It's a hard-knock life

I watched Tsotsi last night. Like most good works of entertainment (or some might say art), it drew self-reflection.

I would move to a South African township.

I would live in a shack with a tin roof.

I do not think that I would enter as an agent of change, to impose Western ideals. I would come to learn. But I would still be wrong to be there.

Because I would be having the time of my life.

Why live in a South African township? To experience the oppression, witness the squalor, understand the injustice and my role in it. And I would be electric with emotion. I would feel alive, which is hard to do in a house in the suburbs, or a coffee shop on a corner in San Fransisco.

Even if I experienced immense pain, it would be in sympathy for the pain of others, it would not be my own pain. I would drink it in, revel in the "life experience". Then, I could brush that pain aside, very easily.

I would leave the township.

I could never exist there without knowing this is not my future. I cannot act in this world without the burden and the freedom of privilege. I am an international agent, skipping from continent to continent, acquiring and consuming the knowledge of life, while those in the township look at the days ahead and the township stretches before them.

And besides the pain of living, I would enjoy the weather, play in the ocean, eat and drink the new, befriend the foreign.

I would better myself.

All this at the expense of others.

Broadening my world view.

I know the arguments. I recognize the irrationality. And I am paralyzed by the futility, filled with loathing I cannot articulate.

Life of Luxury

I have chosen this picture because while it is difficult to decipher, it is representative of my current situation. If you look closely, you'll see a profile of a leopard in the face of a mountain. I'm assuming the peaks our furry friend is superimposed on depict mount Kilimanjaro. The grassy plains sweltering in the African heat below the leopard and the mountain are possibly Tanzania. For my purposes though, the mountain is Jordan, the plains are Nebraska and the leopard is an attainment not yet reached. What the picture is lacking is a man in the shade, dying in a hammock, which would represent me.

I'm stealing Hemingway's The Snows of Kilimanjaro. In this short story, one of my favorites, a writer safaris in Africa with his wealthy wife. He contracts gangrene from a mere thorn prick and slowly withers away, anguishing in the sun and lamenting over the mistakes he has made throughout his now shortened life. The bulk of his regret comes from his lack of writing, or action of any kind, because he has been lulled into a life of complacency and luxury. What used to matter to him were his experiences among those living on the edge of life, the poor, the artists and adventurers, people interesting enough to write about, not the dull upper crust he is surrounded by. When he passes, his death is not a graceful exit. His wound is wreaking and devouring his leg and much of his body. His end is gruesome and lonely in the harsh climate of the plains, dramatically back grounded by the awesome beauty of the towering peaks. As if heaven rises above him while he is eaten alive in hell.

There is one other death detailed that the author uses as a comparison. The story begins with the image of a leopard frozen in the snow of the mountain, climbing to the top for purposes we know not. Some argue this leopard represents Hemingway's pessimism, his attitude that if you look up for better things you will get shot down. But I disagree. While the leopard has been stopped in his pursuit of grandeur, he has been perfectly preserved in the lofty peaks above the writer's horrible demise. I believe what Hemingway is trying to convey is that pursing a difficult path filled with challenge and hardship is better than an easy path in which one becomes boring.

It's not hard to read the symbolism for my life. In Nebraska, lounging in a large house, with a TV in every room, a fridge filled with food and all the amenities I could ask, I have become unproductive, uninteresting and longing for life. So even though I am scared to face the challenges of living in a foreign country, I know the rewards will far outweigh the comforts I will be sacrificing. And really the locations, such as Jordan and Nebraska, need not be so specific, though they fit aptly for my present circumstances. It could be a metaphor for my unforeseen future, accepting a well-paying job in a US city with a good man to share my time and giving up my dreams of traveling, experiencing and growing. I try to remind myself of this whenever I feel queasy at the thought of my fast-approaching voyage and new life.

When Spiders Attack

CITIZENS BEWARE!!! A strange fog descended over the city this morning. Residents on a walk or their way to work noted that there was an eerie hush throughout the neighborhoods. As if the white haze was hiding something. When the alien fog lifted, hundreds, perhaps thousands, of spider webs lined the porches and windows and wove through the trees.

Experts can only speculate at the reasons for this freak occurrence. There have been whispers of terrorists or top-secret government experiments. Some are even looking to the skies for answers and have prepared their bomb shelters in case of invasion.

Others believe the spiders have a more altruistic purpose, "I believe them insects are tryin to tell us somethin. I been out here with my pen and paper all day waiting for a clue but I ain't seen a dern thing yet," said one local.

Authorities warn not to be alarmed but to stay indoors whenever possible and not to take any foolish chances.

Verisimilitude

At our Household Hazardous Waste collection, we were lucky enough to be joined by volunteers from The Rock, a church at the University. Eight God-fearing Christians appeared bright-eyed and ready to work at 8 in the morning on a Saturday and because the event was not too demanding, and definitely did not require more than three or four extras, I spent much of the day lounging in the sun, supervising and getting to know the help (i.e. eavesdropping).

As I sat and sweated and directed cars containing either paint or cleaning fluids which line to stay in, a tall, male volunteer said loudly to the girl beside me, "Hey, I know how much you like stories about open wounds. I've been meaning to tell you this one about my brother." He walked over to a youngin not a day over eighteen, in sunglasses and blond ponytail and squatted down beside her. He began to describe in detail a large, black pustule that had developed on his sibling's knee. Its appearance was blamed on exposure to toxic chemicals (much like how super hero's gain their powers), which his brother was frequently vulnerable to as he works in sanitation. His brother sought a doctor to attend to his wound and the infected area had to be squeezed, pulled and ripped open, leaving a rather large, gaping hole on his knee. Since, three more abscesses have developed and the painful removal process will need to be repeated.

When the gruesome story was finished, the tall male stood. The girl stared up at him with her mouth open, sunglasses now in her lap, looking strangely satisfied. After the storyteller left, I turned to the girl and asked her if I had heard correctly? Did she really enjoy stories about open wounds? She replied with a serious, wordless nod. Her blue eyes piercing my own. It appeared as if she was waiting expectantly for my own gaping wound story. I had none. I felt strangely inadequate.

Bushido Blade

This morning, my boss and I went to visit a local nursing home. We have asked all of the retirement communities in the area if they could spare any scraps, ribbons or craft items that we can use at an upcoming Festival of the Arts. The scraps serve a dual educational purpose; to teach kids the joys of creation and recycling.

Terrace House was one of the first to agree and we loaded into our van, or what my boss has affectionately dubbed the brown beast, and arrived at the quaint facility complete with classical music playing in the lobby, a crystal-chandeliered dinning room and signs posted outside warning drivers to watch for strolling residents (an octogenarian was in fact meandering dangerously when we arrived). Our contact was a sprite, older woman with short gray hair. She greeted us energetically, pumped our hands with surprising strength and led us up to the second floor, past the library that resembled a used book store and into a room with a large table and a closet. She threw open the closet door to reveal shelves of boxes brimming with brightly colored objects and instructed us to take whatever we liked. She pulled down several boxes to show us what was inside and then grabbed a little-red riding hood basket with a red bandanna attached to the side. A weathered, wooden handle peeked out of the clutter and she noticed our attention drawn to the random and seemingly misplaced object.

"Oh yeah, this thing." She gripped the handle and yanked it out, revealing a 2-foot blade sheathed in faded, green canvas. She pulled the bland out of its covering and a sharp, rust-colored metal weapon stood before us. It looked well used. She turned it in her hand for a few seconds, examining each side and then returned it to its home. "Yeah, this horrible thing belonged to a resident. He pulled it off a dead Japanese in World War II. He died a couple years ago and his family didn't even come to the funeral so of course no one claimed it. I haven't been sure what to do it with." And with that she set it nonchalantly on the table and began rummaging through fabrics and feathers and chattered on about what we could take.

"Is that really from World War II?" I asked incredulously, unable to take my eyes away from the relic. My imagination ran wild as I pictured a young soldier hastily pulling it off a dead man he had just shot, bullets raining overhead as he escaped into the jungle at the sound of explosions. (My imagination may have been combining Vietnam and World War II).

"Oh yeah, definitely. It's a weird thing to have around and frankly creeps me out just thinking about it."

However, my sweet, Christian boss became extremely excited about the artifact and explained that her brother was obsessed with World War II and had attended West Point and majored in history. My boss marveled at how much he would love an object like that knife.

"Well take it then, I don't want it. I'll be glad to get it off my hands." My boss looked at her, eyes large and questioning. "Really?" The old woman nodded and my boss shoved the knife back into the basket we would be returning with, a large girlish grin remaining on her face. She then proceeded to cover the knife with sparkles, ribbons and kids items and babbled excitedly about what an amazing Christmas present it would make.

The Complexity of Evil

I think one of the traps that many of us liberals fall into is the assertion that those responsible for the injustice in the world are not the equivalent of silent film villains. These antagonists are evil incarnate. Their physicality is meant to incur nothing less. They are typically spindly characters with skeletal, long fingers between which they twirl their greasy, pencil-thin, jet-black mustache, grinning sickeningly and beady eyes twinkling over a beaked nose as they merrily watch the damsel in distress struggle against her dubiously tight ropes as a train barrels ever closer. These characters are one-dimensional, driven by an all consuming vile emotion, such as greed or lust or jealousy.

It's all too simple, we argue, for today's multifarious leaders in such a complex world to be compared to these characters. Even I have found myself at the defense of men and women who deny sick people life-saving medicine because billionaire companies like Pfizer don't want to lose a penny. I've explained away the complexity of those who rob indigenous citizens of land they've tilled for centuries so that space can be made to extract oil. The list goes on. What about the governments who charge the poor and thirsty for water they can't afford because the West wants them to privatize. Or organizations as great as the UN who simply ignore the pleas of help in times of genocide, refusing to even call it by that name because it means countries with soldiers and resources to spare will have to come to their aide. I've argued it's too easy to just say they're greedy or selfish. Or have even been excitedly reminded of the same argument by one of my favorite SIT teachers if students balked at the sheer cruelty of the IMF and World Bank loan regulations.

Yet I'm starting to wonder if we're explaining away some of the problem. People are complex. I would never argue that. But they are also driven by greed just like that villain. I'm not talking about the kind of questionable acts that are brought on by desperation or ignorance, but the kind CEO's of multinationals participate in daily. And just like in the movies, it's still wrong. Simply wrong. There is a myriad of examples of this simple greed in books such as John Perkin's Confessions of an Economic Hit Man, where men and women goad and manipulate leaders into accepting loans that cause their countries to be indebted to the West forever. Or in Jawara and Kwa's Behind the Scenes at the WTO where men are moved to tears during negotiations. Some men because their jobs as pharmaceutical agents are threatened when Southern countries begin to demand affordable generic drugs for their dying masses. Others because of the hopelessness in their countries when the generic drug production is denied as even a topic of discussion at the Doha Round. To me, this seems simple. Greed does motivate people to do awful things and just because our complex system allows it, even encourages it, doesn't mean we should write it off as too complex to be labeled as such.

If everyone started working against a natural tendency to dominate, acquire and destroy, maybe our complex system's foibles could start to become as recognizable as a skinny man in black attire, twirling his moustache and staring hungrily at an innocent youth.

Chatterbox

I have a temporary job with the city coordinating their volunteer recycling program. It has helped to stave off boredom, feed my starving bank account and reaffirm my worth as a productive American citizen.

It's office life. I sit directly across from my boss. Our two desks touch and we are squeezed into a cramped, overflowing, windowless cell. While my boss is immensely good-natured and polite to a fault, her constant chatter, obsession with AP grammar, defense of Walmart and Christian views have started to rub raw a nerve. My mornings are now an endurance test, a mental feat of strength to repress a biting retort or an eye roll.

Besides some of her other peculiarities, one that surfaces most often is her obsession with Maggie, her future adopted daughter. My boss and her husband are in the process of adopting a baby from China. This can be a three to five year fiasco and they are only into their second year. However, this doesn't seem to stop my boss from talking about Maggie as if she were in existence. As well, Maggie seems to be their biological off-spring and has manifested traits of her parents, such as an affinity for board games and a love of dogs.

This morning though, my boss took a moment from her nonstop commentary on her life, past, present and future, to answer her cell phone. Almost immediately she shut the door and had problems speaking because she was choking back sobs. It soon became evident that the caller was a very young mother-to-be. Apparently Maggie will have brothers and sisters. My boss's voice filled with hope and even a bit of desperation as she explained what nice people she and her husband were and if the girl would only meet them and then she would understand how much they wanted this baby and how they had been trying for five years and how they would even hold their little pekingese puppy cradled in their arms because they didn't have a human baby to hold.

One of the cruel ironies of life was right there in our claustrophobic office contained between the two of us, a woman who wanted a baby so much she had imagined one into being and a co-worker who's family was so burdened by two beautiful boys that it almost tore them apart trying to get rid of them. And right then I wanted her to have that baby as much as she did, more than anything in the world, because she deserved it.

As my boss hastily hung up the phone and prepared to rush to a meeting, she looked at me with bright, moist eyes and emitted a girlish squeal. Tears welled up and she had trouble speaking again. "I spoke with her grandma a month ago and didn't think the girl would even call me because the father is reluctant to give up custody." She glanced at her watch, gasped and began hurrying out the door. She peaked her head back in though, blond curls bouncing, "OK, so if I'm like a nervous chatterbox all day, this is why." She squealed again and scurried down the hall, high-heels pattering like rain drops. As my stomach turned somersaults at the thought of the rest of my mind-numbing day, I wondered if perhaps on second thought maybe I didn't want her to have this baby that much.

PDA

"One pair was indulging in sexual foreplay in a corner. Shevek looked away, disgusted. Did they egoize even in sex? To caress and copulate in front of unpaired people was as vulgar as to eat in front of hungry people." -- The Dispossessed, Ursala K. Le Guin

The Falcon Cannot Hear the Falconer

As a teenager, inspired by neighbor Wilford Brimley (famous for his role in the 1985 classic, Cocoon), the above subject turned to falconry. He caught the falcon in the expansive woods near his home in Salt Lake City, Utah. He caged the animal, kept it in the dark, lovingly fed it and whispered reassuringly into its ear. Over a period of six months, the falcon grew to trust him. Soon it could return to the woods, a place now foreign to the captive. The falcon learned to fly freely but always return to its new home.

The dream of every young man then became satisfied.Our subject became the envy of his peers. The falconer invoked wide-eyed stares and salivating mouths of neighboring youth as he walked the suburban streets with a giant leather glove hugging his extended forearm, unbeknown to onlookers that his falcon flew at a 2 miles radius above their heads. Only when he raised the two-finger signal would the bird swoop back to its perch.

From here however, our story turns dark. On a day like any other day, the falconer took his neighborhood stroll, his majestic feathered friend in tow, gracefully gliding above his head. And like many other days, his younger brother begged to follow. They ambled down the road together, discussing boyish matters and admiring their pet. As they watched, the bird unwisely came to rest on the pole of a power line. Immediately the body dropped out of the sky like a rock, catching in the branches of a nearby tree, hanging upside down at eye-level, it's cold, lifeless stare meeting that of the horrified children. After that (and a murdered dog incident), as most teenagers do when their falcon is killed before their very eyes by its own stupidity, he turned to social deviance.

Best Quote of the Night

"I need to find a pizza, let's see what Jesus thinks." -- Sammy, on why he wrote the pizza place's number in the hotel bible.

The Joys of Being a Swinger

A checklist:

1) Copulating with multiple genders.
2) Copulating with multiple genders at the same time.
3) Wrestling with professed straight men and convincing them that no, this is not foreplay.
4) Taking provocative pictures, like straddling multiple people on a couch.
5) Doing handstands over a triad of drunks while they cuddly on a bed.
6) Urinating on your girlfriend in a bathroom where a straight girl and a gay man are making out.
7) Helping straight girl to realize that no matter how crazy her sex life is, yours far exceeds hers and that she is prudish by comparison.
8) Pushing individuals to seek adult assistance in your presence.
9) Flirting with other people's exboyfriends.
10) Asking others to participate in swinging.

High Rise

Miles below the city, we sit in an empty metro car. The speed with which we move is satisfying, as our journey into Brooklyn is far and our tired feet remind us of the work it takes to walk a simple mile. Rumbling out of the depths, the dark windows become picturesque landscapes impressive enough to grace the wall of a kitschy Midwest living room. The view, as we race across the bridge, is spectacular. The skyline is illuminated by thousands of feet of humming electric lights. Little do we know that in a few hours we will enjoy a much more comprehensive view of the body of this beast from the rooftop of a Brooklyn apartment, beer in hand and our breath coloring the night. With the warmth of Nebraskan friends surrounding me and the comfort of a neighborhood below me, my feelings towards the city will be much more receptive. At this moment though, in the metro, peering through the grimy windows, New York is nothing less than intimidating. John and Ben marvel at the awesome power of man. They glorify the city as a testament to the wonders of our works and the feats we can achieve. I , however, fear the destructive capabilities of a species running amok. If we can cover so much with concrete, urbanity and consumerism, what will stop us....

Russia vs. USA: the continuing saga

Remember the cold war? Remember defending the free world from tyranny? Remember the horrors of communism? Remember teaching Russia that falling in line with the West was the only way to salvation? Well, some of us can’t forget. Some of us believe the battle continues. Some of us are reminded daily of this never-ending struggle to preserve our right to be consumer whores (mostly because the Russian pictured above sits by us in Program Monitoring and Evaluation and heckles us about Nebraskan desolation). Things have changed however. Russia has progressed since their markets have opened and they’ve bent spanked by IMF and World Bank regulations. Let’s take a look at where things stand today.

Current issues of contention, play-by-play and points awarded:

Russia earns the first point for Women’s Day: On March 8th, Russia celebrates by declaring a national holiday. No one works. There are festivals in the streets. A feast is prepared. Gifts are given. All of this just for having a vagina! America’s counter play is weak. Women get an appreciative nod by their men folk for being radical enough to wear tight clothes and shake their over exposed cleavage on the bar top and still know the genders are equal.

Penalty -- one point deducted from Russia for poisoning women: http://news.aol.com/topnews/articles/_a/poison-sickens-two-us-women-in-russia/20070307110609990001

Russia scores again, this time for inventing reasons to make merry: Russia celebrates the oppressed minority of the pancake! On February 27th, Russian's light-up their burners, flip some flapjacks and smother a moist, piping-hot stack with Moskovskaya (vodka). While the US has found other inane reasons to celebrate (like Presidents Day) it is evident that Russia has far excelled us in enjoying the smaller pleasures life has to offer by kicking back a few and stumbling home with syrup smeared in inappropriate places. *Pancake Day enjoys special recognition as it shares the above Russian's birthday.

The US finally makes a play and ties for yet again swindling a country out of land at a low price (even if the land doesn’t belong to country selling it): Russia initially claimed Alaska. Apparently the first Europeans to reach our 49th state, in 1741, were Russians. After using the land for fur and attempting to defend it from the French, Russia got lazy and sold the cash cow to us (for quite the bargain). Rumor has it some want it back now that they know it is rich with oil and snow.

The final play of the day: Russia’s foremost ambassador to SIT has come-up with an impressive solution to the problem of useless American land. Sell Nebraska to Mexico. Ingenious play by Russia as it leaves America fumbling for a Mexican joke or comeback every time Hola or Amigo is used to breach a conversation. Russia also seems to be employing the tactic of fatigue and subsequent submission through repetitive reference and good, old-fashioned bull-headedness. For now they take the lead with this winning play. However, their efforts could backfire if the joke becomes old. Or if Mexico really does occupy Nebraska and a multitude of complications arise. For example: Will a passport be needed to return home? Will former Nebraska citizens need to learn Spanish? Will the coveted, bland Mexican-American (TexMex) food be made into too-spicy, authentic South-of-the-border comida? And will we need to build a wall in the middle of the country?

Stankonia

Today at the gym, while struggling through sprints on the tred mill, an offending odor disrupted my heavy breathing. For a brief moment I was transported to a Hungarian sweat dungeon where middle-aged men with pot-bellies performed squats in their Speedos. But let's not relive those days. As the odor persisted, I divined to find the source. My neighbor to the left was a scraggly gentleman with an unkempt beard and amateur exercise attire (such as Keds for running shoes and wool socks). On my right was a petite women with a bouffant hair-do making a noble attempt with those little legs at a serious run. Let's be honest. This is Brattleboro, Vermont. A place where views on the boons of pheromones and the ills of showering most likely mirror Europe's. It could have been either one of these people. However, eager to address the unhappy circumstance, my sure-fire snap judgment placed the blame squarely on the man (most often the perpetrators of pungent aromas). I commenced my all-powerful glare and envisioned his shifty foot-work and consequent tumble into the wall behind. However, when the man left, the problem did not. Confused but unshaken, I reassured myself that I had merely misjudged and crinkled my nose at the little stink-bomb to my right. When my run was finished, I high-tailed it to the locker room, only to notice that the smell had followed me, while the woman had not.

I think there's a lesson here folks: Sometimes, the smell may be you.

Rule of Close-ups

Taking pictures of objects at close range means I can marginally pass them off as art.

Fortune

Doesn't this generally mean we're screwed?

Fur for the Poor?

This is a real fur coat. Notice how I’m not throwing buckets of red paint on it or my unsuspecting friend. This coat is from Turkmenistan, as is the now deceased owner of it’s skin. Turkmenistan is bordered by Uzbekistan, Afghanistan, Kazakhstan, Iran and the Caspian Sea. It was once part of the former USSR. Its biggest boon is a hydrocarbon/natural gas reserve that remains relatively untapped. Their Stalinesque dictator has just died, however his giant gold statues and ubiquitous, jeering, Big Brother posters remain. There is no central heating in most Turkmeni homes. While it is a desert, it does get lip-chapping, finger-numbing frigid in the winter, with temperatures dropping to -20F. Often the more fortunate Turkmen warm their apartments with their oven. 58% of the population lives below the poverty line. Malnutrition is a common ill. When the above lady worked in this country, she would often walk in on her teaching colleagues with streaks of white powder across their lips and a shamed look in their eyes. Sometimes women unknowingly eat chalk because they lack adequate levels of iron. Back to the coat. All parts of the animal were used in the making of this apparel. As a meal or whatever it is people do with animal intestines. Under these circumstance, I’m pretty much O.K. with this fur.

Ode to Sex in the City

Is their any physical act that comes unattached to sentiment? From kissing my roommate to copulating with a man I know my friend desires, recreating a weekend with an ex boyfriend I swore never again to lusting after a known playboy, entertaining fantasies and flirting shamelessly with a man I love who I know doesn't love me back to coupling with a person who's already part of a couple, repeatedly pulling a gay man (or two) to contemplating the same with a woman, I seem to seek out indecencies that are often frowned upon. Or some might even say, self-destructive. While the experiences leave me stressed and regretful in the morning, there's an energy, almost like a high, that urges me to do it again. When these acts are laid bare, they seem to rise up from the page like the shaking, disappointed face of my mother. But if physical acts always come with a bevy of emotion, then whether it's me reeling from them or the next person, it's going to happen sooner or later, right?

Violet all grown up

While the oompa-loompa's were able to extract the blueberry juice, Violet's life remained touched by the ordeal. Her later years were marked by extreme obession with the color purple and a profound identity crisis, of which to this day she has never truly recovered.

Childhood Lesson

C'est ma niece. Elle est un pacquet de joie:

While some might call this cruel, my favorite past time with this little ragamuffin is to play a game involving the coveted ceramic bunny that once decorated my parent's lawn and now sits atop their counter for safety purposes. It suffers from an injured ear due to childish zealous. As said ragamuffin desperately reaches for the creature that is miles from her little fingers and looks at me with a longing deep and pure, I kindly hand her the toy that has been labeled "off-limits". Moments later I easily remove the bunny from her possession. To my delight, the offending action yields her husky, sonorous protest of "my bunny". I'm quite sure that her mellifluous, two-year old voice can inspire wars to stop, bring grown men to tears, cleanse the souls of the vile, purge evil from the wicked, and solve some of the bigger scientific mysteries. Besides, it's not really her bunny.

*Disclaimer: Narrator's hands are washed of any permanent psychological damage this game may have or will cause in subject.

Chez Canada = Fine Dining

Canada, O' Canada la maison de poutine (home of the poutine):


Gap in joy and unabashed love, little children, at the 8th wonder of the world. Montreal presents this soup-like delicacy of french fries, gravy and what else but cheese curds. No mere chef but a wizard of awesome power must have scrapped together the innards of every lardo's unfinished midnight snack and lumped together this fantastic dish. Texas attempted to one-up Canada with the fried Twinkie, but our Canuk friends of the North have gone above and beyond the normal requisite for ingenious cuisine. Perhaps this dish is a biological response to the bitter cold the Canuk's suffer through every long and horrible winter. Over time a genetic mutation has programmed the recipe into the minds of Canadian restaurateurs. This hot meal is sure to pack on more than a few pounds of insulation and is best accompanied by a cold one and eaten during a hockey game. Bon appetite!

*Disclaimer: Making fun of Canada is a national past time.

Carnivorous Roommates

Les camarades (roommates):

Frank est plus grande que Sally*.

There are chance occurrences in nature when the male roommate, most often alpha male and of an obscenely tall stature, selects a member of the opposite sex as a living companion to emphasize their physical endowment. If said petite roommate out lasts her usefulness, tall roommate will use her carrion as rations in freak instances of avalanche or Apocalypse. Quiet now, let's observe...

*Disclaimer: Les noms ont change proteger le innocent.

War on Terror...THE GAME!

Les joueurs (the players):

The narrator

The instigator

The one to beat

The lamb (led to slaughter)

The corrupting evil

The last stand

Les regles (the rules):

According to the website and creators "Everyone starts with the best intentions. Then things start to get cramped. Then you notice your neighbour has more oil than you. Before long, war is waged, nukes are dropped, revolutions are fought and terrorists are doing your dirty work, before turning on you...This is the War on Terror, the board game: A quality board game for 2 - 6 players, lovingly illustrated and politically correct (in a very literal sense). Playing it will bring out the nastiest, greediest, darkest, most paranoid aspects of your character. It's all great family fun."

While this game might be fun for the whole family, little Timmy or Suzy should best avoid one of the necessary game pieces: spirits.

L'histoire (the story):

On a cold, winter's night in Nebraska, six eminent Lincolnites gathered to battle the forces of evil (namely themselves) and compete for world domination by controlling the oil supply. What started out as a battle of wits and stratergery quickly diminished into a frantic rush to join the insurgents and to bomb the hell out of all that is pure and good. Once South America was nuked and the seeming strong-hold toppled, the transition from men of morals to terrorists hungry for blood and power was fast and fierce. Before long a four-on-two game of baseness vs. innocence (as well as men vs. women) developed and the axis-of-good's waning morals gave way to WMD's and psychological pressure (not to mention torture). In the end, the axis-of-evil was triumphant.

Les points culminant (the high-lights):

Buckley's Rise

Buckley's Fall

The world before it crumpled under the insurgent's strike

What it's all about: Money and Deception

Artillery and foreboding

I use this game as yet another example of how, if left to their own devices, men will ultimately choose to maim and pillage. While women, because of some genetic predisposition, or perhaps inherit good, will opt to help those less fortunate than themselves, i.e. the little guys.

*Disclaimer: Statements may be based on less-than scientific evidence.

Porn and a haircut

Pour mon premiere post, je voudrais te montre cet photo.

This Lincoln barber shop has managed to combine the innocence of the 1950's with the hedonism of the MTV era. For two bits (or today's equivalent) one can enjoy a pleasant afternoon regaling your local coiffeur while oogling women's breasts in the latest Playboy. Nothing compliments that satisfying sensation of snipped hair better than sexual arousal. Larry Flynt would be proud of what I hope is a nascent trend.

*Disclaimer: Information based on small town gossip.