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!