1) The obnoxious commercials from Toyota about their minivan, the Siena. I'm not sure if you've seen it, but basically the parents talk about how cool they are and how their minivan matches their awesomeness. There are actually a series of these commercials, including one in which the father in the family gets angry because somebody else dared to buy a Siena. Frankly, whenever I see a Siena on the highway now, I seriously consider smashing into it. Rather than buy, I kinda dislike anyone who WOULD buy it.
2) Pretty much any Walmart commercial will anger me, but have you seen the one where the woman is going through the store counting the rollbacks?! By the end of the commercial, she's counting into the thousands and I'm considering this representative of Walmart's incredibly well known employee relations. Eek. I'm not sure what it would take in an advertisement for Walmart for me to actually go to one of their stores, but this is definitely not it.
3) 5 Gum commercials that try to make the "taste sensation" of the gum comparable to some experience I would never want to live through. Clearly I am not the target demographic for this gum. If this happens when you chew their gum, count me back with my Trident!!
4) Do you guys remember that Mountain Dew commercial that was all World of Warcraft-y during which two women in the grocery store checkout late turn into warriors (?) and start attacking each other? I'm totally not this demographic. If something I buy is going to turn me into a rager, I think I'll opt to, umm, not buy it.
5) Those commercials for the Kia Soul with the hamsters. I just...don't want to live in that world.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Saturday, June 26, 2010
Point and Counterpoint
When I was in college, one of my favorite assignments was in a history class in which my professor asked us to read a page from the journal of a midwife and then read a newspaper entry from the town she lived on from that same date. The midwife wrote about making preparations for a visitor to the town - making food, making sure the children were out of the road and not getting run over by horses, and her nerves over making her husband proud. The newspaper wrote all about General George Washington's arrival, a detailed description of a long, important parade, and a snippet of every speech given on that day.
I loved this assignment because it illustrated to me in a vivid way how history is written. Once it's written down, it's there. That book (A Midwife's Tale: The Life of Martha Ballard, Based on Her Diary, 1785-1812) is one of my favorite books of all time because she wrote down the daily minutiae of her life, minutiae I would otherwise be unaware of. Minutiae I often wonder about when I learn about historical events. Imagine if history were told from the perspective of the caterers and cab drivers...it would certainly be more interesting to me. In addition, this one example is what makes me nervous whenever I hear about court cases where people are convicted of crimes based on eyewitness testimony since "the truth" is so complex.
My Bestest Friend and I recently went on a three day trip to New York City together. In her blog, she wrote two posts describing the trip from her perspective. I'm going to quote some of her posts and then write my own version of the events depicted.
**************************************
Bestest Friend writes: Another awesome thing about the New York subway (we'll just ignore the gross that is the bottom of the track, or that horrific greasy feeling on the handles on the stairs) is the people performing. D insists that I ignore everyone else in cities, for the most part, but I can't do that. One evening, there was a man singing opera. I mean, he was singing it WELL. He was this big, burly man, like all opera singers, and he was pretty young, and he was belting out some tunes. The next night, a girl played her guitar and sang, and she was as good if not better than many of the musicians that I listen to often.
So I had to clap for these people. They were awesome, and I know how it is to pour yourself out in music. Maybe I don't know how it is to make your living doing it, or needing to be discovered so badly it hurts, but I do understand music.
I write: The subway system is completely confusing. When are trains express trains? How can you tell? How come you get charged twice when you fuck up and make a mistake and have to leave the train station to get on the train you can only find on the other side of the street? Plus, the noise on the subway is insane. The trains themselves are squealing and loud and the tile mosaics mean every sound in the station is magnified and echoed.
And the buskers. Oh, the noise. They hurt my ears. The first night we were there, these Mexican guys, complete with sombreros, got on our train car, and sang La Bamba. Argh. As people placed money in the hats at the end of the song, I shuddered. Encouraging the noise is not something I would do. And there are buskers in the stations themselves. One day we heard this young woman screeching and as Bestest Friend stopped and clapped her hands (in approbation!) I found myself having to prevent myself from putting my hands over my ears. Noise. Noise. Noise. Stop the noise.
*****************************************
Bestest Friend writes (discussing a tour we took in Harlem advertised as a walking tour on the Harlem Renaissance) : George grew up in Harlem. George managed a ballroom and knew Malcolm X personally. George started off giving us lots of awesome information in our small group. Soon, though, George got angry, spouting off distinctions between US and THEM. I went from nodding, laughing and smiling (Yes! A'Lelia Walker WAS an interesting businesswoman in the 20's!) to shrinking back from the group, embarrassed by my European ethnicity.
About an hour into the tour, D and I turned back to go to the subway. George was horrified that we were leaving the group, but we waved him off. I was so disappointed that I hadn't seen where Langston Hughes lived, or where Countee Cullen married W.E.B. Dubois's daughter. Still, I was just happy being in the atmosphere.
I write: Our tour guide, George, created an interesting problem for me. He clearly had lived through some exciting events in Harlem, but he was an awful tour guide. He rarely turned around to talk to us, rushed us through interesting things to make us stare at boring things for long periods of time, and was, I think, just an angry black man. Should I be angry that George was angry? Should I just ignore him and try and get out of the tour what I could? There were lots of unmodified pronouns (we/us/they/them). I spent the first five minutes listening to George wondering who "we" were (the people on the tour? black people? Harlem residents? old black men? Americans?). At about minute six, though, I realized that my white skin made me a target of George's anger and I stayed to the back of the tour, mildly offended, incredibly bored, and sweating half my body weight out.
About halfway through the tour, we just left. We were close to a subway station and I could tell Bestest Friend was nearly as fried as I was - we were both half a block behind everyone else, red-faced, and my bottle of water was nearly depleted - and we left George to his anger, enjoying our own time together in Harlem, walking slowly but purposefully back to our fun.
*******************************
I'd like to read that last scene from George's point of view.
I loved this assignment because it illustrated to me in a vivid way how history is written. Once it's written down, it's there. That book (A Midwife's Tale: The Life of Martha Ballard, Based on Her Diary, 1785-1812) is one of my favorite books of all time because she wrote down the daily minutiae of her life, minutiae I would otherwise be unaware of. Minutiae I often wonder about when I learn about historical events. Imagine if history were told from the perspective of the caterers and cab drivers...it would certainly be more interesting to me. In addition, this one example is what makes me nervous whenever I hear about court cases where people are convicted of crimes based on eyewitness testimony since "the truth" is so complex.
My Bestest Friend and I recently went on a three day trip to New York City together. In her blog, she wrote two posts describing the trip from her perspective. I'm going to quote some of her posts and then write my own version of the events depicted.
**************************************
Bestest Friend writes: Another awesome thing about the New York subway (we'll just ignore the gross that is the bottom of the track, or that horrific greasy feeling on the handles on the stairs) is the people performing. D insists that I ignore everyone else in cities, for the most part, but I can't do that. One evening, there was a man singing opera. I mean, he was singing it WELL. He was this big, burly man, like all opera singers, and he was pretty young, and he was belting out some tunes. The next night, a girl played her guitar and sang, and she was as good if not better than many of the musicians that I listen to often.
So I had to clap for these people. They were awesome, and I know how it is to pour yourself out in music. Maybe I don't know how it is to make your living doing it, or needing to be discovered so badly it hurts, but I do understand music.
I write: The subway system is completely confusing. When are trains express trains? How can you tell? How come you get charged twice when you fuck up and make a mistake and have to leave the train station to get on the train you can only find on the other side of the street? Plus, the noise on the subway is insane. The trains themselves are squealing and loud and the tile mosaics mean every sound in the station is magnified and echoed.
And the buskers. Oh, the noise. They hurt my ears. The first night we were there, these Mexican guys, complete with sombreros, got on our train car, and sang La Bamba. Argh. As people placed money in the hats at the end of the song, I shuddered. Encouraging the noise is not something I would do. And there are buskers in the stations themselves. One day we heard this young woman screeching and as Bestest Friend stopped and clapped her hands (in approbation!) I found myself having to prevent myself from putting my hands over my ears. Noise. Noise. Noise. Stop the noise.
*****************************************
Bestest Friend writes (discussing a tour we took in Harlem advertised as a walking tour on the Harlem Renaissance) : George grew up in Harlem. George managed a ballroom and knew Malcolm X personally. George started off giving us lots of awesome information in our small group. Soon, though, George got angry, spouting off distinctions between US and THEM. I went from nodding, laughing and smiling (Yes! A'Lelia Walker WAS an interesting businesswoman in the 20's!) to shrinking back from the group, embarrassed by my European ethnicity.
About an hour into the tour, D and I turned back to go to the subway. George was horrified that we were leaving the group, but we waved him off. I was so disappointed that I hadn't seen where Langston Hughes lived, or where Countee Cullen married W.E.B. Dubois's daughter. Still, I was just happy being in the atmosphere.
I write: Our tour guide, George, created an interesting problem for me. He clearly had lived through some exciting events in Harlem, but he was an awful tour guide. He rarely turned around to talk to us, rushed us through interesting things to make us stare at boring things for long periods of time, and was, I think, just an angry black man. Should I be angry that George was angry? Should I just ignore him and try and get out of the tour what I could? There were lots of unmodified pronouns (we/us/they/them). I spent the first five minutes listening to George wondering who "we" were (the people on the tour? black people? Harlem residents? old black men? Americans?). At about minute six, though, I realized that my white skin made me a target of George's anger and I stayed to the back of the tour, mildly offended, incredibly bored, and sweating half my body weight out.
About halfway through the tour, we just left. We were close to a subway station and I could tell Bestest Friend was nearly as fried as I was - we were both half a block behind everyone else, red-faced, and my bottle of water was nearly depleted - and we left George to his anger, enjoying our own time together in Harlem, walking slowly but purposefully back to our fun.
*******************************
I'd like to read that last scene from George's point of view.
Thursday, June 24, 2010
Today is the Day
My husband is a doctor!! Whooo hoo!! The boy defended today and I'm officially a doctor's wife. (The real doctor, you know, a doctor of philosophy, not that pansy ass medical doctor!!)I'm so proud, so happy, and so excited.
Tuesday, June 22, 2010
Dealing with it (kind of)
There haven't been many old men in my life. My maternal grandfather died when I was 10. My father was estranged from my paternal grandfather, so I have only ever seen two brief glimpses of the man, once when I was seven and once when I was in my early twenties.
***********************************************************
When we do things with my husband's family, I always try and finagle a seat by Grandpa. He's 90, cross-eyed, and hilarious. The results of my machinations are always a surprise. Sometimes Grandpa sits back and says nothing. Sometimes he launches into stories about how the orders got mixed up when he was in Europe during World War II and he got to Normandy about a week too late for what he calls "the death trap." Sometimes he talks nonstop about how awful the Cubs are this year. Sometimes he just watches his great-grandchildren, occasionally reaching out to touch them, just brief caresses on their hair or cheek, seemingly unsure of what to make of them, these adorable creatures who sprang from the loins of his offsprings' offsprings' offsprings.
***************************************************
This weekend was the first time in my entire life I was aware of Father's Day commercials and felt them sharply, keenly, as if they were directed at me. When I got back into Minneapolis Sunday night, I found the Father's Day card I had picked out for my father, weeks ago, a card designed just for him, sitting on the kitchen table. I held it in my hand for a second before I tossed it into the recycling.
**************************************************
Last week, going through some papers near my father's recliner, the very recliner where my mother found him dead, I found an unopened envelope addressed to my father in my handwriting. It was a birthday card, sent to him this past March. I held it in my hand for a second before I tossed it into the trash.
**************************************************
I mourned for the man who used to be my father - the one who patiently taught me to tie my shoes, who listened to me count to 100 approximately a million times on road trips, who was the strongest, tallest, most handsome man I ever knew - I mourned him years ago in therapy.
Last week, I mourned for my mother and my sister. They are stuck with a mess, a mess I fled, a mess that is clean upable, but a mess that sends spears of pain through my stomach whenever I think of it. I'm sorry for them that I had to leave, sorry for them that I couldn't be stronger any longer, and sorry for them that there aren't enough words in the world to let them know that I am behind them all the way.
***********************************************************
When we do things with my husband's family, I always try and finagle a seat by Grandpa. He's 90, cross-eyed, and hilarious. The results of my machinations are always a surprise. Sometimes Grandpa sits back and says nothing. Sometimes he launches into stories about how the orders got mixed up when he was in Europe during World War II and he got to Normandy about a week too late for what he calls "the death trap." Sometimes he talks nonstop about how awful the Cubs are this year. Sometimes he just watches his great-grandchildren, occasionally reaching out to touch them, just brief caresses on their hair or cheek, seemingly unsure of what to make of them, these adorable creatures who sprang from the loins of his offsprings' offsprings' offsprings.
***************************************************
This weekend was the first time in my entire life I was aware of Father's Day commercials and felt them sharply, keenly, as if they were directed at me. When I got back into Minneapolis Sunday night, I found the Father's Day card I had picked out for my father, weeks ago, a card designed just for him, sitting on the kitchen table. I held it in my hand for a second before I tossed it into the recycling.
**************************************************
Last week, going through some papers near my father's recliner, the very recliner where my mother found him dead, I found an unopened envelope addressed to my father in my handwriting. It was a birthday card, sent to him this past March. I held it in my hand for a second before I tossed it into the trash.
**************************************************
I mourned for the man who used to be my father - the one who patiently taught me to tie my shoes, who listened to me count to 100 approximately a million times on road trips, who was the strongest, tallest, most handsome man I ever knew - I mourned him years ago in therapy.
Last week, I mourned for my mother and my sister. They are stuck with a mess, a mess I fled, a mess that is clean upable, but a mess that sends spears of pain through my stomach whenever I think of it. I'm sorry for them that I had to leave, sorry for them that I couldn't be stronger any longer, and sorry for them that there aren't enough words in the world to let them know that I am behind them all the way.
Monday, June 14, 2010
Fuckity Fuck Fuck Fuck
When we came back from walking around the lake on Friday night, my phone showed nine missed calls, all of them from my sister, my mother, and my cousin. Oh, shit. When I finally was able to reach my sister, she told me that my father had died.
He was 56 years old. We just didn't expect this right now.
I've spent the last two days making lists, phone calls, and meals. I'm pissed off. I'm stuck in Michigan, a place I try to avoid like some people avoid north Minneapolis. I can't believe he did this. And on a fucking Friday to boot. You can't get shit done on a weekend. It's like his last move was to piss me off as much as possible.
We weren't super close and, as the outsider coming in to clean things up, I'm going through all the paperwork he left behind and I see more and more reasons why we weren't close. It's a mess, a giant mess. My mom did some smart moves and protected herself financially in a lot of ways and I'm super proud of her and how she's dealing with all of this, but it's still a fucking morass of awfulness.
Meanwhile, I'm stuck in the middle of nowhere, my phone only gets reception if I drive three miles away, and my poor husband has been reduced to eating packaged foods because the kitchen here is not set up for him to eat.
I'm sure that in the weeks and months to come I'll write mushy, maudlin words devoted to his memory, but right now, just know that if he were still alive, I'd kick his ass.
According to Kubler-Ross, the five stages are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Right now I'm on anger and I'm pretty sure I'm going to be there for quite some time. Tomorrow we're doing a visitation thing and I need a better answer to "how are you doing?" than "I'm really pissed off." I'll play nice, I'll think of something, but if happen to run into me anytime soon, know that what I'm really thinking is that this sucks even worse than my first year of graduate school.
Wednesday, June 09, 2010
The Compromise That Wasn't
Him: If you could have a pet right now, any pet in the world, what would it be?
Me: Dae.
Him: (sighing heavily) Okay, let me rephrase. A pet who doesn't belong to someone else?
Me: A mediumish sized dog who is kind of lazy, sleeps at my feet a lot, and gets really excited to see me when I get home. You?
Him: A handsome dog who knows he's awesome and may come off as kind of aloof if you don't know him well.
Me: So you want a dog that's like you?
Him: What? (Thinks.) Well, you want a dog that's like you, too.
********************************
So there's still no dog in our household. Our lease comes up for renewal in three months. If they refuse to negotiate on prices, we may be moving to a new place. If we do, I think that "ability to have a dog" may be on my must have list. But then the joy of finding a dog that meets both of our requirements will be the next step...
Me: Dae.
Him: (sighing heavily) Okay, let me rephrase. A pet who doesn't belong to someone else?
Me: A mediumish sized dog who is kind of lazy, sleeps at my feet a lot, and gets really excited to see me when I get home. You?
Him: A handsome dog who knows he's awesome and may come off as kind of aloof if you don't know him well.
Me: So you want a dog that's like you?
Him: What? (Thinks.) Well, you want a dog that's like you, too.
********************************
So there's still no dog in our household. Our lease comes up for renewal in three months. If they refuse to negotiate on prices, we may be moving to a new place. If we do, I think that "ability to have a dog" may be on my must have list. But then the joy of finding a dog that meets both of our requirements will be the next step...
Friday, June 04, 2010
Some Books
Gregor and the Prophecy of Bane by Suzanne Collins - Yep. It's official. I really like this Overlander series by Collins. I'm desperate for my library to get the third book in the series that I've requested.
The School Story by Andrew Clements - This is the second children's book I've read recently that the protagonist engages in some willfully underhanded/mean/smartassish manner (The Great Brain is the other) and, at the end of the story, gets praised for their behavior. I do not like this. As a matter of fact, I despise it. If, as I presume, we want to teach our children something when we read to them or they read for themselves, perhaps we should not be teaching them to be little mini douchebags? I was not a fan and do not recommend this book at all.
Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli - In this book, a new girl, a girl with odd ideas and strange mannerisms and quirky behaviors, comes to a school. This is the story of her rise and fall. It is beautiful. The ending is unsatisfying in a good way. It is unsatisfying because of course you want to know the real ending, but you never will, just like the narrator never will, and you will always wonder. Or you will write your ending, always think whatever you wanted to happen happened. I'm still haunted by the ending of this book. Love it.
Elantris by Brandon Sanderson - This was just brilliant. I loved it, couldn't put it down, and then would recap what I read to my husband. Clearly my recaps did not do the book justice because BB kept staring at me, wondering what all the fuss was about. (At one point he asked if it was a book about non-zombie zombies and I could not tell him he was wrong.) On the surface, this is a book about three people living in a world different from our own, a world in which magic has abandoned the people, and now the world must continue on. But that's a superficial read, a read I'm perfectly fine with most of the time. But, in reality, it's a story of politics, religion, and tolerance. And it was wonderfully executed.
The School Story by Andrew Clements - This is the second children's book I've read recently that the protagonist engages in some willfully underhanded/mean/smartassish manner (The Great Brain is the other) and, at the end of the story, gets praised for their behavior. I do not like this. As a matter of fact, I despise it. If, as I presume, we want to teach our children something when we read to them or they read for themselves, perhaps we should not be teaching them to be little mini douchebags? I was not a fan and do not recommend this book at all.
Stargirl by Jerry Spinelli - In this book, a new girl, a girl with odd ideas and strange mannerisms and quirky behaviors, comes to a school. This is the story of her rise and fall. It is beautiful. The ending is unsatisfying in a good way. It is unsatisfying because of course you want to know the real ending, but you never will, just like the narrator never will, and you will always wonder. Or you will write your ending, always think whatever you wanted to happen happened. I'm still haunted by the ending of this book. Love it.
Elantris by Brandon Sanderson - This was just brilliant. I loved it, couldn't put it down, and then would recap what I read to my husband. Clearly my recaps did not do the book justice because BB kept staring at me, wondering what all the fuss was about. (At one point he asked if it was a book about non-zombie zombies and I could not tell him he was wrong.) On the surface, this is a book about three people living in a world different from our own, a world in which magic has abandoned the people, and now the world must continue on. But that's a superficial read, a read I'm perfectly fine with most of the time. But, in reality, it's a story of politics, religion, and tolerance. And it was wonderfully executed.
Thursday, June 03, 2010
New and Improved with More Angst
The number of personal effects in my office was staggering. The black stacking file crate I carried home tonight contained a light blue fleece blanket with a flying pig pattern; a pair of striped leg warmers, 1980s chic; a Tri-County Viking Band mug I earned my junior year in high school that had once held various writing furnishings; a stuffed pig holding a blanket with a ribbon around its neck, a treasured secret Santa gift from two years back; an electronic Boggle game; a mouse pad with pictures of me and my husband jumping over a stream taken during our engagement photo session; a three hole punch; two ten packs of classic color Crayola markers; three 24 packs of RoseArt crayons; countless dry erase markers; a red glass heart the size of a half dollar my husband gave me for Valentine's Day three years ago; a Ziploc bag full of pennies; 11 bouncy balls of various sizes and colors; a white mechanical kitchen timer; a foot long wooden ruler marked in inches and centimeters; two black plastic inboxes; 5 CDs, including The Coolest Country CD created by BB, John Prine's Souvenirs, Shania Twain's Greatest Hits, BB's Expansive Definition of Country: Volume 1, and Loretta Lynn's Van Lear Rose; a picture frame containing two of our wedding photos; a Nora Roberts/J.D. Robb collaboration, the uber-forgettable novel Remember When; a giant Ziploc bag filled with school supplies, some I had purchased, some I took from the supply room, some donated to me by students, all tangled up together in a huge mess; a box of red fine point permanent markers; two balls of twine; two decks of playing cards; one deck of Uno cards; and one Yahtzee game.
I will have a similar box to bring home tomorrow. After that, I'll never go there again. It will be my school no more.
**********************************************
She made a special trip to see my in my office.
"Thank you for all you have done for me this year."
"You're welcome. I'm proud of all your hard work this year."
"I'll miss you next year. Even though you won't miss me."
"Oh, I'll miss you. Just not..." I trail off, not sure what to say, what I'm allowed to say. The noise? The coddling? The low standards? The parent phone calls? The constant budget worries? The general malaise of staff? The divide between teachers?
Before I finish, she interrupts my thoughts. "I will miss you," she emphasizes, "even though you complain a lot."
"I don't -"
"Yes, you do." She proceeds to do a perfect imitation of me with my number one complaint - the noise.
I smile. No use defending yourself from the truth.
"Good luck. Keep up all your hard work." I give her a hug and she walks away.
********************************************
This will not be my last time in front of a classroom. But it somehow seems so final today, like my chance has come and gone and I've just watched it pass me by in a crazy blur of noise, noise, noise.
I will have a similar box to bring home tomorrow. After that, I'll never go there again. It will be my school no more.
**********************************************
She made a special trip to see my in my office.
"Thank you for all you have done for me this year."
"You're welcome. I'm proud of all your hard work this year."
"I'll miss you next year. Even though you won't miss me."
"Oh, I'll miss you. Just not..." I trail off, not sure what to say, what I'm allowed to say. The noise? The coddling? The low standards? The parent phone calls? The constant budget worries? The general malaise of staff? The divide between teachers?
Before I finish, she interrupts my thoughts. "I will miss you," she emphasizes, "even though you complain a lot."
"I don't -"
"Yes, you do." She proceeds to do a perfect imitation of me with my number one complaint - the noise.
I smile. No use defending yourself from the truth.
"Good luck. Keep up all your hard work." I give her a hug and she walks away.
********************************************
This will not be my last time in front of a classroom. But it somehow seems so final today, like my chance has come and gone and I've just watched it pass me by in a crazy blur of noise, noise, noise.
Tuesday, June 01, 2010
Things I Have Absurd Opinions On
Um, do I still have to write this? Harry Potter spoilers in this post!
- One ply toilet paper is ridiculous and unnecessary. As a matter of fact, if it isn't the red Charmin, I can't deal. We once purchased the blue Charmin and I bitched about it until it was replaced. You can tell me I'm being wasteful, but I don't care. Red Charmin for life, bitches.
- Baby food is disgusting. This is a conclusion I've come to after nearly gagging on it this weekend. Me (to nephew infant): Come on, baby, eat your pureed until unrecognizable sweet potatoes. As I took a small bite to indicate it would be all right for the baby to eat it, I managed to catch a whiff and gag. The baby pushed the spoon away. Can't says as I blame him too much.
- It is super important for me to have two questions answered about the Harry Potter series. What the fuck did Lily and James Potter due for a living that they had a vault full of gold when they died, but somehow managed to stay home unemployed when Voldemort was at full power? And, perhaps more importantly to me (at this moment), how did the Weasley twins know, during the Qwidditch World Cup, to bet that Krum would catch the Snitch for Bulgaria, but that Ireland would win? I NEED to know.
- When merging on a freeway, particularly in a construction zone, the proper way to merge is the zipper. Learn it, live it, love it.
- Home ownership is not for everyone. Just as parenting is not for everyone. Stop preaching about the superiority of your lifestyle. If it's great for you, that's awesome. I'm so happy for you. But it's not the right choice for everyone.
- The Israeli government's ill-fated decision to board civilian aid ships in international waters and shoot to kill was stupid. (Go ahead, ask me about North Korea. I don't know. Ask me about Russian. Eh. Whatever. Ask me about the plight of folks in Darfur. I'm sure I should have an opinion, but huh. Ask me about Israel, I'll talk out my ass.) Piracy, though? That's sure to get my goat.
- Eliza Dushku, Tobey Maguire, Katie Holmes, and David Boreanaz until about midway through the fourth season of Angel can not act. End of story. The unparalleled hotness of Tahmoh Penikett in Battlestar Gallactica and Denzel Washington in American Gangster can not be debated.
- Summer is the worst season of the year. I love that I am soon to be home from school for an extended period of time (two more days!), but between the oppressive heat and oh so delightful allergies, I'm stuck inside and can't leave!!
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