The human being possesses a remarkable ability to adapt. We have to -- adaptation is at the core of evolution. I've adapted to using the pound, the old-fashioned schooling system, the hilly treks around campus, the snide yet passive quips about Americans, the bigger standard for beer pints and the smaller standard for most everything else, and the driving on the left. I've even adapted to the English accent, as it doesn't hold the same novel charm that it did for the first week.
Still, there are some things I'll never get used to in England. Like being a college basketball player.
Not a recreational basketball player who also happens to be in college, but a real college basketball player. As in I play with Bristol's real college basketball team.
I'm not good at basketball. I've played a lot of it, but I've never developed a killer instinct. I played in junior high and throughout grade school, but for the most part, I didn't see much playing time. I got cut my freshman year of high school.
Only to be called up to Bristol's First team to fulfill a desperate need for point guards. I'm going to play with them Monday at 8 p.m.
Now, basketball here isn't like basketball in the US. There are no spectators besides the joggers trotting around the track lofted above the gym. It's hard to see where the out-of-bounds lines are, because the puke-green rubber gym floor serves everything from indoor soccer to badminton to korfball, and each sport has it's own network of colored lines.
I thought having all these lines would lead to plenty of disputes about whether someone was in-bounds or out-of-bounds, but basketball here is less confrontational. In the US, I'm hesitant to play pick-up games because it's not uncommon for even these seemingly inoccuous scrimmages to stop so "scores can be settled" or fouls can be reenacted. Not here. It's more about playing and less about individual attention. More about continuity, less about showmanship.
Moreover, the game is less physical. In the US, I'm scared to go for rebounds because big sweaty ogres will knock you over. Here, the game is more transitional. There's a lot more fast breaks, which suits my playing style because speed is about my only exceptional ability on the court. There's less acrobatic "taking-it-to-the-house" drives. The popularity of the NBA here means that though many try to replicate a Kobe-esque drive through the paint, they rarely progress beyond trying.
I jogged back from the gym after playing six games of b-ball, feeling refreshed but baffled that my hardly competent ball'n skills back in the States have catapulted me to the top tier of play at this British University that gets more applications than any other in England.
It felt good.
And come to think of it, with a line of sneakers and a $20 million signing bonus, maybe I could get used to this.
Autographs, anyone?
Friday, February 20, 2009
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Flash Fiction: The Shark Who Was Afraid
For Writer's Group this week, Martin brought Chevelle, his 7-year-old genius of a daughter. In preparation, we had to write children's stories. This is mine.
"The Shark Who Was Afraid" was my first published story. I think I was 7. It appeared in a big book of stories written by other first through sixth graders. Every Monday we wrote in a journal about our weekend. After summing up my weekend in a sentence or two, I then made long lists of titles of "all the books I am going to write." I don't remember the titles. But there was probably lots of potty humor and Goosebumps rip-offs.
Maybe it was these lists of titles that clued my teacher into choosing me to represent the class in that kiddy anthology. I got pulled out of class (score!), sent to the library, and seated at a table with some big yellow lined paper. I was told to write a story. It wasn't hard coming up with the story. I had grown up on Steven Spielberg's Jaws.
I rewrote the 7-year-old version of the story for this week, keeping the basic plot line but fleshing out the characters and seasoning it with some description. It's no critical gem, and the message is slap-you-in-the-face simple, but Chevelle later said she could "see the sharks" in her mind's eye. Can't ask for much better from a 7-year-old -- or anyone, really -- prodigy or not. When words become images that tell a story, that's magic indeed.
So snap on your fins, load up that harpoon gun, and let's go shark-watching under the sea.
"The Shark Who Was Afraid" was my first published story. I think I was 7. It appeared in a big book of stories written by other first through sixth graders. Every Monday we wrote in a journal about our weekend. After summing up my weekend in a sentence or two, I then made long lists of titles of "all the books I am going to write." I don't remember the titles. But there was probably lots of potty humor and Goosebumps rip-offs.
Maybe it was these lists of titles that clued my teacher into choosing me to represent the class in that kiddy anthology. I got pulled out of class (score!), sent to the library, and seated at a table with some big yellow lined paper. I was told to write a story. It wasn't hard coming up with the story. I had grown up on Steven Spielberg's Jaws.
I rewrote the 7-year-old version of the story for this week, keeping the basic plot line but fleshing out the characters and seasoning it with some description. It's no critical gem, and the message is slap-you-in-the-face simple, but Chevelle later said she could "see the sharks" in her mind's eye. Can't ask for much better from a 7-year-old -- or anyone, really -- prodigy or not. When words become images that tell a story, that's magic indeed.
So snap on your fins, load up that harpoon gun, and let's go shark-watching under the sea.
The Shark Who Was Afraid
Robbie the great white shark cared about three things: money, money, and money.
Robbie flossed his teeth with the rarest sea urchins. He scented himself with the most costly squid oils. He dressed himself in the most sparkling rubies and swam downtown so everyone could see how rich he was. He knew the other sharks were jealous of him, and that made him even hungrier for treasure.
But at night, even though he slept on a bed of gold, diamonds, and emeralds, he was not happy. Not sad either. The richest shark in the sea couldn't be sad. Could he?
One day, while swimming home from his very lucrative job, he glimpsed something sparkling.
Robbie slowed. He peered into the murky depths of the ocean. It was getting late.
But then he saw it again. A golden sparkle.
Now, there was an old myth in Robbie's part of the ocean. As the story goes, long ago, a ship bearing the world's biggest treasure chest sank.
Some said that, at dusk, a faint haze of gold glimmered from afar, signaling the place of the treasure. But only those deserving of the treasure could see it.
"I am most certainly deserving!" Robbie said. He set off toward the sparkle. The water cooled as he swam farther and farther from downtown.
He followed the golden sparkle for miles, and miles, and miles.
Then he reached it. The chest was bigger than a house. It was overflowing with golden coins, diamond-studded chalices, and sparkling sapphires. Robbie licked his lips.
Blinded by the treasure, he never saw the net. As Robbie rushed towards the treasure, the net tightened around him. Soon, he could hardly move.
"Help! Help!" he yelled. But there wasn't a single creature for miles.
So Robbie started biting the net. He bit until his teeth hurt. But the net was too thick. He gaped at the glowing mound of treasure, so close yet so far.
"Stupid treasure," Robbie said. He didn't want it anymore. He didn't care about all that money. The treasure sure wasn't rescuing him now.
Robbie chewed at the net until he was exhausted. He even managed to break some of it. But he was fat. He had eaten many expensive meals in his day. Chewing a big enough hole would take weeks. And by then…
Two days passed.
Once, a man in a mask wearing steel canisters on his back came down. Robbie snapped his jaws. The man was not scared. The man, he knew, was a shark hunter. Robbie shuddered at what was to become of him. He would be shot with a harpoon, chopped into little bits, sautéed in spicy sauces and served on toothpicks to rich humans. Maybe some little girl would wear one of his teeth as a necklace.
He was about to give up when a shark swam by, scaring the man away.
"Help!" yelled Robbie. He recognized the old carpet shark as the one who transported the garbage from downtown to the dump.
The shark turned around.
"Please help me," Robbie begged.
But the old shark only grinned at him. And swam away.
Robbie was hungry, exhausted, and terrified. But mostly, he was lonely. He had all the treasure he ever wanted right beneath him, but what he really wanted was a friend.
He tried to think of his friends, but knew he had cared so much about money that he didn’t have any caring left for friends. They had left him.
"Maybe I deserve this," Robbie said.
Then, he saw a big cloud of sharks swimming towards him – great whites, hammerheads, and nurse sharks. Leading them was the old carpet shark.
The vengeful looks on their faces told Robbie this was the end. They would tear him to shreds and take the treasure.
The sharks opened their mouths wide, displaying rows and rows of sharp teeth.
"I’m sorry!" Robbie screamed, squeezing his eyes shuts as the thrash of jaws attacked him.
But the sharks weren't after him. Robbie opened his eyes. The sharks were chomping on the net. They chewed and gnawed. Robbie's fins were free. Then his tail. Then the net fell into the huge chest of treasure.
Robbie didn't know what to say.
But before he could mumble thanks, the sharks started swimming away, ignoring him and the treasure.
"Wait!" Robbie said. "What about…"
He glanced down at the treasure. Suddenly, it disappeared.
To his surprise, Robbie was glad.
So he hurried to catch up with his new friends.
He had never been richer.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Salt and Pepper Wars
The fight, for lack of a better term, started over the differing number of holes in salt and pepper shakers.
Last night, I went to my flatmate Thom's birthday party. The order of festivities was Union - Indian restaurant - Union. I still haven't gotten over the twisted brilliance of centering a student union around a bar and dance club, but that's the fact.
At the Indian restaurant, I had a fascinating conversation with Ollie. As the only two attendees not a part of GameSoc, we were isolated from the "would you rather fight a Level 5 War-Hammer Magician or a Fire-Breathing Necromancer with triple body armor with only a cyborg taser" exchanges that the rest of the attendees debated with fervor. Instead, we chatted about skiing, playing Fantasie Impromptu on piano, and England's immigration issues.
Let me preface what I observe next with this: these moments are certainly the exception rather than the rule. I guess they stick out in my mind because they were one of the things the guidebooks actually got right.
Some English students fancy poking fun at American students. Much of the time, their insults aren't very insulting, just minor jabs aimed at proving some self-righteous point. When you-the-American are being insulted, it often takes a second or two to realize that you have ben. The British offendee will not normally make eye contact with you, so you haven't the foggiest idea you're being "funned" with.
Here comes the salt and pepper catalyst. While I was speaking with Ollie, I asked which of the two identical shakers was the pepper. He pointed to the one with the five holes on top. Apparently, pepper has five holes and salt always has only one so you don't spill too much salt on your food. I was in a good mood so I said that was ingenious.
The guest to my left was flabbergasted stupid Americans hadn't thought of this salt/pepper thing yet.
"You're right, I'll have to get rich off this idea when I go back," I said, pulling the plug on his joke.
But apparently I didn't pull hard enough.
"Just like you steal all our other great ideas," he retorted, or something of that sort, again not looking at me.
There are several arrows in the American's quiver to dealing with this rubbish.
First is to become that American stereotype they're trying to provoke: the Western gun-slinger who will unholster a Colt .45 to answer the British spitball. Or in this situation, akin to me picking up my plate of food and letting him lick it off his shirt.
Second is to respond with a witty comeback. Meaning I would have to respond to the spitball with an even wetter, sloppier spitball that disarms the opponent by making him look foolish. I've never been good at comebacks, so this wasn't an option.
Third is just to get plain pissed off. This too would be as good if not better than admitting defeat because you become the monster he's trying to provoke.
Fourth is to use self-deprecating humor. This completely disarms your opponent and, although you're making fun of yourself, actually gives you the upper hand because you show how this silly verbal fencing is beneath you. I've used self-deprecating humor before when I was getting quipped at for studying English:
"Hah, I used to study that artsy-fartsy stuff," one of the British jiu jitsu students said. "Now I do medicine."
"Well, I'll come to you when I have whooping cough from living in my cardboard box beside the train tracks," I said. Big smile, laugh at my own joke, move on and you're both feeling good.
Fifth and finally, just go on as if nothing has happened. This is the most honest response, I think, because really, nothing has happened. The Brit has made a C+ joke they're feeling pretty good about, and your silence let's them know that you're an A student so that garbage isn't even worth responding to.
That's what I did here. I just kept talking to Ollie as if nothing had happened.
A minute later, however, as I tried to understand why Brits don't like PBJ sandwiches, the guy tried it again.
He looked in the direct opposite direction of me, and said: "Have you ever eaten real food?"
This time I paused.
"No, I'm photosynthetic," I could've said. "All Americans are. Haven't you ever been to a real country?"
Or:
"Your grasp of reality astounds me," I could've said, calling his attention to the fact that he'd been talking all night about superhero characters that didn't exist.
But unless I was a ghost or some imagined superhero resurrected from the churning seas of Middle-Earth by the fateful roll the dice, then my presence at this table meant I had survived more than two decades.
And that I would survive his cheap quips, too.
In fact, I'll welcome them even when I'm a rich and famous American inventor for introducing bars to US universities' student unions and for differing between salt and pepper shakers by the number of holes on top.
So things don't get too salty, you know.
Last night, I went to my flatmate Thom's birthday party. The order of festivities was Union - Indian restaurant - Union. I still haven't gotten over the twisted brilliance of centering a student union around a bar and dance club, but that's the fact.
At the Indian restaurant, I had a fascinating conversation with Ollie. As the only two attendees not a part of GameSoc, we were isolated from the "would you rather fight a Level 5 War-Hammer Magician or a Fire-Breathing Necromancer with triple body armor with only a cyborg taser" exchanges that the rest of the attendees debated with fervor. Instead, we chatted about skiing, playing Fantasie Impromptu on piano, and England's immigration issues.
Let me preface what I observe next with this: these moments are certainly the exception rather than the rule. I guess they stick out in my mind because they were one of the things the guidebooks actually got right.
Some English students fancy poking fun at American students. Much of the time, their insults aren't very insulting, just minor jabs aimed at proving some self-righteous point. When you-the-American are being insulted, it often takes a second or two to realize that you have ben. The British offendee will not normally make eye contact with you, so you haven't the foggiest idea you're being "funned" with.
Here comes the salt and pepper catalyst. While I was speaking with Ollie, I asked which of the two identical shakers was the pepper. He pointed to the one with the five holes on top. Apparently, pepper has five holes and salt always has only one so you don't spill too much salt on your food. I was in a good mood so I said that was ingenious.
The guest to my left was flabbergasted stupid Americans hadn't thought of this salt/pepper thing yet.
"You're right, I'll have to get rich off this idea when I go back," I said, pulling the plug on his joke.
But apparently I didn't pull hard enough.
"Just like you steal all our other great ideas," he retorted, or something of that sort, again not looking at me.
There are several arrows in the American's quiver to dealing with this rubbish.
First is to become that American stereotype they're trying to provoke: the Western gun-slinger who will unholster a Colt .45 to answer the British spitball. Or in this situation, akin to me picking up my plate of food and letting him lick it off his shirt.
Second is to respond with a witty comeback. Meaning I would have to respond to the spitball with an even wetter, sloppier spitball that disarms the opponent by making him look foolish. I've never been good at comebacks, so this wasn't an option.
Third is just to get plain pissed off. This too would be as good if not better than admitting defeat because you become the monster he's trying to provoke.
Fourth is to use self-deprecating humor. This completely disarms your opponent and, although you're making fun of yourself, actually gives you the upper hand because you show how this silly verbal fencing is beneath you. I've used self-deprecating humor before when I was getting quipped at for studying English:
"Hah, I used to study that artsy-fartsy stuff," one of the British jiu jitsu students said. "Now I do medicine."
"Well, I'll come to you when I have whooping cough from living in my cardboard box beside the train tracks," I said. Big smile, laugh at my own joke, move on and you're both feeling good.
Fifth and finally, just go on as if nothing has happened. This is the most honest response, I think, because really, nothing has happened. The Brit has made a C+ joke they're feeling pretty good about, and your silence let's them know that you're an A student so that garbage isn't even worth responding to.
That's what I did here. I just kept talking to Ollie as if nothing had happened.
A minute later, however, as I tried to understand why Brits don't like PBJ sandwiches, the guy tried it again.
He looked in the direct opposite direction of me, and said: "Have you ever eaten real food?"
This time I paused.
"No, I'm photosynthetic," I could've said. "All Americans are. Haven't you ever been to a real country?"
Or:
"Your grasp of reality astounds me," I could've said, calling his attention to the fact that he'd been talking all night about superhero characters that didn't exist.
But unless I was a ghost or some imagined superhero resurrected from the churning seas of Middle-Earth by the fateful roll the dice, then my presence at this table meant I had survived more than two decades.
And that I would survive his cheap quips, too.
In fact, I'll welcome them even when I'm a rich and famous American inventor for introducing bars to US universities' student unions and for differing between salt and pepper shakers by the number of holes on top.
So things don't get too salty, you know.
Wednesday, February 11, 2009
Acquired Tastes
Tell me a month ago that I'd be spending a Tuesday night touring a Bath Ale House and I'd say you were drunk.
But that's what I did and that's what I was. On the excitement of acquired taste, that is.
Organized by the Bath Real Ale society (or BRA society, in which there were only two women so go figure), it was only six quid for a bus ride to the Ale House, where we got a guided tour from the brewmaster and as many pints of the six different kinds of ale as we desired. At first I thought opening the taps to -- of all organizations -- a drinking society was a baffling business maneuver, until I realized that the ale went straight down our throats and into our wallets. After the tour, the 20-some strong BRA group spent thriftlessly, lugging minikegs of their favorite ales on the bus back to Bristol.
I bought something for my dad for when he comes to London next month.
Now, I didn't drink much. I still had some Shakespearean sonnets to read upon returning (so I passed up on going to the pub with BRA afterwards), so I drank just enough to sample the different beers and dull my anxiety about breaking one of my unwritten maxims: "partying" on weekdays.
No, this wasn't a party. It was a completely acceptable tourism experience that allowed me to sample culture. Beer just happened to be a central component. Plus: new country, new laws. Right?
Not even the beer could dissolve my feelings of irresponsibility. I'm not as Puritan as logging in a weekly "fun" quotient on Microsoft Excel, but I knew that this was the icing on a cake that'd -- wait, scratch that -- the foam on a pint glass that'd been brewing since I got here: I wasn't really studying abroad.
Good: now I've jinxed myself, and school work will start flowing like that tasty Gem Ale from its spigot. Even with an overload of 20 credit modules (long story), the school work here is nebulous. I almost feel like I'm being duped. Like I'm doing something wrong. Like I'm having too much fun.
Which brings me to the theme of this post: acquired tastes.
For me, beer was an acquired taste. Or still is. I'm still not sure if I really like it, or if I just fool myself into liking it since it's such a social and cultural staple. But even that is putting it lightly. Beer isn't just a drink: it's a rite of passage. For guys, the ability to drink beer and lots of it is a good a measure of testosterone as we've got (which is to say, a completely inaccurate and inebriated one). Beer isn't a metaphor. It isn't like liquid rebellion. It is liquid rebellion against the sober realities of life. It is entropy, gradually but progressively instilling more and more chaos and hilarity as it carries us from the symbolic to the imaginary.
So no, the Bath Ale Brewery wasn't a waste of time. It was just another classroom, as far as I'm concerned.
Nevertheless, I'm hoping the academics of Bristol stop being beer and start being like beer. In other words, I hope the academics are an acquired taste, not an occasion for holiday. Just today, the old doubt came clawing it's way back up: that my English studies are a waste of time. I tried making the case for the importance of my degree with the usual arguments: it's not what you study, but what you do with what you study. I know/hope my fears are unfounded. Plus, isn't my uncertainty good? Won't it spare me from both cocky elitism and dopey disentchantment?
Who knows. For now, I'm looking forward to the weekend that, well whaddya know, started today. On Wednesday.
Luckily there's plenty on my plate: taking care of this jury duty letter, writing, reading "The Merchant of Venice," getting my science articles in on time, seeing "Slumdog Millionaire" again with some Study Abroad students because it was just so freaking awesome, and heading to London this Saturday.
I think I can handle it. After all, I've the Ale to wash it all down.
But that's what I did and that's what I was. On the excitement of acquired taste, that is.
Organized by the Bath Real Ale society (or BRA society, in which there were only two women so go figure), it was only six quid for a bus ride to the Ale House, where we got a guided tour from the brewmaster and as many pints of the six different kinds of ale as we desired. At first I thought opening the taps to -- of all organizations -- a drinking society was a baffling business maneuver, until I realized that the ale went straight down our throats and into our wallets. After the tour, the 20-some strong BRA group spent thriftlessly, lugging minikegs of their favorite ales on the bus back to Bristol.
I bought something for my dad for when he comes to London next month.
Now, I didn't drink much. I still had some Shakespearean sonnets to read upon returning (so I passed up on going to the pub with BRA afterwards), so I drank just enough to sample the different beers and dull my anxiety about breaking one of my unwritten maxims: "partying" on weekdays.
No, this wasn't a party. It was a completely acceptable tourism experience that allowed me to sample culture. Beer just happened to be a central component. Plus: new country, new laws. Right?
Not even the beer could dissolve my feelings of irresponsibility. I'm not as Puritan as logging in a weekly "fun" quotient on Microsoft Excel, but I knew that this was the icing on a cake that'd -- wait, scratch that -- the foam on a pint glass that'd been brewing since I got here: I wasn't really studying abroad.
Good: now I've jinxed myself, and school work will start flowing like that tasty Gem Ale from its spigot. Even with an overload of 20 credit modules (long story), the school work here is nebulous. I almost feel like I'm being duped. Like I'm doing something wrong. Like I'm having too much fun.
Which brings me to the theme of this post: acquired tastes.
For me, beer was an acquired taste. Or still is. I'm still not sure if I really like it, or if I just fool myself into liking it since it's such a social and cultural staple. But even that is putting it lightly. Beer isn't just a drink: it's a rite of passage. For guys, the ability to drink beer and lots of it is a good a measure of testosterone as we've got (which is to say, a completely inaccurate and inebriated one). Beer isn't a metaphor. It isn't like liquid rebellion. It is liquid rebellion against the sober realities of life. It is entropy, gradually but progressively instilling more and more chaos and hilarity as it carries us from the symbolic to the imaginary.
So no, the Bath Ale Brewery wasn't a waste of time. It was just another classroom, as far as I'm concerned.
Nevertheless, I'm hoping the academics of Bristol stop being beer and start being like beer. In other words, I hope the academics are an acquired taste, not an occasion for holiday. Just today, the old doubt came clawing it's way back up: that my English studies are a waste of time. I tried making the case for the importance of my degree with the usual arguments: it's not what you study, but what you do with what you study. I know/hope my fears are unfounded. Plus, isn't my uncertainty good? Won't it spare me from both cocky elitism and dopey disentchantment?
Who knows. For now, I'm looking forward to the weekend that, well whaddya know, started today. On Wednesday.
Luckily there's plenty on my plate: taking care of this jury duty letter, writing, reading "The Merchant of Venice," getting my science articles in on time, seeing "Slumdog Millionaire" again with some Study Abroad students because it was just so freaking awesome, and heading to London this Saturday.
I think I can handle it. After all, I've the Ale to wash it all down.
Sunday, February 8, 2009
Flash Fiction: The Wheelchair
One of the most welcome and terrifying luxuries I have in England is time. Back at U of I, most days split at the seams with work/class/jobs/extra-curriculars/sports. So I've decided to spend a bit of this unexpected fortune on a Creative Writing group. We meet on Monday nights. I'm very excited to go to my first meeting tomorrow. Apparently each week there's a prompt for which we can write 500 words. This week, the prompt was:
A descriptive piece about a woman, middle-aged, well-off, single, a doctor and in a wheelchair, going out for dinner with 5 others to a friends party in a large Victorian house.
Here's my 700-word "flash fiction." Still needs a bit of paring down, so suggestions are welcome. Enjoy!
A descriptive piece about a woman, middle-aged, well-off, single, a doctor and in a wheelchair, going out for dinner with 5 others to a friends party in a large Victorian house.
Here's my 700-word "flash fiction." Still needs a bit of paring down, so suggestions are welcome. Enjoy!
The Wheelchair
No one knew how Dr. Helga Lens made it up or down the Victorian mansion's 37 rickety steps, but everyone knew not to ask.
Everyone, that is, except the boisterous new dinner guest. He introduced himself as Byron Clegg with a crippling handshake as he guzzled $1,000 bottles of champagne.
Apparently, he was the new guest of the beet-red hostess, one Loreli Smith, who had a habit of falling for the bad boy and not learning from mistakes. Still, the question looming in the drafty foyer was not why he was here, but whether Loreli had warned him about…
The doorbell rang.
…her.
Dr. Helga wheeled into the house, her quiche lorraine balanced on her legless lap. Heads turned – men and women – to admire her treacherous radiance. While other attendees depended on Parisian perfumes to shave off the years, Dr. Helga got prettier by the week. It was rumored that if you looked closely enough, you could see the beauty unfolding on her face. But then no one got that close, even though she was the reason they shelled out ungodly amounts of money to come to her friend's parties. Because no one forgot what had happened to the last three gentlemen who had so dared.
Except for Mr. Byron Clegg. The second Dr. Helga wheeled in, he stopped blabbing about his rags-to-riches success in internet pyramid schemes. In his rookie madness, he marched up to the crippled goddess, cleared his throat, extended his ring-less left hand and said: "Byron Clegg, entrepreneur."
"Would you like a piece of quiche, Mr. Clegg?" The cold sweetness of her voice sucked the air from the drafty foyer.
"Only if it tastes as lovely as you look."
To everyone's shock, lightning didn't erupt from her eyes to fry Byron on the spot. She smiled – yes, actually smiled – at this lameness.
The party proceeded beneath the blade of a guillotine that everyone noticed except Clegg, who had forgotten about Loreli in the sparkling animal of Helga's eyes. Apparently, Loreli didn't care risking her own life to rescue him. She was already considering where to stash the body.
But Clegg was doing better than fine. He made it through dinner without choking to death on the filet mignon. He made it through desert without a fatal reaction to a mysterious allergy. Everyone was amazed.
When he excused himself to go to the bathroom, there was a collective sigh. This was it. The internet entrepreneur was a goner. Eyes flitted around the table: who would be the one to pry out the bloated bugged face from the toilet this time? Minutes passed like hours. Then it came: a scream splintered the dinner, wailing from the direction Clegg had wandered.
But only a second later, Byron ambled back into the dining area, an embarrassed grin on his lips.
"Sorry," he said. "That kittie might need a vet."
The party ended. Clegg was unscathed. Guests donned their coats, baffled, but left quickly. Eventually, only Clegg and Dr. Helga remained.
"Well, Doc, was a pleasure talking to you," Clegg said.
"And you."
They went onto the porch. Clegg looked down the 37steep wooden steps. He flipped a switch on his glasses, and the world turned blue. The thermal goggles told him all the guests were long gone. Not a sign of body heat for miles.
"What's the killing, today?" he said.
"Eighty K," Helga said, riffling the bills. "
He shook his head. "Slow night. Glad I got my money's worth of champagne."
"You think the twist will pay off?"
He shook his head. "It'll keep 'em coming back for a while, but people want bloodshed. We'll have to deliver soon."
Dr. Helga gazed into the black countryside. "I know you don't want to…"
"I'll order the fake death pills and costume tomorrow," he said curtly. "You mastermind my murder."
She smiled. "Love you."
"Ready?"
Dr. Helga nodded.
Clegg reached beneath her dress and yanked out the extendable bionic legs. It'd taken only one fake death at these rich old fart parties to pay for the operation. But by then it was too easy. Fooling those who'd grown up without google always was.
Byron folded up Helga's wheelchair and slung it over his shoulder. They linked arms.
"Byron," she said, "you didn't have to step on the cat, did you?"
"Never, darling."
He removed a little speaker from his pocket, and meowed the night away.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
For Matt
For my brother Matt, fellow Alkaline Trio fan. Know this: Skiba and co. have redeemed themselves in my book.
Friday, February 6, 2009
A Chainsaw for Romeo
Yesterday, I got revenge on William Shakespeare.
Needless to say, studying Shakespeare in England is one of the reasons I'm here in Bristol
My relationship with the holy grail of English majors was rocky from the start. The first English essay I ever wrote was on his Romeo and Juliet. I was a new high school freshman.
Even in the early days of our author/reader relationship, Romeo and Juliet brought me to tears. Not because it was tragically sad, and not because it dramatized the timeless tragedy of unrequited love. I cried because I was drowning in my confused frustration. I cried because Shakespeare gave me a 16th-century beatdown: I stubbed my toes on cryptic language until I could hardly stumble through another scene. The verse was not only way over my head, but just low enough to slam me right between the eyes. I hated every minute of reading. When I finally finished the book, the relief that flooded me was sweet...but short-lived. I found out soon after that I not only had to read the darn thing, but write about it. For a grade.
I don't remember writing the essay, probably because I didn't use any words I knew. At the time, my logic was flawless. If Shakespeare's cryptic style won him immortality, I reasoned, why couldn't I climb to the throne of genius by clambering up big concepts like "Petrarchan love" and "dramatic irony?"
But it seemed the dramatic irony was on me. I got a C- on the paper. Mr. Dillon was nice enough to scribble "A good first try, but..." After the "but" was a list of suggestions about what went wrong and what went horrifically wrong and what went so wrong that I must have gotten it from Cliff Notes and still gotten it wrong. After that, I decided to give up being a sesquipedalian.
This week, I picked up Romeo and Juliet again. Although I still struggled to make sense of it in some parts, I understood enough to conclude this: Romeo is a pathetic, solipsistic dweep. Sitting beneath the arched gothic ceilings of the law library and reading the greatest love tragedy ever told is not a time for laughing. But I did. Bitterly.
And you know what?
"Step one -- slit my throat
Step two -- play in my blood
Step three -- cover me in dirty sheets and run laughing out of the house."
But it's the very excessiveness of their dark lyrics that keeps the Trio from being, well, a trio of downtrodden punked-out reincarnations of Romeo.
Shakespeare's the same way. I laughed at Romeo for the same reason I grinned as the Trio sang "I couldn't meet 'em so you cut off my fingers…One by One!" Both blended comedy with tragedy to create a delightful concoction that, in acknowledging the horrors of life, also advised us to douse those flames with humor. The message I distilled from both: tragedy is not without its funny points; humor not without its tragic points. It's time we saw that.
For example, it snowed here more than it has in 18 years. Apparently, this was such a tragedy to
When I read Romeo and Juliet seven years ago, my ear wasn't trained to hear the thin line between tragedy and comedy snapping. Now I did. I saw how Shakespeare wasn't a pompous genius philosophizing about love, but a master satirist totally belittling his own characters with the instruments of agony and irony.*
And I tasted vengeance, that impetus of so much tragedy, that poisonous fruit of ceaseless conflict. But as I bit it, I tasted something sweet. Seems that for Billy and I, the joke was on both of us. It took the Alkaline Trio to come up with the punchline.
* (That's right Billy, it's my turn to direct you to the footnote – not so funny anymore, is it?) Alkaline Trio's newest album goes by the same title: "Agony and Irony," a title that surely is a tributary of tragedy and comedy.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Sort-of Blank Slates
I was becoming a big fan of the "sort-of blank slate," aka the opportunity to push life's "sort-of reset" button, until I got kicked with ten solid right-leg roundhouses. By a girl.
It happened last night in jiu jitsu class. Jiu jitsu was one of those things I went to on a whim for the usual reasons: martial arts movies, 24-withdrawal, having the luxury of a sort-of blank slate schedule in front of me, and the potential for a story. The class was intense fun. We went to a pub afterwards. Sometimes, when searching for stories, you reach under a rock and find gold. Sometimes you find ten roundhouses to the gut. Which is a type of bruised gold in and of itself, I guess.
So needless to say, pushing this "sort-of blank slate" button takes a Forrest Gumpian type of thoughtless courage.
It can be great and rewarding fun to take advantage of those rare "sort-of reset" opportunities that wipe clean the busy mess of routines and schedules that we all fall into, without requiring the labor of completely reinventing and relearning ourselves. At the same time, I doubt anyone desires a "full blank slate." Potty training once is quite enough, thank you. Apparently it took me a few sleepwalking nights and rigorous study of "Once Upon a Potty" to tell the difference between a stationary drawer and the swirling portal to goldfish heaven. (Our first goldfish was named Jaws. Though the fishy part of him is long gone, his spirit in heaven says thanks for the chocolates.)
Bristol has made me press that "sort of reset button." Thing is, I didn't know until I pushed it how "reset" I was going to be. And I am more "reset" than I anticipated. Freed from old officer positions, good friends, my fraternity, my family, the ARC, Espresso Royale, Green Street, the English Building, handball, the LAS Leaders, my teaching job, the newspaper, Campus Honors Program, and all that naturalized behavior that extends our minds unto our environment (such as following the same mindless bike route or trekking to the same study corral at the ACES library) I've got a lot of fresh snow in front of me.
So I'm doing the only thing that came to mind: I'm thrashing through it on these sleek and unsteady new British skis.
I'm going with Bristol's Real Pale Ale Society to tour a Bath brewery. I'm the layout and design editor for Missing Link, a science magazine. I'm going to see Alkaline Trio on Friday. I'm discovering new favorite study spots. I'm figuring out how to manage time, hunger, and walking distances.
And of course, I'm getting beat up by jiu jitsu girls.
It happened last night in jiu jitsu class. Jiu jitsu was one of those things I went to on a whim for the usual reasons: martial arts movies, 24-withdrawal, having the luxury of a sort-of blank slate schedule in front of me, and the potential for a story. The class was intense fun. We went to a pub afterwards. Sometimes, when searching for stories, you reach under a rock and find gold. Sometimes you find ten roundhouses to the gut. Which is a type of bruised gold in and of itself, I guess.
So needless to say, pushing this "sort-of blank slate" button takes a Forrest Gumpian type of thoughtless courage.
It can be great and rewarding fun to take advantage of those rare "sort-of reset" opportunities that wipe clean the busy mess of routines and schedules that we all fall into, without requiring the labor of completely reinventing and relearning ourselves. At the same time, I doubt anyone desires a "full blank slate." Potty training once is quite enough, thank you. Apparently it took me a few sleepwalking nights and rigorous study of "Once Upon a Potty" to tell the difference between a stationary drawer and the swirling portal to goldfish heaven. (Our first goldfish was named Jaws. Though the fishy part of him is long gone, his spirit in heaven says thanks for the chocolates.)
Bristol has made me press that "sort of reset button." Thing is, I didn't know until I pushed it how "reset" I was going to be. And I am more "reset" than I anticipated. Freed from old officer positions, good friends, my fraternity, my family, the ARC, Espresso Royale, Green Street, the English Building, handball, the LAS Leaders, my teaching job, the newspaper, Campus Honors Program, and all that naturalized behavior that extends our minds unto our environment (such as following the same mindless bike route or trekking to the same study corral at the ACES library) I've got a lot of fresh snow in front of me.
So I'm doing the only thing that came to mind: I'm thrashing through it on these sleek and unsteady new British skis.
I'm going with Bristol's Real Pale Ale Society to tour a Bath brewery. I'm the layout and design editor for Missing Link, a science magazine. I'm going to see Alkaline Trio on Friday. I'm discovering new favorite study spots. I'm figuring out how to manage time, hunger, and walking distances.
And of course, I'm getting beat up by jiu jitsu girls.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Learning to Miss Missing
This summer at CTY Los Angeles, the kids tied glowsticks to the end of their shoelaces and, whirling the two lighted strings in orbits and crossing patterns, would do what they called "raving."
It took me about two seconds to abandon my supervision post, throw off my shoes, and try it out myself.
I think of raving now because so much of the value in this semester abroad is locked in treasure chests that only my attitude can open. I'm still trying to figure out what the right attitude is. But I think it has something to do with the whole-hearted impulsive embrace of raving.
For example, I finally, finally, went to my first class today. Immediately, I caught myself making comparisons: I have more legroom in lecture rooms back in the States; this prof isn't using a powerpoint? What! My teachers always use visual aids back at U of I!; if I was back at U of I, I would be safe and cozy tearing through the curriculum I've mastered and here, I'm waiting as the semester slowly gets its tired gears turning.
It's tempting to compare everything here with everything back there, as if substituting the superior "known" for the fearful "unknown" is a way to cope with uncertainty. Well, it's not. Doing so only further agitates me.
Yesterday, I visited Bath. It's Bristol's baby neighbor and, for several years, home to Jane Austen. I've never read any Jane Austen, but I learned I have a sister named after her. Plus, writing was the unwritten reason -- however strange that may be -- I came to England.
The tour was wonderful, and not only because it sheltered us from the cold Chicago winds that knifed through our coats and made spot-on navigation a matter of sparing us from a lunch of snot icicles. (In the spirit of looking English, I had worn my more conservative yet less warm coat, along with the single glove that I had not lost.) Jane Austen was a realist who knew a thing or two about how a town affects your identity, for better or worse (in Bath, it was for worse). She was unrecognized for her work until she died, but confessed to sneaking her ear into the conversations of the town as an outsider rather than a participant. That's not me. I see raving and I've got to do it.
Afterwards, I invited all my travel companions back to Unite House, where we made ham and egg sandwiches.
This is meant to be a therapeutic post. A roller coaster I ride once before demolishing it with willpower and adaptation, TNT if necessary.
So here it goes: I miss 24 on Monday nights and the Superbowl. I miss having a bike on campus. (Without one, I get a lot hungrier trekking up and down a big hill to class. Which means I have to go back for two lunches. Which means I walk more and get even hungrier.) I miss the little cubbies for studying at the ACES library. I miss Jerry's super-fried heart attack meals. I miss having Alkaline Trio fans like my brother and Al nearby so that when I say "Trio's in town" there's others to say "let's go." The Trio is coming Friday. The concert venue is literally at my doorstep, so there's no way I'm passing it up, even though it looks like I'll be going alone.
But in the space of missing, there's a big well ready to be filled with new and exciting friends, memories, and experiences. This doesn't all happen at once. But if I try to do one new, unexpected thing per day, I'll hasten the process along.
Those old things are waiting for me. There will always be another Superbowl. But you can only rave barefoot in Los Angeles once.
It took me about two seconds to abandon my supervision post, throw off my shoes, and try it out myself.
I think of raving now because so much of the value in this semester abroad is locked in treasure chests that only my attitude can open. I'm still trying to figure out what the right attitude is. But I think it has something to do with the whole-hearted impulsive embrace of raving.
For example, I finally, finally, went to my first class today. Immediately, I caught myself making comparisons: I have more legroom in lecture rooms back in the States; this prof isn't using a powerpoint? What! My teachers always use visual aids back at U of I!; if I was back at U of I, I would be safe and cozy tearing through the curriculum I've mastered and here, I'm waiting as the semester slowly gets its tired gears turning.
It's tempting to compare everything here with everything back there, as if substituting the superior "known" for the fearful "unknown" is a way to cope with uncertainty. Well, it's not. Doing so only further agitates me.
Yesterday, I visited Bath. It's Bristol's baby neighbor and, for several years, home to Jane Austen. I've never read any Jane Austen, but I learned I have a sister named after her. Plus, writing was the unwritten reason -- however strange that may be -- I came to England.
The tour was wonderful, and not only because it sheltered us from the cold Chicago winds that knifed through our coats and made spot-on navigation a matter of sparing us from a lunch of snot icicles. (In the spirit of looking English, I had worn my more conservative yet less warm coat, along with the single glove that I had not lost.) Jane Austen was a realist who knew a thing or two about how a town affects your identity, for better or worse (in Bath, it was for worse). She was unrecognized for her work until she died, but confessed to sneaking her ear into the conversations of the town as an outsider rather than a participant. That's not me. I see raving and I've got to do it.
Afterwards, I invited all my travel companions back to Unite House, where we made ham and egg sandwiches.
This is meant to be a therapeutic post. A roller coaster I ride once before demolishing it with willpower and adaptation, TNT if necessary.
So here it goes: I miss 24 on Monday nights and the Superbowl. I miss having a bike on campus. (Without one, I get a lot hungrier trekking up and down a big hill to class. Which means I have to go back for two lunches. Which means I walk more and get even hungrier.) I miss the little cubbies for studying at the ACES library. I miss Jerry's super-fried heart attack meals. I miss having Alkaline Trio fans like my brother and Al nearby so that when I say "Trio's in town" there's others to say "let's go." The Trio is coming Friday. The concert venue is literally at my doorstep, so there's no way I'm passing it up, even though it looks like I'll be going alone.
But in the space of missing, there's a big well ready to be filled with new and exciting friends, memories, and experiences. This doesn't all happen at once. But if I try to do one new, unexpected thing per day, I'll hasten the process along.
Those old things are waiting for me. There will always be another Superbowl. But you can only rave barefoot in Los Angeles once.
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