Monday, December 04, 2006

Crazy is as Crazy Does

Whenever there is a impending change in my surroundings or my position in life, I tend to lose it a little. It could be just going back to school after summer break (that only warrants a few nights on my parents' floor and an irritable streak). Or...

It seems that the bigger the change, the sooner I begin to freak out. My semester abroad is a little under two months away, but I'm beginning to mess up my dorm room now so that packing to leave college for six months will be much harder. When I got some playful ribbing from my roommate and a friend about it, I burst into tears and spent the next ten minutes sobbing in the bathroom. I can only imagine the hippy hippy shakes I'll have mid-January.

The worst part is not the neurotic techniques that I use as compensation; it's the fact that I know everything will work out well. There's nothing I can't handle when I get right down to it. But try and tell me that now and I'll rip your hair out by its roots and hand it to you.

Who knows, maybe getting arrested for assault will make it harder to leave.

K.

PS. 100th post. It's about damn time.

Wednesday, November 29, 2006

Tongue-Tied

My rabbi always used to caution me during my bat mitzvah lessons, "Whoa, whoa, don't let your tongue get in front of your eye teeth! You won't be able to see what you're saying!" I'll admit, I haven't always listened to that advice. I talk loudly and quickly, which often gets me into tight spots, even when it comes to easy words. I just can't force them out.

Today, I was discussing West Chester's Old-Fashioned Christmas parade with my friend Oj, a history major. As usual, I was complaining about Christmas. That's when the trouble began.

"I'm not going to the Old-Fasssssh... Old-Fssh... Old-Fascist-- Fsssssssh... Fshfshfsh... Old-Fashioned Christmas parade."

Oj stared at me, then broke out laughing.

Chagrined, I muttered, "What the hell is an Old-Fascist Christmas parade anyway?"

"German," Oj chirped. I mimed a quick goose-step, then we carried on with the conversation.

Oh, sure, it's fine when I screw up in front of my friends, but I know I'm going to make myself look like a total idiot in Scotland. I really need to get my entire life scripted.

K.

Tuesday, November 28, 2006

Tell the World to Stop Turning

I've held off a little on this post because I'm not totally sure how I feel about this year's Thanksgiving vacation. Why I stopped writing because I had a less than satisfying break is beyond me, but it doesn't take much to throw me off of my groove.

It's an annual family tradition to go to Chincoteague, VA over Thanksgiving. As geeky as it sounds, I belong to a family of passionate birdwatchers. My father, for example, can identify a shoveler from a distance, without binoculars, and staring into the setting sun. Try it, it's not easy. As for me, I'm dedicated enough to let Dad convince me to wake up at five in the morning to listen to the ducks wake up. It's not the most exciting hobby, but water fowl make me smile, I guess.

Over the twenty-one years I've been going to Chincoteague, things have changed. Newer, more modern hotels with heated pools have sprung up around the island's coastline, overshadowing our little motel that features a pool full of micro-organisms and a backyard donkey. More corporation-owned businesses are entering the little town in an attempt to take advantage of the summer tourist season. It's progress and I understand that. I also understand that such decisions that affect the island are not mine to make; the islands need to do what's best for them.

Even with this understanding, this year's vacation was hard. First, my brother and my father could not attend due to a college showcase soccer tourney in northern New Jersey. Mom and I shared the large suite that usually seems cramped when it holds the four of us, but seemed cavernous with only two. It was the first Thanksgiving without Dad, but it was my brother's presence that I missed the most. Sometimes it's nice to have someone in your age bracket to talk to.

Second, the donkey behind the hotel was particularly active this year. I have never seen this animal and have only known of his presence through his early morning braying, which always seemed harmless. This year, the donkey was shrieking (and I do mean shrieking) far into the night and early morning, making sleeping in my room impossible. My nights were spent huddling next to my mother in her double bed, enduring snoring that was at least more familiar than a possessed barn animal.

Third, the internet cafe downtown decided to close for the holidays, leaving my shaking for a connection like a junkie for a hit. I still have tremors.

Fourth, our motel will probably not be open for Thanksgiving next year. The large hotels attract the families with small children and electricity has gone up 40%, leaving the motel owners to close over the autumn slack. It's not that I blame them; the owners of our motel have two boys to put through college. It's just hard to know that the place you've stayed in for seventeen years won't be there anymore.

Things change, I know. I should look on the bright side... The resturant where we usually eat Thanksgiving dinner wasn't turned into a Waffle House after all. The birds and the ponies are still there. The salt grass will always smell the same (it's one of the three smells I would bottle, along with potato chips and chocolate). And it seems like that donkey will be around as well.

Yes, the bright side is bright, but it's still hard to lose the things you've grown accustomed to in a world that's ever changing.

Sigh.

K.

Monday, November 20, 2006

A Supplication

As my offering to you, oh ye G-d-like readers, I present to you this link, which I hope will fill you with laughter and smiles. Please, oh ye divine entities from the World Wide Web, I beg you to forgive me for my lack of posting. I shall be sure to prostrate myself at your altar more times in the coming week.

K.

Thursday, November 16, 2006

The Cuteness Factor is Unbearable!

On this windy, rainy day, I present you with this clever little video about a kiwi. Enjoy!

Hmm, damn Mac hates me... we'll fix this later. Just copy and paste the link.

http://www.i-am-bored.com/bored_link.cfm?link_id=20550

K.

Wednesday, November 15, 2006

Your Take on This?

The situation:

You are dozing on a couch in your university's newpaper office, trying your damndest to not get any work done. Your cheek is a bit itchy owing to the inferior fabric of the sofa, so you open your eyes in preparation to turn over (you don't know why you always open your eyes before you switch sides; you just do). As your vision becomes clearer, you realize that your line of sight is knee-level to a colleague of yours sitting in the opposite chair. Unfortunately for you, your colleague's knees are splayed wide open, granting you an unobstructed view of places better left unseen.

The problem:

Do you tell your colleague that he has a hole in the crotch of his jeans and let the entire office know that your are looking at his crotch, or do you just let it go, letting your co-worker go all day without knowing that he's showing the world a bit more than he probably wants displayed?

You decide.

K.

Tuesday, November 07, 2006

The Other Candidate, The Right Choice

It's only a little after four and you still have plenty of time to get out there and vote!

What? You don't want to? But how could that be?

Oh, politicians. Yeah, I understand. I mean, Republicans are of a corrupt sort and even if Democrats take control of Congress, they wouldn't know what to do with it. It does seem pretty hopeless for the average American.

But, you know, there are other choices. Sure, there are several names on the ballot, but have you taken a look below them. See it? Yep, right there-- "write-in candidate." Pretty cool, huh?

However, just because you have the freedom to doesn't mean you should waste your vote! Vote for someone with a plan! Vote for someone with principles! Vote for someone with charisma!

Vote for me!

What? Why are you laughing? Don't you take me seriously? You haven't even asked me about my platform and you're already discounting me? Oh, what a sad state our country is in.

Listen, I have great ideas! In fact, I guarantee you that I can solve America's international relations nightmare as quick as you please. I have a plan that simply cannot fail. Are you ready for it?

Wooly socks.

Yep, wooly socks. Just hear me out. I promise that this is great stuff.

Why is everyone so mad at each other? The answer is simple: we're all worried and over-stressed. And we all know that stressed people are unreasonable. Now, follow me with this one. Pretend it's a cold day, you've just come home from work after having to struggle to get your car started, and you've found that the roads are near impassable. Now you flop down into a comfortable chair and pull on... what? Oh yes, some wooly socks. What happens then? Why, of course, your stress flees under the unstoppable onslaught of the warm wooly sock. You instantly relax and are able to think clearly.

Now, think about this on a large scale. We sends crates and crates of these wooly socks to Russia, China, and North Korea. They put them on. They instantly become more open to negociation. Pretty cool, huh?

My opponents might scoff at this plan. How, they ask, can we possibly appease those in hot countries with wooly socks? Won't this make them even crankier? Well, if you insist on thinking inside the box, this is a perfectly logical point. However, I already have that covered. You see, for our friends in warmer climes, we simply provide them with wooly sweat bands. I don't know of anything more irritating than trying to get work done while sweat stings your eyes. We may find that the Middle East is a friendlier place when we provide them with a sting-free existance.

My international relations plan is inspired, but I think that you may find my domestic issues plans just as spectacular.

What do we complain about most here? That's easy: a lack of jobs and a failing economy. How do we fix this? Why, with new employment created by the rising wooly socks and sweatbands industry. We need people to shear sheep, card the wool, work the knitting machines, and inspect the results. Money and jobs for everyone!

So, as you enter the booth on this fine Tuesday, please keep in mind that you are not limited to those names written on the ballot. Remember me, your wooly textiles candidate! Victory in 2006!

K.

Monday, November 06, 2006

Pax Romana?

As I finished watching "Rome" today, I got to thinking about world events. I don't know, I guess shows about political intrigue, notions of empire, and the installation of dictators just seem to remind me of today's worldwide political climate. Like it or not, we live in interesting times. We see countries traditionally viewed as enemies procuring nuclear arsenals, tyrants being sentenced to death, and bands of "freedom fighters" out-manuovering powerful governments flashed across the TV screen everyday. It's certainly not boring.

Whatever your view on things, I suggest that you click on my link above and watch "Rome." The acting is amazing, the dialogue is interesting, and the lessons it teaches still relevant today. However, may I suggest that you not watch this at work? That is, unless, your boss has a thing for full-frontal Marc Antony scenes.

Apologies for a crappy post. Perhaps I'll have something more interesting to say after the elections tomorrow.

K.

Wednesday, November 01, 2006

Dreaming of Heather

So, for those who don't know, I'll be spending my spring semester at the University of Stirling in Scotland. I'm very excited-- or, I would be if I weren't sitting under a huge pile of forms and waivers that I have to sign. At some points, it almost doesn't seem worth it. But then I remember this--









And this--














And this--







Yeah, all that is Stirling, the town where I'll be going to school. The last time I was there was this January, on a quintessentially foggy, Scottish day. The town is cute, but I think the castle is the real jewel.





I'm not sure why I like this castle so much. It could be some residual clan pride (it's a Stewart castle and therefore, in an exceptionally round-about way, mine), the fantastic view, or the cool rock wall that you can walk around. I don't know; it's just cool.


There are all sorts of secret little crannies where, I suppose, some people like to hide things.


Some beautiful stained glass in the main hall, as well.

So, I guess I just have to keep this in mind when I get overwhelmed. I think that I'm going to post some pictures from my UK trip every so often if only to keep myself grinning.

K.











Tuesday, October 31, 2006

A Little Halloween Story

I had about five other ideas for posts today, but it's Halloween and this story can't be put off for another day.

Let me give you a little history--

I've been living in this dorm for two and a half years and I've seen a lot of things. I've seen drunken freshmen carried off by EMTs, hairy guys dressed as cheerleaders, and Campus Safety trying to break down the door of suspected pot smokers. Quite a bit of weird things happen around here, but it's a college dorm. You expect that.

One of the strangest things that would occur happened in one of the rooms down the hall from me. My friend, the current RA of my wing, used to live there with her roommate and I would occasionally hang out to watch movies. Sometimes, the closed door-- which would usually stick when anyone tried to open it, by the way-- would creak open, driving us to get up and shut it. After a period of time, it would open again and the cycle would continue. My friend told me that the lights sometimes blinked on and off, leading her to believe that the room was a tad haunted. This ghost, she rationalized, was male, as this used to be an all-male dorm. And, to repay the thing for being irritating, she gave it the most obnoxious name she could think of-- Eugene.

I only half-seriously believed in Eugene. I believe in ghosts mainly so that they never feel like they have to prove their existence to me. I'll be fine with my unfounded suspicions, thanks. As a normal person does, I tried to explain away the door phenomena by theorizing that the pressure changes in the room forced the door open. I would mention these things to my friend, but then added that, you know, it could still be a ghost, right? Call it added insurance.

Well, for a while, Eugene stopped showing up. He wasn't ever mentioned around the wing. Then this morning happened.

In the wee hours, the current residents of that particular room were sitting up and chatting. The lights were off, the blinds were drawn, and the only illumination came from the glow of their computer monitors. Suddenly, one of the girls saw a flashing light out of the corner of her eye. She waited for a while, then got fed up and convinced herself that the computers were acting screwy. So the two girls turned off their monitors and plunged the room into darkness.

Except...

The light was still there. It was an orb, really, golden in color. It zigzagged back and forth around the room, scaring the girls out of their wits. Screaming, they tumbled out of their room and spent the rest of the night with the RA, too frightened to go back to their own beds. Several boys, having heard the commotion, volunteered to stay the night in the room, but didn't see anything.

Eugene was baaaaaaaaaack.

Talking to the girls this morning, I found out that they had lots of odd activity occurring in the room. They would hear scratching by their ears and other auditory points of interest. To corroborate their story, the girl next door claimed to have seen the orb too. Interesting.

Do I believe it? Let's be honest, I'm scared to say no. I don't need spooks appearing to me. Nooooo way.

You don't think Eugene's real? Fine, then you can tell him!

Happy Halloween.

K.

PS. Odd that it happened so close to the holiday, yes? Hmm...

Monday, October 30, 2006

A Letter


Dear Girl Talking on Her Cellphone While in the Bathroom,

Hey, this is the girl from the next stall over. You know, the one wearing the dirty socks. But you probably didn't notice as you were so wrapped up in your conversation.

As much as I enjoy a little bit of entertainment while I sit there (I bring books in there all of the time), I tend to draw the line at cellphone conversations. You may be enjoying yourself, but trust me, I'm not. Public bathrooms are uncomfortable enough without the added drawback of having to listen to someone talk while taking care of... uh, business. You don't hear me busting out Shakespearean monologues, do you? I think not.

Though even that wouldn't be as bad as a cellphone conversation. See, while the monologue is a two person embarrassment (the reader and the listener), a cellphone involves three or more. Seriously, do you want to broadcast to whoever you're communicating to that you're on the toilet? If so, that's a fetish I don't need to know about.

So, in conclusion, let's stop these little cellphone chats for good, shall we? Because if I hear it again, I am going to make myself obnoxious in ways not necessarily accepted by polite society. And don't think I won't. You only know me by my stockinged feet.

Hugs and kisses,

K.

Saturday, October 28, 2006

I'm An Idiot.

G-d, why do I procrastinate? Why, why, why?

I have a paper and a poem due on Monday. :( This means I have to get started.

K.

PS. Sorry that this was such a cop-out post. Maybe I'll have something better to say once I actually get something done.

Thursday, October 26, 2006

Taken Over By Victorian Humor

I find that the more I delve into Victorian literature, I'm finding the most idiotic observations absolutely hilarious. My sense of humor-- and my imagination-- seem to have been irrevocably skewed.

I often picture myself standing in front of a blazing fireplace with a companion, clothed in a crimson smoking jacket and cradling a brandy snifter in my palm. We are both gazing up at some protrait of an aristocratic relative that clearly marks me as one possessed of wealth and good taste. I turn to my friend, gently swirling the brandy.

"I say, old boy, did you not find the resemblence between Lady Audley and Phoebe Marks in Lady Audley's Secret quite remarkable? Why, the illustrious lady and her maid servant are only separated by coloring, the inferior far less vibrant than her clear superior."


"Quite right, quite right," my companion harrumphs, "in fact, the only thing the young maid needs to look like her mistress is a make-over. A Pre-Raphaelite make-over! A-hur-hur-hur!"

We both chuckle heartily, then launch into a detailed discussion about my butler Nigel's latest faux pas. It seems that the blighter had mistakenly placed common butter on my table during tea instead of clotted cream. Imagine making such a barbaric mistake. Clearly, this man had never stepped foot in the hallowed halls of Eton, a-hur-hur-hur!

See, that comment that my "companion" made was not at all funny, but I definately giggled at it when my professor said it in class. What is happening to me?

Seriously, there needs to be a comedy intervention.

K.

Wednesday, October 25, 2006

On a More Happy Note...

I've never watched "The Office" before and then I found a site with all of the episode. Enjoy!

K.

Child Abuse

Every semester, West Chester University has the distinct pleasure of hosting a group of very passionate people on its campus. These people go out of their way to talk to students, try to communicate new ideas to a vast audience, and hold up signs to allow those shyer people to understand their message without actually having to go up and talk to them. And then, without fail, the campus police come and kick them off the property.

That's because these people talk to student by berating them about the sin-filled lifestyle they may or may not be living, communicate ideas through a bull horn, and hold up signs with "aborted" fetuses on them. Yep, the crazies have come to town!

Really, I have no problem if someone is particularly religious or holds beliefs that I cannot possibly agree with. Spice of life, you know? But I want to scream when I am told that I am going to hell or when Bible verses are screamed at me over a loud speaker. Don't break my personal bubble and won't stomp on yours. But I saw something today that left me shaking with rage.

As I was trying to enter our student union, I was confronted with placards sporting bloody fetuses and sour-looking adults staring down a heathen student population. Nothing new. Then I glanced down, only to see a small boy, his plump cheeks flushed with the biting cold, handing out pamphlets with a tiny mittened hand. He was small, barely coming up to my waist, and was topped with a hat with a pompom on it. Shocked, I skirted him, shuffling quickly up the walk. I was nearly in tears by the time I pulled out my phone to call my father, my sounding board.

How could you use a child to hand out propaganda? How could you make a child stand out in the cold in front of bloody dipictions of what may or may not be an abortion? How could you possibly you a child-- your child-- to guilt the people around you? I just don't understand.

It was two o'clock; the kid should have been in school. He should have been on a playground. He should have been playing video games or watching "Dora the Explorer" or building high towers out of Legos. He should have been eating a bowl of Cheerios while coloring with crayons. He should have been everywhere but there-- representing something that he couldn't possibly understand.

I don't care what you stand for. A child is not a tool for your agenda. A child should be living his childhood because it goes by way too fast.

If only I had the courage to walk out there and give him a cookie or some hot chocolate. Woulda coulda shoulda.

K.

Tuesday, October 24, 2006

I Wasn't Ignoring You! I Promise.

See, I thought I was getting a handle on this blogger thing, but then I switched to blogger beta and found that tons of people had left comments that I (apparently) needed to moderate. So to all those people that left me those 33 comments, I sincerely apologize. I've tried to make it a policy to reply to every comment left on this blog, but I've failed miserably.

Well, live and learn, I guess. I'll do better now.

K.

And I Thought I Was Confused Before

Last night, I ventured over to the student union to watch TransAmerica and caught the tail-end of a panel about gender and sexuality. Having taken psychology in high school, I had some idea of the difference between the two, but I had never actually seen anyone who had gender dysphoria or issues of gender identity. There was one transexual girl on the panel who had been born a male, but had considered himself/herself a girl for many years. A few friends of mine came into the discussion even later than I had and began questioning me about the proceedings. So I tried to explain and I did... sort of... badly.

Where I got screwed up was which pronoun to use. I was trying to convey that this person had been a guy, but considered himself/herself a girl. From what I've read, many transexuals get very irritated when people use the wrong pronouns and I'm pretty sure that if that the person on the panel had been standing next to me when I was explaining, I would have gotten smacked upside the head. I don't mean to be insulting, but when you've experienced such a thing, it's hard to wrap your brain around it.

Oh yeah, if I've mortally wounded anyone reading this post, please forgive me. I clearly have no idea what I'm talking about.

K.

Monday, October 23, 2006

In Which I Make a Really Stupid Analogy

You know you're a sad and pathetic blogger when your unplanned hiatus goes that long...

I really have no excuse for it. Life gets complicated and then it swiftly de-complicates into a swell of boredom, only to re-complicate once more. My classes were/are more work than I had previously assumed (short stories, dense journal readings-- the bread and butter of a lit major), my 21st birthday took more preparation than expected, and I endured the stress of and subsequent acceptance to my study abroad program. I can only imagine what hell I'm going to be put through in Scotland.

So the last thing on my mind has been this blog. In reality, that's really how it should be. If I spend my days postponing work and sleep and play for a bunch of on-line entries, I should be in a very sorry state indeed. Yet, if one keeps a blog, one has the responsibility to tend to it. A blog is like... like a quadrapalegic, deaf/mute cat. It can be an interesting companion, but it does not have the wherewithall to take care of itself or remind you to pay attention. Ignore it, and pretty soon you have a very hungry cat sitting sulkily in its own mess. At some point, you're going to notice the smell.

Alright, so that wasn't the best analogy, but it pretty much sums up how bad I feel for leaving this little hunk of bandwidth unattended. I will try to be better. I will try to go back to reading other blogs and commenting. I will try to write interesting and insightful entries. Oh Lord, will I try.

K.

Sunday, September 17, 2006

People Who Are More Successful Than Me...

I went to high school with this kid and now he's on ABC Family! Who knew?!

As I remember from my classes, he was a very sweet person, so I don't mind pimping his IMDB site here. Go check him out!

K.

Thursday, September 14, 2006

Dreaming of Elysian Fields

I had a dream last night where I was in a cemetery.

The sky was blue, the kind of blue that you only see touched up in photos. Tombstones dotted the rolling hills, stretching far out into the distance. The stones, I seem to remember, were engraved with Hebrew, so it was clearly a Jewish cemetery. The strangest thing, besides the sheer size of the complex, was my lack of fear or trepidation. Grave yards are not, have never been, my thing.

I was standing with my family among the tombstones, apparently waiting for something. Suddenly, I saw movement in the hills. People were standing by each stone, looking around and squinting in the sun. Around me, men and women began to emerge from the graves.

Aghast, I grabbed my father, begged him for an explanation. He smiled at me and said that once a year the dead climbed out of their tomb to stand in the sun and see their families. At the end of the day, they would re-inter themselves, not to emerge for another year.

For some reason, I accepted this, no matter how strange it was. I guess it helped that the corpses I saw were fully formed with a glint of life in still-intact eyeballs. Live families were reunited with the deceased, hugs shared all around.

I met my Bubbe for the first time.

(I'm crying as I write this.)

She died from cancer before I was born. She always wanted grandchildren, but I came far too late. I've been told that I'm a lot like her in personality and habit. Before the day ended, I had met her and was reunited with my Granddad, who passed when I was four. As the sun set, the dead climbed back into their graves.

What does this dream mean? I suppose if I were more spiritual, I would have many interesting suggestion, whereas in my unenlightened state, I have none. All I know is that when I woke up, I was smiling.

I apologize for the horrendous writing in this post, but I had to get it out.

K.

PS. Bonus points for those who know what the Elysian Fields were.

Monday, September 11, 2006

The Obligatory September 11th Post

As I'm always the blogger who jumps on the bandwagon the second after a wheel pops off its axel, I think I'll continue the tradition by posting a 9/11 piece three hours before 9/11/2006 ends. Why mess with tradition?

Anyone who doesn't know will probably be very turned off by the lines above. They might even quickly backtrack, vowing never to venture into this den of depravity again. Who writes such a flippant introduction to a September 11th article?

I don't mean to be so callous. I really don't. I remember perfectly where I was when the dreadful event occurred, my confusion, and my suspicion that everyone at school knew more about world events than I did. And I cried for those thousands of people. Then I raged. Finally, I accepted.

Five years later, I look back on the event and cannot seem to summon up the same intensity of feeling. The Towers were once there; now they aren't. The people were once there; now they aren't. I can only think of it in a black and white sense with no emotion to color the picture. I'm not totally sure why this happened to me, but I can venture a few guesses.

Having monitored the news for the last five years, I may have grown a little jaded towards the death of civilians. It's awful, I know. But when people are being blown up, shot, or massacred everyday, you have to build a cocoon around yourself to keep your sanity. If I mourned for everyone, I would be a shivering wreck, unable to go on with daily life. I feel that my cocoon protects me from the tragedies today, but it also prevents me from bring up past hurts, such as 9/11. I guess, deep inside, I don't want to feel anything because I'm afraid that I'll never be able to go on with my own life.

Something else that might make it impossible for me to adequately appreciate the significance of this day is the 2004 presidential election. No, not the outcome-- the fact that both parties bandied 9/11 about for their own political gains. Who are you, you scum-sucking scheming bastards, to exploit the deaths of thousands of people and the virtual paralysis of a nation for your own aims of gaining or keeping power? Who are you to play on the sympathies of your fellow Americans in order to garner votes? It just makes me sick. It also makes me wonder if such insensitivity and callousness made me lose the meaning of September 11th. I can only pray that my ability to feel isn't permanently retarded by politicians.

Finally, I come to probably the most prevalent reason: the simple passage of time. If I look down at my legs right now, I will find a bruise that has taken up residence on my body for a few weeks. When I got it, it must have hurt like a bitch, but now I can barely remember what caused it. It's just a splotch of color now; it no longer hurts. Maybe 9/11 is the same way. Five years has just made the pain fade away.

I know I build up these defenses to make myself a stronger person, but I wonder if losing my ability to empathize is making me weaker in the long run. I have a lot to think about.

K.

Friday, September 08, 2006

Facing the Truth

I find myself not looking on news sites anymore because I will invariably find something about Steve Irwin.

Yeah, I'm still on about that.

I find that I'm not alone in my odd feelings. As I walk through my dorm hallways, I see tributes to the Crocodile Hunter on white boards. People still talk about it, most of the time with downcast faces.

I couldn't figure out why the death of one man a world away could affect so many people on my campus. I know of one person who met him, but the rest of us only knew him from Animal Planet or his run-ins with the press. The death of the pope caused less consternation. I just couldn't understand.

Then I spoke to my roommate, a paragon of wisdom clothed in giggly, dippy exterior.

"Well," she said, "it was just so sudden and random. And he was young too. You could sort of relate to him."

True.

I guess it's not just that we miss our beloved Crocodile Hunter, we also have our mortality shoved into our faces. College kids aren't used to that. We think nothing of crossing the road in the direct path of on-coming cars or drinking enough to kill a horse, then getting up the next day to do it all over again. What happens if one day that car doesn't slow down? Or if that last sip of alcohol is just too much for our bodies to handle? What then?

Well, then we die. Simple as that.

But what else does our impending death say to us? It reminds us of that old, cliched saying, "live each day like it's your last." Death is coming, people. Everyday, our internal clocks continue winding down and we get a little older. This is all we have. Drink yourself silly. Travel. Do incredibly stupid things. You might not get to do it again tomorrow.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some manifesto-writing to do. No time like the present!

K.

PS. Thanks, Steve.

Wednesday, September 06, 2006

Bad Luck

I had written a hell of a post last night, but it was deleted by my personal friend, Blogger. Thanks, Blogger, I owe you one! So I was too despondent to re-write the thing and went to bed irritated.

About an hour later, I woke up with the feeling that my stomach was making a trek up to my mouth. I sprang from my bed and dashed into the bathroom. Several hours later, I came to the conclusion that I had been poisoned by university-produced salad, brushed my teeth, and fell into a deep, exhausted slumber.

As they say, it never rains-- it pours. Here's hoping for a more cheerful entry later tonight!

K.

Monday, September 04, 2006

Croc Hunting No More

Out of habit, I tend to make the CNN website my homepage. That way, if something catastrophic happens, I can be suitable shocked and informed before moving on to my daily business.

Consider me shocked:

Steve Irwin Dead from Stingray Barb

Are you kidding me? That's like David Blaine drowning in that damn fool stunt of his earlier this year! The Crocodile Hunter can't be dead!

I know that people die everyday and one person isn't more important than another, but I almost feel like I lost a friend. He was so open and passionate about his work that you couldn't help but admire him (even when he held his little baby over a set of razor sharp teeth, but we won't go into that). There was no greater advocate for those wild animals than Steve Irwin.

I'll miss him.

K.

Saturday, September 02, 2006

Creative Writing Crisis

(This picture has little to do with the content of this post, but it makes me smile. Thank you, Bill Watterson!)

There is nothing worse than sitting over a blank sheet of paper and knowing, deeeeeeeeep in the back of your brain, that you have only one week to churn out a short story that will submitted to the all-consuming editorial maw of your peers and you're stuck with this piece of crap for weeks, doing revision after revision until your hands shake and you understand why Fitzgerald and Hemingway became alcoholics, but you have to keep editing and editing because your grade and writing reputation is at stake, here, but you get so damn tired that-

Yeah, I'm going to stop right there with that line of thought.

But that's the position I'm in-- I'll write, turn it in, get it back, do revisions, turn it back in again, get it back again, and so on. I know that at some point I will never want to see that story again.

I don't even know if I have a viable idea. It's something that happened several years ago, something that I thought would be too personal to write about. But I've been reading from my Creative Writing textbook and have come to the conclusion that if I change the characters, the setting, and the circumstances of my personal event, I could possibly come out of this with a good story on my hands. Or I could come out with a cliched piece of crap. Whichever.

I have no idea why this is so hard for me. Maybe it's because I have spent years writing critical essays that I've totally lost the knack for fiction. Hell, even my personal essays are mostly true, though admitted sometimes exaggerated to get the point across. This jumping into this short story stuff is like trying to do a split having not stretched for years: it going to hurt like hell.

Maybe I can come out of this unscathed and having learned a great deal about my craft. If not, my 21st birthday is coming up. Geniuses like Fitzgerald and Hemingway couldn't have gone too wrong!

K.

Thursday, August 31, 2006

Shh! I'm Reading!


When I look back at this week, I shake my head with both amusement and horror at the amount of time I have spent reading. No, not pleasure reading-- the assigned kind, where you can feel the professor's whip poised behind your head.

That is not to say that I hate the books I am reading. In fact, I am pleasantly surprised at just how much I have enjoyed the novels assigned. Here's a list of my current reads:

  • The Woman in White by Wilkie Collins. This book, often referred to mockingly by critics as a "sensationalist novel," has me utterly enraptured. Call me shallow, but I enjoy the kind of Gothic Romanticism that is often condemned rather than praised. Who can resist solving the mystery of the ghostly lady, all clothed in the purest white, who has recently escaped from an insane asylum? I certainly can't. It is most unfortunate that I really only have time to read the recommended 60 pages a day.
  • Northanger Abbey by Jane Austen. Years back, I tried reading Austen's Sense and Sensibility, which I quickly abandoned after realizing that I didn't have the patience for her writing style. Now that I'm forced to read one of her novels, I am really enjoying the lady author's wit and humor. Watching her clueless "heroine" blunder through all manners of social situations and bad advice is very amusing. I also appreciate Austen's ability to parody the plot devices of 19th century novels. Maybe I'll give Sense and Sensibility another try...
  • The Things They Carried by Tim O'Brien. The storytelling in this book blew me away. The way O'Brien portrays the soldiers of Vietnam in a carefully neutral light should be a lesson to us all. Just read it.

Wonderful books, all. Too bad I have to read them simultaneously!

I feel like a real English major now. Lucky me.

K.

Saturday, August 26, 2006

What Summer?

So here I am, back at school. It feels like I never left (expect for the new room/roommate). Did summer really pass by that quickly? Did I really just lose three months of my life? What the hell happened?

The freshmen look so young this year, fresh-faced and eager to experience the college life they've seen in countless teen movies. Boy, will they be disappointed. The ones who focus solely on beer and bodily delights while find their stay in college very shortlived. They will be writing checks that they're bodies can't cash (great cliche, by the way), partying all night and attempting to finish that five page paper half an hour before class starts. It's morbidly entertaining to watch these slackers flounder along. Well, good luck, freshmen.

And good luck to me.

K.

PS. Oh hey, people who have blogrolled me! Thanks to Lost, The Ignoble Experiment, Raw Words, and Bagel Blogger! You guys are great.

Friday, August 25, 2006

Wow, Even I Didn't Know Some of These

Random Facts About Jews (According to Mel Gibson)

I'm sure I'm the last person on Earth to post this link, but the comments on this piece are priceless.

K.

Thursday, August 24, 2006

Oh, Why Can't There Really Be Eight Days in a Week?

I hate change.

Alright, so I don't hate change, per se. It's more like I hate abrupt change. Like the change of leaving camp and beginning the school year.

Now, most people don't consider a week's rest between these two events within the definition of abrupt change. However, I like my change to have a glacial pace, sort of a comfortable middle ground between the time it takes for a species to evolve and the approximate age of the universe. I need to be able to square myself with the fact that life is taking a sharp turn and-- I'm sorry-- a week just doesn't cut it. When I think about the renovations the dorm room is going to need, the books I have to buy, the schedules I have to work out... I get a little ill.

I don't mean to complain; clearly, a week is plenty of time in the grand scheme of things. And it's not something I haven't done before. Good G-d, I'm going to be a junior! Get over it already!

But it's not that easy. I find myself falling into the same patterns that have marked my life forever. When faced with stress, I try to escape it by sleeping, reading, or surfing the internet. In fact, my behavior mirrors that of the severely depressed in that I will do anything to not think about the problems at hand, even if it is detrimental to everyone around me. The sad thing is that I know I'm doing it even while it's happening and I simply cannot shake it off. How pathetic.

I guess that something I'm just going to have to work on. If my spring semester is going to be anything like I'm planning, I'll have to face far more severe changes than this. Getting myself to Scotland? Finding my way around a new university? Deciphering Scottish accents? Making my way down the Heathrow to fly on some G-d-forsaken airline to Israel on my own?

Oh dear. I'm screwed. :(

K.

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

Time Stops for No (Wo)Man

This morning I received notice that my driver's license needed to be renewed. I stared at the paper for a moment or two, trying to work out whether the DMV was pulling my leg or not. Unfortunately, experience has told me that the Department of Motor Vehicles has no measurable sense of humor at all. So this had to be real.

This can't be right, I thought, digging through my wallet for my license. I'm not old enough to need a license renewal!

And yet there it was, a glaring declaration for all to see:

"Under 21 until: 10/19/2006
Valid until: 10/20/2006"



Good Lord and in the name of all that is holy, I'm going to be 21. I'm going to need to trade in my lovely vertical license for a standard horizontal license. I'm not old enough for all of this!

I suppose I really wasn't all that upset about my need to visit the DMV (though the picture on my current license is rather nice and I am loathe to change it). It was the 21 thing that had me in a tizzy.


I always pictured that I would be a different person when I turned that magical age. I would be tall, pretty, have a significant other, own a car, live in an apartment, have published something of some merit... That other person, that 21 year old, wasn't me. She was everything that I wanted to be. She had done everything that I wanted to do. She was wiser, more secure, and more sophisticated than me. She understood people better, held better conversations, regularly dazzled the writing world with essays of intelligence and deep truths.

And here I am, less than two months away from my 21st birthday, and still very much a kid inside and outside. I'm not sure whether I'm supposed to be disappointed with myself or not. After all, having a young mentality isn't necessarily a bad thing. My overlord at Jew Camp always says that an effective counselor needs to be child-like and imaginative. You have to be careful, however, not to cross the line into childishness. I believe that I managed to giggle at stupid jokes and play silly games this summer without losing myself to the kid inside. I managed to stay the 20 year old.

So while I still split my sides laughing at "your mom" jokes and find pleasure blowing bubbles for a family friend's Israeli children, I guess I'm headed irrevocably towards physical adulthood. No helping that. But, as long as I keep my inner child happy, I guess I always have a job at summer camp.


K.

PS. That post went nowhere. Guess I haven't reached that 21 year old writer yet.

Tuesday, August 22, 2006

Tales from Jew Camp: I Can't Keep My Promises

No doubt somebody on this vast World Wide Web has noticed that I have been a little late in posting. Nine weeks late, to be exact.

Long ago, I subscribed to the fantasy that, after working 24 hours a day for a week straight, I would have enough energy to write a lucid account of my experiences at Jew Camp. Just as foolishly, I promised that I would spend a half an hour of my precious time off sharing my stories when I wanted to be as far away from camp as possible, both physically and mentally. Dumb, dumb, dumb.

And it's sad that I didn't have the fortitude because this summer yielded tons of interesting tales. A short list:
  • Suicidal campers
  • My first encounter with Workman's Comp
  • Severe ankle injuries
  • Writing sermons
  • Budding rockstars in my bunk
  • Insights from a girls' camp
  • Tears, tears, tears
  • Harmonica jam sessions
  • Battles with the Red Cross
  • Israeli sob stories

It goes on.

Should I kick myself over this? Probably not. It's not like I can't write these entries at a later date when I invariably run out of ideas. Stories aren't like the milk that my brother leaves sitting out in the basement; they don't spoil. If anything, they get better. Entertaining embellishments cultivated from numerous tellings don't hurt in the least... might even yield some deep insights. Or not. Whatever.

So while I wasn't able to keep this promise, I'll venture another one: I will one day share all of my stories under the title "Tales from Jew Camp." I mean, eventually my friends are going to tire of my constant camp chatter and the Internet can't lock you in your closet to get away from your stories.

Thank goodness.

K.

Sunday, June 18, 2006

Tales from Jew Camp: An Introduction

I had planned to write this a week ago, started several times, scribbled on a sheet of paper. But I sat in front of this laptop and this blank Blogger screen... and nothing happened. Absolutely nothing.

Normally I can let my fingers go on autopilot and cede control of all creative functions to the right side of my brain. Call it talent, call it subconscious, call it whatever you want. It just happens. But this week has produced only a series of words, a jumble of meaningless phrases that don't matter to me in the least.

I guess when you try to write about something that is so very close to your heart, no matter how silly it is, it's hard to be blithe about it. Trust me, I've tried. I'm a firm believer that sarcasm and self-deprecating humor can be applied to distance to a situation, whatever that happens to be. Any regular reader of this blog can attest that many of my entries are rife with that sort of writing style. This, however, cannot, will not, be translated into a light article.

As I write this, I can guarantee that I will be blushing. I suppose I get embarrassed over how juvenile it is (or seems to be). Okay, I'll just say it.

Camp.

A Jewish girls camp, to be specific.

For the last ten years, I have been attending the same camp, either as a camper, trainee, or a counselor. Same camp, same activities, same people.

See? Blushing.

Oh, how I wish I could just sit here and make fun of the whole thing, the whole concept! Like how Jewish parents send their girls to this camp specifically to meet Jewish boys at the neighboring camp and how, ironically, more lesbians come out of the camp than marriages. But then I think about how many camp marriages do last and how many points your cool factor goes up if you are a lesbian at camp... and I can't make fun of it anymore.

Know why? Because that is part of the charm of camp. At camp, I am brave enough to smash gigantic spiders while issuing my shrillest war cry. I can wear the same dirty old hat everyday. I can give a sermon or two at Shabbat morning services. Camp did more for me as a woman than any Spice Girl ever could. And I couldn't be more grateful.

On Tuesday, I leave to begin my tenth and final year at my dear, sweet camp. After three years as a counselor, I need to begin planning for real life, taking internships, travel. I must leave my mountains behind to enter a world where the only mountains I will climb are metaphorical in nature. But I still have one last year. One last fling at childhood before entering a new life.

So, I invite you to join me in my final journey. Though I will not be able to write everyday, I hope to share my stories with you at least once a week. Perhaps I will finally be able to convey my feelings for this place in my own idiom, instead of stilted flowery prose.

Until then, goodbye!

K.

PS. Please feel free to leave comments if you so wish. I hope to be able to check my e-mail while at camp (if their sporadic internet cooperates). I'll definitely respond if I have the chance. :)

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

"Goodnight, Michelle."

Ever know someone from your childhood who portrays a certain image throughout their lives? And then you meet them later in life to find out that they have taken a 180 degree turn?

Case in point: Bob Saget.

(Warning-- Language.)

K.

Tuesday, June 13, 2006

Lay Off the Thrills, Buddy

I was going to start my series of entries about Jewish summer camp, but I got seriously distracted by current events. No, not Zarqawi or bombings in Israel or Tropical Storm Alberto-- Ben Roethlisberger.

Yep. That Ben Roethlisberger.

For those of you not up on American football news, Super Bowl Champion Pittsburgh Steelers' quarterback Roethlisberger was involved in a motorcycle accident a few days ago (Sports Illustrated has a full list of the player's injuries). Roethlisberger has been upgraded to "fair" condition, which bodes well for his recovery to playing condition. The franchise has yet to determine his career future.

Frankly, I don't care about his playing ability. Sure, I'm a Pennsylvanian and I cheered for the Steelers during the Bowl, but whether the kid can ever throw a ball again isn't foremost on my mind. What does irritate me, however, is the fact that Roethlisberger was not wearing a helmet. Not only that, he is not even licensed to operate a motorcycle in the state of Pennsylvania!

Listen up, athletes. You sign contracts for millions of dollars per game with huge franchises for the express purpose of entertaining millions of fans. The football fanatics turn up to games, buy your jerseys, which provides billions of dollars to the franchises. So, in all but the legal sense, you, as a professional football player, are owned by both football fans and franchises. You are obliged to not take such idiotic risks. It is irresponsible not to.

So, Mr. Roethlisberger, I suggest that you think very carefully before taking anymore unnecessary risks. Your value to any professional team with drop precipitously if they believe that they can't count on you. Advertising spots will dwindle away as your bench time exceeds your playing time. Finally, even your fans will abandon you to follow bigger and brighter prospects.

Sounds peachy, right?

Sorry to be harsh, but the sooner you find that out, the better.

K.

Monday, June 12, 2006

If Only Ignorance Was Always This Funny

While catching up on the comics that I missed from this weekend, I stumbled across this query in "Dear Abby":

"Dear Abby:

I have reason to believe that a young man in my family may be gay. (He is 15.) I have been thinking a lot about this lately, and have been wondering if circumcision would cure it. What do you think?" --Grandmother in Missouri


Uhhhh...

Thankfully, Abby (Jeanne Phillips) had this to say:

"Dear Missouri Grandmother:

Homosexuality is not an illness, and therefore there is no need for a 'cure.' I predict that your family will be happier if you accept you relative exactly the way he is, love him, support him, and stop trying to think of ways to cure him.

PS. Circumcision is a sacred rite of the Jewish religion. If your theory were valid, then there would be no Jewish homosexuals. And yet, among the successful, gay, Jewish men who are 'out' are Harvey Fierstein, Michael Finestein, Barney Frank and David Geffen-- to name a few. (Oops! And let's not forget Isaac Mizrahi.)"


Right on, Abby. Right on.

K.

Joys of Jersey?

And then there was silence. The violin legs of the crickets ceased their sawing; the croak of the bullfrog was utterly absent. Within this magnitude of quietude, a still, small voice was heard:

"Oops."

Yes, before my travels into the Garbage-- uh, I mean Garden State-- I irresponsibly neglected to ask what kind of internet my hosts used. Sadly, it was dial-up. E-mail did not get checked, entries did not get blogged, and valuable time that could have been spent looking up articles to make me giggle was lost. Pity.

Not that my trip to New Jersey was ruined by my lack of internet connection in the least. I perused the boardwalk of Seaside Heights, was berated for my lack of knowledge about carpentry in Allair State Park, and managed to watch nine Johnny Depp movies in the first annual Depp-athon. Even the facts that (1) Six Flags Great Adventure was shut down for some Boy Scout shindig, and (2) I was actually having fun in Satan's trash heap of a state didn't lessen my enjoyment of the long weekend.

I still reserve the right to make fun of their full-service gas stations.

K.

PS. I mean, really, why can't these people pump their own gas?

Tuesday, June 06, 2006

Signs of the Apocalypse

I admit it; I'm jumping on the bandwagon. Today is June 6, 2006, otherwise known as 6/6/06. Many Christians and "Revelations" analysts maintain that the number 666 is the mark of the Beast, otherwise known as Satan. The coming of the Greatest Scapegoat's favorite day has spawned at least one movie premiere, endless Satanist parties, and-- the most evil event of all-- the arrival of Ann Coulter's new book. Now, it would be completely irresponsible if I didn't comment on an event that only happens once a century, even if every other blogger has already had a whack at it.

Since I am not an expert on numerology or New Testament theory, I cannot give anyone a fact-laden essay about 666. Therefore, I decided to do something different.

Inspired by Sports Illustrated's weekly quote, I present...

Signs of the Apocalypse
  • Brought to you by Dave Barry's blog, here is The PhotogenicMask. Leave it to the Japanese to think of one of the creepiest things imaginable. I'm sure the end of days will include souless people with souless faces walking around. (Don't worry, you can press 'cancel' if they ask you to install a Japanese language pack.)
  • A man, sure that invoking the name of G-d would protect him from danger, was mauled by a lioness. Before the fire falls from the sky, G-d will definitely ignore the pleas of the faithful, especially if the faithful are stupid enough to CRAWL INTO A LIONESS'S CAGE!! G-d don't hold with no idiocy.
  • I had an article from MSNBC about people finding eight heads in a box in Iraq, but the article magically disappeared from the site. Apparently, MSNBC knows that the Devil's house-warming gift before the end of days begins is a nice set of heads in a box. Here's a different article about it, anyway.
  • After examining a jarful of rainwater, scientists have concluded that the red cells within the water are aliens. "Revelations" has got to have something about killer red aliens falling from the clouds, right? Anybody?
  • CNN is now teaching children how to rob banks. Clearly, Satan has contracted Ted Turner to turn our kids into sinners in order to counteract Hell's population drop after the Baby Boomers move through.

And there you have it, folks. These are just several signs of the impending apocalypse! Do you have your Homeland Security-issue duct tape and plastic sheets? Good, you should be alright. then.

Good luck!

K.

PS. As lawsuits have a habit of flying about on the internet, I totally credit Sports Illustrated for "Signs of the Apocalypse."

PPS. Don't take this seriously. That makes babies cry.

Sunday, June 04, 2006

Confirmation Agitation

This morning, my family and I sat down for the most superfluous ceremony in a young Jew's life: confirmation. More specifically, my brother's.

I've never been a fan of confirmation, even four years after my own ceremony. The synagogue itself doomed the rite for me. Back in the day, a rather jaded seventh grade Sunday School teacher informed my class the concept of a "confirmation" was nicked from America's Christian community during the fad of Jewish assimilation. Before that, he said, the concept of confirmation wasn't practiced at all in the European Jewish populace. Whether this is true or not, I quickly added this to my arsenal of reasons why confirmation wasn't necessary to become a mature Jew.

Who can blame me? I had been attending Sunday School for eleven years. Every week, I woke up in the wee hours of the morning, dragged in for one hour of Hebrew lessons, then subjected to two hours worth of exceptionally dry history. (Granted, many other Jews have to suffer Hebrew School multiple times a week, to which I doff my cap. I don't think I would have survived.) To be told that I need to complete yet another year of instruction in order to take part in a ceremony not vital to Judaism was just too much.

To make matters worse, the confirmation class was taught by the Rabbi later in the evening. Make no mistake, I have a great affection for my Rabbi. His wisdom and welcoming presence has helped me during the most trying periods of my life. Even my brother, the sullen teenager, holds a tremendous respect for the guy. However, no matter how many talents my Rabbi has, none of them include the ability to speak to a group of teenagers. He just doesn't understand that no one in the confirmation class really wants to be there, no matter how engaging the conversation is. The problem is only exacerbated as kids nod off during class, causing the Rabbi's mood to move from "frustration" to "un-holy rage." Fun times.

As most dreaded events do, my confirmation passed uneventfully. Thirteen teenagers slouched on the bima in front of a sanctuary full of parents and relatives who, though unsure of what a confirmation officially entailed, firmly believed that anything that kept sixteen year olds out of trouble all those Sunday evenings couldn't be that bad. All of us, clad in white robes that seemed to be cast-offs from some church's Christmas pageant, leaned against the podium to deliver two speeches, one entitled "Why I Want to Be Jewish," the other on a subject of the Rabbi's choosing. The "Why I Want to Be Jewish" speeches were short and cliched (sixteen year olds, though they are loathe to admit, actually don't know anything and therefore cannot give ground-breaking explanations on why they picked one religion over another). The other speeches, however, were Proustian tomes. By the time the service reached my one-paragraph explanation of G-d and nature (I've always know my audience), the congregation had reached a operation-quality stupor for which anesthesiologists are usually paid the big bucks. Two hours later, the entire assembly collapsed into a chocolate-covered strawberry bacchanalia, relieved that the whole ordeal was over.

You would think that my parents, who had to sit through the whole debacle four years before, would have wisely allowed my brother to skip the whole thing. Consider said lesson unlearned. All year, my brother sat in confirmation class, gamely trying to keep his snores from interrupting the Rabbi's frenzied attempts to spark an intelligent discussion. Then, many months later, there we were, watching as my brother stubbornly refused to smile in the face of a professional photographer's antics while waiting for the service to begin.

As I look back on it, I realize that I did learn quite a bit from my stint in Confirmation Prison. The exact particulars escape me now, but I'm sure that some bit of information managed to wedge itself into my gray matter during that time period. One thing's for certain: if I have my own children, I will immediately enroll them in a confirmation class. Why? Because one thing that I'm not going to let my kids get away with is experiencing less misery than I did.

And that's promise.

K.

New Haveil Havalim Up!

Love it. Want it. Need it.

K.

Saturday, June 03, 2006

Who Says You Can't Go Home Again?


A bit of homestead upheaval has thrown off my blogging groove.

I've now been at home for a little more than two weeks. In that time, I've researched, relaxed, cleaned, relaxed, packed, relaxed, unpacked, relaxed... I've also, apparently, been getting in the way of my family's established homelife. I guess I can understand. For months, my parents and little brother have been going through life without me, then suddenly, there is a twenty year old lump in the house.

I have an over-blown sense of entitlement, I suppose. It's not that I want anything out of my family; I just kind of want to sit and let the activity flow around me. I've been at the center of so many disputes and effort in the last couple of months, so I just want to shut down. Luckily, I have been very adept at letting my body veg on the couch and allowing my mind to go somewhere else.

Unfortunately, my parents have a different plan for me. To them, there are now three adults in the house, so there will be three adults doing three adults' worth of work. So we have two conflicting goals.

I think I've forgotten how to live with a family and that lack of knowledge is showing more and more everyday as I steadily become more exasperated. All the little niceties of a well-run home have become quite foreign to me. I'm now used to living with my own requirements, by my own rules. However, that's not how things work anymore. I'll just have to get used to it.

As a peace offering, I traveled with my mother to Boiling Springs to meander through a craft fair. Afterwards, I made some badly-formed cheese blintzes with my father. I guess I just need to survive until I leave for camp.

Just keep thinking happy thoughts, Kate, happy thoughts...

K.

Wednesday, May 31, 2006

Spying for the Man


My father is an international security consultant who specializes in information brokering. When I tell my friends what my Dad does, they whistle, impressed: "Wow, your father's a spy!"

Whee hee hee.

Not quite, but his job is pretty cool. Sometimes I sit and listen in on his business calls, interested in just how he gets his information. He has a pretty unique network, which includes several international sources in Africa, Europe, and the Middle East. And now... me!

Well, sort of. See, I offered my post-university-pre-camp time to him, presenting my research skills, my persistence, and my laptop. I would allow him to boss me around for a mere pittance. Eagerly, he accepted and immediately put me to work looking up English-language jihadist websites located within the United States.

Jihadist websites? I thought, plopping myself down in front of the Google homescreen. Easy and interesting! Type in "jihad," add a little "Islam," and websites will pop up easy-peasy. After all, Neo-Nazi and KKK sites are easy to find, so why not violent anti-Americans?

Go on, type in those keywords into Google. I'll wait.

Find something? I'm sure you did. In fact, you found 10,300,000 somethings. See anything to suggest a website run by jihadists within America? If you did, you must be seeing something that I'm not.

I found websites defining jihad (the real jihad, not the convoluted definition that extremists use), JihadWatch (normally very useful, but not today), and sites/blogs raving on about the entire world's population of Muslims wanting to crush the West (bullshit). No jihadists.

So I tried to get a little more specific. I tried adding "American" to the mix, then "destroy," then "Detroit." No luck. After two hours of scouring the web and only picking up bits and pieces, I stumbled upstairs to confront my father.

"Dad," I frowned, "these sites don't exist. Not in English, anyway."

"Yeah, they do."

"Nuh-uh."

"I know they do. Go look again. That's what I'm paying for."

"Ugh!" I stomped back to the computer and stared at the screen. Finally, I began typing again. Here's what I searched for:

Destroy American dogs

I had always heard translations of terrorist speeches referring to Americans as "dogs" in order to dehumanize them. Unfortunately, Google cheerfully provided me with sites on how to euthanize my pitbull.

Murder Americans

Err, not what I'm looking for.

Al-Qud

You know they are making a pair of jeans specifically for Muslims to store gear in during prayer? Called Al-Qud jeans? I didn't know that either.

Ask.com: How do I kill Americans?

And they say that Ask.com has all of the answers!

So, I haven't found any sites about radical Muslims hating Americans. That was a bust. But I did find a load of sites about Americans hating Muslims. All Muslims.

Pathetic. Pretty soon we'll be running all Muslims-- good, bad, or indifferent-- out of our American cities with pitchforks and buckets of tar. Brilliant.

Before we complain about the hate others feel towards us, perhaps we ought to address our own deep-seated hatred towards those who have never harmed us.

K.

PS. Sorry for the crappy, cranky, unorganized post. Things will improve, I promise.

Sunday, May 28, 2006

Excuses, Excuses, Excuses

A long soccer weekend and death in the community has left me too little time to write this weekend. I hope to remedy that in the coming week.

Have a wonderful Memorial Day.

K.

Thursday, May 25, 2006

Pleas of a Literature Major


I've fallen into a literary rut.

For the last several days, I've been skipping from book to book-- from Dan Brown to Margaret Atwood to Salman Rushdie. I read the first couple pages, then my mind floats away from the words on the page. One minute Gibreel and Chamcha are plummeting to earth; the next minute I'm thinking really hard about how nice a turkey sandwich would taste.

I'm currently deep into The Last Jew by Noah Gordon, a novel about the Spanish Inquisition. The dialogue is entertaining, the characters are well-rounded, and the topic is interesting. However, though these are the required criteria to make it on my reading list, I don't know how long this book is going to last. I've been too unpredictable to judge.

Personally, I believe the problem is that I no longer have an assigned reading list compiled by a herd of professors. During the long haul of the school year, I scour the great works of literature required in class, all the while dreaming of the other books that really wanted to read. But now I have the free time and, well, I've read all the books that I had dreamed about during the year. What now?

Dear readers and lurkers, please give me some reading recommendations. Classics, summer reading, bestsellers-- it doesn't matter. Is there a book that stuck in your mind? Made you think? Made you laugh? Made you cry? Tell me about it.

Seriously. Tell me about it.

Because I may soon end up bringing cheesy romance novels to my brother's soccer games, which would be awwwwkward.

K.

Wednesday, May 24, 2006

Say What?

Taylor Hicks is the new American Idol.

Whoa.

K.

When Is a Convert Not a Convert?

No doubt this subject has already been covered by people more educated and up-to-date on the subject than me, but once I saw the article, I had to say something.

While browsing the Jerusalem Post, I came across an opinion piece about the Orthodox Rabbinate not recognizing the divorces and conversions carried out by many Diaspora Orthodox rabbis. In order to be legitimate, such ceremonies must be conducted by rabbis on the Rabbinate's approval list.

Far be it from me to question the decisions of this exalted body, but I can't help thinking that the Rabbinate is trying to create a monopoly within its own sect. Get converted by an A-list Orthodox rabbi or the whole thing is null and void.

It's almost like the Rabbinate is forming a Jewish Vatican-- the be-all to end-all of the Jewish faith. What next? Will the Israel's Chief Rabbi suddenly announce that G-d regularly visits for bagels and shmear in order to talk business? Will he join the Pope as the Lord's own mouthpiece?

Maybe it's just me, but I don't like the idea of a bunch of alter kakers thousands of miles away making declarations about just who can be a true Orthodox convert. If a person who follows the teachings of the sect and follows the traditional process of conversion, they are a convert!

But, you know, the Rabbinate has the right to think what they want. If they want to believe that anyone who doesn't follow their edicts isn't a Jew, then I can't do anything about that. However, I have a right to my own beliefs, as well. And if I believe that the Rabbinate spends much of its time acting like a pompous windbag of an organization, then that's my right.

The right to question authority: that is why I am a Jew.

K.

PS. Spell check keeps wanting to replace "rabbis" with "rabies." Sometimes I wonder...

Tuesday, May 23, 2006

The Kimono Collection Get an Airing-Out

It might be my stomach virus's doing, but I feel compelled to post about something near and dear to my heart: my kimono collection.

I'm not Japanese by any stretch of the imagination, but something about these graceful garments has captivated me. Therefore, as I'm too weak to do much else, I'll put up some of the pictures of my little collection. It requires, unfortunately, that reader uses his/her imagination since my house is in no way a photographer's paradise.

So, we begin!



Though technically not a kimono, this haori is by far the most "useful" to me of the bunch. It's traditionally used as a kimono overcoat, but I wear it to synagogue to cover my shoulders.



A detail from the haori. It's the design that really made me fall in love with this piece. The colors, the trailing ribbons, the way the fans are situated-- very appealing.



Next, my tomesode. Tomesode are worn by married women to formal occasions, such as weddings. I believe that I got this particular kimono because I really wanted a tomesode and this one was cheap on Ebay. Being a student of very little means, I can't be incredibly choosy. No matter, it's simple and I like it.



Detail of the tomesode's embroidery. I believe that it's a lion, but it could be a Korean dog. Whatever the animal, the green color is beautiful.



Here's a rather fetching furisode that has been, unfortunately, been hung rather haphazardly on the wall. It's also unfortunate that the picture had to feature my ancient paper weight of a computer; the hanger is too high for me to reach. Furisode, by the way, is Japanese for "swinging sleeves" and is worn only by young, unmarried women. It is said that in order to attract a husband, women would wear sleeves long enough to flutter when they walked in order to catch a man's eye.



The final kimono in my collection is an uchikake, a wedding kimono. This picture doesn't really get across just how massive this thing really is; it's the width and length of a single twin bed. The hem of the garment is stuffed with cotton, lending to the kimono's surprising weight. My mother is convinced that I will get married in this kimono, but I doubt I would even be able to lug the thing down the aisle.



This is the only obi I own, but I guess that's a good thing as it costs about as much as a really nice kimono on eBay. The length of silk is doubled over on itself, so it's actually about as long as I am tall. It's kind of an obnoxious orange color that doesn't match any of the kimonos I own, but the crane is nice.

So that's the extent of my collection currently, but I am expecting a large box of random kimonos in the near future. If I'm satisfied with them, I'll take pictures.

If you have an interest in kimono and would like to learn more, there are several books I would recommend.

The Book of Kimono by Nario Yamanaka-- My first book on kimono. Some very nice pictures with short explanations dealing with the history of the clothing and how to wear it.

Kimono: Fashioning Culture by Liza Dalby-- I highly recommend this book. Dalby was the first Western woman to become a geisha and, as an anthropologist, has written a brilliant and entertaining history of the kimono.

Kimono by Paul Van Riel-- Not big on information, but has tons of full-color pictures.

I would also say that eBay is a fantastic source for very nice vintage kimonos.

Anyway, thanks for hanging in there with me!

K.

PS. Update: The Llara Brook count is now up to 958 on Google and has (somehow) made it on to WilliamShatner.com.

Monday, May 22, 2006

Car Ad Betrayal

Car advertisements seem to think that they have me pegged. They know that I'm desperately searching for a car to boister my flagging ego. They know that I am intensely attracted to bright, flashy colors. They know that I will only purchase a car if it has appeared in an action film starring Harrison Ford. They can read my poor, poor shallow mind.

So what I don't understand is how they would get it so very wrong this time around.

Yes, I'm talking to you, Honda Civic. What happened? We were so simpatico for a while. You were the only one who understood my penchant for spouting pretty little fish and tree frogs from my mouth while driving through tree-lined roads, much like a fairy princess cursed at birth by an evil sorceress to have toads leap from her lips at inconvenient moments. It was like... you got me.

Suddenly, you come out with a commercial populated by butterflies, snakes, and spiders. Ah the miracle of rebirth: a young butterfly wriggling out of its cocoon, a snake gleefully shedding its skin, baby spiders pouring in a veritable deluge from an egg sack. Nature at its finest, is it?

What's going on, Civic? You know I hate two out of three of those creatures!

For example: spiders. Civic, you know that I have called for jihad bis saif on those eight-legged bastards for the last twenty years! I don't heed the call of arachno-apologists who claim that spiders are actually our friends. "Ooooh," they say, "spiders kill insects that irritate us! They keep the population down!" Well, so does a bug zapper and you don't see me taking one of those into a passionate embrace!

And now you want me to associate your car with an animal-- nay, a creature-- that I despise?

I could have dealt with the spider thing. We have been through too much together to fall out over that. I would have questioned our relationship for a moment or two, but I would have fallen back on the idea that one can make a mistake every once and a while. That is... until you included that... other... thing.

That's right.

Butterflies.

What the hell, Civic? How could you not know that I hate butterflies with more fiery passion than can be promised by twenty Latin men simultaneously?! Don't you realize that when I swerve while driving on a deserted country road, I am actually trying to lodge one of those stupid things in the grill of my car? How could you not understand the basic butterfly conspiracy: butterflies sending out their lowly moth cousins to flutter in your face while you're trying to light a camp fire and you swat at them with the lighter fluid which splatters all over you and the fire decides to finally ignite and--poof!-- you have no eyebrows? How could you have missed something so simple? Honda Civic, you claim to be all "in" with the tree-huggers and the left-leaning Blame-America-Firsters, but how could you ignore the plight of the proletariat moth, who sacrifices itself while the bourgeois butterflies lean back in their pimped-out cocoons, sipping spiced nectar from the skulls of their enemies?

Shame on you, Civic, shame on you.

We're through. You'll find your stuff sitting in a pile outside of my door. Don't bother knocking.

K.

Thank you, The Colbert Report, for the "voice" of this piece.

Sunday, May 21, 2006

G-d Bless the Blogosphere

It's interesting how fast news spreads. Llara Brook, the girl who was wrongfully arrested in Baltimore, MD, now has 631 mentions in Google.

Well, at least one of us from the synagogue has made it on Google! :)

K.

Friday, May 19, 2006

The Story Continues

Llara's encounter with the cop made it on to The Drudge Report and on the Rush Limbaugh show.

I can't believe I put those links on my blog. :)

K.

History's Yellow Bands

I'm not even sure how to start this entry.

Each time I begin, I shake my head and savagely assault the "backspace" button. The blank space mocks any word I type in, but I gotta say it some how.

"New Iranian law to require Jews to wear yellow band."

What do you say when you see history begin to repeat itself before your very eyes? What do you think when actions thought to have seen their ends two generations before reappear in modern society?

The only upside of this situation is that Christians and Zoroastrians will be forced to follow the dress code as well. I'm not saying this because misery loves company, but because, let's face it, the world still cares more about Christians than Jews. The Christian European nations will swoop down on Ahmadinejad, not to mention our own most Christian President Bush. By including Christians in his Holocaust-like law, Ahmadinejad will find himself royally screwed.

But enact a law limiting the freedom of Jews and Israel will sound the only outcry. Oh sure, there will be a little hand-wringing from other nations, but would we see people banging down the doors of their national embassies? I doubt it.

Forgive me, I'm being angry and cynical. :( The world is better than that, isn't it?

Isn't it?

K.

Thursday, May 18, 2006

Just an Update...

More on my friend and the cop.

There's a video too. Fun!

K.

Make My Season Finale with a Dash of Science

Students of literature are notorious for being picky about the kind of mental stimulation they open themselves to. Some only touch the great European classics; others won't be in the presence of a book that wasn't written by an African-American lesbian writer. Still others-- those of discriminating taste-- refuse to bask in the glow of the Devil's spawn.

That's right. Television.

Not that I follow that line of thinking. Like everything, television is a medium best used in moderation. And, depending how you use it, TV can impart some knowledge through such channels as The Learning Channel (when it's not showing fashion tips), The History Channel, The Travel Channel, The Discovery Channel, etc. etc. Seriously, who can bash television when you can watch Alton Brown explain the chemistry of cooking on Good Eats? I certainly can't.

Alas, I wish I could say that I was going to rave on about TV's educating aspects, but no. Instead, I'll be concentrating on... gasp... prime-time dramas.

More specifically, CSI:Las Vegas (none of this spin-off crap, I'm a purist).

I'll admit it: CSI can't be considered educational material. Those who are CSIs in real life rarely leave the lab. Tests that take minutes on the show can last for hours, even days, in real life and CSIs don't arrest people. But come now, admit it. This show stands way above the dross of the TV world: soap operas and after-school specials.

So, anyway, tonight was the season finale and the resolution of a pressing cliffhanger. One character, a particular favorite of mine due to his biting sense of humor, had been shot twice and was on the brink of death. On top of that, we had the reappearance of his crack whore daughter, a decapitated son of the South with a penchant for man-corsets, and a pre-diabetic determined to end it all with all the drugs, alcohol, prostitutes, and cake he could find. Finally, the show's avowed bachelor shows that he may be dappling with the fairer sex.

Ooooh, the drama! I love it!

See, CSI is the only show (besides those with, you know, real people) in which any character biting the dust makes me unhappy. The writers and actors on that show manage to make a lab full of science nerds exceptionally interesting. Luckily for me, it turns out that no one dies this season. No fake-mourning for fake-people! So now I'm looking forward to next season.

Here's where the problem comes in. This fall, the powers that be will move Grey's Anatomy up to Thursday at 9 PM, which will put it in direct competition with CSI. My future roommate is a Grey's devotee.

Oh uh, trouble in paradise.

So I now need to learn how to program my VCR. Or my roommate and I can institute a weekly brawl with the winner turning to the show of her choice.

I had better get working on that VCR.

K.

Wednesday, May 17, 2006

One Hundred Things About Me

I'll admit it: I'm a talker. I'll chatter on about world events, school, and the superiority of a regular spoon over a soup spoon. Knowledge-- or lack thereof-- of a particular subject doesn't stop me either. Rattling on and on about nothing is a quite a talent of mine.

However, one subject with shut my mouth tighter than a sprung bear trap: Me. Ask me about myself and I will immediately clam up, hemming and hawing until the asker simply gives up. It's not that I don't have things to say or that I'm ashamed of myself. My mind simply goes blank.

This became quite a problem when I was being interviewed by Phi Sigma Pi initiates.

"Tell me about yourself," they would say.

"Err," I would reply cheerfully. And that would be the end of that.

After about seventeen such encounters, I decided that something must be done. So I sat down and made a list of 100 things about myself. Not secrets or anything, just things that people might be interested to know. I did this just to prove to myself that I can find something to say about myself.

I include this list in my blog because, if there are any regular readers out there, they might find that some of the items that I put in the list explain the way I think. Or not. Whatever. :)

Anyway, feel free to reply. They always make me smile. With further ado, I present...

100 Things About Me

  1. My father's nickname for me is "Pumpkin."
  2. If asked what my favorite movie is, I will always say The Blues Brothers.
  3. I've been going to/working at the same Jew camp for ten years.
  4. I honestly couldn't tell you what my favorite book is.
  5. Secretly, I admire my little brother.
  6. I have no idea what I'm going to do when I "grow up."
  7. I still consider myself a kid.
  8. I write better at night.
  9. When I buy a house, I want it to be near a large body of water.
  10. I'm teaching myself how to play the harmonica.
  11. I absolutely cannot stand math.
  12. I have trouble making up my mind about things.
  13. I am convinced that Uncle John's Bathroom Reader is never wrong.
  14. My favorite playlist on my Ipod is 136 songs long. I have only reached the end twice.
  15. I played the marimba--badly-- for three years in high school.
  16. I played the flute--even worse-- for six years before that.
  17. I love to imitate Tim Curry's voice while singing "Sweet Transvestite" from Rocky Horror Picture Show.
  18. The Billy Joel concert I went to with my mother is the best thing that has happened to me this year.
  19. I'm a natural blonde.
  20. I can't bend all of my toes, but I can pick up things with them.
  21. I took Tae Kwon Do for five years.
  22. I collect vintage kimonos.
  23. People think I'm a goody-two-shoes.
  24. People are surprised when they find out that "Pour Some Sugar on Me" is my ringtone.
  25. The blue that Israelis paint their doors with in Sfat is my favorite color.
  26. I had a parakeet (budgie) named Schmaltz for eight years. I still miss him.
  27. I blush very easily.
  28. I went to Israel on a Birthright Oranim trip.
  29. I've become a less picky eater these last few years.
  30. I adore sketch comedy (Monty Python, Kids in the Hall, SNL, etc.).
  31. I inherited my dorky dancing style from my father.
  32. Creating things with my hands makes me incredibly happy.
  33. After college, I would like to join the IDF.
  34. I have no cousins.
  35. I always giggle when I'm trying to lie.
  36. Countries I've visited: Israel, Canada, Iceland, Republic of Ireland, Northern Ireland, England, Scotland, and Wales.
  37. I'm one-fourth Scottish, one-fourth German, and half Lithuanian.
  38. I think that any time before 11 AM is un-G-dly early.
  39. I will watch crappy movies just to see actors that I like.
  40. There are about three songs written in the last five years on my 136-song playlist.
  41. I listen to the blues, oldies, folk, and classic rock.
  42. My dream job would be one that lets me travel.
  43. When life gets too tough for me, I watch "The Daily Show" and "The Colbert Report" to assure me that the world is just as crazy as I think it is.
  44. I look forward to blogging each day.
  45. I go to art museums just to see Italian religious paintings. The ones with the Virgin Mary are my favorites.
  46. I've never been very interested in dating.
  47. I accidentally walked on to the set of Rocky VI when coming out of the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
  48. I've got pictures of Sly Stallone from that encounter.
  49. I'm a very tactile- and scent-oriented person.
  50. I love the smell salt marsh grass.
  51. I used to be afraid that Nazis would get me.
  52. My goal is to get to Australia to see the wild parakeets.
  53. I'd like to swim with the dolphins someday.
  54. I am pro-Israel, pro-choice, and pro-stem cell research.
  55. I put myself down as an Independent so I wouldn't get Democrats and Republicans calling me at all hours of the day.
  56. Sometimes I zone out and miss whole lectures in class.
  57. According to LivingWaters.com, I have broke every single one of the Ten Commandments.
  58. I had a private celebration the day Yasser Arafat died.
  59. I used to hate Ariel Sharon, but now I'm just confused.
  60. However, I did cry when Sharon went into his coma.
  61. I can't stand religious people who are self-righteous.
  62. My real name is Kathryn.
  63. Nobody can spell my last name.
  64. I believe that there is a special place in hell for people who try to convert me.
  65. I love to sing, but I don't do it very well.
  66. I like to go to Catholic mass when I can't get to synagogue.
  67. My parents are convinced that I will become a rabbi one day. Uhh.
  68. I envy Philip Roth's writing style.
  69. I enjoy going to events in Washington, D.C.
  70. When I get extremely frustrated with something, I refuse to have anything to do with it for several weeks.
  71. As much as I dislike President Bush, I think that he would fun to sit with it at a dinner party...
  72. ...plus, I think his dogs are adorable.
  73. Politicians make me feel all icky.
  74. I was voted third most likely to become a politician in my senior class. Oh G-d!
  75. I have a secret fantasy of being in a Broadway show.
  76. I love strawberry cheesecake-flavored Hawaiian ices topped with marshmallow.
  77. I find that dancing with drunk people is exhilarating.
  78. Being a daughter of a cop has endowed me with a strong guilt complex.
  79. I have never done illegal drugs.
  80. I get chest pains from Vicodine and codeine.
  81. I'm an agnostic.
  82. For many of my friends, I am the first Jew they have ever met.
  83. I plan to be Jewish for the rest of my life.
  84. I bristle every time someone condemns mixed marriages.
  85. I find accents sexy.
  86. Sometimes I wish I had curly hair.
  87. I once tried to teach myself Scottish Gaelic.
  88. Whenever and wherever I hear the song "Cotton-Eye Joe," I will drop what I am doing and perform the corresponding line dance.
  89. I swear that all of my favorite songs describe me in some way.
  90. I was the only Jew in my elementary school.
  91. I swam in the US Maccabi Games for four years.
  92. I was invited to swim at the Maccabiah Games in Israel.
  93. I quit swimming because I was no longer having any fun.
  94. Sometimes I don't feel worthy of anything I have.
  95. I mentally correct people's grammar...
  96. ... Then I feel like a total moron when I get something wrong.
  97. I am a Red Cross certified swimming instructor and lifeguard.
  98. I still sleep with the same stuffed bunny that I've had since I was a baby.
  99. Certain songs and movies make me cry uncontrollably.
  100. I have realized that there are too many things about me to fit within 100 points.



K.