Dragged to the Drag Show

A man in tights and a blond wig stumbles drunkenly to the curb outside the Moose Lodge in Moscow. His belly boils under a thin layer of spandex and the tail ends of a pink feather boa. He rears back his head and hawks a thick wad of cigarette slime into the street. As he does, a pasty strip of skin curls out of his spandex shirt. My friend Mikki and I are watching this as we approach the door to the lodge. Indignant, Mikki comments, "Honey, you need to be wearing a slip with that."

Mighty Morphin Remix

A few weeks ago I went home for the weekend. I walked in to my house on Saturday morning to find my psuedo-brothers Ammon and Aerik entranced by the television. While I am used to seeing them focused on the living room color box, I noticed that they were watching with particular interest and glanced at with curiosity. I was immediately captivated by a young teenage girl wearing shoulder pads under a purple t-shirt. She was quickly joined by a teenage boy wearing a button up shirt with exagerated geometric shapes in a wide array of colors. There was something familiar about these characters, but I could not quite remember why.
Then I realized that this glorious display of early nineties fashion was an episode of the original Mighty Morphin Power Rangers. I cannot recall the last time I saw this epic show, and was in a state of shock that they were playing it with the other Saturday morning children's shows. I sat down to be transported to the time of my youth when I accepted the ridiculous special effects and giant monster costumes as realistic and empowering. Then I saw it flash across the bottom of the screen.
"You are watching a NEW episode of Mighty Morphin Power Rangers."
What? If this episode was new, then Dolly Parton has never had plastic surgery. I did not understand how they could legally market a show that was almost twenty years old as new. Then I saw it.
"Slip" popped on to the perfectly good scene as though the viewers were too stupid to realize that the character was slipping. But still smart enough to read it. They had taken this show of my youth and applied a technique reminiscent of Batman in the 50s and 60s. Apparently this was just enough to trick the children into thinking they were recieving a new product without any legal repurcussions.
I began to think of how often our culture remixs perfectly good products to create something new. I think it is because we have gotten too lazy to be original in most cases. Sometimes it works out and sometimes it is disgustingly lame and destroys the integrity of the original product. From songs, to artwork, to medicine, our culture has decided that it is easier to change one verse, or the medium or one chemical and introduce it to the world as new and exciting and orignal. Our laziness has destroyed the beauty of the original products, and it has tainted my love of the Mighty Morphin Power Rangers forever. Corporate bastards.

"Insert Name Here" Likes this.

I'm not quite sure why I feel the need to write my opinions in letter form. It's only ever going to be seen by my friends on Facebook. Maybe it's because I want my friends who don't talk to me very much to see that they should tag me as the "creative one" on those stupid Internet popularity contests that they put in their photo albums. I'm never going to tag them back, but as long as I am not marked as the "loud one" I don't have a problem with being tagged. It could also be that I am reminiscing to when I owned a diary, or perhaps I like to use flowery images to complain about things.

I only ever seem to write letter statuses to things that won't answer back. I enjoy writing to the weather, weekdays, my jobs, the noisy neighbors upstairs who won't ever see it, and to things that I've lost that I can't find and have given up looking for. Or occasionally an explanation on how to do something.

Dear Tuesday, I believe that you owe me some money. I also accept checks and can take an IOU as well as you don't try to move out of town. You are misleading with your bright sunshine but cold winds. You are still technically winter why are you trying to be something you are not? I'm not asking for snow or ice. I'm just asking that you get some professional help for your problem. Sincerely, Melanee.

Here is another example. This is how to steal somebodies sandwich:
"You see Melanee, the Titanic was way before your time. How did it happen? WELL lets have your toasted cheese sandwich represent the boat itself. Now I'll be the iceberg. NOM NOM NOM. Let me dunk it in your soup and we'll pretend it's sinking."

Does anyone else have the urge to start all of their status updates in the third person because your name is always shown first?

When it Flips it Flops

Growing up in Idaho as a kid means learning to love the outdoors. Kids learn to run across black pavement and gravel roads bare foot without hesitation. Living in Idaho means jumping in the lake in May to 'test the water' until it becomes warm enough to swim in. Most of all living in Idaho means being tough enough to wear your flipflops or sandals year round.

I have lived in the Northwest part of Idaho for 21 years now. Ever since I was little I have hated the feeling of shoes, so my brother and I decided long ago that we wouldn't wear them anymore. Shoes are for sports and working. Flipflops are for life and everyday wearing. I own about 15 pairs of flipflops and 2 pairs of shoes (one for working out and one for work). Flipflops are just more comfortable and easy going and you don't have to worry about shoe laces. If your foot is swollen it wont fit into a shoe, but the flipflops are a perfect fit. In the summer they're easy to slip on and off and you don't have to worry about drying your feet off. Flipflops are the only way to go. (I recommend Reef Sandy Flipflops.)

Now while flipflops are amazing there are some rules that go along with wearing them. We can them the 10 commandments of the flipflops.

1. Thou shalt not be a warm weathered fan. (wear the flops in the rain, snow, and sunshine and all that falls inbetween.)

2. Thou shalt not wear socks with flipflops (not even toe socks, this only makes a mockery of all that flipflops stand for.)

3. Thou shalt not 'flip; on purpose. (your arrival can be stated in other ways.)

4. Thou shalt not wear 'fashionized flops' (anything with jems, heels, or made of astroturf.)

5. Thou shalt not throw away flipflops until thy foot touches the ground. (all the padding is worn down.)

6. Thou shall master the art of pant rolling. (wet jeans don't dry quickly.)

7. Thou shall master the 'flipflop prance' (a quick/light step on ice/snow to get from point A to point B without falling.)

8. Thou shall master the 'flick' (walking through water/mud and not spraying the back of your legs.)

9. Thou shall let thy foot form perfectly into thy flipflop.

10. Thou shall understand that "When it flips, it flops."

Along with wearing flipflops year round means that you have come to terms with the side glances and the "OH! Aren't your feet cold?" remarks from elderly ladies and the expressions on peers faces that seem to say "You're crazy". Once you come to terms with this and can follow the rules flipflops become a way of life, one that you can't leave.

There are only two foods that were handed down to the humans from heaven: oreos and bacon. These sacred recipies are the divine food of life that fill the void in our own lives with one bite. My next two blogs will be devoted to these supreme foodstuffs to better educate you on these delectable delacacies. NOTE: the background of the oreo in this blog is based purely on myth.

THE OREO

Two black round cookies, chocolate flavored and crumbly stamped with a classic oreo logo, sandwich a white creamy center. There are many imitations of the oreo but none come close to the perfect combination of crunchy chocolate cookie and white vanilla filling. Each cookie containes 50 calories of goodness, a price that is well worth the surplus fat and sugars you are injesting.

MILK'S FAVORITE COOKIE

There are many methods for consuming the oreo. Some peel apart the two cookies and scrape off the cream with thier teeth or tongue, leaving them with the delicious black shell. Others eat them with penut butter. One of the most popular methods of injestion is with milk.

While milk is not one of the divine foods, it works to make a perfect compliment of the oreo. This is because the Gods were inspired by the cow's black and white color to make the first oreo. By dunking the oreo into milk it softens its texture and allows the cookie to spread and dissolve in your mouth, becoming even more effective in stimulating your oreo-sensitive nerves.

NEWEST INNOVATIONS

Since the oreo goddess, Oreothola, gave the fountain of oreos to her glutonous lover Fred (who capatalized on her foolish lust for a couch-potato like him and sold the divine secret to the world), humans have developed their own adaptations to better the oreo. For instance, today we have packaged them in peel-open plastic coated containers. We have made them halloween and easter themes with orange and yellow fillings. We have even made double stuffed oreos. The best and newest technique to increase the availability of the oreo, however, is new boxes that contain a third of the oreos of a regular package for a low price. The major flaw in human-oreo relation is that oreos are difficult to stop eating, but this package creates a limit in order to keep from overwhelming a human's oreo capacity. It is also cheap enough for college students (like us) to buy!

The question is: does the oreo comaper with the crunchy, flaky, salty, meaty bacon? Continued in episode 2....

An Unlikely Place

Two good friends of mine will be visiting this weekend in order to find out what Moscow life is all about. I’ve built it up, naturally, through stories of mostly forgotten nights and how much I enjoy my classes, but I feel like I have forgotten to mention one important detail: Moscow takes some time to get used to. I remember entering this town for the first time thinking, “what the hell have I decided to do?” All that my young, freshman eyes could see was an open expanse of farmland interrupted by a boring town. The place seemed void of any excitement. My dorm room only made matters worse. Having to live in a space the size of a large bathroom with another person didn’t warm my sentiments. Over time, however, every little idiosyncratic detail grew on me. I began to realize that what separates this place from other college towns is the people. Although far from having substantial ethnic diversity, there are a lot of seemingly contradictory personalities coexisting on campus. It’s surprising that so many rednecks, jocks, bros, hippies, hipsters, grad students, punks, intellectuals and alcoholics can get along so well in such a small space. It has to be an Idaho thing. There is no set identity or even dominant trend. All one has to do is be congenial over a drink and all is well. When my friends arrive, I think that I’ll just tell them to toss aside any stigmas and relax. Having a good time is the Moscow way, and through its inhabitants, plenty of entertainment can be found. 

I Saw a Man Today Wearing a Skirt and Rollerblades

I saw a man today wearing a skirt and Rollerblades. He whizzed past me, nearly touching me and it all happened so fast, I wasn't sure of what I had actually seen. I turned around just in time to see him weave in between a group of students, the muscles in his bare pasty legs bulging from the swift movement. As I continued walking to my class, I giggled softly and then smiled wide as I looked up into the beautiful cloudless blue sky.

I love the differences.

Sorority girls with their lovely legs in tights and high-high heels, maneuvering through the snow and the mud caked walkways on their journey to class, void of backpacks they carry designer handbags instead, bags that could simultaneously fit several books, a purse, lunch, extra panties, a bowling ball, gum and a pen.

There are the UGG generation group of girls, light brown, dark brown, black, and the occasional color mixed in, pink, purple, aqua, maybe even a brave white. The Ugg's are paired with a skinny jean or a lazy sweat - sporting good ole' University of Idaho. The Ugg boot is slowly morphing into the tall faux leather riding boot - THANK GOODNESS!

Walking along this green campus, unusually warm and devoid of much snow for this time of year, there is a lot to see. Few and far between are new young lovers, nose to nose, forehead to forehead with no one else in the world but them, their eyes locked they can't stand to say goodbye for the brief fifty minute Biology class that she must attend. If you are lucky enough to see this, don't look away - instead, watch the lingering kiss that happens, that moment that says it all.

We might see cowboys - TRUE cowboys with plain black or blue backpacks, faded blue wranglers and brown cowboy boots (maybe even spurs!) with dirt and mud worn deep into the cracked leather. Their cowboy hats are not for show, they are a part of their DNA, perhaps one of the first items of clothing that they put on in the morning.

I love to watch the football players in their Idaho gear and wonder at how slow they walk around campus but how speedy they are on the field. They walk as if they have no where to go, bundled in their hats and black sweatshirts, their intricate tattoos and wonderful strength hidden underneath.

Most of us don't really fit into a category, we wear what feels comfortable, what works for us and what fits for the ever-changing Moscow weather - layering is what we know. We carry our backpacks, we wish for a snow day, we walk to class, walk home, walk to the gym, to the coffee shop. Do we really see what's around us?

We may see the 70 year old grandma who came back to finish her degree, or the growing population of non-traditional older students, back in school because of the drowning economy - they are confident yet a little uneasy in this new atmosphere. They have kids, had successful careers, lost jobs and are starting again - they walk with a purpose. Look around in between the old brick buildings and you may find things that make you smile, conversations overheard that make you laugh out loud and you will find all of this at little ole' Idaho.

A Valentines Day Turned Sour

Who would have thought that perfect men really do come from Idaho? After a long and boring day of anti-Hallmark mood swings and moments where I was at least a pinch relieved I didn't have to join the other half of America suffering in the single life...it hit me! An unbelievable amount of agonizing pain. It felt like cramps on hiatus running through a field of knives and professional boxers. This was now, officially, the ultimate "anti" V-Day! As I mourned in pain for hours on end, my Valentine sat next to me with the most intense eyes of worry I had ever witnessed. Sharp pains rippled through my body. Tears of raging pain stayed hidden behind my outer layer. After random moments of pain struck my body every two hours into the night, after putting the manliest man of all men through anxiety and stress from refusing to go to the hospital. And so my story goes on to a bunch of rambling of nothing. 1 p.m. finally hit and I gave in. I booked myself in the Grittman hospital and there I stayed til midnight. McPerfect managed to find his way to my side and held my hand in hopes that all would heal. (Im currently doped on hydro's as I write this p.s.) With a fat needle in my arm and wires all around me, a doctor finally came in with a shitty diagnoses. You had a golf ball sized cyst on your left ovary and it ruptured. You're bleeding internally in your stomach now because of it and on top of that...you're dehydrated. Thankfully the morphine did its duty well and the pain was a billion times less extreme than the night before. On that note, all day I had the most caring and genuine people next to my bedside including McPerfect Idaho Man. A dear friend I call Emma refused to leave once except for the sake of McPerfect and his worrysom mind. While he held my hand and she kept me positive all I could think about it how amazing and caring people I have in my life. How lucky I am to have such wonderful beings take care of me. Where in the world did I find this man and what did I ever do to deserve such people by my bedside. Especially for something so little. All I can say is...Idaho. You'll never find people like this anywhere else. Its the people I love about this place and the grass truely is greener in Idaho.

What is so cool about trees?

Yesterday, my entamology class (entamology is the study of bugs) walked around campus looking at trees that have been attacked by insects. One particular tree that our class was looking at was a subalpine fir (one of my favorites) that was located in the big round planter with the steps all the way around it between the library and the TLC. This is sort of the centerpiece of this part of campus and is elevated and seen by everyone. While our professor was talking about the Balsam Wooley Adelgid, the bug that is attacking the trees in this planter, I couldn't help but think how the people in our class must look, standing in this elevated peice of landscaping crawling through the trees and feeling the branches and looking for bugs. To the normal student walking to class or to the library at this time of the day, our class probably looked pretty weird. "What in the world are they doing?" probably came to mind to several people on campus during this time, "What is so cool about trees?"
I am a forestry major and I think that trees are one of the coolest things in the world. When I am walking around with my friends and I see a neat looking tree, I run up to it and feel its bark and leaves and try to decipher what kind of tree it is. My friends just role their eyes and laugh at me. This also happens with cars. I am really into cars also and if I see a different or rare or new car in a parking lot I go up to it and peer inside to see what the interior looks like and sometimes I even crawl under it to look at the undercarriage; the driveline, the transmission, the suspension setup. It is all very facinating to me. Allthough it is very embarrassing to the friends that I am with at the time.
Everybody though has their own interests that they are facinated with or are close to the point of obbsession with. There are many things that other people care deeply about and talk about that I don't care at all about and wonder "What's so cool about that?" For instance, my roomate is really into sports, and he'll tell me who won this game or how many goals or touchdowns or points this particular sports star made last weekend, and I just role my eyes and say "That's great, I don't care." I'll be looking at a car magazine and start telling him about some new or old car that has some nifty feature and he'll say "I don't get it, what's so great about cars."
Everything that other people like that we don't really care about seems weird to us. We can't possibly fathom why someone would be so interested in this thing that if it went away forever it would not make much of a difference to us, however it would totally change the lives of the people that care about it. I think this is very interesting, how we are all people but have such different interests and tastes. But I think that this is what makes society function properly, because after all, somebody has to care about the trees.

You Are Beowulf

Even though I wake up early every morning, things aren't always very clear. That is to say, after two cups of coffee or four, there is really no guarantee I will be able to perform any academic feat, or read, or perform basic math. On Wednesday morning, I began my walk to the University of Idaho campus with wet hair that made my temples pulse when my boots touched the ground, my scarf breathing moist air back into my mouth when I exhaled.
In front of the Administration building doorway, in bright sidewalk chalk, someone had written a message. And on the other side the same message. And by the door to the Commons the same message. Which I read.

Trout Fishing in Idaho

Of all my hobbies and entertainment sources, the finest way to pass my time is fishing. And it can be yours' too! I'm going to clarify how to properly do some serious fishing.
A few basics that we'll need: an entire day off from school, work or any other obligations. Got it? Good. We all have our Idaho State Fishing License, right? That's also important. Lets find our pole and tackle, its around here somewhere; maybe its at your parents house. I'll wait while you find your gear.
All right children, selecting a spot is not hard, and after we've made a few fishing trips, you'll all have a favorite spot or two. I've already got a couple spots in mind, so if you don't have a preference, you can pick one of mine. Whoa!, important note here: I don't drive unless i have to, so we'll be fishing within skating or biking distance of my place. Which means leave that tackle box here; who needs all that excess doo-dad-ery when we know where we're going and what we'll need.
Our fishing options will be: Black Rock Dock, Shore of Lake Pend Oreille, or Dover Bay. Bobber fishing, spinners and spoons, or jigs. Well? Good choice, Dover Bay it is. Its a bit further of a ride, but well worth it for the shaded shallows and quiet calm of the off shoot from Lake Pend Oreille, pungent with the smell of algae and nearby moving freshwater; it mixes in the breeze. All we'll need from our tackle boxes are some jigs. Maybe bait and hooks, a spoon for good measure. Definitely assorted size weights. And we will need our needle nose pliers for pulling hooks from our catch. You don't have a pair? Buy 'em, steal 'em, get a pair. It will make life so much easier.
Leave your cell phone on the counter and we're ready to go. Your lures and bait are in a little plastic container in your back pack, as are mine. The poles are strapped to our bags as well. Lets go. Bare in mind, fishing is a solo activity for me, your just coming along this one time. Next time, you'll be on your own. Also we need to stop at the convenience store. This is crucial. We need a six-pack of beer. The beer also comes with a plastic bag to carry the catch in, so we won't have to swing a dead fish in full view on the way home.
And I know there's probably some law against drinking beer in public, middle of the day, but we're way off the beaten path and I myself have never been harassed as a fisherman with a beer. So as your lawyer I advise you to bring the beer.
A long skate later, we're here. Mountains rising in the distance, so far away they are only slightly darker blue than the sky. Trees and wild grasses cradle your small bit of tackle. Beers in the shallow muddy water. Select your lure and cast. And reel, tug, reel, cast. As long as you want.
Don't forget the main reason we're all here, on this sandy shore, on this sunny day. The birds, breeze and sounds of the lake is part of it. Getting away from the responsibilities of town life is also key.

We're here to relax.

Empty Lockers

Why is it that we are so interested in what everyone else seems to be doing or saying about everyone else? How did gossip become a language of its own, twisted into words of exciting, colorful expressions, gasps and wild energetic prose? How did the latest People and InTouch magazines become two of the most-read, must-have periodic publications in North America? Is our society so small-minded and trite as to forget how hurtful rumors and gossip can be? I admit it, I'm guilty of buying those little morsels of useless, colorful versions of other people's lives. In fact, I had a subscription for many years. Thinking back to high school, I realized I was never bullied or "picked on" neccessarily. However, I was talked about ... constantly ... by everyone I knew. Between my parents grounding me for rumors from people at church saying I was "the bad kid", to boys at school telling my boyfriend not-so-nice things that had never happened. I wished I had been bullied, beaten up, shoved into lockers. Now, ripe with age and supposed wisdom, I still experience my fair share of tasteless fiction at my expense, and it still manages to get to me, corroded as ever, haunted like those empty lockers I wished I had been shoved into. Funny thing, though, it still feels like high school and I'd still rather be shoved into an empty locker.

Why don't Californians wave back?

It's unspoken knowledge that everyone driving a Jeep Wrangler will wave to every other person driving a Wrangler. The moment that you take the wheel of that four-bying cube you become part of a special community. A cult of Jeep enthusiasts who drive iconic vehicles and worship the ability to take their car through any landscape God can put in front of them.
My dream car changed as a grew up. In elementary school I wanted a camouflage Dodge Dakota, mostly because it had my name in it. In Junior High I wanted a 1953 Chevy Pickup truck, painted candy apple red and to look just like it did when it came out of the factory. Then I got to High School and my idea of the ideal vehicle changed once more. I admired the versatility and manueverability of the Jeep Wrangler. A Wrangler has enough clearance to make it down my mile long driveway of pot-holes and a stream crossings every spring, and yet has a sharper turn radius than any other car I can think of... well, except maybe those little Japanese smart cars, but anyways, a Wrangler was the perfect car for my purposes. Little did I know that randomly in November of 2008 my parents would buy my dream vehicle. It was black Jeep Wrangler with silver pinstripe flames on the hood, a three inch lift, big tires, a winch, cb radio, and even an on-board air compressor! More than I had ever dreamed of! But the Jeep fit more than my purposes, it also fit my personality. I don't mean simply because I am a cowboy and the name of the vehicle is a little ironic. With driving a Jeep came a sort of statement about who I was. The whole world could know that I wasn't the redneck that everyone stereotyped me as on their first glance. I didn't drive a pickup truck too tall to look normal with giant tires and untasteful decals in the windows. I was at another level of sophistication, "I'm not a redneck! I drive a Jeep!" seemed to run through my head. The Jeep Wrangler seems to catch the idea of my outdoor enthusiasm, it describes all of my hobbies; backpacking, hiking, hunting, fishing, rock climbing and just about anything else outdoorsy that you can think of. This Jeep was special though becaus not only did it describe my hobbies and the type of person I was, but it also fit my Music taste. The Black body and silver flames scream "Beatles!" everytime I look at it, the colors are the exact same as those used for the classic Beatles logo. Silver Lettering on a Black background.
The best thing about driving a Jeep is the community though. The moment you take the wheel every other Jeep driver is a close friend. The moment I see a Jeep Wrangler driving towards me, way off on the horizon I ready myself for that non-chalant wave that says "hey you're cool, so am I because we drive the same type of car." All of the other Jeep drivers wave to you too. It's the most wonderful feeling in the world. That brief wave between Jeep enthusiasts tells you that you belong, you have friends amidst the frantic stream of angry drivers and people lost in cell-phone conversation on the roadways. That simple wave tells you that you are recognized, and a feeling of confidence and self control comes over you. It doesn't matter what everybody else thinks or is doing because that random stranger waved back at me. All of the Jeep drivers wave back, except the californians... I haven't had a single Californian Jeep driver wave back... Did they not get the message, do they think they are better than the rest of us Jeep drivers? Why don't the Californians wave back?

Coffee: My Liquid Drug

The aroma of fresh ground coffee beans being steamed, ground, and brewed envelops me the moment I walk through the door. It sticks to my clothing like honey to toast so that even when I leave it will still be with me. Soft music plays in the background, something I haven't heard before but it is calming. Whispers of chatter flitter in and out of my ears while I wait behind a tall guy--tall meaning he stands several inches taller than my 5 foot 4 inches--in a leather jacket ordering a caramel latte. While waiting behind him I am holding an internal debate--cold or hot drink? It's cold outside so my body wants something warm, but I always get a blended drink. A shiver up and down my spine makes the decision for me and I order cappuccino. It arrives a few minutes later, steaming, and just right. I take a sip and sigh in content as the hot liquid heats my throat first and then my entire body.

Settling down on a multo striped green colored chair, I tuck my feet underneath me while cradling the hot mug in my hands, breathing in the heat along with the smells of cinnamon and ginger. I almost forget about how cold it actually is outside until another customer walks in bringing the icy wind with her. The smells of numerious other drinks overtake my senses and I lose myself in their aromas. I catch myself lost in a trance, watching the steam rise from another girl's coffee mug. I wonder what she is drinking. I glance back at the menu listing drinks behind the counter and wonder what i should order next time. i take a sip of my cappuccino before setting it down and pulling out my laptop from my backpack.

I am addicted to coffee. I think that half of the campus may have the same condition. As I walk campus on my way to classes, I pass numerous people with coffee mugs in hand. In my classes there is always at least one person with coffee. In my nonfiction class the other day, I noted 3 people with coffee from two different coffee shops. It is a campus wide epidemic. Hence the reason there are so many coffee shops on and off campus in Moscow. People use coffee as a way to become more social. Coffee shops, such as the one I currently sit in, are full of people, sitting, sipping, and chatting away. Not only does coffee serve as a great sorce of caffeine and in turn an engergy booster, it helps break tension.

I am addicted, but at least I know it. At least it's not a drug or alcohol addiction that I can't break. Do I have a problem? Probably. Am I willing to do anything about it right now? No. So I will sit here--curled in this chair with my coffee, and ponder the reasons why I love coffee--my liquid drug--so much.

iS tHe JuiCe RealLY wOrtH tHe SqueEZe?

The walk of shame almost comes hand in hand with college drinking. Some girls, and even some guys have all had to hang their heads and walk the streets wearing last nights outfit and smelling of really cheap whiskey. For some lucky people who had the unfortunate circumstance of going to a theme party dressed as a ho of some nature and not returning home get the pleasant experience of walking home as a ho or dressed as a boy.After a night of heavy drinking and engaging in scandalous activities with the opposite sex one must come to a realization (especially if again sober at this point)that the night has defiantly ended. The you have two choices; you can stay there and risk a possible awkward morning or leave an risk a possible sex offender wandering the streets at night. For men this is less likely to happen because I have checked the sex offender list in Moscow and there are no female rapists. Go figure. What you should have done in the first place was the classiest option of them all and that would be to go to your own house to sleep. Congrats to anyone who has ever accomplished this. On a Monday last week as I was walking home from my last class I noticed a certain sorority girl coming out of a certain fraternity dressed in her bed mates basketball shorts and tank top. It was 2:30 pm and I can only imagine how much of a winner she must have felt like. And if you stop to look around especially on a Saturday you will start to notice the hoards of students crawling out of the Moscow woodwork's trying to make it home. It looks like the great flood and all the animals are trying to get back safely to their ships. Except this ship is filled with promiscuous people not animals in sets of two. Some travel with regret written on their faces, others triumph, but either way, the next time you plan on going home with a stranger always ask yourself, "is the juice really worth the squeeze?"

A Picture's Worth a Thousand Words...

The wet brush glides across the canvas; I live in my own little world. This world I’m in, I’ve created. This world is full of the unknown, each stroke of the brush changes what was there before, sometimes making it better, sometimes worse. The stresses of life seem to just melt away as my mind turns itself off. Nothing matters now but transferring the wet masses of senseless color to the image slowly forming before my eyes.

Before September 2006 I’d never picked up a paintbrush and created anything worth looking at. Seeing as how at this point my career aspirations include nothing more than culinary arts I decided to try my hand at it. Painting comes naturally to me. It has become one of the precious moments of my day that I can focus on something other than the stresses of school and training. Waking early in the morning while everyone else remains asleep is my escape. Light streaming relentlessly through the blinds to the unknown darkness beyond gives away the secret of my secluded world to would be passerby. But I don’t care. Time has stopped moving, the world has stopped spinning all together and everything else has disappeared. All that remains is the brush in my hand. Hours seemed like mere minutes. Before I can realize what’s happening the blanket of darkness recedes as though the sunlight is fighting for its place in the sky. Reality comes rushing back, hitting me in the face like a cold wet snowball; startling and unwelcome.

I miss it like an old friend; I can’t tell you the last time I picked up a paintbrush. The early mornings became less and less until they were gone all together. Somehow I’ve lost the ability to switch off my brain and think of nothing but the blank canvas before me, maybe it’s because I haven’t put one there for awhile. Somewhere along the line something happened. Life got in the way of the fantasy world that I’d created for myself. I want to start painting again someday. Maybe when life figures itself out, and once again I have the chance to lock myself away and not worry about what’s going on with the rest of the world for a few hours I will. Now is not that time though. Now is about getting through each day and somehow managing to maintain a small scrap of sanity while doing so. My little world will still be there when I come back to it, exactly the same as it was when I left, but for now it’s just a memory.

What is and What May Never Be: Zeppelin, A Reunion Thirty Years Trampled Under Foot

When Americans take the month of September into perspective, there's most certainly one event that triggers a mass effect of remorse and human emotion, and we know it to be September 11, 2001. A day where countless innocent lives were taken from us by a freedom hating group of peoples known as Al Queda. Death in this piece is prevalent but nowhere near the losses occurring on 9/11. I am taking it to a personal level, and a rock and roll level at that. What dark times the month of September has wrought in American History, and the History of Rock and Roll. Legends such as Johnny Cash died in 2003, The Who's drummer Keith "the Loon" Moon in 1978, and guitar vitruoso Jimi Hendrix in 1970 all passed on in September. Though, through all the previous deceased artists listed above, two deaths on September 25, 1980 shook the rock and roll world to the bone. Eccentric drummer of Led Zeppelin, John "Bonzo" Bonham, was found dead at fellow band member Jimmy Page's mansion after consuming the equivalent of forty shots of vodka in a two hour span. With Bonham's passing, the band imploded and disbanded as well.

Why must cigarettes be so cool?

Why can't it just be what it is? A 5 dollar pack of poison? Why, instead, when we watch our generic, action-movie protagonist gently breathe in that cloud of smoke and emit it softly into the billowing wind, do we think of him as doing something sexy and adventurous?

It's a statement to the world.

We only get one life. In a world fraught with danger and disease at every turn, no sense being afraid of the little things.

That's much sexier than the alternative:

No way, I could get lung cancer in 25 years after developing a decimating, expensive habit.

Danger is sexy. Rationality and logic is boring. Live on the edge. Don't think, feel!

What shoddy craftmanship, on your part, God, to create such a flawed organism. A creature that sees danger and is inexplicably drawn toward it. Even more ludicrous is that I can foresee my own fall from grace ahead of time.

I'll be a smoker eventually.

As a nonbeliever, it's customary for me to think that we're all just worm food when we die (or we can sugarcoat it and call it 'returning to the planet' for the kids). Since we only get one life, what motivation is there, honestly, to arrive at your grave all clean and tidy and unspoiled? By the end of our lives, shouldn't we be totally used up and worn out because of all the fun we had?

My idealism about personal safety will die out. I can already see it weakening. By late-30's, I'll be that novelist who sits at a screen with a Marlboro hanging out of his mouth, the wall behind me marred by years of smoke.

At least we'll have universal health care by then.