Oh, the Places I'll Go Too...

I have a bone to pick with travel snobs.

I've come across too many people both during and since college with an attitude that seems to suggest that they possess a sense of elevated intelligence, or perhaps a self-created worldliness, owed entirely to the fact that they have traveled great distances. Forget the med student who forfeited the opportunity to backpack across Europe and instead chose to study for the MCAT, as surely he could never obtain the inner-peace afforded only to those who have clutched a Eurorail pass.

Do not misunderstand. I fully agree that few life experiences can be as rich and rewarding as the opportunity to travel. Setting foot on new soil, hearing unfamiliar words, meeting people you will both never forget, and likely never see again. These are the experiences young adulthood is made of. That being said, I have found that I have little patience for pretentiousness from those whose good fortune has carried them to distant lands sooner than others. Travel, like winning the lottery or maintaining profitable self-employment, is a gift. It should be appreciated, humbly shared, and most importantly...earned.

Time and again I have witnessed (as well as experienced) the pain of 9-to-5 adjustment. Finding out that our ideological college days give rise to jobs where our opinion is not sought and our feelings don't matter is one of the greatest let-downs we are likely to experience, save for broken hearts and loss of loved ones. Selfish as it seems, there is nothing more genuine than the fear that settles in as you wonder, "Is this as good as it gets?"

Of course not. It just takes patience and a willingness to earn it. I think once you climb out of the sand, working becomes something you take pride in and actually begin to enjoy, not to mention profit from. It always gives me a chuckle when I hear a young, well-traveled soul express their discontent with their full time desk job, instead pleading to return to their wandering ways, exploring the globe as perhaps only other seasoned travelers could understand.

So, what you're telling me is you want another extended, all expense-paid vacation? Well, I'll be damned. Why didn't I think of that?

We all long to discover new ideas, people, and ways of life. Its part of the human condition. One of the hardest things we ever have to do is build a life for ourselves with our bare hands. It is initially unrewarding, indescribably exhausting, and frightening enough to stun you into silence. But, if and when we pull it off, the rewards are endless.

I can't wait to travel. I can't wait to see Italy again and eat pasta and gelato until I burst. I can't wait to take pictures and write about it.

Travel. Travel as far and as long as your willingness, your wallet, and your vacation time allow. If you must, get a job that allows you to travel even more (but don't be disappointed when it's not all museums and wineries). Travel alone and travel with others. Learn other languages and see old art. But do it when you're ready and able. Don't ever let anyone make you feel like you know less than they do because they had an opportunity you haven't had yet. You have all the time in the world.


"You have brains in your head, you have feet in your shoes, you can steer yourself any direction you choose..." - Dr Suess, "Oh, the Places You'll Go"

Photo courtesy of Ryan M. Vickers>

Birthday Presence

Silly bike, I wonder why it’s been sitting there alone for so long. What random consequences of the universe have allowed it to remain there, day after day, when it is so clearly immobile? I imagine countless pre-occupied New Yorkers passing by wondering the same thing, or possibly assuming someone else will surely take care of it eventually, or if they’re like me, nearly tripping over it because their head is up in the clouds somewhere.

In reality, of course, I’ve never seen this bike. Ryan Vickers took this picture and I actually have no idea where he was at the time (he wanders with his camera. Arts and farts and crafts. Things type-A stress cases like me fear above all else). I do, however, know myself well enough to be certain that I would never have noticed it had I been passing by, unless of course I face-planted into it.

They say New Yorkers never look up. I disagree. I don’t think they look anywhere, and I also don’t think this characteristic is limited to any geographic region. I think it has to do with presence, and the general lack of it we feel in our day-to-day lives. When we are present, we tend to think of how nice it is that we are being present and how we should really make an effort to do this more often (“Look at that beautiful sunset. I really should pay more attention to the sun going down instead of planning the verbal thrashing I will later give to DirectTV over yet another failed DVR recording”). It’s as though a sense of control is always just out of our reach. As soon as we pay off our debt, or catch up on emails, or return that DVD, or lose 10 lbs. As soon as we get everything in order, we can be more appreciative of things around us, feel better about ourselves, fall in love, travel, or have the presence of mind to see that beautiful broken bike on the side of the road. Not notice that we noticed it, but to see it for what it really is. A broken bike. I wonder why it’s been sitting there alone for so long.

You know, you’d have to move that bike if you wanted to fix it. I wonder if we moved first, what things we could fix as we headed along?

Posted July 11, 2011 at 3:13pm via MeandHerBlog.com.

The Deflowering of a Virgin Virginian

Well...sort of. I wasn't technically a virgin Virginian. Virginia and I had fooled around before in the sense I've been to DC a few times. Those who are familiar with the area know that you can walk out of a DC pub, trip, fall on your face and land in Virginia. Not to mention the airport is in Virginia.

Alas, this was the first time I went all the way...into Virginia. Yes indeed: another work trip (yay insurance!), another cynical opinion rendered (yay neuroses!) and another lesson learned.

Place: Newport News and Norfolk, VA. Home of some ungodly humidity, a freakish amount of Quizno's (I don't need my lunchmeat toasted, thanks), and a bunch of military ships.

Nearby Attractions: Jamestown, site of the first successful European settlement in North America, if you conventiently ignore the Vikings (Unrelated: My Dad is an actual Viking). Not much has really changed except there is now electricity, paved roads, a government independent of Great Britain, and a lack of an entire population of natives. Oh, and the ships no longer carry people brought over for the sole purpose of being forced to work for no wages (unless you count the local Walmart. Hooah!)


"C'mon fellers, freedom ain't free, so let's round up some slaves!"


Cynical Opinion: Lovely places, but I just have one bone to pick. Both Norfolk and Newport News have airports smaller than your average aging Sears building (though remarkably similar in 1960s-style tackiness), yet both proudly carry the word "international" in their name. Bullsh-t. A military helicopter flying in from a carrier that recently floated in from an island 100 mi. of the coast does not an international airport make. Fly me somewhere far enough where the writing looks like Wingdings and local time is last tuesday, and then we can start talkin' international. Those airport-namers went right to the top-shelf with their words. Put the Johnnie Walker Blue back and stick with the EarlyTimes.


Norfolk International Airport


Old-ass Sears Building



Lesson Learned: It was on this trip that I found out Newport News is actually a place, and not just a mail order clothing catalog for middle-aged women (and young wives pressured by their controlling husbands to dress like middle aged women). Yes sir, I just put another wrinkle in the ol' noodle with that revelation.


Check it out. Totally cute floral cardigan sets and, you know, clogs.

...On Finding God at the Bowling Alley

I've been pretending to be a grown up now for a little over 5 years. Not to toot my own horn or anything, but frankly, I think I'm going a pretty darn good job. I mean, people I meet usually dont find out for at least a few weeks that I'm really a confused, severly ADHD child who still hopes to become an Olympic gymnast when she grows up. In order to appear grown up, there's a couple of things I have to do. One of them is selling insurance. I have to sell alot of insurance to people in alot of different places, and in order to get those people to let me sell them insurance, I have to feed them and socialize with them and get them to think that I am a functioning adult. It's a vicious cycle really.

Anyway, one ofthe best ways to socialize with people who might let you sell them insurance is by attending an insurance industry event. Yes indeed, an all you-can-eat schmorgasbord of networking and fake-adulting. You can kill about 37 birds with one stone and still make it home in time for a lean cuisine and a good 20 minutes of self loathing before passing out. It's a brokers dream (and an expense account's nightmare).

A few days ago, I found myself in Boston for one such event. This one was a charity function, which usually requires you to sponsor something, wear a goofy team shirt, and perform some sort of activity. Needless to say, at 6:45pm Monday night I arrived at the bowling alley wearing a homemade (not by me) tie-dyed shirt, ready to toss a 9lb ball down someone's over-polished hardwood floor in an effort to knock shit over (really, are we cavemen?). First thing I noticed was a table full of trophies for the first and second place team. At once, the competitive child in me (the same one who you will someday see smirking at you from the top podium at the Olympic medal ceremony, accepting her all-around gold), decided that I must leave that nacho-cheese scented building with a 1st place trophy in my fist (I would indeed accomplish this, but more on that later).

30 minutes and 3 bud-lights later I realized a few things: one - I am a crappy bowler. I start off okay, but it all goes downhill after my BAC hits .03. Two - I hate bowling. I don't mind the bowling alley itself. Give me free beer and the ability to make a bunch of new business connections and I'm happy as a clam. The act of bowling, however, pisses me right off. I hate sticking my fingers in those filthy holes (wow, that last sentence sounds wildly inappropriate on it's own) and I loathe that awkward moment where you have to turn around and face your teammates after hurling the ball down the gutter. Most of all, I despise the weird memories of high school that pop into my head the whole time.

I realize that last connection might seem to have come from left field. Well, remember my earlier comment about my attention-span...or lack thereof. In all seriousness though, I always think of high school whenever I find myself at a bowling alley, minature golf course, or a movie theater. Even worse, I think of high school church youth groups I was guilted into becoming a part of from time-to-time, and having to do these very uninteresting things with them. Call it weird, but stick a bowling ball in my hand and I immediately think of Blah-blah-blah Christian Center's 3rd Annual Say No To Drugs and Fun Bowling Extravaganza. I may be a little foggy on the actual event name, but I know I've been to a few of them. You remember them too. They were the events set up by the over-eager youth pastor (white, male, too young to be married with kids but was, too young to be teaching spiritual wisdom to confused young adults but was) in an effort to keep high school kids from drinking, having sex, or doing anything else that our bodies are designed to do at that age. If you went to any of these, I bet you found yourself no closer to the divine, but rather alot closer to the place you go when your self esteem is at it's lowest because you realize that church youth groups are the same evil cliques that plague every other social aspect of your life at that age. That judgemental, overweight girl with the homemade bookbag who always cried during those "worship" songs and relentlessly kissed the ass of the youth pastor (that she was in probably in love with) is exactly the same as the abercrombie-clad bitch that sat behind you in homeroom: she's the queen bee. High on Jesus and drunk on power. I can fake being an adult better than those kids can fake spiritual selflessness anyday.

You know, it wasn't until I got close to graduating college that I was able to make my peace with the religious zealots that plagued my life throughout my childhood and adolescence. I have horrible memories of weird white people telling me that they were going to pray for me, or friends who knew nothing about the mysteries of the universe or our purpose for being here telling me that Jesus was disappointed because I did who-knows-what. Never once in my life have I ever felt any light, or joy, or inspiration as a result of my coming in contact with those who sell fear and repression. There is no spirituality in coercion. There is no light in being so by-the-book that you'll vote for truly unqualified, horrible people simply because they say they're Christian and don't want gay people to get married. I don't know, but something tells me spirituality, not to mention the running of the country, is a little more complicated than that.

I'm cool with Jesus though. In fact I think he was one of the few that actually got it. I will say that I'm surprised that white people made him white, but kept his hair long. I would expect that in changing his race for the sake of their own personal comfort, they'd have given him a shave and a haircut. Nothing freaks people out like hippies.

I'm cool with God too. I've been working on my relationship with him for awhile now, actually. I think he's okay that I'm still trying to work out for myself as to who or what he is. Sometimes I sense it in the universe, and sometimes I sense it within. I often get the feeling that changing the world I live in often involves changing myself for the better. Like there's light in selflessness or correcting the soul, or something. Bear with me, I'm working out the kinks. I do not, however, believe that God is dogmatic. I give him alot more credit than that.

Finally, I don't even have a problem with Christianity either. I've met alot of Christians and Catholics who seem to have an understanding that it's about them and God only. Spirituality is personal. It's a mountain, and there are 500 ways to climb it. It's not your job to lecture the people on the terrace below you and then huff and puff when they don't listen. Turn around and get your ass up that mountain. People will watch you, and follow your example.

I think our team finished dead last in the bowling tournament. Further, I don't even think I knocked a single pin over during my last four turns. Instead, I focused on chatting with new friends, and figuring out what I was going to take from the whole experience. You know, I'm glad that my bowling that night reminded me of high school awkwardness. I actually thought about it for a few minutes and realized: I'm alot more grown-up than I give myself credit for. Hell, tossing a marble ball seems not to big a deal if there's a little life pondering to be gained. Unless of course, I am just an ADHD child.

Oh, and about the trophy. I stole the 1st place statue from the table at the end of the night. It was one of 3 extras, and the lady said I could. Business is just about appearances anyway, right?

Would It Be More Accurate if I Compared Glenn Beck to Hitler?

Sometimes when people do and say insane things I often wonder what their real intention is. Call me naive, but in most cases, I don't believe people are just inexplicably "crazy" or behave like assholes for sport. They want something. Everyone wants something. When it comes to public figures, this desire for reason increases ten-fold.

Perhaps this is why I got such an unbelievable kick out of studying history in college. No matter what redundant war or what fantastically unenforceable treaty I had to read about, I always had good, clean, anti-social fun trying to find out why people did what they did, why others allowed it, and when everyone realized it had gotten out of hand. For the record, I haven't come across a PhD yet who has been able to really tell me what Hitler's deal was. I don't know what he really wanted, but I think I know how he rose to power.

Anyway, my sister told me yesterday that Conservative commentator and all-around destructive blowhard Glenn Beck casually threw out a sidenote while commenting on the tragic attack at a Labor Party-sponsored youth camp in Norway. Beck said, "There was a shooting at a political camp, which sounds a little like, you know, the Hitler Youth or whatever. I mean, who does a camp for kids that's all about politics? Disturbing."

Note this guy's subliminal style. he just slipped that right in there. Doesn't matter if it's true, he got you to think about it. I think trial lawyers use this kind of crap on juries they wish to confuse: "Say there, where were you on the night of your brother's murder? Oh, the movies? Oh, you have a ticket stub? Oh, well technically those can be faked, right?" Just like that, the friggin' mistress is off the hook. I digress.

If I may be so bold, I am actually going to compare Beck himself to Hitler for a moment. Do I think Beck has a realistic desire to conquer Europe/Earth, exterminate a population the size of Manhattan, and enforce his own ideologies? No, no I don't. He lacks the focus. But I do believe this guy is going to influence alot of people who do. There was a political group awhile back called the Aufbau Vereinigung (Reconstruction Organization). They sought to overthrow Germany's post-WWI government and replace it with some FAR right-wing craziness (stay with me here). The name was derived from a newspaper that helped bring it out (you will be interested to note that it was not owned by Mr. Murdoch). These guys didn't do much, and sort of faded out after Hitler's unsuccessful attempt to overthrow the government in a beer hall (for which he was of course arrested, allowing him to chill out on the government's dime and scribble out Mein Kamph). What the Vereinigung can be credited with, however, is injecting a young Hitler's anti-semitism with angry steroids of the worst kind. They arguably pushed Hitler to The Final Solution.

Reverting back to earlier where I discuss a person's intent: I am of the opinion that the Glenn Becks of the world (along with the Malkins, Bachmanns, Coulters, Limbaughs, Palins etc.) feed off the energy, money, and fame thrown at them by their supporters. This is made evident by their tendancy to not fact-check and grow increasingly emotional and/or belligerent depending on audience response. Meanwhile, their bosses and advertisers care primarily about the money and thus allow the show to go on. Do I think Beck truly believes his own BS? Sometimes. Do I think he'll go for the far-reaching controversial splash rather than the more tame-but-accurate analysis? Everytime.

Hitler got a lot of followers after the Beer Hall Putsch trial, where he was allowed to speak for an unlimited amount of time in his own defense (I would like to applaud the Norwegians for denying Anders Behring Breivik this opportunity). He got even more after Mein Kamph, and it snowballed from there. He got alot of followers because Germany's was on the verge of complete and total economic collapse and the German people were humiliated by the Treaty of Versailles. This meth-head got on a soapbox at precisely the right time. He blamed the Jews for (among other things) instigating the arms industry strikes that weakened the German forces and supposedly lost them the war. German's were pissed, and this guy was on fire.

Conditions are no where near like that here. But they are still frightening. Conservative commentators "talk Christ but walk Corporate," if I may quote the brilliant historian Thomas Frank. These guys are big business. The media is big business. No matter how destructive and selfish big business is, it is the one thing that has always been immune to criticism from social conservatives because they know better than to bite the hand that feeds them.

Conservative commentators use "God-talk" to create an hysterical backlash: anger over abortion and gay marriage flows seamlessly into anger over welfare and the size of government (even though they're are totally unrelated). These people hijack Christian exuberence and use it to fear-monger their way into the minds of alot of suseptable people. Meanwhile people like Glenn Beck feed on the attention and wealth and will do anything to generate that continuously. Even if it means irrationally comparing a youth camp sponsored by the left-wing Labor Party to the far, holy-hell-thats-far, right-wing Hitler Youth.

Glenn Beck just wants attention, and he's getting it. Screw it, let him. What we cannot do is start nodding our heads because we feel pissed off one day. Or because we found God and Glenn Beck says he's a man of God so we have to follow whatever he says (Don't Christians fear the false prophet?). Glenn Beck is going to get someone killed. He wont pull the trigger, but he'll whisper in the ear of the guy that will.


For the record, the shooter in Norway was a radical conservative.

"It's Just a Movie!" - Toy Story Edition

As another 80-degree LA winter day comes to a close, I find myself, yet again, plopped in front of my computer in a desperate attempt to escape the snapping jaws of boredom. Alas, it is too late. So, I have decided to take these lemons, whip up some lemonade, and ride out the sugar high in the form of a totally unnecessary and absurdly in-depth view of yet another movie I don't totally get: Toy Story.

I wouldn't have nothin' if I didn't have you."

So I figure my attention span won't allow me to explore all three movies anymore than yours will allow you to read them even if I did. I've decided to stick to the Toy Story universe in general and see where that takes me. I don't know, whatever. Just go with it.

1) This one has been bugging me for a decade and a half: Why doesn't Woody have a gun?

"The word I'm searching for, I can't say, because there's preschool toys around."

I don't buy that its some sort of anti-violent thing, because Buzz was rocking karate-chop action and a scary laser. I also don't think that it had to do with kids choking on the small pieces because those of us who have seen the movie 786 times are well aware that Woody's hand-stitched poly-vinyl hat was perfectly removable, thank you very much. The guy was local law enforcement for crying out loud. He should have been assigned a gun (and subsequently shot Mr. Potato Head at point-blank range. More on that asswipe later).

2) Where was the father throughout all of this?

"What, is Andy's Mom losin' her marbles?"

Don't get me wrong, Im not complaining here. As someone who's likely to divorce a handful of times in my life, I get it. I'd just like to point out that at the beginning of the movie, the drooling baby sister is, like 7 months old (I don't know. I'm really bad at deciphering the approximate ages of other humans. I applaud the genius of those carnival guys that do it). Anyway, this means Andy's dad peace'd the hell out about 5 minutes after this lady punched out kid number two.

I will say that it is nice to see a single mom in a Disney movie for once. I swear, before Pixar came along I was fairly certain that DIsney writers had a basic template involving sociologically disconnected, motherless hotties with overactive imaginations and piss-poor love lives and just sort of worked from there. Seriously, the mothers were either non-existent, referenced as dead, or shot in the face shortly after the opening credits. Andy's mom made sure her daughter and gay son had birthday parties, Christmases, pizza nights, and plenty of toys to choke on. Get it, girl.

3) Why does Mr. Potato Head have to be such a dick?

"...and I packed your Angry Eyes, just in case."

I know that without this idiot's relentless misunderstanding of nearly every situation, the movie would not have a plot. Seriously though, this bastard is dangerous. He's out to get Woody from the start and none of the toys seem to notice or give a crap. Haven't these play things ever heard of a coup d'etat? (Don't answer that). Even worse, at the end of the first film he is rewarded with a friggin' wife. Sure, Mrs. Potato Head is annoying and a bit gossipy, but she loves her husband and he doesn't deserve love. He deserves Sid's operating room.

4) Am I the only one who think's SId is kind of awesome?

"Well, we have ways of making you talk."

Think about it. This kid wasn't torturing animals or lighting buildings on fire, he was just, you know, experimenting with his toys. Unlike Andy, this kid was totally independent (though probably neglected), and really knew how to spice up playtime. The doll's head on the erector-set spider legs? That's the work of a genius, my friends.

Ah! And here's a little tidbit for you. Check out this still from Toy Story 3. Sid makes an appearance as the trash man, looking suspiciously like more than a few guys I've dated in my years (insert issues here).



5) When a human leaves the room, the toys are allowed to scatter. What I don't get is how they've NEVER been caught. It seems every other scene involves one of the toys hearing someone noisily flailing up the stairs and hastily alerting the others before bashing into 15 other panicking toys on the way to their hiding place. Tell me, how would this scene play out if, say, Andy were watching a movie downstairs before becoming drowsy and wearily drifting off to his room. His socks, not making a sound in the hallway, would allow him to enter his own damn room unannounced to find the pig and the weird dinosaur with little arms playing battleship. The sight would cause any kid to go absolutely and indiscriminately crazy. Just sayin'.

6) Who in the HELL gave that pizza kid a driver's license? Better yet, who gave him a driving job? Its shit like this that causes insurance pukes like me to lose sleep at night.

"Look! A Spaceship! It's a Spaceship, Buzz!"

7) What are the rules that determine the mobility and general intelligence of the toys? Some of the stuffed animals could talk, while it seemed others weren't even alive. Those weird Dutch egg things could hop into each other, which was weird because I considered them to be objects.Sid's little sister Hannah's toys couldn't talk at all (and this was before Sid mutilated them). Same goes for Bo's sheep, the troll doll, the barrel monkeys, and the racecar Just curious.

8) Okay this is the big one. This one really frosts my cookies.

"This isn't flying! This is falling...with style!"

How do Buzz and Woody fly at the end?! Everytime I raise this issue with someone I get the same response (other than a general eyebrow raising as to why I am discussing the inconsistencies of Toy Story in general). People say it was the rocket. Ahh, but no. If you remember, they cut the rocket loose and proceed to fly - actually fly - to the minivan. Buzz maintains, and even briefly increases, altitude.

I remember being pissed the very first time I saw it. Remember, one of the rules of good, established storytelling is defining your universe and determining what your characters cannot do. Although these toys were alive, the rest of the world still functioned as normal. Last time I checked, gravity was still workin' just fine. Again, not a big deal, but they could have finished it off a little differently.

Okay, in conclusion of this nonsense, I shall once again give a shout out to the character I thought made the most sense. This one goes out to the vastly under-appreciated Mr. Spell, who selflessly sought to educate the other toys in both loss prevention and self preservation through his informative seminars on "Plastic Corrosion Awareness" and "What to Do if You or Part of You is Swallowed." Thank you Mr. Spell!

See the Bandages? They're Mummies...

(not ghosts!)



Alas, I understand the confusion.

So, my Ma tought me how to make these Halloween Mummies. They're really fun to make and taste good enough to make an anorexic fall off the wagon ('cause she'd, like, wanna eat em! Get it? She hates eating but theyre so good!)

I find my posting this quick how-to to be wildly inappropiate for two reasons (not counting my previous attempt to make light of eating disorders): One, it's November 13th and therefore you'll look like an idiot (should have gone with the stupid cookies decorated to look like fat turkeys/the NBC logo) and Two, Mummies are disgusting.

According to Wikipedia, Mummies are "corpses whose skin and organs have been preserved by exposure to chemicals, extreme coldness (ice mummies), very low humidity, or lack of air when bodies are submerged in bogs" (Bogs?)

Who wants to eat a caricature of that? Why, you and your friends of course! Don't worry about these little fuckers reminding you of charred bodies wrapped in soggy bandages. They sorta look like ghosts anyway.

Here we go:

-Get Nutter butters
-and a basting brush (or, uh, a clean paintbrust. CLEAN!)
-White Chocolate chips
-Mini Semi Sweet Chocolate chips. If they don't have them, get black icing. My ma thinks red-hots would work, but that freaks me out. Don't get the full size chocolate chips or they'll look like crazy-mummies (unless you want to use one and go for a cyclops-mummy. I digress).

Melt the white chocolate over low heat until its all smooth. If you can't keep your chocolate covered mitts our of your mouth, pop in a piece of gum and save yourself the sugar rush.

Paint one side of the nutter-butters with the white chocolate. Don't paint the back or it'll stick. Paint the sides. After you finish 'em all, drag a fork across their little bodies to create the look of bandages (mmmm...preserved flesh!).

After you finish all that, place the eyes and stick them in the fridge overnight (or at least 2 hours) so everything sets.

I also recommend making a place card or something clarifying that they are MUMMIES...and not ghosts. (Seriously, ghosts are not peanut shaped!)

Enjoy!