Walter Sends in his Registration Form. He's Going to the Space Center (and other items from the Imaginarium).

Walter Pickle saved his $2.00 per week allowance for several months. He wanted to do an Overnight Camp, a Super Saturday, and several of the Academy Classes at the Space Education Center. Of course, his allowance wasn't enough, so Walter canvased the neighborhood looking for odd jobs to supplement his income. Finally he earned enough from mowing lawns, trimming hedges, babysitting unruly brats and washing dozens of windows. He printed the Registration Form, filled it out with his best handwriting, had his mother double check to be sure every question was answered, stamped the envelope and dropped it in the corner mail box.

Every afternoon after school Walter checks the mail for his Confirmation Forms. He's hoping Mr. Williamson has the time to take care of his registration quickly, but understands if he can't. Walter knows poor Mr. Willamson is overwhelmed with the day to day running of the Space Center, not to mention taking care of the staff and volunteers.

Walter wishes he'd followed his instincts and added an additional dollar paper clipped to a 3 by 5 card with "Buy a Diet Dew on Me, Mr. Williamson" written on it in red ink. He heard from his best friend Max, who heard from his cousin Alfie, who heard from a former volunteer at the Space Center, that the best way to get Mr. Williamson's attention is to bribe with him with a Diet Dew.
( I Realize some of The Troubadour's readers take everything I write literally, so please do not send me money for Diet Dew's. I'm only kidding)

Walter also knows the importance of imagination from reading The Troubadour. He tries to look outside the box whenever he's faced with a problem or task.

Walter is another fantastic Space Center camper. You must be too. How do I know? I know because you're reading this, aren't you?

And now, a few things from the Imaginarium.


You've heard of Polo Shirts? Well, this is something nearly the same, but with an imaginative twist. Just the kind of thing you'd find here in the Men's Department at Wonderland's Imagination Emporium of All Things Weird and Unexplained, my favorite place to shop.


Another example of awesome creativity, the kind usually found in Space Center fans. A moment of silence for the poor pigeons unlucky enough to seek a moment's rest from flight on this razor blade factory's sign.


And now, Something Completely Different.

Random? Yes.
Creative? Yes.
A perfect example of teenage thought pattens? Yes, Yes and double Yes. We hear this kind of Randomspeak daily at the Space Center.

Radomspeak was heard by Christine and her Odyssey staff on Thursday. During a confrontation with the mission's antagonists, a 6th grade crew member offered the following solution to the Captain, "Why don't we hit them with the shrink ray!"

Awesome idea if the Odyssey had a Shrink Ray, which it doesn't, and never had. Where did that come from? The randomness of the statement sent Christine into hysterics - which happens on a regular basis. Christine is known for seeing and encouraging the best in everything and everyone. A good person to have on your team in a crisis.

I think we should send Christine to Greece to help with their government's austerity program. The Greek Government is desperately searching for ways to balance their nation's books which are awash in red ink from decades of over spending on social programs. Put Christine on Greek television and within one hour the government's phone lines will ignite with pledges of money from every Greek tax payer, coast to coast.

Problem solved, the Christine way.


The one meal I kept waiting to see at Hogwarts. Finally we discover there are days when the kitchen elves take a break.

I find this very true. I've been suckered multiple time by these 'tiny leaves'. It happens at Blockbuster. I scan the shelves looking for a good DVD. My eye stops at every case displaying the olive branches because I know olive branches indicated A Winner!

Wrong.

Just because the film has the words "Winner, Best Picture. North Dakota Film Festival" braced by olive branches doesn't mean the movie is any good.

We could put olive branches around the name of the Space Center. Or better yet, give all the paid staff business cards with their names bracketed with olive leaves instead of this month's pay checks. They'll thank me for it.

That's the power of olive branches.


Have a Great Monday!

Mr. W.

Jorden's Day on the Voyager's Bridge.

Jorden's Request for a new uniform to the replace
the Blue Supervisor's Shirt.

Hello Troops,
Remember that mental picture I conjured up during the post camp meeting yesterday after discovering Jorden received 0 votes for his work on the bridge. Well, this is my theory as to what really happened.
Mr. W.


Jorden stood near the spiral stairs on the Voyager's Bridge. It was the furthest place possible from the campers. His bottom lip quivered with nerves. His eyes darted from one child to the next. His nose tested the air for scents indicative of uncleanliness. The Communications Officer looked at him. Jorden notice and turned away. Jorden's survival code required minimal eye contact. Eye contact could lead to conversation and conversation might lead to proximity, proximity would lead to the sharing of air molecules, and Jorden knew that sharing air with other humans could lead to disease - sickness - and possible death.

The young boy raised his hand. Jorden was practicing selective observing and therefore pretended not to notice. The boy became impatient. "Mister," he shouted. Jorden was compelled to answer. Jon might notice and he desperately needed his Voyager Bridge Pass.

"Can I help you?" He tried to sound sincere. Sincerity was foreign to his nature. He'd been practicing sincerity at home in front of his bathroom mirror and thought after several months he could pull off a believable performance. The boy, not wanting to shout, rose from his seat and starting walking toward Jorden. "Stay where you are, don't come closer." Jorden backed further into the wall and pointed to the boy's empty chair, "Back to your seat." The boy stopped cold, confused at the Bridge Supervisor's reaction. Jorden had noticed something shiny draining from his nose.

"I need a tissue." The boy inhaled through his congested nose to stop the drainage. He sounded like a walrus snoring.

"God Help Me!" Jorden's eyes watered as he sought divine assistance. Jordan unzipped his fanny pac, removed a moist towelette and disinfected his hands, arms and face. Once sterilized, he regained his composure and answered the boy's question. "Tissues are kept by the Security Station. Hurry; you're dripping on the carpet!".

The boy walked to Security, took a tissue and wiped his nose. Jorden turned away to take an unwelcomed question from the First Officer.

"Where's the trash can?" Jorden recognized the boy with the snotty nose's voice. He stood and turned. There the boy stood, well inside Jorden's comfort zone, presenting the moist tissue cradling his nose drippings.

"Get it away!" Jorden tripped over the Captain's platform as he tried to get away. "What's wrong with you. That's disgusting?"

"Where do I put this?" the boy asked. He was surprise at Jorden's strong aversion to a simple tissue. The only other time he'd seen such a reaction was when he held a spider close to his sister's head.

"The trash can is over there." Jorden pointed to the trash can under the printer. Sweat formed on his upper lip. Was the room too warm or was the sweat the first sign his immune system had been compromised and exposed to a potentially new and deadly virus. Another towelette was removed from his side mounted fanny pack and rubbed liberally over his face and hands. He wondered if he should use his inhaler but decided against it. His doctor told him in no uncertain terms to stop using the inhaler as a lung disinfectant.

Another hand went up as the mission started. The girl at the Tactical Station was clueless about loading and firing the ship's phasers.

"What is it?" Jorden questioned from a distance of ten feet.

"I don't get this?" the girl answered. "Can you help me?"

"Did you listen to your training?"

"Yes, but I don't get it."

Jorden took three steps before encountering the smell of human perspiration mixed with your average run of the mill Utah dirt. The boy sitting between him and the Tactical Officer was definitely in need of a good scrub down. His unwashed hair triggered Jordan's gagging reflex. He took several steps back, unzipped his Fanny Pack and removed a heavily perfumed, monogrammed handkerchief. Holding the handkerchief closely to his nose, Jorden walked around the boy, giving him the widest berth possible to reach the Tactical Station.

"You need to click there to charge the phasers?" Jorden instructed after surveying the screen.

"How?" the girl questioned.

"Click on that button." Jorden pointed, but did not touch the screen. She might have touched it during training.

"What button?" she asked.

"That button?" he responded with his finger hovering one inch over the icon on the screen.

"I don't' get it." The girl was at her frustration level and stubbornly refused to continue unless he actually pointed to the button she was suppose to click.

Jorden removed another towelette, thoroughly cleaned the mouse and her keyboard and rezipped his Fanny Pack.

"This button." Jorden took the mouse and demonstrated the correct procedure to charge the phasers.

"I get it." She reached out and took the mouse. Their fingers briefly touched.

"God Help Me!" Jorden cried as if he'd accidentally broken open a laboratory vile containing smallpox. "Get back, everyone get back!" he shouted. The panic in his voice frightened the campers, causing them to jump over the desks and each other to get to the lowest level of the Voyager. Jorden pulled a bottle of alcohol from his Fanny Pack, poured half its contents over his contaminated hand and struck a match. The alcohol ignited into flame. Jordan wildly waved his burning hand back and forth to put out the fire. Applause erupted from the Voyager crew.

"This is the bestest mission ever," one of the campers exclaimed, his eyes wide with wonder at the human torch before him.

The flame quickly burned itself out.
"Back to your seats everyone," Jorden urged as he rubbed his stinging hand.

The mission resumed. Jorden stood in his corner. His right hand held the perfumed handkerchief near his nose, warding off the smell of children in an enclosed room with poor air conditioning. His left hand rested on his fanny pack, always ready when needed. It was going to be a long mission.

The Changing of the Season and Will We Get Hit?

Hello Troops,
We've just sped into the first day of Autumn on our blue spacecraft called Earth.  NASA has a video showing the changing of the seasons from space.  The video is labeled from the Northern Hemisphere's perspective.  You'll notice the reduced amount of sunlight during Winter and vice verse in the Summer.   

http://www.space.com/13068-seasons-change-space.html

It's 11:56 P.M. on Friday.  Once again you find me at the Space Center for an Overnight Camp. This evening's group is fantastic.  Groups like this make 21 years of running Overnight Camps bearable.

To be honest, I'm a bit weary about going to bed with that satellite circling overhead looking for a place to crash land.  I'm considering sleeping under my desk (just for added protection).  I know the odds of the Space Center getting hit by the falling debris are astronomical, but only you regular readers of The Troubadour know how Fortuna, the Mischievous Goddess of Fortune, likes to toy with us.  I can see her up there riding that satellite like a cowgirl on a disagreeable bull.  With a few correctly placed jabs she could maneuver that satellite into perfect position to put Pleasant Grove on the map. 

The age of the school works in my favor.  This part of the school was built in 1956.  It is designated a Fallout Shelter, able to provide protection in the unlikely event the United States and some other nation decided to toss a few of those nuclear forget me nots at each other.  I'm thinking, if the school can weather a nuclear blast reasonably well, then why wouldn't it hold up during a space debris party?

I think I'll be fine.  And on that note, its off to bed.

Mr. W.