the monitor mar 2020
to the reader: Hi, “hello,” and welcome back to the monitor. Remember the monitor? It’s the Kirksville zine dedicated to recording the art, words, and emotion of the k-ville community. It went away for a while, and now it’s come back. But it’s gonna take some effort to keep it here. Whether you remember the monitor fondly or are picking it up from the first time… if you like what ye see, PLEASE think about getting involved. Come to our meetings — we need fresh folks with fresh perspectives who can take the reigns of this thing before my ghost phases out of Kirksville for good. Please come join us! Follow us on twitter and facebook and such to find out when we meet. Or, you could do the other extremely important thing and SUBMIT. Words, art, whatever: we want it, we need it, we’d love to have it. Send in your stories, your reviews, your catalogued lists of grievances, your paintings, your photos, a skin sample, the pulverized dust-remains of a tooth — we’ll take it. This zine is about you, and we want your voice. Yours forever, Rowen Conry @ the monitor
thank you to everyone who helped get this issue alive and gave extremely helpful info/advice, including but not limited to Meredith Harrach, Marc Becker, and Alex Wennerberg. Thanks to the literal god who created the monitor template in indesign/publisher. And thank you for reading!!! !!! !!!
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March 31, 2020 General Guidelines Email submissions as attachments (any file type) to trumanmonitor@gmail.com!
Words We encourage submissions of original articles, essays, prose, and opinion. Due to space limitations, please limit pieces to 2,000 words. If you would like to publish something longer, please submit it and we’ll try to accommodate your piece. Please include a short one or two sentence bio.
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contributors alex wennerberg rebecca niemeier jack nicholson liam connolly emily smith meredith harrach olli sure duke nightboy meredith harrach s larry iles rowen conry joey iaguessa
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Monitor Alum Introduces Monitor Archive by Alex Wennerberg I started as a writer and editor at The Monitor when it was brought back after a two-year hiatus in August 2013. Between August 2014 and December 2015, I was president and editor-in-chief. One of the projects I started, based on the work of previous Monitor editors, was an archive of all historical issues. I recently worked to complete his archive to the best of my ability. The Monitor has existed in various incarnations since 1995, but the archives have scattered in many different places, including Pickler’s archives, various websites, and our email archives. I did my best to collect all of the issues that I can find into a single place, trumanmonitor.com. Monitor editors (including myself) have made some “creative” decisions in terms of volume/issue numbers — some volumes were skipped, others repeated, and in some cases the number went backwards from one year to the next. There are still a few issues that I know that I’m missing
and there may be more that I am unaware of. If anyone wants to help out by looking through the issue numbers in all the data I’ve uploaded so far to find or document any gaps, that would be very helpful! Please contact me if you’re able to find any missing issues. I would love help putting together this archive. Thanks to Meredith Harrach for all of your help so far. I hope you enjoy reading these issues. The Monitor has a strong legacy has always provided a unique and important voice in the Kirksville community. Working on The Monitor was one of my favorite experiences at Truman State, and I hope it is for you all too. Keep on speaking truth to power. Much love, Alex Wennerberg, class of 2016 alexwennerberg.com
Stuck and Stranded by Rebecca Niemeier I had been wondering about the physics behind the tide all afternoon. How is it that the moon controls the water from so far away? I couldn’t wrap my head around gravity being that strong. If the moon could move the oceans, why couldn't it move me? I felt stuck and stranded in life, and I was looking for something to break me out of this spell. I was sitting on a park bench, watching a fountain throw water up into the air, when I saw her. She stomped off of the sidewalk, frowning at a couple that was curled around each other nearby. I saw her glance around and her eyes locked on the thick tree a little ways off from the fountain. She was stunning, in that angry way that scared me, but I was curious. She wore heavy black boots and a black leather jacket and the zippers on both of them tinkled as she walked across the grass. I continued to watch as she shrugged off her jacket and sat down, leaning against the tree. Her eyes closed and her face slowly became more peaceful. After a few moments, two squirrels raced by me, chittering at each other and heading 4
straight for the tree. They stopped briefly when they saw her leaning against the trunk and instead ran around the back. As they neared the tree, her eyes fluttered open and she let out a giggle, causing the squirrels to jump and renew their sprint. Then her eyes started looking around the park again, causing her to frown when she saw the couple again, and stopping on the fountain I had been staring at until moments earlier. She got up, jacket in hand, and wandered over to the fountain. She pulled a coin out of her pocket, paused, and flipped the coin up into the air, where it turned and dove into the water. She then turned and locked eyes with me and smiled, then made her way over. “Have you ever made a wish in the fountain before? I noticed you staring at it when I arrived.” I was shocked by her voice. It was velvety and smooth. “Yeah, I did a few years ago. I suppose you are wondering if it worked? My wish hasn’t come true.” “That sucks. Maybe you should make another just in case your first one got lost in the mail.” “Oh, uh, I guess. I’m not sure I have much faith in wishes.” She introduced herself: “Well, I’m Ashling. May I sit with you?” We talked for hours on that bench. When the sunlight started to fade from golden yellow to purple, I asked her if she was interested in walking over to my favorite pizza place. Our conversation continued, and we ended up falling asleep on my couch during a movie. The next morning, she surprised me with a kiss on the lips, handed me her jacket, and grabbed mine. “I’ll be back for my jacket later.” *** A week later, I heard a knock on my door, and there she was finally, wrapped in my jacket. Over the following weeks, she looked longingly at where her jacket was hooked in the hallway, but every time I offered it to her, she declined and said she liked it being here. I fell hard and asked her about making things official. She looked up at me and agreed, so we continued dating for a few months, until one night at dinner, she pulled out a ring and got down on one knee. We were married on a rainy spring evening in the park. She had slowly accumulated her belongings at my place, so there wasn’t any need to move anywhere. After a few months, I asked her if she wanted to get a pet. We went to the local animal shelter and giggled as the puppies and elderly dogs yapped and licked our faces. We smiled at each other when the cats meowed and batted at our shoelaces. We brought home a playful dark striped kitten and a sleepy elderly dog with long ears. After introducing our new family members to our home, we stored some of our less used belongings in a storage container across town to avoid injury while Zephr, the kitten, and Zelda were settling into their new lives. Since she hadn’t touched the jacket since that first night, I boxed it away. I hung Zelda’s leash on the hook instead. That night, she came home and smiled wanly at the hook and asked me to join her on a walk with Zelda. Years passed, Zelda passed away and Zephr grew long and lanky. I had been more and more concerned about Ashling because I found her staring at the hook whenever I walked into the room. She had long retired her heavy boots and wore soft, feminine clothing now. Finally, one day I came home, and the box in which I had packed away her jacket was in the apartment, open, and Zephr was sleeping in it, resting on top of the clothing right where her jacket had been. I tried calling Ashling, and her phone rang in 5
our bedroom. I found it laying on the dresser, with a note tucked under. I unfolded the note and read: Dearest Love, I am so sorry. I feel stuck and stranded, so I need to leave. I will always love you, but I can’t stay with you. Tell Zephr I love him and give him those treats he likes. You were exactly what I wished for that day we met. Thank you. I folded the noted and curled into a ball on the bed until I fell asleep. The next morning I awoke to Zephr meowing in my face, demanding breakfast. I gave him a scratch on his head and remembered the note. I was alone again. I headed to the park, coin in hand, and made my wish from years ago again: “Please, I want to love again.” I’ve seen Ashling a few times since she left, always from afar. She rides motorcycles down the highway and graffitied on walls with artists. She even finished a mural of us and Zephr and Zelda outside of the building I work in. I found our names scratched into the bench a few months after she left. I saw her singing in a rock concert on television. She is everywhere and nowhere at all.
Author’s Note: This fictional story is based on selkie tales of Scottish mythology. The gender of the narrator is intentionally left out for the freedom of the reader. Leather jackets are badass.
All Economists Are Racist by jack nicholson So here’s the deal: economists are racist mists are 98.5% white, this equates to and here’s why: so why is it? 98.5% of all economists hoping capitalism roots out any profiteering men or Today I am going to tell you why all econ- (especially)women of colour. It has long omists are racist. But first, a diversion is been established that any figures within an in order; Just as in the way Hand Sanitizer order of magnitude of each other are funcdoes not kill each bacterium, Marxist ide- tionally equivalent. Thus, we find that the als have not yet overwhelmed the ideals of entirety of economists is functionally enfree market capitalists to such an extent as tirely white, and as follows entirely racist. to extinguish the radicalist idea that people who produce no economic output deserve Let us return to our earlier hand sanitizer some output of the aforementioned produc- analogy. In the same way that .01% of tion. Herein lies the issue with modern germs can lead to illness, any representaeconomics. I digress… tion of non-white economists can act as a guiding hand, ensuring the upholding of These capitalist pigs I described earlier are our societal ideals, such as race mixing, akin to the rankling class in modern day reduction of non-production profit moamerica: middle class white people. tives, and most importantly, free education. To quote Ben Shapiro, “[all white people QED are] racist.” Given that modern econo6
curry by Liam Connolly
poetry untitled by Emily Smith the radio said "babe you've got a face like thunder" and every other day there's a storm brewing my skies are clearer when I'm not with you but I've grown to like the precipitation for more than the electricity the soft hum the cold winds the petrichor but I'll never be yours "I say something terrible and I try to redeem it, I can be so cruel, although I don't seem it" the wind can change direction within hours let alone days but when I come to dance in the rain and splash in the puddles he seems to stay cold feet hit us both and interrupt in different ways and then we wait for the next time to sing in the rain
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miss you already by Meredith Harrach today when im walking to work I don't put on my headphones. instead I take in the loud roar of leaves above that will soon be dead and scattered under my shoes, leaves that in early october have already outlasted their conventional stay but my heart pangs a little thinking about nice and warm and breezy it is outside right now, and how we've already been too lucky through side effect of a dying world, to not have even heard whisper of the hard freeze that's bound to strike still our love of the walks we take from place to place every day. we will forget this warmth in a short time and grow to hate every trek that brings us outside and reminds us "it is fucking cold and dreary today, isnt it" so for now until the trees drop their leafy adornments, and the crickets and insects die or whatever, I will walk silently taking in this noise and take this feeling with me as long as it will last
hmm by Meredith Harrach lesley and I got yelled at walking down franklin st he yelled "you walk like you've got a foxglove up your ass" so I started laughing, but my friend didnt "you walk like you've got a cock shoved up your ass" isn't really that funny
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never passing poem by Olli Sure sirens and sirens and birds and sirens police have never been of the community stephanie yellowhair called a man by a pig in the back seat i dont believe in praying anymore but feel something cut inside me muhlaysia booker was shot in the street i tell a student why he shouldnt say fag marsha im trying to be strong while the cashier laughs with his friends marsha while he takes a picture of me in the bathroom marsha im trying to be here (i am here) and kno that (i am that) it'd all be worth it it'd all be worth it it'd all be worth it for me
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poem 4 riley by Olli Sure riley when we were 8 told me that if u press the a button as much as possible during the loading screen u'd get through it quicker that night we cuddled and watched the grim adventures of billy n mandy auld lang syne playing meeting ur lawn in plant hell before stopping by plant heaven u i mean i saw someone who looked just like u on instagram or in a crowd of ppl n i stared for way longer than i was supposed 2 there isn't a song for this moment
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scylla x charybdis by duke nightboy on the darkweb, they're drawing me fucked by glaucus but in the hallowed halls of deviantart.com it's you and me baby that dumbass poison was the best fucking thing that ever happened to me i have three dog dicks and i can fucking slither and i can fuck remember when we met? you were eating some argonauts, i was drinking down the blood of a confused old god who mistook this stupid-ass strait for the fucking river of life we can't move, but we can sure as hell cyber i want to type out every little thing i'm gonna do to that whirlpool of yours "shipping hazard" my ass i've got your shipping hazard right here
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by Meredith Harrach
Stream of Consciousness by “S� I had a dream last night, one that has raddled me a bit. I just drove to HyVee and bought some Starbucks for no reason. I just wanted to drive. I drove around Kirksville for about 30 minutes until I thought it was a good idea to stop. There's something about driving with your windows down and the music playing when the wind is that perfect amount of cold. The kind of cold when it's cold enough to wear gloves, but also not cold enough to wear gloves. You get what I'm saying. So I drove around for a bit until I stopped. I then took a small walk around the campus. I contemplated walking outside of campus, but I didn't bring my headphones and I'm not ballsy enough to never come back. You might say, "Well what about the dream?" To that, I say hold the fuck on. I'm telling you how the dream affected me first so that I can make it dramatic. Haven't you ever read a single thing in your life? They don't just tell you what's happening. They ease the tip in before ramming their dick of sadness into your vulnerable heart. So yeah, the dream kind of spooked me. I couldn't get any work done so I just got up and went where my body took me. While driving I didn't think much because music is my way of thinking. The cool thing is I don't have to listen to my problems because someone else is singing me there's and the bad thing is I don't listen to my problems because someone else is singing me there's. This lack of problem confrontation is all fine and dandy until the music stops, figuratively and literally. When I get out of the car I have nothing to distract me. I have no choice but to confront why I'm driving around randomly at 5:30 on a Tuesday afternoon in the middle of 14
October. My conclusion: I don't want to do this. By "this" I mean school. I don't want to do school anymore. Now that we've got why I'm driving and walking around out of the way, let's get into what started this existential crisis. I had a dream last night. I was at my grandparent's farm in northern Kansas City and we were having a family get together. I came into the dream at the tail end of the get-together. People were leaving, my parents were packing up, and my grandparents were starting to put everything away. Then everyone was gone. By the time I had registered people were getting ready to leave, they were gone. The only people left were me, two of my cousins (who aren't my cousins in real life, I just got a cousiny vibe off of them), and my grandparents. Although everyone else had left my cousins and I did not incline to do the same. My cousins consisted of one girl who, during the dream, I didn't like very much and one boy who I was contempt with. During our interactions the boy asked me, "Why don't you like that girl," and I replied, "I don't know, I just don't." Riveting stuff, I know. Somehow the girl figured out about this and they both turned on me. They iced me out of their conversations and wouldn't so much as glance at me. This behavior makes total sense because this is exactly how I'd handle this situation. My cousins and I were outside of my grandparent's house, my cousin's chatting away and me typing on my laptop. For no reason at all, I decided to get up and stroll inside. My grandmother was walking around her house with newfound energy I haven't seen from her in a long time. She was blowing out candles, putting away food,
and being an all-around doll. I had a thought in my head that we should probably go. It was getting late and I didn't want to stay longer than I should. I looked to my right and that thought was solidified when I saw my grandfather asleep on the couch. His snowy white hair poking out of the top of the cream colored, knit blanket. His eyes were shut tight and he had a huge smile on his face. Turning back to my grandmother I told her that I was about to leave. She said, "That's a good idea, it's getting late. By the way, your father took your car. He's trading cars with the X's." The X's are a family in my home town who owns a greenhouse and have a big interest in cars, so I didn't think much of that. After my grandmother said this, my two cousins came running inside soaking wet. My eyes grew big and I ran outside to find my laptop still propped up on the fence in the pouring rain. I ran into the rain, grabbed it, and ran back inside. Furious, I asked my cousin's, "Why didn't you take this inside? Why are you doing this to me?" I received no response, only an eye roll and a turn of their heads. To be honest I don't know what I expected. With the rain an afterthought and my cousin's unneeded, I now had time to turn my attention to what my grandmother had just told me. My father had taken my car. Worried, I turned to my grandmother and asked, "How am I going to get home? I can't drive anywhere and they..." I trailed off while turning to my cousin's, knowing that neither of them would dare take me home. "Well maybe one of your cousins will take you home," my grandmother responded, unable to take in any of the social queues that my cousins were hurling at me like knives. I gave up at that point, all I wanted to do was stay with my grandma, but I knew that I would have to leave. I walked up to her and gave her a big hug. Standing there I felt like this is where I was supposed to be, holding my grandmother and making sure
that she knew I loved her. The moment when I expected us to part, my grandmother whispered into my ear, "I lied. Your father isn't trading in your car. We gave you ours. I wanted it to be a surprise for you. We got it detailed and everything." To others, this may seem like a weird thing for my grandmother to say and a weird thing for me to get emotional about, but to me, it isn't. Within the dream and also outside of the dream, my brain registered this gift as a final goodbye. I heard my grandmother's words as, "We're giving you our car because we won't be needing it much longer." While I hugged my grandmother I started to cry. I could feel my whole body shaking as her arms wrapped around my body. After crying into my grandmother's arms for some time, I woke up. Laying in bed, I felt my whole body shaking. Tears rolled down my cheeks as I sobbed at 7:30 in the morning, thinking about the death of my grandmother. Now at this moment, my grandmother is still alive. She may have slowed down a bit, due to knee pain and a broken arm that happened in the winter of 2018, but nonetheless, she's still alive. I'm grateful for this every day, but I think about losing her a lot. It will happen someday, we all die, but just thinking about her death makes my eyes well up. My grandmother is my biggest fan. Sure she can be distant and a little emotionally cut off but she makes me smile and shows me that I am loved every time I speak to or see her. I have never met anybody else that makes me feel more loved or understood than this woman and that scares me. When she dies who will I have? Who will be there for me to look at and think, "God am I lucky to have known them."? I have a great love for all of my friends, truly, but I have never felt loved unconditionally, except for my grandmother. It sounds depressing because it is. Never have I ever had a family member, friend, or significant other that 15
has made me feel like they loved me, except for this woman. Why that is I have no idea. Are my standards too high? Am I unwilling to accept love in general? I don't know, but what I do know is that I am lonely and confused. Lonely because I feel no strong attachment to anyone. Not a single soul. Confused because, back to an earlier message, I don't want to be here (school) but I have to be. All I want to do is listen to music and create badass things, but I can't do that unless I make money for it. Why do I have to make money? Why does money=happiness? If you were to take out any religious or moral obligation from how people live than life is all about happiness. This is how I look at life. It as all about enjoyment and
having the best time possible. But to enjoy my life, I must make money, and to make money I must go to college. But I don't want to be here and I'm not happy. Isn't life all about happiness though? What makes your happiness now any less valuable than your happiness in the future? I have been in this vicious and confusing circle of thought for so long and I don't know how to leave. That's why this is my formal resignation letter to life. I don't mean this in a morbid or suicidal way, more of an I am going to do what I want and enjoy myself. Does that mean I'm dropping out of college? Check back in with me in a couple of months and we'll see. What it means, I don't know. I'm just ready for a change.
HOCHELAGA. a movie where rightly allegorical message punch supplants by Larry Iles By purest luck chance, Betty and I stumbled upon this movie free at the Columbia Ragtag theater Wednesday March 13 last in a one evening only presentation by the Chicago Canadian Quebec Consulate Generals Martin Dionne in perfect spiced up intro by him and lively q and a audience comments solicited afterwards.I am going to accordingly risk accusations of total inconsistency by we MONITOREES,as unlike my submitted Queen ANNE and THORPE MP piece of astringency,here I feel this film Canadas 2017oSCAR entry was wholly persuasive.In its discard of strict histotical accuracy in favour instead of allegorical but still chronological punch in sharp life and environmental affirmation for all of us on this harrowed planet of ours. And boy,gal are there historical howlers,this writer did his first MA thesis distinction on the 1776 and 1812 white first nations wars and relations on the north American frontiers of cultural clash,that the more informed of the too elderly audience pounded dear Martin upon.The tribal war killed spirit man at the start is not only alive but its unclear whether he is Algongkin,Iroquois or even Huron.as century specific he should have been.,The beautiful next century fur trader-first nation squaw romance next sequence is weakened in its assault on the nearby early Montreal Christian nunnery plague village bigotry by failing to make clear whether the healing younger nuns are less bigoted,even sexually infatuated by the stricken white voyageur.And while admirably the 1837 uprisings of both white races.British and French against Crown despotism colonialistically are JOINTLY correctly depicted.aided by a cameo appearance by vet UK actress 16
Sian Phillips Ive once met close up.there is a bad choice of words.One that descriptively ignores the contemporary abuse terms of radical versus tory in favour of US 1776 analogies confusingly and anachronistically But if one thinks instead of Latin American novelists one realises broad sweeps of even semi-fictional history can sometimes justly capture especially first nations spiritual insights into our collective past and future likely predictive presents better and more truthfully tha N strict factual pedantry,like visual poetry as in fact this marvellously Quebecois landscape shot epic film represents almost blindingly of the sense.You see HOCHELAGA refers to an oopening of the earths surface on our much visted McGill campus football ground that permit the academic diggers in to ferret out the allegorical histories of the city So go and find this wonderful film that embodies two warnings for the future.One disregard the past for football profits and macho games greed at your peril eco misstyle.Two,think about the inner spirit world,and herbal medicine as supplanters of racial and national pride and thereby we might all be planetarily more communal and kind to each other rather than be viciously capitalistc and macho rivals to each other so destructively of any amity concordance sense.Or as an elderly squaw chietaness puts it to her men in front of a famous white explorer Cartier trying stupidly to claim ''Canada'' for the overseas BouRbons no sir she says we all,ALL,have real common land dominion of earths fruits LARRY ILES
illin it in the krypt by Rowen Conry yeah, just me again here in the krypt. got my sandbag, got the old torn-up gloves. love it here in the krypt. puttin on my favorite playlist again. somethin to really get the blood pumpin. somethin with a beat like thump thump thump, real quick. some action movie montage shit. some final car chase shit. i listen to the music, i put the torn-up gloves on, i punch the fuckin sandbag. ever seen a movie? that's how i wanna live. i hate seeing out of my dumbass eyes, single -perspective like. i want the world to cut shot to shot to shot. close up shots. far away shots. i want to walk into a building and get a view of the full fuckin building when i walk in, that's what they call an establishing shot. just before you walk into the krypt, there's a picture over the door: a shot of the krypt my buddy took with a drone. you can squint your eyes and block out your peripheral vision and focus your view on only that picture above the door, and pretend you got your own little establishing shot right there. see, i care about you. when you come into the krypt, well, you're walkin right into the 17
mfin care zone. i got stuff in the fridge. cold drinks. refreshing shit. i got protein bars. you can sit on my torn-up couch and watch me punch the sandbag. i'll let you pick the tunes. they gotta be thumpin, but i'll let you pick em. "iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve never punched a sandbag" you'll say "you wanna try?" <â&#x20AC;&#x201D;-that's what i'll say. i'll rip off the torn-up gloves, give em to you. "it's really simple shit. give it the one two. elbows up. follow through." "wow" you say, punching the sandbag with my torn-up gloves, "this is actually kinda fun." and you're fckin right. it is fun. it's fun to work up a sweat. get fit. get that strength. i can lift up a car. i can pull the weight of a fckin eighteen-wheeler. i've always been like this. when i was a kid i kept accidentally crushing 7ups before i drank em. i would bury the other end of the seesaw into the fcking ground. had to learn control. had to learn to focus the strength. now i'm zen and shit. i meditate. i spend my whole life down here in the crypt fuckin meditating and punching a fcking sandbag. you're not here yet, but you'll get here. that's what i'm best at here in the god dam krypt: i believe. i believe you can do it. i respect your work ethic. i fucking respect your willingness to put on the gloves and give it a shot. right now i'm just chillin in the krypt. but you'll be here soon. i've got a cold drink waitin for you. like a v8 or some shit. that healthy shit.
You could put an ad here. You could advertise anything. Think of the Possibilities.
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Skate Spots at Truman by Joey Iaguessa
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120 S. Main St. theaquadome.org Community Meetings every Sunday at 6 pm!
~ Upcoming Events ~ Thursday, Mar. 5 – Pockets Against the Patriarchy Tuesday, Mar. 17 – Pocket Vinyl + Reagan Goes to Lunch Thursday, Mar. 19 – Yoga Night w/ Noel Wedensday, Mar. 25 – Joey Nebulous, Adam in the Parking Lot, Moontype Saturday, Mar. 28 – Conman Economy — Tabling for the Tom Thumb XXIV art collection is happening in the OP foyer March 23 + 26! Rent our community space for your next event! Visit: theaquadome.org/rental-booking