Attempt at a Children's Story

It was the 25th anniversary of the Happy Valley Aquarium, and the humans threw a big anniversary party!  After the party, they were too tired to clean up, so they left it for the morning.

Much to the luck of the animals, they had planned a party too that very same night, and the penguin hosts were quite pleased to find snacks, refreshments, and pleasant decorations already set up.  All they had to do was sweep up the place, and discretely tuck their herring snacks in a private location, so as not to offend the fish guests.  

Meanwhile, the other animals were busy preparing for the party.  The sea nettles were donning their finest ruffles; the sea lions were swimming laps, so they could squeeze into their suits; the sea otters were collecting sea stars to wear as jewelry.  The sea stars begrudgingly obliged, for they hadn’t received a direct invitation and had no other means of access into the party. 

The only animal in the aquarium who wasn’t attending the party was the octopus.  A shy creature, the octopus preferred to dwell in the shadows of his tank, where no one could find him.  He also didn’t know how to dance, which made attending parties a big bother.  The other animals knew these things about the octopus, but still insisted that he attend the party.

“Octopus, won’t you come to the party?”  asked sea otter.  “I found a sea star especially for you!”

“I have other obligations,” the octopus lied.

“Octopus, won’t you come to the party?” asked sea lion.  “There’s going to be great food!”

“I’m watching my weight,” said the octopus.

“Octopus, won’t you come to the party?” asked sea nettle.  “There’s live music and a dance floor!”

“I don’t know how to dance,” replied the octopus.

The other animals gave up on encouraging the octopus to attend, because the party was about to begin.  The penguin hosts were dressed in their finest tuxedos, and carried around platters of freshwater hors d’oeuvres.  The jellyfish arrived first, and immediately hit the dance floor; the piranhas came in a swarm, and devoured the snack table; the sea lions arrived last, dressed in skin-tight suits.  In less than ten minutes tentacles, bits of food, and buttons were flying everywhere.

By 10 o’clock, the party was in full swing, and it was time for penguin to make a toast.  At the ting-ting-ting sound of penguin tapping a spoon against glass, the animals stopped dancing and the music ceased.  Penguin opened his beak to deliver the toast, but realized that no eyes were on him!  Instead, they were on the octopus, who had just entered the room.  He was wearing a bow tie, and he had turned beet-red. 

“Octopus!  You’ve arrived after all!” exclaimed the sea otter.

“I thought I would...branch out a little,” octopus said sheepishly.  “But with all eyes on me, I would rather disappear...”  Octopus began to change color, blending in with the colorful streamers hanging behind him.

“Nonsense!  You’re going to dance with me!” exclaimed a jellyfish, and she grabbed him by the tentacle and dragged him to the dance floor.  The music started playing again, and the rest of the animals resumed dancing.  Pleased with the success of his party, penguin refrained from quieting the animals, but instead made his toast over the noise.  “To the arrival of octopus!” he exclaimed.  

“To octopus!” everyone cheered.  Octopus’s cheeks flushed red again, but this time it was not from embarrassment--it was from dancing!  

League of BOB challenge 5: Thanksgiving

Note: I apologize for the tardiness of this post.  This should have appeared a day ago.  


Strangely enough, however, if I would have posted a day ago, the topic that sparked my interest wouldn't have been apparent.  That is: Black Friday.  Or more specifically: the sock-mongers at Fred Meyer.


On a strange whim, I decided that this morning would be a good time to attend Fred Meyer.  My train of thought was as follows: "I want to purchase tights; Black Friday means sales!; Fred Meyers is within walking distance of my house!; Yay!"  What my train of thought should have been, however, is this: "I want to purchase tights; the tights are right next to the socks; Fred Meyer is known for attracting crazy, sock-hungry beasts on Black Friday; I will not go."  Unfortunately, the latter, more logical thought pattern never entered my mind (until now), so I trekked to Fred Meyer, happy and ignorant of what was to come.


Upon entering Fred Meyer, I encountered rows of big, white tables.  Big boxes full of socks perched atop these tables: white socks, colored socks, dress socks, athletic socks, holiday socks, knee socks, ankle socks, fuzzy socks, and more.  Whatever type of sock the human brain can dream up, Fred Meyer had it that day. 


What was more apparent, however, was not the immense variety of socks in stock, but the hoards of ravenous, blood-thirsty people surrounding them.  These people treated sock hunting like they were starving forest dwellers, searching for wild game.  They dug their paws into the boxes of socks and thrashed about, throwing the less attractive socks aside, in a whirlwind of sock mayhem.  The unattractive socks lay on the ground like fallen soldiers; collateral damage in the Great Sock War.  The attractive socks were hoarded and shoved in grocery bags, under armpits, or clutched tightly to the chest.  As I waded through the mess towards the tights rack, I could have sworn I saw one man foaming at the mouth.  They were aggressive, they were abundant, and they meant business.  


I eventually got what I wanted out of the trip (four pairs of tights for only 16 dollars! Ooooh yeah), and suffered only minor injuries.  More importantly, I saw what humankind is like when exposed to cheap socks in a limited space.  

BOB Challenge Number 4

I realize that lately I have taken a leave of absence from this blog thing.  This could be due to the excessive amounts of history reading I have been physically stuck under lately.  Yes, I mean it--piles of papers on top of my head, and I keep reaching, reaching through them, hoping to see some shred of light through the historiographical essays on the dimension of various buildings.  And so far I haven't reached the light.  Until now.  Yes, fellow bloggers, I have escaped!  Or maybe I'm just more willing to stay up late than I have been in the past.  Or maybe its due to the fact that my boyfriend is in India and not distracting me (let your mind wander).  In any case, I'm here now and ready to blog.


I always find non-presidential elections incredibly unsatisfying.  They ask me to vote for things I don't necessarily care about/knew existed, such as the watershed committee.  It especially lowers my enthusiasm when there is only one individual running, so my only choice is either to be a jack-ass and pointedly not vote for the person, or vote for the person simply because they have no competition and let them win the cheap way.  But I always have to wonder--to what lengths did they go to make sure their name was the only one on the ballot for their chosen position?  How did they eliminate the competition--through MURDER?  I suppose the only way to know for sure is to look deep into the eyes of the person who's running--into the eyes of their picture in the voter's pamphlet, of course.  


The photos in the voter's pamphlet are actually my secret key to voting.  Sure, it doesn't work for the measures, but it most definitely works for the people.  Do you really want your senator to be a man with a handlebar mustache?  What about the lady with the double-chin, is she really qualified to represent your state in any way, shape or form?  If they can't take care of themselves, how can they run a country?


Also, certain physical features simply reveal a lot about a person, particularly how well they will handle a governmental position.  Take the Oregon governor race, for example.  It came down to the wire, with Kitzhaber squeezing the win out by a few thousand votes.  I never lost faith in the man, however, and you know why?  He has the friendliest mustache any citizen could ask for.  I trusted that mustache, and I knew other Oregonians would trust in it too. Plus, his opponent Chris Dudley has a giant chin that automatically gives away his tendencies to be a tool.  I for one don't want the governor of my state to be a tool.


When my flawless voting techniques fail me, however (which they surprisingly do sometimes), I go to my older sister for the answers.  She was a political science major in college.  'Nuff said.

League of BOB Challenge #1: Regrets

When I think of regrets, I think of an unhealthy preoccupation with the past.  In my mind, the word regret conjures the image of Hamlet:  in contemplation of all possible outcomes of his future actions, Hamlet rendered himself unable to act, anticipating possible future regrets, and eventually died.  This is the ultimate consequence of regret: death.  

League of BOB Challenge #1: The Halloween Spirit

In continuance with the theme I started (and took a long hiatus from, due to blog laziness), I will approach the Halloween spirit by presenting a case study of someone who lacks the spirit of Halloween, at least in the traditional sense.  This person is none other then our beloved friend, Danielle Berry.  


One well known fact about Danielle is that she refuses to dress up.  This trait proves frustrating for me, chiefly because I am her roommate and I love to throw themed parties, such as Death Eaters at the Beach, or 1984 Debutante Rave.  Danielle attends my parties gladly, but always refuses to don a costume.  I speculate that the only theme she would participate in would be "America," but this would hardly be considered dressing up, for Danielle sports American-flag inspired garb at least once every three days.  


Danielle's constant refusal to dress up naturally proves problematic on Halloween, her self-declared "favorite holiday."  The curious case of Danielle extends beyond the fact that her favorite holiday is centered around an activity she refuses to do: she also claims to dislike candy and scary things (though she watched a film called Zombie Strippers recently, in which a zombie stripper bites off a man's penis.  If this is not considered a "scary thing," I don't know what is).  


Last Halloween, Danielle dressed up as a "college student"; that is, she wore the same pants she always wears, coupled with the same shoes she always wears, and the same type of shirt she always wears (probably American-inspired).  The origin of Danielle's resistance to costumes is unknown.  Though not for Halloween purposes, Danielle once dressed as a hot pocket, so we are aware that she once had no qualms with dressing up as a flaky, microwave pastry.  Whether her refusal to dress up is associated with a traumatic event, or simply due to stubbornness, Danielle remains firm in her conviction, and continues to ignore the importance of dressing up at my parties.  


AUTHOR'S NOTE: Danielle has a grand opportunity this Friday to impress me and all of our friends by dressing up for our Political Tyrant Soiree.  Time will tell whether she seizes this amazing opportunity or not.  

Love of Wizards

At the tender age of eleven, Danielle Berry awoke to find an owl scratching its talons on her window.  The owl was entrusted with a letter from the Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.  Danielle was flattered by the invitation, but not surprised to find out she was a witch;  things had been occurring in Ogden, Utah that were of a strange nature.  For example: while Danielle was staring at a sand cat in the Salt Lake City zoo, the glass mysteriously melted, releasing the rabid beast on the Pope and his "choir" boys.  Danielle was perplexed by this incident, but shrugged it off as a matter of divine intervention.  Another example: During a heated discussion at the local Denny's, Danielle accidentally turned her friend Katie into a ferret, and proceeded to drop her down the pants of the nearest elder.   


Despite these strange occurrences, Danielle was too apathetic to give a shit.  She kept living her life on the edge, hanging out with her pals Ryan, Nathan, and aforementioned random female.  But when this mysterious envelope arrived via owl, Danielle's apathy began to waver.  She was fully aware of the perks of attending Hogwarts: hot wizards with British accents, flying on a stick, and using magical sticks to make life pleasurable.  She was, also, however, aware of the drawbacks: Harry Potter was a whiny, punk-ass bitch, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to deal with that shit.


As Danielle clutched the letter, she expected to be overcome with joyous emotions; however, Danielle was no ordinary girl.  She had exceptional capacity for apathy, and found herself not giving a damn.  Danielle looked down at the letter, shrugged, and threw it under her bed, somewhere between Risk and her discarded, disheveled emotions.  She then proceeded to play Tetris.  To this day, the letter from Hogwarts collects dust, along with Danielle's denied emotions.  

Danielle: A History, In Parts

 As a tribute to my amazing roommate Danielle, I present to you Danielle: A History, an exploration of the life of my beloved roommate, gleaned from various stories and observations.  The History will be written in installments, this being the first one.  I hope you enjoy it.


The date March 14th, 1991 was a remarkable day for several reasons.  It was remarkable because a very remarkable being was born on this day, a Miss Danielle Gloria Berry, in Orange County, California.  It was also remarkable because this remarkable being was destined to be a math major, and the date of her birth numerically, that is, 3/14, made up the first three digits of pi.  What made this day not quite extraordinary was that the next four digits were quite off; some scholars see this as a sign of Miss Berry's generational misplacement.  In fact, most historians assume that Danielle's birthdate was supposed to be March 14th, 1592, placing her in the midst of Reformation, Russian anarchy, and the eventual 30 years war.  Scholars speculate about the possible connections between Danielle's historical displacement and her double major in political science.  


GLORY DAYS
Danielle grew up in Ogden, Utah, devoid of virtually any Mormon contact.  Instead, Danielle spent her days with her Catholic classmates in an intimate Catholic school.  In her younger years, Danielle met a young man who would change the course of her life forever.  His name was Ryan, and he threw amazing parties. The boy also had amazing aim: one day, he threw a penny so hard, it left an imprint of Abraham Lincoln on the back of his sister's neck.  He was bad-ass.


Ryan was remarkable for two different reasons: 1. He threw a Harry Potter themed party featuring sorting-hat shaped breads, and 2. He was the bad-ass leader of grade-school crew.  Everyone wanted to befriend Ryan; everyone wanted an invitation to his fabulous parties.  But Ryan was cool precisely because these invitations were so rare and coveted; receiving one was like achieving celebrity status.


Danielle was one of the few to receive these invitations, repeatedly.  She was a member of Ryan's selective crew, comprised of a boy named Nathan, another female, and Danielle.  Together they would partake in mischievous activities, such as stapling Nathan's hand.  Long after the group disbanded, Danielle and Nathan would meet on fishing trips and reflect on their "glory days" with Ryan.  

Bob Dylan Montage Quote Poetry

Bob Dylan is my soulmate. 


I am utterly convinced of this.  I don't care if he is sixty-nine years old, wrinkly and dying of old man disease.  I don't care.  I will always remember the Dylan of the '60s, young and skinny and adorable in his dark sunglasses.  That is the Dylan I will marry in my mind.


Anyway.


I saw Dylan in concert on the 29th of August.  I'd already seen him twice before (while I was unknowingly ill with swine flu--sorry, other concert goers), but its still an amazing, unique experience every time.  People say that Bob Dylan is awful live, particularly because his voice is croakier than ever and he changes the arrangements of his songs so they sound completely different from the recordings.  To these people I say: IT'S EFFING BOB DYLAN. QUITE COMPLAINING!  This is the same man who was accused of being "JUDAS!" for turning electric; this is also the same man who reacted to this accusation by turning to his band and yelling "Play it fucking loud!"  Bob Dylan is wonderful because he is sassy, because he is a brilliant poet, because he plays harmonica, and because the same people who felt so betrayed by his electric guitar still showed up at his concerts; even those who "loathe" him can't stay away from him, and it's because he's irresistible, and he doesn't give a shit.


While at this concert, I was struck by the brilliance of Dylan's lyrics.  I've always known he was an amazing poet, but being at a Dylan concert, in a Dylan atmosphere, allowed the essence of the words to really hit me.  This is stuff I couldn't dream of writing; and, out of Bob Dylan's mouth, it dribbles like vomit.  


In tribute to Bob Dylan and my disgusting simile, I decided to extract some lines from various Dylan songs, arrange them and patch them back together into a poem-like quilt (A quilt-like poem?)  The songs I used lines from appear at the end of this post, in order of line appearance. I hope you enjoy!


Visions of Tangled, Leopard Skin Memphis Blues


I'm going on the run,
I'm going to Acapulco
Where flowers on the hillside bloom crazy
beneath the Panamanian moon.


My love, she laughs like the flowers.
She's delicate like the mirror,
and can take the dark out of the nighttime and
paint the daytime black.


I could stay with her forever, and never realize the time.


She opened up a book of poems, and handed them to me.
and everyone of those words rang true,
and glowed like a blue river,
running slow and lazy through my soul.


She slipped out of the side door,
(she forgot to close the garage door)
looking like a queen without a crown. 
Goodbye is too good a word,
So I just said 'fare thee well.'


Now people just get uglier, 
and I have no sense of time.
It's alright, its life and life only,
and I'll feast on her eyes,
but I'll dream about the door.  


"Goin' to Acapulco"
"You're Gonna Make Me Lonesome When You Go"
"Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again"
"Love Minus Zero/No Limit"
"Visions of Johanna"
"She Belongs to Me"
"Tangled Up in Blue"
"Lily, Rosemary and the Jack of Hearts"
"Leopard Skin Pill Box Hat"
"Don't Think Twice, It's Alright"
"It's Alright Ma (I'm Only Bleeding)"
"I'm Not There"

Breaking Up

When I enter into relationships, I never anticipate the end.  Well, perhaps I do in the abstract sense: I never assume the person I am dating will be the one I marry in the future.  That position of holy matrimony is always reserved for Mystery Man X, who I always seem to visualize as tall, lanky, and sporting shaggy brown hair (why I never picture myself marrying a short, stout, blonde man is a shallow, subconscious mystery to me).  In the concrete, present tense, however, I am never prepared for the inevitable break-up; I can never accurately anticipate the turbulent, gnawing misery of losing human connections, rejecting/being rejected, and hurting others.  *Author's side-note* Sometimes I wonder if forgetting the pain is biologically fixed inside of us to encourage further pursuit of relationships and eventual mating, as to ensure our survival as a species.  I'm not sure if I would pursue relationships any longer if I remembered with vividness how my insides felt like they were melting into a pool of miserable sobs quickly gyrating out of my control.  But fortunately (unfortunately?) I have forgotten this weeping, whirling sensation and will likely feel it again. And again. And again.

Strangely, these feelings were not imposed on me; they were the product of my own choice.  I broke up with my boyfriend recently; refraining from doing so would have prevented the intense emotional suffering of a break-up.  Why did I do it then?

Being broken up with is certainly more strikingly, enduringly painful than breaking up with someone--I would argue that the latter, however, is more morally/philosophically distressing--at least it was for me.  The idea of breaking up with my boyfriend tormented me, even though I was sure that I wasn't getting what I wanted out of our relationship anymore.  It tormented me because I cared deeply about him, and didn't want to erase him from my life.  I sometimes felt I should stay in it just so I didn't lose him completely.

After talking with a close friend of mine, however, I realized that this was a very selfish idea.  I was essentially wasting his time and mine, locking us into a relationship that I felt was going nowhere, but was too afraid to say so.  I wouldn't want to remain in a relationship with him if he felt the same way I did.  It felt too dishonest.   

My decision ultimately boiled down to two options: hurt now, feel better later, or hurt now, hurt more later.  I knew the end was near, and I was just prolonging the suffering.  I also knew that I wasn't prolonging the suffering for anyone's benefit; it was simply out of cowardice that I avoided the inevitable end.  I didn't want to be in a relationship anymore, but I didn't want to take the necessary action to end it.  

And I didn't want to do it, up until the end.  When I dialed his number, I half-hoped he wouldn't answer.  It would be another temporary pardon from the terrible task before me; another reason to prolong the suffering and delay the misery.  

But he did answer.  And I used the dreaded line "I just want to be friends." He sounded hurt but not too surprised.  And we talked about following through with our plans to go to the zoo, plans that will probably never really transpire.  We exchanged a few more awkward lines, and quickly bid farewell.  

We agreed to be friends, but I'm not sure how long it will take.  In my ideal world, we would be friends now, going to the zoo platonically and talking on the phone about Dexter and sand cats.  But I know this is not my ideal world, and I know he's not ready.  

I miss him, and went through a period of mourning.  I even contemplated regret, and mused over the possibility of getting back together.  I couldn't change my facebook relationship status for days.  With the help of friends, sassy music and shopping, however, I have come to accept my decision.  I still care about him and hope he knows it.  I wish I could give him a hug right now, but I am aware that I am not the right person to console him in this situation.  I find solace, however, in the fact that he will, undoubtedly, be okay, for:

"We never did too much talkin' anyway / Don't think twice, it's alright." - Bob Dylan

Canada Part 2

There is something oddly satisfying about seeing world leaders/celebrities/miscellaneous famous people displayed in wax form.

Shelby and I visited the Wax Museum in Victoria on our second day in town.  Both of us were skeptical of the situation.  We met a girl outside the Parliament building the night before, who described her experience at the wax museum like this:

"It was pretty cool.  Except the fairy tale section is really scary.  When you think fairy tales, you think pretty, like Cinderella or Snow White, right?  But its not.  Maybe I was freaked out because I was the only one down there...But you will have to see it for yourself."  

We couldn't resist visiting the museum after this mysterious cliff-hanger description.  Plus, I love freaky things.  And so we went, unsure of what to expect except a lot of wax.

I encountered some of my favorite historical/literary figures in the wax museum, including Napoleon Bonaparte, William Shakespeare and Charles Dickens (Yeah, I have a strange fascination with Napoleon.  He was, like, five foot two and almost conquered all of Europe).  Part of the museum was arranged in display cases, grouping different figures together under strange, inspirational categories, such as "martyrs of hope" (which included the Kennedy's, Martin Luther King Jr., Abe Lincoln, etc.)  One of the display cases portrayed the political friendship between the U.S. and Britain, and included various U.S. presidents: Obama, both Bushes, Clinton, and George Washington.  After gazing fondly at the wax portrayal of President Obama, Shelby and I moved on and proceeded towards Winston Churchill.  A father and son pair took our place at the president display case.  While contemplating Winston Churchill, I heard the son exclaim in a concerned, eight year old voice: "look, dad! They don't have Ronald Reagan!"  Shelby and I tore our eyes away from Winston Churchill and exchanged confused glances.  Perhaps the boy is fond of Reaganomics?  

After making our rounds on the first floor and sufficiently recovering from the absence of Ronald Reagan, Shelby and I proceeded downstairs, to the aforementioned "freaky" part of the exhibit.  I thought maybe the girl we met was a bit squeamish, but the basement area was indeed no Disney fairy tale: it displayed scenes of men being ripped apart, limb from limb; of giant, swinging axes chopping up bloody bodies; of Joan of Arc weeping and being burnt alive; and, the comparatively pleasant Adolf Hitler behind bars.  Next to the gruesome, bloody scenes found in the basement, Hitler seemed peaceful, quiet, and out of place.  The harmlessness of Hitler was perhaps the creepiest aspect of it all.  

The best part about the wax museum was, undeniably, taking pictures.  One can insert themselves in an array of historical/biblical scenes, without actually having to time travel at all.  I, for example, was photographed at the Last Supper and next to Charlie Chaplin (though not in the same frame). 

Sadly, there was no wax figure of my bro, Leonardo DiCaprio.  Maybe if he continues to be a stellar actor, a waxy replica of himself will appear in the museum someday.  How great would it be to take a picture next to a wax figure of yourself?

Answer: It would be amazing!

Canada: Part 1

As noted in my previous post, I was absent from my blog for approximately two weeks.  During that time, I did many things that I had never done before, in a place I had never gone: Canada.  I thought it silly that a native Oregonian like myself had never been to the friendly, geographically close country.  Thus, I arranged a trip to Victoria, Canada with my sister Shelby, and we embarked on our first sister vacation separate from our parents (apart from Eugene, which doesn't count).  She was excited to see the Parliment building and other historical sites; I was excited to take advantage of the lower drinking age.


And so our journey began.


We traveled to Seattle by train, and then took a ferry from Seattle to Victoria.  Sounds easy, right?  Only we are very silly travelers.  Each of us brought a sports duffel bag, plus a purse as luggage.  The weight was manageable enough, until we got off the train in Seattle and had to walk to the ferry port.  The walk was about one mile (mile and a half?) which is nuthin' for a distance runner.  Unfortunately, the added baggage (both physically and metaphorically) Plus the heat made the walk more difficult.  To top it off, my sister was nauseated from the heat, and stopped numerous times to potentially vomit into the ocean.  We looked like two pathetic, unprepared, weary travelers.  Shelby was eventually in such a depressing state that I took her duffel bag and slung hers on one shoulder, mine on the other, so that I looked like an amazing, balanced body builder.  


When we finally reached the ferry port, we had several hours to kill.  I was stoked to ride a ferry (not a first for me, however; I went to Whidbey Island for a cross country race back in the day) and impatient.  They organized us into eight boarding groups, and somehow Shelby and I landed in the sixth group.  This was the order we were to enter the ferry and find seats.  Like general admission at a concert, the scramble for positioning was intense.  Everyone wanted to be on the second floor, but this was already full by the time we boarded.  A window seat was also desirable, but these were also taken.  Finally, if nothing else it is preferable to be seated next to the person you are traveling with.  Unfortunately, this was also not a possibility: the silly ferry was arranged in rows of three, and most people were traveling in pairs.  Thus, there were many end seats where one could awkwardly join a twosome.  Shelby and I found two of these that were only one row apart from each other, and set up camp.  By that point, we were thankful that we had seats at all.


I was a little disappointed by the layout of the ferry.  I had pictured it in my mind like the Titanic, where I could chill on deck, play some cards, wander around and stand on the rail with Leonardo DiCaprio.  The Seattle Clipper, however, was nothing like the Titanic; it was an airplane in the sea.  The seats were all enclosed, and arranged just like an airplane.  The only attractive elements of the Seattle Clipper were 1. the observation deck on the top level, where one could stand outside, and 2. Alcohol, cigars and perfume sold without sales tax.  Sadly, I took advantage of none of these things.  I read a hell of a lot of The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoevsky, went a little mentally insane from all of that Russian literature at once, and pretended to sleep.  


We landed in Victoria approximately 2 and a half hours after getting on the ferry.  It was already evening, and the city was poppin' with tourists.  Left and right I saw people posing with totem poles (there are a lot of them in Victoria), posing with the Parliment building, posing with horse-drawn carriages, posing with flowers, posing with each other, etc.  The camera flashes were like a fireworks show.  


Shelby and I were hungry (I was hungry the entire trip, actually) and so we checked into our hotel, threw  our luggage down and headed straight for the local Irish Pub, named "Irish Times."  Irish things were quite popular in Vicoria.  I ordered a drink called "Questionable Virtue" because I was pleased with the name.  It was a citrusy, vodka-infused beverage.  I was excited to order alcohol myself, in public, legally.  Alcohol was actually really expensive in Victoria, however.  Sadly, I did not get shwasted.


Shelby and I participated in my favorite activity of the trip the next day: we went to the Undersea Gardens.  There, you descend down beneath the sea level in a stationary boat, and view the fish and other sea life in their natural habitat.  The fish were hilarious: they were huge, awkward, and swum around with their mouths agape.  We were given booklets to help us identify the different ocean creatures.  I was eager to see a wolf eel.  They look like this:

Kind of freaky but intriguing, right? I didn't see one until the undersea show.  Every hour or so, the Undersea Gardens put on a show where a scuba diver goes into the ocean and points out different sea creatures to the audience, whilst someone else gives us information about the silly creatures.  At the beginning of the show, an intense mix of Rocky/Jaws music began playing in the background.  As if on cue, one of these freaky wolf eels swam out from behind a rock and revealed himself to the audience.  It was nearly eight feet long and incredibly intense ("SO INTENSE!"-Double Rainbow guy).  Once scuba man came out, however, and rang a dinner bell, we were shown the softer side of the wolf eel.  The frightening creature swam up to the scuba dude, rubbing his leg affectionately with its creepy head.  Apparently wolf eels are very friendly with scuba divers, and even like to play! Maybe I will buy one and keep it as a pet someday.

At the conclusion of the show, the Scuba dude was supposed to be hanging out in the gift shop area, answering questions from the audience.  After debating whether or not I wanted a shot glass with a wolf eel on it (I decided against it; shots are gross enough without an eel on them) Shelby and I attempted to exit the shop.  Scuba dude, however, apprehended us by the door.  With a smile and twinkling eyes, he said to us: "Hey ladies, do you want to watch me feed a baby seal?"

Now, the scuba dude was youthful and pretty cute.  Plus, I had never seen a baby seal being fed before.  So we waited for him out by the pier.  Scuba dude came out, still in his scuba suit, with small fish in hand, and walked up to us.  "I'm afraid she swam away," he said, "She was here just a half an hour ago."

We shared an awkward silence.  "Well, bye," I said, and we left.  I think that scuba dude must have the best job ever.  He gets to hang out with fish and wolf eels all day, then hang by the gift shop and use the best pick-up line I've ever heard in my life.  What type of girl can resist a baby seal?

Alas, I saw no baby seal feedings that day.  A little disappointing, yes, but I learned a good pick-up line for my man friends.  

Fountain Pen and Philosophy

Disclaimer: This post does not necessarily follow the trend of documenting the things I've never done before.  It is true that in my two week absence from this blog, I have participated in many activities that I have never experienced before.  At the moment, however, they seem wholly unimportant and can wait.  Today, I would rather muse, ponder, and articulate my recent revelations.  If I was to stretch this post to make it suit the theme of the blog, I would say that I have never posted a philosophical musing before (which is quite a feat for moi, as reflections are my natural tendency).  I find that they are normally, however, not as entertaining as descriptions of funny and absurd events.  I also find that philosophical musings litter the internet, posted by people who want to feel important and appear deep but, unfortunately, come across as neither.  I do not wish to appear as either.  I simply wish to express my current feelings and thoughts at the moment so I may release them from my brain into the atmosphere, like one may release a wild animal from confinement.  Anyway, this disclaimer is getting absurdly lengthy and I am digressing, so continue on to the main post. 

The other day, I felt an irrepressible urge to write.  I was in Eugene, staying with one of my best friends, and the solitude I require to write was nearly unavailable (not to mention that musing, reflecting, and other verbs accompanying the writing process become unattractive when compared to hanging out with Heidi).  Under the influence of my sudden writing urge, however, I was willing to give it a try.  I pulled out my fountain pen and pressed it to paper.  The fountain pen is a tricky device, that normally requires shaking and/or tapping against the page in order for ink to release.  And so I did this.  I coaxed the pen, shook the pen, tapped the pen, caressed the pen, turned the pen upside down and beat the pen against my paper, but still no ink came out.  Throwing the pen down in frustration, I looked down at my hands and realized that they were covered in ink.  The pen refused to even drip ink onto the page, but it had no problem leaking ink onto my hands uselessly.  I was stained with ink and had no way of transferring it from my skin onto the page. 

Though I could not write this down due to my problem listed above, I came to the conclusion that this experience was a metaphor for my relationship with writing, and the irony of trying to convey the inexpressible  The ink is the messenger, the translator, that conveys the thoughts I want to express.  No one can convey thoughts without this middleman.  Currently, the middleman that allows me to convey these thoughts to you is the keyboard.  The keyboard and the ink, however, are useless without my articulation.  The keyboard itself is not thought; neither is the ink.  Ink splotches on my skin do not convey that I love you, though a message written in the ink might.  

 In the context of the metaphor, my inability to put ink to paper and express my thoughts was not the pen's failure, but my failure; it did not fail to function properly, instead, I failed to articulate.  Instead of releasing my thoughts from my mind onto the page via the pen, they soaked into my skin and stayed in my body, remaining confined in my individual consciousness and therefore unable to be understood by anybody but myself.  This unfortunate process happens frequently in everyday life: the inability to express what is undeniably inside of you.  The gift of the writer, then, is that she has the ability to translate these thoughts into physical things outside of her body, so that other people may understand.  The frustration of the writer, is when ink gets all over her hands instead of translating her thoughts into something conceivable.  

My other revelation is of a different nature.  I was pondering what people pursue in relationships (not just romantic, but all human relationships).  I mean, why do I even speak to others at all?  And I found that, for me anyway, it boils down to this: I pursue human relationships so that I may find a connection to someone that makes me feel part of this universe instead of wholly isolated from it.  I think the chief human emotion is loneliness, for we are all confined within the realms of our own individual consciousnesses, and cannot truly enter the realm of another.  The struggle, then, and the human purpose, is to find a way to suppress this feeling of isolation by making connections with people.  These connections are made through language in its many forms: speaking, writing, fine art, film, etc.  

The second thing I believe people pursue in life is something infinite to grasp onto.  Leo Tolstoy has an essay about this entitled "My Confession".  Unfortunately, many people, myself included, seek the infinite in human relationships.  This is a tall order, however, to ask of someone who is as finite as yourself.  Human emotions, moods, values and actions are ever-changing and unreliable.  To seek the infinite in a human connection is to set oneself up for disappointment, for a connection is but a moment.  I suppose the conclusion I'm drawing currently from all this is to seek solace in human connections, but to refrain from relying on them for peace of mind.  Connections come and go, and its important to remember that if one disappears, another will take its place soon enough.  

I apologize for the seriousness of this post.  To conclude it and stick to my game plan, I offer you an example of a human relationship that is nearly everlasting:

No, it is not Bella and Edward (that shit's creepy).

It is my friendship with Leonardo DiCaprio.

Ten points for Leo reference!

Watching The Beach

Tonight, I watched a movie called The Beach with my sister.  The tagline was sizzling: "Innocence never lasts forever" , and the back cover described the film as, to paraphrase, a "sultry beach adventure."  The cover image is a shot of Leonardo DiCaprio (yes, he is in this movie; yes, that is why I watched it) emerging from the water, all wet, and gasping for breathe.  

Yes, this film was banking on the sex appeal of my friend Leo.

But this was, for me, not enough.  To start off with, Leo's character was a total douche.  I could tell immediately, because he gelled his hair in the completely douchey style that most douche-bags choose to sport.  The style is one where only the tip of the hair is gelled; much like a shark.  For examples, see Bradley Cooper in He's Just Not That Into You.  

  

Leo's character, named "Richard", also proved his doucheyness (I am making up the spelling to these silly words as I go along) through his behavior early on.  Within the first five minutes of the film, he drinks snake blood because some Thai man tells him that all the tourists refuse to do it; refraining from drinking snake blood suddenly threatens his manhood, so he does it.  This was a terrifying scene for my sister and me, because it pairs our two greatest fears: for me, blood, for her, snakes.  We screamed and held onto each other until we realized the madness was over.

But the madness had only begun.

Richard (I think I will call him Ricky Douche now for kicks) invites the hot French girl and her boyfriend to go on an adventure with him to a magical beach, after hearing about it and receiving a map from his now dead-by-suicide neighbor.  Ricky Douche's relationship with the hot French girl really depresses me, because her French boyfriend is the best character in the entire film.  He is cute and nice and not a douche.  But she, eventually, sleeps with Ricky Douche anyway.  And all because he is good at poking fish with a spear.

I am not going to give a plot synopsis of the film, but I will tell you when it climaxes: When the camera zooms in on Ricky Douche as he picks a little green worm from a leaf, places it on his tongue and chews it, and while he is chewing it, one of his eyes twitches and bulges out obscenely.  Then he swallows it.  

Basically, I was a little displeased by this film.  But I felt accomplished when I finished it, because it was so hard to watch.  Plus, its one more Leo movie down.  And if you think I am mad at my friend Leo for being in this absurd movie, think again.  His ability to play a character like Ricky Douche only proves his versatility as an actor.  Plus, we are best friends for life. 

Video Chat

I lost my skype virginity last night to the lovely Morgan Voss.  Actually, it was even more special than that, because we lost our skype virginity to each other.  Neither of us really knew what was going on, however, and we experienced several malfunctions.  She couldn't see me for much of the experience, but I could see her.  This is one of the creepier aspects of webcams.  I feel like skyping should be a symbiotic relationship.  If someone is offering their image to me, then I should reciprocate.  I felt like big brother, monitoring the activity of Morgan while all she could see was a black screen; she could hear my booming, dystopian voice leading the two minutes of hate (Orwellian reference anyone?) , but this is hardly a comforting thing. 

I've always had a natural aversion to webcams.  I met my best friend Amber's latest and most serious boyfriend on a webcam; I was over at her house and she asked me if I wanted to meet her boyfriend.  I knew he lived in San Diego, so I answered with a hesitant "...sure?" and suspiciously peeked around the walls of the house, half-expecting him to pop out from behind a piece of furniture.  She led me to her bedroom, and I was  severely confused.  Why did she lock her boyfriend up in the bedroom like that?  Was he deformed; unsociable; a dwarf?  

When I entered her room, however, I saw and heard no one, save the incessant hum of her computer monitor.  Amber sat on the edge of her bed and stared straight ahead at the screen.  I followed suit, and saw a man staring back at me.  "Hi Mackenzie, I'm Michael.  Its nice to meet you!" he said, extending a hand towards the computer screen.  I extended mine as well in an awkward, imaginary gesture.

Video chat has always freaked me out.  It creates the illusion that a person who really isn't there is, well, there.  But its fake, and I know it is, and when I stare at the screen I can't get that fact out of my head.  Plus, the intimacy of conversation is regulated by a technological middle man, automatically diminishing its purity.  Last night, Morgan and I wanted to have a three-way conversation with Danielle, and found a program online that allowed it.  My computer, however, continually froze during the conversation.  I exited out and reentered about four times, before giving up on it.  Here, the technological middle man prevented me from engaging in conversation with two of my favorite people.  Even if I would have succeeded, however, the conversation would have been filtered through the interweb, lacking the face-to-face communication that allows for intimacy.  In my opinion, you can try to reach people all you want on the internet, but there will always be a computer screen blocking your way.  People can be fake and superficial in real life; 'tis true, but still, nothing beats the ability to recognize body language, voice inflection, and other signs of communication that are only illusory on the web. Plus, weirdos could totally live on their skype.  Picture this: a skype couple who does everything together--on skype.  They both carry their laptops around and eat their meals together, go out in public together, watch movies, etc.  Let your imagination run wild on that one.

On another note, I saw the Man in the Iron Mask the other day, starring Leonardo DiCaprio as--get this?--TWO DIFFERENT CHARACTERS.  And they have opposite personalities!  Oh man!  Acting at its finest, I promise you.  

*MAN IN THE IRON MASK SPOILER ALERT*

The unfortunate side to seeing this film is that it gave my sister horrendous ideas.  One wrong move and I may be put in the iron mask and locked in a dungeon for years until the three musketeers save me. 

Driving the Van and Painting the Mandelbrot set

I drove my father's van the other day for the first time in my earthly existence.  To the casual, uninformed bystander, the van appears to be a mini-van; to those of us who have been in the thing, however, it is more like a space-craft/school bus.  At least, that's how my sister describes it: when prepping me for my first operation of the monster, she told me that driving it makes her feel like a "strange combination of astronaut and bus driver."  At first I laughed at this remark, but once I took my place in the driver's seat, I knew she wasn't kidding.

My father's van is a handicap van, so it is outfitted to suit his needs (my father has multiple sclerosis, and is confined to a wheelchair).  Thus, the layout of the van is much more complex than the typical mini-van.  There is no passenger seat, but a big contraption on the floor that my father drives up to in his motorized wheelchair and "locks" into.  There is also a small box on the floor for his feet to rest on, but my mother, sister and I use it for ulterior purposes; namely, perching on it when father isn't in the van and we want to sit up front.  

The bus characteristics are revealed in the back seat of the van.  The door on the right opens via button (opening it manually is forbidden) and releases a ramp.  Before the ramp is released, (I suppose this is where the spacecraft comparison is relevant) the van lowers itself eerily, like a futuristic elevator.  So my father has space to drive into the van via ramp and "lock" into his passenger contraption, there is no middle row of seats like a regular mini-van; instead, the only back-seat is found in very back of the van.  I suppose this element combines the characteristics of both spacecraft and school bus: the driver is far removed from the back passengers, much like a bus driver is removed from the passengers on a bus; being in the back seat also makes you feel like you are galaxies away from the people in the front.  In fact, in order for the front-seat and back-seat passengers to have a conversation, both parties must yell to cover the distance.  Most of the time it isn't really worth it, and we just listen to the radio.  

I learned to drive the space bus in a craft store parking lot at 10:00 p.m.  My father wasn't there, so my mother sat on the box beside me while my sister sat in the galaxy far, far away.  Driving the beast was easy enough in a desolate parking lot; the problem was starting it.  The van is full of gadgets and buttons, and I had to know how to use them.  When I put the key in the ignition, for example, the van screeched until I pressed a button.  It was the van's way of alerting me that no one had locked themselves into the passenger contraption.  Pressing the button was my way of silencing it's protests, and preparing for take-off.

The best aspect of the van, I discovered, was the drivers seat.  There is a set of three joysticks to the right of it that control the position of the seat: up, back, or to the side.  These controls allow my father to transfer from his wheelchair to the drivers seat; they also allow me to experience life as Yao Ming.  Curious, I opened the sun roof and moved the seat up as far as it would go.  It turned out that I could move the seat so far, my head was almost completely out of the sun roof, peaking out from the top of the van.  I wanted to attempt to drive around the parking lot in the van as a makeshift convertible, but my mom wouldn't buy it.  

I am taking a math class this summer to get the requirement out of the way.  I am taking Math 105, the lowest level class I can take for credit, because I despise math.  This Math 105 class I am in, to my delight, is hardly math: we write haikus, sing camp songs, and dance to Whitney Houston for extra credit.  To my extreme delight, our math final is a three to four page essay on a math topic of our choice, accompanied by a creative representation of the topic.  This could be anything, from a baked good to a musical performance.  I chose to paint the Mandelbrot set.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with the Mandelbrot set, you should search for a video of it online.  The starting image looks like a big black ink blot, or a magnified flea.  In online videos, however, the camera zooms in to reveal psychedelic colors and swirls, all to the tune of trippy music.  I imagine the double rainbow guy would have a hay day with the Mandelbrot set: "So intense!" he would say.  "What does it mean?!  Its too much!"

The Mandelbrot set includes infinite repetitions of itself, and is thus a mathematical concept.  What interests me about it, however, are the bright colors, trippy shapes and funky music accompanying it.  Plus, it has an edge called seahorse valley, named after the shapes' resemblance to a colony of sea horses.

Due to it's awesomeness, painting the Mandelbrot set seemed like the only option for my final project.  The task lured me in, much like Marion Cotillard lures Leo in Inception.  I couldn't shake its image out of my mind or my dreams.

Once I sat down to actually paint it, however, the task became more daunting.  I mean, the Mandelbrot set has infinite repetitions of itself, meaning there are tinier Mandelbrots piled onto tiny Mandelbrots.  To put it bluntly, that shit's crazy!

So I simplified it.  I painted the Julia set instead.  Apparently there are Julia sets inside the Mandelbrot set too.  These are less like ink blots and even more trippy: some of them look like electric snowflakes.  I started the task with fervor and excitement, making sure to pay close attention to detail.  As the task wore on, however, and I had listened to Arcade Fire's new album three times (Its great, by the way), I started to lose enthusiasm and attention to detail.  I began to make fat, careless strokes, in eager anticipation of the end.  The finished product is mediocre, but I take solace in the fact that painting the Mandelbrot set, regardless of the quality, earns one some major street cred--as long as math people are hanging out in the streets. 

Writing in Blog While Exhausted and Slicing Finger

I am currently writing in my blog.  It is 1 a.m. right now, and I am exhausted.  Before you disregard this as a sham post, please note that I have never posted anything while tired.  I have diligently written in my blog while in a functional state, so as to please the people as much as possible.  Even last night, I started watching Catch Me If You Can (starring Leonardo DiCaprio) early so that I would have time to post.  In fact, I have been quite tactical in my thinking process while creating this blog--more so than one may think.  I even consider my public image: for example, I thought of how neglecting to post something tonight would possibly improve my reputation as a "cool" writer: people would think "oh, Mackenzie is out on the town tonight.  It's a Friday.  She is too busy experiencing things to reflect on them right now.  On Sunday, that's when she will do her reflecting."  But then I realized--No!  The people desire literature!  And so I write.

And while I write, I am constantly informed of the finger wound that was inflicted upon me this afternoon.  I was hungry for some black beans, so I grabbed a can and proceeded to open it with a can opener.  The can opener, however, failed me, leaving a bit of the metal left uncut, and the beans impossible to access.  The only logical thing this illogical person could think of was sticking her finger in the can, hoping to pry the lid off.  My finger, however, became stuck against the sharp edge of the lid, making a clean slice that, to my horror, immediately bloomed red.  I clutched my finger desperately, ran to the bathroom, and laid pathetically on the floor.  I knew I needed to rinse the wound, but I couldn't face the blood.  And so I remained on the floor for a good five minutes, curled in the fetal position and hiding my bloody finger in my fist.  It was only after my father's coaxing and my realization that we were expecting guests in the house any minute, that I stood up and looked at the cut.  It didn't look so bad at first; the cut was small and devoid of blood from my applied pressure.  After several seconds of oxygen, however, the blood reappeared in a thin line.  I screamed and ran it under the water, then proceeded to lay down on the floor again.  By the time I finally stood up and put a band-aid on, I was covered in animal hair from the floor.  

I couldn't look at the black beans in the kitchen; I left them on the counter like a betrayed romantic leaves a cheating lover.  They hurt me too much; I couldn't go back.

Until I got over it, which I did, several hours later.  I realized that the can inflicted the injury upon me, not the delicious beans inside.  I couldn't hold it against them.  I ate them heartily, with a fresh appreciation of consciousness. 

Titanic Role-play, painting Kanye West and Geminis

Eugene is a place of multiple wonders.

While visiting the lovely Heidi Dobratz in Eugene, I succeeded in doing a multitude of things I'd never done before, in the span of three days.  This is because IT'S ALWAYS BETTER TO DO NEW, EXCITING THINGS WHEN YOU HAVE A FRIEND WITH YOU!  To quote my math teacher: "a circle is round, it has no end.  That's how long I want to be your friend."

Heidi and I hosted a party, and the theme was fictional characters and Kanye West.  This means, guests had the option of either dressing as a 1. fictional character, or 2. Kanye West.  To commemorate the occasion, Heidi and I decided to paint the latter option on a giant piece of cardboard.  We found the cardboard in a dumpster outside.  Yeah, we're thrifty.  

The finished product is posted on the home page, and it is also the inspiration for my url.  The painting may be beautiful now, but it hardly expresses the  anguish and struggle experienced by the two artists as they pursued completion of their work (fleeting switch to third person, literary note).  First of all, Heidi and I slaved over the painting without help from our two roommates, Danielle and Brenna.  We pleaded, cried and even threatened to jump off the balcony (Heidi lives on the third floor of her apartment complex), but sadly, they showed no concern.  Heidi and I were left to paint Kanye by ourselves, making painstakingly precise polo stripes for hours on end.  

Meanwhile, time was ticking away for the party.  It was scheduled at nine, but we didn't expect many guests until at least 10:00.  Still, we expected at least someone to show up around the scheduled hour, but by 9:15, there was no one in the apartment except for Pan the cat, Heidi, myself, and our two neglectful roommates.  Heidi and I were beginning to become disheartened.  Our brushstrokes were languid and filled with angst; our heads hung low over the cardboard canvas.  Even the music, mostly Kanye and Kid Cudi, began to sound distant and dejected. 

I invited two of my favorite people to the party, Sam and Morgan.  Both of them live in the Ashland area, about three hours away from Eugene.  When I invited them Morgan thought they could make it, but the last time I talked to her it sounded doubtful.  By 9:30, I doubted the arrival of anyone, let alone Sam and Morgan.  

Completely discouraged, Heidi and I threw our paintbrushes down, declared that we were going to drown ourselves in paint, and stormed out of the living area to put our pajamas on.  Just as we were about to go to bed, however, we heard a knock at the door.  It was Sam and Morgan!

Needless to say, I didn't go to sleep right away.  I woke up the next morning on a mattress on the floor, still in costume and cuddling with a stuffed camel.  It was a good night.

The next day, Heidi, Danielle, Sam, Morgan and I trekked to Voodoo Doughnuts.  Oregon is known for being a pretty hip state, with its ample supply of indie bands, vegan food, and teenagers in cardigans and skinny jeans, but Voodoo is one of the hippest locations.  In fact, many of the customers at Voodoo are those same teenagers, complete with black-rimmed glasses.  The doughnuts are delicious and named after celebrities and body parts:  i.e, the Marshall Mathers, the Old Dirty Bastard, and the Cock & Balls.  Some people even get married at Voodoo.  

Voodoo Doughnuts had two locations in Portland; in May, they opened a third in Eugene.  I had yet to experience the magic of a Eugene Voodoo Doughnuts, so we went.  Little did I know, this would be the place where I would meet my bestie.  

The man behind the counter was wearing the aforementioned black-rimmed glasses, so I liked him already.  I asked him for the selection of maple doughnuts.  He pointed each of them out to me in a rotating display.  The bacon maple bar was a big turn-off (I am vegetarian), so when it came time to order I changed my tune and copied my roommates order, the Old Dirty Bastard.  This was a wise choice for two reasons: 1. The doughnut included peanut butter and oreos 2. I wanted to pay my respects to ODB. 

When I asked for the Old Dirty Bastard, the man behind the counter chuckled, and mocked me for inquiring about maple doughnuts, then turning around and ordering a peanut butter one.  The rest of the conversation is best expressed as a dialogue:

Mackenzie: I'm kind of bi-polar.

Man behind counter: Me too! Because I'm a Gemini.

Mackenzie: Oh my gosh!  I'm a Gemini too!

Man behind counter: Wow!  Let's be besties!

Mackenzie: Ok!

So that's how I met my best friend.  I left Voodoo with a warm doughnut and the warm, fuzzy feeling of knowing you made a life-long friend.

That day, Heidi, Danielle, Sam, Morgan and I watched Titanic.  This was something I'd already done before, but it was new to Danielle so I was sufficiently pleased.  The film had made such an impression on us, however, that later that night we role-played Titanic in the pool.  I was the iceberg, Heidi was the Titanic, and Danielle was Jack (Leo DiCaprio).  I hung out in the deep-end, spiky point up, while Heidi swam towards me, crashed, and "sank."  Meanwhile, Danielle begrudgingly jumped into the pool fully clothed, and clung to the edge muttering "It's so co-co-cold."  

Ever since, I've attempted to re-enact Titanic whenever I'm in the water, and succeeded once with a canoe crashing into me as the Titanic.  I highly recommend it. 

Totems and Biking

Warning: For those of you who have yet to see Inception (shame on you), the first part of this post concerns the awesome Leo film, and may contain spoilers.  If you haven't seen the film and want to keep everything a surprise, proceed below to the biking segment.






So yesterday, my wife (Heidi) and I had lunch at Changs Mongolian Grill.  But this detail is not too significant...Or is it? Anyway, after dropping her off at her home, I proceeded down the road to my home.  I was jamming out to some N.W.A., ya know, same old same old.  When I approached my home, however, I noticed some unusual activity occurring in my front lawn.  The British chimney sweeper had parked his monster mobile in the driveway, occupying my spot.  His presence was unusual, but scheduled and not completely bizarre.  So I parked my automobile near the park, several feet from my house.  I reached into the backseat to retrieve my purse and saw a strange object laying on the floor.  It was a puzzle piece.  "That's odd," I thought.  "I am not the type of person to transport puzzles in my car.  In fact, I loathe them."  Nevertheless, I reached down and examined the thing.  On it was the face of a man.

Not just any man, however.  The most intense of men.  This is the face of a man who is ready to embark on the Oregon trail, defend his civil liberties and/or kick some ass.  I racked my brain and cataloged all of the people I had transported in my car the past few days.  None of them were carrying puzzles...Or were they?

It matters not, however, how the man puzzle piece came to me.  What matters is that it is my totem.  My grip on reality, if you will.  This puzzle piece helps me differentiate between my dream existence and "real" existence.  Then again, who's to say there is a definitive line separating the two?  This was actually my thesis for my monster research paper last year.

But I digress.

The point is, I, like Leonardo DiCaprio and Ellen Page, now have a totem.  It will help me out in those hazy situations, where I'm not sure if the fruits flying out of the stands are real or not.  Plus, maybe someone will hire me now to work in the inception field.  I wouldn't mind wandering around in other people's dreams, stealing ideas.  Sounds thrilling.  Maybe I should freeze myself until this is an actual career option.

I digress deeper.


I went on two mammoth bike rides today: one with Kirsten and one with my mother.  This is significant, because I have actually never biked to a destination before.  Normally I bike aimlessly, in pursuit of physical activity.  But today, I biked to two destinations: Cafe Yumm and the library. 

The latter ride was a bit more chaotic than the former.  My mother and I embarked on our quest at approximately 7:00 p.m.  We thought we could make it before closing.  Sadly, the library closes at 8:00, and we arrived at 8:15.  I was hoping to retrieve a Dropkick Murphys CD I had on hold, and find some books on chaos theory (for my math final, not simply for enjoyment).  In the library's present state, however, all I could hope to do was return some items in the outside bins and depart.  And so we pedaled home, away from the peachy, setting ball of sun. 

My mother and I rode back on the opposite side of the road, and this side lacked a sidewalk for a significant portion of the ride.  "Let's cut through this parking lot" my mother advised, and so we turned into the INTEL headquarters.  The lot was smooth and devoid of cars.  I coasted through it and soared like Jack on the railing of the Titanic, or like Jack, my cat, when he takes a shit in the litter box (He sticks his torso out of the box and puffs out his chest like a proud man, its a little disgusting). 

Suddenly, in the midst of my coasting, my mother beckoned to me.  "Cut through the bushes here" she said, indicating a shrubby, off-road path straight ahead.  "Why?" I asked, wondering why we would leave this biking paradise.  "Those are security cars" she answered, pointing to two sinister-looking vehicles parked to the far right.  Apparently the lot was private property.  I pedaled through the bushes at my mother's order, feeling an adrenaline-rush from the thrill of resisting authority.  As we made our escape, I pondered how well I could escape Eugene police on my bike in the fall. 

After evading arrest, my mother and I pedaled onward.  The ball of sun had already set, and it was getting pretty dark.  Besides thorny bushes and asinine drivers, however, the darkness posed no threat.  Riding in the dark was quite liberating, actually.  Much like swimming nude.

I came down the hill to my house at approximately 9:30 p.m.  The ride was much longer than we anticipated.  As I turned the corner, I was nearly blinded by the headlights of a truck.  The more one rides bikes, the more one despises the sight of automobiles.  Bikes morph one into an elitist, who automatically judges the driver's concern for the environment and/or level of athleticism.  Plus, bikers hate stopping at lights.  It makes us angry.

The truck driver, however, happened to be my sister.  My instinctual anger dissipated as I realized this.  She noticed me too, and we both moved slowly towards each other in an awkward stand-off.  Being perched on a flimsy piece of metal, however, sealed my defeat.  I hopped off my bike in surrender.

 My sister was sent by my father to go searching for us, in a rare moment of paternal worry.  He was pissed because we weren't back before dark.  We admitted that this was irresponsible of us, but we were too busy evading security guards.  Fortunately, my father forgave us and we all lived happily ever after.

Or did we?  For life is a journey that has no end..Until death.

Forgive this morbid thought.  Instead, focus on this wonderful theory on the relationship between humans and bikes developed by Flann O'Brien:

In O'Brien's novel The Third Policeman, humans become more like a bike the longer they consistently ride.  Conversely, bikes develop human-like qualities when they are often ridden by humans.  The job of the police force, then, is to steal bike parts when people become more than fifty percent bike.  The hope is, after man and bike spend some time away from each other, natural balance will be restored to the universe.  Unfortunately, this sort of aid is not possible for the postman, because he needs his bike to deliver mail and is therefore 90 percent bike on a regular basis.