Plastic Surgery Shows

As I flick through the channels on the television, I've have noticed an increasing number of plastic surgery shows. I like them better than the conventional makeover shows, the here's-5000-dollars-and-GO! programs that end with the host cooing over how improved the victim looks. I think what has become my sick fascination with them is what keeps them on television. I'm especially a fan of "Dr. 90210," where the patients and surgeons seem about equally vain. There is something ugly about being willing have to have someone carve up your face to be beautiful.

I am entranced by the perverted, brutal nature that attaining beauty has taken. There is something entertaining about seeing a man fret about having a non-protruding chin, because the devastation he feels over something I wouldn't even notice is an entirely alien idea to me. Few people seem to enjoy watching the actual surgeries, except to occasionally glance over and see how horrible the horror actually is. Seeing a scalpel slice someone's hairline is usually enough. But we need to have the surgery filmed, to feel how bloody and messy it is. There is a sick satisfaction in seeing how ugly an act, a surgery people have to go through to feel better about themselves. It is reassuring that the to all appearances beautiful woman is uncomfortable with herself, like the average person. But the horrific aspect is in seeing that they find it worth mutilating themselves.

The greater question that these shows raise is a good one, I think. Okay, so you're getting plastic surgery, but why in the world would you want it documented on national television? While the clothing/hair/makeup makeovers are kind of sweet, heart-warming affairs, the plastic surgery makeovers are gruesome, if fascinating. We need to stop our obsession with micromanaging. Once it gets to the point where you must be in control of the shape of your face, it's gone too far. Live life a little organic, it'll be fun. And watch

Here's my advice for the day: if you're going to have your fifteen minutes of fame, make sure that 12 of them don't feature you being carved like a Thanksgiving turkey.

Corndogs for Breakfast

I was in a homestay program in Japan for five weeks after the summer of my sophomore year. Though I spoke Japanese well enough to survive, there were occasionally moments where the finer aspects of the language were opaque to me. Usually I could pick up what was being said from context, and thankfully most questions that people asked me involved nodding or shaking my head, and responding, "Mm." Despite my reticence, my host mother and I developed a close relationship, and we had fun conversations while watching primetime TV. When you try to picture primetime Japanese television, envision "Most Extreme Elimination Challenge" on Spike TV. We understood each other pretty well on a larger scale, but as I said, sometimes the semantics were problematic. One night, while we were watching two men in animal suits play air hockey as the host proclaimed his excitement in a high-pitched voice, our conversation turned to American food. Unknowingly, I planted the seed for one of my better moments in Japan when I told her my favorite foods.

I walked into the kitchen the next morning and sat down at my place at the table. My host mother removed a plate from the microwave and plunked it down in front of me. I stared at it, disbelieving. A corndog lay on the plate, golden and greasy. I was delighted. My host mother, trying to make me feel more at home, had purchased corndogs especially so that I might have one for breakfast. I felt distinctly at that point that I was in a foreign country, but it was a beneficial miscommunication. Corndogs for breakfast? Brilliant.

My host mother hovered, looking concerned as I chomped on my corndog. "Oishii?" (Tasty?) she asked. "Sugoku oishii!" (Incredibly tasty!) And I finished off my corndog with flair. I have therefore come to the conclusion that sometimes miscommunications have better results than regular communication ever could. I never would have considered eating a corndog for breakfast, but now that I've done it, there's no logical reason not to keep doing it. By not knowing all of the aspects of my culture, my host mother opened my eyes to new possibilities that my knowledge of my culture had kept me from. And for this valuable lesson, I salute you, host mother! And corndogs, too!

For another person's mishaps and experiences in Tokyo, see Tokyo Girl.

Soda Machines

If there were one small thing I could do for America, it would be to fix vending machines. I have discovered that fewer and fewer soda machines offer twelve oz. cans, opting for the twenty oz. bottles. I will stand before the lit, red machine, as glass bottle of Coke portrayed on the front (those are 10 ouncers, by the way). This is misleading, though, because not only does the machine not offer normal sized drinks, it demands a dollar for this inconvenience. The twelve oz. can of soda is a thing of genius. It fits well in the hand, crunches well when I want to toss it into the recycling bin, and doesn't make me feel sick. The twenty oz. soda is evil, however. The soda clunks to the bottom, thoroughly pressurized and shooken up. I open it slowly to avoid a re-enactment of the vinegar and baking soda volcano "science experiment" of second grade. I take a good chug and drink away. Even when I pace myself, however, there is always exactly eight oz. of soda left at the bottom. But I end up drinking the rest, anyway, because I paid for it, and dollars don't grow on trees.

I would reintroduce twelve oz. cans both for the sake of my wallet, my sanity, and my stomach. No one really needs twenty oz. of soda in one sitting. However, I understand that some people are unable to admit this, so I am not against having 20 oz. machines, too. I just want the option of the can. Imagine the glory of it. You walk into an area full of vending machines. You glance around, spotting only 20 oz. sodas, water, and twelve equally unappealing flavors of Fruitopia. You are devastated until you see it, the saving grace! There, in the corner, with the glass Coke bottle on a background of red, sits the lone showing of democracy in drinks. You rejoice and whip out your 50 cents, and feel like a true American, embracing diversity. Vending machines are sizeist, and this must be stopped!

I've also noticed that the cans, back before the soda companies recalled the machines and began their reign of evil, did not often get stuck in machines. The bottles, however, have a decided tendency to get stuck in the machine the one time when you could really put back an entire 20 ouncer. Thus, I have become one of the androgynous, angular people shaking the vending machine on the warning sticker. I throw my body against the machine, willing it to give me my soda. There is a satisfying thunk each time I hit the machine. I am now a master, the true master knows that one does not come at the machine from the front. No, no! The trick is to put your back to the side of the machine, and then thrust your butt at it. The machine will shake, but if you put the right amount of force into it, will not topple and hit another machine or fall on the unsuspecting bystander who didn't see the warning sticker about standing near people who are stupid enough to ignore the first warning sticker. The soda drops to the bottom, and I pull it out, triumphant, as awed viewers clap. As nice as it is to have picked up this skill, however, I would much prefer to never have to use it. Yet another compelling reason for the long-awaited return of 12 oz. cans: my butt is only so powerful.

Snowboard Cross

Why is snowboard cross so damn boring? I discovered it during the first week of the Olympics, when I was trying to watch pairs figure skating. Several of us sat in the common room, eagerly anticipating the gut-wrenching throws and tragic skating mishaps that pairs skating provides. Unfortunately, our regularly scheduled program was replaced with the sports equivalent of eating a potato that's been boiled for two hours. It's bland and mushy.

The premise is essentially this: four people slide down a hill on a slightly curved course, letting gravity do most of the work, until they reach the end, two minutes and twenty dead brain cells later. It moves at about half the speed of skiing, clocking in at about 40 mph, and no one does any cool tricks while jumping. Unfortunately, this is the first year that snowboard cross has been in the Olympics, so NBC felt the need to bludgeon the unsuspecting viewers with it. They tantalized me at the bottom right of the screen: "Pairs skating in 14 minutes." Sometimes they lie, though, so I didn't want to chance it and turn off the television. Thus, we were subjected to, over the course of several days, over an hour of the abomination.

One of the best things about the winter Olympics, aside from the incredible displays of talent and skill, is the mishaps. Much as it pains me to see team America suffer, I thought Bode Miller's crazy hand-jive move when he went off the course was a classic moment. I'm surprised that he didn't break his leg or fall, quite honestly. And as bad as I feel, I enjoy the instant replays of skaters getting inside edge landing from a jump and hitting the ground. The announcers get into a flurry, Scott Hamilton rises to The Mount to deliver his ice skating sermon, and we "oo" in sympathy and delight.

Moreover, there is an element of danger. Take luge, for example, where one false move sends you slamming into a wall of ice. Even better, skeleton is for the dumb kids who liked to go down the slides first in the third grade. If you fall off, you could snap your neck and die, since they move at upwards of 75 mph. There is no element of danger in snowboard cross. In speed skating, slipping could land you with a foot-long piece of razor-sharp metal in the leg. Or one could end up taking down three other skaters and ending up in a heap, with skates indeterminately jabbing into people's faces. The audience gasps, enraptured and horrified. Snowboard cross lacks this necessary element of danger that makes the other games exciting. Occasionally someone in the pack will fall over, landing on his butt. He will then get back up and finish, though several seconds behind everyone else. At worst, the snowboarder will faceplant.

It is the sad child of winter and motocross. Motocross has the same element of danger that Olympic winter sports have. Also, the athletes in that do fun tricks then the jump, which the snowboard cross athletes do not. With motocross, there is always the underlying danger that one might fall off the motorcycle mid-air and fall several feet. Add this to the potential to then be hit by a flying motorcycle, and you have on excellent sport. A snowboard cannot replace a motorized vehicle, no matter how it might try. The failure of this hybrid is driven home by the name "snowboard cross," which doesn't exactly roll off the tongue.

Snowboard cross did provide one excellent moment, though. Lindsay Jacobellis made this moment possible when she was ahead by a good three seconds, and going for the gold. Being an American, she wanted to shove in other countries' faces that America was a superior country, and decided to perform a trick on her last mini-jump. Unfortunately, she took the butt-landing option on the bottom, and the trailing snowboarder came in for the gold. I want to thank Lindsay for making my day, and reaffirming all of my beliefs about snowboard cross being an embarrassment to the word "sport."

I am delighted that snowboard cross has ended, and is no longer being broadcast, so that the interesting sports may once again grace the television. The fascination with curling in Salt Lake City was entertaining, because no one's going to tell you that curling isn't a little funny looking, and a lot like shuffleboard. Snowboard cross holds none of the eccentric charm.

Putting two good things together doesn't always have a double-good, or even just plain good end product. Let this be a lesson to us all.

The Olympics

Watching the Olympics could be one of the more depressing exercises for me. Two of the American skaters last night were under the age of seventeen. As I watched a sixteen-year-old girl land a difficult combination trick, and the crowd cheered, I wondered what I've been doing with my life. There I was, sitting on the couch, going to school every day. If I'd made a few different decisions, I could have been the one there, triple toe looping and waving and "going for the gold." But then I thought about the kind of decisions I would have made:

1. Several hour practices every day.
2. Training from an age before I could spell "shoe."
3. Spending a great deal of money on a coach and gear.
4. Watching what I eat.

And I came to the conclusion that not being in the Olympics doesn't make me a slacker, it just keeps me from being at a certain level of overachieving. I started skating at the same time many of the Olympic skaters do, but I was more of a jack-of-all-trades, master of none type of girl at that age, sampling, and I didn't want to put in the time to be ridiculously good at anything. The problem with it, also, is that in terms of peak career years, you're almost dead by the time you're twenty-five, when I plan to be just beginning my career. Now, I realize that there are some sports where people are going to the games well past the age of twenty-five, but most of those are sports people can die very easily in, such as skeleton, luge, bobsledding, and ski jumping. I'd like being famous, but I like being alive and without a crippling injury more.

Having comforted myself, I felt no guilt about sitting down, grabbing a bag of Sun Chips, and munching on them while people performed great feats of athletic skill. The great contrast between myself and the flying, skating, jumping people on television made me gleeful. It was rather gratifying, and I was liberated, no longer plagued by the nagging questions of why I was such a slacker and what the hell was I doing with me life, that I wasn't an Olympic athlete. I have gone through a vicious cycle during these Olympics, however, where I move from satisfied to upset about not being a world-class athlete. I was able to rest easy during figure skating, until a new thought came to me (I'm beginning to think that thinking is a bit of a curse): well, there has to be at least one sport in the Olympics that I could do. I mulled over it while watching Snowboard Cross, the only coma-inducing sport in the winter games. I ran through a list of sports in my head, increasingly discouraged, until it struck me:

If I start curling now, perhaps by 2010...

Facebook.com

Now, I originally got into Facebook.com to stay in touch with friends, but it quickly evolved into something more. Although I'm not up to the level of the kids who check their facebook six times a day to see if anything new has happened, I'm not exactly detached from it. For someone who utterly failed to get the hang of myspace, it took me by surprise that Facebook.com has become so addictive.

It has an utterly bizarre quality to it, including the friend-acquiring process. There's always that one kid you made toast next to every morning and never knew the name of who friends you, and when it says "Titus Baldwin has friended you", you say, "Well, okay, but who the hell is that?" But then you friend himm anyway, because it'd be sweet to have a three-digit friends count. Really, the name "friend" on facebook is a complete lie. I am not truly friends with the majority of the people on my list, nor has facebook made us any closer friends. I thought internet dating was creepy, a little bit fake and impersonal, but it holds no candle to an entire internet social scene.

But chief among Facebook.com's many appeals is the voyeuristic quality inevitably brings out in its users. Everyone I know has confessed to facebook stalking. Suddenly you discover that the quiet, well-dressed kid in math class actually has a wild side, and lots of friends with digital cameras. You click on "My Photos" on his profile, and discover that not one, not two, but thirteen people have tagged him eating an entire plate of cookies, vomiting, and then attempting to high jump onto the couch, ancient Grecian Olympics style (naked). And after perusing the surprising and entertaining images of someone you've never spoken more than five consecutive words to, you inevitably click on one of the cookie/vomiting/Olympics photo albums and discover an entirely new person who does random, stupid things. The ability to surf these photos for large spans of time is one of a teenager's many remarkable abilities.

My immediate reaction now, upon discovering than someone is dating, is to check their facebook account and see if Facebook.com acknowledges said relationship. Facebook.com has its faults, however. Namely, people lie on facebook. Unfortunately, people also have a limited grasp of humor, which already does not convey as well on the internet. This becomes an amusing and tragic mix of factors when it comes to dating status on facebook. Facebook.com dating is not like dating in real life. It therefore circulated that my hot, Facebook.com girlfriend and I, Katie, were in fact lesbians in real life. It was amusing at first, and then annoying, but it hasn't stopped me from believing conceivable Facebook.com love-matches.

Then there is the mystery of the poke, which is of an indeterminately sexual nature. I've heard explanations that range from "It has no purpose, it's just funny" to "It means they had sex with you" to "They want to have sex with you." None but the first of these makes any sense. If the second option were the explanation, then the only conceivable reaction to being poked is, "Um, yeah, and?" As to the third option, I doubt that any self-respecting person would have sex with anyone on the basis of being jabbed by an internet finger. I tried to keep that sentence from being dirty, but there was no way around it.

After much contemplation, I have decided that the beauty of Facebook.com is that we can all be voyeurs, post atrocious pictures of friends, hit people with a "Hot Train" on their profile wall, poke people as many times as we want, and flat out lie about relationship status, and it's all socially acceptable. Its one purpose is to kill/waste time, and it succeeds beautifully (although other forms of entertainment don't lead to my mother's speeches about internet safety and unwashed, thirty-year-old men living their parents' basements). Where else could I be friends with both Joan of Arc and Abraham Lincoln?

Pringles Syndrome

1. "I'm only going to read until the end of the chapter, and then I'll go to bed." Ten minutes later..."Okay, the next chapter is really short, so I might as well finish it." Seven minutes later..."Cliffhanger?! Dammit! Well, now I have to read the next chapter." Twenty minutes later..."I've gotten this far, I might as well finish the book."
2. "I'll just watch until the end of this show. But I like the show that's coming up, now I can't go work."
3. I start out with a goal of twenty new rows, and end up with 3/4 of a scarf.

The above scenarios all have one thing in common: they are cases of Pringles Syndrome. Once you pop, you can't stop. The Pringles people don't lie, Pringles make you want to eat them until you have to wash it all down with Pepto Bismol. It's not uncommon to see someone go through an entire tube of them. They just seem so light, and their salty, crunchy goodness leads to continuous consumption. As a tangent, when you get Pringles wet, they turn white. I found that suspicious, but thankfully I had already finished the tube, so it didn't stop me from eating any Pringles.

Pringles syndrome is not limited to Pringles, however, as shown in the examples given at the beginning of the post. People naturally build up a momentum, whether it is reading a good book or sitting on their asses. It is not the same as falling into a pattern, it is that once one gets the ball rolling, it keeps rolling. This enables people to keep eating Pringles, even though they no longer taste good, and besides, the eaters are beginning to feel sick. This same trait allows me to read an entire book, even though my brain is making futile attempts to knock me out, and I'm not processing anything I'm reading. Something compels us to keep going. I have dubbed this thing, Pringles Syndrome.

Please note: Pringles Syndrome does not apply to things for which it would actually be useful to have Pringles Syndrome. Chief among these things is work. Pringles Syndrome is not falling into a rhythm, allowing one to finish a 15-page paper in one sitting, or the numbness and determination that allows people to run long distances. It is the excessive need to keep doing something stupid or only mildly productive (or in the case of Pringles, bad for you).

Here is an example of the proper usage of the phrase:
"Dude, you need to stop playing Myst. You've been at it for 12 hours. Don't you need to pee?"
"Stop talking to me! You're breaking my concentration."
"Step away from the computer."
"Back off! I'll be finished soon. Five minutes, tops."
"Sure, just like two hours ago. You've got total Pringles Syndrome."

Scented Lotion

My first foray into scented lotion went along these lines...
I boarded the weekly bus to the supermarket. I had run out of lotion for the first time since being away from home, and the burden of choosing my own lotion product arose. My mother had diligently purchased an expensive, fragrance-free lotion for me since the age of twelve, when the need to moisturize first came about. Now, however, my budget could not accomodate said lotion. Or rather, I was too cheap to splurge on it.

I carefully scanned the beauty aisle for lotions under $5. This was mostly St. Ive's. Unfortunately, either the supermarket or St. Ive's does not believe in unscented lotion, so I was forced to choose a scented one. I stared the row of white bottles, all promising me things like, "Men would go to war for you if you smelled like this! Don't you want to be like Helen?" And yes, I did want to be like Helen of Troy, if perhaps a little less trampy. I dropped one of the lotions (supposedly a flower scent) into my basket, and moved on.

I sat behind the bus driver on the way back, and I couldn't wait to try out my new lotion. I popped the bottle open and slathered the lotion on my hands. The bus driver pulled over immediately after and asked, "Did someone bring beer on the bus?" She refused to start the bus going again until the mystery was solved, so I was forced to admit that the smell was me. It was me and my "floral-scented" beer lotion.

I returned to the supermarket next week and bought the more expensive lotion. The beer lotion sat on my bureau for weeks. I would periodically attempt to get my friends to use it, so I wouldn't feel alone in having experienced the scented lotion monstrosity. Yet another failure in smelling good, the first being in third grade, when my friend Lucy and I tried to make perfume by smashing up flowers and mixing them with water in an old Gatorade bottle.

Since then, scented lotion and I have come to better terms. I've received several gifts of nice-smelling lotion. Generally I feel, though, that we have an excessive amount of scents being forced upon us daily. Scented deodarant, scented laundry detergent, scented shampoo and conditioner and shower gel, etc. I don't know what a human being really smells like, truth be told.

So on adding yet another fragrance to beauty regimens: caveat emptor. If you must do it, smell it before you buy it (even if the ubiquitous, 60-something woman who passes by when you do anything dubious gives you a disapproving look).

Playgrounds

Playgrounds have many wonderful associations for me. It was the place were we hung upside-down from the monkey bars, never for longer than five minutes, because we had heard that if you were upside-down for longer, your brain would explode. You can't use the zipwire with an exploded brain. There were the many delights, like the slides, zipwires, swings, and four square. Our blacktop had a map of the United States, so we created an elaborate form of four square using the West Coast and part of the Midwest (we couldn't play on the East Coast because first off, the states aren't square, second, the state lines look like they were drawn by someone with piss poor motor skills, and third, almost everyone would have been screwed, since the ball was larger than Rhode Island). We tried to swing all the way over the bar, pumping our legs and leaping off when we got bored. One girl got perpendicular with the ground on her attempt, but she fell from the swing (the bar on our swings was a good five feet higher than the average swing) and broke her leg.

The playground was where I first saw someone flip his eyelids backwards, revealing pinkish skin and eye slime underneath. Also, I got into my one and only fight there, with a third grade boy (I was in second grade). We got into a scuffle on the mulch because I was taunting him, and I took him down. We wrestled for a bit before I got to my feet. He rose and yanked on my St. Francis necklace. The chain snapped and the necklace flew from my neck, to be immediately lost in the mulch. Opportunately, a teacher walked by exactly as he came at me. I, being a manipulative girl, burst into tears and started blubbering about how my father had given me the necklace and I was really attached to it because I loved my daddy and PUNISH THAT RAT. I could see from the look on the boy's face that he knew the tables had taken an unexpected, underhanded turn. He got the ear-wrench, and was dragged back inside for the remainder of recess while another teacher helped me look for the necklace.

I felt guilty, but it was a moment of great enlightenment. I suddenly realized my immense power as a girl, and swore from then on to only use it for good. With great power comes great responsibility, after all.

Sometimes I forget this thing that I swore, however. Therefore, we should make adult-sized playgrounds. Not only because playgrounds are awesome, but to remind us. There is a special feeling on playgrounds, that you don't have to make any more important decision than which slide to go down first. There is little thought involved, unlike the rest of life beyond childhood, and it is the kind of simple fun that we forget. It would be much more convenient and garner less strange looks, however, if me and my friends could enjoy playgrounds that are meant for people our size (this is particularly a problem in the McDonald's complexes). Also, the tiny playgrounds are cursed inconvenient when you want to get some serious playing in. Playgrounds for adults and teenagers, so that we might embrace the simple and awesome things in life!

In regards to playgrounds and exercise: I periodically attempt to do the things I did when I was eight when I come across open playgrounds, and have discovered that comparatively speaking, I am a cripple. I blame puberty. I have come to understand that playgrounds are excellent exercise. Running through the complex, ascending and descending complexes, trying to stay balanced when someone bounces on the shaky bridge, both excellent. It's still just as fun as you remember.

Playgrounds: because running on the treadmill sucks.

Procrastination

How can something be wrong when it feels so right? Case in point: procrastination. There was a time in my high school career when I blamed the internet for my uncontrollable bouts of procrastination, but the internet can't take all the flack. But, it can take some. I sit in front of the computer, cursor in my word processor blinking at the top of a blank page, waiting for my brilliant insight into Kierkegaard. But, at the bottom of the screen, the tiny firefox wrapped around the globe beckons. "I'll only take a few minutes," I say, knowing this is a lie. Half an hour later, I have mastered the latest addicting game, and my paper is no closer to be done, or even contemplated. It's just so hard to work when there's an entire world of games and stupid photos and blogs just a click away.

I get a certain satisfaction while working on things that I've actually been assigned to do. Sadly, it is nearly impossible to conjure of memory of this feeling when procrastination calls. Its sounds is just a little bit sweeter. I figured I could break my habit of procrastinating by turning off my computer monitor while working on other things, but I have instead merely discovered that I am easily distracted. "I've been meaning to start that book. I'll just read the first chapter," I think. And thus, I begin the vicious cycle all over again.

I have to fight the part of me that says that all I would do with the time saved by working industriously is do what I do while I'm procrastinating. And there's the fact that work somehow always expands to fill time. So, why not just have a smaller window of time to work in? It's the same part of my brain that tells me to eat the chocolate cake before dinner. There's a problem with both of these. Even if I procrastinate before I work or eat the cake before I eat dinner, I want to dick around after I work and eat cake again after I finish dinner. That just leaves me not sleeping as much and consuming an abnormal amount of chocolate cake. Gluttony logic is so convincing in theory! It argues a very strong point when you want to believe in it, anyway.

Perhaps procrastination leads to indolence, and, using wet noodles, should be beaten from children. But perhaps not. I have come to accept that, as a procrastinator, I am almost definitely incurable. Thus, it follows that many other procrastinators are likewise lost causes. We spend our lives in idle discourse and regret it afterward, but it is indeed beautiful in the moment.

Obesity

Top Ten Reasons I've Heard People Say Americans Are Fat:
1. McDonald's
2. ice cream
3. pizza
4. soda
5. lack of exercise
6. cars
7. People don't know how to boil water, or even work a stove. "I don't understand, what's this mysterious appliance near the sink? It's not a microwave, I know that for sure."
8. Most jobs in America require you to sit on your ass.
9. inability to resist culinary temptation
10. The Man


I contemplated the stastic of 64% of Americans being overweight, and about of third being obese. I'm sorry, but McDonald's has been around a lot longer than the mid-90s, when I first noticed this trend. Now, I know that there have been a lot of well-researched theories about why America is fatter now, among them the accelerating pace of American life, the evolution of the car from car to second house, and increased laziness. It is much more simple, actually. The theories people continue to expound upon look far too deeply into the issue.

I think what should actually constitute most of this list is displayed in the following scenario: You order a gigantic portion of food, realize that your stomach isn't as hungry as your eyes, but eat it all anyway because you won't admit that you were wrong.

The reason, however, is much more simple, and demonstrated in the scenario: Americans have always been unwilling to admit that they are wrong. It's what makes progress so hard. Learning how to live from the Indians and then killing them en masse, putting people in camps because of their nationality, many of our territorial skirmishes (Texas, anyone?), resistance to the Civil Rights Movement. "Okay, perhaps it was a mistake to bomb/attack those people. Almost had you there! Oh man, you thought I was serious? Hey, look! 'Gullible' is written on the ceiling! It was totally the right decision." Now, what has been true for much of American history has been taken to a lower level, that of the chilidog. Or hamburger, or whatever food you want to replace 'chilidog' with. "No, I definitely had enough room for five cheeseburgers, stop looking at me like that." Meanwhile, they will themselves not to barf. From there, it simply becomes habit to order too much and be unwilling to stop oneself from eating it, anyway. It's not just that we become gluttons; we are defensive gluttons.

While eating eighteen pieces of lettuce will not cause one to inflate like a balloon, eighteen cookies certainly will. We can afford more food for less, said food is less healthy. Combined with the longstanding tradition of America, mule-like stubbornness, this leads to a 33% obesity rate. We're doing what we've always done, only now it's taking a toll on our arteries and BMIs.

Quotes on Life

Rather than muse about anything, I thought I'd do something slightly different today. Here are some other people's musings, as heard over the weekend:

"Why is apple sauce so good?!"

(on Olympic speedskating)
"They look like they're just chillin', but they're actually moving really fast."
"Yeah. But I wonder, how the hell do you get into a sport like speed-skating? I know it's not like, 'Wow, I think I really want to be a speed skater, because it looks so cool on television.' Because it's not on television, except during the Olympics."
"It's probably more like, 'I really want to skate fast around the ice rink and shitload of times.' And then you discover that there's actually a sport where you can do just that."
"Okay, I'll buy that. But what about curling?"
"Haha! You got me there."

"Alright, so, snow."
"What?"
"It's badass."

"So Axe is supposed to make women want to have sex with the guy wearing it, right?"
"Right."
"So if a girl wears it, does that mean that she'll attract lesbians, or gay men?"

"I curse whoever decided that 'gay' would be a synonym for homosexual!"
"Huh?"
"A perfectly good word, ruined for me! I used to be able to say, 'I'm feeling gay today!' and no one would look at me like I just asked him to kick me in the balls!"

"You know what would suck? Acid snow."

"What's in this sandwich? I can't quite tell. Is it turkey?"
"No, Tofurkey."
"Really?"
"No. If it was Tofurkey, you would know."

"I hate sweatpants! I like long johns so much better. But the thing about sweatpants is that you can wear shorts under them, and so you can whip the sweatpants off if you get too hot. You can't whip off long johns, especially on a bus full of boys."

"Free hotdogs!"
(swarm of teenagers rushes at the grill)
"You know, I've always thought that teenagers were kind of like packs of ravening wolverines."

"That's like the fifth kid I've seen racing without goggles. Can't their teammates be friends to them? Help a brother out, man."

"You know what I wish I had a patent on? That annoying beeping noise that trucks make when they're backing up. I'd be rich!"

We will return to our regularly scheduled programming tomorrow.

Girl Scouts

Let me just start off by saying DAMN YOU! Damn you and your delicious cookies. I like not being the size of a killer whale, and girl scout cookies definitely aid the killer whale state. I've suddenly discovered girl scouts everywhere. Little girls, wearing their adorable uniforms and looking so badly like they want to win the most boxes sold prize, accost me when I walk into town. And they're at the supermarket, too, behind tables, being watched by mothers with laser beam eyes. Their expressions say, "Are you trying to rip of my child?!" SCHZAP! No, lady, these succulent cookies are worth my $3. It's like an episode of the Twilight Zone, and the music's playing and I turn. And surprise! There's another girl scout, lurking behind me. Worst of all, my dorm head had free girl scout cookies. There is only so much one girl can resist, and free cookies are not one of those things. Lead me not into temptation, I already know the way!

My confession is this: I was a girl scout, in my younger days. I went to the supply store, bought the hideously uncomfortable uniform and badge belt-thing. I have written a short poem about my experience:

Enraptured by the patches on the wall,
I swore that I would earn them all.
I went to meetings every Sunday,
While other children were asleep or at play.
When it came time to sell, I was filled with joy.
Hurray for girl scouts, it sucks to be a boy!
A cookie seller I would be!
I knew this was my destiny.
Around I went, with a doe-eyed gaze,
I was at that age, the adorable phase.
And cookies most delicious I did sell,
About this, I am proud to tell.
But alas, sickness visited upon me,
For I ate eight boxes of cookies.

This is no lie. I sold a prodigious amount of cookies, but fell prey to their enticements, and bought myself eight boxes with a fallen, rolled up wad of drug money I found on the street the week before. $66, I kid you not. Girl scouts and I parted ways a year later, because I like sleep a lot, and going to both church and girl scouts was beginning to wear on me. I roughed it in the woods a few times, made some macaroni necklaces, earned some patches, and called it a day.

So it is actually with joy that I purchase girl scout cookies. There are worse things to gain weight because of, and who doesn't want to be reminded of childhood excellence? I see a bit of myself in the doe-eyed girls behind the tables, and I am more than willing to fork over my money for Thin Mints. I wonder why I torture myself in this way, eating the cookies and then regretting it, but then I eat another Thin Mint and remember. So, go and earn your badges, children, but know that eating girl scout cookies is far superior to actually being a girl scout.

Pop Radio

I know that Top 40 radio appeals to the lowest common denominator, but I am struggling to feel bad about fitting into that category. I usually consider myself someone with good musical taste, meaning that I generally like artists who are deigned fairly high quality, like Ben Harper. Wishing to maintain my front of sophistication, I start out with the greatest musical integrity, and turn up my nose at the merely competent guitar playing and wailing vocals that assail my ears when I tune into the pop station. I declare loudly, "This song is utterly distasteful! Disgusting!" Except in a way that makes me sound not so much like a Victorian asshat. But eventually, usually after the third time I listen, I am willing to admit to myself, if to no one else, that I like the song. The stages go like this:
1. Blech! Egads!
2. Don't like it, it's not as catchy as it seems.
3. Okay, it's a little catchy, but it's poor musical stylings exemplify how pop music is single-handedly destroying all that was good about American music.
4. It's alright to sing along with it in the car, you'll never see any of those people again.
5. Why the hell are the music snobs so angry? This song is effing amazing!

I have come to grips with the fact that pop music has its uses. I was under the mistaken impression that what you listen to defines you as a person. Admittedly, I judge people a little bit by what they listen to, but I am coming to grips with people having substance, despite their music not having any. I have to take Top 40 music for what it is, which is ear candy. It isn't meant to have substance, and hasn't for decades, for the most part. Excuse me, but the 70s song "Afternoon Delight"? Not exactly a musical escapade to inspire soul searching. You can listen to both Bob Dylan and Wham! There's nothing wrong with occasionally indulging in music so artificially processed and sweet it makes the teeth rot out of your head. Everything in moderation. If you listen to too much pop, you end up like me in middle school, indiscriminately squealing out "Tearin' Up My Heart, " followed by "Spice Up Your Life," and dancing around my bedroom. If you take it to the other extreme, you end up like indie rockers, who by default hate everything; and who wants to live like that?

So, even more than you should avoid overdosing on one genre, diversify! Don't be afraid to like something someone tells you you shouldn't. And it's okay to hate something your friend (like me) who proports to have high quality taste tells you is the next musical coming. The hater probably rags on you and then goes home to clandestinely listen to her old Chumbawumba album (I know you men bought it, too, so don't even deny it). Not all of us have to be high art and love opera all the time. We can like Click Five on the weekends.

High Fidelity fashion,
Top Five Songs It's Okay to Like:
1. Sugar, We're Going Down - Fall Out Boy (we're all a little emo...it's alright)
2. Don't Stop Believing - Journey (turn it up and SING)
3. Hollaback Girl - Gwen Stefani (it's really the opposite of good, but I flip out and dance, anyway)
4. Mm Mm Bop - Hanson (old skool awesome)
5. Jump Around - House of Pain (I've got more rhymes than the Bible's got psalms!)

Entropy

Main Entry: en·tro·py
Pronunciation: 'en-tr&-pE
Function: noun
1. a process of degradation or running down or a trend to disorder

My 10th grade science teacher informed us that, for all its applications to science, entropy could not be used to explain the state of our rooms. I think this is bullshit, because how else do you explain the state of my room?

Every day, I assiduously place things back in their proper place, but every morning I awake in a disaster zone. When I am at home, my mother is fond of walking into my room, gasping loudly, and declaring, "It looks like a tornado came through here." I will roll over and assess the situation: as always, there are clothes of indeterminate cleanliness, stray pieces of paper, handbags, magazines, shoes, and books strewn across the floor and on top of the chair. Nope, no tornado. Just entropy.

I have grown used to a life of chaos. I dump my shoes at random throughout the house, and expect to find them there later. My mother, however, is still fighting the good fight. I sometimes discover that my shoes have disappeared from where I dropped them at random. "Mom, where are my shoes?"
"Where do you think they are?"
"Well, I thought they were right here."
"Have you considered looking in the closet?"
"No! I didn't put my shoes in the closet, why would I look for them there?"

She then heaves her sigh of long suffering and attempts to organize the stacks of magazines on the coffee table. Slightly encouraged my mother's fighting spirit, I try to at least keep within fire codes. It is a requirement that our rooms have a clear path to the door. This is so that, should there be a terrible, illegal-scented-candle-tipping-over incident that sets everything ablaze, the occupant of the room will be able to escape past the burning walls of dirty clothes. I am proud to report that, despite entropy's best efforts, I will not be killed by flaming laundry.

I encourage everyone, the next time someone heckles you about having a less than pristine room (or house), to bring up entropy. After all, it's sounds much better than, "I'm lazy."

The Pigmobile

Yes, driving a Hummer does automatically make you a jerk. I defy you to give me a convincing reason why anyone needs a military vehicle that can scale vertical walls and gets 8 miles to the gallon, especially if you live in the city. Hummers are terrible vehicles not just for the devastation they wreak upon the air quality in the city, but for several other reasons:
1. On some roads, they don't fit in one lane, and are forced to take a lane and a half. Passing on a two lane road, therefore, is problematic.
2. They take up more than one parking space.
3. Most people who own Hummers don't feel the need to park properly, and take up three spaces.
4. Hummer drivers seem convinced that I will be impressed by the incredibly penisy way in which they drive, and will there be compelled to shift lanes so they can go around me.
5. Have you ever tried to drive with a Hummer in front of you?
6. They look RIDICULOUS. "I may be driving a hideous, steel box on wheels, but look, it comes in red! That almost makes it aesthetically pleasing!" Bitch, please.

I am usually not a violently inclined person, but Hummers stir up in me an incredible feeling of rage. On Saturday, I was driving on the freeway in my little Toyota, going about five miles above the speed limit. Then, much to my horror, a Hummer entered the freeway and came into my lane. He tried honking at me, and then, upon discovering that it was a futile effort, instead tailgated me for about a mile. We're not talking, don't slam on the brakes suddenly or you'll be crushed. We're talking, don't decrease your speed by even 1 mph, or you'll be crushed.

The Hummer eventually decided to pass me (on the right). I conjured up my best "you're a grade-A dickface" expression and turned to look at him. He had a similar idea, and stuck his tongue out at me as he passed. Unbidden, my right hand flew up, and I gave him the one-fingered salute. He sped up and I turned off, still shocked at my complete abandonment of the road etiquette my mother had pounded into my head. I had never flipped somebody off or made threatening gestures at anyone while driving, but the Hummer driver pushed me over the edge.

Maybe the ultimate exemplar of America is a McDonald's inside a Walmart, but the exemplar of what is wrong with America is the Hummer, which I have dubbed the pig-mobile. We feel the need to have more power than everyone else, and take excess to uncharted levels. So, if you have enough money for a vehicle as expensive as a Hummer, for the love of God, buy a sports car.

I'm No Treehugger

Now, I'm fond of the environment and don't wish to die in the next ice age or be cooked like bacon on a frying pan as I try to walk down the sidewalk due to the depletion of the ozone layer, but there's only much that can expected of a person. Case in point: biodegradable laundry detergent. Over the summer, I came to embrace line-drying clothing, doing loads of laundry with other people, and turning lights off when I leave a room.

I figured that I was ready for an upgrade. That upgrade was to be biodegradable laundry detergent. Admittedly, its nice, lavender scenting leaves my clothing infinitely sniffable, but I think I'm perhaps too much of a five-year-old boy for it to be reasonable detergent for me. Now, I'm not referring to myself as a five-year-old boy in the sense that I am inclined to pull my pants down at inopportune moments and make revealing comments about my parents' sex life, but in that five-year-old boys are experts at getting clothing dirty.
Inexplicable spaghetti stains on white shirt? Check.
Grass stains on the knees? Check.
Dirt-encrusted pant ends? Double check.

This situation it only aggravated by the fact that I am still of the belief that jeans are excellent substitutes for napkins/a towel. Given this, I discovered that I was not, in fact, ready for the upgrade. I need the good, old, environmentally-unfriendly laundry detergent, like Tide, to get the job done. But I couldn't shake the feeling of guilt as I poured it into the machine. There was a brief time where I would use my biodegradable laundry detergent, and then add a bit of Tide to make sure that my clothing came out clean, but that seemed to defeat the purpose of using biodegradable laundry detergent in the first place.

I have compromised and started using Tide on my dirtier loads, and Seventh Generation on my cleaner loads. By my reckoning, I therefore only end up mutating half a frog ten years down the road, as opposed to an entire frog. Though I battled with guilt, I have come to the conclusion that while I'm certainly no treehugger, I do pretty well. I therefore assure you that while of course it would be excellent if you could make a minimal negative imprint on the world, you're human, too, and it's okay to want clean clothes.

Chance of Ice

I awoke on Tuesday morning and checked out weather.com, as is my habit, to see the forecast. I was in formed that it was "Windy, with a chance of ice." Now, saying that the forecast is "a chance of ice" in New Hampshire is rather like saying there is a "chance of cursing" in a Ying Yang Twins song. In other words, overly optimistic.

When I ventured outside, however, I discovered that it was misting, and the mist was freezing on top of the already packed layers of ice on the ground. This pre-existing ice stems from one place: the snow plows. They possess a magical power: they plow all of the snow off the paths, but for half an inch, which is pressed down by the weight of the plow. This unleashes a train of events that end in ultimate disaster. The snow melts a bit during the day and freezes at night, leaving the campus the next morning a sheet of very smooth, very slippery ice.

The ever-present ice leads to one of my favorite rites of winter: the dramatic, wind-milling-arms fall. I took my first fall on Tuesday, when I tried to walk to breakfast wearing shoes with no tred. I attempted to trek down a hill, but to no avail. My feet slowly slid from under me, and I desperately flailed my arms as I fell to the ground at an exorbitantly slow pace. It left exactly enough time for this thought, "Please, God, no, no, crap, shit, motherfu-" CRACK! (read as both my pelvic bone and the ice)

All across campus, people were being initiated into winter 2006. One boy careened down a steep turn in the path and seemed homefree. When he attempted to move again, however, he faceplanted in a snowdrift. I feel fine about finding a perverse pleasure in watching these accidents, as people are rarely injured.

But, if there is one thing that is almost as good as the fall, it is the near-miss. At this point, the windmill fall becomes another beast entirely: the matrix move. Moving in slow motion, the foot slips, and the boy begins windmilling. His torso tips backwards into almost a ninety degree angle. He, arms thrust out, at last manages to propeller himself back into a standing position. Awed by the display, passers-by applaud.

Though I have not objected to the freak, oh-my-god-global-warming-is-REAL-and-I'm-going-to-be-drowned-by-a-melting-iceberg-tidal-wave! weather, I admit to having missed the tumbles. I can feel, now that I've seen people slipping all over campus, that winter is at last beginning. Even if it's back up to 45 degrees.

Your MOM goes to college!

There was a boy I once knew, my interactions with whom often took this form:

"Hi, Daniel."
"Hi."
"What's up?"
"Nothing." He would look down, scowling.
"Are you okay?"
At this point in the conversation he would bug out his eyes and fling his head over his shoulder like he was a surprised vampire, teeth bared. He would then hiss, "Your mom!" and retreat.

It was a quite a show stopper, I'll give him that. The sheer unexpected and unrelated nature of the response made it brilliant, and I had absolutely no inclination to pursue my line of questioning. When used sparingly and timed expertly, a well placed "your mom" can be quite effective.

This is why the rise in ill-timed, recurrent "your mom" jokes causes me such chagrin. The "your mom" joke does not necessarily have to be funny, even, if it makes up for it by being squirm-worthy, or at least by making sense. People are slowly discovering that not absolutely every sentence can be followed by "Your mom!" to comedic effect. Perhaps too slowly, because these conversations still take place:
"I'm going to college."
"Your MOM goes to college!"
"Well, she went to college. So anyway, I was thinking-"
"Your MOM was thinking...last night!"
"What?"

These trigger happy compatriots of mine, however, have unintentionally caused some great moments, despite themselves. Last night at dinner, for example:
(Kate drops her spaghetti) "Damn it!"
Me: "It's okay, not everyone has great dexeterity."
Boy: "Your mom said that last night."
Pregnant pause.
"Wait!"

The moments of joy that I have come across because of pre-emptive "your mom"ing have been few, however. On the whole, I am beginning to feel like what was once becoming a low-humor art form has degenerated into just plain low humor. I therefore encourage everyone: bide your time, the perfect "your mom" joke is there, if you wait for it. People are setting themselves up for it all the time, if you only give them time. And in terms of timing: exercise good timing; interrupting people to insert your retort doesn't make it any funnier, but a little pause does. See the following:
(Upon observing Katie making a flower with her tongue) BK: "That's amazing, I've never seen anyone do that with their tongue before."
Katie: "You know, that's funny."
BK: "Why?"
Katie: "Because your mom said exactly the same thing last night."

Zing!

On Love

I was sitting at my desk, working diligently (playing Snood), when I heard a strange noise. I paused the game and turned down the sound on my computer, which was blasting some indie rock. The thing about indie music, much as I love it, is that sometimes it's hard to tell whether a woeful, screeching noise is something to be concerned about, or part of the song. The noise continued after I turned down the volume, however, so I listened intently. It sounded rather like a small animal being mauled by a wolverine, with all its intermittent high-pitched screams, punctuated by scratching and hissing noises.


I looked out into the back yard of the dorm, which my room looks over, but it was dark out, and I could distinguish nothing moving around. I ran downstairs to talk to grab Kate, who came up to my room, complaining about her work. We stood in my room, silent, but the noise has mysteriously stopped. Kate shrugged, eventually, and left. Immediately after, the haunting screeches picked up again, but this time with a different quality to them.

I ran to my window, and that was when I saw it. There were two cats mating directly under my window, letting out yowls of pleasure. I quickly extrapolated that the earlier noise I had heard was two male cats fighting for the privilege of becoming better acquainted with the female cat. What I had mistaken for a small animal being savaged by a carnivore was in fact the sound of a battle for sex, and then sex itself.

The conclusion I draw is this: love comes in unexpected forms. Just because you don't recognize it as love, doesn't mean it isn't love. It may come in a form so alien you don't recognize it at first. So, have a good laugh about it and then move on.

...and two cats mating.