The Lazy Boy:

Now a little over two years ago, at the end of my senior year of high school, I began my end-of-year project in my Humanities class. The Humanities Project is one of those things that more or less all students at Bedford High School are aware of throughout their high school career, and it was widely believed to be an opportunity for the Humanities elite to produce something personal, original, and impressive at the end of their high school careers. As my peers and I got closer to the deadline, however, we realized how insignificant the project actually was, and how our preconceived notions about the quality of the work were actually based on a few exceptions, rather than a larger whole. Nevertheless, each student, working alone or in a group, set out on a quest for Humanities immortality, producing a wide variety or writing, artwork, video, and music to be judged by the Humanities faculty.

The Humanities Project coincided with a difficult time in my life, where I searched for a number of things: direction, motivation, inspiration, education -- and happiness. Surprisingly, this amalgam of general despair was not conducive to creative brilliance (though genius is tortured, always), and my project was lagging along. I came up with several different incarnations of my idea, all fairly impossible to actually pull of, and was feeling desperate. In either a last-ditch effort or in a moment of inspired brilliance, I decided to channel my frustration with life into my project.

Earlier in the year, in the same Humanities class, we had been assigned college essays to write, in the hope that even if we didn't end up using them, we would be well-practiced before submitting the real thing. The topic of the essay was something along the lines of, "Write about one time in your life when you have immediately regretted your actions." Flawed and regretful but lacking any major sins, I pondered for a while before settling on a simple story that had serious repercussions. I wrote about a sophomore ski trip with my family, when on the last run of the first day I decided to hike up and take a jump one more time before heading in. As fate would have it, on that jump I crashed, splintering my collarbone and resigning myself to a winter of inactivity. I spent the remainder of the trip confined to the La-Z-Boy in the condo and the remainder of high school in a deep funk.

The decision to retake the jump really had serious consequences for me, and as time went on I began to view it as the catalyst for my downward spiral into depression and general malaise. However, it my writing wasn't good enough or my teacher couldn't sympathize, because he wrote back something like, "Sorry, but I fail to see how spending a weekend sitting in a La-Z-Boy counts as a major sacrifice." Needless to say, I was angered and offended -- as I was wont to do at the time -- and I developed a grudge against this teacher for the rest of the year.

Lucky for me, the teacher made the grudge easier, as he described my essay in a conference with my parents as that of a spoiled brat and once wrote on one of my papers, "Try using your brain next time, it'll feel better." This was all great fodder for a teenager whose only coping strategy at the time was to further withdraw into his own dissatisfaction, and I stewed through Humanities reliably all year.

So, as described earlier, when it came time to produce a masterpiece up to the standards of the Humanities faculty, I was less than inspired.

However, in a moment of clarity, I decided to make the last move of my high school career be a reply to the baiting of my teacher and a confident stand as I waved goodbye to the high school that I hated so much. I personified the Lazy Boy.

I wrote a lengthy personal essay about the Lazy Boy, my alter-ego, and the cause of my feeling of malaise for the past three years or so. Both a personal healing process and a triumphant response to my doubting teachers, The Lazy Boy was a step in the right direction towards inspiration, drive, and motivation as I prepared to step into a different world.

I rediscovered The Lazy Boy in a notebook of mine this year, and found it quite entertaining to read, both on the humor of the writing and the ludicrousness of my thoughts at the time. What follows is the majority of the text from The Lazy Boy, albeit without a section I have removed because of an embarrassing poverty of ideas in that passage. My text is split into sections, between which appear quotes from the La-Z-Boy corporation, as I wrote the essay to blur the lines between my subjects -- disgruntled teenager or symbol of sloth. Anyhow, enough with introductions; enjoy.

The Lazy Boy

The lazy boy was introduced to the world around 1920 or sometime in the mid – 80’s. Accounts differ on the specifics of its creation, but it may have been the innovation of two young entrepreneurs in search of a few bucks and a new way to relax, or the offspring of two 30-ish professionals starting out in the world. It’s hard to tell.
What we are sure of is that the lazy boy changes. That is quite the best description, for it sums up all of its practicality and function. In one sense, it moves from upright to reclining – affording a higher general level of comfort – but in other ways, it shifts shape and thought and transports itself to another ideological dimension entirely. Also, over the course of its existence, the lazy boy has changed as much as any other American icon, continually reshaping itself to fit the demands of the next generation while staying true to its natural-born soul. It moved from slat-backed hard recliners of the early days onto the plaid polyester practical tackiness of the middle years, and on to the cooler-hiding, back-massaging oases of today. The lazy boy adopted different parts of existence into its form, and continues to evolve into a further expression of borrowed individualism – and a fine young man, as well.
It is hard to define the authentic lazy boy experience. Over the years there have been copies and cheap adolescent imitations, all trying in vain to capture the pure elegance of vinyl comfort – that which only a true lazy boy can provide. Something about the lazy boy is magnetic. It is either the way it looks into your eyes with simple understanding or the way it welcomes everyone into its machine-upholstered arms. An overwhelming embrace of overstuffed cushioning and the scent of leather/vinyl/leather cologne (truthfully, the lazy boy doesn’t wear cologne).
The natural smell of a lazy boy is as identifiable as the feeling of being in the company of it. It suggests something softwarmandcomforting, but at the same time something exclusive. It is inviting enough to converse politely with a stranger, but has the latent darkness to snap and leave in a fit, headed for isolation. The lazy boy is enigmatic, ever-fluctuating (again, changing), over-rebellious, hasty, yet reserved, and entirely different than anything else.

The lazy boy first came to me midway through my sophomore year. We had never met, but he seemed interesting enough, and he needed a place to stay. I offered him lodging – I was at a point in my life where I was searching for some new friends and answers to old questions. Plus, I had the time.
He took to staying with me pretty quick. He was sincerely intrigued by what I was doing, and he hung around me like an orphaned puppy outside a butcher’s shop. I gave him all the best cuts of meat. He tore into whatever I gave him, eagerly devouring every minute of my time, and I was glad to give it to him. It was like feeding a monster; he had the insatiable need for time, and wouldn’t be pleasant without it. I really had no choice in the matter, I had to give it to him or risk losing him – which wasn’t something I was ready to do back then. I suppose it sounds a lot like keeping a pet, but the pet is moody, needy, and different than anything else you’ve ever encountered. I don’t intend to make it seem like the lazy boy was riding on my patience. After all, we were comrades (“partners in crime” is probably more accurate). So things continued. We were inseparable, and I traded my free time for whatever he had that I wanted.
I’m still not sure what made the lazy boy so appealing, but perhaps it was only that we shared the same interests – and a lust for rebellion. I mention rebellion only in passing at this point, but it factors often into our story. Around this time I had known the lazy boy for a week or three, but he was eager and welcoming and found ways to fill time better than anyone – or Ezra, at least. We were fast friends.
The lazy boy could make fun out of anything – or at least he possessed the quality to identify what wasn’t fun, and to avoid it at all costs. He never really put much thought behind it, but if it wasn’t fun, he wasn’t doing it. It was an effective way to live. I think you’ve really got to admire someone like the lazy boy – someone who doesn’t give a shit. I mean, there’s really something special about the person who refuses to compromise and doesn’t care that no one else will, either. There is something simply attractive about not giving a shit. It’s like, if you’re living life well without caring, imagine what you could do with a little effort. So I guess there’s always the mystique. Or at least the challenge.

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The start of my real rebellion was lazy boy inspired – I had been around him long enough that I started to think I didn’t give a shit, either. And I really didn’t. The lazy boy always had a way with words. Whenever I was told to find my voice, I think I borrowed a bit of his. It’s hard to avoid it, his influence was everywhere – I adopted his phraseology, his pace, and the attitude.
Soon after meeting the lazy boy, I was assigned to write a few thoughts on some book I had read – the details aren’t important (they never are). I wasn’t too fond of the book, but more than that, I was enraged about having to write about it. Anger is a funny thing – not in the comical sense, but the building, smoldering, overpowering, where the hell did that come from kind of funny.
So here I was in a particularly humorous state of rage, more mad to be mad than because I had to write. It was the perpetual motion sort of mad – the flames feed the fire. The lazy boy could tell the state I was in. I could tell he could, because he tried to give me a little inspiration. He probably was just as mad as I was, and he helped push me in the right direction. Needless to say, we did a good job at the writing, and I passed in the best in emotionally extreme teenage literary criticism. There is no better kind.
The writing was well received – it evoked an almost fearful response. How could one kid have so much hostility towards literature? I didn’t know where it came from, anyway, but the lazy boy and I had a good time doing it, so it was a writing style I familiarized myself with, and used widely over the rest of my career.
Being passionately enraged can be a lot of fun. This is one of the things I learned from the lazy boy – underneath all of his manifest apathy and fun-loving good-natured left-handed carelessness, he had it. By “it,” I’m not sure whether I mean passion or rage, but he had enough for a bad soap opera or a prison riot, depending on how it was interpreted. He believed in pursuing everything passionately, except for the things that weren’t fascinating enough to be passionate about. Pursuing wasn’t really in his nature, anyway.

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The lazy boy and I passed the spring in the usual way. It had been a long winter, culminating in the breaking of my collarbone (he was only partially involved) – which left me bored, isolated, and alone. It was pretty much in that shade that I lived my life from then on. I suppose the injury gave me even more time to spend with the lazy boy – as if he wasn’t constantly around already – and it was surprising that we didn’t get sick of each other all winter like that. I got sick of everything that winter.
I was cooped up inside, in a physical and mental hibernation, and the lazy boy was the only person who kept me company/sane. In retrospect, the winter was uneventful besides spending a lot of time wishing that it wasn’t winter and that I wasn’t wishing it wasn’t winter, but it was a big part of my life at the time. I remember the Winter of Discontent from somewhere. That was mine.
Although you might think the natural thing to do when stuck inside all winter is to buckle down and focus on one’s studies, I did anything but. Most of my time was spent staring either at the ceiling or out the window, depending on where my head was facing at the time. So school wasn’t exactly a big deal – I’m sure I did something at the time, but it’s probably inconsequential. Probably. It was just me and the lazy boy.
I realize I spoke of spring a few paragraphs ago, but I was sidetracked by winter. This is the way it happens, usually. The seasons. The way I get sidetracked is never usual at all. Sometimes I get an idea that must be pushed, that refuses to be ignored, that desires to be pursued to the point of exhaustion and completion, but other times all it takes is a spot of light with enough peculiarity to hold my attention for hours. I think the majority of my life – the main part, the main track – was spent sidetracked. Anyhow, I digress.
Spring was spring. There were birds and flowers and blue skies, and I sort of took the time to sort of notice all of them. I hate describing the seasons, because any recollection is forced and cliché. For all I know, that spring didn’t have birds and flowers but killer bees and 8-foot beavers that terrorized the populace with ray guns. I’m positive about the blue skies though. There were eight of them.
The spring was as boring as its description. I spent a lot of time running, and some more in the doctor’s office, but other than that, again, uneventful.
The lazy boy never came on the runs – it wasn’t his forte, as he said. Something about weak knees and exercise induced asthma. I wasn’t buying it. Either way, he never ran, so I saw him a little less. Some days he came and watched/distracted, usually on the days I didn’t feel like running. It was sheer coincidence, I’m sure. He came to the doctor’s office, though. In fact, he was the main topic of conversation. It’s fascinating how therapists focus on your friends.

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Life is refreshingly empty most of the time. It seems like a lot is happening while it’s “happening,” but then we look in the rearview and there’s a desolate road and a closed strip mall – not the exciting side of suburbia. Life passed on in this manner for me – with everything happening at once, only to be completely forgotten weeks later. I guess if it had mattered I would have remembered it. At least I hope so.

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The lazy boy and I burnt books that spring. It was definite Fahrenheit 451 territory, except that there was no loss of knowledge and well-being associated with it – nor any talking walls (again, as far as I can remember). The burning was such a release. It always is. The idea of taking everything you hate and watching its fiery destruction as if you are doing the destroying, burning with your eyes, focused intensity… is far more than therapeutic. It’s a freaking drug. I think the best thing we put in the fire was chemistry – we both hated it. I spent chemistry staring into space in silent conversation with the lazy boy. It passed the time. The chemistry books burned well, one page at a time, allowing us to watch every formula and unimportant piece of minutia dissolve into ash and heat. We purged ourselves of chemistry and school. I think that step is necessary before you can get on living again. Every week should have mandatory purging periods, where we can forget the things that keep us from being us, so we can at least live on the weekends. It’s like rehab. After the burning rehabilitation, not much changed. There were no relapses, but the mentality was still the same. Indescribable, that is.
In the summer I argued with my boss and generally wreaked havoc all over town. The arguing wasn’t really tangible, but it was silent protest, and the boss’s nagging made it obvious it was having an effect. Positive or negative couldn’t really be determined, but I often find myself in protest no matter what the consequences are.
I had a job at a day camp, giving kids dough and helping them turn it into all manners of confectionery delights – pizzas and pretzels, mostly. I was a natural. Pretty soon the routine got old (routines usually do), and the lazy boy got tired of making so much dough every day, so it was rationed. He was a natural. Unfortunately, our boss didn’t share the same love for efficiency and economy, and we drew a few complaints. The initial problem was the complaints, but the real show started when we didn’t do anything about them. Our boss couldn’t know the real story, but we sure did. So we kept on keeping on, and rationing the dough like settlers in a new world. Never compromise. That was our motto – one of many unofficial ones that never could really be applied beyond the situation at hand. We got through the job okay, but opted not to come back the next year. The environment was a little to hostile for our liking. Leaving wasn’t that hard – I’ve had an aversion to flour ever since.
The summer came and went. Interestingly, the periods of time we look forward to and enjoy the most are the ones we often have the toughest time describing. I spent the summer working and doing other things. Other things, I guess, is as vague as it gets, but it will suffice. The lazy boy was there too, but without much to avoid doing, he wasn’t all that active. Hell, all summer is is a time to be spent avoiding as much as possible. That’s why we go on vacation. To hide. It’s why summer is so useful. If we had it year round, we might be a lot less productive, but people would be much happier.
It might make me an optimist, but I believe that even the most reluctant worker starts working when there’s nothing else to do. It makes sense. The lazy boy – rather than work and confirm my theory – just went away for a while. Vacation from vacation. I guess I was too busy for him, which is funny, because it was summer, and no one’s ever busy. But I had more important things to do. Like be.

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I saw the lazy boy sparingly over the next year. He’d stop in inconveniently, just as I’d sat down to work, but other than that he wasn’t around much. He was still there to talk to – his voice is always in my head, but his influence on my life became less obvious. He still pops up with some frequency, a constant companion. He’s who I turn to when the going gets tough. As he always says, “When the going gets tough, sleep.”

In conclusion:

I just finished reading the seventh and final Harry Potter book, a journey that took me roughly 12 hours today but much more time than that over the past nine years. As usual I was enthralled from start to finish, and I found the conclusions and revelations in this final tome to be worth the dedication of my adolescence. I imagine it will take some time to sink in over the next few days, and I plan to reread the entire series as soon as time allows. I look forward to buying the boxed set at some point in the future and sharing the magic with my kids, many years down the line. JK Rowling, I commend and thank you.

In the meantime, I will satisfy myself with gazing adoringly on pictures of Emma Watson and hoping that someday, the perennial rumor will be true, and she will enroll at the Hogwarts of the West, charming Middlebury College in Middlebury, Vermont.


PS: Harry dies in the end.

My weekend of vomit:

The final quote in my Kerouac post (see previous) relates to my inability to maintain any real level of decency and composure while inebriated. Because of this, I am swearing off alcohol until further mention for fear that it is impacting my life in too many adverse ways. Too many nights have been spent trapped at foreign locations unable to drive, and too many mornings have been wasted stuck in a haze from the previous night. Furthermore, at this point I feel I have insulted my dignity quite enough recently.

Though I've pondered these feelings for a while, it was not until a most-memorable (though impossible to recall) drunken episode two weekends ago that I feel my imbibing reached a dangerous limit and forced its own cessation.

So, in order to have the last laugh at my own idiocy, here is the full copy of an email I sent my friends to relate the previous night's indecency.

"I am my own hero"


A story:

Last night my friend had a big party at his house, and my other friend and I really wanted to get our younger brothers there since we had never partied with them before. Naturally, it took a little coaxing to get them to come out, at which point we had been drinking for two or three hours. They come, it's great, high fives all around, and we start drinking. Being inexperienced drinkers, they aren't too high on beer, and requested their alcoholic beverage in shot form. In a great display of conviviality, I take some shots with them. Three shots of Jose Cuervo thusly dispatched to my belly, it is time for fun to be had. It is had. It is also important to mention that at some point in this succession of tequila shots, I decided that beginning a game of Wizard Staff would be great fun. So there I was, three shots and at least eight beers into a night, beginning a friendly game of Staff.

Predictably, the going was tough given my advanced state of inebriation, and it took quite a lot of trying to get to even Level Four (which, as you all know, is only minimal spell casting power).

So here's where things get interesting.

As I would discover this morning, at some point I blacked out. I remember stumbling (I actually fell at one point) upstairs to puke in the upstairs bathroom. I also eventually remembered that at some point in this purging episode I fell back into the bathtub, taking down the entire towel curtain, rod, and rack of shampoos with me as I banged my head on the wall. I'm pretty sure I made some effort to remedy the situation, but I have not yet confirmed this.

From what I can gather, after this I stumbled back downstairs to find that my brother and his friend were getting a ride back home, and it seemed to be a good idea to go with them. We went outside to the car, and they waited while I detoured to a stand of bushes and a large tree in order to deposit the contents of my stomach. Puking temporarily over, we get in the car, I roll down the window, and I ride the whole way with my head hanging out like a dog.

My brother and I got out of the car at our house and started to go inside, when, now that we were in the light of the front porch, he goes, "Oh, Mike, you puked on yourself too?" Not knowing what he was talking about, I took a gander at my shoulder, and, sure enough, it was covered in vomit. "Oh yeah, I guess so," I replied. Evidently I must have puked out the window of the car while riding, and the wind blew it all back onto me. I have yet to ask the condition of the car I was riding in.

At home, I went to my room, stripped off soiled articles of clothing, and passed out in my bed.

In the morning, I woke up and went back to my friend's house to reclaim my car, which involved driving it through his backyard and around the house, as I was blocked in in the driveway. On the ride over, I asked my brother about the night.

Me: "So I set a pretty good example last night, huh?"
Dan: "Yeah, I don't know what happened - we were talking to you and you were pretty much fine, and then you disappeared for a while. The next time I saw you, you just burst out of nowhere and were like, 'YEEEEAAAAH!!!!!'"
Me: "I don't know how I got so drunk out of nowhere."
Dan: "Well you had that enormous Wizard Staff..."
Me: "Well it only got to four or something, right?"
Dan: "No, when we shotgunned those beers it was at seven - I mean, you had spilled most of the last two, but still..."
Me: "When did we shotgun beers?!"
Dan: "You know, when you and Jack randomly came up to us and were like, 'Boys, it's time for some shotgunning' and we went outside. It was right after you went up to Joe and joyfully complained of the huge 'problem' we had since we had '56 beers' left."
Me: "..."

So naturally I have no recollection of any of this. As I've gone through the night today, I remember talking to some people I totally forgot were there, and at one point raiding the liquor cabinet in the basement and somehow knocking the entire door off of it. Today I battled through what I can honestly call the worst hangover of my life, which involved much puking and an overactive gag reflex. It peaked on the car ride to my sister's soccer game, when I had to have my dad turn around and drive me home. Before we got there, he had to pull over while I added some more color to someone's flower bed and convulsed with nausea, a full body tingling sensation, and hyperventilation. I think my body sort of went into shock or I had a panic attack.

Anyhow, the day passed miserably, but in the past hour or two I've managed to be a fully functioning member of the household again. Right before writing this email, in fact, I was doing some laundry and changing the sheets on my bed, when I happened to notice that between my bed and the wall was the dried up remains of another expulsion of my stomach contents, which I must have unknowingly deposited in the middle of the night. As I reviewed this, I remembered that my window was completely open when I woke up this morning, and I vaguely remembered sticking my head out and puking into the garden below.

This concludes 24 hours of activity, and surely you all understand why I now am my own hero. I can definitively say that last night was the most drunk I have ever been in my life (even more than the first time I went to Angela's), and it still baffles me as to how I ever got that way. Of course, reviewing the events, it becomes clearer:

+/- 8 beers pre-arrival of my brother
3 shots Jose Cuervo Tequila
7 Wizard Staff level
1 beer unknowingly shotgunned
unknown quantity of alcohol from liquor cabinet

Being a responsible older brother: Priceless.

Needless to say, I've had enough of this complete break with character when under the influence of alcohol, and plan to spend the next few days, weeks, and months repairing any and all damage I've done to my dignity.

What is the earth for:

I just finished reading Jack Kerouac - Windblown World: The Journals of Jack Kerouac 1947 - 1954, a collection edited by Douglas Brinkley, and it's been really fascinating. I've been a big fan of Kerouac for a while, and reading his journals provided some insight into his character that isn't possible to glean from his already very introspective novels. The time and energy he puts into his writing and his real appreciation for the craftsmanship of writing is overwhelming, even for the reader. His desire to be accepted as a successful novelist and writer practically screams from his text, and observing his struggles with his prose and the profundity of his ideas illuminates a very different version of Kerouac than that known most famously for his miraculous transcription of On The Road, which took place in the span of three weeks (although, as featured prominently in his journals, ideas had been hashed about and characters had been developed fairly exhaustively before). Overall, I found myself continually impressed by the complexity of his writing and his thought in journal form, and couldn't help but try to remember several memorable passages. Even Kerouac's inner turmoil cannot squash his insight or dampen his genuine joy at existence -- it leaps off the pages. In retrospect a highlighter would have been handy, despite the fees I surely would have been charged for defacing a library book, but, minus said florescent writing instrument, here are some excerpts I managed to mark with a handy fold of a page:

The kind of lifetime most often observable in obituaries of respectable proportions, and indeed in the obituary sketches of most of this world's lifetimes, the kind of life that can actually be summed up in two or three paragraphs -- these lives must surely have been used as cheap coin by the deceased. When you read these obituaries, you often think, "Well at least there's a generation forthcoming from them, who might live a little more intensely." But you know the children of these people will live similar absentminded lives, and die summed up in two paragraphs. A few hollow titles, a few "public services," a medal, some property and means, a diploma for something -- that's what they leave for their children to mull over, if indeed their children are capable at all of mulling over anything in the heat of blind acquisitive days. (20)


What is the earth for -- what is the night for -- what is food & strength for -- what is man for? For joy, for joy. (345)

And another I related to on a more base level:

It's the easiest thing in the world for me to fall apart mentally and spiritually when drunk. Thus, no more -- it'll take time to stick to it, though, but I shall do so. I seem to have a poor constitution for drinking -- and a poorer one for idiocy and incoherence. (62)

MAMMOTH SEX:

Hooooly shit. This had to be shared. Read first, comments after.

Kremlin preaches Putin's greatness at youth camp

LAKE SELIGER, Russia (Reuters) - At a lakeside camp five hours drive north of Moscow, 10,000 young Russians are learning why President Vladimir Putin is such a brilliant leader and why his opponents are so evil.

A wooden gangway cuts through trees and past tents, rubbish has been thrown into bins, clothes and belongings tidied away.

The only exceptions to the general picture of neatness are two mucky, wooden shacks surrounded by broken glass -- a mock settlement reserved for Other Russia supporters, vocal Kremlin opponents who accuse Putin of destroying democracy.

In the middle of the camp stand large portraits of Other Russia's leaders under the headline: "The Red Light Street."

Other Russia's three male leaders, including world Chess champion Garry Kasparov, are portrayed as prostitutes. In lurid colors they pout and pose in stockings, their faces frozen into feline grins.

"I didn't know who those people were until I came here," 20-year-old Lena from St Petersburg said as she walked past.

"Now I know they are fascists."

The two-week summer camp is run by Nashi, the biggest of several pro-Kremlin youth groups, and in Nashi's vocabulary Putin's enemies are fascists.

Nashi, which means 'ours' and is funded by the Kremlin, was founded in the wake of popular demonstrations that toppled pro-Moscow leaders in Georgia and Ukraine. Its stated goal is to promote nationalist values for a greater Russia.

Western diplomats and critics say it appears aimed at giving the Kremlin a ready made mass movement to call on in times of trouble.

The group came to prominence last year when it hounded the British ambassador for months after he attended an anti-Kremlin conference. Since then, it has rallied in the streets of Moscow in support of Putin and protested against his enemies.

A spokeswoman said it had 100,000 members across Russia.

At Nashi's third annual summer camp at the Lake Seliger beauty spot many of the 10,000 Nashi activists wore red T-shirts with slogans proclaiming the greatness of Russia or Putin.

They start the day with mass exercise then head off to play volleyball, sail boats or cycle around quiet back roads.

Such summer camps, which declined after the fall of communism, are now making a comeback under the sponsorship of political groups.

MAMMOTH SEX

There are lessons outlining Putin's foreign policies or economic initiatives, an army camp shows off Russia's military and a Nashi security service trains to work alongside police.

"We have to show how the policies of Putin have worked," Nashi leader Vasily Yakemenko told the press on Tuesday.

Behind him a puppet-master prepared. Later, the Putin puppet would vanquish pro-Western presidents in Georgia and Ukraine, Russian exile Boris Berezovsky and Other Russia.

Drinking alcohol is banned in the camp, but other activities are encouraged. A display shows why the Woolly Mammoth died out -- not enough sex. Russia is fighting to stop a fall in population as a result of alcohol abuse, AIDS and migration.

Alexander Zlatmenkov held hands with his fiancee Julia. They are both 23, and with 39 other couples will marry at the camp.

"It's important for us to set an example and it's fun and interesting," he said.

All the Nashi members Reuters spoke to were aged between 18 and 23, were at university or had just left and came from lower income families whose parents worked in jobs such as teachers and engineers.

Four girl friends from Smolensk walked arm-in-arm along the lake's shore to lessons on how to organize mass public protests.

They clutched copies of Nashi's latest glossy magazine. The top story was entitled "New Fuhrers" and was accompanied by pictures of the Other Russia leaders.

Activists said Nashi gave them pride in themselves and pride in Russia, directed them away from alcohol and drugs and gave them a summer holiday with friends. Most did not consider themselves political.

Andrei, 22, was more candid. He said Nashi's aim was political and that previous Nashi members were already making their way through government ranks and pro-Kremlin businesses.

"I think this camp is the Russian version of camps now being run in the West," he then said. "That's true, isn't it?"

Outrageous. I have too much to say or there's so much going on here I can't say anything. I haven't decided yet.

However, I do need to comment on the use of the word "fascism" in this article, the ridiculous slums of other Russians, and the "Red Light Street." This is propaganda at its best, and most absurd. No one seems to do it quite like the Russians.

Another point I love: a chess champion as a fascist (and later, a prostitute).


Oh, and the mammoths. Never forget about the mammoths.

Police brutality:

From time to time I plan on putting into print stories from my past or present that I feel are entertaining enough to share (which will also help me remember them).


The first:

Earlier this summer my friend Joe said that his sister was having a big barbecue at her house in Boston, and we were all invited. The plan was to go to my friend Kiely's apartment in Boston, take a cab to Joe's sister's in Southie, and party there before crashing back at our original digs.

The weekend of the party came, and I welcomed the change of scenery that a party in Boston with 28 to 30 year-olds would entail. I went in to Kiely's apartment with a few friends and then we took off en masse down the street to hail a cab. The first cab came, and I piled into it with three of my friends. We gave the driver our destination, and we were on our way.

A few minutes into our ride we pulled up into an intersection, and a kid went running across the street in front of us, obviously in a hurry. He was followed soon after by some enormous guy, very clearly in pursuit.

The light changed, and we went across the intersection, following these two runners and not yet aware of what was going on. As we gained with the big dude, we noticed that he was yelling into a walkie talkie as he chased this kid, and he had a badge and what looked like a bullet proof vest under his t-shirt. So, just as we're all realizing, "This guy is an undercover cop," we pulled even with him, and he took his eyes off the kid just long enough to notice all of us staring at him, perplexed, from inside the cab.

All of a sudden, an idea dawns on him, and he yells to our cab driver, who brings the car to a screeching halt. Still watching the kid that he's chasing, the cop JUMPS ON THE BACK OF THE CAR, bangs on the roof, and starts yelling, "GO GO GO GO!!!" Not needing another reminder from the enormous dude on the back of his cab, our driver takes off -- almost losing the guy off the back, since there isn't all that much to hold on to on the back of a sedan. We quickly make up the fifty or so yards to the suspect, and the cop jumps off the cab, not waiting for it to stop moving.

The kid finally turns and sees him, and his eyes got so big that they must have upset the weight balance of his body, because he stumbled. The cop is running over to him, and gives him fair warning: "I'm gonna fuck you up!" He grabs the kid, throws him to the ground, and gives him a powerful kick to the stomach. A man of his word, that cop. We couldn't see much else, as our cabby was occupying himself only with getting as far away from that situation as possible, but I imagine the cop continued to fuck him up.

So we're driving away, all yelling and spilling out theories and exclamations, like, "I thought that only happened in the movies!" or "I wonder what the kid did!" or "That was so COOL!" while our obviously terrified cab driver takes us to our destination. One of my friends noticed a second cop chasing the kid, who got there just after he got fucked up, and we all hypothesized that it must have been a drug sting or something.

You always hear about crime in the cities, but you never really notice it firsthand. I didn't get to see the crime, but I sure got to see the aftermath, and all I could wonder was whether hopping on the top of passing cabs was a skill learned at the academy or just a moment of brilliance after watching too much NYPD Blue.

Either way, it was certainly entertaining, and the story made a great icebreaker at the party that night, which was only the second-coolest thing we had all done that day. Our friends who waited for the other cab were, needless to say, pretty upset.

Tank rampage:

Man arrested after tank rampage

MELBOURNE, Australia (Reuters) -- A man appeared in court in Sydney on Saturday after taking an armored personnel carrier on a rampage through the city's western suburbs in which he destroyed six mobile phone towers, Australian media reported.

Suburban Mt Druitt police Chief Inspector Guy Haberley said the 45-year-old man had been arrested on his way to damaging a seventh tower, according to News Ltd.

"He continued to destroy mobile tower communications sheds by crashing through the perimeter fence and colliding with structures, causing significant damage," Haberley was quoted as saying.

The charges included malicious damage, break and enter, predatory driving and driving in a dangerous manner.

Australian radio reported the man did not apply for bail during the court appearance, and the case was adjourned until Monday.




Awesome.

Prozac nation:

I read today that antidepressants are the most widely-prescribed drugs in the United States. I was impressed, since I would have guessed that drugs related to our obesity "epidemic" would have taken the cake (haha) in this fat nation. Apparently, we are even sadder (quite) than we are obese (morbidly). Blood pressure drugs did come in second on the list of most-prescribed, and while they were not listed, I imagine that cholesterol drugs and others related to our blight of portliness could not have been far behind.

I'm not sure exactly why Americans are so sad - perhaps it is because we look in the mirror every day and find that the pants don't fit anymore and the ole belly looks a little saggier than yesterday.

Although America has plenty to be unhappy about these days (enraged, more likely), I find that the abundance of antidepressants is similar to the sudden outbreak of ADD in America's children. This country loves problems. We love complaining about problems, having problems, being the victim, and complaining as much as possible. So if there is a chance that a doctor can validate our symptoms with a well-timed prescription for whatever ails us, we are all the happier. So, perhaps those children weren't just poorly behaved because they of poor parenting; it was the ADD, and it was out of our hands.

It is this logic and more behaviors built into our American-ness that lead us to seek out quick fixes to more complex problems. By quickly jumping to antidepressants, Americans are probably avoiding confronting the larger issues that plague this nation. The article presented a perfectly sad-but-true example of this:

Dr. Ronald Dworkin tells the story of a woman who didn't like the way her husband was handling the family finances. She wanted to start keeping the books herself but didn't want to insult her husband.

The doctor suggested she try an antidepressant to make herself feel better.

She got the antidepressant, and she did feel better, said Dr. Dworkin, a Maryland anesthesiologist and senior fellow at Washington's Hudson Institute, who told the story in his book "Artificial Unhappiness: The Dark Side of the New Happy Class." But in the meantime, Dworkin says, the woman's husband led the family into financial ruin.

Needless to say, we are prescribing patches for larger problems. Rather than look for quick solutions, we need to understand that the majority of the answers to our problems - both personal and societal - can only come from within. As Abraham Lincoln said, "Most folks are about as happy as they make up their minds to be."

To read the article, click here.

Current events:

I am currently in the process of trying to get a column in the school paper, The Middlebury Campus, next semester. My column springs forth from my almost compulsive reading of CNN.com and other news sites. During my hourly perusals, I frequently encounter articles so absurd that I begin to doubt the viability of the news media and humanity in general. In my column, I plan to lambaste these articles and the broader social issues they reflect, using my signature heavy doses of sarcasm and offensiveness.

Here are the two sample columns I wrote for my application:

Baby “Bubba” gets a gun permit – www.CNN.com

We’re all familiar with fanatical parents who drive their kids to succeed beyond all reason and who use their children’s apparent talents as a pathway to fame and fortune. They are frequently present at sports games, talent shows, and beauty pageants nationwide. I couldn’t imagine a shot at fame more demeaning than making a four-year-old prance around a stage with coifed hair, a two-piece bathing suit, and a fake smile, but unfortunately, I was sadly mistaken. As I checked CNN.com for perhaps the fourth time today, a front-page headline on the “U.S.” section of the site caught my eye (How could it not? It was the only article with a picture.): “Baby ‘Bubba’ gets a gun permit” – above it was a charming picture of little Bubba and his grinning father.

A brief excerpt of the article was listed underneath the aforementioned photograph, which read, “‘Bubba’ Ludwig can't walk, talk or open the refrigerator door -- but he does have his very own Illinois gun permit.” How charming. I was pretty sure that this was more or less the entirety of the story – I didn’t find background information all that important, and the story sure didn’t seem to be going anywhere – but there it was, that “Full Story” button tempting me under the article, screaming, “But wait, there’s more!” like some Sunday morning infomercial. I couldn’t resist not finding out what else this sure-Pulitzer-Winner of an article had to offer.

The article basically progressed as expected: Baby – Baby gets gun – Baby is headline news. However, there were a few points that I feel are worth mentioning. First of all, in order to verify the authenticity of this “story” and help us all get a handle on this alarming news, a State Police officer was interviewed, who leaked to the reporter that no, a 10-month-old does not need a gun license, but there are no rules against it. If this kind of investigating isn’t integrity in journalism, I don’t know what is. Despite the surrealism of this whole situation, perhaps the most absurd (and appalling) factoid was revealed in the last sentence or two. This whole fiasco is really the result of Bubba’s caring grandfather buying Bubba a “12-gauge Beretta shotgun” as a gift.
Now I’m not sure of Bubba’s family situation, but unless they’re either a) living on the Alaskan tundra and feasting on caribou or b) residents of a crime-infested crack house, I don’t see little Bubba really needing this gift for, say, another two years minimum.
Although pretty much anyone within 200 figurative miles of this story is a pitiful human being, my first target is Bubba’s father, who looks to profit greatly from Bubba’s national speaking tour, seeing as how Bubba himself has yet to utter his first word. The photo that accompanies the article shows a grinning dad holding little Bubba in all his 10-month-old glory. Unlike most baby pictures, Bubba makes perfect eye contact with the camera; unfortunately, the same can’t be said for his father, who glances off to the side with a look that says he knows he’s getting away with something. I don’t realistically expect Bubba’s dad to profit greatly from this escapade – I don’t see any book deals in the works – but the fact that his father is using him to experience his own fifteen minutes of fame is undeniable.
Also at fault here are the souls behind CNN.com who decided that this story was worth our time. Who in their right mind sees this story and feels inclined to give it priority over any story other than a report on the activity in the monkey cage at the zoo? There are people starving in this world, as I recall. Either the people over at CNN are tackier than the rest of us, or they’ve got us pegged. Guaranteed, they knew someone would read this story and love it, which brings me to my next point.
This trash is presented as a human-interest story, with the publishers thinking along the lines of many Americans, that babies and cuteness sell. What people seem to neglect in this story, however, is that added into this baby-plus-cuteness equation is something less dreamy: firearms. How is it that people can overlook the terrifying reality that there are grandfathers out there who buy their baby grandchildren deadly weapons? How is this considered “cute”? I know that one of our most cherished national rights is the right to bear arms, but am I alone in thinking that that right probably needn’t apply to those who defecate in their pants on a daily basis? To think that supposedly responsible adults are putting instruments of death into the hands of children is disturbing, and I challenge anyone to convince me that any good could come of it.
Complaints aside, when this mess is forgotten by the general public (T-minus 13 minutes and counting), maybe Baby Bubba will grow up someday to be a well-adjusted and responsible adult. Maybe the fact that his guardians seek cheap thrills and that he’ll probably (okay, definitely) hold a gun before his sixth birthday won’t matter. In fact, maybe one day he’ll bring a little bundle of joy of his own down to the state offices and register him for a gun license. What a story that will be!

AND

Deaf beauty queen hit by train was texting - www.MSNBC.com

When I first saw this article I couldn’t believe it. The headline looked like a sentence made up on one of those magnet sets people have on their refrigerators. Deaf beauty queen? Hit by train? Is this some sort of sick joke? Naturally, I read on.
Shockingly, it went as described. Miss Deaf Texas had been walking along railroad tracks sending a text message to her family before she was hit and killed by a train. Because she didn’t hear it coming. Because she was deaf. This seems like some awful scenario dreamed up by the writers of bad television.
In the article is this marvelous generalization by Gene Mirus, an instructor in the deaf studies department at Gallaudet University in Washington: “Deaf people often have a false sense of security when walking along train tracks.” This is presented as if deaf people often walk along train tracks and are often killed by oncoming trains – as if all deaf people call over their deaf friends (in sign language, of course) and say “Hey, want to go walk on the train tracks? We’ll be completely safe! Gee-wiz!” (Note: I do not know if an American Sign Language sign for “gee-wiz” exists, but I imagine it would require a lot of arm-waving and head-bobbing.)
(Another note: I myself have a hearing loss in my left ear and wear a hearing aid, which I tell myself gives me the right to poke fun at being deaf.) (It probably doesn’t, and I’m probably going to Hell.)
This article gives me a lot to talk about, so let’s start from the beginning. The tragic hero in this whole situation is the victim, Miss Deaf Texas. I feel that this moniker is incredibly intriguing, for the simple fact that if there is a Miss Deaf Texas, there must be “Miss Deaf Blanks” is every other state in the nation. As the article later reveals, there is indeed a national competition to crown Miss Deaf USA.
I know that pageants are popular in other parts of the country, but doesn’t it seem like this is going a bit far? Who was it that one day had the great idea, “I know what we can do to make deaf girls feel normal: parade them onstage and make them feel just as self-conscious as every other pageant participant!” I can’t really even imagine how a Miss Deaf pageant would work, since the deaf problem rules out any singing and dancing, which leaves only unicycling and fire eating, if I remember correctly.
All kidding aside, I’m all for greater equality for everyone, and it is specifically for this reason that I don’t think that the way to actively engage those with disabilities in regular society is through putting them in pageants. Especially not disability-specific pageants. If there is a Miss Deaf Texas, is it correct to assume that there is a Miss Amputee Oklahoma or a Miss Quadriplegic Alabama as well? The creation of these specialty pageants results in nothing more than a freak show – and not so subtly implies that their contestants aren’t capable of participating in pageants for “regular” girls.
What is to prevent Miss Deaf Texas from participating in a regular pageant? She has no obvious physical deformity and is by all accounts a very talented and attractive young woman. Is it too much to ask that pageants adapt enough that sign language translators could be used in the question and answer session? To create specific pageants for disabled participants amounts to nothing more than segregation.
Another issue in this situation is the tabloidization of the modern news media. This story appeared on MSNBC.com, what some would consider a reputable news source. In my mind, the duty of all serious news organizations is to provide a necessary public service: to distribute important information. In this instance, however, I fail to see how this information is necessary to anyone besides the members of the girl’s grieving family. This is a news organization using a human life for entertainment purposes – turning an extraordinary situation into nothing better than some tabloid headline about aliens that abducted Monica Lewinsky, who had recently married Bigfoot.
If the news organizations were to imply that this is an important story, then one would assume that someone needs to know about this situation. Did the kind people at MSNBC.com merely wish to pass on to all the mothers and fathers of deaf children in America the warning: “Don’t let your deaf children walk on train tracks; they won’t hear the trains and they’ll get killed”? If that is the case and they were just looking out for all the deaf children in America, then I apologize, MSNBC.com. You were doing America a great service.
But in the more likely scenario that MSNBC.com used this story because they knew it was guaranteed to become a media sensation, then this is deplorable. Publishing this story does nothing other than make public a very private, yet extraordinary situation. If the basic reporting of Miss Deaf Texas’ death was not enough, the reporter had enough good sense to throw in the loaded statement that she was killed because she was “texting.” Why is this loaded, you might wonder? Because it is very obvious that if she had a cell phone, a deaf beauty queen certainly wouldn’t be speaking into it.
In conclusion, my message to the people behind Miss Deaf Texas and other pageants: open your eyes, and treat those with disabilities just like anyone else. And a special one for the lovely folks at MSNBC.com: either provide a public service and remain relevant, or resign yourself to the grocery checkout aisle.

Currently, my column is under consideration, but they've asked me to consider changing my content a little, for fear of offending the upstanding readers of The Middlebury Campus. They thought that some of my comments might be considered insensitive. You be the judge.

"Antipasti?" or "Welcome to Italy, fuck you!" or Misadventure in Italia:

We flew Alitalia from Heathrow to Rome – a short flight by any measure, but one that presented more spectacular views, this time of the Alps. The flight was a bit late but otherwise fine, and we stepped off the plane and into the Italian transportation infrastructure, a step comparable to one into a steaming pile of dog shit, as we would soon discover.

Off the plane we were herded into a bus just small enough that you knew if would never fit all the passengers on the plane, but large enough that everyone tried anyway. After a few minutes of jostling, they finally sent over another, and we were shipped like cattle from the tarmac to the terminal. As the bus doors opened, a torrent of people rushed to the line for customs. We took a short detour to the lavatory, which proved to be a fatal mistake, and we ended up waiting in line for customs for just under an hour by my guess. After finally making it to the front, where four customs officers worked to process at least 400 people (other flights had then arrived), we grabbed our bags and sped off to Avis (or “Anus” as it is now known) Car Rental for our chariot. At Avis the scene was familiar: hordes of people milled about while two or three workers leisurely doled out the cars. We took a number and got in line, and spent the next three hours walking aimlessly up and down the airport moving sidewalks and watching a southern mother sip Budweiser. At some point, we actually managed to get our car (reserved weeks in advance in order to avoid any hassles, ha) and tried to get as far away from the airport as fast as possible.

Our destination was our rented villa in Velletri, about an hour’s drive south of Rome, and we made our way in a state of near panic. The check-in deadline for the villa was 7:00 PM, which should have been fine considering we landed at 1:00, but our detour to the rectum of the car rental industry gave us an hour to get there, and no more. Of course, naively thinking that everything would be fine now that we were on our own, we set off with a sense of optimism. Then we drove on Italian roads. Small, winding, and crowded, the Italian road network is poorly marked and a nightmare to drive. At wit’s end and with only five minutes to 7:00, we made a frantic phone call on our international cell phone (which we weren’t actually certain would work) to the villa’s owner, Antonio. Luckily he answered and managed to meet up with us and lead us to the villa by a completely different route.

The villa, at least, was gorgeous. We pulled up to discover that ours was a walled paradise, with a gated driveway and everything. The house was surrounded by a lush garden of flowers and olive trees and was hemmed in by an eight-foot hedge. The villa was built in 1600 (a year so ancient as to be beyond the grasp of my New World mind) and consisted of three separate areas: the main quarters with kitchen, sitting room, master bedroom, etc; an elevated area with two bedrooms and another kitchen; and an apartment for the owner’s parents, who stay at the villa on weekends. Needless to say, we were awed. Over the course of a week we ate every meal outside, lounged about the ample patio space, and relaxed in the Jacuzzi. Perhaps the most refreshing thing about the villa was the complete integration of indoor and outdoor spaces; doors and windows were not shut here, the inside was merely an extension of the outdoor space, albeit with walls.

Paradisiacal though our villa was, outside of our gates was another story.

The average journey for us consisted of getting lost within five minutes of leaving the villa, usually due to poor road markings, winding roads, and general incompetence. After arriving at our destination, we would probably have to wait for several minutes or hours for whatever service we were hoping to use, after which we would discover that it was either broken or nonexistent. After that, we would cut our losses and try something new and equally unsatisfactory before driving home and getting lost again. Thrilling.

One of our more exciting adventures was a trip to Anzio to go to the beach. Predictably, we were lost within five minutes of leaving the house and then drove in circles for an hour or two before finally arriving at the coast. At this point starving, we thought it would be nice to drop in at Emma’s Trattoria and grab some lunch. At the door we were greeted by a young guy who informed us in English that the restaurant served “fish, only fish.” Being ocean-friendly and adventurous eaters, we dove in. Seated, we were quickly asked whether we wanted any antipasti, a ten-second interaction that ended in our affirmative response of, “Si, cinque, per favore.” What a mistake this was. Thinking we were getting a few light snacks before seeing the menu, we were obviously surprised to see a dish of fish salad come out, with chunks of squid, crab, and God knows what else. This was followed by a plate of anchovy-type fish, which was in turn followed by a dish of haddock in tomato sauce. These two were soon joined by a plate of mussels, before the piece de resistance, three purple, boiled octopi on a plate, just chillin’. By "fish, only fish" I guess I didn't realize that all other ingredients were banned. I imagine their insalata must consist of fish lettuce, fish tomato, and squid dressing. Lovely. Overwhelmed by our questionable eating options, we frantically leafed through our Italian phrasebook, looking for the section, “When people start throwing fish at you.” Alas, that section only appeared in later editions. Luckily, we were able to communicate to our waitress that we would like the fishy barrage to end. We ate what we could (no tentacles), paid, and left.

One of the things about Italy is that everyone expects everything to be gorgeous, and, from afar, that is mostly true. Pictures of Rome, the coastline, etc. are all scenic and historic and a host of other adjectives, but upon closer inspection, they are almost universally disappointing. The problem, by my observation, is just that no one in Italy cares. The streets are filthy and full of trash, and stray dogs wander about uninhibited. One day I saw one lying out in the middle of the steps of the police station. Italians just don’t seem to worry too much about graffiti and litter in the streets and environmental degradation and stuff like that. I walked past a pile of human feces in Rome. The beaches are gross (but the ocean looks nice 100 yards out), just like everything else. The appeal of Italy is its antiquity, its age, and its aesthetics, but in reality, it’s just fucking old. This works well for buildings of charm like the Pantheon and a villa, but otherwise it is wildly inconvenient. This is Italy.

Halfway into our trip, I began joking that the official motto of the Italian tourist bureau is, charmingly, “Welcome to Italy, fuck you!” This attitude seems to prevail. Whether it is through vast inconveniences in every sector of society or general attitudes, this sentiment gets across. Italian drivers weave in and out and cut each other (and you) off without a second thought. Sometimes they just stop their cars in the road and get out, because even though they couldn’t find a parking spot, they have somewhere to go and obviously you don’t. Pedestrians often step right in front of cars, as if to say, “I am Italian, fuck you.” Our trip to the beach in Anzio was marked by a lifeguard’s whistle when we actually tried to get into the water. It’s high-pitched shriek carried friendly tones of “This is Italy, no fun for you. Fuck you!” As the grievances piled up, we began to look forward to our complementary punch in the face before leaving the country.

A few observations worth mentioning:

1) On the train one day we saw a fat girl wearing a t-shirt with the unfortunate grammatical error, “Kiss Me Ass.” I would have taken a picture, but wouldn’t have wanted to anger someone with such obvious good taste.

2) Also on the train one day, we sat next to a woman who thought it would be a good idea to bring her dog on, a hairy guy who solved the hot weather problem by opening his shirt and letting his hairy pot belly breath, and some young adults who thought that making pig noises was the height of comedy.

3) Contrary to what you may have heard, Italian women are not at all attractive. Under 20 years of age, they maintain a level of beauty comparable to any other nation, but above that it drops off steadily. Most older Italian women were overweight, sported butch haircuts, and clad themselves in faded canvas frocks.

Despite my complaints (many), our Italian adventure was ultimately successful. Seeing the country was, at the least, an eye-opening experience, but also had moments of real contentment. Living around the villa was an uncommonly luxurious existence, and seeing the sights of Rome and Italy satisfied beyond any measure. When it all comes down to it, I went to Italy, which is satisfying enough in itself.

One final anecdote: Our flight out of the country went predictably. We arrived the airport (got lost on the way) only to find an enormous horde of people gathering in what was supposed to resemble a line. After more than an hour in this teeming mass, we got our tickets, fought our way through two more lines sporting several-minute waits, and finally boarded our flight (delayed). On the plane, we were informed that for whatever reason, we were not given clearance to take off and would have to wait on the plane for two hours or so. It was fun. On our nine-hour flight, we ate some questionable meals and witnessed the frolicking of horny Italian youth, as a school group headed to the states flirted wildly. Groping is the best in-flight entertainment. We touched down finally, received our punch in the face, and stepped back into the secure confines of the US of A. I have never been happier.

The feeling of being back in the US was quite unexpected; the only way to describe it would be euphoric. I actually felt a tangible rush as I walked through our clean and uncrowded airport, moved quickly through customs, and stepped into the bright sunshine of an unpolluted sky. As a pretty consistent US-basher, it was a strange feeling, patriotism.

I found that one of my fellow travelers said it best, when, leaving the airplane, another kid about my age joyfully breathed:

“America is AWESOME.”

Beans on toast:

As mentioned in the previous post, I traveled to England and Italy... I am now back, and I have much to report.

Flew to England on Tuesday the 19th, leaving Boston at 7:00 PM. Our flight was marked most notably by dinner served around 9:00 Boston time, with breakfast following about an hour later in order to trick our bodies into some semblance of circadian adjustment. Also worthy of mention was this: most flights to Europe fly north almost to the Arctic Circle, which meant that the sun never really set for us. Roughly three hours of gorgeous sunset across the horizon was replaced by an equally long sunrise with only an hour of near darkness as intermission. The brilliant sun shining above the clouds and off the ocean will always be an amazing sight to me, no matter how old I get or how many times I fly.

We disembarked in London around 6:30 AM local time and set off on an odyssey for our hotel, breakfast, and some rest. Outside the airport we attempted to hail the most outrageously coloured cab we could, but instead settled for a less spectacular but more convenient one at the front of the line. Our driver, Colin (whose name my dad miraculously remembered and referred to often during the trip like an old friend) must have had the best life of any cabby I have ever heard. I imagine he enjoys making the lives of his passengers feel insubstantial and empty on a daily basis, as he regaled us with stories of his impressive existence. Apparently, he only drives the cab five months a year, split usually into two-week segments. The other seven months, he flies to Vienna, Austria, where his actual house is (or, as he told us, his actual two houses - one in the town and one lakeside), where he spends his time either driving one of his three cars or swimming and running every morning with his wife, who --although I was afraid to ask -- I suspect was Gisele Bundchen. How this is all possible on a cabby’s salary, I do not know, but Mafia ties probably help.

Eventually, we arrived at our hotel, the Langorf, and bid farewell to Colin. An interesting thing about the Langorf: evidently the hotel was named after its street, Frognal, as unlikely as this seems. How a word as obscure as Frognal could have existed prior to a more common-sounding Langorf is beyond me, but again, this is a foreign land. The combination of the two does, however, invite the creation of palindromes, and my best (on short notice) is “Langorf not on Frognal,” which would probably present problems for the hotel’s business. I decided to keep it to myself.


On the whole, London was much as expected: cars drove on the wrong side of the road, the city was remarkable, and accents abounded. After a day or two in the city I found myself spontaneously bursting into a little Cockney accent myself, sometimes involuntarily. Otherwise, London was nice but uneventful. I had beans as often as possible, and found the most entertaining thing to be a cricket game I watched on the tellie. Though impossible to understand, it was wildly entertaining, especially when after a particularly good hit the commentators announced, “Ooh, right into the Jacuzzi!” To my surprise (and delight), sure enough, there was a full Jacuzzi sitting field-side.

After three days in the city, it was time to move on to Italy, where the real adventures began.