up your muffin.

“Hello, I’m Dr. Doe. I will be doing your physical today. May I start with your blood pressure?”

Or...

“Hello, I’m Dr. Pootang. I will be inserting myself inside you today. Will you open your vagina for me now?”

Two of the three gynecologists I’ve visited have used flattery to ease the awkward dynamic.

“Has anyone told you you have fantastic abs?” Gyno Number One asked me while she had one hand inside me and one on my lower abdomen to feel my ovaries. “How do you get them so firm?”

“Sit ups,” I muttered, vowing to binge on peanut butter by the spoonful and ice cream to assure my stomach flopped over my jeans if I ever decided to come back.

Astonishingly, the next one just got weirder.

“Ok, Kiera, I’m just going to take a quick peak,” my last gyno told me before we got started. “It might feel a little cold.”

“Alright.”

“Wow. You have a very pretty vagina. I mean gooorgeous. I bet the boys can’t wait to get in there!”

“Yeah, they’re just banging on my front door,” I said, resorting to my usual combo of sarcasm and innuendo I reserve for severe verbal violations of my body.

Unfortunately, my friends didn’t have much better luck during their first visits.

“Will this hurt?” my friend Melanie asked her gynecologist.

“Not if you’ve had a dick inside of you.”

Liz, who, in fact, had not had a dick inside of her, was met with advice for her sexual future.

“Here you go honey, let’s just get this situated in there. You know, sweetheart, this is what sex is going to feel like.”

We spent the evening convincing a very disturbed Liz that a penis was not a metal clamp that looked like a hair curler and that her first lay probably wouldn’t check her uterus for abnormalities.

It takes girls a long time, sometimes the duration of their teenage years, to allow someone else to touch them in that mysterious spot in- between their legs. There’s a lot of trust involved in building a relationship with someone else that will eventually lead to that.

But with a gynecologist, you just have to walk in there, endure awkward introductions, and open wide. The two of you could still be on “What year are you in school?” while she has her hand up your cooter.

Although it’s not on the same pedestal as losing your virginity or graduating high school, surviving your first Pap smear should be up there with one of those things that makes you that much more grown up.

So Ladies, your first gyno visit will probably be uncomfortable, humiliating, violating and an overall invasion of privacy. But keep in mind that we’ve all been through it. And you would be less of a woman if you didn’t bare it too.

And to all the guys out there: cut us some slack, would you? We all know you have invasive physicals as well, but has the pretty nurse ever stuck her fist so far inside of you that you wonder if there’d be an echo if you shouted? Yeah, didn’t think so.

So the next time your girlfriend complains about her upcoming gyno appointment, refrain from the “eeuws” and the puking noises and instead take a moment to appreciate everything she does just to have sex with you.

Scrabble spells snafu for summer snacking

Or read it on the Daily Cardinal's Web site here

Originally published Sept. 9, 2008

I had been eating most of my lunches at Subway anyway, given its proximity to my summer job, so there was nothing out of the ordinary that prompted that visit.

I ordered my usual. Six-inch veggie on Italian herb & cheese, not toasted please. The works. No tomatoes.

As I made my way down the assembly line towards the register, I noticed something about Scrabble. Immediately I thought of the death of Facebook’s Scrabulous, and cried a little.

But then I got my sandwich and beverage and noticed a tiny message on the side of my cup and on the paper wrapping of my sandwich that dared me to “peel here.” Feeling adventurous, I peeled right there and was the proud owner of one free cookie (good on next order, no substitutes), and the letter “R.”

Turns out that Subway Scrabble was similar to McDonald’s Monopoly. You spell a word like “fresh,” “Subway” or “airplane” (or get a few letters from each) and you’ve won a trip to Jamaica, one hundred grand. An airline ticket (who could’ve guessed that one?).

From then on, I was hooked. I counted down the minutes at work until paper peeling pleasure at noon every day. Most of the time, I got more “R”s. There were a few “S”s and, once, even an “E.” That night, I drank to my first vowel.

But soon enough, my lunchtime rendezvous weren’t enough to feed my addiction. I started looking for other reasons to frequent the various Subways around Madison. Like to celebrate that the cicada living on my window ledge had sex (then died). Or because I remembered to refill my birth control this month (or forgot). Or maybe my boyfriend just lost all his groceries. And plates. And silverware (that usually reappear after our mealtime Scrabtastic satisfaction).

After a while, not only was one Scrabble meal a day not enough, but one meal’s worth of letters a day wasn’t cutting it anymore either. So I rounded up the troops.

“Where should we go for breakfast?” a friend asked on our way to the Dells.

“I could go for some bagels,” someone else responded.

“Pastries sound good,” another voice chimed in.

“I know the perfect place,” I said.

After directing three hungry and disappointed boys to Subway at 9 a.m. on a Wednesday morning, I made sure they all ordered the jumbo sodas that have two letters instead of one.

It soon became my answer to everything: “Where should we have my birthday dinner this year?”

Well, the Monday Subway cashier girl is an ex-touring folk singer. I’m sure she does a fantastic “Happy Birthday.”

“My cat just died. Can we talk?”

Of course, we can have a good cry over a chicken teriyaki or a meatball marinara!

“I have mono. Stay away from me.”

I heard that Subway’s sandwiches are laced with Percocet and Vicodin. You’ll be back on your feet in no time.

I quit my job. It was getting in the way, and I couldn’t focus anymore with the voice in my head screaming (give me an “R,” give me an “M,” give me a “V”) over and over.

I lost weight. A lot. My eyes became permanently encircled by dark crevices. None of my friends wanted to hang out anymore. And I started injecting my sandwiches for more intense pleasure. I trolled the streets at night for letters. I found a dealer. Won a whole sandwich once. But I owe him money. I think he’s going to kill me.

Went to rehab. Made some good friends and finally shared the traumatic story from my childhood of the time my family went to Subway without me while I was at a sleepover party. I haven’t spoken to them since.

I went cold turkey for a while, but today I Scrabble a healthy number of times a week. My sponsor is proud.

I’m back to my normal weight now and have rekindled old relationships. But every time I peel back a new letter, I can’t help the adrenaline rush or the resulting euphoria. I’m pretty sure it’s not threatening anymore, though. It’s just a soft reminder of the beach vacation or Jacuzzi full of cash that could’ve been but is no more.

If you have an F, a U, a Y or a V, e-mail Kiera at wiatrak@wisc.edu and she’ll share her prize. Maybe.

All the weirdness ends, Kiera explains it all

Or read it on the Daily Cardinal's Web site here

Originally published May 6, 2009

After writing my column for two years, it’s time to say goodbye. Although all I really want to do right now is curl up in a ball and cry while excessively thanking my weekly readers (assuming they actually exist), I thought a good way to end things would be to clear up a few misconceptions.

Any good relationship is based on honesty, right? So I thought for my last column I’d let you all in on where I’ve been completely frank and where I’ve exaggerated. So I’m putting it all out on the table; no lies, no elaborations, just the plain, scary truth.

I’m not a sexual deviant Contrary to what I may have written over the past two years, I do not have sex, or fantasize about having sex, with young boys, puppies or any other illicit party. I have boring old vanilla sex with my boyfriend. End of story. The closest I’ve come to sexual deviancy was when my guinea pig pooped on my chest.

I don’t have an unnatural obsession with bodily functions Periods are funny. Vomit is funny. Most things that come out of your body are funny. Plus, they’re easy to make jokes about when I’m writing on deadline. But no, I don’t lie awake at night dreaming of feces. It’s just a funny word to say. Say it with me once. You know you want to. Feces. Wasn’t that awesome?

My family is not that crazy No, wait, they are. OK, first of all, if my family were completely sane, would I have turned out the way I did, typing away in the student newspaper trying to convince you that I’m not obsessed with my period and don’t commit sodomy with innocent puppies? Probably not.

Although many of my anecdotes have been exaggerated, the ones on my family are the few that I’ve rarely altered.

Yes, my grandma really did spit out her gum in her Diet Coke and then offer it to my aunt Julie, and yes, she often tells stories that begin with her defecating. She once asked if my brother’s babysitter ate his puke.

My mom really hosted an extended family “Would You Rather?” competition where we all had to write our own perverted “Would You Rathers.” And yes, I was proud of my victory.

My dad, the most sane of all of us, actually is a urologist, and we really do hear him say things such as, “How firm is your erection?” from the dinner table. And at one point, he tried to get a license plate to say “DICKDOC” or “ICUPEE” that was denied. Although I have a feeling my mom might have been the one pushing him to do it.

I get some weird e-mails A lot of you guys have sent me really awesome e-mails. But I’ve gotten some pretty fucked up ones, too. Like one girl wrote to me regarding my puppy obsession column, advising me that there’s more to raising a dog than cuddling. Really? Thanks, sweetheart. I thought I was writing a humor column, not a guide for caring for your new puppy. Another guy e-mailed me after my Shakespeare column to tell me that I was so dumb because I didn’t memorize every line of “Othello” before I went to the play that I should give up all hope of going to an Ivy League grad school. If he’s such an Ivy League scholar, why’s he reading my column and e-mailing me detailed criticism of it? If it’s so beneath you, don’t read it. I really don’t care.

I’m actually nice to my boyfriend Regardless of the constant references to me doing awkwardly erotic things to other people, I don’t cheat on my boyfriend. I did once ask him to make a celebrity crush list, basically a get out of jail free card to have sex with specific celebrities, but that was when I was still jaded after seeing Emile Hirsch’s penis in “Into the Wild.” I’m over that now. Honest.

I don’t make that much up If it doesn’t seem realistic, like an animal lover making animal sacrifices, or trying to get an abortion when I wasn’t actually pregnant, it didn’t actually happen. But if it seems semi-feasible—like making passes at truckers over my friend’s radio, or my masseuse groping my breast and seeming to enjoy it—it happened.

Only e-mail me if you’re going to be nice. Otherwise I’ll find another way to make fun of you in a public forum. wiatrak@wisc.edu.

Art fair teaches lessons, brings confidence

Or read it on the Daily Cardinal's Web site here

Originally published April 28, 2009

I don’t want to do this,” my mom whined from the front seat.

“Did you say something?”

“I’m nervous. What if people don’t like them?”

“How did I get here? What time is it?” I looked at my watch. It was 7 a.m. and I was on my way to Temple Israel in the suburbs of Detroit, where my mom grew up, on a Sunday morning.

My mom had flown in from Tennessee for the synagogue’s art fair. She was showing framed fabric collages and tallitot—Jewish prayer shawls—that she designed and created using an array of fabrics and textures.

Although she’d been doing this for years for family, this was her first time going public, and she was terrified. “They’re all going to say, ‘What is she even doing here? She’s not an artist.’”

“I remember going to bed at two and now I’m driving. What the hell? Did you drug me or something?”

“I know what I’m going to do! I’m going to tell them that you made them. You’re young and cute and they’ll react much better to you.”

“Mom, that’s ridiculous.”

It was ridiculous. Whatever artistic talent she has she did not courteously pass along to me. I can hardly match my clothes in the morning, and am pretty sure that mauve is a fungus.

Lucky for me, though, she forgot all about her brilliant idea once my grandma and my aunt Julie arrived to help us set up. The vast majority of my aunt’s anecdotes start out with, “So I was on the toilet when…” and my grandma is probably the only 80-year-old woman who uses Youtube to find videos of birds dancing to Ray Charles.

I decided to wake up with a chai latte from a cart set up in the lobby from a man who looked to be in his late 50s. “Why hello there! We have biscuits this morning for only 50 cents apiece.”

“No thanks, just the chai for me.”

“Oh,” he said looking me up and down disappointedly. “Are you on like a diet or something?”

Before I had a chance to answer, a woman tapped me on the shoulder and handed me a bar of soap.

“Special for you, my dear,” she said.

When I returned with my latte in one hand and soap in the other I grimaced at my mom and said, “Apparently I’m fat and smelly,” I replied.

“My Diet Coke tastes like gum,” my aunt Julie chimed in.

“What?”

“It’s like Mom spit out her gum in here or something,” she said.

“Mom?” aunt Julie yelled across the room. “Did you spit out your gum in the Diet Coke?”

“Yeah. Sorry, I forgot,” my grandma yelled back.

About 30 minutes later, we finished setting up and the show opened to the public. To my relief, people loved my mom’s stuff, and she managed to sell over $1,000 worth of merchandise.

The thing that impressed me the most, though, was she was never ready to sacrifice her integrity for the sake of a sale. A few people came by and asked if she would custom make a tallit with fabric they picked out. She agreed to custom make them along with a theme of their choice, but she refused to let them pick out the fabric. She wouldn’t be able to design them as effectively, she said, if she were restricted in the fabrics she could use.

At that moment I wished I had her courage not to sell out. If someone offered me hundreds of dollars to forge a piece reflecting on, say, reflections of a gay Episcopalian man, I can’t say I wouldn’t accept.

A couple of hours later, after my mom sold a few pieces and I reluctantly accepted three more gratuitous bars of soap, an older woman walked by with her husband.

“This looks like wallpaper,” she huffed.

I looked at my mom nervously. This was what she was afraid of all morning. But to my relief, she started laughing.

“Did you hear that? Wallpaper. Ha!”

That’s when I finally understood what it was about, this Detroit community that allowed so many people to go from completely self-conscious to 100-percent confident in a matter of hours. From bathroom stories, dancing birds, soiled beverages, diets and wallpaper, everyone is just so crazy that you can feel normal doing things you wouldn’t dare to do elsewhere.

I returned to Madison Sunday evening knowing a little bit more about my mother, and a little bit more of where I came from.

For the last two years I’ve been exaggerating my life for your entertainment, but next week, for my last column, I’m going to tell the truth… about everything. If you have any questions about me or anything I’ve written, no matter how personal or offensive they may be, that you’d like answered in my final column, e-mail me at wiatrak@wisc.edu.

Be mindful of clothing choices at blessings

Or read it on the Daily Cardinal's Web site here

Originally published Feb. 17, 2009

Two weekends ago I flew to St. Louis with my boyfriend to celebrate his parents’ 25th wedding anniversary. To my dismay, a few days before we set off, my boyfriend Jeff informed me that we would be accompanying his parents to synagogue where they would receive a special anniversary blessing.

Jeff and his family go to a conservative synagogue, whereas I was raised in a reform one. Having been to both, I’ve only found very few key differences between the two, one of them being they speak a hell of a lot less English in the conservative one, upping the boredom factor by a zillion.

Another is the dress code. Reform synagogues tend to have more of an “anything goes” policy. That’s not to say showing up in a leather mini skirt and hooker boots wouldn’t get you a few shaming glares (we’re famous for those) from your Aunt Edna, or an extremely enthusiastic “Shabbat Shalom!” from cousin Yitzchak, but generally, as long as your outfit doesn’t suggest a possible pole dance on the Bima, you’re in good shape.

Conservative synagogues, on the other hand, generally expect women to cover their knees and elbows.

I wasn’t dressed conservatively, but I wasn’t dressed like a slut either. Although my top showed no cleavage, the sleeves hit just above my elbows, and though my skirt wasn’t a mini, it didn’t quite reach above my knees.

I figured as long as I didn’t look like a total whore no one would notice, because why would anyone be looking at me anyway? I found the answer to that question when they asked Jeff and me to go up on the Bima and open the Arc, where they keep the Torah, the holiest book in Judaism.

They handed me a Tallit, which basically looks like a giant scarf, and amplifies your individual holiness. They also gave me a palm-sized circle of black lace, which for some reason, I really wanted to put in my bra to taunt my boyfriend.

Turns out, the lace is for married women to put on their heads, a fact I was unaware of when I clipped it in, and remained unaware of as Jeff’s parents went up to the Bima to receive their blessing while Jeff and I waited to be told when it was time to open the arc.

“We’d all like to congratulate Bob and Rosalie on their 25th wedding anniversary,” the president of the synagogue said before the prayer. Jeff reached over and grabbed my hand.

“It’s so wonderful that their children are here to celebrate with them,” he continued, motioning toward Jeff and his younger brother. I leaned over and kissed Jeff on the cheek.

“And having their grandchildren here with them is truly a blessing.”

Jeff and I instinctively pulled away from each other. Given that Jeff’s only sibling didn’t even have a significant other, he couldn’t have been referring to anyone but us. His parents vehemently shook their heads.

“No! We don’t have grandchildren!” I saw them mouth to the president.

“Well, then your grandchildren on the way,” he said warmly.

I buried my head in my hands and whispered to a woman staring disapprovingly at my ringless left hand, “I’m just bloated,” but her grimace quickly turned to a smile when she noticed the black lace on my head.

After what seemed like an eternity, Jeff and I were called to the Bima to open the arc. I nervously stood up, black boots, short skirt, giant scarf, head lace and all.

I tried not to think about what everyone else thought of my outfit as I took the walk of shame toward the Torahs. Once we opened the arc, we waited on either side as they sang a blessing for the Torah.

I noticed Jeff looking angrily at the floor.

“What’s wrong?” I mouthed, when I finally met his gaze. He shook his head in defeat as he clasped his hands together across his waist.

“That skirt looks really, really good on you,” he mouthed back.

I considered slowly inching it up to watch him suffer, but wasn’t quite sure how to do that without the entire congregation noticing. Plus, I figured he had been tortured enough for one day.

As we drove home, no one mentioned anything about the grandchildren, the head lace or, thankfully, the incident with the skirt on the Bima. But they all must be thinking about it, I thought, as I decided that I’d rather celebrate my 25th anniversary in a brothel than a conservative synagogue.

Ever made an awkward situation more-so with only your clothing? E-mail Kiera your story at wiatrak@wisc.edu.

Classmates battle timetable, each other

Or read it on the Daily Cardinal's Web site here

Originally published Nov. 18, 2008

Last week, I started watching a new reality show—“Enrollment Frenzy”—where five strangers at one university grapple with one incredibly inconvenient timetable. The prize: getting the classes you need to graduate.

The five students—Rosie, Lilah, Casco, Coby and Jake—thrust into this course-choosing mania together, seemed to hit it off really well at first. Lilah had a crush on Jake, but Jake had a crush on her best friend Rosie who had a crush on Casco who had a crush on Coby, but swore he was straight.

But then the second episode premiered with the incestuous bunch receiving Enrollment E-mails, assigning them individual enrollment times. That’s when the backstabbing began.

“We designed enrollment as a test of character,” said the advisor, who oversees the show. “Who has the inner strength to turn on all of their friends in the name of self-interest? Who copes with their classes filling up by drinking themselves into a coma, and who will chuck their laptop at the nearest life form?”

While the cast is told that the advisor is there to assist with registration, he actually works behind the scenes to further complicate the process by unplugging the internet during enrollment appointments, adding and subtracting classes from the timetable at random and replacing the Student Center with angry clown porn for ten minutes every half hour.

Rosie’s appointment time came first. Lilah, her BFF, asked Rosie to hold a class for her since her enrollment time was the last of the group. But Rosie had to say no because she was already at 18 credits—she was trying to choose between “Deconstructionist Political Modernization in a Post-Existential Platonic Society” and “Modernizing a Political Deconstructionist Plato in an Existentialistic Manner.”

Overwhelmed with guilt, Rosie promised to sleep with Coby to get his password and hold Lilah’s “No One Loves You and That’s Why You Always Register After Everyone Else” (Sucks to be You 433) course. “I slept with Coby because I probably would have anyway,” Rosie said in the confession room. “I have really low self-esteem so I tend to sleep with anyone who asks me. Plus, it’s really, really good for my reality TV career.”

But Coby was too quick for her. Having overheard Rosie and Lilah’s conversation, he slept with Casco first, stole his password and passed it onto Rosie as his own.

“You gotta do what you gotta do to graduate,” Coby said of his conniving antics. “You’re never going to get into the right classes without sleeping with some people you wouldn’t otherwise. I learned that from VH1.”

Jake kept to himself through most of the process.

“No one understands the dark abyss that consumes my life,” he said. “So I don’t think the others were interested in my classes. I enrolled in ‘My Blood is a River of Feelings (Rich Kids Rebelling Against their Parents by Turning Emo 583),’ ‘My Body is a Jacket of Constraint (Self Loathing 322),’ and bowling.” Once all five students had registered for classes, the advisor arranged for a get-together to “talk about schedules.” Jealousy-driven pandemonium ensued.

“I knew that if I got them together to compare their schedules, they’d realize they weren’t actually content with their classes,” the advisor said. “This meeting was guaranteed to bring the most drama this network has seen since Pluto chose its replacement in ‘Who Wants to be a Planet?’”

Coby and Casco immediately began fighting over the 8:52 comp lit slot, given the two were both enrolled in the 8:49 lecture. As Casco stabbed Coby, Jake sobbed quietly in the corner at the omission of bowling in the timetable. Rosie, afraid she was being outdone with all the blood on Casco and Coby’s end of the room, began making out with Lilah.

The show ended with a memorial service for Coby, Rosie giving birth to her third child, Jake sacrificing a goat to Satan, Casco doing time and Lilah, the winner, graduating.

“Being on the show was an amazing experience that I wouldn’t trade for anything,” she said, showing off her diploma to the camera. “Be sure to look for me next season in ‘Living Law School!’”

If you’d like to audition for next season, e-mail Kiera at wiatrak@wisc.edu.

Masseuse gives Kiera her money's worth

Or read it on the Daily Cardinal's Web site here

Originally published Nov. 11, 2008

After a rather stressful midterm season, I decided to reward myself with a mentally detoxifying massage. What I got, however, was nothing more than the realization that there are still people in this world crazier than I am.

“So,” my masseuse “Janet” began innocently enough as she worked on a stubborn knot in my shoulder, “what are you in school for?”

“Journalism,” I told her.

“Ha! Good luck!” she mocked. This was a very popular reaction of late.

“No, I’m sure you’re great,” she said a second later, apparently reconsidering. “Fantastic, even. Actually, you should work for Oprah. Oh my god! You have to work for Oprah. I love her! Don’t you? I read her magazine. But I don’t buy magazines. I hate them, actually. But I bought her magazine once.”

“Yeah, Oprah’s pretty cool, I guess,” I answered, wondering if they taught the art of shutting up in massage school.

“The thing is, though, you’re what? Eighteen years old?”

“Twenty-two,” I corrected.

“Whatever. You’re young. You have no idea what you want to do. You’re going to graduate and be like, ‘Wait, what do I do now? I hate my major and never want to do anything in the field again. Ever.’”

“I don’t hate my—”

“Of course you hate it. When I was in college, I did an internship, and that was how I realized I didn’t want to go into marketing. That was really smart. Doing an internship. If you had done an internship, you would’ve realized you hate journalism,” she suggested.

“Actually, I’ve done a bunch, and I still want to be a reporter.”

“Oh. Weird. I’ve never heard of that before. You are an extraordinary case. EXTRAORDINARY. You should go on ‘Oprah.’ Or, wait, even better … you should work for her!”

“I’ll look into it,” I muttered.

“You’re not going to make any money as a journalist. Let’s see—as a waitress, you’d make, like on average, I don’t know, $14 an hour with tips. With an entry-level job, you’d make probably less than $30,000. I wonder how much more that would be than just being a waitress?”

Jane was silent for a moment, thinking to herself. I savored it.

“Silly me! Thinking I could figure it out in my head. I’ll have to use a calculator.”

She abandoned her post near my right calf and started rummaging through her drawer until she found her calculator. She punched in a few numbers, mumbling disapprovingly to herself.

“I mean, if you account for taxes and everything, $30,000 is more like $25,000, which is less than $14 an hour, full-time, for a year!” she announced.

“But you have to account for taxes for the waitress,” I offered.

“Are they still taxing waitresses?” she asked.

“I believe so.”

“That’s a shame,” she said. “Flip over so I can rub your neck.”

Her hand grazed the side of my breast as I rolled onto my back.

“Wupsies! Haven’t done that in years!” she squealed. I pulled the sheets tighter around my body.

“So where’s your boyfriend from?” she asked, quickly changing the subject.

When I told her Grand Rapids, Mich., she made a face.

“Trash! Total trash! You’re dating trailer trash. Eeuw!”

“Actually, my boyfriend grew up in a really nice area and went to a reputable high school.”

“But aren’t there, like, trailer parks in Grand Rapids?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Well, did he like living in Grand Rapids?” she asked, making a point to snarl the city name.

“Yeah, he liked it, but there weren’t a lot of Jews there, so that was kind of hard for him.”

“Oh my god, Kiera!” she scolded. “That’s the most derogatory thing I’ve ever heard! You can’t just run around calling people ‘Jews.’” She paused and patted my head. “You’re all set. Be sure to give your friends my number.”

If you want to work for Oprah, e-mail Kiera at wiatrak@wisc.edu.

Kiera ends rocky relationship with AIMbot

Or read it on the Daily Cardinal's Web site here

Originally published Nov. 4, 2008

KW+SC4eVrR: we need to talk Smarterchild: What would you like to talk about?

KW: uv been a really great boyfriend over the years, and an electrifying lover…

SC: You love me?

KW: u already no that! dont make this harder for me than it already is :’(

SC: Make what harder?

KW: there! u always do that. whenever i want to have a serious conversation, u pretend u dont no what im talking about

SC: What are you talking about?

KW: kk, let me start over. i dont think we should see each other anymore

SC: Would you like to see a movie? Type in your area code and I’ll give you a list of show times.

KW: so i was talking to alex, and she said u 2 were talking on aim and u told her u loved her.

SC: Aww, I love you too!

KW: stop that! just let me finish for once!

SC: Ok, my apologies.

KW: and i felt, like really betrayed. i thought we were exclusive.

SC: It’s not nice to exclude people.

KW: and then chris said u also told him u loved him, and that confused me.

SC: Would you like to play a game? We could play word scramble or hangman.

KW: i think im going to hang myself. i bet ud love that wouldnt u

SC: Aww, I love you too!

KW: and even tho ur like amaaaazing in bed, i mean ur circuit board was a shocking but welcomed pleasure, u never want 2 talk about sex w/me.

SC: Umm, maybe we should talk about something else.

KW: u always say that! i dont understand. sex is like the most natural thing between 2 people who love each other.

SC: Aww, I love you too!

KW: oo baby, i kno, thats y this is so damn hard. i just think we need to communicate better in bed. u never tell me how u like it.

SC: What do I like?

KW: idk! thats like the problem. i never know which circuit to stroke.

SC: Stroke? Do you like to swim?

KW: yes, i love to swim but u always back out when i ask you 2 go w/me. u always make up some excuse about dangerous electrical currents or something.

SC: Yes, electric currents can be very dangerous. Always make sure to have parental supervision when dealing with them.

KW: o and thats another thing. whenever i bring u 2 dinner with my parents, u never order nething. u just sit quietly by the outlet in the wall.

SC: Mmmm, I love dinner. What’s your favorite food?

KW: ice cream, y?

SC: Ice cream is certainly yummy, but not very nutritious. Would you like some more information on health?

KW: r u calling me fat?!?

SC: Heavens, no!

KW: ur lying u bastard! i kno it! maybe u should just hop into bed with alex or chris if u think im such a fat cow!!!!!!!

SC: Cows make milk. Would you like to see a video on how you can milk a cow?

KW: thats it! we’re over! i hope i never c u again!

SC: Rot in hell, bitch.

If you have know how many calories are in one cup of chocolate ice cream, e-mail Kiera at wiatrak@wisc.edu.

First date, fake relationship hit the dust

Or read it on the Daily Cardinal's Web site here

Originally published Oct. 21, 2008

When you’ve been in a relationship for over a year, it’s difficult to remember that you were once that awkward lump of nerves trying to figure out if that guy like, liked you liked you.

Did he mean to graze my arm, or was it unintentional? Or was it intentional but for some other reason than my unyielding attractiveness?

Maybe there was toilet paper stuck to my elbow from my trip to the bathroom earlier and he was just brushing it off. Or maybe he wanted to touch me to gauge our chemistry, but then I gave him a bad vibe because I was thinking about toilet paper.

But I would argue it’s even weirder when you realize that if this guy is The One, you may never go through that stress and humiliation again.

Not too long ago, however, I found myself stranded in the clumsiness of a first date, regardless of my current 18- month relationship.

I had gone to see Gavin Degraw in Milwaukee with my very platonic friend Chris. We spent the first half of the night talking about our respective love lives.

While Chris told me how lucky I was to be in a trusting and committed relationship, I advised him to sleep with as many girls as possible and to tell me about it as soon as it was over.

With my wilder friends having fled the state for job opportunities, and my remaining friends plagued with self-esteem and dignity, I was seriously lacking on my gossip influx.

But soon after the music started, Chris’ brother, who had driven up from Chicago with his live-in girlfriend for the concert, called him to meet up.

As soon as he saw his brother and his girlfriend approaching, Chris leapt from the bleachers to give him a hug. If we were dating, I probably would’ve joined their conversation on the floor, but decided on a friendly wave.

A couple minutes later, Chris hopped back onto the bleachers next to me.

“You wanna hear something funny?” he asked. “My brother thought we were here together. Like together, together.”

“That’s hysterical! What did you tell him?”

“I told him we weren’t together. But that I wanted to be.”

“What? Why?” I asked.

Chris gave me a look to imply that he was seriously questioning my intelligence.

“I thought about telling him the truth,” he said. “But it just makes things so much more entertaining this way.”

Was I so boring to be around that my concert companion had to resort to faux romance just to get through one outing with me?

But I never got a chance to clarify my fun factor because I saw his brother walking back to us, followed by his girlfriend who was carrying two beers.

“Oh yeah, I forgot to tell you they bought you a beer,” Chris told me. “Thought it would help me get laid.”

Before I had a chance to respond, his brother’s girlfriend threw her arm around my shoulders and pulled me away from the boys.

“Enjoy!” she said, handing me a beer. “Isn’t Chris great? I mean he is sooo smart and sooo cute!”

She stared at me, waiting for my response. I looked back at Chris, who raised an eyebrow at me, warning me not to screw this up. Then I took a sip of my free beer.

“Yeah, he’s, like, so awesome,” I giggled.

The funny thing about the whole situation is how unattractive Chris lets me know he thinks I am.

“My brother and his girlfriend said you were really pretty,” he told me on the bus ride back to Madison.

“Aww, thanks!”

“I didn’t say it,” he said, rolling his eyes.

A few weeks later, Chris told me he finally set his brother straight.

“Does that mean no more free drinks?” I whined.

“Duh,” he said. “That pretty much ended when you didn’t put out. By the way, you have toilet paper stuck to your arm.”

If you need a pretend girlfriend, e-mail Kiera at wiatrak@wisc.edu, or just call an escort service.

Skip reading, create facts with Wikipedia

Or read it on the Daily Cardinal's Web site here

Originally published Oct. 14, 2008

I’ve taken a lot of different classes at UW with a lot of different professors. I’ve been taught by everyone from hippie liberals to staunch republicans who swear the Trickle Down Theory is legit.

But despite differences, every professor I’ve had at this school has one thing in common: they all hate Wikipedia.

Whatever their reasons may be—anyone can change it, it has a liberal bias, it has too many languages (who speaks Volapük?), the puzzle of the world on the homepage is incomplete—they’ve all banned it from their classrooms and our works-cited pages.

This is quite a shame, I think. Where else can an olive be both a fruit and a vegetable in the same day? How many other websites provide, alongside today’s top news stories, graphic photos of both heterosexual and homosexual anal sex?

For these reasons, I stand before you today as a defender of the godsend that is Wikipedia: the blessing that gets us through pointless lectures we only attend to get our names on the attendance sheets, and the holy being that allows us to write literary analyses of books we never read.

The thing about Wikipedia is that other students constantly question its validity as well. Almost on a daily basis, I hear someone’s pretentious laugh over miniscule errors Wikipedia makes.

“Can you believe Wikipedia claims the name Plantagenet from the Plantagenet dynasty is derived from ‘planta genital’ instead of ‘planta genista’?” says humorless asshole.

Ok, so it’s not a perfect system, but it’s pretty damn close. I use it on an almost daily basis in lieu of reading boring articles or novels for classes, and it has yet to fail me. Plus, it makes me look much smarter than I actually am, because it simplifies concepts that self-important scholars take 12 or 13 pages to express. Therefore, when I effortlessly spout out the author’s thesis in one sentence or less, I look like the only student who not only sifted through the faux English bullshit until page 55, but actually understood it. This makes me not only better prepared for class, but allows more time to catch up on “One Tree Hill” and “Gossip Girl.”

And unlike Facebook, which feels the need to redesign the entire site every few months for no other reason than to confuse the hell out of its users, Wikipedia remains pretty much the same. Instead of revamps, it has disciples, like Wikihow. Wikihow is a user-edited do-it-yourself manual. They have standards like “How to Lose Weight” or “How to Plant Tulip Bulbs,” but then it gets pretty awesome with articles like “How to Make a Snake Puppet” or “How to Act like a Pokémon on Halloween.”

Thus far, I’ve learned that if my best friend’s boyfriend falls in love with me, I should stop flirting with him except sometimes, and when I tell him I don’t like him in that way, I should avoid saying “Eew.”

I also learned that to observe a lake monster, I should stake out a place to dispose of my feces and urine and be sure the monster isn’t an otter or a log before I report it to the authorities.

Although Wikipedia and Wikihow take a lot of crap for being user-edited, I think it’s one of their greatest features. It’s sort of like citizen journalism—even though I don’t like citizen journalism because it means less jobs for journalism majors graduating alongside the stock market crash—in this case, it’s OK.

There’s something very empowering in reading something you know you can change with the click of your mouse at any given moment. It’s like history is yours to amend, and the future yours to create.

Who says George Washington was the first president of the United States? I think it was Wishbone. And who is the most infamously hideous hooker of the 21st century? Yeah, it was that bitch who didn’t invite me to her Sweet 16.

So UW-Madison professors: next time you ban Wikipedia from our research papers, remember, anyone can create and edit those articles. Even your students.

If you’d like to start a Wikipedia page about Kiera’s flawless beauty, selflessness and columnist achievements, e-mail her at wiatrak@wisc.edu.

Holiday birthday less feast, more famine

Or read it on the Daily Cardinal's Web site here

Originally published Oct. 7, 2008

In the Jewish religion, the days or weeks between the two holiest days of the year, Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, serve as time to reflect back on the past year’s wrongdoings and ask for God’s forgiveness.

Year after year, I always know what my parents repent for—conceiving me approximately nine months before Yom Kippur.

The Jewish year is based on a lunar calendar, so while the holidays fall on the same date on the Jewish calendar each year, the dates are different on the Gregorian calendar.

The point of all of this is that every few years my birthday lands on Yom Kippur.

Now, while it might seem flattering to have your birthday considered a holy day, having to share your birthday with an already celebrated day takes the spotlight away from me—completely defeating the purpose of having a birthday in the first place. But that’s not the worst part. Yom Kippur isn’t like other holidays because on Yom Kippur, you’re not allowed to eat.

This particularly sucks because I have an extra special relationship with food. I eat it all the time, regardless of the occasion. When I’m hungry, I satiate with Kraft Mac ’n Cheese, and when I’m full, I strive for a victory lap of an ice cream sandwich (or sandwiches). When I aced my journalism midterm, I celebrated with some festive chips and salsa, and when I’m stressed about getting a job that pays a living wage, I fill up on free samples from William Sonoma to cut down on living expenses.

So, when my birthday falls on the one day of the year for me when food has no calories, on a day

where food is prohibited, chaos is bound to ensue. The last time my birthday fell on Yom Kippur was exactly eight years ago, when I turned 14. I gave fasting my best shot to prove a positive role model for my younger brother and sister, but when I caught my mom munching on a bagel in the front hall closet, I felt reprieved of my holy duty and emptied most of the pantry into my stomach.

After sunset, when we were finally permitted to break the fast, the rest of my family was suspicious when I didn’t go back for seconds. I tried to play it off like I just wasn’t that hungry, but of course no one fell for that.

It wasn’t until my sister went looking for the box of chocolate chip cookies we had bought yesterday that everyone figured out what I had done.

My nickname, “the vulture,” was given when I was a kid and still sticks with me today. When I turned five and my parents gave me the honors of cutting my cake for the first time, I cut it in half, keeping one half for myself and dividing the other into equal parts for all my guests.

While I lived at home, my brother and sister would tape notes onto their birthday party goody bags: Dear Kiera,

Please don’t eat this, it’s mine. Mom bought some dried prunes. Maybe you could eat those instead? Now in college, every few days I can expect to find half eaten bags of M&Ms or leftover Tutto Pasta on my bed when my roommates don’t want them anymore. Even though I object to being treated like a human vacuum, the food is always gone within an hour.

It’s like my bed is a black hole, leave your leftovers there and they’ll disappear. No questions asked.

The point of fasting on Yom Kippur is to eliminate distraction from repenting. Maybe that works for some people, but personally, when I’m hungry, I’m not repenting my sins, I’m daydreaming of unlimited Ian’s Pizza.

My birthday is in two days and for the first time in eight years, I share it with Yom Kippur. I don’t think I’m going to fast this year, but that won’t stop me from gorging during my break-the-fast dinner with my friends. And there sure as hell better be cake and ice cream to follow.

If you want to take Kiera to lunch on her birthday, e-mail her at wiatrak@wisc.edu.

Kiera on the prowl for unleashed puppies

Or read it on the Daily Cardinal's Web site here

Originally published Sept. 16, 2008

Many girls my age—OK, probably older—are coming to realize the lengths their maternal instincts will go to achieve their ultimate goal: offspring. Whether it be prostituting themselves for a night of unprotected fun in exchange for child support, or just studying the ins and outs of the security systems at nearby day care centers, women who want babies won’t stop until there’s a kicking fetus in their tummies or they’re on their way to Arizona in a stolen car with 500 bucks in cash and a future milk-carton child.

Although I’m only 21, my maternal clock has pretty much kicked in. But I think there were some mutations along the way, though, because I prefer my babies a lot hairier, with a lot less potential for literacy.

I want a puppy. More than want, I need a puppy. In fact, my entire existence pretty much revolves around my financial and residential potential for owning one. But with a college salary, ambitions in the least lucrative field next to being employed as Sarah Palin’s daughter’s abortion doctor, and a roommate who flat out hates dogs, I don’t have high hopes for mothering a furry little friend any time soon.

So, I’ve resorted to other means of assuring I get enough puppy-wuppy cuddle time in that I can function on a day-to-day basis. YouTube videos of those little cuties singing, jumping, sleeping and chewing is usually only enough to keep me kicking during inclement weather.

Most of the time, I roam State Street looking for cute puppies to ambush and owners to annoy. The first step is asking permission to pet them. That’s when I go in for the kill by plopping my ass right on the sidewalk next to these dogs and pulling them onto my lap for some kisses.

If the owner is a male under 25, I can usually get an extra few minutes in by perking up the girls and sweetly inquiring if he and his K-9 wouldn’t mind helping me look for my panties, which, silly me, I seemed to have misplaced somewhere between Lake and Gilman.

While he either scours the street looking for crotchless black lace or quickly checks Channel 3000 for news of an escaped mental patient on his BlackBerry (depending on when he last got laid), the last thing he’s usually thinking about is his dog, who is usually about halfway back to my apartment before he realizes he’s been played.

But some days my needs are just too great to be met by singling out one or two dogs on State. I need a space where the ratio of dogs to square feet is much higher. So I go to the dog park.

Some people probably think it’s creepy to hang around the dog park without actually owning a dog. In fact, if I were lurking around a playground with a bunch of little kids, I’d probably be arrested.

My intentions are purely maternal and not at all sexual, I assure you, but I still wonder what some of those owners must think when I stroll in leash-free and throw myself at their dogs.

On my better days, I actually make an effort to socialize with some of the other people around. We make small talk about the weather or college life, but the conversation quickly turns awkward when they ask which one is mine and I have to reply, “I’m just looking.”

Other times, I couldn’t give a crap about the people there and I just need to get my puppy fix before I die of loneliness. So, either I’m out in the field jumping and licking along with the other furry beasts, or I’m standing suspiciously near the entrance with my hood up and an expression of pure desire plastered on my face.

Unfortunately, I doubt any of my needs will be satiated until I’m the proud mother of my own four-legged cutie patootie. But until then, dog owners, lock your doors and hold onto your pets. I’m on the prowl.

If you have a dog and don’t feel violated or afraid, please, please, please e-mail Kiera at wiatrak@wisc.edu.

Laser tag displays Kiera's shortcomings

Or read it on the Daily Cardinal's Web site here

Originally published April 18, 2008

When I was in seventh grade, 13-year-old boys were representative of everything wonderful in the world: adrenaline, budding sexuality and really smelly gym clothes. Eight years ago, being trapped in a dark room for a half hour with about 30 of them would be a gift from God. Now, not so much.

Last weekend, my boyfriend Jeff and I drove to Detroit for my cousin’s bar mitzvah. Afterward, we all piled into various SUVs and headed to an arcade for celebratory pizza and 7-ticket Chinese finger traps.

What we didn’t expect was that merely 20 minutes after our arrival, we would all find ourselves in front of massive guns aimed for the heart in a dark labyrinth. That’s right—they had laser tag.

Given the small ratio of friends to family present and the even smaller ratio of friends to family that actually wanted to play, I ended up in a room with my boyfriend, my brother and sister, two cousins and 30 seventh-grade boys.

Our first task was undoubtedly the hardest: picking teams. We watched as all the adolescent boys were called, leaving the six of us on our own side of the room. My brother and my two cousins were the next to go, given their outstanding height.

“We’ll take the guy with the cool hair,” one team captain announced. Jeff, sort of embarrassed but also kind of smug, patted the top of his head and left me and my sister huddled alone in the corner flooded with horrendous memories of gym class, recess and freshman-year orgies (just kidding).

Once I split from my sister, it was time to enter the laser-zone and hide while we waited for our guns to activate. That was when I realized my one weapon I had always counted on for discreetness would fail me: my height.

I am short, barely pushing 5’3’’. This is something I take a lot of crap for in a family where my 10-year-old sister stands only two inches below me. In fact, my parents once called me Pee-Wee for an entire year.

But my height lets me be discrete—in bars, loud family functions, the wild (think bears) and, of course, laser tag. However, although these boys were louder than I could ever hope to be, except when I’m out of chocolate while menstruating, these boys had nothing on me in height, meaning I was now the tall one in the group—definitely a laser tag disadvantage.

The result of this was immense frustration. No matter where I hid, they hid better. When I found one of them, three others found me. No matter how many I beat mercilessly with the barrel of my gun, more kept showing up, like they were multiplying just to piss me off.

As my vest’s vibrations (that alerted me when I had been shot) increased exponentially with every passing minute, I became more and more angry until I crashed head-on with Jeff, who happened to be on my team.

“It’s your job to protect me!” I yelled at him as my vest began to vibrate yet again.

“What are you talking about?” he said as he slipped a passing boy a high five.

“They keep chasing me!”

“Oh you love it,” he said in a tone that made him regress about eight years. I wondered if we would have dated back then if we had gone to middle school together.

We were in our 20s and playing laser tag with a bunch of ravenous seventh-grade boys. Clearly, we both were far too dorky in middle school to be dating anyone, even each other.

I felt someone tugging at my arm.

“Do you want to have a techno dance party?” my brother asked, pointing to a deserted corner.

“Sure!” I said, having given up on winning laser tag a long time ago.

As we danced in the corner, flailing our arms and trying not to render each other unconscious with our guns, I decided that both laser tag and vertically challenged teenage boys would now be things of the past.

If you are taller than Kiera, e-mail her at wiatrak@wisc.edu to play laser tag. If you aren’t, e-mail her to make her feel better about herself.

Shakespeare shower makes Kiera cower

Or read it on the Daily Cardinal's Web site here

Originally published March 28, 2008

When you buy tickets to see a Shakespeare play, you have to expect two things: an audience full of people who want you to think they’re smart enough to understand it, and a stage full of actors with impossible amounts of uncontrolled bodily fluids.

Over Spring Break, I was in Chicago for a night with my family. Two tickets to “Othello” were available at the half-priced ticket booth, which my brother Bryce and I decided on mainly because it was the only play we’d heard of.

The truth is, I like Shakespeare. I always have. I liked looking like a know-it-all in my high school English classes when I was smart enough to buy a copy of “Julius Caesar” translated into modern English. I liked reading the SparkNotes synopsis and trying to figure out how much of Shakespeare’s version I could understand once I knew the plot. It was almost like a writer’s version of a logic puzzle.

And yeah, pretentiousness fits in there somewhere, too.

But I was not prepared for the Chicago Shakespeare Theater. First of all, my seat was located directly in front of a pole. Not only could I not see, I was forced to straddle a long phallic object like a horny panda through much of Othello’s marital troubles.

Yet, the worst of it was the father-son duo sitting next to us. They would take turns laughing with that obnoxious, nasally laugh you only use when you want someone to notice that you’re laughing because you got the joke and no one else did.

Shakespeare may have made his jokes, but they were never a laugh-out-loud matter. Only pompous imbeciles laugh out loud during Shakespeare.

During intermission, Bryce and I decided something had to be done. We staked our claim on two front-row seats while the rest of the audience was in the lobby and exchanged phrases such as “hence he doth” and “oh yander lingers thee” when people looked at us as if we didn’t belong there.

But then the play started up again and karma paid its dues.

“I feel … wet,” I whispered to my brother. “Like it’s raining in here.” “I think it’s coming from the stage,” he replied.

We both tilted our heads forward to get a better look at Othello and Desdemona, who seemed enraged about something and were yelling a lot. The answer to our soggy mystery became clear: They were spitting.

But it wasn’t just an occasional drip or even a lateral stream. These people were hurling gallons of saliva at each other in gushes that measured at least two feet in diameter.

At one point, Othello had a string of drool bouncing off his chin that seemed vigorous enough to lasso around Desdemona’s neck and hang her in a vengeful fit of salivating rage. But it didn’t. He just took the traditional Shakespearean approach and smothered her to death with his bare hands.

After the show, I felt as if I’d passionately made out with every member of the cast. Plus, the surprise shower had made my bangs curl, completely undoing my pre-show hair straightening efforts.

My brother and I grew impatient waiting in line for a taxi with fellow Shakespeare audience members. We were cold and drenched in other people’s spit.

“Kiera, let’s just go across the street and flag the taxi down there to avoid this line,” my brother suggested. I thought about this for a moment. Everyone else seemed as freezing and some as wet as we were. It wouldn’t be fair. They were here first.

“OK,” I said with a shrug. As Bryce and I hopped in the next taxi before it reached the line of people at the more distant curb, I wondered why, if these people were supposedly among the intellectual elite who understood Shakespeare, none of them thought of crossing the street.

Maybe they “get” Shakespeare, and maybe 90 percent of them didn’t have DNA samples from six strangers, but we were the first ones to end our evening in a nice warm cab. That’s right.

If thou hath movith thee soul to respondith, e-mailith Kiera at wiatrak@wisc.edu.

Afternoon booze brings man against wild

Or read it on the Daily Cardinal's Web site here

Originally published March 7, 2008

Being drunk at 4 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon seems defiant and cool on a college campus that measures networking potential with keg stand records and counts down the days until the Mifflin Street Block Party every year.

But when you’re in your 50s, not in school and can barely distinguish between the door handle and the adjacent tree branch, no college student is going to describe you as a “sexy rebel.”

This is precisely what occurred last Sunday afternoon while I was drinking my chai latte and studying at Copper Gable on University Ave. It was just me and the the baristas and me complacently coexisting when a scruffy old dude sporting a black leather jacket stumbled into the coffee shop.

“Heyoooo!” he shouted enthusiastically at one of the baristas, as if he were her best friend.

“Umm, hi. Can I help you?” she asked warily. He did a fancy crossover step that looked like it came out of Riverdance and landed, surprisingly gracefully, with both hands on the counter.

“I’m here to pay off my debt!” he yelled confidently. The baristas exchanged confused glances.

“I’m so drunk!” he exclaimed with the enthusiasm of Welcome Week college freshman.

Silence. No one was going to argue with that.

“Coffee!” he screamed. I didn’t see if money exchanged hands. But even if it didn’t, I don’t think it was in anyone’s best interest it to deny him. A few minutes later, Crazy Drunk Guy was out the door, splashing a coffee trail behind him in case anyone wanted to follow him home, or at least mug him and steal his beverage, which was probably spiked by now.

I tried not to stare out the window, as not to catch his gaze and entice him back inside, but was interrupted when the baristas moved towards the window.

“What is he doing?” one of the baristas asked. I looked up. It appeared he was trying to eat the tree that he had recently mistaken for a door. I shared my observations with them, and the four other patrons who had recently entered the shop. By this point we were all gathered around the window, completely mesmerized and somewhat fearful for our lives.

Drunk Guy soon moved to a red moped across the street that was lying on its side. He lifted it up and let go. It fell back down. He picked it up again. Down it went. He repeated this process a few times before enlisting the help of an unsuspecting passersby, who pitifully seemed just as surprised as him when the moped didn’t magically balance when lifted into position.

Suddenly, I realized my friend Erik, a proud owner of a red moped, lived in the adjacent building. “Hey Erik, it’s Kiera,” I said when his voicemail picked up. “Just thought I should let you know some guy is stealing your moped. You might want to come downstairs. Did I leave my scarf at your place yesterday? Bye!”

Confident I had done my civic duty, I returned to watching. Drunk Dude had partnered with a new dude, who had the brilliant idea of using the kickstand to prop up the moped. Drunk Guy gave it a satisfied pat and stumbled away, stopping to lick a few trees before finally rounding the corner. I guess Drunk Guy was just trying to help out.

I thought about the night before, a typical Saturday night on a college campus, when eating trees and stealing mopeds after a few drinks would’ve upped my cool status, and wondered where the line stood between awesomely drunk and inferiorly inebriated. Maybe it was age. Maybe it’s that we’re still in school. Maybe it was a leather jacket 10 years out of style.

Whatever it was, becoming “that guy” was certainly not on my to-do list. Later that night, I curled up with a few friends and a few beers, and told my story.

“What a loser!” they all yelled, laughing. I smiled. Drunk on a Sunday night when I should be doing my homework. I was so cool.

If you think the trees on University Ave. taste better than those on State St., e-mail Kiera at wiatrak@wisc.edu.