The World is a Crazy Place

Lately, I've been thinking about the universe and all the things in it and hot dogs and German toast. Und I realized like every other tawdry poofter who takes the time to smell the hibiscus shrub just how crazy this place truly is. It made me happy and slightly crazy.

The first evidence of this madness popped up in a YouTube related search to something involving Turkish bath houses and vitriolic acids, subjects that I often find myself researching at work. From what I gather, a place in Uzbekistan near the small town of Darvaz is popularly known as "The Door to Hell," and it's easy to see where it gets its sinister name. The story attributed to this Hellish portal goes as such: While drilling for gas, geologists discovered a massive underground cavern filled with gas. To prevent the poisonous gas from escaping the hole, they...ignited it. Logic notwithstanding, the fire has been burning brightly ever since - for well over 30 years. I recall that I once wrote a post on the abandoned eternally burning town of Centralia, Pennsylvania, where people actually still live despite the dangers of the unstable ground. Creepy!

This next instance of world-poppycock is found in Russia. Large holes in the ground of Russian forests have been discovered, but leave no explanation to what they might be. Though I think this might be a hoax or an easy explainable phenomenon, one of the comments added to the story had this theory to offer:

Another interesting detail posted in the comments is that the holes seemed to have been dug from the bottom up, not downwards. Some commentors suggested that these holes could be tree holes, which are created when volcanic ash settles around a tree, hardens, and becomes the hole you see here. Others have suggested that the holes are chimney entrances tino caves.

I say they're chamberpots for the gods. Mysterious holes, indeed.



While I love what Mother Nature and divine beings have done with the place, humankind has really gone above and beyond as explorers and creative inventors. One in particular, photographer Arthur Mole, added another chapter to human achievement by arranging and photographing large masses of living bodies to create national and religious symbols, such as the side profile of Woodrow Wilson seen below.



It's a bit off from the general theme here, but still shows how random the world can be: Check out these Houses in Remote Places. I'm not sure how long I'd last living in any of these secluded places, but to simply visit would be a fantastic break from the chaos of the city.

There are so many more bizarre going-ons out there - from insanely beautiful subways (My commute would be so much better if New York's system followed example) to abandoned cities - but I leave off with a personal experience: On the final day of my trip to Boston, Scott and I arrived early at Bay Station for the bus back to New York City. While he was using the restroom, an older man with nose hairs so long I mistook them for his moustache, approached me and asked, "Are you an actor?" My ego immediately perked up and I blushed, but kindly told him I wasn't. "Are you from New York City?" Ah, my ego chimed in again, just like in movies and tv shows, where people from the big city are mistook for attractive actors and models. "Do you know Macauley Culkin?" Sensing the conversation was taking a turn for the worse, I shook my head - but this didn't effectively kill the conversation. He rambled on with two completely unrelated tangents, paused suddenly, and then said, "Oh, well, I thought I saw you walking around with him last year in the city." Speechless. "Okay, well, anyways, just wondering if you had some spare change for a coffee. Bye!"

As he lumbered off, Scott returned and we sat in silence for a little before I retold my bizarre experience that took place just seconds before. Such an insignificant event, yet that small interaction stuck with me. People are just fascinating and whether he was just trying to talk me up for some kleingeld or actually attempting to stimulate thoughtful conversation (that I was just not having at the time), I'll probably never see him again. I meet so many people in the world everyday and discover so many interesting stories simply sitting here in my office chair at home. The world is truly a crazy place!

Me and King Cole

Christmas is in full swing here at 2FinCool on Cooper Street, Brooklyn: Thanks to the work of the recent snowstorm, my neighborhood of Bushwick looks like something from a Christmas card, while the snow has effectively muted passing cars blasting Latin music on the street below. The blustering cold outside did not deter me from setting out this weekend, however, as Scott and I ventured out deep into Brooklyn to get our craft-on. After eating a hearty meal on the cheap at La Flor del Paraiso on Atlantic Avenue, we sloshed our way to the Brooklyn Lyceum Craft Market. I had figured the event would be much like the Degenerate Craft Fair we had stopped by a week earlier - a cramped space with overpriced hipster artwork and desperate vendors. (I still think the one guilt tripped Scott into buying a photocopied one-dollar bill.)

Upon entering the toasty brick warehouse, I was surprised to see so many tables of unique crafts and free tastings of homemade foods. I especially enjoyed the blackberry peach jam from anarchy in a jar and the bitter sweet chocolate from Fine & Raw. Though a bit overpriced, the adorable handmade plush stuffed animals from Zooguu seemed to be a popular table. (I wanted the fat purple penguin, personally.) I left the event empty-handed, while Scott left with soft smooth hands smelling of lavender, thanks to a particularly forward soap vendor who allowed samples "just to touch cute guys." So help me, soap lady, I will rub Dove into your eyes.




Before we even made it to the event, we stopped by the dig garden shop and met two very nice gentlemen, the younger of the pair who had originally went to school for dance, but since became interested in the field of botany. I asked about a particularly ominous-looking plant whose dangling appendages resembled giant lima beans with an opening at the top. The older man told me it was actually a carnivorous species - I don't recall the name - that created a certain aphrodisiacal secretion in its sack, inticing flies to enter and fall into the sticky goo.

Not wanting to end our evening there, we took the L to 14th Street to see the tents erected for the Union Square Holiday Market. Scott bought me a delicious Viking Burger and a tasty chocolate-dipped belgian waffle from wafels & dinges. By far my favorite find at the Market, the hand-carved figurines at Mure Design were not only eye-catching for their many shapes - peace cranes, alligators, owls, etc. - but also for the material from which they were made. Tagua, a dried nut that is cultivated mainly in Ecuador, has the texture and look of ivory, and is often even called "vegetable ivory." I especially like this idea as it provides an alternative to killing elephants for their tusks and destorying rainforests for farming purposes.

Time lapse!

A weekend of fun, cut short by a cruel Monday and a train ride back to Blairsville, Pennsylvania. Though I've just boarded the train at Penn Station, I miss New York already. Yet, I'm glad to know that I got the most out of Christmas in the city, from the Chinese-Italian-Jewish parade in Chinatown to simply decorating my apartment with some festive garland and multicolored lights, this holiday has already turned out better than most others. For now, I look forward to napkin origami, the 2008 Best Travel Essay series selected by Anthony Bourdain and a good Christmas Day with the whole family.

Word, Mot, Wort

December 15th marked the birthday of L.L. Zamenhof. creator of the international language known as Esperanto, and would've-been proud winner of the 1859 freestyle beard contest. I know this because Google told me so and because, recently, I came across a similarly linked, extraordinary find during my last StumbleUpon binge, which I'll explain in a Prisencolinensinainciusol minute.

Language is fascinating to me. I have no idea why - how people speak, how they interact with each other, and how powerful words can be in any language is just a wonder. In my Junior year of college, in what could have only been a NyQuil-soaked night as I battled my insomnia and prepared for my roommate to arrive at four in the morning to begin his ritual A.M. pot cleaning, I devised in my head a plan to create a universal language. Whether it was to foster peace, achieve fame or simply to appease the Biblical demons that were dancing on my desklamp at the time, I was going to be the first person to combine the Arabic, French, German, Japanese, and Russian languages. I decided, as the new benevolent dictator of dialect, to allow the Spanish to keep their silly dead language.

But damned be those born before me. I had not even two years to begin my project when I found that someone, a certain Adriano Celantano, managed to time travel to my sophomore year, steal my idea, and whisk it back to 1972, whereupon he created this acid-dipped masterpiece, called Prisencolinensinainciusol, a musical examination of how English sounds to Europeans. Not exactly my idea, but close enough to smack the bastard with a posthumous copyright infringement suit. Click that crazy word and prepare to have your mind obliterated. (I've learned most of the dance moves, because I am groovy.)

Speaking of speaking and December highlights, I was disappointed when I realized I didn't commemorate a certain event on the third of December, the date Madeline Kahn passed away in 1999. Unfortunately, what reminded me of this was the grim news of Brittany Murphy's death. While she might've not been as epic as the Kahn, I thought she was a fantastic actress and it's sad to think she was taken away at such a young age. On those same lines, I anticipate a very teary and excellent Dr. Parnassus, Heath Ledger's final movie, coming out this Christmas. Suck it, you Avatar-lovers.

Puttin' On The Ritz at the Hilton Hotel

A year ago, I would've never dreamed of moving to New York City, but here I am, several months in and already wrapping up my internship at Family Travel Forum. As tits as it has been, I'm ready to dive headfirst into the travel industry and I'm hoping for a snag or two on some lines I cast out to various PR contacts in the travel world. The fun has all but stopped, however, as I was recently invited to the New York Hilton's exclusive Vogue event, featuring two newly renovated spaces, the Grand Trianon and Mercury ballrooms. The entertainment itself was a highlight of the venue - a man dressed in a silver sequined suit slowly revolved cat-like in the center of the room, as handsome waiters performed acrobatic tricks on pogo-legs (I call them "Gazelle Legs") and a Geisha-faced wig-adorned waitress surrounded by a table waded slowly into the crowd offering hors d'ouerves. Four distinct food tables offered everything from excellent sushi to my personal favorite, pulled pork barbeque, while the former even displayed a large pagoda-shaped ice sculpture. Along with the massive chandeliers dangling overhead and the spectacular light show that danced every which way over the high walls and ceilings, I thought my visit to the Hilton couldn't get any better - until I saw my room.

From the 31st floor, I could peer out into the city streets far below, which were prettily decorated here and there with twinkling Christmas lights and trees. Just down the street, the neon Radio City Hall marquee cast off an electric pink glow, while buildings across the way were simply pretty just for their architectural elegance and accidental patchwork of office lights here and there. After enjoying the complimentary bottle of Champagne and exploring the massive business meeting spaces throughout the hotel's lower levels, I sank into the almost sinfully comfortable bed and fell asleep the minute my head hit the pillow. As for the noise? From my lofty penthouse (or at least that's what I pretended it was), the clamor from the streets below was faint and could barely be heard over the hotel's air system, making for a very peaceful sleep.

My stay at the Hilton was quite an affair to remember - On my scale of event quality, I gave this one the top rating of "ritzy."

Return, Take Two

What a week! Or more correctly, what a month. Why I decided to start this old chestnut up again is beyond me, but let's dive right in.

Recently, I moved into a modest apartment in the heart of Brooklyn with a good friend of mine from Penn State University. As I promised myself, I changed my Couchsurfing couch availability status from "No" to "Definitely!" Each day, requests began to trickle in slowly until I was receiving more than five requests before noon - I was so excited! Finally, I would have the chance to give back to the community that had been so good to me on my travels to the North and all the way down South to New Orleans, La. It was also a chance to take in CSers like myself, learn about their cultures and exchange some interesting stories and good music.

Our first couchsurfer, a French hipster with massive muttonchops by the name of Nicolas (pronounced sans s), broke our Couchsurfing host cherry and stayed for two nights. Quiet, reserved and very polite, we found this traveling loner to be a great way to start out or CS hosting career. After cooking him a runny, unimpressive concoction of what was supposed to be a sumptuous meal of chicken, gravy, mashed potatoes and biscuits, our guest took whatever pathetic ingredients he could rummage up in our nearly bare pantry and fixed us a rather tasty dish of pasta.

After a somewhat awkward farewell in the Union Square subway, my roommate and I felt content about our first CSer, but admittedly found his stay to be somewhat unremarkable. Owing to the work week of Hell I had gone through and the toll that the ongoing job search took on my roommate, we figured we'd have more time and energy to entertain our next guests, who would be arriving later that same day.

Arriving from Mexico, Carlos and Roberto were certainly a more entertaining couple, but already the burden of having to take care of our foreign CSers every minute of each day began to grate on the nerves of my roommate and exhausted me to the point of frustration. By the second day, I found myself longing for an empty apartment, for some peace and quiet and for less awkward conversations that I certainly was not ready to have as soon as I would step out of my room in the morning. (Not an a.m. person.)

Before I could even shoo our tequila-drinking guests out the door (We killed a bottle or two in one night), our next freeloaders bungled in through the front door carrying a massive black duffel bag that could've held at least three of me inside. Slightly dreading the duo's three-night stay, my mood improved when I realized that they seemed not to need us around and provided their own entertainment while kindly inviting us to join in anytime we wanted. Walter and Jakob might've been our best CSers yet, and I was soured to think that I couldn't connect with them as much as I would've liked. More so, my ideal image as a CS host was turning into an indifferent host too busy with work to entertain his guests, who most likely had fascinating tales of their travels more interesting than writing up a deal for a rip-off of a flight on Iceland Air.

With my roommate shut up in his room, perturbed by the lengthy intrusions and the promise of not having to tip-toe around my own living room for a while, a nice break from hosting was in order.

Aside from taking in the world's wandering youth, I've been happily working at my new internship, Family Travel Forum with a few added benefits including weekly PR events. Ranking from swank to posh to downright ritzy, I might be on the job, but that doesn't stop me from taking advantage of the free food and booze at each venue. At the same time, I'm getting my work published and meeting some great people who may be good to keep in touch with as connections, if not just some fellow writers to emulate and PR folks from whom I can wrangle a press trip or two.

Only a couple of weeks ago, I had the chance to take a press trip to my own "hometown" of Pittsburgh. It may not sound that exciting, but the foodie aspect of the trip was fantastic. I must've gained at least a few pounds from the trip, but every restaurant, coffee shop and bakery our troupe of journalists visited was well worth the added weight. I tried a tiny raw octopus, every kind of sushi imaginable, pan-seared Chilean bass, and more types of cheese and biscotti than I can remember. In a city famous for its monstrous Primanti Brothers sandwiches packed with soggy fries and too much lettuce, I would've never guessed the city of steel had such a cultural flair. The best part - all of it was absolutely free.

At one point in the trip, we visited Pamela's Pancakes, a tiny restaurant in the busy stretch of shops and stores known as the Strip District. By this time, my stomach could handle no more, so - while the other group members ordered nearly every plate on the menu much to the dismay of our peppy PR tour guide - I settled on a bowl of delicious strawberries, bananas and cottage cheese. Tired of having to avoid conversation with the creepy cat lady journalist - whose purpose of being on the trip, I wasn't exactly sure), I started up a conversation with our harried waitress who, despite her other customers, sat down with me and shared her story. With the end of the table all to ourselves, Idi explained how she and her family came from Hungary following the Russian Revolution. They had tried to flee the country prior to this, but her grandparents were caught and murdered along the way, forcing them to return. For years, Idi refused to learn Russian in her home country, a resentment that continued until some years ago while she was living in America. Putting the past behind her, she regretted that she hadn't learned the language and that she had had so much hate pent up inside her. Sitting in a small café in a city that I thought I knew like the back of my hand, Idi and her story of triumphing over hatred proved to be the highlight of my press trip.

Return

I am surrounded by cemeteries. Sweet christ.

Silver Bells and Cockleshells

The first of many trailers for Alice In Wonderland appeared all of the Internet lately, and I must say, I'm not pleased. Though I do try and refrain from any judgmental remarks on movies before I see them - and that comment is entirely untrue - I'm not sure how I feel about the Cheshire Cat being entirely animated or the fact that Anne Hathaway is playing the White Queen. I'm afraid Tim Burton is outlasting his use, and I'd love to see another director give him a good run for his money. Or however that phrase goes. Coraline was not altogether too disappointing, but was all too similar to his previous works. I understand it's his style, but something needs to change - I'm getting tired of seeing swaggering Captain Jack and a cleavage-bursting Carter dance around on screen bathed in black, red and white. I'm also jealous of them.

...shut up, Anne Hathaway.

A man is riding on his horse one late afternoon, when he comes across a wide and murky swamp. Not wishing to spend the night in the dense forest, the man longed to cross the swamp before night fell. Knowing there were no bridges for miles and miles on either side of him, however, he realized the hopelessness of his situation and was about to dismount his fare when he noticed a small boy sitting at the swamp's edge. He called out to the young lad, who calmly turned to the man. "I wonder if you could tell me, young man, does the swamp have a solid bottom?" The boy nodded and replied, "Why, of course, sir, it most certainly does." The man asked, "Are you absolutely quite certain that it does, little boy?" The boy simply nodded again and turned back to gaze at the water. With his horse, the man - now confident in his quest - began to cross the swamp, only to sink deeper and deeper until he found himself up to his neck in thick mud. The man cried out in a panic to the little boy, "I thought you said it had a solid bottom!" The boy shrugged and replied, "It does, sir, you just haven't reached it yet."

A Different Shade of Oak

Four years ago, I was obsessed with the idea of death, so much so that it began to creep into everyday life and often sent me into a panic, knowing that I could die at any time and in any number of ways. I would even feel somewhat "disconnected" or removed from my body, as if my mind had wandered off somewhere, leaving me to stare off into space in a long stupor.

Back then, I believed this was merely a phase and with time, I would come to accept an inevitable death. Yet here I am again, in the same place I was in my high school years - terrified of the Reaper. One minute, I'm watching a movie with friends or having a few drinks at a crowded bar, and the next, paralyzed with the thought of life's biggest mystery.

When I was that tender age of 18, I recall my attempts to create a blog such as this one, where I would delve into morbid subjects in order to confront my fears. Needless to say, it didn't work out as well as I would have liked, but it did bring up some interesting finds. Today, I revisit those morbid memories - crazy coffins.

During the mindless hours I spent surfing the internet in the Golden Age I knew as my teenage years, I came across a bizarre website showcasing the most interesting coffin designs from around the world. I vaguely recall one particular coffin that was lined with cushions and included a stereo system complete with headphones and extra batteries. Though I wasn't able to find it again, I did find some other crazy designs for the deceased.

Though I'll never fully understand some people's wish to be interred in a large wooden egg or a massive felt blue luggage case, there are other designs that encapsulate the departed's true passions when they were alive. The skateboard coffin and guitar coffin are testaments to this idea - each coffin was tailored to reflect the young boys' passions in their short lifetimes.

Sure, they'll be six feet under with no one to appreciate their clever designs but the maggots and earthworms, but it's a nice commemoration to those who have passed away. I can only imagine what Michael Jackson's body will be placed in - if, in fact, he'll be lowered into the ground for certain.

Yet what about those who don't want to go out with any fanfare or be placed in a glorified mummy box? With home funerals on the rise, that's not a problem. A number of states are now allowing the practice of home burials, giving the chance for loved ones to be solely responsible for the deceased and most of the funerary arrangements. In a select few states, the law requires that the body be handled by a professional at one point, as well as requiring the family to obtain burial permits and official death certificates. Oregon, the bastard state of the Northwest, has outlawed the practice of home funerals entirely. And with an average cost of $6,000 for a funeral service in the United States, they're certainly reaping the rewards by taking the dead into their own hands.

Too Soon?

Now that I've got your attention, I must say that I cannot wait for this film to come out. Unfortunately, some boob - I blame not me - misinformed me on the release date, which is actually next summer. Mustard! I was so excited to see it this July that I went ahead and cleared out the whole month to see the film all 31 days. At least that's how many days some other boob told me are in the month of July. For now, however, I'll content myself with the new Harry Poophead movie, where acting knows no bounds and characters abound knowing no acting.

"Do yoooou plaaay -" *head bursts in fiery explosion*

"I knew I was an unwanted baby when I saw that my bath toys were a toaster and a radio."

-Joan Rivers

Words of wisdom, Joan.

Where In The World Is Death?

I wonder how long it took this little nerd to make. In any case, he's pretty awesome.



Watching Bang-Yao Liu's neat little composition of a trillion wasted post-it notes, I realized how little I know about the Japanese culture and also how bad I am at distinguishing them from the Chinese. I then found out why I know so little when I came across this disturbing photograph. I'm assuming these things were created when Jack Nicholson mated with a pterodactyl in that dream I had last week. I haven't slept a wink since.

Looks like I'm doing another load of laundry tonight.

Now what these hovering horrors really are are supernatural beings which serve as personifications of death in the Japanese culture. Well, mainly in manga and anime, that is. These death gods often surface in modern works of Japanese fiction and are the equivalent of our Grim Reaper. I'm not sure which is worse - some guy wearing a hood and brandishing a scythe while on foot or some joker freak that would have no problem outrunning you and stabbing you with his terrifyingly pointy elf boots. Either way, it looks like another sleepless night.

'Til death do me in or I find Him first, don't go toward that light!

Odd-topsies

I'm sure most people would like to choose what music they could listen to before dying. If I were to go back in time and visit my nerdy little high school self, I'm sure I'd suggest something like Music of the Night from Phantom of the Opera. Since then, my preferences have changed - everything from the dulcet repetitive tones of Phillip Glass to the smooth acoustic sound of the new Beastie Boys soundtrack and even to favorites like Return to Oz, by Scissor Sisters and Nowhere With You, by Joel Plaskett. (Still tear up to that one.) In a way, it's like choosing the song to which you'd like to summarize your whole life - one tough decision.

However, perhaps there's another way to solve this dilemma - let the music choose you. While I still can hardly believe there is such a profession, music thanatology offers musicians to use their talents essentially lulling the dying in their final moments. Using mainly a harp and lending their own voices to soothe patients and their families, music thanatologists do not respond to personal last requests, but perform according to the stasis of the patient. Breathing, restlessness, discomfort and relaxed are all somehow worked into the music by a professional musician, an angel of music, if you will.

If you were to ask me if I'd like one of these music thanatologists to be in the room, plucking on their little fairy harp in accordance with my haggard breathing and assured panicked state of being before being thrust into the unknown, well...I'm sure you can guess what my response would be.

...Get the f*** out of my room

This got me thinking - what do morticians listen to while they're prepping, dissecting and stitching bodies down in the cold recesses of the morgue? And if you think that seg was bad, check out this slightly disturbing but fascinating video on How Autopsies Work from HowStuffWorks.com. Even this woman can make the most fun out of an irksome profession with her Dollar Store ladle. (The video is near the bottom of the page.)

As I usually do when delving into such topics, I couldn't stop hitting the "Next" button as I Google searched "Autopsy photos," despite the fact that I was becoming more and more nauseated with each click. At the same time, a fire truck blared past my window, sending my mind into all kinds of bad thoughts, mostly concerning the safety of my boyfriend. I leave off now, considering this unsettling thought: Was it bad that I breathed a sigh of relief when he called me and, while knowing he was safe and alive, someone else's life was most likely in peril? For once, though distantly, I can now relate to some of the issues in Pushing Daisies...which everyone should watch. Until then, don't go toward the light!

Mustard!

Damn the times! Though I only managed to drag my sorry ass out of bed at two this afternoon, I did hit the pavement for a good hour and got some fresh air while I was at it. Being that my contract lasts until August anyhow, I'm making the best I can staying here in State College for the summer. I can see, however, that I'm not the only one getting down about the fact. It's a nice place to live - even the drunk pretty frat boys are bearable and sometimes add a nice flair to this pristine college town - but it's also fairly isolated and suffocating. So, while I praise it for it's natural beauty and debauched glory, I'm ready to get out. Weis is...well, my entry from yesterday covers that pretty well. On top of that, my projects are at a standstill. Two days remain for my bottle cutter set and Allah help me if sellers e***p or u***t get their hands on it. It also looks as if though I may have to get my own hands dirty again: my Basil wilted in the overpowering sun today. While there's still a chance it might pull through, I have ready a list of names of people to blame for this setback. I'll add as I see fit throughout the course of the day:

Heater, and by proxy, the rest of Canada
Colleen Masula
Toby Keith
Tom Hanks
Ben Stiller
The Pillsbury Doughboy (Giggling like he knows something. Stupid fatty.)
RuPaul
The North Koreans
Everyone from Texas
Joe Biden's advisor
That lady with the food stamps giving me a hard time at Weis yesterday
Josh Brown (For not having tea with me or teaching me how to knit)
Verizon
Lady Gaga
Orson Welles

You may be confused about the last one. Then again, you could just be stupid. Tonight: Looking for a place to live and perfecting my resume to send to every employer on the Eastern coast. Well, let's just go with everywhere and anyone who will accept me at this point.

For now, check out this video of Beirut and their song, Nantes. Thanks, Heather! I miss the crap out of you! (I actually recommend the other video on YouTube if you'd like to see the band - they play on trash cans, so it's worth the loss of sound quality.)

Final Answer

I finally caved and rented Slumdog Millionaire. I wasn't captured at first by the film, but toward the end it got very interesting. Needless to say, I had my Japanese fan near by for the eye squirts - need to get that checked out. (I have no Japanese fan.) What made the film even better was the fun number they all danced to at the end. Without a fantastic soundtrack, a lot of movies probably wouldn't even make it to the box office. Other films that I thought to have fantastic music scores were the Pirates of the Caribbean trilogy and, more recently, the new Star Trek movie. I got shivers when the Enterprise first appeared, just as I did when Jamal and Latika found each other and danced to some funky beats near the end of Slumdog. Oh, whoops: spoiler alert. Too late?

Sweet India, where's my fan!?

While I haven't been in a movie mood lately, this was definitely worth the absurd late fees that will inevitably wreak havoc on my bank account over the next few days. Want a brief plot of the movie? Look it up on imdb, fatty - I've got better things to do.

One of those better things to do is making sure no one outdoes me on my latest eBay bid. No, I'm not talking about the 1934 silver 2 Reichsmark that I successfully bid for some time ago. (Can you believe they open cases on eBay if you refuse to pay for over a month? I don't, which is why I'm refusing to answer their phone calls.) A few days ago, my friend suggested an interesting idea for a project to work on in the meantime. The meantime meaning, of course, when I'm not trying to figure out the difference between the absurd amounts of types of green peppers and trying - very unsuccessfully - to explain to the woman using food stamps why she can't use them for two bags of potato chips, chocolate truffles and a trough of candy bars. Yeah, I said it. A trough. Like a desk of Cheez-Its.

It'll only be a matter of days now until I receive my Glass Bottle Cutter kit in pristine condition and I begin my project of turning State College's drinking problem into...well, a bigger problem. I mean, I'm essentially creating more glasses to drink from. While I'm saving the world one frosted Rolling Rock at a time (That's right, I'm frosting the glasses, too. I'm classy. I am a lady.), I'll be sprinkling fresh, home-grown Basil and Rosemary onto my imaginary steaks and chopping up succulent green peppers to compliment the meal. Now let's see how many more days I need to wait for these suckers to grow...68 more days!? What the steakums is this about!? You know what? Canada's going to have to take the heat for this one - things have been going all so smoothly that it just seems logical that Heather and her nation of syrup-guzzling draft-dodgers are behind this.

Now usually when I say I'm going to do something, I do it. Sure, I may have never actually "made" the Norwegian Glogg, or never really wrote that blog on the culture of Turkey, or even technically didn't catch those fish and instead paid another camper for my Fishing Boy Scout merit badge - but this time, it's serious. Soon, I'll be receiving that delightful kit in the mail and going to work. Look at out, drunken frat boys. Sunday morning, you look outside and see a creepy kid digging through your trash, don't worry - I'll let you finish that small amount of backwash and what appears to beer at the bottom of your Brewskies.

This is the guy who peed in your beer last night

Speaking of drunken idiots, I wasn't surprised, as I perused articles in the New York Times, to see that Kim-Ding-Dong Il has vowed to continue nuclear weapons production, despite the oh-so-threatening sanctions of the United Nations. I'd like to take the person who suggested that nuclear warfare is obsolete and strap them to a bomb heading toward Kimmy's house. In the article, it reads as follows:

North Korea has grown increasingly isolated as it has pressed forward with a nuclear program that many analysts say they now believe is aimed at producing an independent nuclear deterrent rather than being used as a bargaining chip with the West for much needed aid.
The long-range missile test in April was part of what many analysts call an effort to produce a delivery system capable of reaching the United States. There have been signs in recent weeks that the North may be preparing for yet another missile test.

Just small people playing with lives and fucking with resources that could be used for so much better. It makes me think of the time I was jogging down toward the World War II memorial field not too long ago. In passing, I saw several children climbing and playing atop an old tank that had once been a killing machine overseas. The image - the juxtaposition of death and new life and also of terrible symbolism and young innocence - disturbed me up until this day. Now, I think differently. In fact, the first thing that popped in my head when I thought of what the nuclear bombs could be used for aside from killing, I imagined giant warheads being used as playground sets at an elementary school. Wish I had a picture for that one. Oh wait, I do.

Of course, we'd first have to dismantle the weapons...or do we?

I See You Shiver With...

I was shocked to find out yesterday that my friend, who is a few years younger than I, is getting married. The idea of getting hitched so young, however, wasn't the thing that took me aback the most. Though I won't use names, I'm sure my comment won't be taken lightly by the individual, but I'd like to speak my mind. (Besides, who reads this crap anyhow?)

Not long ago, I had a conversation with Scott about individuals who ignore their sexuality struggles and enter a heterosexual marriage to appear "normal" for the rest of society, whether it be friends, family or the public in general. What was troubling about my conversation with my soon-to-be-wed friend was that he initially acknowledged that the marriage was a "convenient" arrangement. When I realized - after breaking down some barriers and eliciting a more accurate, true-to-feelings response - that the poor guy really seemed bitter (on top of being nervous, of course) and even demonstrated (I won't say how) that he wasn't exactly ready for a commitment, let alone a heterosexual one.

This isn't the first time I've seen or heard of this happening. It has also become a sore spot for me when it comes up in conversation. While the gay community protests and waits for their rights to marriage, the heterosexual crowd seems as if though they're simply throwing their rights away. It infuriates me to no end to see these couples wasting these opportunities (with some being an exception, of course) while those who truly do want to be with the one they love are denied all because society can't accept the form of love between same gender couples.

Unfortunately, for all my rantings, I have little, if not less, room to discuss the subject. I haven't been protesting or waiting anticipatedly (I'm still convinced this is a word, or should be) for gay marriage ban lifts. I haven't done my part, and therefore I haven't fought for my right either. I can only hope, however, that this blog entry - though it does little justice to the issue - is a start to a more activist stance on gay issues. Who knows who I'll be marrying some years from now, a man, a woman, my imaginary pet ring-tailed lemur, Dusty -- but it doesn't matter. I support love in all forms and will continue to do so no matter what my sexual preference in the future.*

*I'm going to go ahead and say that incest is pushing it and bestiality...well, that's just wrong.

However, there was a break in the clouds today when my friend let me on to an excellent idea for summer projects. (No promises on getting everything done on my growing list...I say to myself.) If there's a place for drinking until you're puking on your heels every night of the week, it's gotta be State College. And where there's booze, there's plenty of bottles. The Green Glass Company has some innovative ideas for these discarded and unseemly treasures. With an inexpensive glass bottle cutting kit, beer bottles, wine bottles - bottles of all kinds - can be transformed into a decorative glass set for the table. Just watch those jagged pieces around the rim. No, in all seriousness, that can be solved, too. It's all here on instructables. (Damn them and their clever name.) It's a sweet site, check it out!

I realize at this point that I have a plethora of new things from the same source, but they're too good to not mention. For the past twenty-four hours, I've been on a Mother Mother kick, repeatedly playing my favorite songs of theirs: Wrecking Ball, Hayloft and Oh My Heart. It seems there's a discrepancy on the last one and since I like the video, voilà:



There's no discrepancy on this story from the Huffington Post - those screwy Smirnoff-lovers are at it again. This time, the Russians are placing cardboard cutouts of Brad Pitt in heavy traffic areas in hopes that it will attract and slow down drivers as they pass by what can only be a highly unusual sight to them.

Looks like you're out of a job, fatty.

Fill Up Your Pockets, Fill Up Your Nerves

Talking to an old spark today (I'll never use that term again, promise), I got/stole some good ideas for projects this summer. More so, it coincides nicely with material I've been reading about - of course - death! Woot!

In old Slavic folklore, it was believed that Death, a figure which is popularly seen as a skeleton with a scythe in Western culture, came in the form of a woman dressed in all white, an everlasting green sprout in the palm of her hand. If one were to touch the sprout, according to legend, they would fall into an eternal deep sleep.

Although the symbolism of the everlasting sprout is fairly obvious, the significance of it, combined with my friend's musings on things-to-do-when-you're-bored-out-of-your-skull-and-nearly-applying-for-Teach-For-America, got me to thinking. One of the only ways to defeat or avoid death - aside from a nice, lengthy visit to Luz - is to create new life. As I love growing plants and using them in a practical way, whether for ingredients from my Basil or Rosemary plants or simply for breathing, I decided to take it a step further: Jam-making!

As it's already well into June, I'm pressed for time for berry-picking. On top of racing against the ripening clock, blueberries are pretty hard to come by in Western, Pennsylvania. So, perhaps it's time for a road trip over toward Lancaster and New Jersey for some moonlight misappropriation. Strawberries, however, won't be a problem. Normally, the season for strawberries lasts into September, so I've got some time. What to do with this jam, however, is still undetermined.

From the same source of my new inspiration to concoct sugary treats, it's been reported that birth control is allegedly fucking with our love lives. Taking the pill or stopping use can purportedly reverse the compatibility in genes between men and women, thus increasing the likelihood for accepted excuses for cheating. Read about women gone wild here!

While Jesus Saves, I Spend

As I began my new job at Weis today, I had plenty of time to think as I uselessly stood and "observed" the large, jovial cashier ring up all kinds of cookies, cases of soda and family-sized potato chip bags for wrinkly customers who could barely fit past the conveyor belt. At one point, I excused myself and walked - deliberately slow - to the back to get a drink of water. Passing the bread section, I nearly broke down in tears. I don't know why - maybe because my boyfriend left, albeit for a week and a half (separation anxiety) - but working my first day at a grocery store proved to be more humiliating than any other job I've had. Perhaps, too, my melancholy nature can be attributed to the large gap I've been sensing in my life lately. Tack on the little nuances of the day and it all adds up. You know you're in trouble when you've decided it would be a good time to join the Peace Corps, let alone that you've checked "No Preference" for preferred location.

Not long ago, I had an insightful conversation with a friend on life and death. If you've seen my earlier entries, you'll know I'm terrified of death. I don't say anything, but even when the subject arises in humorous situations - including the wonderful show, Pushing Up Daisies - my mind wanders and I begin thinking about what death means to me. To get to the point quickly, my friend, a staunch atheist with an optimistic outlook, said there is really only one way to live on after we die: through the memory of others. It sounds a little corny, but it is better than you're-only-maggot-food-and-that's-that explanation.

So, as I inhaled the luxurious scent of whole wheat, Italian and potato breads, I began to think: If I died tomorrow (Mr. Bourdain's ice cream truck example, let's say), what imprint would I leave and how long would it take for me to disappear? I'd like to believe there is a God - or something, an afterlife, paradise, reincarnation, what have you - but logic tells me, as it does my friend, that it just ain't so. Sure, on my death bed, I'll be praying like a fiend, hoping that the doctors suddenly find a cure for death and accidentally inject me with said remedy.

I have to take a break here - I've gotten worked up and I'm getting that familiar tightening of the throat and hot facial flushes. It's not menopause, as one elderly customer graciously shared with me today. As I usually do, I stole this from a friend and just had to share it. Here's what Bonnie Tyler was really trying to say:



From the same source, I was made aware today of a deadly shooting at the Holocaust Museum. Apparently, an 88-year-old white supremacist fired upon a guard, killing him, and injuring others. By the way, the picture on the article's site is heart-breaking. Read about out-of-control elderly people here.

Believing it to better to stay inside rather than getting run over by a racing zimmer on the sidewalks of downtown State College, I settled in to watch the third night of the Colbert Show in Baghdad, Iraq. Though he's been playing it pretty soft - schmoozing with the Iraqi president and taking a few mild jabs at former psychopath, Saddam Hussein - my man Stephen hit on a pretty tender subject in one of my favorite segments, Formidable Opponent. Lately, the issue of Don't Ask, Don't Tell has been pushed to the side not only in mainstream media, but even other outlets publishing LGBT news. 365Gay.com recently featured a blog article addressing the growing issue of deaf ears to allowing gays to serve openly in the military. Here's Michael Duffy's article on marching against the military ban. Let's get our translators back and focus on more important things.

The Colbert Report	Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c
Formidable Opponent - Don't Ask, Don't Tell
http://www.colbertnation.com/
Colbert Report Full Episodes Political Humor Stephen Colbert in Iraq

As always, Rachel Maddow got a hold of the issue and held an interview with a recently-outed Arabic linguist fired from the military under Don't Ask, Don't Tell. Here's Dan Choi and quirky TV host Rachel Maddow:

Visit msnbc.com for Breaking News, World News, and News about the Economy

Now there's a good spokesman for gay rights! Anyhow, where was I? Right, death. Far from wanting to sound "whiney" or emo (I ain't no fake cutter), I'm simply in limbo at the moment and I think I have been for quite some time - I've just covered it up with mindless activity along the way. I know that I'm young, that I have time to decide what I want out of life, but I want my epiphany now. Tiny cracks with tinier cracks in between, though. Anyhow, I'm sure of what I want now, and that's sleep.

Until next time, kiddos, and remember: Death's a reapin'!

Ambiance Alsacienne

I may or may not have stolen this from someone else's blog: (Thanks, Flo!)

Bombs Away!

While I fan my eyes after the Scrubs episode I just watched and curse FX for taunting me by airing episodes of The Riches, I'd like to share some stories from this weekend. As this is my blog, I feel no one will object.

It may be insignificant to mention, but the ride home on Friday was the perfect start to a relaxing weekend back at home in Blairsville, Pennsylvania. As I was carelessly speeding along Route 22 at 90 miles per hour, I saw a man alongside the road walking away from his truck. He seemed to either be looking for something or simply trumping head down to the nearest gas station, which was quite a walk. I continued about three miles before I decided to turn around and ask if he needed a ride. When I arrived, however, he was gone. It didn't bother me a bit, but it made me think of the time Jess and I had a similar experience, one involving a hopeful hitchhiker on the way back from Rhode Island. We marveled at the fact that the hitchhiker had no idea that two people had taken the time to backtrack and help him out. We then marveled at the fact that these things happen every day, even to us. It's amazing the kind of impression you can leave on someone and the impression that someone can leave on you -- without even saying a word, without even meeting you.

Trying to make up for some lost time, I picked up speed once I had gotten through Altoona and into Ebensburg. Even at that speed, however, I noticed the flashing lights of a motorcycle coming the other way over a hill. More reactionary than anything, I slowed down only just in time to notice a police car sitting just out of view on the other side of the road. When I had gotten safely past the cop, I followed the motorcyclist's example and flashed my lights to the opposing traffic, a small red car. I noticed their brake lights come on immediately and smiled. It might've been entirely inconsequential for anyone else to have mentioned, but it certainly bolstered my belief in karma. You reap what you sow, so plant some good seeds.

Within the hour of getting home, Colleen and I were roasting marshmallows and mountain pies over a fire and catching up on the past few months. After realizing the terrible choice we made in renting the X Files ("Scully...I...I have no idea what you're even talking about"), we downed three-fourths of Jose while we soaked in the hot tub, then fell asleep half-drunk watching Santa Clause 3. It seemed as if though our time together had been stolen when I hugged her goodbye tonight after going to see the movie, Night at the Museum 2.

A usual occurrence during a weekend with the Masula is the divulging of secrets. Yet this time, it was my grandma who decided to open up to me. Somehow, the topic of marijuana came into our conversation, and she suddenly became agitated. She told me that, had she heard of any or been offered some when she was working in the factory in her early 20s, she would have certainly liked to try it! At 86, my grandmother appears to be the most quaint, conservative and fragile woman I've ever seen. Everything about her - her mannerisms as well as her outward appearance -- suggests a very humble nature. At 20, she had been trained and hired at a factory in Iowa, inspecting planes to be sent overseas for the war. She laughed when I mentioned "Rosie the Riveter" and then abruptly asked me a very interesting question: "Do you think we should have dropped the bombs?" Then, with a serious yet curious look, she warned me, "Be careful what you say!"

I was speechless at first. Frantically, I mentally flipped through the piles of notes from my World War II classes this semester and - carefully - calculated my answer. I pondered aloud the terrible tragedy and numerous Japanese civilians who died in Nagasaki and Hiroshima, but also was sure to stress the number of American lives that would've been lost had we been forced to invade the mainland. I also recollected my professor's lectures on Japanese warfare, relentless and, if need be, suicidal. She nodded, adding that my generation was more apt to think more about the humanity of the situation, while her generation focused more on victory and the safety of their men.

This got me thinking, not about World War II, but other subjects I've never touched upon with my grandma. The more I talk to her, the more I learn and the more I realize she's not as conservative as I once thought. Recently, I've been tempted to bring up the subject of homosexuality, perhaps even telling her about myself. Yet on the ride home, I decided it wasn't important enough unless it came up naturally in a conversation. It is true, however, that I'd like her to know before she dies, given the shock of the news isn't the reason for her death. Why I need her to know, I'm not sure. Nonetheless, I can't help but feel she already does know -- she rarely asks me if I brought any girls home, something she made a point to do every time I visited.

Elsewhere, I've made breakthroughs...or simply just progress, perhaps. The past week, I've been taking care of Scott's demon, Leila, and found that she had nowhere to go this weekend but to home with me. I didn't mind, but I did catch myself concocting a lie to tell my mother once she asked whom the rabbit belonged to. Instead, I told the truth (It's been a while.), and she didn't even flinch. In fact, she repeated my boyfriend's name back to me, asking where he was this weekend. Having rabbits herself when she was a girl, she took to Leila nicely, with the exception of course that the animal not be allowed in the house. I knew she was aware that my boyfriend and I had gotten back together (Thanks, Laurel.), but I was shocked by her blaise attitude, her seemingly accepting tone of it all.

I can't help but to smile a little when I recall the first time ma mere approached me about my sexuality. Far from being funny, however, she came into my room one night after I had been talking on the phone with my ex-boyfriend. Tears already brimming in her eyes, she asked if I had been seeing anyone. For some odd reason, I told the truth. (Perhaps this happens more than I think it does?) "Is it a guy? Yes. What the hell is wrong with me? "Is his name Sam?" Yes. Stop telling the truth! She nodded her head jerkily, stood up and walked out of the room without a word. Seven months later, I was dating a girl.

I remember the Saturday afternoon as if though it happened yesterday. Beautiful day, sitting on the sofa in the basement to stay out of the heat. My mother came down the stairs and sat on the chair opposite me. I assumed she was taking a break from working outside, but when I looked up, she was looking at me in a very unusual way. The silence was broken when she said, in her all-too-Bonniesque way, "So you're bisexual?" The words dropped like my grandma's justified bombs over Japan. I responded by saying "I guess so," and she robotically nodded her head just like before. Rose up from her chair, went up the steps and disappeared into the hallway, no further questions. It was like a bitchslap in the face, leaving me feeling so uncomfortable I had to stop reading my book.

During this last recent breakup, she was the only one I could reach as I bawled hysterically and moped pathetically in my lonely apartment. While I'm ashamed of my frantic behavior on those few days, I can't help but be amazed at the cool and collective nature she exhibited as she gave me counsel over the phone. She had already known (Once again, thanks, Laurel.) about my having a boyfriend, so there was no explanation needed. Even once the relationship had been mended, she somehow knew and never said a word.

Silence is one of the most effective weapons in anyone's arsenal. I'm not just speaking about the typical "silent treatment" that wives in sitcoms give to their husbands when they do something stupid. It's the silence that is often unintentional, a silence of fear and one that no matter how much dirt is heaped on top, it grows like weeds and never stops. Silence can also divide. It can drive a wedge through relationships. No matter how great it seems on the outside, no matter how many other things the person knows about you, there's still that one thing that sticks like an annoying piece of gum on the bottom of your shoe.

I hate to reduce it down to a wad of stubborn Bubble Yum, but it really does bother me under the surface, the silence on the issue of my sexuality. While it may be far from important that my parents accept my new boyfriend or girlfriend into the family, it's good to have the subject acknowledged. I find it even more difficult to know that it's the same on the other side of the fence. I love to meet the parents of whoever I'm dating -- with a guy, the chances are slim. It frustrates me to no end when I hear people resign to, "That's just the way things are." Things change, as they're supposed to, yet things here are not changing as fast as I'd like.

By now, I've noticed my rather cheery introduction has spiraled into a note of inhumanity and disappointment. As always, however, I hope for the best and prepare for the absolute worst. I don't believe anyone should have to live like this, but that's just the way things are, right?

Loony Moony

The universe is awesome. Eddie Izzard would agree with that. (Though I love a good hot dog every now and then.) Even the earth's moon, something we see nearly every night, is unfathomable. In order to equal the distance it would take to get to the moon, you would have to travel around the earth nearly nine times! Also, one lunar day on the moon equals 29.5 Earth days. (The moon is tidally locked to the Earth, so our gravity drags the moon around on its axis and the same side of the moon always faces Earth) Pulled that word-for-word off of HowStuffWorks.com. Thanks Dr.Craig Freudenrich, Ph.D.! While we may not marvel at the pockmarked Artemis -- as the Greeks referred to it -- looming far away in the night sky, there are a billion other wonders floating around in the unknown frontier that is space.

Unfortunately, I don't have the capacity to get into that right now, partly because I've been disappointed by my two replacement shows, Weeds and Six Feet Under, and partly because I just don't care at the moment!

For now, here's our favorite mule, who I call Crazy Horse the Flatulent. Lick 'em, Crazy!

Bow Chica Wah Wah

The Japanese are at it again, and this time they've gone...(Dramatic look to Camera B) undercover. Recently, I've been mulling over the prospects of a long-distance relationship. Like any couple experiencing the difficult transition after college -moving to different cities, following separate dreams - I've experienced everything from doubt to complete faith when considering a sustained relationship two hours apart. As it's not that far of a distance (Philadelphia to New York), I haven't had as hard of a time accepting the lengths of time being apart. It'll be challenging, but that's what I enjoy. Of course, the Japanese are trying to best me and my strong will of the mind with their new technology. Mutsugoto's touch-activated...sketch pad is now being tested on partners who need just a little more than Skype and text messaging. I'm not sure I understand it, but I'll allow this unusually-and-awkwardly-softcore-pornlike video to elaborate:

Mutsugoto from Distance Lab on Vimeo.

Possibly more interesting are the comments left by other viewers. This one seemed rather...harsh?

By curious7 at 4:47 PM ON 04/21/09

Interesting yeah, but if the Japanese spent half as much time actually sleeping with one another than they seem to spend creating and using self-gratification gizmos, they might not be experiencing their much-advertised population nosedive...

I've actually been working on my own inventions here at 725 Unnamed Building Blood-Stained Door #12 (I'll explain when the DNA tests come back). As I sat here waiting for Scott to tear his eyes away from World of Warcraft and for Leila to stop chewing on my iPod cord, I entertained myself by creating variations of the word "jellybean". Among the many absurdities I conjured up, I was marveled by my unrivaled genius by a particular one: Bejellany. Beautiful. I love ls as much as I love words including the letter v, so this was perfect. Bejellany, in my definition, is miscellany that has been bejewelled. So if you're ever cleaning out your grandma's attic and find some odd and gaudy antique that looks as if though it's been attacked by Cher's wardrobe designer, you have the perfect word for the situation.

Tales from the Water Closet

My favorite part of any house or apartment is the bathroom. Whether I'm visiting a relative, having a few drinks at a friend's apartment, or surfing on a stranger's sofa, I always make it a point to check out their WC, regardless of the status of my current bowel movements. I'm always a bit surprised, therefore, that I chose to live in this apartment. Aside from the fact that having no roommate can sometimes get lonely, my bathroom is the tiniest thing I've ever seen. Yet when I first laid eyes on this Bates Motel adobe abode (If you've been here, you'd understand. Pictures, perhaps? I'll forget.), I was tickled by the miniature space where I knew I'd be spending most of my time. While it doesn't have a lock (something I'm very into), there's a giant step-up into the bathroom, something that took me a while to get used to. Now, I love it. I feel as though I'm in a completely different part of the apartment, not a tiny, cramped closet adjacent to my bedroom.

Since it is the most revered room in Unnamed Building #12, I was sure to stock it with some literature, specifically an appropriately mini-sized MiniPedia, Great Civilizations, by Brenda Ralph Lewis. Because I haven't spent much time here lately, I've started reading it again and have even found some new things about the ancient Egyptian culture. The god, Re, representing the sun, would at the end of the day descend into the Underworld, leaving the world in darkness as he took on a perilous journey. At each hour, he would come upon a door guarded by a terrifying demon, each of which he would conquer in order to reascend and bring day back to the Egyptian people.

Makin' Babies

I finally finished the last episode of The Riches yesterday. I've been having dreams about the opening titles - the music soundtrack to that show is stupendous. In any case, I'll need to find a new show to watch as I'm sure my letter to FX will not persuade the producers to continue the show, especially considering that it ended a year ago. My list so far for potential replacements now are:

Six Feet Under

Weeds

The Tudors

I included the last one on the list only because I find Jonathan Rhys Meyers's lips tantalizing and irresistable. As I once said, he and Fiona would have beautiful big-eyed babies. If only, if only.

Of course, not everything comes out perfect - that is, if you're using Routan Baby Maker. Here he is folks, the baby of J. Rhys Meyers and F. Apple:

Not bad, Routan. But where's the pouty lips? The dinner-plate eyes? The impeccable jaw line? Disappointing. This baby could've been a combination of Tom Selleck and Margaret Thatcher for all I care. Toss that baby out and in with the newborn! Here he is, in all his glory, the baby of Stephen Colbert and Lee Dunlap:

Sweet Jehovah! Kill it, kill it! It looks as though the Joker mated with that ogre from The Goonies.

Well, not everyone can have beautiful babies, but if you'd like to take a shot because you're pathetic and realize you'll never find someone who will be dumb or equally ugly enough to have kids with you, try out the site for yourself at Routan Baby Maker, the place where hideous creatures are born but can easily be aborted with the click of a mouse.

Queen of Clubs

I write this only for myself, to remind me in the future of the precious time I so often waste,this time by playing over ten hours of Halo. I am ashamed and will make up for my losses tomorrow.

Despite my lack of motivation, I'm excited for this summer's prospects. My notorious travel partner and friend in crime and I are planning to undertake a documentary project similar to the Road Trip Nation experience we had last summer. We both loved interviewing individuals who lived lives "out of the norm", if you will, and writing about our crazy side experiences while couch surfing and exploring different locales. Therefore, we decided to amp things up a bit, throw in some camera action and our own website and start hitting the town to see who we could find. There's loads of interesting people out there, let alone in the State College area. Of course, any good project like this one needs a name or tag line to attract some attention, so we've been brainstorming about some possibilities. So far, my brain, long turned mushy by X-Box, has come up with 'offshoots' and 'debunking'. Terrible, I know. However, they get some points across: what we're trying to do is get a peek, if not deep insight, into the lives of others, particularly those who aren't following the idealized American dream. They're making it their own. Jess has been pondering a way to fit in 'manifest destiny' without the negative connotation of taking more land from the Native Americans. Possibilities abound, but regardless of the name, I think it's a great idea and should go over well.

As of now, we'll see what other people think of the idea and gather some ideas for the site name. Suggestions welcome!

Dowd and Out

It's amazing to me how little I knew when I was a kid, but even more incredible how ignorant I was throughout middle school and high school. Remember when more than 700 people died of SARS in China in 2002? I certainly don't. I imagine at that time I was setting social fires among my friends and spending my time lolling about the farm by myself and reading Calvin & Hobbes comic strips. I was a stupid little shit back then, completely isolated from the world -- but I was happy. Blissfully and blindly happy. It has to make you wonder: Is it better to not know anything at all and be ignorantly content, or is it better to know everything and live in a world of happiness and pain? I'd certainly take the latter, but I smirk when I think of my 15-year-old self idly floating above the chaos, completely content being alone and unaware of everything going on around me. Stupid boy.

I digress, but with good reason as I'm back at home in Blairsville for the weekend. What sparked this wreckless train of thought was an article I read in the New York Times today. Mexico, it turns out has been dealing with the recent epidemic with more style than most have given the country credit for. NYT reporter Larry Rohter does something interesting to put Mexico's reaction to the swine flu in perspective -- he compares it to the SARS outbreak in China in 2002. Apparently, China did everything short of calling its pandemic a complete fluke, censoring the media and refusing aid. From its former government, Mexico has come a long way and has dealt with the outbreak in every way they could, from pooling sources with the US to getting out the news so that its citizens could protect themselves - enough to get a tip of the hat from Mr. Colbert.

On the other hand, I think our man could give the wag of the finger to Maureen Dowd, crazy lady who wrote an op-ed piece for the New York Times. In her article, Put Aside Logic, Dowd explained the death of the newspaper industry by comparing it with the new Star Trek film. No class I've taken at the university in journalism will help me explain this one. Read her article on The Final Frontier and try not to kirk out.