The orange iron door is as heavy as ever today. I push it open, glad that I don't have to fling it open in order to escape with a bike in hand too. It's still overcast today. It's been overcast for weeks already. Pulling on my floppy leather gloves, I look over at Greg. He's checking the mailbox in silence. He's not mad at me; he just hates going over to Tristaen's place. With a passion.
"Dude, it's not that bad. At least it gets us out of the cold for awhile."
Continuing in his struggle with unlocking the mailbox, he doesn't look over as he says, "I know."
I hate to see him this miserable. "Plus, we get free food. It's not that bad."
"That awful rabbit food? Are you kidding me? I hate eating that crap. Plus, he is freaking creepy!"
The absence of any mail doesn't help my case, so I begin walking down the street. Used to spending half an hour on my bike in order to get anywhere, I've never taken the time to take a good look at our neighbors' houses. They're all fabricated of a drab gray brick. The roofs are covered in shingles of a slightly darker shade of gray. This whole development sucks. Some of our neighbors have attempted to break the monotony of the many surrounding blocks by hanging variously colored drapes in their front windows or by adding increasingly gaudy signs by their front doors announcing surnames.
Take a left at the playground. Follow the small alley. Walk out of the dead end, cross the street, and go around the backside of a perfectly identical apartment building. Most of the doorbells on these dilapidated buildings don't seem to work, but Tristaen lives on the bottom floor. Lucky for us. Standing just outside his backyard, I pull the padlock off the gate. He always leaves it there to ward off burglars, but it's never actually locked. That yappy dog begins yapping incessantly. As usual. Tristaen comes out the back door and offers me his hand. I shake it and let go. Greg stands back making me do all the talking, but this is nothing out of the ordinary. I follow Tristaen through his doorway of beads and weave my way into his tiny living room. Some British documentary is playing on the TV, and something that sounds like a blend between the Beetles and Jack Johnson is on the record player.
Our first course sits atop metal platters already awaiting us. Greg looks ready to vomit. He slides between the bench and the table first, as always, to the side of the puny table facing the television. I sit down next, back to a disproportionate bookshelf, on the side soon to be facing Tristaen. Lettuce with tomato and boiled egg whites. Lunch meat straight out of the package on the side. Mustard and olive oil for dressing. Water in aluminum cups and flavored corn syrup ready to mix into it. Somehow, I have convinced myself to enjoy this meal. My younger self would have mocked the present me without mercy. Tristaen comes back into the room flustered. This unnecessarily unemployed man always acts as if he has just returned from somewhere important, which could never be less true. His greatest urgency each week is remembering to do his laundry before running out of clean underwear. The man told us just last week how he lives off the government due to a "missing tailbone."
We chat, Tristaen and I. Always pleasant banter. Our day was fine, how was yours? Good good. New drapes? Oh, from where? What an excellent deal. Shoot me now. Woops, did I think that last one out loud?
At last we're all done. Even Greg has choked everything down politely. Tristaen takes our plates and leaves the room.
"Dude," Greg whispers to me with unmistakable excitement.
"What?"
"Don't look behind yourself." His voice is nearly shaking with concealed laughter now.
"What?"
"Seriously. Don't."
I'm confused, but I remain calm and don't look back. "Why not?"
"There's a camera hidden in the bookshelf behind you. And it's on."
"Are you serious?"
"Shhhh!!! Keep it down! I don't want him to know that we've noticed."
"Why not? Who cares? I'm not afraid of this clown."
Incredulously, I turn my head back and start scanning the shelves. Finally, a few shelves up, I see it. There it is, hidden between two dead porcelain dolls, red light blinking ominously, pointed right down at the two of us. I stare into the lens, and then instinctively raise my right hand until I find myself waving politely as if acknowledging a long-time neighbor out watering his lawn. I turn back around just as Tristaen returns carrying quark and mandarin oranges for dessert.
"Mmmm, I love quark, Tristaen."
He glances up, smiling, "Yes, I know you do."
Wednesday, December 29, 2010
Monday, December 20, 2010
Mudblood Rising
For an hour I've been listening to the rush of the wind through the branches. It's been causing the canvas bag above our heads to swing back and forth like a small corpse this entire time. I can feel the dirt of the day turning to grime against the sweat of my cheek while on my right Jori is still sleeping soundly. A gust of wind draws my eyes back toward the canvas sack as its branch groans under the extra weight. All of our food sits nestled in the bottom of the sack; well out of any greedy animal's reach. I continue straining my ears for the sound of a bear's plodding feet, but am again disappointed. Instead my ears are met only by the sound of the wind. It's growing louder.
Strangely, the wind seems to be getting especially louder on my right. It's probably the sound of rain pattering on the leaves. Surely enough, before I can think to react, the first drop hits my face. I hope in vain that it will pass quickly as it steadily intensifies. My mind wrestles with the decision of whether or not to wake Jori, but as drizzle turns to downpour I know that within seconds I will no longer have a choice. The tarp on which we're lying is supposed to be wide enough to fold over as cover, so I tell Jori to hand me the opposite corner. He doesn't hear me. I raise my voice and say his name again. A lack of reaction forces me to finally yell, "JORI!"
"Hmmm..?"
"Dude, it's raining. Hand me your corner of the tarp."
"Huh?"
Frustrated, I lean toward him and say again, "It's raining. Give me the tarp!"
Jori rolls over, grabs the edge of the tarp, and rips his arm through the air back toward me. Unfortunately, my face hovers directly in the path of his elbow. Not having noticed that he may have broken my nose, Jori immediately falls back into a deep slumber. I tuck the tarp snugly under my side and lie back down. I can smell the iron-rich aroma of blood curdling in my sinuses. Soon I will feel its warmth on my upper lip. I set my head far back on the ground in the meager hope of staunching the coming flow, but to no avail; within seconds the blood is running down both sides of my face. Rainwater is forming a pool under my sleeping bag; I can feel it seeping through and onto my back. I arc my back in order to avoid its wet chill as mosquitoes flock to the wet heat now smothering my face. I'm trying to swat them away without removing the protection of the tarp, but I have to give up as this proves impossible.
Miserable. I have nowhere to go. No tent. No gauze for my nose. No mosquito repellent. I find myself staring blankly into the plastic draped over my face as if it were a starless night sky. If it weren't for the blood gushing profusely from my nose I know that I would be smelling the strong scent of dirt-stained plastic. I try to focus on something else. Anything else. But instead I keep questioning myself as to how I got stuck in this plastic bag filling with mud and my own blood.
Strangely, the wind seems to be getting especially louder on my right. It's probably the sound of rain pattering on the leaves. Surely enough, before I can think to react, the first drop hits my face. I hope in vain that it will pass quickly as it steadily intensifies. My mind wrestles with the decision of whether or not to wake Jori, but as drizzle turns to downpour I know that within seconds I will no longer have a choice. The tarp on which we're lying is supposed to be wide enough to fold over as cover, so I tell Jori to hand me the opposite corner. He doesn't hear me. I raise my voice and say his name again. A lack of reaction forces me to finally yell, "JORI!"
"Hmmm..?"
"Dude, it's raining. Hand me your corner of the tarp."
"Huh?"
Frustrated, I lean toward him and say again, "It's raining. Give me the tarp!"
Jori rolls over, grabs the edge of the tarp, and rips his arm through the air back toward me. Unfortunately, my face hovers directly in the path of his elbow. Not having noticed that he may have broken my nose, Jori immediately falls back into a deep slumber. I tuck the tarp snugly under my side and lie back down. I can smell the iron-rich aroma of blood curdling in my sinuses. Soon I will feel its warmth on my upper lip. I set my head far back on the ground in the meager hope of staunching the coming flow, but to no avail; within seconds the blood is running down both sides of my face. Rainwater is forming a pool under my sleeping bag; I can feel it seeping through and onto my back. I arc my back in order to avoid its wet chill as mosquitoes flock to the wet heat now smothering my face. I'm trying to swat them away without removing the protection of the tarp, but I have to give up as this proves impossible.
Miserable. I have nowhere to go. No tent. No gauze for my nose. No mosquito repellent. I find myself staring blankly into the plastic draped over my face as if it were a starless night sky. If it weren't for the blood gushing profusely from my nose I know that I would be smelling the strong scent of dirt-stained plastic. I try to focus on something else. Anything else. But instead I keep questioning myself as to how I got stuck in this plastic bag filling with mud and my own blood.
Friday, December 17, 2010
Something on the Edge of Nothingness
Mist shrouds my vision as I gaze up at the sky. The stars are no longer visible here in the dead of night. I can barely see Rachel still walking around the bus station hoping to find one elusive unlocked door. Across the lawn is another man sitting on a bench. The way he's rotating his head makes me think of a king evaluating his small kingdom from atop his throne. I look back toward the stars, but the fog is swirling into thicker clouds instead of growing thinner. Shivering, I curl into the fetal position, pulling my hood tighter over my ears while trying in vain to pull the zipper of my coat even further up over my chin.
"You really thought this was a good idea?"
Startled, I look up at Rachel; I hadn't heard her approach. Sighing, I disdainfully say, "What?"
Rach continues sternly, "You know exactly what I mean."
Annoyed at her sudden change of heart, I defend myself, "Hey, you agreed to come along. Back in Riga you also thought this was a good idea."
Rachel doesn't bother to reply and nestles down on the end of the bench. For early May, I hadn't expected Lithuania to be quite this cold, even at 2:30 in the morning. Images of bums wrapping themselves in newspaper begin flashing through my mind. Here I am, lying on a soggy bench, scanning the ground for newspapers. Or anything, for that matter. I can't see far; the fog is becoming more and more impenetrable to my vision.
Emily and Andy were right. My attempt to save a few bucks had been a frugal but dismally unwise idea. At the hostel back in Riga where the others are now sleeping soundly, Rachel and I had hatched our plan.
"Check it out, Rach, there's a bus that leaves for Klaipeda tonight at 10:30."
"So? Don't we want to leave a few hours before that?"
"Well, yeah, but think about this. It says here that it's a six hour ride, so if we catch the 10:30 bus we'll get there close to 5:00. We can just sleep on the bus and not bother paying for a hostel! Two birds with one stone!"
My ecstasy succeeds in rubbing off on Rach, but not on anyone else.
Emily scoffs at me, saying, "Are you guys kidding me? This is a terrible idea! You won't get any sleep and what are you going to do at 5:00 a.m.?"
Glaring up from the computer's monitor, I snidely respond, "You're just jealous, Em. We're heading to Lithuania for a few days while you're just going to hang back here in Latvia. You can come if you want."
"No, Dally. I am not jealous. Lithuania isn't going to be any different from here, so you're just wasting time and money."
Ignoring her, I click the button, thereby purchasing two bus tickets for Rach and myself.
Sitting at Riga's bus station 10:00 comes and goes. So does 10:15. Also 10:30. Now it's past 10:50. Expecting 11:00 to pass us by without any sign of a bus, a gray van finally pulls up to our stop. A man rolls down the passenger window and says something to us in Russian. I step up to the window and use my limited Russian to confirm that this is indeed bus #11. He nods his head vigorously, "Da da!"
The sliding door on the side of the van jerks roughly as I yank it open. No one else boards the van with us, so I turn to Rach and declare in my most optimistic tone, "Well, at least we'll both have plenty of room to sleep!" I can see that she's reconsidering Emily's starkly realistic remarks just as I am.
The van pulls out and onto the street. The lights of Riga blur and and soon become mere afterthoughts as we climb into the hills on the outskirts of town. Through the window on the left there are only pine trees. This road is bumpy. Portions of it are obviously unpaved. A ghostly reflection of myself stares back at me as I gaze out the right window. The bags under my eyes look like black pits against the backdrop of my pale skin. Refocusing past my transparent reflection I see the great black expanse below that is the Baltic Sea. Looking into the back seat I see that Rachel isn't even attempting to sleep as she stares out the window. I lie down, determined to sleep.
The buckle for the seatbelt that I should be wearing presses deep into my skull as I try to get comfortable. I position my left arm to act as a pillow, but this only serves to change the source of my discomfort instead of relieving it. My fingernails need to be trimmed, but I didn't pack any clippers...
Someone is talking to me in Russian. Of course they are; everyone around here speaks Russian. Suddenly I'm being poked. I snap awake to the driver prodding me in my ribs. We've arrived. I automatically look at my watch. It's barely 2:15 a.m. I look pathetically back at the driver, but he only motions disinterestedly toward the door. I climb out grudgingly and find myself standing next to Rach in an empty lot as the van speeds away to god-knows-where. A heavy mist is slowly creeping up around us; the only thing I can see anymore is a small concrete building. It is something amidst a sea of nothingness.
"Dallin, is this Klaipeda?"
"I sure as heck hope so."
Without another word I begin striding toward the small building. The doors are firmly locked, but a sign on the door assures me that we have reached our destination. This is the bus station; I can tell by the list of bus schedules printed on manila paper taped to the opposite side of the glass door.
"Can we get inside? It's freezing out here!"
"Rach, it doesn't open until 6:00."
"What? Isn't it almost 6:00? We were supposed to get here around 5:00."
My heart sinks as I pull my watch back out of my pocket. It's not even 2:30. Rach recognizes the look of despair on my face and asks me what's wrong.
"Rach, we got here almost three hours early. We're going to be stuck out here for three and a half hours."
Rachel looks around frantically, grabs a beanie out of her bag, pulls it snugly over her ears, and begins walking around the station in desperate search of another door. Watching her march stiffly away, I spot a bench off to my left. Once there, I wipe the dew off with my sleeve and lie down again. I should at least be able to do some star gazing from here.
"You really thought this was a good idea?"
Startled, I look up at Rachel; I hadn't heard her approach. Sighing, I disdainfully say, "What?"
Rach continues sternly, "You know exactly what I mean."
Annoyed at her sudden change of heart, I defend myself, "Hey, you agreed to come along. Back in Riga you also thought this was a good idea."
Rachel doesn't bother to reply and nestles down on the end of the bench. For early May, I hadn't expected Lithuania to be quite this cold, even at 2:30 in the morning. Images of bums wrapping themselves in newspaper begin flashing through my mind. Here I am, lying on a soggy bench, scanning the ground for newspapers. Or anything, for that matter. I can't see far; the fog is becoming more and more impenetrable to my vision.
Emily and Andy were right. My attempt to save a few bucks had been a frugal but dismally unwise idea. At the hostel back in Riga where the others are now sleeping soundly, Rachel and I had hatched our plan.
"Check it out, Rach, there's a bus that leaves for Klaipeda tonight at 10:30."
"So? Don't we want to leave a few hours before that?"
"Well, yeah, but think about this. It says here that it's a six hour ride, so if we catch the 10:30 bus we'll get there close to 5:00. We can just sleep on the bus and not bother paying for a hostel! Two birds with one stone!"
My ecstasy succeeds in rubbing off on Rach, but not on anyone else.
Emily scoffs at me, saying, "Are you guys kidding me? This is a terrible idea! You won't get any sleep and what are you going to do at 5:00 a.m.?"
Glaring up from the computer's monitor, I snidely respond, "You're just jealous, Em. We're heading to Lithuania for a few days while you're just going to hang back here in Latvia. You can come if you want."
"No, Dally. I am not jealous. Lithuania isn't going to be any different from here, so you're just wasting time and money."
Ignoring her, I click the button, thereby purchasing two bus tickets for Rach and myself.
Sitting at Riga's bus station 10:00 comes and goes. So does 10:15. Also 10:30. Now it's past 10:50. Expecting 11:00 to pass us by without any sign of a bus, a gray van finally pulls up to our stop. A man rolls down the passenger window and says something to us in Russian. I step up to the window and use my limited Russian to confirm that this is indeed bus #11. He nods his head vigorously, "Da da!"
The sliding door on the side of the van jerks roughly as I yank it open. No one else boards the van with us, so I turn to Rach and declare in my most optimistic tone, "Well, at least we'll both have plenty of room to sleep!" I can see that she's reconsidering Emily's starkly realistic remarks just as I am.
The van pulls out and onto the street. The lights of Riga blur and and soon become mere afterthoughts as we climb into the hills on the outskirts of town. Through the window on the left there are only pine trees. This road is bumpy. Portions of it are obviously unpaved. A ghostly reflection of myself stares back at me as I gaze out the right window. The bags under my eyes look like black pits against the backdrop of my pale skin. Refocusing past my transparent reflection I see the great black expanse below that is the Baltic Sea. Looking into the back seat I see that Rachel isn't even attempting to sleep as she stares out the window. I lie down, determined to sleep.
The buckle for the seatbelt that I should be wearing presses deep into my skull as I try to get comfortable. I position my left arm to act as a pillow, but this only serves to change the source of my discomfort instead of relieving it. My fingernails need to be trimmed, but I didn't pack any clippers...
Someone is talking to me in Russian. Of course they are; everyone around here speaks Russian. Suddenly I'm being poked. I snap awake to the driver prodding me in my ribs. We've arrived. I automatically look at my watch. It's barely 2:15 a.m. I look pathetically back at the driver, but he only motions disinterestedly toward the door. I climb out grudgingly and find myself standing next to Rach in an empty lot as the van speeds away to god-knows-where. A heavy mist is slowly creeping up around us; the only thing I can see anymore is a small concrete building. It is something amidst a sea of nothingness.
"Dallin, is this Klaipeda?"
"I sure as heck hope so."
Without another word I begin striding toward the small building. The doors are firmly locked, but a sign on the door assures me that we have reached our destination. This is the bus station; I can tell by the list of bus schedules printed on manila paper taped to the opposite side of the glass door.
"Can we get inside? It's freezing out here!"
"Rach, it doesn't open until 6:00."
"What? Isn't it almost 6:00? We were supposed to get here around 5:00."
My heart sinks as I pull my watch back out of my pocket. It's not even 2:30. Rach recognizes the look of despair on my face and asks me what's wrong.
"Rach, we got here almost three hours early. We're going to be stuck out here for three and a half hours."
Rachel looks around frantically, grabs a beanie out of her bag, pulls it snugly over her ears, and begins walking around the station in desperate search of another door. Watching her march stiffly away, I spot a bench off to my left. Once there, I wipe the dew off with my sleeve and lie down again. I should at least be able to do some star gazing from here.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
On the Origin of Fairies
The forest is a mysterious place. Why, you may ask? Because there are creatures there with which we are not well acquainted. Squirrels, flying squirrels, bats, flying bats, and fairies. Some of you have never seen a fairy, which is fine; I admit that I have never seen a flying squirrel. I will also admit that I've had my doubts about whether or not flying squirrels really exist, but legitimate heresay has convinced me. As for fairies, the evidence has been mounting for centuries. Really, need we deny the many stories and pictures created by our forebears? I would argue for naught, not, knot, and ought not. Obviously nought.
Anywho, many have argued against the existence of the fairy due to her changing form. As a self-certified biological etymologist, I would argue that this is simply another example of evolution. Through the process of natural selection, fairies have undergone an amazing amount of change (thus the nickname "changeling") over the past millenium. In Darwin's On the Origin of Species, there's an entire chapter devoted to fairies. Da Vinci helped him pen the whole thing ambidextrously in invisible ink.
Over the years, months, and moons, fairies have taken many forms. Their evolutionary trajectory has been an intriguing one; from the tall woodland folks as represented in The Lord of the Rings under the pseudonym elves, to the winged thumbelina-type fairies as represented by Julia Roberts in Hook. Of course, these are simply contemporary representations as presented by the media in order to give you an idea. Fairies, scientifically known as Homo faeriensis, did indeed start off not much different from ourselves, but their tendencies toward tree hugging and pacifism didn't coincide well with their Homo sapien neighbors. Pacifist tree huggers are only good at one thing in the face of healthy human violence: dying. Fairies (archaic form: fays) have had to adapt. Today only the smallest and most agile fairies have persisted in the form of miniature hotties with butterfly wings.
Some people confuse our stylish and less-than-masculine brethren as fairies, but in actuality they are not members of the species Homo faeriensis, but are members of a completely different genus: Metro sexualis. Confusion first arose here thanks to Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Ha, as if Shakespeare knew anything about fairies or etymology! I'm glad we've straightened all of that out (pun intended?).
You've seen the evidence for fairies yourself. What are those weird noises when you're out camping? That's a fairy yelling at you to stop letting your dog take a shit in her yard. Where are your keys? Or your pen? Or your niece? Fairies took them, dude (or dudette). Don't let pessimistic Communists convince you that you're stupid enough to misplace anything. This notion is false. We modern humans (aka Americans) are far too smart to make such petty mistakes. Communist propaganda must be ignored. Nuclear fallout my ass.
Anywho, many have argued against the existence of the fairy due to her changing form. As a self-certified biological etymologist, I would argue that this is simply another example of evolution. Through the process of natural selection, fairies have undergone an amazing amount of change (thus the nickname "changeling") over the past millenium. In Darwin's On the Origin of Species, there's an entire chapter devoted to fairies. Da Vinci helped him pen the whole thing ambidextrously in invisible ink.
Over the years, months, and moons, fairies have taken many forms. Their evolutionary trajectory has been an intriguing one; from the tall woodland folks as represented in The Lord of the Rings under the pseudonym elves, to the winged thumbelina-type fairies as represented by Julia Roberts in Hook. Of course, these are simply contemporary representations as presented by the media in order to give you an idea. Fairies, scientifically known as Homo faeriensis, did indeed start off not much different from ourselves, but their tendencies toward tree hugging and pacifism didn't coincide well with their Homo sapien neighbors. Pacifist tree huggers are only good at one thing in the face of healthy human violence: dying. Fairies (archaic form: fays) have had to adapt. Today only the smallest and most agile fairies have persisted in the form of miniature hotties with butterfly wings.
Some people confuse our stylish and less-than-masculine brethren as fairies, but in actuality they are not members of the species Homo faeriensis, but are members of a completely different genus: Metro sexualis. Confusion first arose here thanks to Shakespeare's A Midsummer Night's Dream. Ha, as if Shakespeare knew anything about fairies or etymology! I'm glad we've straightened all of that out (pun intended?).
You've seen the evidence for fairies yourself. What are those weird noises when you're out camping? That's a fairy yelling at you to stop letting your dog take a shit in her yard. Where are your keys? Or your pen? Or your niece? Fairies took them, dude (or dudette). Don't let pessimistic Communists convince you that you're stupid enough to misplace anything. This notion is false. We modern humans (aka Americans) are far too smart to make such petty mistakes. Communist propaganda must be ignored. Nuclear fallout my ass.
Sunday, December 12, 2010
Dynamics of Dating 1020
Having received mixed reviews on Dynamics of Dating 1010, I have decided to allow a female guest lecturer to offer a counterpoint in this post, Dynamics of Dating 1020. I am a man who prides himself on being open to all walks of life and opinions, even if they differ from my own. So, please enjoy the second course within the Dynamics of Dating:
Today we're going to learn about dating... from the valuable perspective of a female. I know if you're a devoted follower of my friend Dallin's blog you've read one of his recent posts entitled "Dynamics of Dating 1010." Men applauded it, women scorned it. You see, I don't believe a word of what he's written.
Today we're going to learn about dating... from the valuable perspective of a female. I know if you're a devoted follower of my friend Dallin's blog you've read one of his recent posts entitled "Dynamics of Dating 1010." Men applauded it, women scorned it. You see, I don't believe a word of what he's written.
First, before we jump into things I feel you need to know a bit about me...even if my identity is to remain ambiguous.
I am a fan of the Potter...Harry Potter.
Gone with the Wind has to be one of my favorite things ever created on this earth. Book/Movie...it's a classic either way...and it was sent to us from above.
Jesus is a friend of mine (please watch http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7-NOZU2iPA8).
I've always wanted to go to London.
I've fallen off a treadmill...more than once.
And, finally I'm the last child in my family. Don't judge me. Contrary to popular belief, literature, and pop culture classics the last child is not always selfish. I swear.
So, dating. I feel I'm qualified to instruct the masses because of my own forays into the dating world. Also, I've spent a fair amount of my life observing people. Once upon a time I was a waitress, and worked at a video store, and worked everywhere I possibly could. As such, I've spent a fair amount of my short life people-watching. It's time to share that knowledge. After you've had the chance to observe people's eating and movie watching habits, you can ascertain A LOT about their personal relationships.
My friend Dallin believes that females don't know their mind. Sadly, he's mistaken. Granted he's right about most things...like the fact that I never should have talked to that boy in the bookstore (MISTAKE), or that I thought Oceanography was going to be a hard class (it most certaintly wasn't), or the fact that I should pursue a certain male (he was right, I should).
BUT, he was wrong that women don't know their mind.
Women know their mind. The thing is, we don't want to scare males away. Men are like Bambi. Yes, Bambi.
I know what you're thinking; men are not at all like Disney woodland creatures. But, they are. Great lashes and afraid of sudden movements - welcome to the male sex. If we told you what we wanted, you would retreat into the great woods and we would LOSE out on a possible catch. So, we have to lure you in. Essentially, we want to seem easy going. Ask us what we want, and we will turn it right back on you. We're trying to cater to your needs and as such we attempt to be compatible. Girls are constantly trying to read your movements. Like a hunter, we carefully observe our prey and attempt to get to know their eating or sleeping habits before we trap them into our clutches. Men, you've had this happen to you before. You've been drawn in by a girl only to later discover she's all sorts of crazy. This crazy surprises you. You never saw it coming, right? The thing is the crazy was always there. Girls are just masters of disguising the crazy. So men, I warn you. Girls know what they want. They want you, but be careful. You might get shot.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
Unsuccessfully Shouldering the Slippery Slope
The weather today is ideal. My breath drifts away in elongated clouds every time I exhale. For years I didn't have the opportunity to come up here to the mountains, but today I have finally returned with a few of my best friends. I've felt a bit rusty so far after having been away from the slopes for so long. My brother had told me that the Hidden Lake lift was replaced by a newer, faster version, and I'm glad not to have been disappointed. A ride that once took 20 minutes took us only five today.
As we approached the top of the mountain, I had asked, "Where do you guys want to go? Over to Sunrise like we used to or just cut around below the lift?" while simultaneously pointing to our various options.
Church leans over the bar, swivels his head in several directions, and says, "What about over there on the right? We've never been there before."
"Sure we have. I've been along there a few times," I reply.
"Maybe you have, but not with us."
I nod my head while thinking about my many former snowboarding buddies and look over at Kelsey. "How about you, Kels? Which way do you want to go?"
She shrugs. Typical Kelsey. I appealingly see no one on the trail off to our right, so I make the decision.
The three of us slide off the lift and plop down in order to bind our loose feet onto our boards. I ratchet my right binding, careful not to get my leather gloves caught in the clasps. I stand up, slide to the edge of the slope, and wait for Church and Kelsey. Expecting them to momentarily come to gliding stops on either side of me, they both blow past me and down the hill. It's steep. I watch proudly as Church and Kelsey both carve their way perfectly down the sharp decline. I can hardly believe how awful they were when I first began to teach them several years earlier. The powder is thick and everything blurs into white nothingness. The snow flakes are small, light, and coming down in thicker torrents now. Having learned how badly snowflakes can hurt the eyes while flying down a hill like this, I strap on my goggles determined to fly past Kels and Church. Everything has taken on a rosy hue behind the lens as I begin my descent. I carve around a few trees, realize that I'm fully comfortable again at last, and point my board straight down the mountain.
Kels is making her way down in perfect form as I pass her. Church sees me coming and tries to speed up, but I've already gained far too much speed and overtake him. I look back, grinning like a fool, and turn my head back toward my chosen path. I'm flying. No, really flying this time. This was unexpected; I am at least ten feet in the air. Time slows down. I must have flown right over a huge lip without having seen it. "Keep your board under your feet, stupid. You've gone over plenty of jumps in the past," I tell myself, but it's too late. I went over it far too quickly and without the proper trajectory; I'm flying through the air head-first.
I land on the side of my head. I watch my rosy colored world crush into my face and then get left behind. I hear the white nothingness crunch like shattering thunder in my ear. Deep into my ear. I slide spread-eagle on my back for what seems like an eternity. I come to a stop and begin to sit up. I can hear Church coming towards me yelling, "Dude!" Nothing else.
Church, Kels, and I are sitting in my kitchen. Church offers me some popcorn. Reaching into the bowl as I take it, I realize to my wonder that the popcorn has become caramel corn. "Dude, where did you get this?" I inquire. He doesn't know. I look at Kelsey, who is lounging on a couch. A couch in my kitchen? "Hey, we can't have popcorn!" I exclaim. Church looks at me quizzically and asks why not. "Because we're snowboarding right now!"
I snap back to the now. My head is throbbing and my shoulder feels... like nothing. I try to sit up, but my shoulder suddenly feels very much like something; something very unpleasant. I remain prostrate instead. "Why is there snow up my nose...?"
Church laughs maniacally. "What? You don't remember?"
Kelsey tells me that I just had a wreck of fairly epic proportions. "No, I remember the wreck. My nose didn't touch the ground."
Church takes a break from laughing and says, "Yeah, when I made it to you you sat up and I nailed you right in the face with a snowball! Dude, I think you passed out!"
I moan slightly, tell Church that he's a moron, and try to sit up again. Pain shoots through my arm like a well aimed spike.
"Something is wrong with my shoulder. I need one of you to help me up."
Kelsey kneels in front of me as I grab her right hand. She tries to pull me up, but my shoulder refuses to go anywhere.
"I think I'll just lie here for a while."
"No, we need to move. Your shoulder is probably dislocated."
"I think you're right. So what do I do?"
A suddenly serious Church tells me that I just have to move it around in circular motions. That, he says, will probably pop it back into place. I procrastinate the inevitable action that I'll soon have to take and look back up the mountain. From here I can see the trail cutting straight across our run. There's a seven foot shelf sliced into the side of the mountain. Its edges glint menacingly in the daylight without the inhibition of my glare-blocking goggles.
I gather my courage and do what Church said, and hear a pop. My shoulder is welcomed with no expected relief. I lie back down... Church keeps saying something about how we should go... I feel like this is one of those rare times when I actually want to cry, but the tears which have been held back for years won't come.
"Something is wrong with my shoulder. I need one of you to help me up."
Kelsey kneels in front of me as I grab her right hand. She tries to pull me up, but my shoulder refuses to go anywhere.
"I think I'll just lie here for a while."
"No, we need to move. Your shoulder is probably dislocated."
"I think you're right. So what do I do?"
A suddenly serious Church tells me that I just have to move it around in circular motions. That, he says, will probably pop it back into place. I procrastinate the inevitable action that I'll soon have to take and look back up the mountain. From here I can see the trail cutting straight across our run. There's a seven foot shelf sliced into the side of the mountain. Its edges glint menacingly in the daylight without the inhibition of my glare-blocking goggles.
I gather my courage and do what Church said, and hear a pop. My shoulder is welcomed with no expected relief. I lie back down... Church keeps saying something about how we should go... I feel like this is one of those rare times when I actually want to cry, but the tears which have been held back for years won't come.
Wednesday, December 8, 2010
Lady in the Lovers' Room
We arrived this afternoon. Dan and I checked out the guys' room, but it already looked overcrowded. The womens' room was of course out of the question and just as crowded. I had already paid for this place and it was already too late to consider heading back down to the city. Today's trip from Interlaken to Gimmelwald had consumed the greater part of my day.
Lying in bed I review the events that led me here to the lovers' room. Dan is lying silently next to me, but I doubt that he has managed to fall asleep already. After checking in this afternoon we were directed to the guys' room. There was hardly enough room for our bags let alone for ourselves. Standing among so many travelers' baggage I had walked to the window and looked out. It was beautiful outside. More beautiful than any place I've ever seen. The Swiss Alps stretched out before me covered in pastures of blossoming flowers and glacial scars. Dan crosses the room and stands beside me. I point into the distance and say, "That's the Matterhorn over there," while referencing the map that I found on the train today.
Dan asks me how I'm so sure.
"Look, on the backside of the map there's a drawing of the mountains as seen here from Gimmelwald. That one is obviously the Matterhorn."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. What are we going to do tomorrow?"
"Do we really need anything to do? Look at this place; it's like we're in a movie."
"Yeah, okay," Dan mutters.
I turn my head toward him. He obviously has no idea what we should do, so I tell him that I've been thinking about hiking to the top of this mountain tomorrow.
"Really?" he says incredulously, "but the gondola ride all the way to the top is pretty expensive."
"No, dude, I want to hike it. We're already so far up that I'm sure we can handle it."
"Ha, I wonder what the girls will think of that idea."
Out of frustration I went back to the mistress of the hostel and inquired as to where we were supposed to sleep. She plainly told me that in the event of an overflow we could just sleep in the couples' room. "The beds are better in there anyway," she tells me after I roll my eyes. Dan and I walk down the hall past the stairway and find the door to our room on the right. On the wooden door a pink heart has been lovingly painted around the words "Lovers' Room." I sigh, push the door open, and walk in. In the corner a man whispers something to his girlfriend as she changes behind the blanket he's holding up. I ignore them completely for her sake and scan the room. I've never seen anything quite like this before; there are three bunks, but they're huge. Queen-sized, in fact. The three bottom queen-sized beds all appear to be taken while two of the upper three are free. Dan and I toss our bags onto a bed when someone shakes me awake and back into the present.
"Steve? Is that you, Steve?"
"What...?"
"Are you Steve?" she asks me again. I can smell the stench of beer on her breath. I lean forward on my elbows to give her my full attention and ask her again what she wants.
"Are you Steve?" I'm getting a better look at her now. She's bikini-clad, blonde, definitely American, gorgeous, still drenched from the hot tub, and very drunk. I consider telling her that I am indeed Steve, but the rational part of my mind encourages me to tell the truth. "No, I'm not Steve."
"What? You're Steve..?" she asks again while giggling like a grade schooler.
I'm tempted again, but the thought of getting out of bed at this hour causes me to firmly state a second time that I am certainly not Steve.
I watch her as she skips out the door. I pull the flashlight out from under my pillow and tuck it into my backpack. The guy in the bottom bunk is snoring again.
Lying in bed I review the events that led me here to the lovers' room. Dan is lying silently next to me, but I doubt that he has managed to fall asleep already. After checking in this afternoon we were directed to the guys' room. There was hardly enough room for our bags let alone for ourselves. Standing among so many travelers' baggage I had walked to the window and looked out. It was beautiful outside. More beautiful than any place I've ever seen. The Swiss Alps stretched out before me covered in pastures of blossoming flowers and glacial scars. Dan crosses the room and stands beside me. I point into the distance and say, "That's the Matterhorn over there," while referencing the map that I found on the train today.
Dan asks me how I'm so sure.
"Look, on the backside of the map there's a drawing of the mountains as seen here from Gimmelwald. That one is obviously the Matterhorn."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. What are we going to do tomorrow?"
"Do we really need anything to do? Look at this place; it's like we're in a movie."
"Yeah, okay," Dan mutters.
I turn my head toward him. He obviously has no idea what we should do, so I tell him that I've been thinking about hiking to the top of this mountain tomorrow.
"Really?" he says incredulously, "but the gondola ride all the way to the top is pretty expensive."
"No, dude, I want to hike it. We're already so far up that I'm sure we can handle it."
"Ha, I wonder what the girls will think of that idea."
Out of frustration I went back to the mistress of the hostel and inquired as to where we were supposed to sleep. She plainly told me that in the event of an overflow we could just sleep in the couples' room. "The beds are better in there anyway," she tells me after I roll my eyes. Dan and I walk down the hall past the stairway and find the door to our room on the right. On the wooden door a pink heart has been lovingly painted around the words "Lovers' Room." I sigh, push the door open, and walk in. In the corner a man whispers something to his girlfriend as she changes behind the blanket he's holding up. I ignore them completely for her sake and scan the room. I've never seen anything quite like this before; there are three bunks, but they're huge. Queen-sized, in fact. The three bottom queen-sized beds all appear to be taken while two of the upper three are free. Dan and I toss our bags onto a bed when someone shakes me awake and back into the present.
"Steve? Is that you, Steve?"
"What...?"
"Are you Steve?" she asks me again. I can smell the stench of beer on her breath. I lean forward on my elbows to give her my full attention and ask her again what she wants.
"Are you Steve?" I'm getting a better look at her now. She's bikini-clad, blonde, definitely American, gorgeous, still drenched from the hot tub, and very drunk. I consider telling her that I am indeed Steve, but the rational part of my mind encourages me to tell the truth. "No, I'm not Steve."
"What? You're Steve..?" she asks again while giggling like a grade schooler.
I'm tempted again, but the thought of getting out of bed at this hour causes me to firmly state a second time that I am certainly not Steve.
I watch her as she skips out the door. I pull the flashlight out from under my pillow and tuck it into my backpack. The guy in the bottom bunk is snoring again.
Tuesday, December 7, 2010
A Bridge to Wife Battery
I glance down into the train yard off to my right where several trains stretch along their tracks like enormous yellow caterpillars. "You're sure that we can get there from here?"
"Yeah. There are a few bridges over the train yard that we can take."
"I know, but I don't know if it will be worth the time. We're already running a bit late after leaving Job's place."
"There should be a bridge just off the student quarter. We'll get there with time to spare if we go this way."
"All right, lead the way," Greg tells me me with an audible hint of doubt.
I begin pedaling down the street. My tires slice through the puddles like rubber knives leaving wakes for Greg. My mind drifts back to the cafe last night when we watched Obama's inaugural speech on the mounted TV. In order to hang around long enough to watch the entire speech we were required to buy several servings of fries and krokets... Greg's voice breaks my daydream as he yells, "Oi! The bridge is here, dude!"
I look back, and surely enough Greg is perched on the corner where the bike path veers off to the right. I cruised right past it in my reminiscent stupor. An old woman flies by me as I set my foot on the sidewalk and look over my left shoulder. More bikers are on their way. I look further down the street and see no opportunities to cross to the other side anytime soon, so I grudgingly step off my bike, pull it up onto the sidewalk, and commit a serious faux pas: biking on the sidewalk. Only one Moroccan man is walking tonight as I pass him, but he stumbles onward without acknowledging me or my crime.
Greg has already begun crossing the bridge when I get there. I follow after him and soon enough we're standing in front of Solomon's building. Just over ten minutes to go. We both chain our bikes to the fence across the street. The two blocks lying before Solomon's apartment building have been completely demolished, but have yet to be cleared away. Rubble lies everywhere behind the fences. Whenever I see this stretch of wasteland I can't help but think about how similar this sight must be to that seen shortly after the Americans bombed this city during WWII.
"This always looks to me like a bomb got dropped here."
"You said the exact same thing last week, you know."
"Ha, I don't doubt that. It's ironic, isn't it?"
"What?"
"That we bombed this city on accident. The German border is another 10 miles away. Woops."
"We're pretty smooth, I guess."
"What should we do, man?"
"You mean until Solomon comes? I don't know. You tracted this street, right?"
"Yeah, this whole area. With Allred."
"Wait. Wasn't it just down the street where that guy attacked his wife?"
"Yeah, just over there."
I can see the spot down the street where Allred and I had parked our bikes that day. At the fifth door from the far corner a sallow looking woman had opened the door. As we had introduced ourselves a man appeared at the end of the hallway. His wife turned and asked him if he wanted to allow us in, at which time he mumbled something which sounded like a "Yes." I knew immediately that the last thing I wanted to do was go in that house. I glanced over at Allred, he shrugged, and we followed her inside. The living room stank. The coffee table was covered in beer bottles and a layer of ash. The floor was littered with cigarette butts and matted hair. She offered us the couch when her husband reentered the room.
He commenced at once to yelling,"Who are these people?"
"I don't know exactly. You told me to let them in," she coolly responded.
Repeatedly he screamed shrilly, "Who are these people? Why are they here?"
She tried to comfort him, but he wouldn't listen. I told her we would gladly leave if it would make him happy. She told us to stay anyway because they had invited us in. A noble attempt to be polite in spite of her drunken husband.
He suddenly interjected by threatening her. "I'll hit you for this. I'll hit you!!"
"Do it and I'll hit you right back!" she replied in utter frustration and embarrassment.
Without warning he punched her square in the face, knocking her to the ground. I was shocked. How could he possibly do this?!? She got up, dodged a second misguided punch, and hit him as hard as she could on his right ear. He collapsed easily due to his alcohol-induced lack of balance. Furiously he kicked back at his wife, causing her to buckle and fall to the floor beside him. He continued to kick her as she angrily drove her high heels up into his face.
As my initial shock fell away I finally realized that it was time for me to intercede. Allred grabbed the wife and I the husband. We pulled them apart as hard as we could. Perhaps he could feel that I wasn't very frail, because he declined to hit me and instead continued kicking at his wife. I set him against the wall, but he was too dizzy to get up. Instead he sobbed miserably like a child. Allred set her on her feet. We offered to call the police, but nothing could have frightened her more than that. She thanked us for our help, promised to call us, and then ushered us out the door.
The weather had been much warmer then. Today I can see the rainclouds creeping toward us in the twilight. Maybe it will snow this time. Still gazing down the street I see a tall African man striding in our direction. He's holding a few bags of groceries and is grinning at us from ear to ear. Greg and I grin back.
Monday, December 6, 2010
Queen of the Port-a-Potties
I'm standing on the bus gazing out the grimy window. In the florescent light I can see the oily residue of too many hands on the bar that I'm grasping. I thank myself for putting on gloves before getting on. Currently I'm wearing black shoes, a black jacket, a black beanie, black gloves, and blue jeans. The snow which fell all night has become a gray sludge blanketing everything outside. I've learned to assimilate myself during my time here: a black wardrobe and a closed mouth are confrontation-free.
Finally the brakes creak as the bus lurches to a halt. Hoping that this is where we want to be, I hop off first just before a few locals. We've been following the directions closely enough, and this seems to be right. No one argues with me, leaving any potential blame for an unintentional detour solely on me. I have to be careful not to slip going down the stairs leading into the tunnel. Homeless children lobby for our attention in the dimly lit subterranean refuge. Handouts. Any change? Just a few rubles? Vendors sell their shampoos, calling cards, magazines, and candy at increasingly lower prices through windows lining the walls. Another slippery stairway signals that we have at last crossed the enormous street.
We're running early and are now confidently on the right track. I see a large shopping center across the plaza which probably offers some additional warmth and accordingly inform everyone. After crossing the street I notice that there are two port-a-potties on the corner. Upon closer examination I learn differently. Inside one an elderly woman has created a home for herself; she has a small recliner which doubles as a bed, a plethora of blankets, a lamp hanging from the ceiling, and a small stove. She is the owner of both port-a-potties. One she has fashioned into a home while the other is her lone source of income. Half a ruble buys you a visit to her john. A resourceful but ultimately miserable way to eke a living off the streets of Moscow. I can't help but stare. She must think I'm considering a visit to her port-a-potty because she begins to wave me over as if saying that's it's currently free for my business. The idea inexplicably repulses me as I turn away. I feel the urge to escape her vision.
The shops are obviously for the wealthy; it's clean inside, well lit, well heated, and security guards stand as sentinels in the vestibule. At this time we know to speak up in our American English. Being American gives us the right to be in high-end stores: we surely have money. The girls step onto the escalators and begin their ascent toward a few clothing stores of which I've never heard. Having reached the top floor a bit later I find a bench. This eastern flank of the roof is glass. I find myself staring again down at the babushka and her port-a-potty home. There's not a chance that she can see me here, but I still feel a pang of guilt. How is it that I, due simply to the language that I speak, am allowed in this beautiful building while she sits there in her plastic hut only a few meters away?
The home is a man's castle. Home is where the heart is. One man's garbage is another man's treasure.
Finally the brakes creak as the bus lurches to a halt. Hoping that this is where we want to be, I hop off first just before a few locals. We've been following the directions closely enough, and this seems to be right. No one argues with me, leaving any potential blame for an unintentional detour solely on me. I have to be careful not to slip going down the stairs leading into the tunnel. Homeless children lobby for our attention in the dimly lit subterranean refuge. Handouts. Any change? Just a few rubles? Vendors sell their shampoos, calling cards, magazines, and candy at increasingly lower prices through windows lining the walls. Another slippery stairway signals that we have at last crossed the enormous street.
We're running early and are now confidently on the right track. I see a large shopping center across the plaza which probably offers some additional warmth and accordingly inform everyone. After crossing the street I notice that there are two port-a-potties on the corner. Upon closer examination I learn differently. Inside one an elderly woman has created a home for herself; she has a small recliner which doubles as a bed, a plethora of blankets, a lamp hanging from the ceiling, and a small stove. She is the owner of both port-a-potties. One she has fashioned into a home while the other is her lone source of income. Half a ruble buys you a visit to her john. A resourceful but ultimately miserable way to eke a living off the streets of Moscow. I can't help but stare. She must think I'm considering a visit to her port-a-potty because she begins to wave me over as if saying that's it's currently free for my business. The idea inexplicably repulses me as I turn away. I feel the urge to escape her vision.
The shops are obviously for the wealthy; it's clean inside, well lit, well heated, and security guards stand as sentinels in the vestibule. At this time we know to speak up in our American English. Being American gives us the right to be in high-end stores: we surely have money. The girls step onto the escalators and begin their ascent toward a few clothing stores of which I've never heard. Having reached the top floor a bit later I find a bench. This eastern flank of the roof is glass. I find myself staring again down at the babushka and her port-a-potty home. There's not a chance that she can see me here, but I still feel a pang of guilt. How is it that I, due simply to the language that I speak, am allowed in this beautiful building while she sits there in her plastic hut only a few meters away?
The home is a man's castle. Home is where the heart is. One man's garbage is another man's treasure.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Sailing away with STDs
You missed it. You got there, but too late. Everyone is talking about it. You're picking up bits, pieces, yet nothing. You just had to be there, they tell you. You should have been there, sure, but you weren't. Finally, when no one cares, you're told a dispassionate version. I slipped on the ice yesterday, flipped backward, did a full backflip, and then landed on my feet. Disprove it.
Perspective. Point of view. Opinion. Blinking. Bias. Beliefs. All affect. Experiences experienced, but none completely by any one. You will never be younger than you are now, and the story too.
Stories are told and then forgotten. Others are remembered. Recorded. Repeated. Recited. Some become a part of history. Some more mainstream than others. Passing into legend, taken as fact. Reborn in novels, fewer still in the cinema.
Stories are dynamic, changing, and often fictional. You wish you were there, but you missed it. We've read our history. Reading it in a history book we likely missed out. Maybe we should have been there...
What's the point of this, you may be wondering? Fragmented sentences and improper grammar? That, yes, and time travel. That's right, bad grammar and time travel. I want to travel through time. I don't care so much about my friends' great stories as I do about legendary events. You know what I'm talking about. What guy wouldn't want to travel back to ancient Greece to see whether or not Helen of Troy was really all that hot? What's the deal with Stonehenge anyway? Was Napoleon really that short? Did Cleopatra really commit suicide with a boob snake bite? Was Leonardo da Vinci really gay? Also, can we tell Christopher Columbus that he's going to pick up syphilis in the Caribbean? Bad idea, Chris. Just sayin'. Again, keeping it in the pants would have saved Europe some grief.
The implications are as profound as they are hopelessly unlikely. If we ever work anything out in the time travel branch of science, I nominate myself as the man who should go first.
Perspective. Point of view. Opinion. Blinking. Bias. Beliefs. All affect. Experiences experienced, but none completely by any one. You will never be younger than you are now, and the story too.
Stories are told and then forgotten. Others are remembered. Recorded. Repeated. Recited. Some become a part of history. Some more mainstream than others. Passing into legend, taken as fact. Reborn in novels, fewer still in the cinema.
Stories are dynamic, changing, and often fictional. You wish you were there, but you missed it. We've read our history. Reading it in a history book we likely missed out. Maybe we should have been there...
What's the point of this, you may be wondering? Fragmented sentences and improper grammar? That, yes, and time travel. That's right, bad grammar and time travel. I want to travel through time. I don't care so much about my friends' great stories as I do about legendary events. You know what I'm talking about. What guy wouldn't want to travel back to ancient Greece to see whether or not Helen of Troy was really all that hot? What's the deal with Stonehenge anyway? Was Napoleon really that short? Did Cleopatra really commit suicide with a boob snake bite? Was Leonardo da Vinci really gay? Also, can we tell Christopher Columbus that he's going to pick up syphilis in the Caribbean? Bad idea, Chris. Just sayin'. Again, keeping it in the pants would have saved Europe some grief.
The implications are as profound as they are hopelessly unlikely. If we ever work anything out in the time travel branch of science, I nominate myself as the man who should go first.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Dynamics of Dating 1010
Let me begin with an analogy. Consider fishing. Now consider how much it resembles dating. And not only in the traditional "there are more fish in the sea" way. Allow me to explain. Number one: I don't particularly enjoy either one. Both consume a considerable amount of time, planning, and luck in order to ensure any kind of success. Number two: Fish look better in water. So do women. Number three: Fish don't really like their lips getting caught on hooks. Neither do women. Number four: I don't particularly enjoy spending much time on the process of fishing or dating, but I thoroughly enjoy the results of both. Number five: Both are cold blooded. Number six: Mermaids are hot.
I'm writing this because all the single people out there obviously need some help in this area, and fortunately for them I am here to oblige. First of all, we must remember that there are two kinds of people in this world. There are men, and there are women. One knows what he wants. The other acts as if she does. For the world to run properly, both kinds of people must learn to coexist and cooperate in relative harmony.
Unfortunately, it has long been the lot of men such as myself to provide this harmony. Women don't know what they want. They don't, and they never will. In some inconsequential circumstances she will make this glaringly obvious by verbally expressing her indecisiveness. Pizza or burgers? She doesn't know, and tells you. Bowling or ice skating? She doesn't care, and tells you. Shoes or sandals? Let the weather decide, she says. Batman or Superman? Whichever. Who really cares about that, though? And so you see that when it doesn't matter, she will freely admit that she doesn't know what she wants. In all other situations she will not admit it. The female will not only not admit it; she will go to extraordinary lengths in order to convince you otherwise. It's true, just give it a try and see for yourself. First think of a question that you've been wanting to ask but haven't had the balls to. That's the question. Now ask it. Did you receive a question as an answer? Did you receive a string of words which somehow reassures you of something that you're supposed to think? Did you receive some kind of reply that led you to forget about your question? Or perhaps some combination of the above? Of course you did, because you're fishing without the proper knowledge and equipment.
Now rewind and redo, but before you redo, try not to heed anything that she says. Go ahead and listen, but don't let yourself be fooled. Remember that women do not know what they want, and she, hopefully, is still one of them. There are no exceptions. Thus, everything she says will essentially be meaningless gibberish. Just like when fish talk. You must TELL her what she wants. One of the two of you had better know what they want, so make it you. Decide what that is and then tell her. This gives her a simple choice: to want what you want or to decline. Either way your chances are much better than trying to interpret a bunch of meaningless estrogen-induced words.
Always assume nothing. Never take anything for granted. Don't plan too far ahead. Throw all preconceived notions out the door. Nothing in dating is a constant. Everything is a variable. Sounds like fishing, doesn't it?
Fish know what they want: water and shiny things. You now know what women want: shiny things and you.
I'm writing this because all the single people out there obviously need some help in this area, and fortunately for them I am here to oblige. First of all, we must remember that there are two kinds of people in this world. There are men, and there are women. One knows what he wants. The other acts as if she does. For the world to run properly, both kinds of people must learn to coexist and cooperate in relative harmony.
Unfortunately, it has long been the lot of men such as myself to provide this harmony. Women don't know what they want. They don't, and they never will. In some inconsequential circumstances she will make this glaringly obvious by verbally expressing her indecisiveness. Pizza or burgers? She doesn't know, and tells you. Bowling or ice skating? She doesn't care, and tells you. Shoes or sandals? Let the weather decide, she says. Batman or Superman? Whichever. Who really cares about that, though? And so you see that when it doesn't matter, she will freely admit that she doesn't know what she wants. In all other situations she will not admit it. The female will not only not admit it; she will go to extraordinary lengths in order to convince you otherwise. It's true, just give it a try and see for yourself. First think of a question that you've been wanting to ask but haven't had the balls to. That's the question. Now ask it. Did you receive a question as an answer? Did you receive a string of words which somehow reassures you of something that you're supposed to think? Did you receive some kind of reply that led you to forget about your question? Or perhaps some combination of the above? Of course you did, because you're fishing without the proper knowledge and equipment.
Now rewind and redo, but before you redo, try not to heed anything that she says. Go ahead and listen, but don't let yourself be fooled. Remember that women do not know what they want, and she, hopefully, is still one of them. There are no exceptions. Thus, everything she says will essentially be meaningless gibberish. Just like when fish talk. You must TELL her what she wants. One of the two of you had better know what they want, so make it you. Decide what that is and then tell her. This gives her a simple choice: to want what you want or to decline. Either way your chances are much better than trying to interpret a bunch of meaningless estrogen-induced words.
Always assume nothing. Never take anything for granted. Don't plan too far ahead. Throw all preconceived notions out the door. Nothing in dating is a constant. Everything is a variable. Sounds like fishing, doesn't it?
Fish know what they want: water and shiny things. You now know what women want: shiny things and you.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
Emotional Detachment
My entire family has become acquainted with it. My younger brother is still learning it. My older brother has made physical distance his greatest addition to it. My father is the paragon of it. My mother is the antagonist to it who compels the rest of us to strive for it. My sister and I are close, very close to it, and to enjoying the serenity that constantly encompasses my father.
Emotional Detachment. Is there any goal greater than making oneself impervious to the remarks and actions of others?
My quest for emotional detachment began when I was a child. My mother is a compassionate, caring, and fiercely emotional woman. She loves others as she does herself to the most absolute definition of the word. However, I have watched rather insignificant things affect her deeply. The world in which we live and the attachments that we make are undoubtedly based purely on perception. My mother experiences emotion as I have never before seen others do. When she loves, she loves unconditionally. When she cries, she weeps honestly. When she loses her temper, she is infuriated. When she is disappointed, guilt is inescapable to the emotionally attached. I have seen my mother cry for characters in movies and weep for elderly neighbors who have finally passed on. When my mother's own mother suffered an expected death at a very old age, her sorrow permeated the home and left her on an emotional cliffhanger for over a year.
My father, on the other hand, rarely cries. Never have I seen him truly weep. His temper is seemingly nonexistent and his disappointment is fleeting. I witnessed my father receive a phone call about his own mother's death, after which he pensively sat on the couch and never shed a tear.
Growing up, I had the privilege of watching both extremes of this emotional spectrum: my mother and father. As a teenager, I underwent heartbreak and change just as everyone else does. It was during this time that I truly began to emulate my father and his attitude. I did my best to become an emotional stone wall. I lived my life as I wanted to; seeking joy every day, but ignoring situations and interactions that could tip my emotional scale back toward anger or sorrow.
Living in Europe while preaching religion challenged the perceived "perfection" of my emotional detachment. Nothing I did seemed to be successful and our sources of aid were all unexpectedly dry. I was on my own emotionally, and there were no external ways for me to recharge. I sank into a depression that I had only seen but never experienced. I finally glimpsed my mother's world and knew that the only immediate escape was improving my emotional detachment. And so I did. Quickly. I argued when argued with only for the sake of arguing. I responded to hostility with hostility. I responded to joy and success with my own skeptical form of joy. Again I had made myself untouchable and survived with mere emotional scars but no lasting wounds.
Relationships are necessary and unavoidable. Is it possible to form lasting relationships without becoming emotionally attached? No. Not if you want to be a true friend. Learn to flick the switch between emotional attachment and emotional detachment.
Emotional Detachment. Is there any goal greater than making oneself impervious to the remarks and actions of others?
My quest for emotional detachment began when I was a child. My mother is a compassionate, caring, and fiercely emotional woman. She loves others as she does herself to the most absolute definition of the word. However, I have watched rather insignificant things affect her deeply. The world in which we live and the attachments that we make are undoubtedly based purely on perception. My mother experiences emotion as I have never before seen others do. When she loves, she loves unconditionally. When she cries, she weeps honestly. When she loses her temper, she is infuriated. When she is disappointed, guilt is inescapable to the emotionally attached. I have seen my mother cry for characters in movies and weep for elderly neighbors who have finally passed on. When my mother's own mother suffered an expected death at a very old age, her sorrow permeated the home and left her on an emotional cliffhanger for over a year.
My father, on the other hand, rarely cries. Never have I seen him truly weep. His temper is seemingly nonexistent and his disappointment is fleeting. I witnessed my father receive a phone call about his own mother's death, after which he pensively sat on the couch and never shed a tear.
Growing up, I had the privilege of watching both extremes of this emotional spectrum: my mother and father. As a teenager, I underwent heartbreak and change just as everyone else does. It was during this time that I truly began to emulate my father and his attitude. I did my best to become an emotional stone wall. I lived my life as I wanted to; seeking joy every day, but ignoring situations and interactions that could tip my emotional scale back toward anger or sorrow.
Living in Europe while preaching religion challenged the perceived "perfection" of my emotional detachment. Nothing I did seemed to be successful and our sources of aid were all unexpectedly dry. I was on my own emotionally, and there were no external ways for me to recharge. I sank into a depression that I had only seen but never experienced. I finally glimpsed my mother's world and knew that the only immediate escape was improving my emotional detachment. And so I did. Quickly. I argued when argued with only for the sake of arguing. I responded to hostility with hostility. I responded to joy and success with my own skeptical form of joy. Again I had made myself untouchable and survived with mere emotional scars but no lasting wounds.
Relationships are necessary and unavoidable. Is it possible to form lasting relationships without becoming emotionally attached? No. Not if you want to be a true friend. Learn to flick the switch between emotional attachment and emotional detachment.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Good versus Evil
I'm not going to quote Star Wars, Lord of the Rings, or Harry Potter for you, but I assure you that I most certainly can. Have you ever taken the time to ask yourself why all of these sagas enjoy such lasting popularity? Not a single one of them has a particularly original storyline. All three employ simplistic, purely (though inexplicably...) evil tyrants in the forms of Emperor Palpatine, Lord Voldemort, and Sauron. One of them is very poorly written (Anakin, you're breaking my heart!), and all three rely heavily on various forms of magic. The protagonist in each is a confidence-lacking youngster who finds himself along the way. Wow, it sounds like a blockbuster in the making.
Do I mean to mock these stories? Honestly, yes, but I'm mocking myself in the process because I love all three stories as anyone who knows me will attest. They're timeless, essentially simple, and play on the greatest of man's emotions: altruism, greed, goodness, and fear. The world in each is remarkably black and white. In Star Wars, the Empire and the Sith are evil. The Rebellion and the Jedi are good. That's just how it is. Do you want to do some good today? Well then, pick up your lightsaber and kill some stormtroopers or a Darth Someone if you get the chance! In Lord of the Rings, men, elves, dwarves, and hobbits are good. Sauron and his minions are evil. Once again, doing some good is relatively simple. Pick up your sword, head up into the mountains to kill some orcs or goblins. Hack those evil creatures, dude, and tell us if you ever see a female orc! As for Harry Potter, Voldemort and the Death Eaters are evil (Death Eaters? Please, how could they possibly be good with a name like that?). They like to kill people for fun and usurp power through torture, murder, and whatever means possible. Yet again, the enemy is easily recognizable and unquestionably ill-intentioned.
Am I telling you that I want to combat Evil? You bet I am. Have I mentioned that I've decapitated over 20 orcs just today? I also slapped Draco Malfoy. At times I have seriously considered dropping all of my current career plans and aiming to become a U.S. Marshall. How badass would it be to hunt down murderers and rapists for a living? I could basically call myself an auror and measure how much better I make the world annually. Here's a glimpse of this world in which I fight Evil as a U.S. Marshall and my wife saves lives every day as a hot doctor. Stethoscope and all.
Hypothetical, yet existent future wife: "Welcome home, darling husband. Have some delicious pie. What did you do at work today?"
A burlier, hairier future me: "Oh, you know, the usual. Toppled one international sex slave organization, and beat the hell out of a child rapist with my fists for resisting arrest. He'll never touch a child again after the beating I gave him."
Future wife: "Wow, you are sexy and cool. I look really hot right now."
Future me: "Whoa, you are so right."
Future wife: "Take me now, please."
Future me: "Deal."
Anyway, that's what I would like. Positive thinking brings results, right? But, back to my basic message, stories are made great by containing what we scarcely have. Simplicity. Heroics. And most of all, magic. May the Force be with you. Good luck, future me. Save our society.
Do I mean to mock these stories? Honestly, yes, but I'm mocking myself in the process because I love all three stories as anyone who knows me will attest. They're timeless, essentially simple, and play on the greatest of man's emotions: altruism, greed, goodness, and fear. The world in each is remarkably black and white. In Star Wars, the Empire and the Sith are evil. The Rebellion and the Jedi are good. That's just how it is. Do you want to do some good today? Well then, pick up your lightsaber and kill some stormtroopers or a Darth Someone if you get the chance! In Lord of the Rings, men, elves, dwarves, and hobbits are good. Sauron and his minions are evil. Once again, doing some good is relatively simple. Pick up your sword, head up into the mountains to kill some orcs or goblins. Hack those evil creatures, dude, and tell us if you ever see a female orc! As for Harry Potter, Voldemort and the Death Eaters are evil (Death Eaters? Please, how could they possibly be good with a name like that?). They like to kill people for fun and usurp power through torture, murder, and whatever means possible. Yet again, the enemy is easily recognizable and unquestionably ill-intentioned.
Am I telling you that I want to combat Evil? You bet I am. Have I mentioned that I've decapitated over 20 orcs just today? I also slapped Draco Malfoy. At times I have seriously considered dropping all of my current career plans and aiming to become a U.S. Marshall. How badass would it be to hunt down murderers and rapists for a living? I could basically call myself an auror and measure how much better I make the world annually. Here's a glimpse of this world in which I fight Evil as a U.S. Marshall and my wife saves lives every day as a hot doctor. Stethoscope and all.
Hypothetical, yet existent future wife: "Welcome home, darling husband. Have some delicious pie. What did you do at work today?"
A burlier, hairier future me: "Oh, you know, the usual. Toppled one international sex slave organization, and beat the hell out of a child rapist with my fists for resisting arrest. He'll never touch a child again after the beating I gave him."
Future wife: "Wow, you are sexy and cool. I look really hot right now."
Future me: "Whoa, you are so right."
Future wife: "Take me now, please."
Future me: "Deal."
Anyway, that's what I would like. Positive thinking brings results, right? But, back to my basic message, stories are made great by containing what we scarcely have. Simplicity. Heroics. And most of all, magic. May the Force be with you. Good luck, future me. Save our society.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Intercom Interactions
Currently I'm a dashing 22-year-old who is lucky enough to have had much experience selling various goods door-to-door. Some of these goods have proven to be more, for lack of a better word, sellable, than others. Selling boxes of candy in elementary school went well. Really, who doesn't want to buy a box of candy from some cute 8-year-old kid? (That's right, ladies, I was just as cute 14 years ago and I'm available for a limited time only). If you don't, then you're purely unamerican. Opening the door to that, you know you have to buy.
However, as I aged and increased in man-beauty, I suppose my looks and lack of edible products caused my number of buyers to decrease dramatically. As a studly, confident adolescent with braces, pigeon-toed feet, and glasses (yeah, the whole sexy sha-bang), my success began to wane. The sale of my services as a flag-posting boy scout was met with more indifference and fewer cheek pinches, but still enough success to be content.
As a brawny 19-year-old, I embarked upon a two year trek in Holland and Belgium in order to sell religion. I was ready. I had studied my Dutch and Flemish, I had brought my best suits and ties, and my teeth were at their pearly-whitest. I was confronted with hostility, no doubt, but the degree of indifference that I encountered was greater than I could have fathomed possible for walking, talking, supposedly compassionate human beings. Did selling religion on the door go well? That's a matter of definition, but I sure got to meet some winners!
Let me describe one fabulous experience for you, dear reader:
It was a beautiful day in May of 2008, and I was residing at the time in a gorgeous city called Leeuwarden in the far north of the Netherlands (the exact original Dutch will appear in parentheses next to its English translation). My sales associate, Nathan Lye, and I were buzzing every doorbell on an apartment building early one afternoon in hopes of making a sale for the month. Nate pressed one doorbell, keeping his ear close to the intercom awaiting any response, when a young man answered, "Yes? (Ja?)"
Nate tossed in his usual pitch, to which the voice replied, "Are you horny? (Ben je geil?)"
The conversation then proceeded as such:
Nate: "No... (Nee...)"
Voice: "That's a shame, I am. (Jammer, ik wel)."
Nate: "I'm not gay. (Ik ben geen homo)."
Voice "Wanna try? (Proberen?)"
Nate: "No. (Nee)."
Voice: "You sure? (Zeker?)"
Nate: "I'm sorry, but no. (Het spijt me, maar nee)."
At long last the awkward debate had reached its end. I, always in support of my sales associate, was already weeping with laughter against the wall. "All right, dude, it's your turn now." "Yeah, I'll take care of it in a minute," I tell Nate through my tears. Once I'm back on my feet, we both realize that we've forgotten which doorbell is next. We take our best guess, I push it, and then extend my ear back toward the intercom.
Another conversation then commences as follows:
Voice: "Ja? (but the voice is eerily familiar...)"
Me: "Umm, did we just talk to you? (Ahh, hebben wij je net gesproken?)
Voice: "Are you alone? (Ben je alleen?)"
Me: "No, there are two of us. (Nee, wij zijn met z'n tweeen)."
Voice: "Threesome? (Drietje?)"
Me: "No. (Nee.)"
Voice: "That's a shame. (Jammer)."
Me: "Yeah, too bad... (Ja, helaas...)"
Yes, this did indeed happen. Yes, we really did ring his doorbell twice. And yes, going door-to-door in Western Europe has given me some of my most cherished memories. Believe it. Try it. You'll see.
My latest experience as a a door-to-door salesman was only this past summer. This time, Holland was replaced by Utah, my suit was replaced by a polo t-shirt, my sales associate was replaced by a clipboard, and my religion was replaced by insurance. Was I met with indifference and hostility again? Somewhat. Apathetic as many of the people were, Americans seem to lack a Dutch hostility. Strange, seeing as how the Dutch haven't done very well in any of the past few wars.
So, the underlying message of my time as a door-to-door salesman is, please contain your anger and hostility until a maniacal despot takes power. Then, and only then, must you release your fury upon him/her and his/her regime (did you notice how I kept the despot asexual? Yeah, I'm not a sexist). It has paid off for us here in America. Follow our lead, world, and make the earth a better place.
However, as I aged and increased in man-beauty, I suppose my looks and lack of edible products caused my number of buyers to decrease dramatically. As a studly, confident adolescent with braces, pigeon-toed feet, and glasses (yeah, the whole sexy sha-bang), my success began to wane. The sale of my services as a flag-posting boy scout was met with more indifference and fewer cheek pinches, but still enough success to be content.
As a brawny 19-year-old, I embarked upon a two year trek in Holland and Belgium in order to sell religion. I was ready. I had studied my Dutch and Flemish, I had brought my best suits and ties, and my teeth were at their pearly-whitest. I was confronted with hostility, no doubt, but the degree of indifference that I encountered was greater than I could have fathomed possible for walking, talking, supposedly compassionate human beings. Did selling religion on the door go well? That's a matter of definition, but I sure got to meet some winners!
Let me describe one fabulous experience for you, dear reader:
It was a beautiful day in May of 2008, and I was residing at the time in a gorgeous city called Leeuwarden in the far north of the Netherlands (the exact original Dutch will appear in parentheses next to its English translation). My sales associate, Nathan Lye, and I were buzzing every doorbell on an apartment building early one afternoon in hopes of making a sale for the month. Nate pressed one doorbell, keeping his ear close to the intercom awaiting any response, when a young man answered, "Yes? (Ja?)"
Nate tossed in his usual pitch, to which the voice replied, "Are you horny? (Ben je geil?)"
The conversation then proceeded as such:
Nate: "No... (Nee...)"
Voice: "That's a shame, I am. (Jammer, ik wel)."
Nate: "I'm not gay. (Ik ben geen homo)."
Voice "Wanna try? (Proberen?)"
Nate: "No. (Nee)."
Voice: "You sure? (Zeker?)"
Nate: "I'm sorry, but no. (Het spijt me, maar nee)."
At long last the awkward debate had reached its end. I, always in support of my sales associate, was already weeping with laughter against the wall. "All right, dude, it's your turn now." "Yeah, I'll take care of it in a minute," I tell Nate through my tears. Once I'm back on my feet, we both realize that we've forgotten which doorbell is next. We take our best guess, I push it, and then extend my ear back toward the intercom.
Another conversation then commences as follows:
Voice: "Ja? (but the voice is eerily familiar...)"
Me: "Umm, did we just talk to you? (Ahh, hebben wij je net gesproken?)
Voice: "Are you alone? (Ben je alleen?)"
Me: "No, there are two of us. (Nee, wij zijn met z'n tweeen)."
Voice: "Threesome? (Drietje?)"
Me: "No. (Nee.)"
Voice: "That's a shame. (Jammer)."
Me: "Yeah, too bad... (Ja, helaas...)"
Yes, this did indeed happen. Yes, we really did ring his doorbell twice. And yes, going door-to-door in Western Europe has given me some of my most cherished memories. Believe it. Try it. You'll see.
My latest experience as a a door-to-door salesman was only this past summer. This time, Holland was replaced by Utah, my suit was replaced by a polo t-shirt, my sales associate was replaced by a clipboard, and my religion was replaced by insurance. Was I met with indifference and hostility again? Somewhat. Apathetic as many of the people were, Americans seem to lack a Dutch hostility. Strange, seeing as how the Dutch haven't done very well in any of the past few wars.
So, the underlying message of my time as a door-to-door salesman is, please contain your anger and hostility until a maniacal despot takes power. Then, and only then, must you release your fury upon him/her and his/her regime (did you notice how I kept the despot asexual? Yeah, I'm not a sexist). It has paid off for us here in America. Follow our lead, world, and make the earth a better place.
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
Elusive green apple bat orgy
Driving around town, we decide to head north and hit up the closest 7-11. I'm hoping that they'll have green apple in addition to the normal selection of Coca Cola and pina colada-flavored slurpees. The weather has been turning for the past few weeks, so nearly all the leaves now blanket the ground next to the street while only a few cling desperately to their branches. Church's white Ford rumbles down the hill along Mountain Road as the soundtrack of Gladiator blasts out of the speakers. He cracks a joke when we pass the spot where I obliterated a deer one night during the previous summer. Church and I have been friends for years now, for reasons that are as difficult to count as they are to remember. Conversation between us flows back and forth as it always has, varying from politics, to movies, to girls, to sports, and eventually back to how our characters are faring in our favorite video games.
Pulling up to the gas station, I notice that the tree next to the south wall is thrashing and squeaking violently. Not being accustomed to audible trees, I'm determined to investigate. Standing in the overcast dusk overshadowed by the vast face of Ben Lomond peak, shadow clouds my vision as well as my perception of what I could possibly be seeing. Cautiously I tiptoe right up to the trunk of the quivering tree. Peering above my head up into the dark branches, I at last realize that I'm witnessing some kind of orgy between hundreds of bats. So many bats shock me, having expected something... but not this. I can't help but leap backward.
Suddenly I'm distracted by Church's inquisitive voice, "Dude, what the hell is going on in that tree?"
"Bats. Hundreds of them. Just swarming around. I've never seen anything like this before."
"Weird. Do you have a camera?"
I can't reply to the affirmative. Most cell phones, including mine, aren't readily equipped with cameras yet.
After taking a good long look, we get our slurpees. No green apple. That elusive green apple slurpee never lingers long in one particular place. Mountain Dew will suffice until I find the green apple again.
I pry open the door of the truck and hop in. The cloth seat cover scrunches up as we slide into place, so I arc my back and smooth it out until it's lying evenly as before. Glancing upward, the peaks of the mountains are already blanketed in snow. Before another month has passed, Church and I will be snowboarding again every weekend. Not even a year ago, we skipped out on as many days of our junior year as possible so that I could teach Church how to snowboard on the relatively empty midday slopes. Church and I started off as kids on our elementary school's playground, I pretending to be a jet pilot and he playing Jurassic Park with plastic dinosaur dolls.
"So, basketball game?" I ask.
"Sure, bro. Video games after?"
I nod my head in agreement. Our friendship hasn't changed much in nearly a decade, and that's just the way I like it.
Pulling up to the gas station, I notice that the tree next to the south wall is thrashing and squeaking violently. Not being accustomed to audible trees, I'm determined to investigate. Standing in the overcast dusk overshadowed by the vast face of Ben Lomond peak, shadow clouds my vision as well as my perception of what I could possibly be seeing. Cautiously I tiptoe right up to the trunk of the quivering tree. Peering above my head up into the dark branches, I at last realize that I'm witnessing some kind of orgy between hundreds of bats. So many bats shock me, having expected something... but not this. I can't help but leap backward.
Suddenly I'm distracted by Church's inquisitive voice, "Dude, what the hell is going on in that tree?"
"Bats. Hundreds of them. Just swarming around. I've never seen anything like this before."
"Weird. Do you have a camera?"
I can't reply to the affirmative. Most cell phones, including mine, aren't readily equipped with cameras yet.
After taking a good long look, we get our slurpees. No green apple. That elusive green apple slurpee never lingers long in one particular place. Mountain Dew will suffice until I find the green apple again.
I pry open the door of the truck and hop in. The cloth seat cover scrunches up as we slide into place, so I arc my back and smooth it out until it's lying evenly as before. Glancing upward, the peaks of the mountains are already blanketed in snow. Before another month has passed, Church and I will be snowboarding again every weekend. Not even a year ago, we skipped out on as many days of our junior year as possible so that I could teach Church how to snowboard on the relatively empty midday slopes. Church and I started off as kids on our elementary school's playground, I pretending to be a jet pilot and he playing Jurassic Park with plastic dinosaur dolls.
"So, basketball game?" I ask.
"Sure, bro. Video games after?"
I nod my head in agreement. Our friendship hasn't changed much in nearly a decade, and that's just the way I like it.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
Sweet and Sour Smoke
I hand the border control officer my passport while thinking, "I hope everything is fine on that visa, because I can't handle taking a flight straight back to Germany right now." It's dark outside. Really dark. I can see a few stars through the clouds as the woman behind the glass scans my paperwork and visa, assuring herself that everything is in order. She hands it back to me, glares at me for good measure, and I walk off. "Russian hospitality, real nice," I murmur to myself. Walking into the concourse, I can see the Aeroflot jet that carried us from Frankfurt to Moscow through a window on my right. I hadn't realized how small it was until now. It's pathetic in comparison to the behemoth of a plane that bore us all from Chicago to Germany a matter of hours before.
After a few minutes' wait at the baggage claim, both of my bags arrive unscathed and apparently untampered with. I yank them both off of the conveyor belt and stand back out of the others' way. It doesn't take long before everyone has their bags except Travis. We wait, but not for long before Gulya arrives and hurries us away toward the exit of the airport. "What about my bags?" Travis asks in his Canadian accent, sounding to me as if he's asking about his "begs." Gulya assures him in a heavy Russian accent that his bags will surely show up soon, at which time she'll come fetch them. Within several days, this will present an interesting scenario for Travis, seeing as how the only clothes now in his possession are the orange pajama bottoms and the black hoody he's currently wearing.
Once outside, my senses are bombarded with the unexpected. The air is utterly frigid and oddly pungent. It reeks obviously of cigarette smoke, but this particular scent is extremely foreign. This new brand of cigarette smells sweetly sour and a bit tangy. I know I'll have to adjust quickly, because right now my olfactory nerve couldn't possibly be more irritated. Gulya leads us straight to a van and has us climb in, luggage and all. We've volunteered to come to Russia to teach English, and this van is the "schoolbus" for our school. Apparently, schoolbuses here aren't yellow. Instead they are gray, caked in murky-brown ice, and are actually large vans with rainbow-upholstered seating.
Our chauffeur races through Moscow's streets. Really racing. He swerves around other cars and slings us around corners. I memorized the Cyrillic alphabet on the flight over, but we fly past every neon sign too quickly before I can sound out any of the strange words. Within half an hour, we pull into the school's driveway. It looks more like a prison to me than anything else. There's a large fence surrounding the grounds and every window on the bottom floor is protected by threatening iron bars. "We'll be teaching and living in this building for the next six months? Great." I say. Gulya glances over, having misread my words for ill-favored sarcasm, and informs me that the principal of the school, Sergei, has turned several of the smallest classrooms on the top floor into apartments for our use.
Inside I'm reminded of an old warehouse. The walls are thick and whitewashed. The decor is simple and sparing, at best. All the doorways are wide and evenly spaced, just like the red-tiled hallways which they border. The school has one small elevator, for use "only by teachers and the final-year students." Luckily, we fall under the teacher category and pack the elevator. It crawls toward the sixth floor, creaking along the way. It groans to a stop, jerks, immediately drops six inches, and the doors finally open wide. Emily couldn't be less happy with the experience. "Whoa, they were NOT kidding when they said the elevator's not in the best shape. I am never stepping foot on this thing again!" I found the elevator ride less traumatic than she, so I make no such promise.
Travis and I wheel my bags to our "apartment," a small room with one window, two twin beds that are awkwardly pushed together, gray tile, and a single armoire made of sagging particle board. We trade questioning looks, and immediately pull the beds to opposite sides of the room without saying a word. Weird, but whatever. The walls in here are plain white, just like the rest of the building, and rough to the touch like sandpaper. I sit down, pull off my shoes, and investigate our floor of the school. Nextdoor to our apartment is the preparation and supply room for the English teachers, a room that would become our refuge from the rest of the city. The bathroom lies behind another door nearby and all the girls find themselves in similar "apartments" on the opposite end of the sixth floor.
It's been dark outside for many hours already, and it's only 8:00 in the evening here in Moscow. I walk back into my room, watch for a moment as Travis stares longingly at my intact luggage, and lie down on my bed. The wind and snow are blasting and howling against the thin window. I soon begin to doze off.
After a few minutes' wait at the baggage claim, both of my bags arrive unscathed and apparently untampered with. I yank them both off of the conveyor belt and stand back out of the others' way. It doesn't take long before everyone has their bags except Travis. We wait, but not for long before Gulya arrives and hurries us away toward the exit of the airport. "What about my bags?" Travis asks in his Canadian accent, sounding to me as if he's asking about his "begs." Gulya assures him in a heavy Russian accent that his bags will surely show up soon, at which time she'll come fetch them. Within several days, this will present an interesting scenario for Travis, seeing as how the only clothes now in his possession are the orange pajama bottoms and the black hoody he's currently wearing.
Once outside, my senses are bombarded with the unexpected. The air is utterly frigid and oddly pungent. It reeks obviously of cigarette smoke, but this particular scent is extremely foreign. This new brand of cigarette smells sweetly sour and a bit tangy. I know I'll have to adjust quickly, because right now my olfactory nerve couldn't possibly be more irritated. Gulya leads us straight to a van and has us climb in, luggage and all. We've volunteered to come to Russia to teach English, and this van is the "schoolbus" for our school. Apparently, schoolbuses here aren't yellow. Instead they are gray, caked in murky-brown ice, and are actually large vans with rainbow-upholstered seating.
Our chauffeur races through Moscow's streets. Really racing. He swerves around other cars and slings us around corners. I memorized the Cyrillic alphabet on the flight over, but we fly past every neon sign too quickly before I can sound out any of the strange words. Within half an hour, we pull into the school's driveway. It looks more like a prison to me than anything else. There's a large fence surrounding the grounds and every window on the bottom floor is protected by threatening iron bars. "We'll be teaching and living in this building for the next six months? Great." I say. Gulya glances over, having misread my words for ill-favored sarcasm, and informs me that the principal of the school, Sergei, has turned several of the smallest classrooms on the top floor into apartments for our use.
Inside I'm reminded of an old warehouse. The walls are thick and whitewashed. The decor is simple and sparing, at best. All the doorways are wide and evenly spaced, just like the red-tiled hallways which they border. The school has one small elevator, for use "only by teachers and the final-year students." Luckily, we fall under the teacher category and pack the elevator. It crawls toward the sixth floor, creaking along the way. It groans to a stop, jerks, immediately drops six inches, and the doors finally open wide. Emily couldn't be less happy with the experience. "Whoa, they were NOT kidding when they said the elevator's not in the best shape. I am never stepping foot on this thing again!" I found the elevator ride less traumatic than she, so I make no such promise.
Travis and I wheel my bags to our "apartment," a small room with one window, two twin beds that are awkwardly pushed together, gray tile, and a single armoire made of sagging particle board. We trade questioning looks, and immediately pull the beds to opposite sides of the room without saying a word. Weird, but whatever. The walls in here are plain white, just like the rest of the building, and rough to the touch like sandpaper. I sit down, pull off my shoes, and investigate our floor of the school. Nextdoor to our apartment is the preparation and supply room for the English teachers, a room that would become our refuge from the rest of the city. The bathroom lies behind another door nearby and all the girls find themselves in similar "apartments" on the opposite end of the sixth floor.
It's been dark outside for many hours already, and it's only 8:00 in the evening here in Moscow. I walk back into my room, watch for a moment as Travis stares longingly at my intact luggage, and lie down on my bed. The wind and snow are blasting and howling against the thin window. I soon begin to doze off.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Unbottle Your Feelings and Dump Them on Paper
I am no William Shakespeare, or even Michael Crichton, for that matter. But still, I'm usually able to express myself in a fairly competent manner. Lately I've had to write a few papers on my "feelings" about certain performances. I enjoy the arts. Thoroughly. I wrote the first paper and received a response from my grader that complimented my writing style and word usage, but docked me nonetheless for not explaining my thoughts and feelings well enough. This didn't bother me; criticism is something that I can handle. I did all that I possibly could on my second paper to pack it profusely with "I felt happy"s and "I found this remarkable"s. And still, I was docked for my "lack of feeling." Instead of kicking a dead horse, I'll simply say that despite my best efforts, I was faced with the same reason for a disappointing grade on my third paper. Am I explicating my feelings about this musical and that jazz concert? I thought so! Today I have learned my lesson. When writing a paper in which I must expand upon these "feelings" which I'm supposed to have, simply write an outline and then hand the paper over to a girl for her to fill it with how you should think and feel. That's right, paper grader, I have beaten you at last. You have read exactly what you wanted to hear and at last your thirst for my "feelings" has been slated.
Thursday, October 14, 2010
Oma, My Saving Grace
It's Halloween in America, but here the streets are completely void of masked children. The moonlit cobblestones beneath my wheels force my handles to jerk back and forth. It's late, and the fog penetrates my coat, causing chills to run up and down my spine. Gurr is racing back toward our apartment at top speed and all I can do is struggle to keep up. I'm frustrated. Does he not realize that I can't pedal that fast? Without realizing it, my thoughts revert back to earlier in the evening when Gurr and I decided to embark upon this ill-fated journey.
"We have to got to Herkdestad. We can't not show up." Gurr tells me.
The best excuse I come up with is, "Yeah, but Herkdestad is 15 miles away and Anna is never home when she says she'll be. You know that."
"It doesn't matter. We have to go. It's an appointment!" Gurr sharply reminds me.
"You're just trying to waste time! Can you even get us there in the dark?"
"Of course. I've been going there for months, long before you ever came along."
I give up. I know that I'm only arguing for the sake of arguing. Really, we have nothing else to do, and I know it. "Fine, let's just go."
We lumber down the stairs and put on our shoes without any words. He violently jams each foot into his already-tied, very worn shoes while I painstakingly tie each of mine. The sun has just fallen beneath the horizon as we remove the chains binding our bikes to the light pole outside. I've been in Belgium for a full month already and have yet to buy a new bike for myself. I've been getting by on a spare bicycle that the locals have fittingly named a "grandma bike," due to its popularity among seemingly all elderly females. My particular version of the grandma bike is painted completely black with handles that curve upward, much farther than seems necessary, and then out to either side. The basket which hangs off the front always rises up and down in tandem with the loose handlebar, but somehow manages to remain attached during every ride. I've come to rely on this spare grandma bike to get myself anywhere and everywhere on time. For this very reason, I have fondly given her the nickname "Oma," meaning "granny" in the local Flemish tongue. In fact, my primary focus every time I ride Oma is to firmly hold the handlebar in place so that I can retain enough control to navigate the Belgian streets without hitting any car doors or real "omas" hobbling through intersections.
Once our bikes are free, we begin by cutting through our neighborhood until we have found the correct street which will lead us all the way to Herkdestad. Enough Belgians use this road for it to be privileged with having a smooth red bike path on each side. We set ourselves on the right side and commence pedaling in earnest.
It's a long road, but already I have come to recognize the landmarks along the way which signify the distance traveled. First, we cross the long, arcing bridge over the Prince Henrik Canal. We haven't been on the bikes long, so my legs aren't warmed up. I feel my quadriceps loosen as we race to the top. I know that within a few minutes pedaling will become easier as my body stretches and finds its rhythm.
I jealously watch shoppers go about their business at the Carrefour, a higher-end supermarket and my first landmark. I wish I had more time. Time to do whatever I want. Time to waste mindlessly at the park or watching TV. A middle-aged brunette woman is walking her golden retriever. The dog is beautiful and well-groomed; I can see the lines etched into his fur coat by a caring brush even in the dull glow of the streetlight. I wonder how often she walks him, but it's not worth dwelling on. I'll never see her again.
By the time we pass Fajar's apartment, my second landmark, I feel as if I could continue biking until the sun rises again. However, experience reminds me that this feeling will fade before we reach our destination. I'm still following Gurr closely as we approach my third landmark, a much larger-than-life poster of a gorgeous lingerie-clad woman gazing sultrily over her shoulder at all who wish to pass. "Don't stare," I think to myself as I guiltily cast second and third glances in her direction.
My fourth landmark means that we are very close. Not long after passing the orange boards blocking roadside construction, we take the turn into Herkdestad. In reality it's not very late yet. In the U.S., sidewalks and streets are still busy at 8:00 pm. In Belgium, the sun has been down well over an hour, so everyone has retreated into the warmth of their homes, closing their metal shutters behind them. The only other human figures which dare to be seen are mannequins staring blankly at us through their windows as we roll jerkily by. In a matter of seconds, we're away from the mannequins and their glittering shops as we burst into the town's main square. A church tower looms overhead, but there is very little light. The stars are becoming blurred by the encroaching clouds and only a few lanterns sitting atop iron poles dare to cast light onto the cobblestone plaza.
Sweet relief at last. Anna's apartment building stands on the left side of the street, one corner awkwardly jutting out into the sidewalk. In silence, we climb the steps up to the door. We buzz her apartment. No answer. We wait. Nothing needs to be said, so instead I buzz a second time to let Gurr know that I'm here and have decided to care. The speaker beside the door responds no differently to my attempt. I break our mutual silence by asking, "Well, should we wait?"
Gurr finds it acceptable to reply, "Yeah, let's wait awhile."
"Okay."
"Maybe she'll come soon. We should wait." Gurr reassures himself.
"I called her yesterday to confirm this appointment. Yesterday!"
"You know how Nigerians are. They're always late."
I nod my head in agreement while mumbling, "Uh huh." It's not Gurr's fault, but I knew this would happen. I knew it.
Gurr tries to console me, "Hey man, at least we held up our end of the deal, right?"
"Yeah, right." I grudgingly say.
Our conversation has reached its end as we find places to sit on the old stone porch. A half hour passes, and I look over at Gurr. He's staring confidently down the street as if he knows that Anna will soon appear. I'm determined to say nothing; I allowed myself to come on this pointless trip and now I will silently accept my fate. Finally, nearly an hour after the appointed time, a very dark, rotund woman approaches in a bright yellow rain coat which skims along the ground behind her. I can't help but chuckle; Nigerians are always a little too well prepared for the rain.
It's Anna, but she walks by without a word. I stopped caring some time ago; I just want to go home. Gurr takes responsibility by declaring, "Anna, it's us!"
Anna hurries quickly to the door before turning and asking, "Who?"
"The elders from the church. Remember?" There's a noticeable hint of despair in Gurr's voice.
"Oh, brothers! How are you today?" Anna's African English sounds like the crystal-clear chime of Christmas bells after an entire month of hearing only slurred Flemish.
Gurr continues by saying, "We're fine. We have an appointment for an hour ago. Have you forgotten?"
"No, no. I do not forget."
"Okay, but we've been waiting here for an hour. We came all the way from Hasselt." There is no mistake that even Gurr wants to impress the seriousness of this offense upon her.
"Yes, but I must working late. You see?"
I feel like the time has come for me to toss in my two cents, so I interject, "Yes, we see. Do you have a few minutes now so we can talk?"
"No, no. Very tired. You see?"
I'm done wasting my time and am already taking the lock off my bike as Gurr stands desperately watching her disappear inside the building. My only retort is silence as we mount our bicycles and pedal back toward Hasselt. My body is exhausted and before we're halfway back I'm counting every streetlight. "Keep going. The harder you pedal now the sooner you'll be in bed," is what I continually tell myself as we push onward.
Gurr is pulling ahead - far ahead. He knows that I'm falling behind, but this is his unvoiced retaliation to my silent anger. We reach the top of the bridge just outside Hasselt and my thoughts immediately snap back to the present. I can see Gurr's black figure flying down the bridge's slope and into the city just as I reach the top. On my way down I notice an old yellow car driving along a street off to my right. I'm a biker, and I have right-of-way. I see the driver look at me; I'm very visible with my yellow light clipped blazing to my basket. Still, I continue on my present course. I know he'll slow down. These Europeans seem to love driving like maniacs.
At the bottom of the bridge I realize it's too late. We're on a collision course and Oma's brakes are no longer in their prime. I pedal harder in order to speed up and miss the car. The car speeds up! What is this guy doing!?! Before I can react, he plows into me, sending me careening into the middle of the road. I'm lying on my side, and my only thought is, "I'm going to die! Some crazy fanatic is about to kill me! I'm going to die! This is crazy! I'm going to die!!!" The driver revs his engine in an attempt to crush me, but only manages to cause the car to rock back and forth. The front bumper comes perilously close as I reach up and try to push the car away. It seems to work! The driver again tries to drive over me, but is once again unsuccessful. As I'm still trying to kick the car away, Gurr runs up and begins to pound furiously on the yellow car's window. It sounds like he might break it. A short, dark-haired woman rushes toward us and screams at the man in the car as he goes into reverse and speeds away.
"Dude, are you okay?" Gurr frantically inquires.
"Yeah, I'm all right."
My suit is torn and my body aches, but I still stand up and walk toward what's left of Oma. The few people that have come realize that I'm up and walking and disband after I reassure them that I'm fine. Moments after gathering the twisted parts and folded wheels that remain of Oma, I understand. Oma being jammed under the front wheels of the car saved my life. Oma, not my futile kicking and pushing, stopped the car from rolling right over me.
I don't know what to think as I drag Oma through the streets back to our apartment. The pain in my leg is quickly growing sharper and forcing me to limp. I'm absolutely incredulous. What just happened is difficult to digest. My state of utter bewilderment is suddenly interrupted by Gurr exclaiming, "That guy was trying to kill you!"
"I know."
"Should we call someone?"
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"No. I really want to go to bed. Let's just not worry about it." I'm beyond caring, but Gurr persists.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
"We have to got to Herkdestad. We can't not show up." Gurr tells me.
The best excuse I come up with is, "Yeah, but Herkdestad is 15 miles away and Anna is never home when she says she'll be. You know that."
"It doesn't matter. We have to go. It's an appointment!" Gurr sharply reminds me.
"You're just trying to waste time! Can you even get us there in the dark?"
"Of course. I've been going there for months, long before you ever came along."
I give up. I know that I'm only arguing for the sake of arguing. Really, we have nothing else to do, and I know it. "Fine, let's just go."
We lumber down the stairs and put on our shoes without any words. He violently jams each foot into his already-tied, very worn shoes while I painstakingly tie each of mine. The sun has just fallen beneath the horizon as we remove the chains binding our bikes to the light pole outside. I've been in Belgium for a full month already and have yet to buy a new bike for myself. I've been getting by on a spare bicycle that the locals have fittingly named a "grandma bike," due to its popularity among seemingly all elderly females. My particular version of the grandma bike is painted completely black with handles that curve upward, much farther than seems necessary, and then out to either side. The basket which hangs off the front always rises up and down in tandem with the loose handlebar, but somehow manages to remain attached during every ride. I've come to rely on this spare grandma bike to get myself anywhere and everywhere on time. For this very reason, I have fondly given her the nickname "Oma," meaning "granny" in the local Flemish tongue. In fact, my primary focus every time I ride Oma is to firmly hold the handlebar in place so that I can retain enough control to navigate the Belgian streets without hitting any car doors or real "omas" hobbling through intersections.
Once our bikes are free, we begin by cutting through our neighborhood until we have found the correct street which will lead us all the way to Herkdestad. Enough Belgians use this road for it to be privileged with having a smooth red bike path on each side. We set ourselves on the right side and commence pedaling in earnest.
It's a long road, but already I have come to recognize the landmarks along the way which signify the distance traveled. First, we cross the long, arcing bridge over the Prince Henrik Canal. We haven't been on the bikes long, so my legs aren't warmed up. I feel my quadriceps loosen as we race to the top. I know that within a few minutes pedaling will become easier as my body stretches and finds its rhythm.
I jealously watch shoppers go about their business at the Carrefour, a higher-end supermarket and my first landmark. I wish I had more time. Time to do whatever I want. Time to waste mindlessly at the park or watching TV. A middle-aged brunette woman is walking her golden retriever. The dog is beautiful and well-groomed; I can see the lines etched into his fur coat by a caring brush even in the dull glow of the streetlight. I wonder how often she walks him, but it's not worth dwelling on. I'll never see her again.
By the time we pass Fajar's apartment, my second landmark, I feel as if I could continue biking until the sun rises again. However, experience reminds me that this feeling will fade before we reach our destination. I'm still following Gurr closely as we approach my third landmark, a much larger-than-life poster of a gorgeous lingerie-clad woman gazing sultrily over her shoulder at all who wish to pass. "Don't stare," I think to myself as I guiltily cast second and third glances in her direction.
My fourth landmark means that we are very close. Not long after passing the orange boards blocking roadside construction, we take the turn into Herkdestad. In reality it's not very late yet. In the U.S., sidewalks and streets are still busy at 8:00 pm. In Belgium, the sun has been down well over an hour, so everyone has retreated into the warmth of their homes, closing their metal shutters behind them. The only other human figures which dare to be seen are mannequins staring blankly at us through their windows as we roll jerkily by. In a matter of seconds, we're away from the mannequins and their glittering shops as we burst into the town's main square. A church tower looms overhead, but there is very little light. The stars are becoming blurred by the encroaching clouds and only a few lanterns sitting atop iron poles dare to cast light onto the cobblestone plaza.
Sweet relief at last. Anna's apartment building stands on the left side of the street, one corner awkwardly jutting out into the sidewalk. In silence, we climb the steps up to the door. We buzz her apartment. No answer. We wait. Nothing needs to be said, so instead I buzz a second time to let Gurr know that I'm here and have decided to care. The speaker beside the door responds no differently to my attempt. I break our mutual silence by asking, "Well, should we wait?"
Gurr finds it acceptable to reply, "Yeah, let's wait awhile."
"Okay."
"Maybe she'll come soon. We should wait." Gurr reassures himself.
"I called her yesterday to confirm this appointment. Yesterday!"
"You know how Nigerians are. They're always late."
I nod my head in agreement while mumbling, "Uh huh." It's not Gurr's fault, but I knew this would happen. I knew it.
Gurr tries to console me, "Hey man, at least we held up our end of the deal, right?"
"Yeah, right." I grudgingly say.
Our conversation has reached its end as we find places to sit on the old stone porch. A half hour passes, and I look over at Gurr. He's staring confidently down the street as if he knows that Anna will soon appear. I'm determined to say nothing; I allowed myself to come on this pointless trip and now I will silently accept my fate. Finally, nearly an hour after the appointed time, a very dark, rotund woman approaches in a bright yellow rain coat which skims along the ground behind her. I can't help but chuckle; Nigerians are always a little too well prepared for the rain.
It's Anna, but she walks by without a word. I stopped caring some time ago; I just want to go home. Gurr takes responsibility by declaring, "Anna, it's us!"
Anna hurries quickly to the door before turning and asking, "Who?"
"The elders from the church. Remember?" There's a noticeable hint of despair in Gurr's voice.
"Oh, brothers! How are you today?" Anna's African English sounds like the crystal-clear chime of Christmas bells after an entire month of hearing only slurred Flemish.
Gurr continues by saying, "We're fine. We have an appointment for an hour ago. Have you forgotten?"
"No, no. I do not forget."
"Okay, but we've been waiting here for an hour. We came all the way from Hasselt." There is no mistake that even Gurr wants to impress the seriousness of this offense upon her.
"Yes, but I must working late. You see?"
I feel like the time has come for me to toss in my two cents, so I interject, "Yes, we see. Do you have a few minutes now so we can talk?"
"No, no. Very tired. You see?"
I'm done wasting my time and am already taking the lock off my bike as Gurr stands desperately watching her disappear inside the building. My only retort is silence as we mount our bicycles and pedal back toward Hasselt. My body is exhausted and before we're halfway back I'm counting every streetlight. "Keep going. The harder you pedal now the sooner you'll be in bed," is what I continually tell myself as we push onward.
Gurr is pulling ahead - far ahead. He knows that I'm falling behind, but this is his unvoiced retaliation to my silent anger. We reach the top of the bridge just outside Hasselt and my thoughts immediately snap back to the present. I can see Gurr's black figure flying down the bridge's slope and into the city just as I reach the top. On my way down I notice an old yellow car driving along a street off to my right. I'm a biker, and I have right-of-way. I see the driver look at me; I'm very visible with my yellow light clipped blazing to my basket. Still, I continue on my present course. I know he'll slow down. These Europeans seem to love driving like maniacs.
At the bottom of the bridge I realize it's too late. We're on a collision course and Oma's brakes are no longer in their prime. I pedal harder in order to speed up and miss the car. The car speeds up! What is this guy doing!?! Before I can react, he plows into me, sending me careening into the middle of the road. I'm lying on my side, and my only thought is, "I'm going to die! Some crazy fanatic is about to kill me! I'm going to die! This is crazy! I'm going to die!!!" The driver revs his engine in an attempt to crush me, but only manages to cause the car to rock back and forth. The front bumper comes perilously close as I reach up and try to push the car away. It seems to work! The driver again tries to drive over me, but is once again unsuccessful. As I'm still trying to kick the car away, Gurr runs up and begins to pound furiously on the yellow car's window. It sounds like he might break it. A short, dark-haired woman rushes toward us and screams at the man in the car as he goes into reverse and speeds away.
"Dude, are you okay?" Gurr frantically inquires.
"Yeah, I'm all right."
My suit is torn and my body aches, but I still stand up and walk toward what's left of Oma. The few people that have come realize that I'm up and walking and disband after I reassure them that I'm fine. Moments after gathering the twisted parts and folded wheels that remain of Oma, I understand. Oma being jammed under the front wheels of the car saved my life. Oma, not my futile kicking and pushing, stopped the car from rolling right over me.
I don't know what to think as I drag Oma through the streets back to our apartment. The pain in my leg is quickly growing sharper and forcing me to limp. I'm absolutely incredulous. What just happened is difficult to digest. My state of utter bewilderment is suddenly interrupted by Gurr exclaiming, "That guy was trying to kill you!"
"I know."
"Should we call someone?"
"Who?"
"I don't know."
"No. I really want to go to bed. Let's just not worry about it." I'm beyond caring, but Gurr persists.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes."
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
Welcome, fellow man, to my blog.
Hello, fellow man. Today I will be addressing our relationship in depth. I've never been much for keeping a journal and my memory isn't the best. Therefore, the best remedy I have been able to come up with is blogging. I won't have to bother buying any pens or expensively blank books with pointless gold leaf along the edges anymore, not that it was ever my greatest temptation. Perhaps better yet, I have something more to do when online than looking at the weekend's sport scores a second time. Yes, my beloved Arizona Cardinals and Utah State Aggies are both still struggling. Both games' scores have remained the same due to a severe lack of uncovered conspiracies within the sports world. I'll continue having faith in both teams and it will eventually pay off. This I know with more certainty than 99% of everything else I pretendingly claim to know, even though I really know that there are fewer than five things in this world of which I'm truly sure. The eventual payoff of Aggie/Cardinal football fanhood is without doubt one of those five.
Is it time to muse upon my current state of mind? All one of my current readers (including myself) vote "yes"! It's unanimous, then. Several years ago I lost a certain trust in my fellow man. Am I willing to trust this devious "fellow man" with my real thoughts and opinions? The answer, since at least age 15, has been no. Do I trust fellow man to a certain point? Of course I do. I am, contrary to the belief of many, not a hermit. Thus, trusting my fellow man is required to a low degree. I trust that when I go to the store, fellow man will have stocked the shelves with food for me to purchase. I trust fellow man to walk past me on the street and acknowledge my existence if I accost her (I envision "fellow man" to be a female, despite her mannish name). I expect fellow man to be everywhere when I walk into my living room, into class, or drive down the freeway. I trust fellow man not to physically harm me, even though she has failed even at this simple task several times. I trust fellow man to do whatever she must to get by in the world. For I am nothing but another fellow man in her eyes. Occasionally, I let a fellow man into my life. Perhaps she and I are neighbors, classmates, roommates, grade school friends, or mutual Cardinal hopefuls. Any of these or nearly anyone else. In either case, sometimes a fellow man is welcomed into my life. I tell these few, unlucky fellow men who have stumbled into my life many of what they consider to be my strangest thoughts. I don't know what I want. Nor does my fellow man. Fellow man claims to want to know why I won't let her further into my life. Recently I have allowed fellow man to catch a glimpse of my true thoughts. She was frightened, petrified, and immediatey recoiled. Fellow man has failed me again. What do I do? I treat fellow man like who she is. A stranger. Fellow man is not to be trusted, along with the French. Here's to you, fellow man. Welcome to my blog.
Is it time to muse upon my current state of mind? All one of my current readers (including myself) vote "yes"! It's unanimous, then. Several years ago I lost a certain trust in my fellow man. Am I willing to trust this devious "fellow man" with my real thoughts and opinions? The answer, since at least age 15, has been no. Do I trust fellow man to a certain point? Of course I do. I am, contrary to the belief of many, not a hermit. Thus, trusting my fellow man is required to a low degree. I trust that when I go to the store, fellow man will have stocked the shelves with food for me to purchase. I trust fellow man to walk past me on the street and acknowledge my existence if I accost her (I envision "fellow man" to be a female, despite her mannish name). I expect fellow man to be everywhere when I walk into my living room, into class, or drive down the freeway. I trust fellow man not to physically harm me, even though she has failed even at this simple task several times. I trust fellow man to do whatever she must to get by in the world. For I am nothing but another fellow man in her eyes. Occasionally, I let a fellow man into my life. Perhaps she and I are neighbors, classmates, roommates, grade school friends, or mutual Cardinal hopefuls. Any of these or nearly anyone else. In either case, sometimes a fellow man is welcomed into my life. I tell these few, unlucky fellow men who have stumbled into my life many of what they consider to be my strangest thoughts. I don't know what I want. Nor does my fellow man. Fellow man claims to want to know why I won't let her further into my life. Recently I have allowed fellow man to catch a glimpse of my true thoughts. She was frightened, petrified, and immediatey recoiled. Fellow man has failed me again. What do I do? I treat fellow man like who she is. A stranger. Fellow man is not to be trusted, along with the French. Here's to you, fellow man. Welcome to my blog.
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