In honor of my trip home to the heartland Oct. 7th, I thought I would take the opportunity to re-post the original blog from this peaceful, blue, version of hansstolfus.com. You may not know about them, but there have been previous versions of this mecca of all things volley, and movies, and outlandish opinions. In fact, the previous joint looked a lot like an old manuscript, and would have fit right in with my chromed out Vespa. Either way, this is it. This is the OG; although it’s not very gangster. Expect quite a few more like it while I’m there and when I return. There’s just something about going home that manages to rekindle all the old memories a person thought they found a way to forget…

It’s come to my attention that our lives are nothing more than male and female interactions and the memories they consequently produce. You can’t tell I just went home for the weekend, can you? It’s weird isn’t it? How nostalgic you get once you step foot in your old house and look at your old mug in the photo that’s been gracing the top of the piano for the last sixteen-years. I guess I should say, young mug, really. There’s certainly nothing old about that face. If you think I look like a kid now, man, you should you have seen me in high school. It’s beyond me how I ever came up on a legitimate date. Seriously. My hair looks tragically overdone, my frame is so rail thin I could literally turn sideways and disappear, and my flannel threads make even Jeff Nygaard look hip.

Fortunately, the one photo resting atop the book shelf in my old bedroom effortlessly captured what was truly magical about that era. Senior Prom, 1995. The one night that proves, regardless of size, style, or hair product accumulated on scalp, a kid can still find a way to score a date when it matters most. And believe me, equate a value to all of the dates you’ve had during the rest of your life, add them up, and the total would not even come close to that of senior prom. And what’s even cooler about that photo is how beautiful my date looks. I’m not just saying that. She looks amazing. I’m all tall and gangly, with 1960’s ruffles no less, trying to be “cool,” and she’s over there next to me in her perfectly placed evening dress with a perfect smile and hair that falls perfectly into place without any effort or help from even one ozone depleting chemical. You could say she was, well, perfect.

Looking back, I don’t know how I did it. She was way out of my league. And now that hindsight is far clearer than 20/20, I can honestly see what she did for me and admit that I could have never accomplished any of it on my own. She simply made me want to be better at being me.