http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iR81CtLY9ts

Losing my s**t

"It's been awhile," said now by both Britney Spears and Emily Kane.

The Bluest Blue in the World

*This piece is aided by familiarity with "The Toughest Indian in the World" by Sherman Alexie and "The Hermit's Story" by Rick Bass.*

The Bluest Blue in the World

You should approach each book – you should approach life – with the real possibility that you might get a metaphorical boner at any point.
- Sherman Alexie

The Great Plains of Canada, after centuries of slow degradation; all the many-colored beasts that once abounded here are somewhere in the frothing nebulous of the past. It is as if the ghosts of wild dogs, who once reigned over this land with their human counterparts, exist within each tree branch, reach out as the wood is chipped away over years of heavy rain. Sometimes as I’m walking among the endless hills of snow – my disappointment packed tight under me like the frozen fields I trace – I feel the hope contained within those branches. If I hug a tree, I think, I might just be able to absorb some of that elusive hope and save myself from the featureless void of the future. It is during such times that I am touched by color.

Colors are important to me. They remind me that life – like a rainbow – has many facets and hues, and that you can only truly live when you pick which color you are and ignore all others. I can’t help but think of my own name in this way. My father, a proud Cree Indian, named me Gray Owl for the vast expanse of heavy, ominous clouds that seemed to descend upon the reservation on the day I was born. Since then the reservation has been blessed with near-perfect weather, though the occasional hiccup of an arctic blizzard is to be expected.

My father once spoke to me about colors, and how they were symbols for everyday emotions and actions. “Other people,” he said (and by “other people” I knew he meant white people), “will paint pictures with impressive words and big guns, but we must always paint with our hearts, my son. We must always trust the colors within our hearts.”

All of us, unless we’re colorblind or just blind in general, see colors.

When I think about Ann, I think of the color blue. Ann was an American woman who trained dogs in Maine. She owned a ranch – a sheep ranch, I believe – called White Dogs United, that specialized in training dogs to hunt in the dead of winter. Her clientele were usually rich New York couples who escaped to northern Alaska or Vancouver Island for an adventurous Christmas getaway, but who chose to bring along a pack of hunting dogs in case of an emergency. Ann once told me that she found these requests mildly absurd. “After all,” she’d say, “they could hunt with my dogs all they wanted, but these people were never made to survive in that type of wilderness. They just weren’t born with it.”

Of course, this last part isn’t so hard to believe. What “wilderness” remains is an illusion created by the great colonial gust of the last century. Back then I thought of myself as uniquely immune from this chilling wind of conquest: I lived on a remote plain in Saskatchewan with nothing around me but the various colors of my childhood and a television with basic cable. On this television I watched in unsurprised despair as diversity either fell into the in-between or was marketed as a hot new novelty. So disgusted was I by the state of things that I would only ever use the television to catch a rare game of baseball on TSN – after all, this helped fulfill the position as Reservation Sports Blogger that my mother secured for me. Those days I barely saw her, even when I hitched a ride to the reservation from my humble cabin.

When I was a boy I loved to play with my mother’s headscarves, which were always tied around one of her wooden bedposts. They were all bright colors, reds and blues and yellows. But in the years that followed, my mother’s headscarves grew darker and darker; whether she dyed the ones she already owned or simply bought new ones, I’ll never know for certain. And I’ll likely ponder that uncertainty for the rest of my days.

During one of my irregular visits, as I sat by her side after a traditional meal of pemmican and Diet Pepsi, my mother mentioned the dogs. One of the reservation’s oldest residents had died that week, leaving behind a whole host of valuable Cree artifacts, as well as a pack of six German shorthaired pointers – hunting dogs. He had nurtured them since they were three weeks old, when they had been abandoned on reservation grounds by some overwhelmed dog-owner.

“It takes a certain kind of person to leave dogs like that,” my mother said. She was wearing loose-fitting jeans and a cracked smile, though why she was smiling as she said this is hard to guess. On her head was a chocolate-brown headscarf.

“I can imagine,” I said.

“Anyway, I think you should take them. You’ve been so lonely up there, God knows what you do with your time.”

“You think I should take the dogs?” I was sure I’d misheard her; surely she meant for me to collect some of his precious Indian wares. She must have known that I was thirsting for authenticity, trying to claw my way back into the light after so much dismal regret. And certainly my mother remembered the incident when I was twelve-years old, when a classmate brought her dog in for show-and-tell and it peed all over my favorite moccasins.

“Yes, I think you should take the dogs, Gray Owl.”

Evidently not.

Out of some sort of biological compulsion, I did as my mother asked. Six canine faces stared serenely at me from the backseat of my 1992 Ford Explorer as if to say, is there any hope for us? There was no way of knowing. I turned up the radio – David Wilcox’s “Bad Apple” drifted over the seven of us like so much morning dew. If we Plains Crees could commission our own baseball team made up of musicians, David Wilcox would play second base, Jeff Healey would be the pitcher who saves the day in the seventh inning, and Neil Young would hit the home run that surprises everyone. The dogs seemed to enjoy my selections, at any rate.

It wasn’t long after we arrived home that I called Ann. She was referenced on a Yahoo! Answers page and received a one-hundred percent rating based on five votes. My situation was desperate: I had no idea what to do with six nonhuman roommates, who ate most of my beef jerky and woke me up in the middle of the night chewing on their own tails. Worse still, I didn’t want to drive back to the reservation, tail between my legs (or at least the dogs’ tails between theirs), admitting failure. My official status as a screw-up and a recluse weighed heavily on my mind, and I was not about to give my people, let alone my old high-school bullies, more cause to scoff at me. Wasn’t the ultimate mission of my life to be as representative of my native culture as possible? And what could be more traditional, in every respect, than hunting in the open whiteness of Saskatchewan with a pack of loyal dogs beside me? The very thought of it touched something long-dormant within me that produced a strange twinge, like a numb limb coming back to life.

Ann got back to me quickly – almost alarmingly so. She came and took the dogs one brisk June day. She piled them into her van like there was nothing to it, like they were hers to begin with and she was rightfully retrieving them. They would be gone for six months, during which time the dogs, who I had yet to name, would be trained in the whole gamut of hunting techniques. I could only imagine what it would all entail.

“You’ll hardly recognize them when I bring them back,” she said. She had visited my cabin for twenty minutes and was already pointed back towards Maine, a journey that would take her two days or more. I looked into her eyes, trying to unearth any sort of Anglo entitlement that might reside there. She looked back at me with pupils surrounded by a distinct yet enigmatic blue, the sort of blue that had perhaps colored one of my mother’s headscarves, or the blue that is commonly associated with either sadness or joy. Looking at her made me want to run inside and feverishly examine my own eyes.

I spent the next six months driving back and forth across the plains in my trusty Explorer. Ann mentioned that the two of us would be taking the dogs out in the natural element as soon as she returned, so it was up to me to go and figure out what the essence of the natural element was so that I could artfully explain it to her. At that time I had begun to fiddle with the written word, starting and stopping in the middle of the night with a mug of instant nearby and my fingers hovering wishfully over the keys of my laptop. I started to put more effort, more creative thought, into the articles I wrote as Reservation Sports Blogger. Instead of blandly reporting Shawn Hill’s strikeout record to date, I would delve into a painstaking description of his pitching arm, which I said was “rife with the bulging pleasure of easy labor.” It was the prospect of Ann’s return, and the transformation I expected to undergo, that filled me with such restless, fruitful energy.

It was during one of my more productive bouts that I heard the knock on my door, and I knew it could only be Ann. (It turns out that one of the dogs was able to rap on the door with his paw, so technically it wasn’t Ann, but spiritually it was.) It was nearly midnight, and when I met them outside Ann’s breath was coming in quick puffs.

“Here we are, Gray Owl,” she said. I was pleased to note that her eyes still carried that mysterious hue, which I could observe even in the impenetrable darkness. The dogs all stood in a line behind her, perfectly still. For some reason I was intimidated by them.

“Yes, here you are,” I replied. I patted my knee to beckon the dogs to me, but they remained motionless, unfazed. They approached me only when Ann gave a gentle tilt of her head. Unsure of what to do next, I gave Ann an approving thumbs-up.

“That’s not all they can do,” she told me with a wry grin. From the trunk of her truck she produced a box filled to the brim with feathers. For a moment I thought it might be an offering of traditional Native Canadian headdresses, but this was wishful thinking. In fact, Ann explained that she had brought ten live pheasants with which to demonstrate the dogs’ hunting abilities. Alarmed, I ushered them all inside, then out into the garage where I had a few spare mattresses. I set them up for the night with a space heater and had wistful – if troubled – thoughts until dawn. Ann was at my door early the next morning with the dogs at her heels and five of the birds tucked into a worn navy sack.

“Are you ready to go out?” she said. “It feels like the dogs and I have been cooped up inside forever.”

“More than ready.”

Each flick of her wrist was an embedded command that they knew by heart. She had taught the dogs to respond to a number – from one to six – which she shouted out at intervals. She would sink her hand into the navy sack and produce a wide-eyed pheasant which she flung into the air. It dipped quickly before righting itself, but it couldn’t fly for long stretches. Its wings seemed stunted in some way, and I couldn’t help but empathize with the lonely bird. This was surely an unprecedented failure in its life, and I could only imagine the cycle of incredulity, denial, and eventual acceptance which it likely grappled with.

The dogs were like dark flashes of some unnamed emotion that crept forth from the depths of the earth. They were mostly silent, leaving my ears open to receive the sound of fast-falling snow and tree branches creaking ominously in the distance. I barely recognized these six svelte hunting dogs, who I once considered to have the combined intelligence of a dumb reservation boxer I once knew. Under Ann’s direction the dogs were perfect beasts of the white wilderness, and we scaled the hills of Saskatchewan like we’d been there for thousands of years.

We spent a whole week out there in the snow with Ann, and as time went by I became acquainted with the landscape that had so terrified me in the past. Reservation life hadn’t involved this level of natural exploration, all blended colors and symbols. When I look back on it all, especially my childhood spent taking mindless car trips with my father and innumerable brothers and sisters, I realize that I was profoundly separated from nature, even the “fake” nature of parks and ski resorts. I was so caught up in my own cultural angst that it was difficult for me to simply observe the world around me. “Everything is bad for us, Gray Owl,” my father used to say, “but don’t go making it worse.” I tried to take my father’s advice while hunting with Ann and my pack of dogs; I was helped by the comforting, shocking blue that emanated from Ann’s dog-expert eyes.

On the last day there was a terrible white-out. The sky had been clear for two hours when the first snowfall began, and from then on it was impossible for us to see five feet in front of us. The dogs kept close to Ann with their noses pointed straight ahead, hopeful of rescue. Ann looked to me from under her hood. “I don’t know!” I shouted. I wanted to shout it for the whole world to hear. We wandered for a few hours, and each time I saw a half-formed silhouette in the pure whiteness a great tide of hope swept over me. This is it, we’re home!, I’d think. But how many Indians had thought that very same thought, imagining security, while the white man approached from a distance?

Ann and I used the emergency packs that night and set up camp on that endless plain. The dogs were beginning to tire, and Ann was worried about their condition. What little water we’d brought we had already drank – to be fair I drank most of it, as I have a history of chronic dehydration – and the dogs could only eat snow for so long.

“It can’t be far now,” I said in a voice tinged with hysteria. “We have to hit something eventually!” It really surprised me that there was so much unconquered territory left in Canada, and if I wasn’t desperately lost within its clutches I would have been heartened by this small victory over imperialism. Ann nodded, shivering, and we spent the night curled in on ourselves like infants.

As I had pessimistically predicted, the blizzard continued through the night and showed no signs of letting up the next day. We set out early, hoping to reach my cabin by midday. But midday came and went, and I was seriously considering plopping myself down in the snow and calling it quits. Then I heard Ann’s voice cutting through my dark, dark thoughts: “Gray Owl! Is that a lake?” I looked up and saw Ann and the six dogs standing by something that was less white than everything else. I went over to them and tapped the surface; it was refreshingly hard after so much soft, unstable snow. I could not see to the other end of the lake, but as soon as the toe of my boot struck the ice I knew it stretched at least a mile in either direction. The depth of the ice-world beneath me sent a ripple through my whole body, like the quick movement of salmons’ tails as they splash upstream to spawn.

“It looks like a lake, yeah,” I said, edging out onto the ice. “We might be able to get some fresh water.” No sooner had I said this than I heard a sharp cracking noise that bellowed out as if from a distance. Ann’s alarmed shout reached me in slow-motion, and I knew that I was falling. My body squeezed tight, anticipating the blunt force of submersion. Instead, my knees buckled and I fell on a cold, hard floor of ice. All around me were tufts of exquisite, crystalline frost that shone bright silver; they reminded me of a wisp of a tale I had heard long ago.

“Gray Owl,” Ann whispered into the cave. She peered down into the hole and seemed shocked to see me waving up at her.

“It’s all right,” I said, still mildly shocked and possibly concussed. “There’s plenty of room down here!” The cave was much warmer than up above. I planted my feet firmly on the ground and ran my gloved hands along the walls. It was a peaceful place, perhaps used by my ancestors as a wishing well. I was inundated by colors, by the reflection of Ann’s red snowsuit against the ice as she climbed down, the iced brown bodies of our pack as we lured them into our arms, and as we built a fire there and it flared orange like the Indian sun I felt an alien warmth within me.

“Does this happen often?” Ann asked, and for a minute I thought she had witnessed the blooming heat in my chest. Then she gestured to the walls of the cave and beyond.

“Yes,” I answered unthinkingly. I really had no idea. I could see deep tunnels of ice on either side of us and knew there must be some system to it, because I had never seen nature uninhibited, without a controlling human hand pressed down on it. “Those tunnels probably go right to the shore. Maybe tomorrow…?”

Ann nodded, then turned to watch the dogs settle in to rest. “They should sleep for a while now.” I’d started to wonder what we were going to eat in the meantime, but Ann seemed to have a ready solution. She extracted one of the pheasants from her navy sack and wordlessly snapped its neck, though I’m pretty sure it was already well-frozen. We cooked that over our modest fire and she plucked it clean.

I replayed her white fingers tearing at the feathers of that bird, the quickness of her tiny wrists and her palms moist with exertion. In my mind she was naked but for the gentle embrace of the wind as it whipped through her hair, and in the cave we were a natural trinity: a man, a woman, and a pack of dogs. Come to think of it, if Plains Crees could construct their own Holy Trinity, it would probably be exactly that. I watched Ann sleep with animal curiosity, knowing that this was probably the metaphorical climax of my life. The car rides, the ruined moccasins, Reservation Sports Blogging, all of this fell away as the night sunk over us and the winter air was as fresh and blue as Ann’s eyes. I wanted that blue to penetrate me, to fill me forever with the hope I had glimpsed only once or twice from my indifferent cabin window. I wanted it to save me.

As we moved through the tunnels the next day the dampness hovered over us like the drunken breath of a once-close friend. Ann and I built little fires out of sticks and twigs, and sometimes a pocket of flammable crust caught the flames and burst into a great ball of sulfurous noise. (Apparently it was swamp gas, good old ignis fatuus.) There was little chance of me pretending to have known about this phenomenon, as the first time it happened I squealed from a place very far back in my throat and smashed my head on the icy ceiling.

“It’s a good thing I’m a certified medic!” Ann half-joked. The dogs followed Ann and I followed the dogs as we pushed through the wintery chambers. The bright sky poured light on us, the kind of light that happens when you see a girl you love wearing a yellow dress. We were still lost, but for some reason I knew that after we had survived this miracle we would find our way again.

As dusk approached we found a rebel group of birds that remained north for the winter. They were huddled under the ice, arrived there from the cracks up above. I vaguely remembered a proverb that said something to the effect of “birds = safety.” I told Ann that we were probably close to the shore of the lake. The dogs crept towards the birds and nuzzled them with wet, brown noses. With no reprimand from Ann, the dogs swept the creatures up in their mouths and carried them back to us. Ann retrieved one from a dog’s jaw, and so I took one in my own hands. I gazed into the fine black eyes of the bird that I held and understood why it lingered – wasn’t I lingering too? We were both waiting for the spring to return, for the great reclamation of our land by the green sprig of rightful ownership. There are legends that I almost remember about birds being the creators of the world; I thought this bird could transform me into a wispy wind of myself, and as wind I could float back to my past and fix all the moments of ingratitude that I’d had. But after ten minutes of staring at each other, the bird and I both realized that we would remain in our own bodies, trapped forever in that endless quest for spring.

Ann and I scrambled up onto the shore after more than twelve hours beneath the surface of the lake. We placed the little birds in convenient tree branches. It was like I was putting my soul back where it belonged.

The snowstorm had lifted, and it didn’t take us very long to find my cabin. Ann left me with my newly-trained pack of German shorthaired pointers. We stood on the snow and waved at her as she backed slowly out of my driveway and onto the open road. I was utterly overcome – I had no idea that Ann was going to train my dogs to wave their paws. The real world lay somewhere behind me, and the life-shattering blue of her eyes filled my vision. I thought of her lonely journey home, and the particularly lonely journey of all Indians from one place to another, all hollow. I remember hoping that, should Ann ever tell our story twenty or so years from now, she would recall me as the troubled but strong Cree Indian who was haunted by the depth of his empathy.

She beeped another farewell as her car disappeared into a thicket of dead trees.

I wanted to walk slowly back to the lake, where I could submerge myself and discover myself and laugh until I cried. Instead I took the dogs into my cabin, and my heart was filled with a thousand colors.

I'm going to write something soon, she said, running in the opposite direction

WHAT

Some horrifying things to consider:

The text reads: Who'll deliver a hot dog and fries to me?

Ahem. That guy.

The Stench of Hope

Last night went pretty well, it turns out! Despite this unfortunate outfit:

Me and another victim of the Purple Death wear fake, cracking smiles.

We all got a huge, be-musicked chocolate cake donated to us which I had the honor of slicing. I also had the honor of getting slightly sloshed at the Kinsale with my bosom pals Dana, Allison, Matt and Katie. Boy do those vegans know how to party.

In other news, today I got the affirmation I've been waiting for all my life. Kids suck, and here's why. I was working on the third floor (where all the sparkly pink stuff is), and a child of maybe three or four started screaming uncontrollably, swinging from her mother's arm like a lame chimp. She grabbed a display of silly magnets (inscribed with phrases like "LOL" and "QT") and threw it to the floor, covering it with her body. I tried to take it from her and got an earful, let me tell you. The mom said, "I'll get it from her," and I was perfectly happy to leave them to it. Five minutes later, they come up to the register, the child's still screaming, and the mother puts the display in front of me and starts taking off all the magnets. "Uhh, that's a display," I said without conviction. "I know," she said. "I'm taking all of these. Well, at least twelve." So she buys a pink magnetic board and $16.21 worth of those stupid magnets and reconstructs the display for this child who is still screaming, crying for a reason no one, not even she herself, can comprehend. How much useless crap do people have to buy to placate bratty, noisy kids? Where does the travesty end? In bankruptcy, I'll bet.

Speaking of travesty, has anyone read this story? Looks like I'm going to smell like salmon for days and days now.

Learning about ourselves

Good movies always encourage you reflect about your own life and experiences - they provide a certain "What would Jesus do?" moment, except usually without the Jesus. This is especially true of the most recent movie I saw in theaters, "The Last Exorcism" (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Last_Exorcism), whose reviews could have been much worse, let's be honest.

So if I were Nell, the "possessed" (read: repressed) waxen girl in TLE, it's pretty clear what steps I would take to, you know, deal with that shit.

First of all, this girl's wardrobe is made up entirely of lacy nightgowns, and what exorcism movie have you seen where the chick isn't wearing one of those? Demons find white nightgowns ironic. Also, if you're a demon, you know that only ghosts are allowed to wear nightgowns in the underworld, and ghosts are probably the most un-hip evil things there are. So you might as well take advantage of the opportunity on Earth (that's what Jesus did).

If you're going to be possessed, at least do it up right. One: get a fucking awesome voice, not your own voice just lowered a little bit. I mean, you just sound like a stern parent that way, talking about the evils of "blowing jobs" and outdoor sex. Two: don't go half-way lesbian. Three: If you can climb walls and do all sorts of Cirque du Soleil contortions, DO A DANCE!!!! Nell even did a split at one point, and I think everyone was more confused than terrified.

If someone tries to impregnate you with a demon baby, it's okay to cut the nice, girl-next-door spiel. There are tons of firearms around, if you know what I mean. Make Louisiana proud.

But, as we all know, hindsight is 20/20. Of course I can advise these things now while sitting in a mosquito-less, airconditioned theater. Decisions are hard when you're choking in the muggy Bayou air. I can only hope that my resolutions will persuade future demon victims to make the most of their - well, what would you call that? A demon exchange program? Anyway, I hope they forgo the nightgowns.

In unrelated news, I saw a group of tourists asking a man in full clown makeup directions to the Harvard Bridge at 10:30 a.m. the other day. Does it not occur to anyone else that asking A CLOWN for directions is asking to get lost? It's a clown's responsibility to dick people around, on or off the clock. And this was no amateur clown, either. His red nose was perfectly sculpted to his face, and his hat was pinned delicately to gentle auburn tresses. His polka-dotted suit looked worn but not old. That kind of guy takes clowning seriously, and when someone takes clowning seriously there's no hope for the rest of us. It would save time if you just slipped on your own banana peel. So yeah, that's another revision those douchebags might make in hindsight.

Of course, this post could have very well been called "pot calls the kettle black," if any of you are acquainted with my personal history. But these recent events have issued a new beginning in awareness. If I ever catch myself bashing a cat over the head with a camera or talking to a clown as if he were a normal person, I'll know to stop, drop and roll (so to speak). And that's life, isn't it?

My roommate's back, and there's gonna be trouble (hey now, hey now...)

Katie has returned from her seemingly endless Haitian vacation (p.s., it wasn't a vacation, I just like how those two words rhyme). Apparently she acquired some new bacteria friends, as well as an appreciation for donated Halloween costumes. In witnessing a man wear a cow-replete-with-udders outfit while he ferries people from a passenger boat, you are appreciating the ingenuity and resourcefulness of the human spirit. I only wish things like that happened more often. HINT: costume party on the Common, plz.

Instead of souvenirs, Katie brought back a tremendous heatwave that saw me flipping my hair up and down in an effort to fan my brain. I am currently encased in a thin, ever-growing layer of sweat that I don't know what to do with. Though Mab could use a bath...

Charles has also returned to Boston, but only for a few weeks. During those few weeks I expect to be introduced to at least five more local bars I've never heard of and make the trek out to Roslindale for free stuff. Tonight I got two cardigans, a neon "Philadelphia" bag, and cut-off shorts that Charles "made herself" by dissecting a pair of Eddie Bauer jeans. Gotta love hand-me-downs!

What's with the hyphen-use in this post, btw?

In less than two weeks I will be performing in a Calliope concert at Old West Church in Boston. I am convincing people to go by means of showing them the ensemble I have to wear, which closely resembles the below image in terms of mood and neckline:

I don't think you're ready for this jelly. Or the forty-five minutes of nonstop German we're about to serve up in here.

Any takers? Or is ya'll scccred? (I might be a little scared as well, but I'm going for it!)

A treasure trove

I have great friends, and I wanted to put together a brief little list of the various links that three of them (i.e., Sam, Allison and Liz) have left on my Facebook wall of late:

Sam:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZRHoDd-tSjg&feature=player_embedded#!

Allison:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J8tODhvb47s&feature=player_embedded

Liz:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=87FSK6Dfnt4

New favorite scene...

Morgens: You broke your fucking hand.

Tim: Yeah, whattya gonna do?

Morgens: You crazy son of a bitch.

Tim: Brother from another mother, this guy! Could somebody get this guy a beer?

Never....ever....rest....ever....rest....EVEREST!

My new favorite show!

Of course, after finishing a (good) book, I do a Youtube follow-up of related videos, as well as some Google image searches (if the the book is a work of fiction, I search for people that "look" like the characters and make a little Paint collage that I can stare at all hours of the day) and mood-appropriate playlist construction. This time, after finishing Jon Krakauer's "Into Thin Air," I've started watching a "docudrama" (<-- Netflix came up with this term) called "Everest: Beyond the Limit." It came out in some year, somewhere, and I'm sure nobody watches it but me. Ya'll don't know what you're missing!

The title sequence of the show uses a careful play on words to invoke a feeling of excitement and adventure; a breathy male narrator whispers ominous phrases, then, almost tauntingly, "Don't...rest...ever....rest...EVEREST!" I was amazed that someone was clever enough to notice something this simple. It's like the first time you realize that the word racecar (though it should be separated by a space in the middle) can be spelled the same frontwards and backwards. TUBULAR.

The customary adventure-type music plays in the background all the time, though it sort of doesn't fit with the usual goings-on at Everest Base Camp, which more closely resembles an outdoor North Face clearance sale than a moshpit. There are some heartwarming stories about men beating the odds to reach the base of the world's highest mountain, but even as tears are being shed there is a trickling of acid rock barely perceptible, just around the corner, like hopeful prayers drifting on a bitter wind.

My favorite scene so far involves one American guy (who sold his Harley to get here, wears an LAFD cap at all times, and seems like he enjoys The Fast and the Furious film franchise) and an unremarkable Australian dude who sit down against some rocks for a lunch break.

"I'm eating this high-protein, sodium-rich, artificial space age thing that tastes like [expletive]," the American explains, "and you," to the Australian, "are sucking on eggs." For a minute I thought Mr. LAFD was insulting this guy, but it turns out the Australian really is sucking on eggs. One can hardly believe it. The Ausi laughs knowingly, as if he's been called an eggsucker hundreds of times in the past, perhaps it's even transformed into a sort of endearing nickname. But this Paul Walker impersonator isn't finished yet.

"That's the difference between our two cultures," he says, almost revelatory. "I'm eating this paste, and you're sucking on eggs." He sits in wonderment for a moment, overcome with this most astounding of realizations. "Well," he says finally, "let's try to keep diplomatic relations civil."

THE DRAMA JUST KEEPS COMING!

I'm still on the first episode, but I am literally chomping at the bit for more

high-stakes action. And I have Instant Netflix to thank for it all!

BEST:

Second Best:

(No offense, Mab.)

Young No Money

It definitely feels like Daniels never happened. Boston has been plunged into a three-day spell (yes, it's a witch's spell) of rain and wind and all that good stuff. My usual response to rain is to throw my entire body onto my purse to keep it dry and mumble, "Jesus H. Christ!" while creeping along a nearby brick wall. On the plus side, I did nab some new fleur-de-lis boots that will go with EVERY OUTFIT. Thank God for small favors.

A longer post is soon to come! Right now I'm sort of in a paranormal activity-type mood, because I'm just so excited about this!!!!

For now I leave you in good hands:

Memorytown

Daniels, what can I say about you?

Every day of the week has a corresponding alchohol reference ("Margarita Monday," "Tipsy Tuesday"...), thanks to drunken brainstorming. The crickets chirp approbations.

A wandering minstrel has been spotted from the dining room window. No one knows from whence he came - could he be a product of mass hallucination? Anything is possible when you've eaten so much food that colors start to blend.

While playing Taboo the other night, Krista tried to have me guess the word "pilgrim" by reminding me about a past birthday party. "Hey Emily, you had this birthday party a couple of years ago, blank and blank..." My answer? "Surprise and fuck!" Never have I been more taken aback - and jealous - of my own hypothetical birthday party.

Krista and I did win the Crazy Dance Contest, however, which I chalk up to a potent mix of Sex on the Beach featuring peach schnopps, eyeballed vodka shots, cranberry juice and other fruit derivations. Anything is possible with the right amount of mixed drank.

See you soon, real world!

On repelling a repulsive (41-year-old) person on OkCupid...

him: Hey sweetie

me: and he's back

him: Hi puppy Howgoes it ;)

him: :)

me: oh, you know, got a sex change. sorryyyyyz

him: Awww no dont ell me. you were cute Haha

me: times have changed, tbone

him: you like me and you know it

me: how could you tell? could it be the obvious attraction that i, as a 21-year-old, would have for someone old enough to be my creepy uncle?

him: youre so goofy with that creepy this creepy that b.s. Just have to get to know eachother a while more and get you here to visit

me: in a retirement home?

AND...

different guy: i dont wanna sound like a dick lol but you look like you have big boobs :)

different guy: thats a happy face

me: i do :-( i don't advise it, man. too heavy.

different guy: : //

me: do you live in a place with empty beer bottles on top of shelves?

different guy: i have a bandroom like that, but not here

me: all right

I think we all know where my line of questioning was headed.

Oh, to be carefree...or rabid.

Those crazy Brits...

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Us vs. The Jesuits

Every year, a group of thirtysomething Jesuit novices comes to Cape May to sing karaoke and get up to no good. They all wear unflattering khaki shorts and leather flip-flops, and they dedicate every song to the Phillies, each other, or some bashful middle-aged woman in the front row. This year I learned that not all of them are Jesuit novices, though the ones that are seem to be the drunkest. Their karaoke lineup (which Terry of "Terryoke" kept screwing up anyway) included "Piano Man," "Born to Run," and "Sweet Caroline." Needless to say, the boys are crowd favorites.

I wasn't too shabby with my usual "Like a Virgin" deal, but unfortunately one of the louder and grosser novices latched onto me for the rest of the night, occasionally screaming my name and telling my mother that he had a "little crush on her - welllll, maybe a big crush." This is the same guy who blared "I'll be here all week!" during every musical break in his song.

The kid who did "Don't Stop Believing" was not a Jesuit novice, but some random son or cousin in a group of hundreds of tanned Long Islanders with balloon hats. Aunt Patti leaned over to me during his performance to say, "Well he's half shot-in-the-ass."

And you know how at every single karaoke bar there's an old guy wearing a polo shirt who'll sing three or more Frank Sinatra songs? Our guy's name was Skip, and he closed his eyes and clutched the mic with both hands while singing "My Way," which I thought was a little dramatic given that we were at the Jersey shore in a bar called The Boiler Room. Mom seemed to like him, though.

I've always gone out to karaoke with a group of like-minded friends, but let me tell you, there is nothing on this earth more hilarious than singing karaoke with a whole host of older family members, each of whom has had two-and-a-half stingers apiece. If you can't convince your family to suffer through an entire night of amateur singing, I'll gladly lend you mine.

Family, broken down

Bakery Cake = $45.00

Jumbo candy bag = $4.99

A dozen grown adults playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey = almost too good to be true

Cape May, Same Old Jersey

What a wonderful place New Jersey is, and I'm not being facetious. I really think it's a well-camouflaged paradise. There's cheap beer, shirtless guys, clean beaches and, my favorite, a nightly flag-lowering ceremony (replete with Bermuda shorts and Kate Smith). People warn me about the New Jersey water, but water tastes pretty much the same anywhere you go. Those who claim otherwise need to start drinking less boring stuff.

The only problem with this vacation (which I've taken with my family every year since I was at least 10) is that my beloved cousin Jess is in France. I'm not saying I'm jealous of her - France is great but requires me to be flexible about learning new things, which I just can't do - but she is my saving grace each year down the shore. What am I supposed to do with myself without a rigid cool-person schedule to follow? So far I've mooched off my family's beer supply and drove 15 minutes to the nearest Starbucks, located in a promising shopping center next to a Sonic. Most of my cousins (who are all over 30) are recovering alcoholics, so it's not like we can go out on the town one of these nights. One of them suggested an 8:00 showing of "Operation" tomorrow night, produced by the local Cape May theater company. I said I'd go, but I'm not sure I'll survive.

Is it too desperate to go to a bar by myself and pretend I came to watch the Phillies game? Knowing me, I'd go on a night when the Phillies aren't playing and would end up having to watch The Bachelorette.

REMINDER: IT'S SHARK WEEK! More on that later, I think.

Finally, I overheard one of the best things ever in the history of eavesdropping: I was walking along the boardwalk (read: elevated walkway) in search of postcards when a group of teenage ruffians walked by. One of them turned to his two friends and asked, "Hey guys, how do you get semen off your pants?" I didn't hear their answer, but now I'm making it my special mission to find out once and for all.

In browsing through my uncle's copy of "Talk Dirty French"...

etre stone / defonce : to be stoned / demolished

ex: Mark a besoin de plus que ca pour etre stone.

trans: Mark needs more than that to be stoned.

petit frappe: gangbanger

ex: Les petites frappes de la cite effraient les memes.

trans: The city's gangbangers frighten old ladies.

SIDA, sida: AIDS

ex: Tu vas pas choper le sida en me parlant.

trans: You won't get AIDS by talking to me. -> ORLY?

I hope all of this is useful for somebody somewhere.

Our brains in the vortex

You know, the 1973 sci-fi film Zardoz is a really appropriate metaphor for my first summer in Boston - nay, my entire existence. The most obvious correlation is Sean Connery, but it goes beyond that.

Here are futuristic, immortal humans living in a "vortex" of limitless intelligence, but with no idea how an erection works. I am immortal, in a sense, through my words and deeds: words like, "How do you like them apples? You like them? Why don't I bake them for you, put them in a pie?" And as for deeds, I just took out the trash with a towel on my head and no bra (and the trash bins are across the street). This immortality is seemingly indestructible, as is my knowledge of classic Star Trek episodes and Eddie Izzard stand-up. But I am forever stumped by the sex act: how, and why, does it work? An ageless question deserving of an ageless answer - Sean Connery comes to mind.

But really folks. I understand complex innuendos and can write some fantastic R-rated penguin stories, but I'm completely inept in the common-sense-practical-application department. The only legitimate solution I've found has involved Sutter Home Zinfandel, Malibu and Pineapples, and a healthy dose of cable TV. When Zed looked into that tabernacle (read, virginity!!!!), he saw those three things, and he saw me sitting in an empty room, staring at my empty hands and shouting "Why! Why!"

Zardoz has achieved a 44% rating on Rotten Tomatoes, and I hesitantly recommend it.

Will write soon, will write soon, etc.

But I just had a horrifying karaoke fail - who knew "The Thong Song" would be impossible to sing?! - and a solid 10 hours of wakeful hungoverness. When Soren walked in this morning he laughed and said, "Who's going first?" I was astonished that I was able to speak at all. 4 Bay Breezes, 2 Malibu and Pineapples, and 1 Sam Summer will do that to you, I suppose.

On cats

Lately, Mab the Allston house cat has taken to playing a one-person (one-cat?) game of hide-and-seek. (Lots of hyphens in that sentence!) Trouble is, she always picks an ingenious hiding spot, like under the Persian carpet in our room, and ends up not being able to find herself. She's been looking for days. And isn't that what life is all about?

Cats are really great, amusing things that are surprisingly alive, and they seemingly have wills of their own.

I was talking to Dad yesterday about important things, and he said, "Yeah your cat down here is becoming more and more like a little dog. I tried to get her to attack a little frog yesterday, but she wouldn't do it."

"Oh, yeah, sorry about that." I mean, I wouldn't want Elsie to start attacking little baby frogs, what the hell? At any rate, she should make that decision on her own.

"Your Mom gave me a report about your Boston cat." To my Dad, every conversation is a "report" to be taken into consideration when making plans for the future. "She told me that your cat is very Rocky-like." Not Rocky like Sylvester-Stallone-Rocky, but Rocky like the old bastard cat that lived with us for ten years. Mab will want to take care - Rocky was once the king of the hill in Norwood, but he got old and impotent (though he was spayed when he was two) and got the shit kicked out of him by crows. Elsie, who in human years could have been Rocky's great-granddaughter, terrorized him from high places, launching at him from behind chairs and landing squarely on his back. Never have I witnessed so much hissing and indignation.

Anyway, Rocky ended up wandering into the woods one summer day, never to return. To this day no one knows if he's alive or dead, but I for one sleep soundly knowing I'm free of his kamikaze attacks for good. I don't think Mab has reached his level of asshole-ness, but she is a little diva who sits with her paws crossed one over the other and steals all my stuff. But this is acceptable behavior for a cat, it seems.

Cats, man. Can't live with 'em, and I guess we could live without them. But who would want to? I just finished The Elegance of the Hedgehog by Muriel Barbery, which was soooo good. And Renee, the frumpy concierge, had a great tidbit about cats:

"The ridiculous, superfluous cats who wander through our lives with all the placidity and indifference of an imbecile are in fact the guardians of life's good and joyful moments, and of its happy web, even beneath the canopy of misfortune."

Spoken by a true cat lady, whose well-placed affections I will do my best to emulate.

Inception? More like Hotception.

That's right. A whole bunch of hot guys floating in midair, being tied up together by Joseph Gordon Levitt, who definitely lingered a bit too long over Ellen Page's calf. He'll learn eventually: Juno is off-limits.

I loved Inception. It was tense and beautiful, and gave you the sense of losing - or gaining - time, in a good way. But I do love to make fun of things...

SPOILER ALERT!

Jack Dawson has a special trinket that he brings with him on the Titanic. On the boat he meets Marion Coitillard, who is adept at every sailing task and also looks just as stunning in workman's clothes as she does in evening gowns. Turns out Jack Dawson was sent aboard to extract the Heart of the Ocean, but Mademoiselle Coitillard's suspicious mother (played by Cillian Murphy in drag), is wise to Jack's little paradox tricks. The surprisingly well-dressed and androgynous mother tries to hypnotize Jack so that he will forget all about his get-rich-quick scheme and retreat into a fantasyland of memories, replete with men in pinstripe suits, cities folding in on themselves, and a cozy ninja-themed movie night with the guys (when they watched "Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon" both with and without subtitles). But wily Jack is onto Madame Coitillard! Lo and behold, he makes amends with his estranged father in a hallucinatory episode, and has made up his mind to complete his mission.

Just when you think things are about to get carazy, Jack's little thingamajig that he brought on board - a classic timepiece fished from the icy waters of Lake Michigan - stops working, brought to a standstill: time has run out! "You guys," whispers Jack, his eyes a-crinkle, "This fucking ship's about to sink."

And so it does. They all drift away into the abyss, where children frolic in perpetually-green grass and Michael Caine reads a storybook about princes and princesses and all the chocolates you could ever want.

And so ends Inception.

FOUR STARS!!!!

Illegal posts?!?!?!

Here I am, blogging on the clock. My coworker should be back from his break in eight minutes, so let's see what we can do.

On the third floor of Barnes & Noble @ Boston University, there are more novelty products and shiny folders and picture frames than you can imagine, even if you've been there. Along the perimeter of the ceiling are helpful quotes, like "When I paint the sea roars. The others splash about in the bath." - Dali. What great advice! Another quote that is, at present, obscured by sky blue and floral curtains, is a surprisingly sexist saying by Eleanor Roosevelt, something about how women are only strong in hot water. Forget you, female olympic athletes. Unless you're syncronized swimmers.

Anyway, a "customer" just came up to me, profoundly affected by something or other, and said, "You have the best floor to work on." I couldn't understand him, so he repeated it two more times. "Oh," I said, on alert, "yeah, I do." Something was going on with this one. "It is so calm," he said, "and you have inspirational quotes all around you!" (The New England proverb "Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without," somehow leaves me uninspired.) I thanked the man for telling me these things, and he gave me a weird grin and said, "God bless." I have no doubt that he'll be waiting outside to kill us all when we live for the night, but oh well. Workers comp!

My Ascension Into Heaven

This work was completed in ONLY 30 MINUTES when I was in 5th grade. Markers, copybook page.

One ponders the symbolism.

How do you get to the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum?

How indeed. We had to ask a J.P. Licks employee - at the largest J.P. Licks in history! - who told us that, above all, we should look for a garden. There seemed to be a garden at every turn, though Krista would disagree. Apparently a tree with poison ivy growing around it doesn't qualify. Our impromptu sightseeing tour included Mass Art, Wentworth, and Harvard School of Public Health: it was comforting to know that if we didn't make it to the Gardner, we could go on several free tours and get shiny folders. I was astounded that we arrived at the museum safe and sound, though I did inappropriately touch expensive, 15th century fabrics. Oh well.

Allston on a rainy day is like a prostitute with no makeup on. Especially the always-glamorous Boston Cleansing (hey, you always get catcalled there, so that's nice) which is apparently "closed indefinitely," though the sign remains. That big yellow sign ferments in the rain, and it seeps into your skin as you cross the street from Express Laundry to Vegan corner - there's a specific name for that intersection that seems unnecessary - and the aroma of fake cheese and gluten. Allston in the rain is like a shaved, wet cat, and many other specific similes.

"Your whole street's covered in dumpsters!" Liz says. (This just happened)

But parties in Allston in the rain are moist and hot and crazy, and isn't that what everybody wants? Well, everycollegebody, anyway.

On to MST3K courtesy of Sam Adams summer variety pack!

We are following a metaphor

Today I impulsively bought whale watching tickets for Krista and I, thinking that June 12th and July 12th were the same day. On June 12th, the New England Aquarium hosted what I'm sure was an unforgettable sunset whale watch tour on the Boston harbor. Children ran to the rails of the tiny boat and blew kisses at the frothing waves, wishing for future love and immediate everything. Parents treated themselves to saltwater cocktails in the cabin, where a woman with Bette Davis eyes crooned Billie Holiday. Later that night everyone was drunk, the crew, the passengers, and the humpback whales, who got sad after five shots of vermouth and pledged to do something important soon. And on that day memories were made.

On July 12th, Krista and I had sweaty knees and discussed the lightness of veggie burgers. I carried around a printed ticket in my planner, unaware that there would be no sunset tour in our future. Instead, we arrived at the aquarium and nearly boarded a ferry for Quincy before being told - by an incredulous teenage ferry worker - that there are no sunset tours on weekdays. Our rubber-soled shoes gone to waste!

Hopefully we'll see some whales tomorrow morning, and they won't be too hungover.

Also...

OKcupid user: anyway what's up

Me: Just watching Law and Order SVU as usual. You?

OKC User: Dun Dun. Just contemplaiting.

Me: So, braiding hair while thinking?

So this is where babies come from, is it?

Well for those of us who live in Boston and ride the T - if what the T gives can be called rides and not "a fuck" - we know that today, the last day of the 2010 World Cup, the C and D lines disintegrated at Kenmore Station. The wormholes have been closed by rebels on the other side, the MBTA officials said. Tourists with Hebrew Red Sox hats and body-length shopping bags were let loose into the bus station, where they ran back and forth into walls and other people and lampposts. A greenline worker (in civilian clothing!) shouted about Armageddon and threw herself in front of oncoming buses and transformed them into shuttles, space shuttles, that would take the tourists away to a place they would be forced to forget. Meanwhile I tried to pretend that I didn't know someone who I definitely did, and he kept screaming, "What bus are you?!" in the raucous Portuguese style. A middle-aged fortune teller took the opportunity to hand out pamphlets. And that's when it came to me: I should blog this shit.

Daily ramblings? Probably weekly, then monthly, then I'll just forget and end up watching the whole series of Law and Order: SVU, AGAIN. There are worse ways to pass the time, I think, and I can recommend some kick-ass episodes.

But ramblings just the same. (That might be a Herman Melville quote, now that I think of it)