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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

Haveil Havalim #84 is Up!

You should probably go look at it.

K.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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. :)

"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.

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.

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?

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.