Snout looked so sweet in life. Photo by John Meguerian / North by Northwestern

Sam had not always wanted to be a taxidermist. When he was in the 6th grade he told his parents he was going to be a sailor, an idea that persisted for an unusually long time considering that Sam didn’t really know what it entailed. Still, it had seemed vaguely appealing. He imagined himself engaged in an elaborately choreographed song and dance number on a poop-deck somewhere in the South Pacific, his fastidiously shined shoes gleaming in the plain ocean sun. And naturally, there would be plenty of time for skipping rocks and going swimming.

Unfortunately, Sam learned that he was prone to bouts of seasickness which became so extreme that he couldn’t watch a Long John Silver’s commercial without throwing up. Instead of sailing, he bounced around from job to job before accidentally discovering taxidermy. It was a tragic fate of sorts. His mother’s beloved Beagle, Snout, had died of mysterious circumstances. She blamed the death on an autistic boy in their neighborhood, but it was later found out that Snout was fond of eating Christmas tree ornaments, especially those with trace amounts of mercury in them. Sam’s mother was distraught; the holidays can be hard enough. Sam went to his mother’s house to console the poor woman, who was inconsolable. As Sam lingered in the semi-afternoon darkness of the home, standing over the cold, dead body of his childhood pet, he was suddenly struck with an idea for the ultimate festive gift.

But how does one go about cleaning out the blood and organs of a cherished family pet to prepare it for public display? Certainly there were books on the topic, but considering the realities of decomposition, time was a factor. Sam acted accordingly. Making a long, clean cut along Snout’s belly, Sam pulled back the layers of hair and skin that previously kept the dog warm and protected. He made an exploratory grab into the pink and red mass spilling out of the incision. It felt slightly warm but, other than that, not at all what he would’ve expected of innards. Everything was tough and flexible, like small, silicon-filled balloons scattered in a bucket of blood and broken rubber bands. Sam groped for the heart near the bottom of Snout’s front legs, removing a lung or two in the process. Pulling it out, Sam realized that it looked a little like the Stormtrooper helmet he’d owned as a child, minus the coronary vessels.

When Sam unveiled his amateur yet frighteningly professional creation on Christmas morning, there was a lot of crying. And screaming. And asking Sam to please go to therapy because the only people with taxidermy as a hobby were also fond of watching Unsolved Mysteries and burying people in their backyards. But Sam knew it wasn’t like that. Somewhere between extracting Snout’s colon and stuffing her with cotton, Sam had discovered an innate skill and a lifelong passion. Sam had his whole life ahead of him, and there would be a lot more scooping, skinning, tanning and mounting.

But Snout, well, she would always be his first.

Q: What is there in Manhattan, Kansas?
A: Well, the main draw of Manhattan is that it’s home to Kansas State University, one of two state universities in Kansas. There’s also Konza Prairie, a large reserve of native tall grass prairie. My personal favorite is “Country Stampede,” a country music festival held annually every June where I once saw a young man with a tattoo that said “BLOW ME” written in a large Garamond-style font across his lower torso.

Q: We’re not in Kansas anymore! I bet you hear that a lot, huh?
A: Yes, I do. Thank you for repeating it to me again. Sometimes when I get homesick it helps if a total idiot uses a stereotypical regionally-flavored cliché to try and pick me up.

Q: What’s it like growing up in a college town and then moving away to another one?
A: Well, every college town is unique. I never thought that I would adjust to life on the North Shore because it seemed so much more metropolitan than my hometown. Imagine my surprise when my favorite restaurant from home, Chipotle, was within walking distance of campus. And then I found out that Evanston had a Jamba Juice and a Borders. The only disconcerting thing was my addiction to Starbucks Fall Quarter of my freshman year. We didn’t have one back in Manhattan so I thought it would be a rough transition when I went back for winter break. Wouldn’t you know it though — Starbucks came to Manhattan while I was away at school!

Q: So you’re from a small Midwestern town. Are you pretty conservative?
A: Actually I’m a socialist.

Q: Really?
A: Haha no! In fact I’m laughing about it to myself right now as I re-read my personally autographed version of The No Spin Zone while praying (only Christian prayers, preferably Protestant) and think about how much I hate flag-burners.

(Whew, for a second there I thought that maybe I’d have to view you as an individual instead of part of a large regional group lampooned by The Daily Show. John Stewart is hilarious!)

Q: Have you ever seen a tornado?
A: Normally, I would kick someone in the shins for asking me this question, but as it stands Manhattan was actually hit by an F4 tornado last summer. Although no one was killed, the tornado managed to inflict about $20 million in damage to K-State University, level 15 homes while seriously damaging 30 others (including the house of a friend of mine, which was afterwards condemned — she’d lived there all her life) and destroying a car dealership named “Little Apple Toyota Honda.”

Q: Did you grow up on a farm?
A: No. I did live across the way from my uncle’s farm until the age of 8, when my family moved down the street to where they live now, up the hill from a different farm. However, this is largely unrepresentative of everyone else in Kansas that I’ve ever known. And I know nothing about farming.

Q: I’m from New Jersey!
A: That’s not a question. If you would’ve bothered to read just a space over, you would’ve realized that I’m not from New York. So although I do have a vague sense that I don’t like you, I really can’t talk to you about the Yankees, Coney Island or that new restaurant in the Meatpacking District. Besides, you’re from Jersey.

Q: Why should I care about the fact that you’re from Manhattan, Kansas?
A: I don’t know. Why should I care about the fact that you’re from a suburb of Boston? Or the deep South? Or Malibu? If we were both from Chicago, what are the odds we’d like each other or even have marginally similar experiences? Beyond the awkward and socially obligatory “Where are you from?” that freshmen ask each other a million times at the beginning of a new school year, what’s the point of asking this question at all? I think, to some degree, your environment shapes your character and your views, but at this point I’m looking for novelty and knowledge over freshman bonding. If you actually are from Phoenix or India or Augusta, Maine, come find me, because we’ve got things to talk about.