Scribble Soup

People wrinkle over time. Clothes get less wrinkly over time. Right?

2010-08-05T19:56:00.005-05:00

I'm going swing dancing tonight but I keep postponing leaving the apartment because my shirt is wrinkled and I hope if I sit here long enough, the wrinkles will just fall out.

Anyone know a way to make them fall faster? And don't you dare say the "I" word. stfu.

UPDATE: Totally didn't work. Wrinkles are still there. F**k it, I'm going anyway.

UPDATE 2: You know what DOES work to get rid of wrinkles? Dancing. Getting all hot and sweaty. My shirt was steamed naturally from the inside out. And it's totally wrinkle free!

If I was Arnold Schwartzzzenegggger, I'd say, "I'll be back." But I'm not. So I won't.

2010-08-05T17:14:00.006-05:00

I'm thinking about blogging again. Yes, this is a blog to tell you I'm thinking about blogging.

You've been warned.

Until then, I'll leave you with a picture of some cute little bunnies.

UPDATE: No, Google, that's not what I meant. Just.... nevermind.

UPDATED 2: I've been reading a lot of The Bloggess lately, which made me realize all of the inane thoughts that are being funneled into my Facebook status updates should really be going into something productive. Like a blog. Don't judge me.

I'm actually thinking of starting a BRAND NEW BLOG (all caps totally necessary), one that is a little fancier with a new, as-yet-undecided domain and a homepage that perhaps looks less like a template. If you'd like to design me something pretty, I'll give you a slice of leftover birthday cake. That's a promise. Unless I eat it all first. Then I'll make you a new cake. Which is even better.

A note on apartment names

2009-09-29T12:28:00.003-05:00

I get a kick out of really sleazy apartment complexes that give themselves these grandiose names in an attempt to lure in residents. It's like they're trying to trick people into thinking they won't be living in a hole of despair.

They have names like The Bel Air. Malibu. Coronado. Anything named after Southern California. Anything with "Heights" or "Vista" in the name. Sometimes they even throw in the word "Beach." You might be hundreds of miles from the nearest beach but hey, they have a pool. Sometimes you even see a combination of the above names, like Coronado Heights or Mailbu Vista. Don't be deceived. "Vista" generally refers to a view, so in a complex called Malibu Vista, all this really means is that you'll be living in a rat-infested hell hole AND your window overlooks a non-rat-infested complex, so you'll have a perfect view of the life you could be living. That's what we call a double whammy.

That's not to say all apartments with these names are rat-infested hell holes but you can be sure most rat-infested hell holes have splendid names.

And you know, if I was looking the apartment up in a phone book, I might just fall for this tactic. "Oooh, The Bel Air must be really nice. I know the real Bel Air in Los Angeles is ritzy, so this must be also... even though it's on the wrong side of town. Must be an oasis of beauty tucked inside the ghetto." But if I'm there in person and can see the peeling paint and the missing letters that read "_he Be_ _ir," I'm not going to fall for it. Why? Because I can see. And smell. And was that a gunshot I just heard? So much for that "oasis of beauty" idea. Hey, that's a pretty good apartment name...

VCWhat?

2009-09-25T23:12:00.005-05:00

Now that the new television season has started it is time, once again, to dust off the VCR.

Yes, you heard me right, I said VCR. I didn't say DVR. I didn't say Tivo or Hulu or some new-fangled Satellite recording device that has yet to hit the mainstream home market. I said VCR. You know that machine with the tapes... the one that used to sit in the livingroom underneath the television and flash 12:00 because you never knew how to set the time? Yeah, that one.

With all the selections out there, good old fashioned VHS tapes are still my recording method of choice. Why? I'm glad you asked. I'll tell you why. Because it's hard to justify a monthly fee to be able to record my shows. It's as simple as that. DVR is a fantastic technology and I know as soon as I get it, I will never go back. But why would I pay a monthly fee to record my shows when I can do it from home for FREE? And have you seen the price of tapes lately? I could find that much in my couch cushion... and I don't make a habit of losing money in the couch.

Sure, Hulu is free and a lot of the networks stream shows on their websites, but not all of them. If I want to catch, for example, an episode of the Odd Couple, circa 1972, that I know is going to be on TV Land, I'll be disappointed to learn that ABC isn't streaming Odd Couple re-runs on the Internet. Yes, that's right, ABC has abandoned this show. It's a pity, really. And TV Land does stream old shows but the Odd Couple doesn't happen to be one of their chosen few. If, however, I notice the episode I want to see is on television, I simply pop the tape in and press record. Voila. And I can even set it to record hours or days in advance... as long as the power doesn't go out.

Anyway, so mom was at the grocery store stocking up on tapes to get us through the latest TV season (since I'm gone five nights a week and am a TV junkie). After roaming around the store for a while, mom finally spotted some tapes. And they were a quarter each. Jackpot. She grabbed three (though she thought about clearing them out and taking everything they had) and went to check out. That's 18 hours of recording magic for under a dollar. I have two words for that - Hells. Yeah.

So mom got to the checkout and when it was her turn in line, the checker spotted the tapes and said, "Oh, what are you going to do with all of these VHS tapes."

....

Seriously? Are you unaware of how these tapes are used? Or are you just another snooty DVR user who thinks everyone has this technology? Think of these black plastic bricks as an ancient DVR. Mom was taken aback. She said, "Uhh, tape things on them" and when the girl didn't really respond, mom said, "I don't have DVR or Tivo or anything." And then - this is the kicker - the girl said, "awww." And it wasn't just any, "awww," this was an "awww" full of pity. As if anyone who doesn't have DVR is experiencing a hardship worthy of a government bailout. As if you could find people on street corners with cardboard signs that say, "I have a home but no DVR. Anything helps."

After the fact mom realized she should have come up with some great answer to explain why anyone would want to use a VHS tape. So I've compiled a list of the Top 25 answers she should have given when asked, "What are you going to do with all of these VHS tapes?"

Here they are:

25. "Wouldn't you like to know..." *wink*

24. "OH! Is THAT what those are?"

23. "I'm building a fort."

22. "I'm using them to re-tile my floor. You wouldn't believe how much cheaper these are than standard tile. And nobody will ever know the difference........"

21. "I've been feeling a little depressed and you guys don't sell rope."

20. "Paper weight."

19. "I'm using them to level my desk."

18. "I'm using the tape to line the bird cage. It costs less than a newspaper."

17. "It's an arts and crafts project."

16. "I'm brushing up on my survival skills. Didn't you ever see Cast Away?"

15. "I'm making a film set in the 80s and I want it to be as authentic as possible. I'm hoping to track down some MC Hammer pants and a Members Only Jacket."

14. "I'm putting together a time capsule to be opened in 50 years. I'm searching for things that won't be around in half a century, note the 35 millimeter film that is also in my basket. By the way, do you guys carry polar bears?"

13. "I'm from 1987 and in my time, tapes cost more than a quarter."

12. "I'm from the post-apocalyptic future, where all satellites have failed and we've had to revert back to this antiquated method of information storage... and in my time, tapes cost more than a quarter."

11. "I'm from Soviet Russia, where we do not know of this Dee Vee Arr or TeaVogue. And where I'm from, tapes cost more than a quarter."

10. "The end is nigh. Once the nukes blow and all infrastructure is destroyed, your DVR will be useless."

9. "I'm a collector. I already have a bunch of Maxells but I've been having trouble finding the Fujifilm. These are going to be worth a lot of money someday. "

8. "I ran out of packing peanuts."

7. "I need a bow to put on this gift I'm wrapping."

6. "I'm going to pull the tape out and use it as Easter Grass. Gotta tighten the belt. We are in a recession, after all."

5. "I'm making Pom-Poms."

4. "Dude, plastic is a petroleum product and I'm hoping to recycle these into a new form of fuel to reduce our dependency on foreign oil. Dude."

3. "They make great shoe laces."

2. "My Betamax player broke so I'm upgrading."

And last but not least, the number one answer my mom should have given the cashier...

1. "Because it's a f***ing quarter!"

Simple as that. 'nuff said. Not everyone has made the switch to DVR and if you have a VCR that still works, why not use it? When this one dies, maybe I won't go out of my way to get a new one but I sure as hell will use this thing until it begs for mercy and screams the safe word.

Who wears short skirts?

2009-09-19T01:44:00.006-05:00

Dear ladies of the world,

If you decide to wear a short, short skirt to the mall, don't stand next to the glass railings on the second floor. That is, unless you're an exhibitionist and want everyone on the lower level to see your Magic Kingdom.

If that's the case - mission accomplished. Congratulations.

Thank you kindly,
The Accidental Panty Peepers

The Magicians: A Review

2009-09-19T00:14:00.005-05:00

The Magicians

By Lev Grossman

On the book jacket of Lev Grossman’s The Magicians, a reviewer uses the phrase “Harry Potter goes to college,” so when I cracked open the book, I turned on my Harry Potter mindset. I was ready for magic, adventure and a replacement romp with a Potter-like character now that the Rowling-penned series has come to a close. That mindset didn’t last long.

Imagine Harry Potter’s life post-Hogwarts. Ditch Harry’s trademark round spectacles and lightning bolt scar and toss his high moral fiber and supreme sense of right versus wrong. Throw out his intense courage and add a few glaring character flaws for good measure. Put him in a brown and blue Brakebills uniform and now you have Quentin Coldwater. In short the book’s hero, if you can call him that, is Harry’s polar opposite. The similarities between the Potter series and The Magicians end after the phrase, “school for magic.” Add a dash of hard drugs, a few helpings of sex and copious amounts of alcohol and then we might have a comparison.

For most of his life, Quentin Coldwater has been obsessed with the fictional, Narnia-like world of Fillory. He’s an otherwise normal (but brilliant) high school senior who can’t catch a break until he’s swept off to Brakebills, a magical university that only accepts 20 students each year. Quentin is lucky enough to be among the 20, so he skips high school graduation, leaves his uncaring parents behind and settles in for five years at a school where he’s certain he’ll find his way. But it’s never that easy. Graduation comes half-way through the book and Quentin is thrown back out into a world where he can (and does) get away with anything.

In a sense, The Magicians brings magic into the real world, complete with all its real world problems. The Magicians is a more realistic, less idealistic version of a fantasy; it’s hard to even call it fantasy. Sure there’s magic, but there’s also addictions, heartbreak and depression. The Magicians is three parts reality to every one part fantasy. Even Quentin comes to learn that his beloved Narnia-inspired Fillory isn’t so innocent. If Narnia is a bedtime story, Fillory is the Tim Burton version of the same story. It’s dark and it’s twisted and it’s not as innocent as the magical land on which it draws its inspiration.

Grossman borrows from more than just C.S. Lewis and the Potter series and any reader of children’s fantasy (or fantasy in general) will appreciate the references. It hints at The Wizard of Oz and The Lord of the Rings and even gives a gentle nod to Dr. Seuss. In that way, The Magicians does what other books about magic fail to do – it acknowledges what came before it.

That said, the book is by no means perfect. It's 416 pages but it reads like it should have been much, much longer. 500, 600, 700 pages… Grossman seems to be in a hurry to brush past details that seem important and at times it felt downright choppy, as if Grossman’s literary exposition was hacked and diced by an editor’s cruelly efficient red pen. The result is literary slaughter. With one exception, everything in the first half of the book is given equal weight. Things that seem important are glossed over, their mention almost casual, and a few chapters read more like a list than a novel - "This happened, then this happened, then this happened..." and so on, until we come to a major event that forces time to slow down.

It was difficult to put my finger on the specific problems of the book’s early chapters but I could tell there was something off. A friend of mine, who is currently a few chapters into the book, stated that she wanted to yell, “Lev, SHOW us, don’t TELL us.” And that’s precisely it. As a reader, we want the words to show us, in great detail, what is happening to these characters. It sounds cliché to say, “paint a picture with words,” but that’s exactly what needs to happen. In some places, Grossman does this just fine but in others he is simply too rushed to get on to the next major event. I’m not sure if this is a problem with Grossman as a writer or if his original manuscript was an enormous tome that was whittled down to something more approachable, but the first half of the book is difficult to read. What they should have done, in my opinion, is split the story into several works, rather than mangle the lengthy volume into submission.

Grossman’s writing style, which is unique but not stylistically comfortable, also caused problems at times. He didn’t really settle into his style until the second half of the book and even then it was still a little on edge. Grossman seemed to be trying to develop his own literary style – he wants to be remembered as a unique voice in American literature, or so it would seem – but at times it felt like he was trying too hard. He wants to develop a style that’s unlike any other and he didn’t fail completely at this, there are a few passages where he really brings this new style to life, but it took 200 pages for him to get comfortable with his own voice.

Grossman is hardly an inexperienced writer. By day he’s a Time Magazine book reviewer and he holds degrees in comparative literature from Harvard and Yale. He’s a smart guy who knows good literature, so I find the glaring problems with The Magicians a little confusing, which is why I'm inclined to blame the editor. But Grossman is relatively inexperienced as a novelist (Warp was released in 1997 and Codex in 2004), so I think the trouble lies in two places: first, Grossman is a journalist, like it or not, so he’s used to changing projects every thousand words. Taking on a project of this length can be problematic for a journalist (trust me, I know). The second danger zone comes at the meeting of an overzealous writer with an editor and his vicious red pen – a dangerous combination.

I'm inclined to blame Viking for the majority of The Magicians’ problems, including a few minor annoyances that, individually, aren't enough to make me set the book aside, but they do add up. On the inside cover of the book is an artist’s rendering of the mythical land of Fillory. If you pay enough attention, the map in no way resembles Grossman’s depiction of the country. Things that should north of a certain landmark lie to the south and things that should be east are west. Out of desperation, I checked the map’s key to see if north and south were opposite in Fillory but no such luck, things were just out of place. It seems like Viking handed the artist a list of names and locations and told him to go to town, without any regard for Grossman’s original vision. To me the map, which is supposed to serve as a helpful guide to interested readers, caused more problems than it solved.

But of all the things in this book that bothered me, and there were quite a few, I think the biggest (it was actually the smallest but it pissed me off the most) was a sudden hair color change for the female lead. On page 51, upon her introduction, Alice has straight blonde hair. On page 287 she has dark hair. What happened? I can’t recall a dye job or a bit of hair magic. This one detail, though it seems minor, really did a number on my head. I’ve been picturing her as a blonde this whole time, so when Grossman changed her description, he pulled the rug out from under me. It’s like watching a movie adaptation and thinking, “well that’s not how she looked in my head.” In my head (and on page 51), Alice is a blonde. But really, I don’t care what color they make her hair, just pick one and stick with it.

On top of its issues, the book closed with several loose ends. I smell a sequel. But after the disappointment here, I can't guarantee I'll read it. There have been several series in the past that I would read even if the pages were made out of dog poop. If the words inside are guaranteed to be good, I'll take a chance on it. With The Magicians and any other Grossman books that may follow, it’s not a given that I’ll read on. There's too much uncertainty.

So my recommendation? Skip it. Or, if you're still interested, check it out at the library or wait a year or so for it to land in stores as a paperback. It's not worth the $26.95 price tag. All in all, I didn’t hate The Magicians. In fact, after the midway point there were a few parts of it I actually enjoyed, but the attempt as a whole, to me, fell flat. Two-and-a-half bowls of soup out of five. Though interesting at times, The Magicians failed to live up to its promise.

A Wicked Friendship

2009-07-06T13:49:00.007-05:00

I love the Wizard of Oz. I love it for its painted sets and its cheery optimism and the full Technicolor spectrum. I love it for its imperfections and the downright cheese factor of the whole affair. It’s safe to say the 1939 film is my favorite of all time.

I read the L. Frank Baum classic a few years back expecting a delightful Harry Potter/Narnia hybrid romp down the brick-lined path and it was nothing of the sort. It was childish and simple and at times downright bizarre. It really was nothing like I was expecting, nothing like the movie; that’s not to say I didn’t enjoy it but it just loses something without the vibrant colors and Judy Garland soundtrack. I followed it up with a reading of Gregory Maguire’s Wicked, which provides a back story for the infamous Wicked Witch of the West. I found the concept for Maguire’s novel intriguing but in execution it was wordy and complex. The character relationships were anything but straightforward, add to that Maguire’s immensely broad vocabulary (for a book based on a children’s story) and you come up with a novel that left me a little cold.

Despite being underwhelmed by both books, my affinity for all things Oz made me curious about the musical stage adaptation of Wicked. The show appeared, at least to me, to have captured a little bit of the magic that made the Wizard of Oz movie so inviting, even if I wasn’t a huge fan of the novel. So when the show came to town I arrived at the theater with my Oz obsession in tow, knowing it might not live up to the hype.

But it did. It was everything I wanted it to be and more. The music is fantastic, the cast was excellent and everything about the look and feel and sound of the show was even better than I could have imagined (it did win Tonys for Best Scenic Design and Best Costume Design, after all). For more than a month I’ve been pondering what it is about the show that makes it different. Besides the music and the sets and the amazing performances, what is it about this show that makes it so touching – so beautiful? It doesn’t hurt that it’s about two strong women (name one other live show with TWO female leads) but I’ve decided that what makes all the difference is that Wicked is, first and foremost, a story about a friendship. Romantic relationships are interspersed, a love triangle is thrown in for drama and tenuous family relationships are tossed into the mix but at the heart of the story exists a friendship between two very strong – but very different – women.

It seems to me that this is a completely new genre for show business. You have your love stories where the ups and downs of romance are the driving force behind the dramatic structure. Then you have your family stories with blood-related broods that are either very happy or very sad (usually sad with a gentle crescendo to happy or at least moderately happy). Next you have your buddy stories where two characters (sometimes more), go through something that either bonds them or rips them apart. These stories are usually either comic fluff or sappy melodramas. One other category, ensemble pieces, exists in its own sphere.

Most of the friendships that are portrayed in the stories we read/see/consume are in solo stories. In these types of stories, one character goes through trials and the obligatory tribulations and there’s usually a less important friend by their side that gets downgraded to a sidekick or, worse yet, “comic relief.” They grow very little throughout the story; the story arc for these types of characters tends to be very short. But a friend story that is neither fluff comedy or melodrama and places both friends on the same level seems revolutionary.

Wicked doesn’t seem to fit into any of the above formats. Elphaba (the Wicked Witch) is the “main character” but the story here is as much Glinda’s and, even more importantly, the two women are placed as equals. Glinda doesn’t take on the role of “sidekick” in Elphaba’s story and while our sparkly Good Witch of the North is unquestionable funny, she’s hardly comic relief. Just when you think she’s about to step into that role you start to notice a character arc building, and a growth begins that surpasses even her green-skinned friend.

It would have been really easy to have gone awry with this story. They could have dropped the curtain with Glinda laughing as the munchkins dance around singing “Ding Dong the Witch is dead.” But I somehow think that would have been so much less satisfying. Instead it ends with Glinda tormented over the loss of the only friend that has ever meant something to her.

The friendship that is forged here becomes the story. It’s not a subplot or a sideline story that gets dusted over on the way to the real meat. It’s not a small story arc buried inside a larger, more complex series of arcs. It’s the story in full, Elphaba is the meat and Glinda is the potatoes. And that allows the friendship to develop before our eyes into something very touching. To watch these two characters change together, change one another, is a truly beautiful thing. As an audience we can see how each life was touched by the other. It’s a different kind of love than is normally seen in the stories we consume. The love of friendship can be just as strong and just as life-altering as a romance and it’s something everyone can relate to. We’ve all had a friend that has changed our lives, the way Elphaba and Glinda change each other.

The Ancient Greeks had four distinct words for love, all describing different kinds of love in different kinds of relationships. They were each elements of the same concept but they all had a separate meaning. There was romantic love, of course, but the love of a friend warranted its own unique definition. We’re inundated on a daily basis by stories of sappy romantic love but it’s rare to find a story of friendship that is so deep and heartfelt. I knew I was going to like Wicked for its music and its general stage presence but it was the heart of the story that helped it surpass even my most giddy expectations. If you haven’t seen it – go. Now.

Please tell me that's a candy bar...

2009-06-30T15:17:00.002-05:00

The hot hot weather recently has gotten me thinking about summers past and, more specifically - summer camp.

I went to Girl Scout camp for four or five years in a row, beginning when I was about 8. I always looked forward to my annual trip to the Texas Hill Country, so it’s interesting to find that I don’t have a lot of camp memories left as an adult. I liked camping and all the silly activities that go along with it so it's strange how little I remember of the experiences. And sadly, the memories I do still have are mostly unhappy ones. I feel like my camp experiences were generally good but what I remember is the bossy girls who treated me and other campers like the leftover ash after a campfire, kicking it around and grinding it into the dirt with their hiking boots.

I’ve been racking my brain for a good summer camp story to share, one that highlights what a positive experience camping was growing up but I haven’t been able to come up with a single one. I know I had fun, at least some of the time, or else I wouldn’t have gone back. My parents didn’t force me to go; it was my choice to return each summer, so it can’t have been all bad. But since I can’t think of a happy story to share, I’ll give you a story that’s a little gross and weird. Because, let’s face it, those kinds of stories are usually the most interesting to read anyway.

Summer camp was different every year. You would pick a program from the brochure based on what activities you liked; one year I chose “Wet and Wild” and we learned about water safety and went canoeing. Another year I went to “Night Owl” camp and we went for a night swim and a night hike and tried stargazing (that year, while my fellow campers were bitching about being tired, I was thrilled we didn’t have to wake up so early). But regardless of which program I chose, we always took daily trips to the pool. Every campsite had a set swimming time that remained in place throughout the week. All the activities around pool time would change daily (except for meals) but pool time was fixed. Every year I hoped for an afternoon timeslot because the pool was just too cold at 8 am and an afternoon swim was always a nice way to cool off after a full day of activities under the hot Texas sun.

We didn’t do much at pool time but it was always nice to have the pool to ourselves to splash around in the over-chlorinated water. There weren’t any old ladies try to do laps across our game of Marco Polo (which we played by substituting other words, I would say “macaroni,” another girl would say “cheese” or even “peanut butter” and “jelly.” Clearly I was a hungry child.) and there was no such thing as “adult swim.” The pool was our respite – an oasis in the baked desert.

Every now and then they would close the pool for cleaning or to fix the chemicals but to us kids it was just a lame way to punish us for something we didn’t even know we did. Everyone was always grumpy on no-pool days.

Before we could get in the pool, all the girls would cram into the changing room to put on swim suits and goggles and any other pool gear our parents had sent us with. On one occasion, I remember glancing over at a fellow camper and noticing a certain stain in her panties as she dropped them to the floor. The girl, I’ll call her Skidmarks, didn’t realize I had seen, not that she would have cared because she didn’t even try to hide her sinful stain, she just let her panties drop and went about her changing as this was totally normal; as if the chunky brown lines were just the pattern on her panties.

Later that evening, during what was likely a championship game of Macaroni/Cheese, the lifeguards and camp counselors tweeted their whistles and called for everyone to get out of the pool. It was way too early to be heading to our next activity, so we all inherently knew there must be a problem. As we were leisurely making our way to the sides of the pool, griping that pool time was being cut short, someone spotted something brown at the bottom of the pool. It was a turd. And once spotted, all hell broke loose. We began scrambling for the sides as if we were reenacting a scene from Caddy Shack. Our leisurely paddles to the edge turned into Michael Phelps style sprints to get out of the dirty, poopy water. And of course, the pool was closed the next day so it could be disinfected. Another grumpy no-pool day.

They never figured out who did it but I, of course, knew who it was. I don’t think Skidmarks ever came forward and admitted her crime but I knew her secret. I probably whispered it to my camp buddy, who whispered it to our cabin mates. For Skidmarks’ sake it’s probably a good thing we weren't a gossipy group, or else this girl’s official camp nickname would have been “Skidmarks” and her life would have been ruined… for about six days.

Not to worry, Skidmarks, your secret is safe with me. I can’t reveal your true identity since I never knew it in the first place, so even though you made me swim in your toilet water and caused me a lifetime of undue stress wondering what’s at the bottom of the pool, I will bear your burden. I will keep your secret.

Happy Summer, everyone!

Not-So-Jolly Old England

2009-06-27T01:50:00.007-05:00

I wrote this a while back with the intention of whoring it out as a freelance humor piece (a-la-David Sedaris) but here it sits on my over-crowded hard drive, gathering virtual dust. So, rather than let is slip away into The Nothing (Neverending Story reference!), I'll post it here for all to enjoy with the hopes that maybe someday it'll see a page. A real page... made of paper.

It's kind of long-winded but if you stick with it, it does get to a point eventually. I apologize for the weird font changes throughout the blog but blogger is really acting up tonight and I can't get it to stick with one font all the way through. I'll see about fixing that soon but for now I just want to get this posted. Enjoy!

I think the United Kingdom must have a picture of me posted behind the counter at the London Stansted airport. There’s a yearbook, of sorts, of dubious characters from around the world. My face is pictured alongside the likes of Osama bin Laden, who has surely been placed on the “no fly” list by now, and good ol’ Saddam, who was still alive and kicking at the time of my June 2004 trip to Jolly Old England. Flip a few pages into the book and you’ll find the shoe bomber and those nice fellows that blew up the subway in Madrid just a few months before my trip (nearly leaving me out a $500 non-refundable deposit). This was before those other nice young men decided to blow up the London underground, so they weren’t in the 2004 yearbook. I guess I’m a few grades above them.

I don’t really know how I came to be included in this yearbook. Something about a very innocent-looking 19-year-old American girl traveling alone just screams, “detain me!” Maybe it’s because I’m young (that’s discrimination!). Maybe it’s because I’m American (also discrimination, albeit warranted at times). Or maybe I look alarmingly like some diabolical London swindler who jimmies vending machines to steal “crisps” and “biscuits.” I have been told I vaguely (very vaguely) resemble Charlotte Church. Not to imply she’s a swindler…

The scourge of the earth sneaks across international borders on a daily basis (or so my TV box tells me) to claim sanctuary on foreign soil and hide embezzled funds in Swiss bank accounts and other untraceable offshore locations. Diligence on the part of airport security and immigration officials pays off but these uniformed workers are hardly infallible. Terrorists somehow manage to weasel their way through every now and then. So do the snobby, the sickly, the downright rude and Republicans.

And yet, me they detained. I arrived in the

United Kingdom

on the heels of a 5-week-long study abroad trip in

Spain

, saying “si” and “no” in endless repetition, nodding like a bobble head doll. From there my two roommates were headed to

Italy

while I was being shipped off to the outskirts of London to stay with my mom’s sister’s friend’s brother. One more degree and I would have been bunking with Kevin Bacon himself.

Throughout my five-week stay in the Spanish town of Vallodolid, I latched on to my roommates and scored invitations to several weekend outings, including a very smoke-filled train ride to Barcelona and a drama-filled excursion to Paris. It was my intention to do the same with Italy but as the program reached its limits so did my bank account. Alternate arrangements had to be made. I had a week left in Europe before my flight home and if I could find someone to stay with (preferably not an axe murderer or a vending machine swindler) I could probably coast by until I landed in Texas. Hotel rooms were out of the question, even hostels were iffy. I needed someone to take pity and offer me a couch or a bed or a little corner in a 2 by 3 closet.

I booked a dirt cheap, last-minute trip on Ryan Air and called in reinforcements to help make the arrangements. My mom called her sister, who called her friend, who called her brother. Then the whole chain reversed and worked its way back to my mom, who called the brother directly and translated his Scottish accent into a agreement. It was settled– I would be staying with the McMurdos, one step removed from Kevin Bacon, in the suburban English town of Romford. I had a name, a plane ticket and somewhere in my e-mail inbox I had an address. I was on my way.

My 2004 Eurotrip was my first transatlantic journey and my first trip alone. On top of that, the flight to London was the first leg of my journey without a teacher or a family member fetching me on the other end. I didn’t have anyone to coach me about the ins and outs of sweet-talking English Bobbies or immigration officials and I sure as hell didn’t have enough money to toss a bribe into the mix. After an unexpected financial nightmare leaving Spain (who knew it would cost so much to get six weeks worth of luggage home? No wonder the flight was so cheap.), I arrived in London ill-prepared for what was ahead of me.

When I arrived on English soil, thankful for my comparatively broad vocabulary repertoire, I was handed a sheet of paper and asked to fill out some very basic information, which basically amounted to “where are you from, why are you here and when are you leaving?” The only question on the sheet that threw me was the one that asked where I was staying. My Internet access in Spain had been limited, at best, and with the completion of my university-sponsored program it had been almost non-existent. My access to a printer was even more sparse, so I didn’t have the opportunity to print out my mother’s e-mail, so when faced with a question I didn’t have an answer to, I did what any good college student would do and left the question blank. At least I think I did, though thanks to the events that followed, the whole encounter is a little fuzzy. I pray to all things mighty and holy that I didn’t put a smart ass answer like, “Alistair McMurdo’s house,” which would have only taunted the already charming woman behind the counter.

I waited in line and handed in my paperwork, test complete, minus the one question I didn’t know the answer to. I studied hard but I must have skipped over that chapter in the text book because damn if I don’t remember seeing that in the reading. What I didn’t realize at the time was that I was about to encounter the most embittered immigration official on either side of the Prime Meridian. This was no surly professor or grumpy lunch lady. This woman was a piece of work. Not only was she rude and unforgiving, she had a fiery devil tongue that could eat your self-esteem and chew at your soul. This woman made me doubt myself. She made me cry and I’m not ashamed to admit it.

"You mean to tell me you've come into a foreign country with absolutely no idea where you're staying?" asked the surly She-Devil in her snotty, posh accent. And the way she said it – so… judgemental.

After determining “That’s how I roll, bitch” to be an inappropriate answer, I informed her that yes, I had indeed arrived in a foreign country without an address and yes, I was still interested in entering her fine country. Saying what I was thinking (“Who are you to judge me, you good-for-nothin’ public servant?”) was likely to get me into more trouble, so I proposed ideas for how I could obtain this all-important address. The exchange went something like this.

Me: "I have a name. Do you have a phone book so I can look it up?”

She-Devil: "No."

Me: "I have the address in an e-mail. Do you have a computer where I can check my e-mail?"

SD: "No."

Me: "My mom has the address. Do you have a pay phone where I can call my mom?"

SD: "No."

Me: "Any phone?"

SD: "No."

Me: "Well, the man I’m staying with is picking me up here, he’ll have the address. He should be right outside those doors, his name is Alistair McMurdo."

SD: "Do you know how many Alistair MuMurdos there are in London?"

At this point the smart ass in me is itching to rear its ugly head and ask, “No, do you?” but that’s not going to help matters. The woman politely informed me that there are probably hundreds of Alistair McMurdos in London alone. Of course, silly me. My mistake. There are probably hundreds of John Smiths also but what are the chances every single one of them is in the same teeny tiny airport on the same day? What, were they all in town for a convention?

Now, Alistair McMurdo doesn’t sound like a very common name to me but then what do I know? I’m just a stupid American. Don’t you have a loud speaker? In America we have loud speakers. And even if there is more than one Allistair McMurdo in the building, you can simply ask them which one is expecting the stupid American girl. How hard is that?

At this point she made me get out of line and sit on a bench to wait for, oh I don’t know, the address to come to me in a flash of brilliance, I guess. By then I was starting to regret not making up an answer. I suppose that kind of thinking would have really done my half-complete college education proud, even more than leaving it blank. I should have put something – anything – just so the little box wasn’t blank. I suspect the blank is what tipped her off that I didn't study. If it wasn’t blank, she would have never known the difference. London Hotel, 123 London Road, London. But my perpetual fear of being caught and perhaps arrested and thrown in jail (a “you’re not really in England yet so we can do whatever the hell we want to you” kind of jail) to rot with the other diabolical characters steered me away from dishonesty. Damn my good character and high moral fiber.

As I sat on the bench my throat started to close up and hot tears burned at the edges of my eyes. Don’t blink, do not blink. If I blink it’s all over and I cannot let her see me cry. I will not give that Vile Woman the satisfaction. I had visions of sleeping on an airport floor for the rest of my vacation, the dirty filthy floor where thousands of foreign shoes pass every day of every year. And it wasn’t even the same airport I was set to leave from in a few days. I was in England but I wasn’t officially in England and I was miles and miles away from Gatwick, where my flight to Houston would take off without me. I, meanwhile, would still be sleeping on the floor at Stansted, where I would likely be sleeping the rest of my nights for all eternity. I would live like a bum on the carpeted airport floor until my dying days, without ever officially entering the country. I could have left England right then and there without any documented evidence I had ever passed through the country except for a half-complete immigration questionnaire and the popular t-shirt reading, “my friend tried to go to England but they wouldn’t let her in and all I got was this lousy t-shirt.”

Finally, after making me sweat it out for a while, the She-Devil apparently took my suggestion and sent someone to fetch Alistair, who was standing at the gate the entire time, holding up a sign with my name in big block letters colored with bright yellow highlighter. The sign couldn’t have been more obvious if he’d lit it on fire. If I hadn’t been so pissed at the She-Devil I would have been excited about the sign. Nobody’s ever made me a sign before. I felt so important. Or at least I would have.

If she’d taken my advice from the beginning, this whole mess could have been bypassed. Madame McGrumpyPants could have seen for herself that Alistair McMurdo is in fact a real person, he is waiting for me and he’s probably the only one in the airport by that name. Perhaps the only one in the city. Or the entire damn world. As for me, no, I’m not a terrorist, no I don’t have the bird flu or SARS or any other flesh-eating virus (that I know of) and I only voted Republican that one time in college when I was still experimenting. Okay, maybe twice but I am from Texas.

After she confirmed Alistair’s existence, Lady Lucifer was all sunshine and daisies and Popsicles. She even wished me a happy stay. F**k off, bitch.

Since that incident I have been informed by a friend that one should never, under any circumstances, approach an immigration official without securely fastening your “F**k Off Face.” If only I’d known that at the time. On my first approach to her counter, my F**k Off Face was still buried in my luggage beneath about 8 thousand pounds of crispy, line-dried laundry. Oh how young and naïve I was. I was happy to be in the Queen’s England, happy to be in Europe, happy to be travelling and away from everything familiar and boring. If only I’d known that The Bitch From Hell had a happiness filter surrounding her counter and she made damn certain nobody (not nobody not no-how) passed into her country without being strained through the happiness filter, which strips your being of every good thought that hath ever occurred to you.

After making me wait on a bench in humiliation and treating me like a complete moron, the F**k Off Face was firmly affixed. Even after she pulled out the fake ass lollipops-and-fairy-tale-creatures attitude that F**k Off Face stayed put. Your unicorns and ligers aren’t going to change the fact that you treated me like a piece of used gum stuck to the ass of a stinky baboon with leprosy.

Five years later and I still hate that Devil Woman with the passion of a million burning hellfires. I suspect I’ve cleared my name from the no-fly Facebook since I have since entered Europe without a problem (though the United Kingdom may still have it out for me, I haven’t been back yet), but I learned a lot on that trip. For starters, always know (or make up) the address of where you are staying. Never tempt an immigration official by asking them questions they enjoy saying “no” to. And last and most importantly, always ALWAYS pack your F**k Off Face in your carry-on. At the top. Next to your uranium.

Those Crazy Romans...

2009-05-02T01:21:00.004-05:00

I have come to the conclusion that Ancient Romans just really liked beach-front property. Have you ever looked a map of the Roman Empire?

Lots of coastline. Very little else.

Harold and Kumar go to the White House

2009-04-12T13:56:00.005-05:00

No, it's not the premise of the latest Jon Hurwitz goofball/stoner flick. This is news - real American news. Actor Kal Penn, best known for his portrayal of Taj, Ryan Reynolds sidekick in Van Wilder, and Kumar, the munchie-lovin' stoner in the Harold and Kumar movies, has been named Assiciate Director of the White House Office of Public Liaison. For the full story, check out this piece on NPR. (WARNING: If you haven't watched last week's episode of House, DO NOT click that link. If you have watched it and know the outcome or if you are not a fan of House, carry on.)

It was announced earlier this month, just far enough onto the calendar page to be certain it wasn't part of the April Fools' Day tom foolery. (that may be the first time I've ever used that phrase...) The actor, who was an active part of the Obama campaign trail, will serve as liaison between the president and arts groups as well as a liaison for the Asian-American community.

Pretty damn awesome if you ask me. Maybe he'll also serve as the liaison between the president and White Castle. If Obama ever gets the munchies, Kal Penn will be all over it.

race ya to the swings

2009-04-12T13:32:00.005-05:00

I would like to make the argument that if they made playgrounds adult-sized and removed the stigma of grown people having such childish fun, obesity would no longer be an issue.

Pride and Prejudice... and Zombies?

2009-04-11T14:36:00.006-05:00

I can't help myself, I really, really want to read this book:

The Classic Regency Romance - Now With Ultraviolent Zombie Mayhem!

Published last month, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies is a mashup of the classic Jane Austen story of civilized courtship and a horror story about the undead. I can't say I'm normally a fan of zombies but something about the juxtaposition of a comedy of manners in Regency England combined with flesh feasting monsters sends me into a fit of giggles.

Here's the full synopsis from Amazon:

"It is a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains." So begins Pride and Prejudice and Zombies, an expanded edition of the beloved Jane Austen novel featuring all-new scenes of bone-crunching zombie mayhem. As our story opens, a mysterious plague has fallen upon the quiet English village of Meryton—and the dead are returning to life! Feisty heroine Elizabeth Bennet is determined to wipe out the zombie menace, but she's soon distracted by the arrival of the haughty and arrogant Mr. Darcy. What ensues is a delightful comedy of manners with plenty of civilized sparring between the two young lovers—and even more violent sparring on the blood-soaked battlefield as Elizabeth wages war against hordes of flesh-eating undead. Can she vanquish the spawn of Satan? And overcome the social prejudices of the class-conscious landed gentry? Complete with romance, heartbreak, swordfights, cannibalism, and thousands of rotting corpses, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies transforms a masterpiece of world literature into something you'd actually want to read."

Unlike whoever wrote this synopsis, I loved Pride and Prejudice but I think I love the concept of this book even more. Apparently much of the drama of the book stems from the fact that Darcy's family comes from a long line of fighters trained in the Japanese style of zombie slaying and the feisty Elizabeth Bennet slaughters the living dead after the Chinese style. HA! Oh the absurdity of it. I really can't explain how much this amuses me.

I have to wonder what Jane Austen herself would think of this book. I picture her as a good-natured sort but I'm not sure she would know what to make of the zombies.

The author (and by author I mean Seth Grahame-Smith, not the charming Ms. Austen) has a blog on Amazon and I got a kick out of this recent post"

"Yesterday, the streets of San Francisco were suddenly and violently overrun by a horde of brain-hungry unmentionables! If only the heroic Sisters Bennet had been there to dispatch the manky dreadfuls back to hell!"

He called zombies unmentionables. hehehehe

I'm told the first printing of this book sold out immediately and it is currently on back order. My manager at the bookstore is hoping we can get it on the shelves soon but this thing is nowhere to be found, it's flying off the shelves faster than the publisher can print it. I don't know when (or if) I'll be able to lay my hands on this volume of nonsense but I guarantee I will be buying this as soon as I see it. I can't wait.

Earth Hour

2009-03-28T16:43:00.007-05:00

Memorandum
To: The World
From: The World

Who: Everyone
What: Earth Hour
When: Tonight, 8:30 - 9:30
Where: Everywhere
Why: To save the world
How: Turn off all lights and non-essential appliances for one hour. It may not seem like much but if everyone does it, it can make a huge difference!

That's it, just turn off the lights and other electricity-sucking appliances for one hour, that's all you have to do. I really hope everyone who is able will participate in such a worthy cause. Check out www.earthhour.org for statistics on how much energy we can save by turning off the electricity for just one hour.

The Great "Contact Confusion"

2009-03-26T12:33:00.003-05:00

I open my little pink, plastic cell phone, the model that would make Barbie proud, and hit a few buttons looking for something. I scroll through my contacts in search of… something, someone. I pass by names looking for one specific person, passing dozens of names I don’t even know, don’t even recognize anymore. It’s startling to see just how many of the names in my list of contacts are people I will never call again.

They were programmed into my phone for one specific purpose, one very definite reason like a class project or a work thing. Now, two or three or four years later, there they sit, taking up space on my list of contacts. I don’t even remember who half of them are anymore. Ryan, Anna, Claire – who the hell is Claire? I called Anna once, thinking I was calling a fellow officer in The Society of Professional Journalists, a group I was involved with in college. We spoke for a few minutes, I invited her to my graduation party and then we hung up. After I got off the phone I noticed there were two Annas programmed in my phone and the one I called had an unfamiliar area code. The Anna I called may not have been the one I was looking for, which begs the question, who did I just talk to? That was three years ago and I still don’t know the answer to that question. And in case you’re wondering - no, she didn’t come to the graduation party. Neither of them did.

Does anyone else have an issue with “contact confusion” or am I the only one who programs people and then forgets they exist? Do other people delete one-time-only numbers from their phone the instant that one time is up? What if you need those numbers again?

I guess this contact confusion could be one of the many reasons why people change phones every few years – a contact purge, if you will. But with the invention of sim cards and other new-fangled technology, my new telephone is handed to me with all of my previous contacts already uploaded, sans purge. My new, handheld mobile device has all the information that my old phone had with a few extra bells and whistles. No hassle, right? Oh, you know better than that.

I have, however, gotten smarter about storing contacts thanks to this confusion. Even people I know well I now store by first and last names on the off chance that I will, sometime in the future, meet someone else with the same (or a remarkably similar) name. “Sarah” becomes “Sarah Smith,” though that is assuming I know Sarah’s last name in the first place. When I don’t know last names, they are accompanied by how I know them or where we met or where they’re from, so then we have “Sarah – school” or “Sarah – work” or “Sarah – Megan’s friend that I met at the dancing place.”

But then there still exists a whole different confusion – is “Sarah – work” someone I know from work or is that Sarah’s work number? Or is it someone I know from work’s work number, in which case, wouldn’t that be the same as my work number? What is my work number anyway?

And then, should your phone fall into unexpected hands, be prepared to confuse the daylights out of anyone who browses through your contacts. We put little notes like “Sarah - Megan’s friend that I met at the dancing place,” for our own eyes only, not the eyes of some curious onlooker. Several years ago a friend remarked that she liked the name “Ashley Round Top,” as seen in someone’s phone contact list, only to find out later that Round Top isn’t Ashley’s last name, it’s the town from whence the poor girl hails.

Browsing through my phone is like a scrapbook of my life’s history. Nearly every place I’ve ever worked is represented as well classmates from practically every semester in college. People I’ve met online or in a bar or on the street corner or at the dancing place are there alongside my closest pals. It's a virtual yearbook of names and numbers.

It makes me a little sad scrolling through all of these people, all of my people. At first glance I look very popular – I’m a little socialite with a thriving list of friends and acquaintances – or am I? How many of these people will I ever call again? There’s my family, of course, plus a handful of close friends. There’s a couple of acquaintances I might call or text if I need a favor (like I’m moving and they have a truck), but the truth is, the majority of these people I will never speak to again. Ever. Not because I didn’t enjoy working with them on that one project that time for that class (I may not have, but that’s not the point), I just didn’t know them well enough to warrant a contact entry in my phone, but it was important that I have that information at the time and I never bothered to delete them after the project was done. And I would hate to not have their information in the future, should I ever need it again... I will move eventually and I don't own a truck, after all.

But, as much as I don't want to delete most of these people, chances are good I won’t ever call my former bosses again, the same goes for my former co-workers, minus the rare few that I do actually want to see again when I’m not being paid to keep them company. This is also true for former work numbers unless my W-2 gets lost in the mail or, like it did in 2007, gets ripped in half at the post office. The people I worked with on class projects probably won’t be hearing from me again, except for a few, and I’m probably not going to call all of these college campus numbers (like the health center and the “Bobcat Bobbies”) again.

I still have the phone numbers of two ex-roommates – one I will never speak to again (unless the apocalypse comes and she is the one hoarding the canned goods) and the other passed away in a car accident a little over a year ago. The first one I should really erase (though I am holding out for those canned goods) and the second I just can’t bear to delete. We weren’t that close but I still like having her there in my phone, keeping me company and adding to my list of people. She’s one of my people. Anyone I’ve ever met anywhere can be one of my people – as long as I have their phone number.

Someday I'll go through my people and begin the purge. I think I'll start with Anna... but which Anna should I delete?

The future of journalism

2009-03-13T15:30:00.002-05:00

In a recent article in the San Antonio Express News, a regular columnist explored the idea that in the future, journalists will be forced into a jack-of-all-trades role, approaching the news from every high-tech angle in order to get the story.

About a young journalism student he says, “Bridget Miller* is diversifying her skills. She may not get rich. But if she can write, blog, take photos, shoot video, broadcast and podcast – she may land a job.”

I feel vindicated. I know how to do nearly all of those things. And yet, somehow, here I sit, blogging in the middle of the day on a Friday – on my laptop, from home, waiting to head to work in a bookstore – a job I enjoy but certainly not one that takes full advantage of my skills.

After graduation with a degree in print journalism, I chose not to enter the newspaper field based on purely selfish reasons but seeing the sad state that newspapers are in now, I know I made the right choice. Newspapers are dying in favor of a more convenient electronic media and, as a result, journalists across the country are finding themselves without jobs. Maybe now they’ll be blogging from home in the middle of a weekday.

I love newspapers; I think they are an amazing invention that has served us well for hundreds of years. I am sad to think of a world where they don’t reign supreme but that is the future we are looking at in this age of 24-hour on-demand electronic news. I have to wonder which major city will be the first without a daily newspaper. Picture New York without the New York Times. Picture Chicago without the Chicago Tribune or the Chicago Sun Times. It makes my brain hurt to think about a major city without its accompanying major city newspaper.

After my decision to step back from my newspaper training, a year or so after gradation, with no job prospects lined up, I enrolled in broadcast classes at one of the local community colleges. I’m still no expert, I’ve never worked in a real television studio, but I got a taste of how to operate a camera and I got a feel for how the industry works. After my experience in the print sequence, it was like looking in a funhouse mirror – there was a lot that was the same but a few things were drastically stretched or squished to suit the different medium.

I may still be lacking in experience but I can write. And I blog – obviously. This may not be a professional blog but I am “up on the latest technology.” I even joined Twitter recently to see what the phenomenon is all about (still not sure I “get it”). I take my own photos, I always have. I was a photography minor in school, so I know a little something about composing a picture and working with available light. I can shoot video if asked, I can broadcast if it comes down to that and though I can’t podcast, I’m absolutely certain I could learn if I set my mind to it.

So I don’t get it. Bridget Miller can write, blog, take photos, shoot video, broadcast and podcast and she interned at Texas Monthly and NPR(*drools*). I can do all of those things (minus the podcast) and yet, here I sit in the middle of a weekday, passing time until my evening shift in a job that is far below my talent (I don’t mean to sound arrogant about my skills but I’m a college graduate working for just over minimum wage… so yes, it is below my talent). I predict in a few years I will lose a job to Bridget Miller. She’s me, only 6 years younger and already with more experience. That bitch.

I think the columnist hit the nail on the head by saying that journalists of the future will be jacks-of-all-trades. My past decisions are vindicated, I did the right thing choosing not to limit myself to newspapers and dabbling in broadcast, but I still haven’t seen the payoff. When I applied for an internship at the television studio they lost my application. When I have applied for any other professional job that would make use of what I’m capable of, they don’t even bother to call me or set up an interview. Probably because there are brown-nosers like Bridget Miller out there with their 80 million internships and podcasting abilities.

Anybody want to teach me how to podcast? Clearly THAT is the secret to success.

*okay, so after writing this I realized I was a little hard on this poor girl – it’s not her fault she’s done everything right and the world just loves her. But to protect her identity (and my own) I’ve changed her name and purposely been vague about the article in question. I don’t need any angry podcasters on my ass.

Mr. Jesus

2009-01-14T15:12:00.002-06:00

So this is a few weeks late but I remembered something from a while back that I was going to blog about but it slipped my mind...

Around Christmas time my brother was telling me about a customer at the bakery where he works that asked for a cake that said, "Feliz Cumpleanos Senor Jesus."

For those non-Spanish speakers out there, that means Happy Birthday Mr. Jesus. I thought that was cute. Mr. Jesus.

It's a Scribble-abration!

2009-01-07T17:26:00.003-06:00

Happy Birthday, blog!

Okay, so I fudged a little, it's not quite my Blog's first birthday, but it's getting close, so I figured we could celebrate a little early with a pretty cake. Yummy. Everyone have a slice, it looks delicious.

Coupling

2009-01-06T23:00:00.000-06:00

So it seems I've reached that point in my life where everyone around me is getting married or "settling down" in some fashion. People are returning from trips around the world and littering my Facebook status updates with messages like, "so-and-so got engaged," (usually accompanied by a picture of something shiny) or "what's-his-face is now married," followed by corresponding messages like, "We're so happy!" (Okay, couples, what's the deal with that? How come as soon as you're attached you forget how to use singular pronouns?)

Friends and acquaintances are getting engaged left and right - one by one all of my single friends are abandoning ship in search of something cozy and domestic. Of my close friends, one wedding was last November, another is coming up this spring, one is in the fall sometime, yet another can't be far behind (though nothing official yet), and one couple is moving in together, not to mention the hoards of acquaintances who have already gotten hitched in the last year or two. Seriously, what happened to all my single friends?

I'm not bitter, really I'm not. I'm really happy for them.

Okay, fine, so I'm a little bitter, but seriously, it's like 90 percent happy, 10 percent bitter. I'm only worried because I've seen how easily people can slip into the oblivion known as coupledom and in turn morph into some single-hating psycho-bitch. I don't know how it happens. One day they're walking merrily along as a satisfied single-ite and the next they can't even think for themselves.

So, couples, a warning: you're still your own person, no matter what your status. Never, ever forget that. Single people are not to be pitied or felt sorry for but don't forget about us either now that you've found your one and only because (and this is key) if things fall apart between you and your sweetie, guess who is going to be there with you, picking up the pieces...

Your single friend.

Introducing: The Brando

2008-12-29T23:31:00.004-06:00

As the direct result of an online message board conversation, I bring you...

The Brando*
*formerly known as the "wife beater"

It's the latest in muscle shirt fashion design. Made from 100 percent cotton to make you 100 percent badass.

If Marlon says it's cool, it must be cool.

Let me explain...

Through a random chain of conversations that started innocently enough with a dog sweater, it was mutually agreed by all message board members that using the term "wife beater" to refer this particular variety of muscle shirt/tank top just doesn't fit with this PC world we live in.

The phrase "wife beater" just sounds wrong. And though it's descriptive based on the history of this particular shirt, it's rather offensive and in a way it glorifies abusive behavior by allowing it to be discussed casually in everyday conversation as if there's nothing unusual about knocking the old lady around a little. So, we went looking for a replacement phrase.

The idea is that if you don't like something, change it, and if you spread the word, it just might catch on. So we went in search of a new name for this popular shirt to replace the offensive title that it has been wearing as a badge of honor for so many years. Sure, we could just call it a tank top but this isn't just a garden variety tank, this is a shirt with a redneck heritage and it needs a name that implies that. And of course there's the simple but effective "muscle shirt" but that doesn't have enough pizazz. This shirt needs a name that tells you what it stands for. And as I said on the message boards, this is an article of clothing with an infamous history for being the chosen shirt of scoundrels. How do you nickname a shirt with such a lousy reputation? This shirt needs a name that tells you everything you need to know in one short phrase, much like its current name does but in a more friendly sort of way.

We tried a few different names that went along with the redneck theme but they just didn't seem to work. Nobody would buy a shirt called The Bubba unless they're wearing it as a costume to a Trailer Trash Bash-themed party.

Then someone suggested The Brando.

The Brando. It's based on actor Marlon Brando's portrayal of Stanley Kowalski in the Tennessee Williams classic A Streetcar Named Desire. And the name just works. The Brando. It gives a positive spin to a shirt with a very negative connotation. (Then again we could call it The Stanley but I think The Brando is more effective; more glamorous. More Sexy.)

It's simple, it's effective and it's logical. Stanley is a working stiff and Marlon Brando's appearance on screen wearing blue jeans and undershirts was an attention-getter to say the least. Stanley was a little sleazy and far from classy but Brando's reputation as a world class actor and all around cool guy is just what this shirt needs to bolster its esteem. Brando is exactly what this shirt needs.

If P. Diddy can change his moniker, so can the classic white tank. So spread the word, this shirt has a new name and a new image. It's out with the old, in with the new and "wife beater" is no longer the preferred nomenclature to refer to everyone's favorite undershirt. So the next time you find yourself about to call this fine shirt by its antiquated name, stop and think about it for a moment. It's a simple matter of substitution and I believe this small difference in vocabulary will change the way the world sees the muscle shirt. If Marlon can sport The Brando, so can you. The next time you're out, pick up The Brando, available at a variety of fine retailers near you.

Ronald McDonald, you owe me a milkshake

2008-11-18T14:13:00.002-06:00

I am so going to Hell...

My mom and I were driving home from downtown last week when we got a sudden case of the munchies. It was getting late, there wasn't a lot open, so we stopped at McDonald's and grabbed a couple of milkshakes. As we were driving home, sipping our sweet shakes, mom realized we should have gotten one for my brother. Whoops.

Not wanting the brother to catch on to the fact that we forgot to offer him a snack, we had had two options. We could either drink them really fast and he would never even know we had them or, as luck would have it, there was another another McDonald's on our route, so we could call up the brother, tell him we were on the way to pick up some shakes and ask if he would like one. Mom nixed the first idea, chugging shakes sounds like a brain freeze waiting to happen. So, it's on to the second brilliant idea. So I call up the brother and carry out the idea as planned. Is it terrible that I was hoping he would say no? Well, he didn't, he thought a chocolate shake sounded great and he, of course, has no idea that we forgot about him the first time.

Okay, no biggie, this other McDonald's isn't far, we'll just pull through, grab his shake and he'll never know. So, we get to the second restaurant, pull into the drive through to be greeted by a large, hand-written sign announcing that this location currently had no ice cream or milkshakes. Shit.

At this point, we've already promised my brother a shake, we can't really back out now. So, we turn around and head back toward the first McDonald's down the street. We pull in and the lights on the drive-through window are off. What does that mean? So we pull around the window and wait but nobody is there. So I got out of the car and checked the sign on the door. They closed at 11. It was about 10 minutes past that. Double shit.

Finally the young guy inside cleaning up noticed my mom's car sitting at the window. She asked him for a chocolate shake, which he grabbed and handed to her, no charge. I'm assuming since they were already closed, the cash drawer had already been balanced out and they weren't allowed to make anymore sales. So, the very nice kid took care of us. He not only gave us what we wanted, but he didn't charge us a cent.

So, to sum it all up, we forgot about my brother, then lied about it. We are terrible people. But we were punished for our actions and made to admit our mistakes (the story was too ridiculous not to share with my brother). And then, after going back and forth between the two restaurants in search of a chocolate shake, we were rewarded for our deed.

What a night.

It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown!

2008-11-03T00:24:00.004-06:00

I posted this on a message board earlier but I figure it's worthy of a double post... Liz once told me that ranting is good for the soul, so I'm going to take that to heart, be prepared.

[rant]Yesterday I was just sitting in the house when a couple of punk high school girls tried to steal my pumpkin right off the front porch. I was sitting here chatting with my bro and he saw someone through the window running up toward the door. They walked away without knocking or ringing the bell and the bro noticed something orange in their hand...

Zoiks, Scoob, did they just, like, steal our pumpkin?

Yeah, they did.

So I went running outside after them. My neighbors caught them in the act and yelled at them from across the street, so they set the pumpkin down in the yard and walked away.... they didn't run, just walked, casual and nonchalant like they didn't just get caught red-handed trying to steal from my property. I just yelled something sarcastic (but not at all harsh enough) and took the pumpkin inside, where it will likely stay for the remainder of the pumpkin-appropriate season.

This was in broad daylight on a Saturday, when most everyone in the neighborhood was home. That takes balls or stupidity... perhaps both. And the pumpkin was by my door, not out in the yard by the street where they could snag it and run. The street was littered with evidence of other houses that didn't catch them in the act, so these two were obviously just bored with nothing better to do on the weekend than random acts of vandalism. And they didn't acknowledge that they got caught. They noticed me when I yelled but they just kept walking and pretended like there was nothing unusual going on.

To set the record straight, I have no problem with someone letting their aggression out on a pumpkin... as long as they went to the store and paid for it. Snagging a pumpkin from someone else's property is theft, there's no two ways about it. I know it's just a pumpkin but the fact that they had the nerve to walk right up and take something like that just pisses me off to no end. To me, stealing pumpkins is the gateway drug. Today it's pumpkins, tomorrow it'll be smashed mailboxes and rocks through car windows.

I'm just so thankful my neighbors noticed them. They tried to steal their pumpkin first but it was fake, *evil laugh*. I don't think these kids learned any big lesson here, but at least my neighbors put those little shits in their place. I might have caught them myself when I ran outside but I have the feeling the situation might have gotten out of hand if I had... I might have started yelling and probably would have ended up with slashed tires the next morning... they know where I live *looks around* .

Gah, this really upset me. It's not about the pumpkin, it's the principle of the thing. The dirty little thieves...[/rant]

My pumpkin is very happy to not be splattered across the asphalt. I am now an over-protective pumpkin parent who won't let this one outside to play because there are pumpkin predators on the loose in this quiet, suburban neighborhood. Parents, it's broad daylight on a Saturday - do you know where your pumpkins are?

NaNoWriMo, Here I Come

2008-10-30T14:49:00.002-05:00

This year I'll be participating in National Novel Writing Month at the suggestion of my pal Kevin. I have no idea how it will turn out since I don't currently have any spectacular ideas to turn into a 50,000 word novel in one short month, but I'm going to participate and we'll see how it goes.

Scout The Narrator: Author

2008-10-07T02:10:00.002-05:00

So I just finished a "short" story for my creative writing class. It's pretty badass if I do say so myself. Only trouble: It's 32 pages double-spaced when my limit was supposed to be 18. Oops, I guess I went a little overboard... Actually, I really didn't, I wouldn't really say I let it get out of control. I was focused, first and foremost, on telling the story the way I wanted to tell it. So I wrote the story exactly how I wanted it to go (could have gone longer actually) and now I have the difficult job of butchering this bad boy down to a nice bite-size Reader's Digest chunk.

I really think this is a great story and I have grand plans for it beyond the walls of my class at the lovely institution of higher education known as San Antonio College. I had a story to tell, so I told it. And after I finish the abridged version, I plan on handing in both copies to my professor and telling him one is my official project for a grade, the other is the real story and that's the one that could use the constructive criticism.

It's been a busy week, I've barely left the house but I'm relieved to say I have officially written a short story that I can be proud of. Now tackling the rest of this project, the trimming, is going to be pretty rough. I may throw a fit, I may even cry, but I'm glad the story (the way I see it) is now officially complete (just in serious need of some serious editing).

Don't Vote

2008-10-03T00:33:00.002-05:00

Everyone's favorite stars are telling us not to vote.

Seriously, don't vote. Unless you care about... anything, everything.

"I haven't done shit on drugs besides play Halo 2."