In Memoriam

I've tried, so far, to keep this blog generally light and funny -- to throw in humor among self-deprecation and deeper emotions. But I feel it would be irreverent not to remember in complete sincerity the events that occurred eight years ago today.

During the terrorist attacks of 9/11, innocent lives were lost: lives taken by force, and lives given in service. Lives destroyed by an act so horrific we can't begin to comprehend the strength of the hatred that fueled it. What could drive a man to forfeit his life just to end another's?

I don't think that, as a nation, we can ever allow this to be forgotten. I think it's something we need to pass down to our children, their children, and our children's children. More than just a terrifying episode in history, it represents the strength and courage of the American people. Our prayers will always be with the civilians who were killed in the attacks: our brothers and sisters, fathers and mothers, comrades in arms and companions at play -- may their souls rest in peace. But our proud remembrance will be with the men and women who lay down their lives for our country, who died so that we may live in freedom and security -- greater love has no one than this.

Things happen in this world -- terrible things -- that we often can't understand, nor do we want to. Most of us don't like to think back to that day, and with good reason: We don't want to be confronted with the grief and sadness it brings, that sick feeling that worms its way into our hearts saying, "How could someone do this?" And yet, as we all know, it's necessary. It's necessary to stand up once a year and say, "We won't forget you." Necessary to let people know that we are strong. Necessary to cry, to scream, to grieve, even as we pick up the stones to rebuild what was ruined. Necessary to lay aside the humor, to rip down the veils, to bring every dark thing about that day into the light, and vow to protect what's been left in our care.

God bless America.

Stream of Consciousness

In which I unwrap and lay open my every thought to you across the screen:

Jim Morrison's head is very fat in comparison to his body. I DON'T WANT YOU TO TOUCH ME! I wonder why any parents would call their daughter "Stacee" instead of "Stacy." It's kind of a black thing to do. My French Professor is white. Why does the bottom of my chin itch? I faceplanted on a manhole covering when I was seven. Now my nose itches. I feel like a pervert watching Labyrinth. It makes my lips dry. I wonder how high Bowie was when he filmed The Man Who Fell to Earth? They're remaking that movie, but they shouldn't be. Don't they know the only reason it has a cult following is because DaBo flashed his birthday suit in it? I wish I hadn't missed Bandslam in theaters. I wonder what it would be like if I was a rockstar? Groupies would embarrass me. I hate Mick Jagger's lips. They could probably feed a whole village of starving African children. Ugh, I hate French verb conjugation. Everything sounds dirtier in European languages. Especially in an English accent. Why do the English like butts so much? The BBCA is amusing. I like watching them "work." "We must slow the frantic pace we set up yesterday, dear; I nearly broke a sweat. We can't get pimples now." Men would find it so much more convenient to wax their faces. Oh wait, that would probably hurt. Clouds surround your head -- cooling and suffocating. Cutains! I wish clocks mooed instead of ticked. Light, light, light, light, light. The little aliens are crawling through your head, pink and bigger than your thumb. My skin is very soft. I love cocoa butter lotion. Picture squirelly little chipmunks drinking Koolaid colored beige and maroon, with saltwater coming from their ears, but they don't notice because they're falling asleep. Whoa, no Labyrinth codpiece! Step right up and sha la la la kiss the girl. Duh duh duh duh. Duh. Duhduhduh duh. Duh. Duhduhduh duh. Duh. Duhduhduhduh. Why can't we all just get along and wear the leather masks? I love my neck. Cupcake shops are the shiz. Sprinkling, shifting, falling, and they're all mine! I have a box. The box is brown. I have a body. The body is dead. The body is in the box. Chase koala! The man walks from the house with a trench coat. But it isn't really a coat, it's a hat that he stole from a man named Ezekiel, who's actually a woman. We both like dresses. Woohoo! Ants, pants, dance -- whoops, the last one doesn't really rhyme. "If you want to, I can save you!" Not really, I lie. Just eat some ice cream and cry yourself to sleep.

I'll trade you some self-esteem for chocolate.

If you have two brain cells to rub together (and by God you'd better if you have access to a computer), you've probably figured out by now that I don't take myself very seriously. That's not to say I have a neurotic self-loathing that bleeds through my every interaction, but I enjoy a good dose of self-deprecating humor as much as the next guy, even (sometimes especially) if it's coming from myself. I have confidence, though: I know my assets -- physical, mental, emotional -- and take pride in them, as any healthy individual would.

Though I didn't used to, I've come to believe it's quite unrealistic and small-minded of me to expect others to be the same way -- that is to say, to be able to laugh at themselves while remaining secure in themselves. A trend I've noticed among females my age and a little older is to compensate for their own (usually irrational) insecurities by giving out compliments that specifically target things about the other person that the complimenter herself does not possess. Something tells me I should've realized this a significant time ago -- thank you for being patient with me. (See? You see that? That was a little hit of self-deprecation, yeah, but I'm not sitting here thinking "They see me laughing and they laugh to, but all I want to do is end my fat, disgusting life on that broken windowpane" or anything. Seriously -- I'm really, super not.)

Example: I was talking once with a girl (with whom I was casual friends -- acquaintances? -- with for a bit) and she said, no joke, "I was afraid to approach you at first because you look pretty and smart and confident, so I thought you would be a total bitch." Well I'm sorry I made you uncomfortable. Shall I not wash for a week, throw away all my books, and wear my fat pants to assuage your suddenly burning insecurities?

Pictured: how I visualize your "compliment."

I'm not sure how one is supposed to respond to a statement like that, honestly. (I gave an awkward grimace-smile and gurgled something unintelligible, but there must be better ways to go about it.) Not to mention, the structure of the compliment, if it can be called that, is very oddly arranged -- are you saying that I am the aforementioned three things as well as being not-bitch, or because I'm not-bitch I'm not those aforementioned three things? It took me a good fourteen years to get to the point where I could accept a compliment, and now you go and throw some doozy of an I-hate-myself-and-kind-of-you-too-no-there's-no-specific-reason-why-you-just-breathe sentence at me.

It must be a "girl thing," like stuffing your bra full of chocolate malt balls at Henry's (just me? Ah, how strange middle school was), because I talk to boys about things like this and it's like their comprehension of the English language drops eighty percent within the first two minutes. (That analogy makes perfect and mildly amusing sense in my mind, but I'm wondering now if it translates as well onto paper(/computer screen). I'll just keep it.)

I can't think of a clever exit line, so I'll simply say: "Quotation is a serviceable substitute for wit" (Oscar Wilde).

Where's the happy medium between emos and Elmos?

I hate it when people ask me if I'm a happy person.

In the Merriam-Webster Dictionary alone there are four definitions, with dichotomatic synonyms of lucky and fit. Wikipedia categorizes happiness into religious, philosophical, and scientific and psychological views. The founding fathers wanted to give us the right to pursue it, and Buddhists seek it through utter detachment.

So how do you want me to define "happy," exactly?

Much like the initial stages of love, I like to think of happiness as a transient emotion brought on by chemical reactions in the body. When you feel a sense of excitement or pleasure, endorphins are released and send signals to your brain, which in turn releases dopamine, telling you that whatever just happened is a good thing -- this is all that I consider happiness. It's a series of chemical reactions that take place in response to direct or indirect external stimuli.

While perhaps taking a little of the magic out of the fantastical notions of a "happy person," I think it holds true. The ultimate effect of dopamine release is a relaxed and euphoric state, which is quite close to the first definition of happiness on Google: state of well-being [relaxation] characterized by emotions ranging from contentment to intense joy [euphoria].

Conventional logic would dictate that to be a "happy person" (whom we will now refer to as Elmo), one must experience a consistent dopamine flow to remain in this "happy" state.

Are we all on board so far? Fantastic.

I'm going to step aside for a moment and direct your attention to the screen on the right. Illustrated here you'll see, of course, the effects of dopamine on the brain processes that control movement, emotional response, and the ability to experience pleasure and pain. In the case of a dopamine release brought on by endorphins signifying pleasure, movement is slowed, pain is suppressed, and ultimately works as a depressant, such as heroin, on the body.

We will now be returning to the main program.

As I'm sure you've pieced together at this point, an Elmo would eventually become little more than a smiling zombie, quite similar to any dreadlock-ed Rastafarian you'd find sitting on some beach in Jamaica bumming joints off a scuffed '70s Marley vinyl murmuring, "Don't be so polarizing, man, spread the love."

So am I a happy person? No. I'm a content person. I'm content with my life, my friends, my family, and my future.

Being a happy person sounds too dangerous to me.

Boys don't have cooties, silly goose.

I run into feminist women quite a lot in my life. Why? I do not know, but such are the cards that I've been dealt. I should say right off the bat that I'm not talking about normal, pleasant women who see pockets in society where females are getting the short end of the stick and utilize their influence and resources to mend it -- I like those women. They make me feel empowered, successful, and ready to face the world on my own two feet. My beef is with "womyn" whose general attitude projects "a girl needs a boy like a penguin needs Prada pumps"; we will group them collectively under the name "Jocasta." You couldn't pay me to back "wimmin" like this, because:

1. I like boys. They're generally uncomplicated, open creatures in the best way. Most of my sincerest, intellectual conversations are with boys. Their dirty jokes make me laugh. It's really quite amazing how well my hands fit into theirs, and they smell so deliciously different than any girls I know. I know Jocasta would rather spend her time with lonely, middle-aged women passionately discussing the misogyny and brainwashing effect of the Barbie franchise, but why spend your time chatting with menopausal chocolate fiends when you could be watching The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly with Johnny?

2. I like makeup. Jocasta, I know you'd like to tell me that makeup is just another way men subjugate me into the dark corner of a unfulfilled housewife by setting forth products that promise an unattainable standard of beauty, but let me tell you, sister, pimples are a real beeyotch. I know they're natural, and I know everyone gets them, but that doesn't mean I'm not going to do anything in my power to gag them, throw them in a box, and drop said box in a ditch on some lonely country road, capisce? More than that, though, it's fun. I love coloring with the blazing flame of eternity. All I really ask of anything in the world is that it be brightly colored and shiny, and boy does makeup fulfill that!

These two points are, of course, a very small part of the feminazi agenda. However, these are the ones that hit closest to home for me. Instead of straggling off on a boring ending that will inevitably sink into an angry, political rant and surface my insecurities and gnawing anxiety, forcing me to hop downstairs and whip up a glass of chocolate milk before the cold sweats set in, I'll just say this:


How can you not love?

Call Girls Dress Classier Than That, Peaches

WAS THIS NECESSARY?!

FOR ALL THAT IS HOLY what possessed you?

Her name is Peaches Honeyblossom Michelle Charlotte Angel Vanessa Geldof, and apparently she is an English socialite. (Mommy, you'll be so proud -- I just found an English person I don't love!) Does no one love her enough to let her know that no matter how much it cost, hick-streetwalker-wear is not the new little black dress?

I'm not sure what horrifies me more: the denim abuse, the pseudo-rasta hair, or the fact that she appears to be utterly unaware of her crime.

If Peaches promises to never, ever wear this again, then I will honor her by naming my first child Clingstone.

Twinkies have their place in one's diet.

"To put it simply, dear reader, I was horrified [by the Twilight series]. Not just by the sickeningly purple prose or the lack of general writing quality, but the books themselves are insulting on every level-as a woman, as a teenager, as a literature student, and as a graduate of the Harry Potter craze."

To be perfectly honest, I think literary critics are being far too harsh in their reviews of Twilight. Speaking as one who has read all of and been (operative word) religiously addicted to the series, I can tell you that they are approaching their opinions on it from entirely the wrong angle -- it would be like sitting down at a Little League game and yelling at snot-nosed Tommy Johnson when he pitched a ball; you don't go into it expecting the kid to be the next Nolan Ryan.

Such is the case with Twilight. It's a "twinkie" book -- utterly sweet and soul-satisfying crap. You don't waltz into McDonald's and rant about how the food is Play Kitchen plastic chock full of MSG -- yes, buttertart, we know that, and that's why we like it. There's nothing wrong with having and liking the occasional twinkie. Apparently, some people consider twinkies gourmet food and have integrated them as a staple of their diets, and that's where we get into trouble.

I think there are a lot of folks out there who need to admit that, for what it is, Twilight is among the best (which, albeit, isn't saying much). It's perfectly condensed and cleaned up modern vampire stories (a la HBO's True Blood) for a young adult audience. Yes, it's predictable; yes, its purple prose is prevalent to the point of vomit-worthy; and yes, it would be doing the literary world a favor to have it taken out and shot at dawn. But despite all that, it's the perfect twee book to take off the shelf if you want something impossible and fluffy (or impossibly fluffy) to get out of your head with.