weg|alleine|nachts

Academic L'esprit de L'escalier

2011-12-17T01:49:00.003-06:00

I maintain my dislike of the methodology of graduate school, and I have realised why: I need time.

I need time to ruminate on things, and I need time to read things carefully -- not all the things -- but the things which need reading, I need to be able to read, not skim, and think carefully about their implications. I need time to make the connections. This might mean that I am not smart and/or quick enough for graduate school.

The problem is, though, that most of the cognitive revelations I have made in my life have come over the course of time. Sometimes I require only days, but usually it is weeks or months. Just last night I came to a conclusion regarding a nuance of my relationship with Amber. Coincidentally, it took just precisely four and one half years as we began dating on the sixteenth of June in 2007.

Four and one half years. I have lived with this woman for four years. Lived with her.

So it ought not have come as a surprise to me when I realised that given time to ruminate on something, I can actually come up with useful things to say about it. This is to say that I have a severe, chronic, and perhaps terminal case of academic l'esprit de l'escalier.

One of the things I told the kids at my erstwhile employment was that if one does not know what to write for one's paper, it is incredibly likely that one has not read enough. That is probably one of the reasons they did not like me, other than my scintillating personality. At any rate, I have recently discovered that for the whole of this semester, I was simply not reading enough -- or, at least, I was not reading the right things.

For some reason or other, I find reading articles less daunting than reading books. It is probably because if I read a forty page article, it has made the whole of its point in that time and I may now consider the implications. However, if I am reading a book and leave off at forty pages to pick it up later, I have to backtrack several pages to remember what the author was on about. I suspect also that it is easier to distill the contents an article into a point without achieving too much distraction. When I read books, I invariably find more questions than I find answers. I hear that is a good thing, but when I have a paper to write and it is not meant to be thesis or dissertation length, it is highly problematic.

It is all of these problems which lead me to have an extension for my Historiography term paper. Fortunately, I am now performing competently, having had time to consider the issue without the obstreperous commentary of Smugly McHipsterpants. As God is my witness, if he is in any other class with me, I will destroy him with my mind. We could power small cities on his ego.

--------

In other news, I realised earlier, in reading a retrospective on Christopher Hitchens, that my largest bone to pick with him is actually not at all over the existence of God. It is over his support of the war in Iraq.

Which is allegedly over.

I still want to move to Gloucestershire and be a blacksmith.

No Cats Were Harmed in the Writing of this Post

2011-11-28T01:20:00.003-06:00

I am not going to say that I hate deadlines because everyone says that, and for me it is not all that true anyway.

I will say that I am not terribly sure about this graduate school idea. I constantly feel...stupid. It is an irritating feeling because I know that I am not stupid about most things, but based on what has happened to me thus far this fall, one would never know it.

Lord, have mercy. If Amber's cat does not cease shouting in the next ten seconds, he shall be tamales.

Right. Graduate school. For one thing, I think that reading a book per week per class is ludicrous. How the hell is anyone meant to learn anything just cramming repeatedly? Furthermore, seminars are also ludicrous. Why in hell am I paying a thousand dollars per class to listen to other people with the same education level as me talk about what they think? I do not CARE what they think, particularly since the majority of it is egotistical prattle. I want to know what the professor thinks, not what that guy over there thinks because science is SOOO much better than history.

AND

I. Do. NOT. Give A Damn about the alleged debate over objectivity. For the sake of all which is holy and the other stuff which is not, I do not understand why it took eight weeks to dispatch it, especially with Smugly McHipsterpants going on about whether or not the furniture is in fact present.

How about I pick up one of the chairs and smack him across the teeth with it? Would that prove that it is there? Or, given that no one can truly be objective, there would be no proof that I smacked him at all. That class has been less than useful.

I am also sick of most things I say being refuted with the phrase "Well, I do not know what YOU have been reading, but..."

DAMMIT, I have been reading the book which was on the bloody reading list, and since I somehow managed to make it for twenty-seven years, through public school and a bachelor's degree, I think I am possessed of fairly reasonable reading comprehension. So when I say that the fecking Franciscans and Dominicans held conflicting notions about what their roles in New Spain -- and that of the lay Spanish -- were, and tell you why that was, I bloody well know what I am on about.

Which brings me to why I am up right now and writing a blog post instead of working on the term paper which is due at half past six on Tuesday evening, or the other term paper which is due at some undisclosed time on Friday. Everything is too damn nebulous. How's that for a nebulous statement?

I want to run off to Gloucestershire and be a blacksmith or something. I can appreciate that I do not know everything about history -- that I, in fact, know very little when it comes to it -- but dammit, when I DO know something, I do not need people telling me that I do not.

And I recognise that the problem is in the nuances, and that is all well and good. I know that I am not very strong in oral presentations and that I communicate much better in writing, so theoretically, my paper should be fine. In the interim, I am probably going to fail out of grad school anyway because my papers do not count for enough.

And because the book review I had to write probably counts for too much. No one should ever ask for my opinion because then I will feel compelled to give it to them, and apparently, that is not even something one should do when writing a book review.

I had a point.

It may have had something to do with the fact that I have lost zero pounds this semester, do not sleep properly, and will probably not get very good grades anyway. That may have not been it after all, but it is still a valid point.

At this point, I feel like I am just in damage control mode. Get the papers written, get everything done, so I can start over next semester in classes with which I have at least a passing familiarity with the material and may hope against hope that no one wants to go on about objectivity.

Metaphor About Lack of Ball Possession in a Given Sport

2011-07-30T03:24:00.005-05:00

Last night, I wrote to an old friend. I do not know that I will receive a reply; that is fine, I think, because I have said what needed saying and the rest is presently out of my control.

Our estrangement came about before my wedding. That was a fairly stressful time in mine and Amber's lives; I, of course, can only truly speak to my experience. We were living out in the sticks and Amber was working on her thesis. I was dealing mentally with all of the potential ramifications of telling my sundry family members that I was getting married.

More accurately, I was dealing mentally with all of the potential ramifications of telling my sundry family members who I was marrying.

I had had a set-to with my best and oldest friend (C) years before, when Amber or anyone like her was not even on my radar. I had just admitted to myself that I was in love with one of my close friends and dealing with telling people who needed to know. C tole me that she did not think she could come to my wedding if I married a girl, much less be in it. I told her that I would be her bridesmaid if she married my mortal enemy at the South Pole, and made me wear one of those thrice-damned wench dresses from the Renaissance Festival while I was doing so.

When Amber and I got married at the beginning of May, 2009, C was there. As a bonus, she married a very nice man in Wichita Falls in 2007 and I got to wear blue satin. Success!

Since C had given me her positive RSVP, I supposed that when it came to it, my other friends who had been twitchy about the gay would put it aside long enough to come have cake and wish Amber and I well in our life together. It is difficult, if not impossible, to describe how it felt to be told that, really, no, that was not going to happen.

It was definitely orders of magnitude less horrifying than being told that Grandpa had died. Of course.

However, my loyalty is a binary proposition, and so being told that yes, I am her friend, but no, she really would not come to my wedding because Amber is a girl pretty significantly shook my entire worldview. I still do not understand what is so hard about grokking that I love her, and no, please, actually, do not pray that I will change (and what the hell kind of prayer is that, anyway? Dear G-d, please make [insert homo here] abandon her/his wife/husband/spouse and cats/dogs/kids for a person of the opposite gender because that would somehow be better, apparently) because I love this person with everything I am.

And if we are being truly honest here, if G-d is the sort of deity who will condemn me for all time because I married a girl, then I cannot say as how I really need to be associated with that anyway. Fortunately, I am pretty sure that if G-d is in fact sentient, that G-d probably has other things to think about. Really.

I had a point.

Ah, yes. It was that it has sucked all over the place to not have my friend, and that I finally came to a place where I could be less hurt and angry, mostly because I have now been married for two years, and the marriage equality train has left the station and is picking up speed. Also, if things begin to go very poorly over here, I will simply apply to study in a country which recognises all marriages. So, we have options, and what individuals think about who I married is nigh irrelevant at this point. It probably helps that now having been married for TWO WHOLE YEARS that it is really just normal at this point, and I suspect that eventually people will look around and have an epiphany.

At any rate, I feel better having extended the olive branch, difficult as it was on my ego. Egos are the root of most evil anyway, so I expect that the blow will ultimately prove positive.

Hello, Insomnia, my Old Friend...

2011-07-26T01:17:00.005-05:00

Most anyone who knows me beyond a passing acquaintance knows the following:

I enjoy historic pursuits
I enjoy being Lutheran
Cancer is bullshit.

I think that most people know the latter anyway because who can really disagree that cancer is bullshit? The two former facts are, if we trace them back to their origins, brought to you by my mother's parents, my grandma and grandpa, Anna Lou and E.H. Grote. Doing a bit of math, which I had heretofore not done, I discover that they were, respectively, fifty and fifty-five when I was born in 1984. My mother is presently fifty-five.

My grandma, Anna Louise Heidensohn (for whom I am named), was born on 1 April 1933, which is the same day that the National Socialists began a boycott all of the Jewish businesses in Germany. It only made it three days because most German shoppers viewed it with a shrug, and when my grandma was three days old, they called it off.

My grandpa, Ehler Herman Grote, was born on 25 June 1928, on which date, as far as I know, nothing else of note occurred. However, it is important to note that 25 June is Leon Day, and thus my grandfather shares his birth date with the half birthday of one of the most influential men in western civilisation.

I spent a significant amount of time with them when I was smallish to medium. When Grandma and I were not running errands in town or fixing fences or some such, she would draw our family trees (which are large) and explain to me who all is related to whom and how, and tell me stories about their lives. My favourite stories were about her parents. My great-grandfather, Walter Herman Heidensohn, immigrated to San Antonio from Germany in the twenties. His movement has inspired a paper which I am hoping will meet success in the next eight months or so; he grew up in World War I Germany and his elder sisters gave up their rations so that he would be less malnourished. Less. He was a man of short stature since there was no food when he was meant to be growing, and I suspect that the malnourishment caused him to have a weak heart. He died of a heart attack on 4 July of either 1958 or 59.

Grandma told me stories about the Berlin Wall (the only time I ever heard her say anything which could be construed as profanity was when she was explaining that they built it right through cemeteries, and that it was a "hellish" thing to do. I can think of some significantly stronger words to describe it, but the impact was there), and about her cousin who was in the German Army (the Wehrmacht, says twenty-seven year old me) and was captured and taken to Battle Creek, Michigan, where he spent the remainder of the war. My great-grandfather wrote to him often, and as a result was investigated, so the story goes, by the FBI. Men in suits came to his workplace, Central Power and Light in Corpus Christi, to question him.

Fortunately, his boss, a Mr. Floyd Salmon, informed the men in suites that he was "no damned Nazi," and we lived happily ever after. Lucky, that, says twenty-seven year old me, because while the Japanese took the brunt of the internment during World War II, there were Germans at Crystal City. It is a very real possibility that had Mr. Salmon not stood up for him, Grandma and Aunt Dene would have come home from grade school to find their house empty, as happened to a not insignificant amount of German- and Japanese-descended children at that point. The government would just haul off the parents. Twenty-seven year old me is relieved that ten year old me did not know that, because ten year old me was paranoid enough as it was.

My grandpa could do anything, and he often did. He built the addition to their house. Without plans. Seriously. And he used a good deal of recycled material to do it. He taught me how to use a scroll saw when I was ten, and I was fourteen when he taught me how to use the lathe. He crocheted. He built a large bird house for his sundry birds (twenty-seven year old me wishes that I had met Amber earlier, because they could have talked about birds). He taught me to ride a horse and to not be afraid of large hooved creatures.

Amber is concerned because I have not gone to church in a very long time. The thing is, church, to me, is not an activity to its own end. If I want to experience G-d, I can sit right here, or outside, or on a hill. Church, for me, has always been about tradition, and history, and ritual (notably, the opposite of what the average evangelical thinks church is about. Church, I have been told, is not about tradition, or history, or ritual, and in fact, if one thinks that it is about those things, they are in danger of going to Hell. Yeah, they can go to Hell). Church is sitting between Grandma and Grandpa while they sing "I Love to Tell the Story" or sitting next to Aunt Carol while she pokes me in the ribs during "Lead On, O King Eternal" or listening to Uncle Don sort of yodel his way through "Earth and All Stars," (I defy anyone to try to sing it without yodeling, in his defence) and after the service making jokes about the folks behind us bringing buckets in which to carry the tune.

Church is sitting to my mom while she inevitably cries during "Lift High the Cross" -- something which disturbed me profoundly until I was about seventeen -- and makes notes on the bulletin about what the pastor is saying during the sermon.

Church feels kind of empty without all of that, and I fear that the memory is not enough. I have to conjure up my grandma's voice on a weekly basis or I feel I will forget how she sounded when she was praying with me, or calling the cats for breakfast, or explaining to me about Germany and Germans and how we are not, in fact, like Hitler (who was "an evil, evil, EVIL man"). Now I am going to have to do the same with my grandpa's, because when he called me last Saturday and I missed the call, he declined to leave a voice message.

I fear that I am going to lose myself now that I have lost them both. I have not slept worth a damn since last Sunday and I am awake right now because when I tried to sleep earlier, my overactive imagination went on a bender bringing up images of my sundry forebears dying. If I did not have Amber right now, I do not know what I would do.

Actually, I know exactly what I would do because I know what I did eleven years ago: I did not eat, I did not sleep. I watched Designing Women for three weeks straight and never left the couch. I cried all. the. time.

Right now, I am merely not sleeping, and I cry only most of the time, and I eat every so often. No Designing Women yet. I even managed to have a good dinner with two of my best friends and some slushy vodka lemonade with no repercussions.

A lot of it is still really surreal. I mean, I made the bulletins. I called the church where my grandpa and I were both baptised so as to get the date of his baptism. My sister and I had them printed. My aunt and cousins and I folded them. My other grandparents and two aunts and an uncle came to express their condolences. We went shopping in San Antonio so that I would have something to wear. Amber drove to Austin and back so that we would have pictures and a hymnal. I gave what was possibly the worst eulogy in the history of mankind, and none of it seems real.

Yet I grieve.

UnFitness Numbers of my Choosing

2009-09-26T03:01:00.002-05:00

Yesterday, I expended 1554 calories through exercise.
My current resting heart rate is 72 beats per minute.
My goal is to lose 40 pounds.
I have to travel under my own power 70.3 miles in fewer than 8 hours in about 4 weeks.

Seriously.

2009-09-05T00:31:00.002-05:00

How do some people just blog every day like it's nothing? Trying this again.

School has started. I'm back to working out daily, have my locker at school and everything. It's a good thing, too, because over the summer my aerobic capacity went from almost nothing to slightly above nothing. We're talking logarithmically tiny differences here, but it makes a difference to me whether I can run for three minutes or two.

One thing I can still do pretty impressively, apparently, is lift. I say this because the women's rugby team was recruiting in the Rec, and they recruited me after watching me lift. Very well; now I am playing rugby. They are more competitive than I expected them to be, but I think it will be good for me and my aerobic capacity.

I feel as though my prospects of getting hired at a college once I have my Master's are much better than I felt they were before. This instructor in a class I am about to drop (which is a bummer; I've wanted to take it for years) is a) under the impression that no one in China has a cell phone, and b) that the Napoleonic Wars took place around the time of the Lincoln Presidency. I am not making this up, and that's not all. Seriously. I'm not worried about getting hired. If I can make it into grad school and through the PhD, I'll be fine.

Well, so much for being all daily and stuff...

2009-03-14T19:10:00.002-05:00

Whatever. I had the flu.

But before that, I bought a pair of running shoes. Real running shoes. They are New Balance 769s, and I got them at the Hill Country Running Company. Get thee to there, and ask for Kim. I tried on half a dozen different shoes and she had me run on a treadmill to look at my gait.

Apparently, on my left foot I was starting my step on the outside of my foot and then collapsing my ankle inward. No wonder it hurt. So, these 769s have some supportive foam on the outside of the sole to make my foot fall flat. And Lo!

Today, I ran a mile in 12:35 (I still have to walk part of it). BUT! I ran for five minutes straight and only had to stop because I got thirsty, NOT because my legs hurt. And there was much rejoicing.

Training. OMG Training.

2009-02-23T23:21:00.002-06:00

It turns out that I can, in fact, jog for two and a half minutes at a time. I merely cannot do so at six miles per hour. I can, however, do it at five and a half. That's helpful.

Train, Part three, and more narrative. For Dwayne and my mom.

2009-02-21T00:49:00.004-06:00

Wow, it is now Saturday. This week went by fast.

For a start, the training I actually accomplished:

Monday, I swam 300 meters in eight minutes, thirty-two seconds. Not bad, considering that a) I am in terrible shape and b) am still working on my form. Also swam about four hundred more yards* in bits. I did not run/walk the two miles because I was feeling some pain in my right leg (I have had a minor shin splint since last year because I was favouring my left leg after the ankle sprain of Doom). Got tape for that, no pain for the rest of the week.

I do not remember what I did Tuesday, but it was not much because I had an exam on Wednesday. I did briefly hit the gym on Wednesday but I do not remember what I did.

Thursday I did six miles on a stationary bike in about twenty-eight minutes, and then I did two miles on the tread mill in less than thirty. While watching M*A*S*H. Also lifted. Today (Friday), Amber and I walked about three miles on the Barton Creek Greenbelt.

In short, I did not at all follow my training plan and I know damn good and well that I still cannot run for two and a half minutes. So, next week I will be repeating this week's schedule. I will also start making an effort to eat more often in smaller portions and also make damn sure I'm under two thousand calories every day, because I've stopped losing weight and I find that problematic since I have about a month to get to the size at which my wedding dress shall be made. I might be able to talk Mom into waiting until the second week of April.

So, the crankset. Holy crap. I wish I had taken pictures. I had to buy two new tools for this endeavour: a crank wrench and a bottom bracket tool. Once my new Shimano Hollowtech with its fifty-three tooth (as opposed to my forty-two tooth) large chainring came in, I was in something of a lather to get it on my bike. Remember, for the purposes of this narrative, that I live out in the sticks, approximately an hour from Bicycle Sport Shop in Austin, where I have bought the vast majority of my gear. And that I had already been there for new pedals and shoes.

In order to remove the cranks from a bicycle, you have to unscrew these little caps on the non-pedal end with an eight millemeter allen wrench. Fabulous. With the help of my trusty pedal wrench for some extra torque, I did that. Then I started to pull on the crank. It did not move.

Well, it turns up that you're meant to use this thing called a crank wrench which screws into the space you just opened up by removing the caps from the crank, and then you turn this other part of the wrench which is internally threaded and it pops the crank arm off. Allegedly.

I, of course, did not have a crank wrench. Fortunately for me, Amber and I were going to Austin the day after I got my crankset in, and so I bought one while at REI. Fabulous. We came home, and the next day, I incredibly easily removed the cranks from my bicycle.

No, actually, that is what happens in the instructional video. I actually pulled and pushed and swore at my crank wrench and went back inside about sixty times to look at the internet video AGAIN so that I would not destroy my bicycle. And then I got desperate. And then I hauled Amber into it.

Amber is very patient, by the way.

So, we went outside and I got Amber to hold onto the crank on the other side of my bike so nothing could move, and I wrapped a t-shirt around the handle of the crank wrench. And then I got my hammer. After a few minutes of beating on it, we got the crank to pop off. It was really, really on there. I think the other side came off pretty easily (comparatively) using the same technique.

It was at that point that I noticed something else problematic to installing the new crankset.

___________
* Yes, I know that I am sort of mixing yards and meters. The pool is twenty-five yards long. However, I am swimming three hundred meters because 300 meters == 328 yards, so I just swim an extra length of the pool.

Training, Part two, and more of the narrative

2009-02-16T14:07:00.004-06:00

According to a training program on BeginnerTriathlete.com, I am at about Week Six. This is important, and great, because I have been training for about six weeks and felt like I was woefully behind. The schedule for Week Six is thus:

Monday

Swim: Warm up, Freestyle 300 yards, Cool Down 100 yards
Walk/Jog for 35 minutes: Walk 4:30 minutes/Jog 2:30 minutes

Tuesday

Bike 5 miles

Wednesday

Swim: Warm up, Freestyle 300 yards, Cool Down 100 yards
Walk/Jog for 35 minutes: Walk 4:30 minutes, Jog 2:30 minutes

Thursday

Beer

Friday

Swim: Freestyle 300 yards, Cool Down 100 yards
Bike 5 miles

Saturday

Walk/Jog for 45 minutes

Sunday

Bike 7 miles

So, the beer is not an official part of the training plan. I am actually a little ahead of this on the swim, but I cannot do more with the run, so I shan't.

Where was I? Oh, so I registered for the Texas Tri Series. And then I started looking at what I needed to do about my bike. Most people who know me know that I own a mountain bike on which I put many miles while I lived in Austin, and that one of the most frustrating things for me about living out of Austin is that I am unable to ride my bike around town or to school.

So, I own a mountain bike. I actually have two, one of which I got while I was in Europe. I own zero road bikes and do not especially want to get rid of either of my mountain bikes, so I came to the decision to refit one of them to work for a triathlon. My first impression was that I would simply put thin tires and aerobars on and leave it at that.

Ha. Well, so I soon realised that I would not be able to get the same kind of speed as my competitors because the front chainrings (front gears) that came standard my bike are smaller than those on a road bike, to make dealing with hills easier. Part of why I bought that particular bike (a Trek 4300 for anyone who cares) was because of this, since my beloved Austin is hilly, to put it mildly. Thus, I went in search of a larger chainring, only to discover that since my chainrings are all pressed together, I would have to actually replace the entire crankset (i.e., I don't just add a larger gear and remove the smallest; I have to replace the whole thing as one, which means that there are new cranks (pedal arms) involved).

Sigh. So I set out into eBay, looking for a nice, cheap road crankset. It came. And then I was faced with an entirely new problem.

In the interim, I became a gym rat at the Rec Center, more than I had been last fall, in an effort to actually be able to race come May.

Coming off of Hiatus and Training

2009-02-16T12:00:00.002-06:00

Fine, so it's been a while. Why haven't I been writing anything, especially after Chewbecca told me to write every day?

I'm not sure. I've not felt overly inspired by anything...and I'm honestly really tired of politics. People at Lee College used to tell me I -love- politics and talking about it and arguing about it. They never grokked that I actually hate politics and the political process but think that it's important to be an informed citizen. I know, crazy, right?

Well, whatever. I don't have to write about politics. I can write about whatever I want, because this is never going to be a giant everyone reads it with an influence rating from Technorati. Because I'm pretty sure that only my mom reads. Hi, Mom!

In late December, I think, I took the notion to compete in a triathlon and immediately began my Amber-like tendency to overresearch things. That's probably actually part of why we are so compatible. Because we are both INSANE about researching things. <3

I subscribed to Bicycling Magazine, and now to Triathlete, and began reading on the internet everything I could find about doing multisport. The first thing I found out is that there are age groups, which means that I am not competing against everyone and their mother, but merely women between the ages of 25 and 29. This appeals to my inner statistician who would prefer to think of things via odds: now, rather than having to beat a couple of hundred people, I have to beat about fifty, because, for some blessed reason, the 25-29 age group is consistently the smallest (until you get into the forties). Sweet. I can beat forty chicks. Or at least twenty of them.

Cheered by this newfound knowledge, I looked for events in the Austin area. Lo and behold, there is the Texas Tri Series: five events, three of which are in Austin and two in New Braunfels. They start out short (the first, on 11 May, is a 300 meter swim, 11.1 mile bike and a 2 mile run) and get progressively longer, culminating in the Longhorn half-Ironman (also known as a 70.3, for how many miles you cover). I thought to myself, I can do that. And so I signed up for all five events, plus the Capital of Texas Triathlon at the end of May.

And then I thought to myself, Oh Lord, what have I done?

Part two later today or tomorrow.

Excitement!

2008-12-30T21:49:00.003-06:00

I have bought a router!

And by this, I mean a wood router, not an interweb router. This is exciting because I am about to use it to build Aud and Casi a fabulous butcher block/cabinet. With CASTERS.

The problem I am currently trying to solve is that of the center of gravity. I am manufacturing an appliance lift for Aud's soon-to-exist stand mixer. The way they work is that they swing out from underneath your counter and hang out on a ratchet. They are fabulous, but this piece of furniture is going to be freestanding and only eighteen inches deep. Stand mixer weighs 26 pounds.

Potentially problematic.

I may solve the problem by making the whole piece a few inches deeper, or by installing some manner of counterweight in the back end of it. That, of course, would just make the whole thing heavier, so I'm not too sure about that. It is more or less immaterial at this time since I still have the piece itself to build.

I am going to experiment with the router for the first bit of tomorrow, and then go on to actually build the thing. I am going to photograph my progress in an effort to streamline it for potential future building.

We SHALL Overcome.

2008-11-05T16:37:00.001-06:00

I have seen the photos of the celebrations, and they remind me of the video I saw of the people having cake and punch in celebration when they passed Texas Proposition 2.

Shame on all of you. Shame. Shame on you if you are a supporter of Proposition 8, whether you are in the pictures or not, whether you live in California or not. Nothing but Shame.

You go right on ahead and claim your moral superiority. You go right on ahead and say that your religion is right. But just you remember that not so long ago, your religion and your morals were used to say that black people could not marry white people, that black people could be enslaved by white people, that women could not vote, and that women were property of their fathers or husbands.

You remember that. You remember that because if you support the idea that gays are second-class citizens -- and you do support that idea if you support Proposition 8 and the others around the country -- then you are a bigot, just as sure as you would be if you would deny Michelle Obama the right to vote or Kay Bailey Hutchison the right to serve in the Senate.

This is not the end of this fight; it is merely the beginning. We are not going to go away, and we are not going to sit quietly and defer to your ever so DEEPLY HELD BELIEFS.

I am getting MARRIED to my GIRLFRIEND on 2 May. I am going to vow to her that I will love, honour, cherish, and protect her, that I will be faithful to her forever. And no law of yours is going to change the fact that we will be MARRIED.

So you go on and have your cake and punch; dance and shout with glee that civil rights have been taken away from a group of people who you think are less than you, who you view as disgusting. You go on.

Because I am going to spend the rest of my life with a most extraordinary woman with whom I am in love more deeply than I ever could have imagined and who loves me with the same ferocity, and your hate and anger will not change that.

And in a few years' time, we will be equal, not in your eyes, but in the eyes of the United States which was built on the principle that ALL are created equal.

We Shall Overcome.

Oh.

2008-11-01T20:20:00.003-05:00

I'm not entirely sure why it annoys me so much when articles and people use the phrase "lesbian relationship" when describing the lives of people like Elizabeth Bishop or Virginia Woolf. I think it's an unnecessary modifier. If Virginia Woolf ran off with Vita Sackville-West, who is a woman, their relationship was obviously gay. Why is this difficult?

(Insert ten minutes' rumination and some tea here.)

Wait, I know why it's annoying. It's because the use of the modifier marks it as different. "Lesbian" is the modifier one would use when desiring to mark the otherness of a relationship, particularly those who think that we oughtn't be getting married.

I cannot describe how deeply it hurts to realise that a friendship I had was not true. I was patiently waiting for someone to think over her prejudice and realise that my marriage will in fact be blessed.

I did not realise that she was not thinking about it, and did not want to.

In Which I Absolutely Lose What is Left of my Patience and Possibly my Frontal Lobe

2008-10-17T01:16:00.002-05:00

(Insert various and sundry petitions to YHWH and His or Her Divine Offspring Here)

Who the hell let this ignoramus on the radio?

I've really just had it up to here. Here being somewhere in orbit. For twenty years I have been dealing, I feel fairly reasonably, with ignorant bullshit. But this is really the final insult. I know we live in an anti-intellectual society, and I don't have to have read Richard Hofstadter to know it, because I found out the first time someone called me a nerd in kindergarten for having the temerity to be literate. I couldn't help it. I wanted to know, and so from an early age I found out that I could be popular, or I could know. I chose the latter, believing my mother and father when they told me it would be different when I grew up.

Lies, Damn Lies!

While I foolishly absorbed how refineries work and internalised how to get from Corpus Christi to Pearsall because my parents treated my like a Person with a Brain, everyone else was busy learning how to learn as little as possible so they could be Just Like Everyone Else and perhaps get elected President of the United States someday and most importantly, be Popular.

Steven Schwartz hit it --

celebrated heads of state
and especially great communicators:
Did they have brains or knowledge?
Don't make me laugh!
They were popular!

It is seriously a problem how accepted, nay, celebrated, it is to be incurious. That's why someone as awesomely dim as Sarah Palin is hailed as the Second Coming of McCain's campaign. "Why, she's just like me! She is folksy and likes G-d! I'm certainly going to vote for her, rather than that uppity Negro!"

So this Obama-flag thing. This radio guy really doesn't have any clue what the Ohio flag looks like? I don't claim to have all of the state flags memorised or anything but the Ohio flag is DIFFERENT LOOKING. It's not like he misidentified, say, the Oklahoma flag or something (I think Oklahoma is one of about six states whose flag just has the state seal on it). I mean, he never just looked up the state flag article in World Book and had a look? Really? Never? Or even ever saw the Ohio state flag at a Cleveland Indians game, or at a VFW hall, or in Washington, D. C.? and NO ONE on his STAFF had Either?

That just seems willfully ignorant to me. This is not some random dude off the street; he's a radio host. Also, if he's going to make it his job to comment on stuff, he should know what he's talking about. And you know what? Random dudes off the street should, even if they can't remember that it's Ohio's, at least be AWARE that there is a flag like that in existence because it STANDS OUT.

Furthermore, I am sick AND tired of people wanting our leaders to be "just like us." I want someone smarter, faster, and stronger to be my leader. I don't want someone who mispronounces simple English words and who is unable to to find a coherant sentence with two hands and a flashlight. I don't want someone who thinks with his or her gut. You know, I WANT a former college professor. I WANT someone smarter and more educated than me.

I also want that in my deity, which is a whole other post, but I have definitely noticed that there is a weird dichotomy in some people's thinking about how G-d is so "awesome" but at the same time they put these massive limitations on G-d -- and it is to do with this same principle.

My brain hurts.

Dear Guy at the other end of the "quiet room" at Wake the Dead:

2008-10-16T21:48:00.003-05:00

You're an ass.

It should be self-evident to you why you are, at this time, an ass. "Should" being the operative term. You obviously aren't aware that you're an ass or why since you continue doing the thing that is the cause of your assery.

YOU ARE PLAYING YOUR MUSIC WITHOUT HEADPHONES.

I can hear it from the Other End of the Room. It is clashing with the music that is coming out of the speakers.

ASS.

Your lack of self-awareness is at once baffling, amusing and seriously obnoxious. You can't afford headphones? What is your problem? You know, you're probably the kind of guy who talks on the quiet floor of the library and doesn't get why everyone else is silently hating you and hoping your table phases through the floor.

Oh, look. My dashing fiancée is coming over to tell you to knock it off.

That's right. Your assholery has come to an end, and no amount of heinous looks will bring it back.

Victory in our time!

They've Done It!

2008-09-30T14:56:00.001-05:00

A Maine Christian group has managed to blame the gays for the economic blah blah blah. From Pandagon.

It didn't take long. I'm glad they came through.

The Chewbacca Defense

2008-09-25T17:51:00.001-05:00

Everything that Sarah Palin ever says. Seriously.

Dear Western Hemisphere:

2008-09-22T11:24:00.003-05:00

There is but ONE 'e' in my name. In all of it. It is at the end of Louise. There is no 'e' in Ivy. There never has been. You know how in science the correct solution is generally the most simple and/or elegant? Adding an 'e' in the middle of IVY is not simple OR elegant.

IVY

That is how you spell my name. See how there's no 'e'? It's like the plant. Or the villainess. Also, in my e-mail address, in the 'from' field, you can see that there is no 'e' in my forename. There just isn't. So, when you are replying to an e-mail that I sent YOU, you will please spell my name as it came to you originally, because, believe it or not, despite my low-ass GPA, I can in fact SPELL MY OWN NAME, and there is NO 'e' in IVY!

Also

2008-08-05T15:56:00.000-05:00

==Awesome.

Two Things.

2008-08-05T15:39:00.003-05:00

1) The death by stoning penalty is NOT prescribed in the Qu'ran (which, I was pretty sure, but this article says so. I have by no means memorised the Qu'ran). Sort of like how the death penalty is not found anywhere in the New Testament.

2) You know, if you're going to make shit up, quit making shit up about minorities. White people have just as much right to commit crimes as everyone else, and all this kind of BS does is reinforce the "brown people == bad" stereotypes.

Christ on a Cracker?

2008-07-30T16:06:00.003-05:00

"You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth." Leviticus 20:4 NRSV

The above is the second amendment (fine, commandment; I've thought it interesting that there are ten commandments and ten amendments in the Bill of Rights, and that perhaps gun rights activists should consider the juxtaposition of that which they cite) which according to the book of Exodus was spoken directly from G-d to one patriarch, Moses. It is an idea which is kept by all three Abrahamic faiths to one degree or another;* it is a tenet of Judaism, for example, that the name of G-d not appear in print, which is why one sees YHWH rather than the spelled out version, and also why one sees a hyphen in place of the 'o'. I have not been very good about that in the past, but I think it's a good point and will try to improve in the future. In Islam, one does not illustrate G-d or the Prophet, and I think not any of the patriarchs (this, btw, includes Jesus of Nazareth).

Anyway, so this commandment is not only in the top ten, it's number two. It's way above coveting your neighbour's ass. It therefore absolutely astounds me when I see the proliferation of Jesus and/or Mary, daughter of Anna (aka the Madre de Dios) on everything from culverts to sandwiches to freakin' CHEETOS.

The ones who really get me are the ones who sell the sandwich on eBay or something. "It meant so much to me; I cried when I saw it," et cetera. Really? I did not quite cry when Amber gave me my engagement ring, and I'm still somehow able to stop myself selling it on eBay, so what gives?

This all ties in, to me, with stuff like the Creation Museum. It's all meant to act as some kind of hackneyed proof of the existence and presence of G-d. Why? Really, why? Is it because having faith in something you can't see is so damned difficult? That's why the Israelites created the Golden Calf. Is it really that hard? Is it that hard to have faith?

Maybe it is. It is for me, sometimes.

So, if it's that hard to have faith in something unseen, then why not just own up to it? Why is it necessary to 'see' the image of Christ, Mary, or even the name of Al-lah (true and recent) in one's lunch? If it is so hard to have faith in the idea of an omniscient being creating the universe, then why believe it? Why try to prove it?

"Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen. Indeed, by faith our ancestors received approval. By faith we understand that the worlds were prepared by the world of God, so that what is seen was made from things that are not visible." Hebrews 11:1-3

I am really quite tired of hearing, usually from people who oppose basic human rights, that All They Need Is The Word Of G-d. And, oh look! We have extrabiblical proof of creationism AND Jesus appeared to me upon a Milk Dud. You are clearly going to Hell, homo. I have proof!

Why with the need for proof? When Thomas asked for proof that Jesus had resurrected His bad Self, Jesus made fun of him. In fact, Jesus really took it out of whomever ever asked him stupid questions like Is He the Son of G-d instead of paying attention to whatever He was saying.

I have a lot more to say about this subject, including why Christian rock concerts are irritating, why "Christian cuss words" need abolition, why things like Golgotha Fun Park make my blood boil with the passion of ten thousand fiery angry suns, but for now, I will leave with this: if it is a boost to one's faith to see the alleged image of Christ in snack food, one might consider reexamining the reasons for one's faith.

_____________
*and, by the way, is something which should be RESPECTED by non-believers, and yes, I am speaking to those jackasses who decided to make fun of terrorists by drawing cartoons of the Prophet, and to those jackasses who defended them who are the same jackasses who would absolutely bust an artery if something parodying Christ showed up in the paper. Mutual respect, bitches.

Puppy Linux

2008-07-29T22:28:00.001-05:00

Is made of awesome. I will discuss in detail why shortly.

A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to Austin

2008-06-26T16:06:00.003-05:00

I had practice with my tournament softball team last night in Austin; we have a tournament in Dallas coming up. My car has remained up at Fort Parker since the speaking of the Deplorable Word by our landlord, so I was in the Ambermobile.

Around Buda, I saw flashy lights behind me so I moved into the right lane to let the cop go by. Except that he moved over behind me. I had been maintaining a respectable seventy, so I was not stricken with panic or anything, and pulled over.

The cop (Hays County Sheriff) comes up next to the window and peers down at me with his best cop glare. "Do you know why you were pulled over, young lady?"

I HATE being addressed as "young lady." Seriously.

"Not especially," I replied. I handed him my license and insurance. He glares at them, and then at me. I glared back, but he didn't know that because I was wearing my sunnies. The time was about twenty to seven and practice, at Kreig Field, was meant to be at seven. Sigh.

"Are you nervous? You look nervous. You looked at me like you are nervous. Where are you headed?"

"Austin." Duh. "I am not nervous in the least, but I would like to know why you've pulled me over."

"Don't get snippy with me, young lady." ("Young Lady" AGAIN!) "I'm going to need to do a search."

Oh, good Lord.

"Sir, you haven't even established probable cause for pulling me over, much less for searching the car, and I have somewhere to be, so, respectfully, I don't think so."

He continued to examine both my license and insurance, muttering something about my donor sticker, and then looked up, triumphant.

"This is not your car!"

ORLY!?

"No, it's not; it's my fiancée's." He peered down at me with coply disdain. I sighed. He went back to his car, and I sat for the interminable period which always follows the cops walking back to their car. I watched two cars change lanes without signaling and another pass the traffic at a relative speed considerably higher than what I, were I a cop, would consider acceptable. He returned, with a law-enforcement TV swagger.

"This car is registered to an Amber J-----. You said it was your fiancée's." I could hear the "Lies! Damn Lies!" in his inflection.

"Yes, I did. Amber J----- is my fiancée," I replied, somewhat incredulously. I mean, I was on the way to SOFTBALL practice, in Dyke(TM) shorts, and Melissa Etheridge, with impeccable timing, was on the radio. It's not like it was WHOLLY UNBELIEVABLE that my fiancée would be possessed of two ée's. It was ten minutes to seven.

He looked at me, and I looked at him. And he looked at me. "This is not your car."

"Sir, I never purported that it was."

"Who's car is this?"

My patience, already thin, was done.

"Well, you've run the plates and discovered that it belongs to Amber J-----. I do not dispute that fact."

"You said it was your fiancée's."

Um. Seriously. Do I have the wrong haircut or something?

"You can call her if you like," I offered.

He grumbled something under his breath and appeared to be ruminating on what he was going to do with me.

At three minutes to seven, after he had stood there thinking to himself and muttering at me, I decided that I was sick of this shit.

"Sir, you pulled me over twenty minutes ago, have yet to establish just WHY you have done so, have threatened me a search, have doubted my rightful possession of this vehicle, and after we both agreed as to the ownership of the vehicle you have continued harass me about it. I have somewhere to be. Now. I therefore respectfully suggest that you decide what you are going to do about me."

He bristled. "I am not sure you are in legal possession of this vehicle."

"Very well then, you ought to arrest me and impound the car, and let me call my fiancée, who is a GIRL, who will get a ride from someone else because I am IN HER CAR, come up here, and tell you that the Car Belongs To Her. At the moment, you are detaining me without probable cause and I've had time enough sitting here to memorise your badge number."

I forgot his badge number during practice.

With a few more mumbles, he told me to go on my way.

Seriously. How damn dense do you have to be? I'm annoyed that I forgot his badge number, but I remember what he looked like, having looked at him for half an hour. There may be a complaint in his future.

Braaaaaaains.

2008-05-31T14:37:00.004-05:00

I require a supercomputer (or at least several non-supercomputers hooked up via Linux nodes and thus combining their power), several books on mathematical theory, time, and German.

There is not enough time for me to know what I want, nor do I have the ability, I am afraid.

Edit: My dear mother, please tell me at the beginning of a phone conversation if you are eating dinner or similar. I will be most happy to call you back.

Grrrrr for the following reasons:

2008-05-30T00:39:00.002-05:00

1) Amber is in West Texas for a week.
2) The Spurs lost. To the Lakers.
3) My fingernails are self-destructing.
4) I am feeling utterly unmotivated to do anything.

Technogeekery

2008-05-27T21:09:00.003-05:00

I want a MacBook Air. Sort of.

I still don't want a Mac. Yes, they are lovely, solid, beautiful machines. Absolutely. But just how damn hard is it to put a right mouse button on your computer? And no, control-click is not an acceptable alternative. Also, the minimize/restore/close buttons are backwards. And yes, interface is a big deal to me.

Granted, I could easily run Linux on an Air and I am willing to bet that the gesture pad supports something akin to a right click. In fact, I will go look now. ... ... ... ... Ah, yes, ok. Right-click equivalent for the win.

The thing is, Leopard really is pretty. I like the Dock. But with RocketDock (which really does need a Linux version), I can get the same effect, including stacking. I like the solid-state hard drive. I like that it is all-aluminum. And I like that it is three pounds.

I wish there was some way to find out where it is manufactured; I suspect they are made in China, which is not acceptable. I just found out from one of my friends who works for Dell that all of the computers bought by the federal government are manufactured HERE with components made HERE and not in China. For me, that is a lot of win, because I really am trying to put my money where my mouth is about buying as local as possible. There is a reason my flipflops have been mummified in electrical tape -- all of those sold at Target were made. in. China.

What was I saying? Oh, the Air also has a BackLit Keyboard. How freakin long did that idea take? I've been wanting a backlit keyboard on my laptop since the dawn of time. Or at least the dawn of me owning a laptop. And the solid state hard drive? Win.

I do not understand the lack of an SD card slot, which saddens me because I use those and external hard drives for all of my storage. That was the major selling point of my current laptop (well, that, the price, and the fact that it was 8:45 at night at a Best Buy which closed at Nine with a term paper due the next day and a dead laptop at home. A dead laptop which may yet be resurrected once I get it back from James). I suppose I could use a USB-to-SD adapter, but that seems sort of unnecessary.

At any rate, when I have the cash and the inclination, and this computer bites the dust, I will probably get a second-generation Air, knowing full well that I can run XP on it (as much as I hate Microsoft, I still find XP comforting in its familiarity, and will be sticking with it until such time as I a) learn enough about Linux to find it more useful, b) Ubuntu gets to the point where it will connect to WPA-encrypted networks, and c) RocketDock exists for it.) and assuming that the price for the solid-state drive comes down from the thousand bucks it is at currently.

Chewbecca and four things

2008-05-22T15:40:00.003-05:00

Chewbecca says that I should blog more regularly.

The problem is that I don't always have a whole lot to say, but I shall try it anyway:

1) My grades were not as bad as I expected. In fact, they were pretty damn good, and my GPA went up for the first time in many semesters.

2) Amber and I did a night count last night, and Camp Swift is pretty creepy.

3) Knotacau was stuck outside in the insane storm that randomly showed up at four this morning. She is ok.

4) I may not, in fact, fail at life.

Another Reason Why I Love Sarah in Chicago

2008-05-07T11:11:00.000-05:00

Posted at Shakesville.

I've Got your Marriage Right Here.

2008-03-19T17:52:00.002-05:00

My greatest fear is that Amber will leave me. Not voluntarily; I know her well enough and trust her and know she would never do that. That does not change the fact that something heinous could go down, healthwise. The only thing that I can think of that would make that worse is something like this.

Now, I managed to get away with fronting that I was James' sister when he missed his dismount, but that was luck; I did not expect them to believe me for a minute. I am not, in fact, sure that they did and maybe they decided it was ok since there weren't any medical decisions to be made (because, DUH, he was going to have surgery, like now), and further, if worse came to worse I would have bit the bullet and said fine, he's my husband, dammit, now talk to me.

(See what sacrifices I would make for you, O Keys.)

Last week, in the emergency room, the triage nurse did not bat an eye at the presence of either of them (James was along for comic relief). But stuff like the above linked just makes my entire insides go numb. What if, for example, I had been hit in the head and knocked out and there was an ambulance. How would Amber have been treated? Granted, we have not fully formalised ourselves.

However, years ago when my Aunt C and Uncle W were engaged, she, along with another aunt (N) who was not formalised were in a horrible wreck on the way to Kerrville for a bridal shower. We were mightily freaked out and my mom, my elder aunt, my grandmother, me and my sister hauled ass to get there. My mom's youngest brother (Ch), who at the time was the boyfriend of the latter wrecked aunt (N), had called us to tell us about it, and him his soon-to-be brother-in-law (W) were on the way up and we met them there.

The short of it is that since we were there my grandma could speak for C, her daughter, and I younger and don't remember much about the technicalities, but I do remember that Uncle Ch said that Aunt N was his wife.

No one asked for proof.

Now, were it me and Amber in that situation I would not be able to claim that at all.

My long-winded point is that there are those among us to say they love -me- and know that there is nothing wrong with -me- but that gays shouldn't be allowed to be married because of one or more of the following:

a) It is not God's plan
b) It's just wrong
c) Kids need a mother and a father (so, all widowed, divorced or otherwise single parents lose their kids?)
d) Gays are pedophiles
e) et cetera

To you, I now say this: YOU are WRONG.

Sarah in Chicago eloquently states why (specifically regarding the linked article):

To all the people that have qualms about us gaining marriage rights ... you are responsible here. Your bigotry contributes to this. There is no grey on this matter, no middle-road. Either you think gays and lesbians are equal to straights, or you don't.

You can't expect to merely 'disagree' on this matter and think we're going to somehow magically respect you for that. This is not a matter of merely agreeing to disagree on an issue; this is about you saying we don't deserve having full civil rights, and somehow we're supposed to respect that?

Emphasis mine. This is not a debate regarding the merits of radishes or whether or not MLB players get paid too much. This Is About People's Lives.

This is about -my- life. Think hard about how you would feel if the above happened to you. The situation is not different. If you cannot have the empathy to understand why this is important, then you may want to reconsider your definition of love. Denying someone the right to be with their loved one, whether your particular denomination thinks it is allowable or not, is not love. It is bigotry, and it is hate. So either reconcile with the fact that you are a bigot in this instance, or analyse your new information and change.

And know this: Wherever she goes, I will go. Wherever she lives, I will live. Where she dies, I will die, and there I will be buried. May God do this (death) and much worse to me if I let anything but death separate me from her.

And that damn well includes your bigoted laws.

But, it's not Welfare, so it's OK!

2008-03-15T09:14:00.005-05:00

Ok, so when black people or Mexicans need a government bailout so they can eat or something, that's WELFARE, and that's BAD! BAD BAD! They need to pull themselves up by their bootstraps! They should not have made those mistakes!

But, when Wall Street banks need a government bailout, well, that's ok. Also, if you are an aspiring suburbanite who bought a house you can't afford, you can get a government bailout and that's ok too.

I suspect it has something to do with the fact that the latter class (Wall Street/pretentious dumbass) tends to be white. And Republican. Because for all the griping people do about their hard-earned money going to welfare: HEY! Two Hundred Million of your Hard Earned Dollars just went to some guys up in NYC who have more money right now than you will ever make in your entire life! We could have fed and clothed the poor population in the country for YEARS. YEARS!

Oh, right. They're black. Or wetba---- I mean Mexicans. And we don't like them, do they? They are LAZY! All of them! It's genetic.

Also, homosexuals are worse then Terrorists and are converting your two-year-olds.

War? What war? You mean the one we've been in for five years that we started? The one which has had 83974238 turning points? And on which we have spend more Hard Earned Dollars than I care to think about because my student loan interest is compounding by the nanosecond (also, we could have fed everyone in the country on steak for a few centuries)? Yes! That one!

Clearly caused by the homos.

An Image of Awesome.

2008-03-12T00:40:00.002-05:00

I have learned how to image my computer.

For those not-quite-so-geeky as James and I, that means you save a "snapshot" of your computer's configuration to an external source so that if some crap goes down and your computer goes with it, you don't have to spend 94593485734967 years reinstalling and reconfiguring and getting everything back just right (another way to do this if you don't have a full image, but -have- backed up all of your programs and files is to use a registry backup, but this is more hardcore and thus more foolproof than that).

Why am I just now learning this? Well, what it is, is that I want to install Xubuntu on my laptop. Xubuntu is a distribution of Linux (and a derivative of the Ubuntu distribution), which is an open-source operating system (read: free). It also uses considerably fewer system resources than Windows, which makes it a great choice for older machines. While my computer, despite what Best Buy may say, is not old (I bought it October 2006), it will run cooler on Xubuntu because of its use of fewer resources and therefore will last longer. I am a fan.

Xubuntu is meant to be able to install itself without jacking up your Windows partition, but I would rather be safe about it, hence the imaging.

Most of the reason that I had avoided imaging previously was because of the prevailing idea that you have to use CDs or DVDs to do it. This is the equivalent to backing up your entire "My Documents" folder to floppies. In other words, lame. So, I decided to see if this Linux utility, System Rescue CD, could do it better.

Yes, it can. I have a 2.5 inch hard drive in an external case that I've used for several years to backup my laptops in their various incarnations. It has fallen out of use on account of I use the desktop to backup my laptop over our home network, so I checked over its contents, saw that it all was old, and reformatted it (which clears all data). I booted up my laptop from the System Rescue CD and then plugged in my external. Lo and behold, SysRes recognised the thing. Huzzah.

A note about this external: I bought a plain, naked hard drive and an aluminum box which has an IDE connector adapted to a USB port in one end. The whole thing was less than fifty bucks. Don't buy "external hard drives." You're getting taken for a ride. This affair connects via USB 2.0 to your computer and more or less acts like a USB Flash drive, only giant.

At any rate, instead of imaging my computer to a mountain of blank CDs, I am imaging it to another hard drive. It is going to take an hour and forty-five minutes because I am compressing the image; since this external is from a couple of laptops ago, it is only ("only") forty gigs and my current hard drive is ninety or something, so I had to have it compress in order to fit. Apparently it compresses -very- small because the process is now thirty-two percent done and the file size is just about 800 megs. That is to say, it has compressed 12.66 gigs into 800 megs. Nice.

I think that, knowing what I currently know, I am going to dig out my laptop before this and see if I can't stick Xubuntu on it. Details when I have them.

Like Fugitives

2008-01-28T01:04:00.000-06:00

(Note: the following is not overly political and may not have a point to anyone but me, but here it is.)

I had a brief emotional meltdown yesterday evening. I say brief because Amber listened (as always) and then it was resolved. The major issue, and the one which could be construed as anyone else's business, is that I feel estranged from my religion. I'm feeling much more like Rosanne Cash than, for example...well, I was going to say Jennifer Knapp, but that's hardly apropos, so let's say that I am not feeling like part of the Body of Christ lately. by feeling like Rosanne Cash, I cite lyrics from two of her recent songs (from Black Cadillac if anyone is interested:

Don't send me no more letters
With your ignorance and rage
I don't want your tired religion
Not a soul you need to save

and

I wish I was a christian, knew what to believe
I could learn a lot of rules to put my mind at ease...

I wish I was a christian, but I cannot believe
'Cause no one in the bible craves my company

This is not to say I've apostatised, or that I shall, but I did notice that I've spent a lot more time informing people on what I dislike about Christianity/Christians lately, than what I -do- like. I notice that when I remember to pull my cross out of my shirt collar, I tend to be more profane to make up for it somehow, to show people that I'm not uppity and that they can be themselves.

That is what I am most worried about is that people will feel uncomfortable around me, or that they can't be themselves, or that I'll judge them or disapprove or some such, and what's really terrible about it (and what I told Amber) is that now -I- feel I can't be myself, that I am being judged, et cetera.

Amber says I need to go back to church (incidentally, those who were concerned that my marrying a not-Christian would cause me to fall away, please take note of my agnostic fiancée encouraging me to go to church) because then I will be among my own sort of people, rather than only being exposed to the media Christians.

I really love her; have I mentioned that?

I think that will go a long way toward fixing my brain/soul, that and spending daily time meditating, praying, and reading the Bible from a non-historical/critical viewpoint.

What's really silly about all of this, I think, is that it was not until I started being exposed to people who are so "anti-world," which is to say that they say thinks like "I am in this world, but not of it," which I think is a very Gnostic point of view (the Gnostics were the ones who said that Jesus of Nazareth could not be the Christ because the world is evil and the true God would not create something so heinous; a false god made the world), I did not feel like I need to prove that I, in fact, am in and of the world and in doing so overcompensated.

I mean, you'd think that just being a quite out homo, an engaged one at that, should set at ease those who might otherwise view my professed Christianity (or my visible cross pendant) askance. I suppose my concern is also because people who aren't Christians have in fact expressed issues with it. One is an ex, and the other is a former interest who expressed her fear that if my pendant touched her, it would burn her. No, really. Perhaps there is a reason why I am not in relationships with them, and am with someone who takes me as I am.

Well, there's your problem, as Adam Savage would say. Look who is not used to being taken for who she is. I've noticed that before, but not with this particular thing.

I really am quite blessed to have her, and when I do pray unselfconsciously, it is to thank God for sending her my way. And so, now I resolve to be unselfconscious and to get my grip back on my faith.

How Stinky is Too Stinky?

2007-12-19T00:16:00.001-06:00

This guy posted a good article discussing this picture. It turns up that he's a megachurch pastor and we know how I feel about that, but we will let that slide for a moment. I do not have to like his methods to acknowledge his point.

I left a comment on the blog of Shae (who is the pastor of a church in Baytown and a good guy), who was asking if Jesus (Christ) of Nazareth would wash the feet of the bin Laden (I had not yet looked closely enough at the photo to figure out quite who was whom, but it does not affect my point):

Why wouldn’t Jesus wash the feet of bin Laden? Look at the others in the picture — [edit: Kofi Annan], Merkel, Blair, Bush, [edit: former president of China], and I think the king of Jordan [edit: India] — arguably, [Annan] and Merkel are the only two who are, at least politically, more “worthy” of having their feet washed by Jesus. Mandela has been married three times [True, but he's not in the picture]. Merkel is, of course, Lutheran and a physicist and is therefore superior in all ways [I stand by this statement].

Does Osama fit the mortal definition of evil? He certainly fits -my- definition of evil, being that he willingly contributed to the deaths of quite a mass of people. Bush and Blair did/do similar. Are they less evil? Are they less evil because the people to whose deaths they are contributing are overwhelmingly a) brown and b) not Christians?

If “all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God” (1 New Testament Some:where) then Merkel is no more worthy than Bush who is no more worthy than bin Laden who is no more worthy than me. Or Ann Richards. And, to say anything else is not only a double standard, but is to directly contradict Scripture. That is my theological argument.

My personal argument is that maybe if we’d go about washing each other’s feet more often instead of griping about sheetheads, dykes, and godless liberal sheetheaded dykes, maybe this wouldn’t be an issue and we could blog about bunnies or something.

I also stand by my statement regarding bunnies. At any rate, this fellow Boyd points out that we tend to allow patriotism to take precedence over our alleged Christianity (someone said that nationalism was one of the greater threats to Christianity ever seen by the human race. Or, I could have just made that up). God is clearly on -our- side because -we- are the good guys. Also, we have "In God We Trust" stamped on our money and that therefore makes God like us more. After all, the only way He can get any attention is by being put on some mortals' currency. Forget black holes and the Grand Canyon, those are laaaame compared to being acknowledged on the same object as George Washington.

This, I believe, is the tiny bit of something that started hurting inside of my brain as I watched the news of us bombing Baghdad and Silver Foot Junior intoning that God is (sniff) on our side. It is also one of the somethings which prevents my saying the pledge of allegiance. The something is "Who the Hell are we to judge who God likes?" I feel like we are the hanger-on kid, the one on the playground who when the big popular kid looks at him goes skipping home to his mom yelling, "He likes me! I'm popular! I'm one of the cool kids!" It's like we have to have some kind of validation, and once we think we have it, we can start beating up on the other unpopular kids because we think we're cool now.

This is starting to make me think about people interpreting the Bible to mean not at all what it means, which is a completely, utterly different subject and one into which I do not care to delve at this time. My final point is, however, that if anyone gets to have their stinky feet washed by Jesus, both physically and metaphorically, then so does everyone. God's grace is universal, and if it weren't, it wouldn't be grace. If God's grace is universal, then ours should be as well.

ENDA and the Ts

2007-10-09T09:25:00.000-05:00

ENDA, for those who don't know, is a bill before Congress which is meant to prevent workplace discrimination against homos (in a similar vein to the Civil Rights Act of 1967, which left out homos and folks with disabilities; the disabled got added in the nineties). ENDA has been thirty years in the making and this year, for the first time, might have a chance to pass.

So, what's the problem?

"T"

Transgendered, transsexual (not transvestite. Guiliani is still covered). The newest version of the bill had the T in it, but Barney Frank, the openly homotastic sponsor of the bill chose to drop the T because there is no way in hell it would pass with the T in it. And then all hell broke loose.

John Aravosis, of AMERICAblog, wrote this article on Salon regarding the issue, as well as blogging about it extensively. And, as Aravosis is wont to do, he upset some people; my raison d'blog is this post on the Curvature. I generally respect the writers of the Curvature and the associated feminist blogs, and I respect their opinion this time, but I do think their reasoning is faulty. Follows is the comment I left on the Curvature; I think it sums my feelings up:

Frankly, I think y'all are a) taking Aravosis out of context, and b) passing too harsh of judgment upon him.

The first sentence of the paragraph whose quote, in this blog, begins "Civil rights legislation -- hell, all legislation..." actually begins in Aravosis' article as "The main argument, which I support: practical politics." And he's right. Yes, I agree fully that it sucks that women did not get the vote (federally) for fifty years after black men. And I fully understand the consternation of everyone on account of that. However, and I am saying this as a white gay female -- I think it is better for a minority to be partially represented than Not Represented At All. Furthermore, if you get into the history of the suffrage movements, for one thing it was a huge step for black men to even be recognised as men (and for black women to be recognised as women), and for another, there was precedent for -men- to vote. Women voting, no matter what their race, was a whole other kettle of fish for the country to deal with.

Does this make it right? Hell no. Never, at all. But it -is- the political evolutionary process. Things take time because people are stubborn. For me (or anyone) to argue passage of ENDA with the T or not at all, we would have to cease taking advantage of civil unions, domestic partnerships, and the domestic benefits offered by some employers. Why? Because our ultimate goal is marriage, and anything less is an insult, right?

I disagree -- while I would prefer (of course) federally recognised marriage, right now I would be happy knowing that any kids/cats/wealth I produce with my future wife would go to her if something hideous happens to me, and vice versa. If the government has to call that a civil union in order for that to happen, then so be it.

I fully understand that my example is different from the "T or not to T" issue -- but my point is that -any- step towards protection for the nontraditional/heterosexual community is a step in the right direction, and I believe that would be the point which Aravosis is arguing.

As for Aravosis being judgmental, the full sentence reads "I'm not passing judgment, I respect transgendered people and sympathize with their cause, but I simply don't get how I am just as closely related to a transsexual (who is often not gay) as I am to a lesbian (who is). Is it wrong for me to simply ask why?"

So the man is saying that he does not identify with the transsexual/transgender experience, but that he DOES identify with the gay experience. It looks to me like he's being honest. He is not being judgmental; he is saying that he does not feel related to a man who identifies as a woman. What's wrong with that? I cannot begin to identify with the experience of any given black person, and you know what? I cannot identify with the transsexual or transgender experience either.

Does this mean that I, and therefore Aravosis, find that the T does not deserve protection? By his own words, no, and neither do I.

The passage of ENDA (sans the T) at least puts the gay community into a better position to provide support and protection for the T community, and that alone is reason enough for its passage. Is it ideal? Not at all, and as soon as it passes we have to immediately begin work for an amendment to include the T, but progression and reform in this country has NEVER happened at once, it has NEVER been anywhere near good enough on the first go (just look up how Jim Crow affected the black man's vote), and it has NEVER affected all parts of any community equally.

We have to keep working for that, and in the interim, turning on people who dare be honest about their opinions (which may or may not coincide fully with our own) will be only a slide backward.

I am, as most people know, a fervent arguer against the excuse, as I see it, of the zeitgeist, or the time period in which something happened. I think that is a pass on all of the atrocities committed by people at other people. I have never stood for the argument of "Well, that's just how things were," because that leaves us open for "Well, that's just how things are," and I don't think that human morality has evolved that much -- we know, in our brains and hearts whether or not it is ok to enslave, beat, kill, and oppress each other, but we do whatever is most convenient and what ensures our own power. Because I'll bet you that if Jesus Christ Himself were to show up and officiate a gay wedding, the fundies would crucify Him.

At any rate, my point is that despite the fact that slow change is not at all quick enough, it is the reality of how things work. That does not make it right at all, and it seriously pisses me off when people tell that it's just how things work; I think that people should, as soon as they recognise hideousness, change it, instead of the process. However, the process is better than nothing at all, and it is unfair to eviscerate people who argue in favour of doing a practical something rather than a symbolic nothing.

Atheists and Christians and making the Twain meet? Part One of however long it takes me to figure this out.

2007-08-23T12:12:00.000-05:00

So, day before yesterday I read this over at Blondesense and was freaked right out. This occurred for a variety of reasons, not the least of which being the the serious hostility I perceived in the writing. I decided to ruminate/marinate on the subject before I posted a piteous and/or angry reply, and I am glad I did on account of what transpired in the comments, the upshot of which is this:

yes, we are bashing religion - we ALWAYS do. we are not dehumanizing religion. I don't even know what that means. Actually, if you think about it, religious beliefs are what cause most "believers" to be hateful of others and to dehumanize. AND, the catholics are the biggest bunch of racists I know.

What frustrates me and our gang here is that we could really use the majority of believers out there because most ARE good people. We need them to wake up to the fact that their leaders are using "faith" (religious beliefs) to get away with what ever they want to do. It's been working like a charm for a few thousand years now!

and

we get angry at "them, they, those..." and I especially get mad at the "good christians" who don't take a stand. THEY piss me off. Yes, I love most of them BUT THEY PISS ME OFF TO NO END. And there's nothing I can do about it.

Fair enough, I realised. Which, this discussion also led to a clarification on the use of the word "Christian." Bloggers on this particular blog coined a term a while back, "Christianistas" either in response to the use of the word "Islamists" in the media, or to differentiate from normal people who, unfortunately, seem to share a religion (though, in my opinion, not a faith) with these power-hungry crackheads. Which is a totally academic term.

I can completely understand where your average atheist, Atheist, agnostic, unaffiliated and unconcerned, or other nonmainstream religion practicer comes from on account of the Christianistas do the same damn thing to your average mainline Protestant. And also to your completely non-average, non-mainline, but still essentially Lutheran, Protestant. I am really quite sure that the Quad preachers will show up next week.

And Jersey Cynic, who was the author of the post in question and the above comment bits, raises an incredibly fair point: "good Christians" are being anything but "good" if we/they do not put the smackdown on this kind of BS. Of course, going about that could be vaguely frightening and inconvenient (and will probably annoy Amber if she is with me when it happens), but when people are preaching hate in public, it is necessary that the smackdown be put on it or it will just grow.

Martin Niemoller, who spent time in Sachsenhausen and Dachau, but fortunately survived, wrote this:

When the Nazis came for the communists,
I remained silent;
I was not a communist.

When they locked up the social democrats,
I remained silent;
I was not a social democrat.

When they came for the trade unionists,
I did not speak out;
I was not a trade unionist.

When they came for me,
there was no one left to speak out.

It is incumbent on those who call themselves Christians to speak out for those who are NOT Christians (and for those who are not their denomination), lest something similar happen. And no matter what anyone says, if we just let it go, it WILL happen, because that is how it happened in the first place.

What does this mean for relationships between nonbelievers and Christians? I think it is a critical time for us to prove that we are, in fact, able to love those who may or may not love us back, who do not agree with us. If we are to call ourselves Christians then we most certainly make an attempt at behaving like that guy who we believe is the Christ. Otherwise, we can have all the faith in the world (as to move mountains, as it were) and we will yet have NOTHING.

If that happens, all the dogma and platitudes and feeling secure in ourselves will be for naught, because if the God in whom I put my faith does, in fact, exist, then He is going to think that we are full of crap and is going to let us know about it. Looking at the way that Christianity has evolved since the time of Jesus of Nazareth, I can completely see why people choose to turn away from it, and I honestly think the only reason why I have not is because I would rather try to fix it than give up.

Probably more later.

Something Random.

2007-08-23T08:02:00.000-05:00

I have returned from the land of the Great White North (last Wednesday), have fully recovered, eaten Mexican food, had margaritas, moved Amber from the Other Great White North, and school is starting. Has started.

Soon, I shall be back to my regularly scheduled programming. In fact, I have a post about the relationship between Atheists, atheists, general nonbelievers, and Christians in the works (and yes, there really are four major categories there, to be broken down further). In the interim, I have Hebrew Scriptures in an hour and a half, then the stupid communicating class (I really think it's going to be speech. Why don't they just call it speech? And why can't I be exempt?), and THEN I have Anglo-Saxon Literature.

Trip Blog. Day Twenty-EIGHT

2007-08-14T22:50:00.000-05:00

Because it is ten to five in the morning. I'll be leaving The Bird's Nest in about an hour...getting something to drink at Victoria Station, retrieving my bike from the South Terminal, taking the tram to the North Terminal, checking the bike, checking my pannier, wandering off to find breakfast after security, buying NyQuil from Boots, taking a dose and a half right before I board, and passing the heck out, hopefully, until I get to Houston.

Also...five o'clock in the morning conversation:

Amber: they keep buying up the competition

[friend]'s store used to be an EB Games

me: Which used to be Electronics Boutique, which used to be Babbage's.

Amber: exactly

me: I think Babbage's is a better name.

But I am a fan of the Difference Engine.

so that could just be me.

Amber: but not as obvious what they're selling

me: Babbage == electronics.

Amber: not a connection I make

me: Charles Babbage built the Difference Engine, which was the first calculator ever and the precursor to all modern electronics.

Amber: ahhh

me: Somebody clearly did not watch 321 Contact.

Amber: um...

me: saddical

PBS shows back when they were good...

Amber: ahhh... the good ole' days of 80s era PBS...

me: indeed

Amber: even if I did watch it, I'm not sure I would remember that particular fact

me: I absorb random things.

Sort of like Choo Choo Bear.

Amber: and just like Choo Choo, you spit them back up at the most interesting times

me: Just another service I offer.

Amber: you are a woman of many talents

Not a Trip Blog. Rebooting.

2007-08-12T18:01:00.001-05:00

"YOU have a problem with unexpressed anger. Come on! Get angry, Annie!"

(I didn't know for a really long time that that was Marcia Gay Harden.)

So I tend to go off on rants about random things at random times, but the thing is, I'm not really that angry. Angry happens when I see some serious injustice. Angry happens when I think about my grandmother's illness and subsequent passing. Angry happens when people I trust are being two-faced about someone whom I care about.

It is not really often that I get angry about something hideous that happens to me. In fact, it really takes a lot, and a lot of time, and a lot of time for me to think about it, for me to even realise how off-pissed I am about anything. So when I do get off-pissed, it is a really huge thing that sometimes takes weeks to get over, but I think I've discovered that the reason for THAT is that I do not get it all out of me at once because I am marinating on it to make sure that I really am mad.

I am fine now, but it is a very, very good thing that Whitney and Amber (bless them) were available for ranting night before last (evening for you people) or serious hideousness may have occurred.

This summer has been a weird one. There is a GREAT wealth of good that has come out of it (beginning with an A and ending with an R, likes birds and Guitar Hero), and a lot of really weird crap. And yes, I write crap in an incredibly scholarly and intelligent manner, herein. However, I do think that in this being a weird summer I have managed to eliminate a lot of the sources of drama from my life, and will now be able to focus rather on school.

Which is good, because this is going to be quite the hectic semester with applying to grad school and doing all the stuff to make sure that I actually graduate from undergrad within the next geologic age. I had a point.

Oh, I think it's that, sort of like Annie Paradis, I have a problem with unexpressed anger. When something vaguely annoys me, I just let it go, i.e. 90 percent of grocery store visits that take place prior to midnight. I know what I'm in for; it's annoying, but whatever. The other ten percent usually pass into moderately annoying, and so I tell James a mildly entertaining story about whatever it was and then move on. George Bush (actually, the government on general principles; my view of Bush has evolved to the point of "Poor George; he can't help he was born with a silver foot in his mouth") et al range from extremely annoying to rather bloody irritating, and so political rants happen.

So I get it out, and it does not ruin my day, my hair, my attitude -or- my bread. But when I actually cross the threshold into angry, seriously angry, I cannot get it out of me, except in small bursts of flame-throwing, but those are never effective on account of the the fire does not get put out. So it sits around burning me up, causing me to bake bland and crunchy bread, and just generally throwing off my concentration.

I'm not sure if this is a patently immature way of dealing with stuff because I do think it is better than flying off that handle at the target of my anger/disgust without thinking things through, first, but I also dislike carrying it around with me for the weeks it takes me to ponder the issue.

Thus, as I said, I think the only real solution is to eliminate all of the sources of drama from my life. This is not to say that if someone has something hideous happen to them that they are expelled from my hemisphere; quite the opposite. But I do believe that from now on if I notice that someone keeps having hideous things happen to them repeatedly and a) does nothing about it, b) is all helpless and annoying about it, or c) seems to vaguely revel in it, they are getting the boot.

I enjoy being happy. I do not enjoy harbouring anger; I feel comfortable with this plan of action. Being able to focus on the elements of one's life which are positive and important is always a good thing, I think.

Trip Blog. Day Twenty-five.

2007-08-12T08:29:00.000-05:00

I am staying in Cardiff until Tuesday now. I find this hostel exceedingly pleasant despite the fact that there is no room key...the people running it are nice and the kitchen is good and everything is clean. Being as I was not particularly impressed with the hostel in Bath, this looks like a plan. Tomorrow I'm taking a day trip to the west coast and might jump over to Ireland or something.

I've canceled my hotel reservation for the fourteenth down at Gatwick...upon reading reviews of it, it seems that I will catch some form of disease if I stay there. I do not care to be diseased. Also, apparently their airport shuttle is not terribly reliable.

So, I'm spending Tuesday night in Deptford and I'll just get up early (I might just stay up all night. That will help with sleeping on the plane). I am enjoying Cardiff; it is very sunny and pleasant, if a bit chilly after about four in the afternoon.

I am really quite ready to be home.

Trip Blog. Day Twenty-three.

2007-08-10T18:14:00.000-05:00

According to my timeanddate.com Customised Counter (TM) there are seven thousand, two hundred fourteen minutes until I get off the plane in Austin.

But I'm not counting or anything.

I am now in the place of Cardiff, which I find extremely pleasant except that it gets cold by about four in the afternoon. I really do miss my nice warm Texas. There is a two thousand year old castle right here which I plan to visit on the morrow. I find it vaguely (not vaguely) upsetting that there is a Burger King right across from it.

Bath was really, really pretty, and I am still considering whether or not to hang around there Monday night and just go back to London on Tuesday. I was not a huge fan of my hostel's kitchen there (dull knives make me want to stab people. Oh, the irony), but Bath was really really great-looking, and I didn't get to do anything because I was so tired. I have photos from my trip to the grocery and back, though.

Today I bought Master and Commander at WH Smith's, since I've been planning to read those books for years...

I think that's all I've got for the moment. It's been a good and enlightening trip, but I am very ready to come home, and have plans to drug myself for the flight. Huzzah!

Not a Trip Blog. Walking the Line.

2007-08-07T09:43:00.000-05:00

Despite my lack of going to Wittenberg, this trip has managed to be something of a religious pilgrimage for me, both physically and spiritually, with a healthy dose of mentally. It's also given me the opportunity to view things from the other side, literally.

One of the things I have had to deal with in my recently-acquired adult life is walking a line between faith and reason, which I think everyone does to some extent or other. I am in a fairly unique position, I think. I've been previously attacked by people who were previously closer to me than now for taking up a position of being victimised for acknowledging my situation, which is that I am sort of in between two worlds. Previously I felt more as though I was stuck between the mortar and the pestle and there would not be a whole lot left of -me- after all was said and done. But then, Wendy and Dwayne happened, and more recently I met Jen Austin and her wife, Angela, and things brightened up a little bit.

The feeling now is more of being pulled in two directions rather than being crushed between two forces, and it is considerably more comfortable. I think I can handle this one. I think my issue, not so much a problem, now is that my field of study is Religions. Not just mine, but mostly mine. The history of it. The development of it. My religion's relationship with the others around it. And I have begun to form some very important conclusions, academically and spiritually. The problem, really (here is the problem) is how my study is perceived: While my academic pursuits inform my faith (look, here is what I believe and this is why. Here is the entity in which I put my faith, and this is why. It's much more complicated than that, but these parentheses will get long), my faith does not cloud my academic pursuits.

Why is this? Well, I think it is mostly on account of the fact that I chose I while back (after seeing Dogma, perhaps, and mulling that over for a little while, and also mostly the way I was raised and by whom) to put my faith in the -idea- of a God (or a god) that would be willing to suffer for His (Her? God isn't really either, but the creator of gender, so He or she could really be anything) creation. And I think that that is a good idea on which to base a way of life.

The complication lies in the fact that I happen to identify with the Western idea of God, specifically with the God described in the Gospels which are found in the New Testament of the Bible.

In short, I am a Christian, so now I am automatically part of the oppressive majority. The irony is that I am a member of the oppressive majority which is oppressing people like me. And I cannot really un-identify as a Christian, because I really am one, in the strictest sense of the word, for the following longwinded reasons:

-- It happens that I find it plausible that Jesus of Nazareth did in fact exist and was the mortal incarnation of God (God being the omnipotent force that binds the universe together). I also find it plausible that He (Jesus of Nazareth) died and resurrected His bad self, thus putting the smackdown on Evil, and becoming the Christ.

Subpoint: I do not believe that it is necessary that all of this actually happened, I just see no reason why it did not. May I stress that the IDEA of a God suffering for the good of His or Her creation and putting the smackdown on Evil is the large point at hand.

-- Aside from the question of whether or not Jesus of Nazareth is God, or an incarnation thereof, the man made some very excellent points on how one should go about interacting with the rest of society. Again, whether or not the man actually existed is not important so much as the motivation behind his speech. I happen to think that He did.
Thus, I am a follower of the teaching of Jesus (Christ) of Nazareth. So now what?

Well, a lot of my fellow homos aren't. Can't imagine why. The problem (and this is a big problem) is that my obvious Christiantasticness (cross pendant, on since I was fourteen) tends to a) put people off or b) make them uncomfortable. And it's not like I can't just not talk about it (which might be akin to "hiding my light under a bushel," but I don't think so because I think it is how you treat people that proclaims love/God than anything else), because not only does it affect my life a lot spiritually, but I happen to study it. So if I start going on about Saint Augustine and blah blah blah, your average homo starts vaguely twitching (and there are those among us who have a weird superstition that they are going to be struck by lightning or burned by my pendant or something, and no I'm not making that up).

And it sucks because really, I don't care what faith anyone does or does not follow, and it does not affect how I am going to treat people. Respect mine and I'll respect yours, no worries. But I still think that I get treated differently on occasion and I do not know how to deal with that properly.

I think that what brought this up is the Duggers of Arkansas, who are the people with the clown-car-uterus. They have a website all about how God has blessed them with 39483743928 children and Every Sperm is Sacred and all that. And in the interim, I am not allowed to adopt children with any spouse I may acquire in the future.

Not that I want children at this time. I have a cat and a fish. Thanks.

But it is the principle of the thing, that these people, who allegedly have faith in the same God that I do, get to behave in a manner which, in my view, is irresponsible, but it is their right to do so by the law; I, however, am not allowed to even adopt the spare children of other people.

So what's that about?

Trip Blog. Day Twenty.

2007-08-07T05:41:00.000-05:00

Actually, I have had the interwebs -in my room- but I have not really felt blogworthy the last few days. Nonetheless, here is an update:

When I got to London, late at night, there were a billion people in the bar below the hostel. However, they all pointed me to the lady that runs the place and she was very kind. Had it not been so far from the DLR station, I would have liked it better than The Bird's Nest, I think. Well, except the Bird's Nest had better showers. Hmm.

At any rate, the next day I got up and wandered around London. It was sunny and nice. The day after that (Monday? Sunday? Sunday.) I checked out and went to Victoria station to catch the train to here, which is Canterbury. I got slightly lost once I got here, which was not helped by the fact that I could not remember the name of the street on which the hostel resides. I found an Esso station and bought a map. Oh, right. Nunnery Fields.

On this journey, I discovered the existence of Saint Mildred's Street. I took a photo of it. There is also an Ivy Lane here, but I have not found a street sign for it, so I just have someone's address plaque.

Anyway, I found the hostel, which it turns up is owned by the same people who own the Antigallican Hotel in Greenwich. The chick who checked me in was really sweet and all, and I liked being here almost immediately. I took a rest for a bit and then enquired after the location of a grocery, since there is actually a functioning kitchen here.

Later, when I talked to Amber, I realised that a great deal of my previous discontent was the lack of food in my general vicinity, and that being in a hostel with a kitchen has made a large difference in my life. I managed to find avocados and have therefore been eating turkey, avocado and tomato sandwiches for the last few days.

Yesterday, I went walkabout in Canterbury and saw the ruins of Saint Augustine's Abbey (nerdy historical note: this is not Augustine of Hippo, who is the purveyor of original sin, souls, Heaven, a fallen world, and sundry other theological ideas which the fundies now shove down our throats as Biblical fact. Not that I necessarily disagree with all of those ideas. I do think we, and everything else that's alive, have souls and I am also inclined to believe that there is some further dimension to which our souls travel once they are no longer corporeal. Heaven is a good name for it, but it could also be Kings Cross Station. I think it depends on what your Heaven would be. I think mine would be playing softball with my grandmother for eternity (well, and a bunch of other people, because two people playing softball still wouldn't work). At any rate, Augustine of Hippo lived in the century before this Augustine, who was the first Archbishop of Canterbury, and is responsible for reintroducing Christianity to the Britons).

Those were very long parentheses, and therefore that is a one-sentence paragraph.

Right, then.

Anyway, after the Abbey, I sort of halfheartedly went shopping (I have recently discovered how tired I am of wearing t-shirts all the time), but then rediscovered why I hate shopping. I did get some lotion and masque, though, because one does get tired of being crusty.

Today I was going to go to Dover and lay around on the beach, but the guy who vacuums the rooms says that there is not a beach at Dover because it's a port and that I should go to Sandwich. So I may well do that. First, I think I am going to have a quick shower and make myself some lunch.

Today is Tuesday, so I am here for two more nights; Thursday at midday I am going to Bath, staying there overnight and then headed to Cardiff (which reminds me that I need to e-mail the Cardiff people again) until the thirteenth. Then I am back at the Bird's Nest for one night, and then the next day I am going down to Gatwick to stay at an actual hotel overnight because I have to be at Gatwick at about half past seven to make sure I don't miss my flight.

The End, for now.

Day Sixteen. Cologne/Bonn Airport

2007-08-03T12:54:00.000-05:00

So, I managed to get my bike into the Oversized Luggage blah blah blah, and I had to check my other pannier on account of my shaving cream (I didn't realise that they have done that bloody stupid regulation here as well), and security eyed my bike tool, but they were not fascists about it. Fortunately, I also did not have to take the pedals off of my bike to get it into the bag because I do not have a pedal wrench.

So now I've got about half an hour till boarding (and half an hour of Interwebs left. I'm rather impressed with T-Mobile) so I am digesting the day.

I climbed -almost- to the top of the Kölner Dom. I counted my steps on the way down to see how short I was. There are five hundred seven steps and I went up three hundred ninety-two. Why did I stop so close to the top? Because the staircase to the -very- top was a two-foot-wide spiral staircase out of which I could see the the floor about a hundred feet below but with enclosed sides. So, it got my claustrophobia -and- my fear of heights at the same time. So I took pictures from about three quarters up, and I am very happy with myself for going that high. When I got down, my legs were twitching from the exertion. Nice.

Last night I had dinner with my cousins Martina and Lutz. I hadn't met Lutz as the last time I saw Martina was at Aunt Carol and Uncle Willie's wedding twelve years ago. They are really cool; we ended up talking about current events a lot, as well as random normal stuff. Martina told me that my grandmother spoke, as she put it "brilliant, but eighty-year-old German" which I had not thought of. Martina was entertained by the fact that Grandma had referred to her plane as "eine Luftschiff" rather than "eine Flugzeug." "Luftschiff" is the word for "airship" or a zeppelin, whereas "Flugzeug" is airplane. It makes sense, though, because Grandma was taught German by a father who had not been in Europe since the early twenties and a mother who was born here, and then did not come in much contact with more modern German.

Martina also says that the rest of the family ought to leave the Scheunstein and come visit her and Lutz, as well as Edgar and Ilse. I'm inclined to agree.

What else...Oh, apparently I really do look almost like Aunt Carol; I told Martina that to recognise me, I looked sort of like Aunt Carol, and she said that I look almost exactly like her. Sorry, Mom and Dad. At least y'all have Sarah.

So, my itinerary for the next week, about, is as follows:

Tonight and tomorrow: London
Sunday and Monday: Canterbury
Tuesday: Bath
Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday: Cardiff.

After that, I am either going to Inverness (home of Loch Ness and also a bunch of Scots history) or I am going to get a train to Pembroke and take the overnight ferry to Ireland and hang around there until time to come back to London next Monday. I really want to go to Inverness, but it will be a long train ride which equates with expensive. I'll have to look at my budget. Right now I have a mass of Euros that I need to change to Pounds Sterling, but Britain being Britain, I know it will be expensive. Glad I have more money than I need.

Also, Ryanair will fly me to Aberdeen for about twelve bucks, so perhaps I can get a train to Inverness from there. Or Edinburgh. At any rate, I know that I've got a week and a half before I get to be home, and in the interim, I get to move around a lot, and that makes me happy.

I have solved the problem of the bike, I think: I'm going to leave it at The Bird's Nest, which is the hostel I was at the first time I was in London, and the home of Sammy the Manager, who will likely let me leave it there on account of his crush on me. But, if I can find somewhere safe at Gatwick, I'm going to leave it there instead of lugging it around.

All in all, things seem to be working out; I'll be in London in about three hours, at which point I am going to find a Pret a Manger and get dinner. The End.

Trip Blog. Day Fifteen. Important Conclusion Edition.

2007-08-02T06:52:00.000-05:00

I have come to a very important conclusion. And that conclusion is that my German is entirely too perfunctory to function in this country any longer. I know people who only speak English hang around here all the time. I know this, however, my complete lack of German will make me unable to function in Wittenberg, on account of the Luther museum is entirely in German.

Well, crap. So, the back up plan is thus: I am going back to the UK tomorrow and will go on a grand tour of Scotland and Wales, and while I am in Scotland I will investigate tensions between the Presbyterians, the Anglicans and the Catholics, thus still involving myself with religious studies and still having something to go on for my paper this fall. There's more to it than that, but the thought has not coalesced enough to really elaborate.

NEXT summer, when I have learned considerably more German (so I can actually function), I shall investigate Wittenberg (which will make more sense at that time because of grad school &c). I am a bit disappointed, but I am really not prepared to limp through Germany only speaking English at this time. Because I am a big chicken.

So, I am going to change my EasyJet ticket to depart from the Cologne/Bonn airport tomorrow, and I will likely be staying at The Bird's Nest in Deptford again. After that, I'll figure out what's what with going to Scotland/Wales and all.

I just really do not have the emotional/mental/physical what have you to do the stranger in a strange land routine anymore, and there's a lot more to Britain than London.

And then I'll learn German.

Trip Blog. Day Fourteen. Halfway Home.

2007-08-01T10:51:00.000-05:00

Today, I went on a quest for a gelt-automaat (ATM), bought a cable lock for my bike, had a cheeseburger and a margarita at the Hard Rock, and went inside the Kolner Dom.

My legs hurt. Particularly the right one.

Right. So when I got back from the ATM (I really like gelt-automaat), I noticed that my bike was gone. I rolled my eyes, because I figured they didn't get far with it. It is not a particularly heavy bike, but you don't really want to be lugging it around anyway. The reason why it was carried (literally) off in the first place is because the lock is very unobtrusive and is mounted on the rear of the frame; the shackle is curved and hooks through the rear wheel when it is locked. It does not, however lock -to- anything except itself. So, I set off down the Strasse toward a large, filled bike rack, figuring that the perpetrator dropped it off there. About halfway down, there it is, in front of the door of a hotel next to a shrubbery.

Morons. Whatever. So, I unlocked my bike and walked it back to the hostel, came inside and asked where I could get a cable lock so I can actually lock it to the stairs of the hostel. He told me to go down the street, and there she blows. Three euros. So now my bike is locked to the hostel, and I took the front wheel and the seat upstairs with me so that some spiteful bastard does not just steal that.

Anyway, after that I did my laundry because I was so tired of wearing dirty clothes, and then I went to the Hard Rock. I bought a t-shirt. And a cheeseburger. I think I'm going to leave off with the margaritas, though, because they aren't very good over here. I am not sure Europeans understand about margaritas.

Thereafter, I walked around the Kolner Dom and took some photos, and then I noticed that the doors to the east transcept were open. Apparently they don't charge. So I wandered in.

Wow. It is HUGE, like Tall. People were taking flash photos, which annoyed me (how hard is it to turn off the flash? And with digital cameras, you can adjust the aperture to take photos without the flash. I have the flash permanently off on my camera. Jerks). But it was really beautiful. I am going to go back after dark when it is lit up again to take more pictures, but in the interim, here are these.

The last I took last night. I need to adjust my camera when I take them tonight, because it appears more blue than that.

Friday, if I can get the Lutherstadt hostel people to answer me, I am going to Wittenberg, and then Sunday to Berlin. If the hostel people do not answer me, I guess I'm going to have to go to Berlin and make a day trip or something, though I'd really rather not do that. I don't understand why I cannot make reservations online. Not everyone carries a cell phone to Europe. I am probably going to fly back to London on Wednesday and then spend a few days in Cardiff, Wales, probably go to Bath or something, and if I have time I'm going to Edinburg. This is freshman Europe trip, sort of a survey. More later.

Blogger sucks, by the way; hence the really odd formatting.

Trip Blog. Day Thirteen. Is it Tuesday?

2007-07-31T13:22:00.000-05:00

Oh, yes it is. Look at that.

This morning I got up, packed, and set off on my Epic Journey. After going in almost-circles in Maastricht for a while, I finally found WAYOUT and headed east. Things were going well; there were a few missteps along the way (I finally learned, after two major ones, that I should just keep heading east no matter what). I stopped in Heerlen for some lunch and continued on the Epic Journey.

There was one point where I was riding along, making really good speed on a downhill, when WHOOSH! This guy that could have been Yoda's grandfather hauls some serious butt past me on Yoda's Grandfather's Schwinn. Yoda's grandfather had some seriously white hair, and was wearing a Mister Roger's sweater, unzipped, which was whipping in the wind as he rode along. I felt pathetic.

About fifty feet past the border, I heard a horrific CruPOP! from the vicinity of my right knee. Yeah, my right knee, which I have been babying along for YEARS in hopes that it would not die on me, totally bit it. Yeah. I did manage to make it to Alsdorf (and took pictures), but I hopped on the train to Cologne from there. I am now ensconced in my hostel and plan to stay here two extra days to a) recover, b) have dinner with my cousin, and c) figure out what to do with my bike.

I think this is a good picture of my situation:

I sort of want to keep it. It's a good bike, and I've sort of gotten attached to it. I think I am going to see how much it would cost to ship it home. I'm not sure I want to schlep it around Germany with me to bring it home.

However, since I am now doing the train thing, I will probably go to Wittenberg this weekend, and then on to Berlin. EasyJet lets me change my flight plans up to two hours prior to the flight, so I will fly back to London early, and then I want to go to Cardiff. Flying back to London early == I can leave the bike at the hotel in which I am staying near Gatwick (I doubt anyone will molest it at a Holiday Inn) while I go to Cardiff, and then I'll just pay the twenty pounds to bring it home on my flight.

Yes, that sounds like a plan.

I -am- going to send home my camping equip, though. If my knee is dead, I do not want to schlep that round at all.

I am now tired, and will post more when I think of what it is.

Trip Blog. Day Eleven. The OMG Dutch Edition.

2007-07-30T04:58:00.001-05:00

(Yeah, I forgot to post this, so it's out of order.)

23:14 Belgian Whatever Time; 16:14 CST.

Shortly after my last update, I went to the Travel Centre in Gare Central and hooked myself up with a train ticket to Maastricht for tomorrow. Sixteen Euros (about twenty bucks). Way better than all the time and angst of trying to find a bike shop here, particularly one where someone would not be bitchy (sorry Whit, it's really the only word for it) about my craptastic French of Doom. People here are kind of mean about it, even though I am trying. Both of the agents I visited in the Travel Centres were kind, though, and told me to just speak English as it would make the transaction go faster. I am getting better at thinking of the sentences in my head, though.

“Je voudrais un billet pour Maastricht, s'il vous plait.” (I would like a ticket for Maastricht, please.)

It is really not just me, though. Marah from Brasil is still having issues. It is not her fault, I think that neither of her two languages are French. Luisa continues to feel bad for not speaking better English, when I pointed out to her that the onus is not on her; I bear just as much responsibility for speaking no Italian as she could for not understanding my thorough mangling of the English language (Y'all wanna go have a beer? I try to speak more slowly and without contractions (I don't shout, though; that's ridiculous. She's not deaf; she's just Italian) Am I still inside these parentheses?)

Anyway, Brussels is pretty cool, as long as you aren't on the Metro. Ground level Brussels is really quite nice; there was a guy vacuuming the sidewalk earlier. A few people seem ok about the French thing; I even managed to order my lunch in French without anyone looking like they wanted to kill me.

“Je voudrais le nuggets de poulet et un petit frites, s'il vous plait. Et un jus d'orange.”

And no, I was NOT at Mackers. After lunch, I wandered around some more until I wandered into Le Grand Place, or, in Dutch (people are calling it Flemish; perhaps it's a dialect)

Grote Markt.

For those just tuning in, or those who have never had the misfortune to call something which is icky “Grote” in my presence, it so happens that “Grote” is my mother's maiden name. I, possibly we, had always assumed that it was a Good German Name (TM), on account of my heredity allegedly being as follows:

Mom: Three Quarters German, One Eighth each of Austrian and Wendish (Eastern Sorb)

Dad: Some amalgamation of Scots-Irish and Cherokee.

However, Grote appears to be decidedly Dutch (it also means “great” or “grand”; thus my uncle's names are Donald the Great and Chris the Great. It's great.) It might also explain Mom and Grandpa's dark hair and Uncle Chris' unusual length (Dutch people are taller than Germans). I'm going to look into it some more while I am in Maastricht so that I have someone to read the Dutch for me (the only Dutch I've found with a translation in a language I more or less understand are the train brochures and they do not have a whole lot of historical words in them), but I do not think that Grote is a German surname. I could be wrong. Of course, if I am not, that makes me Amber's cousin. Yeehaw!

I have been completely unable to find Harry Potter at all in any bookshops around here, and I am slightly irritated at that because I did not want to order it off of Amazon, but I feel like it would help me with my French SAT in October. Sigh. Perhaps I will make a trip to Quebec or something.

This evening, Marah the Brasilian and I went and had dinner. I had chicken brochette (brochette means on a skewer. You learn something new every day. It also means that shrimp brochette is not that special) and fries, and then we each ordered dessert.

FABoulOUS!!! (With jazz hands)

I had a waffle with ice cream, hot chocolate syrup, caramel, fresh strawberries and whipped cream. It was BRILLIANT.

On the walk back, I took some very nice photos of the cathedral and of some kind of light show that was going on in the Grote Markt. And now we are back. And now I am going to read some more of this book that I am reading for school (I AM, in fact, doing some of my school work), and then I shall go to bed. Hooray!

Trip Blog. Day Twelve.

2007-07-29T09:21:00.000-05:00

16:23 Netherlands whatever time. 9:23 CST.

Woo! Free Interwebs in a pub! A pub with a friendly bartender, who, in a minute, shall be bringing me a cheeseburger. In the interim, I am sitting here with a Heineken (and remembering just how much I really, truly LOATHE pilsners, but I have not yet learned how to ask for cider and I'm not sure I want a cocktail just yet.

I appear to have been correct in at least some of my assumptions about Dutch. One of those assumptions was that the language is sort of the love child of German and English.

Wow, that cheeseburger was really good. It had some sort of special sauce upon it, but that did not jack it up. And, I put my great habanero sauce upon it, so it was a good time.

I was saying something. I don't remember. Whatever. The bike shop was closed (I might have guessed, but at least now I know where it is for tomorrow). I'm sort of freaked out by the weather, but I am going to stick with the plan. If it ever starts sucking excessively, I'll hop on a train.

I need to find a bookshop or something that will be able to sell me a map; hopefully the bike shop will be able to point me in the right direction, but I do not want to end up accidentally giving Köln a miss. I did notice immediately upon arrival that the pointy signs which tell you the direction of the various towns have normal signs as well as bike route signs. I still want a map, though I'm sure it would be hard to give Köln a miss.

My hostel is great; the only way they could really improve is if they had wireless Interwebs, but then they would probably charge. I will just come back to this pub tomorrow for lunch and not worry about it. I am also not entirely sure if they have laundry, but I know my hostel in Köln does, so it works out.

Bleah, the Heineken. It's gone now, having been replaced by Irish Coffee with a shot of Bailey's. And whipped cream on top.

I am finding Maastricht to be much more friendly than Brussels. No one has griped me out for speaking English, so Amber, you were right. They speak sort of an odd language and Maastricht is small enough that they appreciate tourists. I have figured out some of the phonology, though, and I think that helps matters.

Three streets here have "Grote" in their names, and I am becoming more convinced that somewhere back in the day, somebody was Dutch on Grandpa's side. Example of why: the guy we all know and love as Charlemagne is Karl der Große in German (ß == ss), and is Karel de Grote in Dutch.

I really am trying to find a phone card but it might have to wait for Köln unless I happen upon one on the way back to the hostel. Brussels photos should be up in a day or two. Hopefully I will also have something more artful to say.

Trip Blog. What is this, anyway? Day Eleven?

2007-07-28T07:32:00.000-05:00

14:39 Belgian whatever time; 7:39 CST

The short version of this post is: Brussels...doesn't suck as much as it did yesterday.

In fact, today it is quite nice. As long as you are above ground. Whitney Drew, I do not EVER want to hear you on about the DC Metro again. There will be an explanation why in a post later, because

My hostel lied and does NOT have the Interweb. And the barman was a bit flippant and told me I'm on vacation; who needs the Interweb? Well, -I- do because I need to make reservations for Koln, find a bike shop, and tell my mother I'm not dead (Mom, I'm not dead. Yet). Fortunately, the Brussels train stations have hotspots, that are hideously expensive, and there's no plugs, so I am limited to my battery life and my willingness to look like I'm waiting for a train.

On the subject of trains, I am taking one to Maastricht on account of the bike shops in Brussels are in the boonies, and the bike shop in Maastricht is about a ping pong ball's throw from my hostel. Also, allegedly, they will have plugs and Interwebs at the Maastricht hostel.

Two of the girls in my hostel room are very nice; one, Marah, is from Brasil, but lived in Memphis of all places and now lives in London, and the other, Luisa, is Italian and I'm afraid I've freaked her out badly with my mangling of the English language; she thinks it's her.

Anyway, I'll update better tomorrow from Maastricht.

Trip Blog. Day Ten.

2007-07-27T11:20:00.001-05:00

14:06 BST; 8:06 CST

I am at this time aboard the Eurostar 14:13 (Coach Eleven, Seat Sixty-Eight) to Bruxelles-Midi Station, Bruxelles, Belgium. I do not know whether it is normal (most people seemed a bit surprised) or whether some idiot decided to bomb something or something, but going through security took forever, and then I was frisked and told to empty my pockets (lip balm, compass, French phrase book, two five pound notes and a receipt). Those who know me know just how much I dislike being touched by strangers.

Whatever. I got on. Of course I was not the FIRST onto the train, which is also apparently not a distinctly American issue. I have never understood the virtue of getting onto the plane first because then you are just sitting there for that much longer. After a few slightly haranguing flights wherein I had to put my hand luggage in a bin which was no where near my seat, I no longer attempt to get on at the very last, either, but I am still not going to queue jump to get onto any sort of transport first.

But I digress. Yesterday, I went on a most Heroic Quest for the London Hard Rock Cafe. Nine Days without a cheeseburger and my mood was not improving in the slightest. It would have been quite an ordinary quest, and not Heroic at all, except that yesterday's rain made all of the other rains seem paltry and small. Yesterday's rain was a Horatio Hornblower-style Gale of Doom. It was really just bucketing down and the wind was blowing about forty miles per hour to booth, and I think it was about fifty degrees outside (Twelve Celsius).

So this is happening when I happen upon what looks to be an entrance. Two women who were of Northern European extraction (I think they were Danes) walk up and ask me how to get in. I have no idea, as it turns up that the door at which we are standing is locked. So begins the trek around the building to find the entrance. We went counterclockwise when we ought to have gone clockwise because three-quarters the way around the building, we rock up on the entrance.

So I am soaked and the hostess asks how she can help me, and I replied that I want a cheeseburger and a margarita. And so they manifested! With guacamole! It was wonderful, and the fact that it cost forty bucks (twenty pounds) means nothing to me because it was just that good. It's not overpriced if it is worth it.

I am now a much happier me, post cheeseburger, and walk back out into the bucketing rain with a song in my heart and a smile on my face. The song being “Another One Bites the Dust” by Queen, because that is what was on in the Cafe. Whatever.

After a bit it cleared off somewhat, and I got what I think is going to be a really great panoramic photo of the Horse Guards headquarters on Whitehall, as well as a good panoramic of the square at the intersection of Regents Street and Piccadilly, which bears a striking resemblance to Times Square.

Today was a rather full-on experience as well. It started out innocently enough, awaken, shower, talk to Amber while packing. I go down to turn in my key and my access card to the manager, and he gets all upset because I am leaving, and tells me I have to stay. It is at this point that I realise that I was most assuredly NOT being paranoid and he really WAS trying to get into my pants. My dyke pants (did I mention that they are apparently waterproof? Everything was soaked yesterday, but not them!). I decided that the best way to extract myself from the situation was to tell him that I would have a pint before I left and then slip out the door while he was drawing it, which is precisely what I did. Take that!

I managed, with some difficulty to find the post office on Westminster Bridge Road, which turned up inside a small market. It was not particularly well-marked. I mailed home Harry Potter Seven, a t-shirt for Sarah, a long-sleeved shirt for Amber, and my Hard Rock London t-shirt (two Hard Rocks down, 428324751 to go!).

As I said, the queue for the check-in at the Eurostar was HUGE, but I am at last on, and they have brought me a bottle of wine. Hooray! They also brought by the lunch menu. My choices are a mustard and something chicken salad wither Herb potatoes (because there's a f***ing “H” in it!), roasted seasonal vegetables, and baby spinach, or a caramelised red onion and tomato quiche, with basalmic red apples and mange tout, whatever that is. I think I'm going to go with the salad affair on account of the onions and cooked tomatoes. Dessert is a rhubarb and raspberry cream shortcake. I really want to know what the deal is with this country and strawberries.

We are now headed through southern England, and it is very nice-a. Ooh! Horsey! Sorry, back now. I have not seen animals other than the random dog on the Strand (and my random, I mean seriously random. Belonged to no one and was just chilling with a tennis ball) and the two Golden Retrievers on the Tube day before yesterday.

Forty-five minutes and one bottle of wine...make that an hour and a quarter and two bottles of wine, and one time change (17:01, whatever time zone this is, 16:01 BST, 10:01 CST) later (they started giving us lunch as I was about to blog the rest). We -were- in the Chunnel, and now we are at the stop in Lille, France. It is sort of weird to be in France. It is also weird to realise that I did not, in fact, write down the address or the directions to my hostel. All I know is that it is called the Gite d'Etape, and it is near the Madou stop on the Brussels Metro.

Oops.

Well, I'm sure I can find the Interwebs somewhere in Brussels. Probably even in the Gare du Midi. My organisation has failed me. I had everything written out for London; I'll need to be sure to write things out for Maastricht and Koln. Tomorrow is my only full day in Brussels, so I am going to set out to find the bicycle shop in the morning. I found one online which sells Trek bikes, so I might be able to get my exact bike, which will be helpful because then the rear rack I am going to get will fit my at-home bike. I am liking the biking the more I consider it, and I am very excited about seeing a new place every day or two. I think that is where I messed up with London. I oughtn't have decided to stay there a full week; I should have gone to Scotland or Wales, or even just the rest of England. Had I missed something, it is not like I will never be back or something.

I am most assuredly going to be back. I very much like this idea of traveling Europe, and I believe I am going to do as much of it by bicycle as I can. Hopefully, I will be able to convince someone to come with me in the future, because all of the excitement of being somewhere else does not stop me missing people.

Right now we are very slowly going along, and we are passing a hayfield. Someone was alseep up against a hay bale. The other half of the field is something short and green with large oval leaves which I do not recognise. I assume it is some sort of root crop. I suppose we are going around the corner because the train has acquired a decided list to my left; the train's right, and a few seconds ago my wine glass overcame the coefficient of friction and began sliding toward the center of the car. I caught it. Now we are full stop and next to a field of mustard. I think it is mustard. If Belgium is like here I will have no problem biking across it. There is a highway nearby, but there is the equivalent to a county road running along here through the fields and under the right-of-way for the rail. It is deserted.

The conductor (who is called something more important that I cannot remember, but who is still the conductor, just came on, said something unintelligible (to me) in French and then repeatedly vaguely that we are awaiting permission to continue. I assume that someone else is on this track. I am not offended. Someone in a white car that looks sort of like someone took the Ghostmobile and stretched it upwards is easing along by the mown hayfield.

Lunch was not bad. I tried the mustard chicken salad – it essentially amounted to minced chicken with a bit of brown mustard as marinade. The raspberry affair was okay; when I get home I want a nice piece of strawberry cheesecake. I think I shall bake one when I am no longer jetlagged.

There are a lot of giant spools behind the warehouse we are passing. College guys should come fetch one or seven. Now we are listing the other way and I wish we would speed up or flatten out because I am acquiring a touch of seasickness. Hey, there is a power plug under my table. Sweet.

Oh, no. It was lying. It merely purported to be a power plug. Perhaps I did not upgrade enough; I did upgrade from cattle car on account of it was only twenty bucks, and I do believe it was worth it. The coach which I inhabit is three seats across; two on one side and one on the other and they are about the size of business class seats on an airplane; normal coach was four across. For my flight home, I'm going try to get to Gatwick early enough to negotiate a business class seat; if I have to pay a little extra (by a little, I mean no more than two hundred pounds) that is fine, but I have learned on this trip when an extra expense is worth something (see Hard Rock and the expensive, but wonderful, cheeseburger) and when it is not. For example, I think it is utterly pointless to fly first class from Austin to Houston. But if four hundred bucks will get me another ten inches of legroom and a seat that actually reclines for the ten hour journey home, I am so there.

Yay, farms! I miss farms. Sheep! Yay, sheep! And people working in the fields, personally. We are going at a normal speed again; and passing a lot of Creepy Italian Trees. They must have immigrated. I feel like I am passing any given town in South Texas, except these villages have been around for hundreds of years. And they have grass. As the train goes along, we remain level and the terrain changes around us; this puts me to mind of By the Shores of Silver Lake by Laura Ingalls Wilder, in which she described the uses of “cuts” and “fills” in track laying, so as to keep the tracks as level as possible.

Trip Blog. Days Eight and Nine. Exhausted Edition.

2007-07-26T05:33:00.000-05:00

11:34 BST, 5:34 CST

Whitney IMed me last night at her version of eight o'clock, which is most everyone else's seven o'clock, but more importantly, one in the morning for me (computer was awake without me) asking me why I was not out seeing Amazing Things. Well, the most immediate reason was that it was one in the morning.

However, I am about full up on Amazing at the moment. I would be really thrilled right now to sit around in my Ordinary living room with Ordinary people who speak Ordinary English and play Ordinary Guitar Hero while drinking an Ordinary margarita and snuggling with an Ordinary ornithologist.

I slept all night and I remain tired. Of course, I had really weird and freaky dreams while I was sleeping, so that was bonus. I am tired. (In German accent) Tired of playing the game; ain't it a crying shame...(/accent)I just need some German soldiers to be back up dancers. Perhaps they will carry my luggage.

Yesterday, I did laundry. My laundry outfit was the bike shorts with the padded butt and my three-quarter length t-shirt. Greatness, but that was all that was clean. I also went back to the Royal Observatory, to actually tour it this time. And to have lunch.

Now, I have been very patient with the British; I feel like people get a bad rap from a few people's limited experiences. However, I have come to the conclusion that they really don't understand about food. The breakfasts I have had have always been quite lovely, but lunch and dinner seem to leave a lot to be desired. There are not a whole lot of vegetables around, and everything has this tendency to be fried or to involve baked beans.

However, they do have this great thing where they put stuff on a baguette and then grill it on a George Foreman sort of affair, which makes it a bit flat and toasty and it's Awesome. So, I ordered a baguette at the Observatory Cafe. And she gave it to me cold. Apparently, they do not grill them at the Observatory Cafe. Boo, that!

Also, the Observatory's main draw appears to be the Meridian Line, which is fine, but if you ask about anything else, the people have little to say. I was personally more interested in John Harrison's naval clocks (no photos; fascists). I've always been fascinated by the Longitude issue and the tied in Metric issue (they both were solved at around the same time), and so the clocks were cool. However, since the Meridian itself is arbitrary, I did not feel excessive excitement about it. And by excessive, I mean that I did not hop madly back and forth from hemisphere to hemisphere like the Boy Scouts from Houston.

They were, one and all, wearing straw hats with big Texas flag patches attached. And they talked more or less like me, so I asked,

"Where y'all from?"

"TEXAS!" one cried jubilantly.

In my brain, I am thinking, yes, dipstick. We know. People in Morocco know, on account of the a) hat, b) patch, c) giant Texas bandanna you are wearing around your neck, and d) your very, very loud accent.

I smile, however, and reply, "Yeah, dude. I caught that part. Which bit of Texas?"

His reply, "Oh, the eastern part."

Rolling my eyes. "Beaumont? Orange?"

"You know about BEAUMONT!?"

It occurs to me, that despite my best efforts, this guy still thinks I'm from not-Texas.

"Yeah, dude. I'm from Austin. Where are you from?"

"An American! Here! Wow!"

(We are surrounded by people from every continent. Literally. There's even a penguin chilling in the corner of the courtyard. There are also fifty Boy Scouts from Houston. But I don't know they are from Houston yet. I decided not to point out that HE is an American, here, so what's the big deal?)

His leader saves me by telling me they are from Houston. I say that's great and move on. I hadn't expected the Spanish Inquisition.

Later, I was sitting in the pub lamenting my lack of food, with vegetables. And it came to me, as if in a vision: The Hard Rock Cafe. The Original. Is Here. In London. It's near Hyde Park Corner Station. Tonight, I dine on Cheeseburger. With Avocado.

I don't know what I'm going to do today. My arms are a bit achy and I do not feel inclined to go out into the cold and damp. I am going to go out this evening, later, and take night pictures of things, and then come back to pack my kit; my train to Brussels leaves at 2:13 tomorrow afternoon. I'm less freaked out by Brussels now. I'm staying there two nights and then staying two nights in Maastricht, Netherlands. Once I get to Maastricht I'll decide how long to stay in Köln (Cologne). I have learned my lesson from being in London for too long, and I'm not going to stay in any given city longer than three days for the rest of the trip. If that means I have to go to Paris, then so be it.

Trip Blog. Day Seven. Also Belated.

2007-07-25T05:30:00.001-05:00

Short post because I am not feeling poetic, but here is a photo which is mostly done. It's six megs, so if you are in a hurry, you probably oughtn't click on the thumbnail. I like it, though. I still have to put on the top, but I need to do laundry at some point. Like now.

(16:26 BST, 10:26 CST Edit: Now it is done. Top and all. There will be more pictures up in an hour or so.)

Feed the Birds! As I said, the tower on the left still needs putting on and I have not yet blended the skies. Too bad.

Trip Blog. Day Six. Belated.

2007-07-24T04:56:00.000-05:00

I was absolutely exhausted last night when I rolled back into the hostel at about ten or so. Yesterday was cold, windy and raining, but that did not keep me from venturing into town to look at the Tower of London, Tower Bridge, and the Monument to the fire of doom in 1666. I also saw a maritime memorial for WWI and WWII. What else happened to me...? At about five or so, I got tired of Freezing and set off for a pair of pants. This quest, combined with rush hour on the tube, caused me to be about fifteen minutes late meeting Kez, but meet her I did and we spent about three hours in a pub drinking, eating dinner and talking about everything. I had not seen her in four years.

I also hit upon the perfect solution to the problem of my camera battery passing out. I have an extra, but the first did not last as long as I had hoped. However, all I have to do is find a charger at a Canon store here; then the adapter will work for Europe as well since Britain and Europe both have the same voltage. Brilliant! And saves me the trouble of carrying around a stupid, heavy, giant converter. Hooray!

I found shaving cream and Listerine yesterday at Charing Cross, so my life is considerably improved. The local pharmacies in Deptford do not have a lot of selection, and apparently women do not really use shaving cream here because all I could find was boy Gillette shaving cream, so now I'm going to smell like man all the time, but I suppose it is better than looking like one.

Kez told me that the way around the one-hand-luggage rule on British Airways is to buy these really lightweight bags that fold up on themselves in the airport and then you stuff both of your bags into the one. So, like the Quart Size Zip-Top Bag of Liquids or Gels(TM) law, it appears to be a good way for someone to make more money off of me.

I am ok, Mom; I was just tired last night so I did not blog.

Trip Blog. Day Five.

2007-07-22T12:56:00.000-05:00

16:18 BST (not GMT, as I had previously thought); 10:18 CST

I am in Gordon Square, Bloomsbury, London. Twenty feet behind me me is the house in which lived Virginia Woolf and the others of the Bloomsbury Group (similar to the Austin Java Writing Company, but more incestuous and more widely known). I am not quite so much in awe as I was at Westminster Abbey, but I am not entirely certain that any other experience I could ever have could match that. I am quite close, however. I got off at Tottenham Court Road with the intention of going to the British Museum, but there are too many tourists and I shall return early tomorrow.

I walked up here along Bloomsbury Road, noticing along the way the various blue seals that serve as historical markers in London. I realised that it was necessary to buy a map of London's streets when I suddenly found myself no longer on Bloomsbury Road. Fortunately, what is apparently the largest academic bookstore in Europe, a Waterstone's, manifested itself directly in front of me. Looking at the map I realised that I was not far off my mark but purchased it anyway since in a day or two I will be seeking out Abbey Road and the home of C.S. Lewis.

I checked my neat Girl Scout compass to make sure I was actually headed in the correct direction because the sun is too far south here to be reliable as an indicator and the streets are not at right angles.

I happened upon Gordon Square quite suddenly and was taken about to be in the place; I walked three quarters around before I found number Forty-Six. This place is really beautiful; the Square has a park in the middle with lots of flowers and lined with trees. There are a few families around, and some people sitting in pairs or along, reading or writing. On the far corner from where I sit, there are some prepubescent boys destroying a shopping trolley. The trolley is putting up a good fight, lying on its side like a sort of wounded creature, the sides all bent in, but not taking any more damage. I am rooting for it.

It means a great deal to me to be sitting in front of the place where one of my literary heroines lived; this whole trip has inspired me to put further effort into my studies, and I also feel that I am certainly going to have to come back here often. I am slightly lonely for people at home, though not for general company; I have been recruited by the manager of my hostel to re-tile one of the bathrooms. Apparently I will either be paid or will receive a discount in my lodging for the rest of the week as well as free beer.

There are some very nice birds here, and I find it unfortunate that no one is here to tell me what sort they are.

Trip Blog. Day Four.

2007-07-21T17:11:00.000-05:00

OMG Harry Potter! No, I did not go queue with all of the crazy people, but today when I went into town, I found a Waterstone's (Barnes and Nobleish) at Trafalgar Square. So I am now the owner of ALL seven Harry Potter books, adult UK edition. Six of them will be shipped to the United States on Monday, to get there by Friday (which I find ridiculous on account of that's now long it takes for mail to get from Baytown to Austin). The seventh I have with me. I'm on chapter two.

I have found my new hostel and these people are brilliant. At this hostel the bar is actually part of the hostel and is mostly inhabited by hostel people. It is really quite excellent. I liked the Antigallican a lot, but this one is in Zone Two and the people are more lively, and there's a ton of people in the bar all the time. It is slightly more expensive, but the fact that it is in Zone Two makes up for the expense because now it's not three dollars each way to get to Greenwich Station, which has been the last two days. Also, apparently HostelWorld was lying when they said that this one is booked up after tomorrow, so I am going to see if I can hook up with a room for the rest of the time I'm here instead of moving again.

I am liking it a lot better here; I think a lot of it has to do with actually sleeping in the night for once. Also, while I was in Westminster earlier, I had lunch at a very crowded pub, and this couple (fifties? I think they were older than that) came and asked if they could sit with me since I was alone and I ended up talking to them for a bit and that was nice.

It started out bright and pretty, and then RAINED and then stopped and now it is bright and pretty again. The weather is schizophrenic. I hope I can stay here the whole of the week, and I also hope that the Interweb gets fixed so that I can actually post this at some point in the near future.

Trip Blog. Day Three and a Half.

2007-07-21T02:40:00.001-05:00

When we left Christopher Robin and Pooh Bear (oh, somewhere else I need to go. I had forgotten about Milne), they were very exhausted after their tramp through the Hundred Acre Wood in the rather unpleasant cold and rain.

I came back to the hostel and jumped straight onto my bed while having a conversation about the insanity of the weather with Luciana from Brazil; apparently London is worst than Texas. Turns up that she was correct. Apparently, just as soon as I went to sleep, at around one o'clock, the skies cleared and remained so for the remainder of the afternoon and evening. I discovered this when I awoke at around eight for dinner and sunlight was coming in through the window. The late evening sun was very beautiful, and I have pictures.

Tangent: Civil twilight begins here at about four in the morning and the sun rises at five and sets at nine. Compare that to our latitude where the sunrise is at half six and set is at quarter past eight. I'm imagining how miserable I would be here in the winter when there is only five hours of sunlight. Boo that.

At any rate, it turns up the pub was shorthanded and closed their kitchen prior to the advertised hour of nine o'clock, so I went up to the "second kebab shop" at the top of Charlton Church street and ordered a cheeseburger.

Someone needs to tell these people about cheeseburgers. I improved it by putting on some of my habanero salsa from my Quart Size Zip-Top Bag of Liquids or Gels(TM). The chips were good, at any rate. No more cheeseburgers while I am here. Allegedly, Belgium makes them well. We will find out. I will go on a quest for a good cheeseburger in Europe.

I and the two Bostonians I picked up (Another tangent. Every time I tell an American I am from Austin (six so far) they somehow translate it as Boston. I do not know how to enunciate the not-Boston any better) took our second-kebab-shop food back into the pub to eat and await the beginning of the karaoke. They were Lindsay and Sue, and Sue told me that Lindsay has a really good singing voice; Lindsay demurred. Well, either Lindsay just sounded really good on account of the other singers who were smashed (at nine in the evening), or she really does have a pretty brilliant voice.

While I was writing my other blog, the karaoke lost its electrics and there was no more. Unfortunate. I stayed around and had a couple of more pints of Strongbow before I grew tired of the pub (while I was there, a guy sitting at the bar told me to not go to Edinburgh as it is "rubbish;" Melbourne people said the same thing of Sydney, so I think I'll go anyway). Post-that I went and hung out in the common room hoping that some people would be available for conversation, but it was a Friday night and people have lives so it worked out. I ended up watching Star Trek on the BBC with a Japanese dude and an Australian chick till three in the morning. And then I slept, and now it is now, and I am going to have a shower.

Photeaux are at Webshots, and I will organise them better later.

Trip Blog. Day Three.

2007-07-20T16:12:00.000-05:00

I took about 6984393844 pictures today, a figure which is disputed by James, but too bad. My jet lag is still lagging rather badly, and as a result I was on the 5:55 train into London this morning, which deposited me there shortly before seven. I took a billion pictures just on the way in; I took the DLR (Docklands Light Rail) from Greenwich into Canary Wharf, where I took photos of buildings disappearing into the fog (photos on Webshots as soon as they finish uploading. They have not been edited or stitched yet, so be patient). I took the Jubilee line into Westminster Station. You have a choice of six exits out of Westminster Station; I took exit six out onto Whitehall.

At this point I looked around, trying to find my bearings, and then I turned the corner around the building. And Oh, My God, there was Big Ben. Words cannot describe the situation. For one thing, I didn't realise how freakin BIG everything was going to be. I'm not sure the photos can describe how big it all is. Parliament is HUGE. HUGE. HUGE does not even begin to describe it. I was walking along Whitehall here, next to Parliament, gaping like a big ole stupid tourist and wondering how in the world anyone LIVES here. Because they are all walking past this stuff like it's normal or something.

So I'm walking alongside Parliament, on what I thought was the sidewalk, when these white vans come barreling along and try to murder me. I have a photo of the murderous van as well. I leaped (and I am so not exaggerating) over the nice dividing chain onto what apparently actually is the sidewalk.

After my minor brush with almost-death, I walked around into the park that is next to Parliament, and found a cool statue. Then I walked over to Westminster Abbey. It was about half past seven and the Abbey does not open till half past nine, so I walked around it and took photos from outside the barriers. I have some good ones, I think, but I've not analysed them just yet, so it will be a bit. They're all up on Webshots.

After that, I sort of wandered around looking for breakfast since I'd only eaten some green grapes in the past twenty-four hours. I finally found this place just off of Victoria Street and had eggs benedict (yes, with ham) on what was allegedly a muffin, but the dude took the whole thing and toasted it like a panini and it was BRILLIANT. I jumped onto the nearest bus to escape the weather (did I mention ever that it was about fifty degrees and raining with moderate wind?) and ate my breakfast and then jumped off.

It turned out that I was in Chelsea. Nice. I am really glad I bought a compass and that I had it in my special dyke pants. I found my way back to Sloane Square Station and took the tube back to Victoria Station. It was still early, so I set out on my quest for Buckingham Palace.

Insert tangent here: London is seriously diverse. Seriously. So diverse that if you see more than three or four people together that all look like they are the same ethnicity, they are a tour group. Texas is incredibly homogenised, and anyone who wants to complain about the prevalence of black people and/or Mexicans can seriously sod off, because they would have a heart attack on the London tube.

Right, so Buckingham Palace. It was cool. There was gold. There was also the Victoria Fountain. I have a picture of myself standing in front of Buckingham Palace, but not a whole lot of other pictures from that area on account of I was eating my SECOND breakfast, of bacon, egg and cheese on a baguette while I was looking around there. I was starting to get a bit overwhelmed by everything, as well as starting to be a bit tired from carrying around my pack. Also, I was freezing. Did I mention the weather.

At some point, it came to be nine o'clock and I migrated back to Westminster to get in, where I found out that it would be ten pounds' admission. I decided to bite the bullet.

Oh, my Lord, and that is a completely appropriate exclamation. We weren't allowed photos inside (I sort of pirated a couple; I don't know how well they'll work), but that is just was well because there is no way that photos could capture that awesome awesomeness of the interior of Westminster Abbey. Words cannot even begin to describe. For a start, there are people buried under your feet just everywhere, and if you go, you have to make sure to go at the very beginning of the morning before all the tourists get there; it's much more peaceful. There are little chapels all around with beautiful stained glass and more burials. A lot of the elevated crypts have effigies of the deceased on the top of the caskets. I am usually creeped out by cemeteries, but not at this point. I was very mindful of walking over people's graves, however.

I was also slightly annoyed/upset by the people who did not seem to be mindful of either the Abbey's status as church/cemetery, or even by their lack of awe for the fact that this affair has been around for NINE HUNDRED years. The interior architecture is also completely awesome. I was in there for three hours being completely awestruck and absorbing the experience. It definitely committed me to my love affair with European history. Nine HUNDRED years. There were people buried there in the twelve hundreds. And there was Elizabeth, and Newton; Chaucer and George Eliot and Michael Faraday. I could take hours and it would not adequately describe the experience. On outside of the Great West Door, which is the entrance into the nave, are statues of twentieth century martyrs; among them are Doctors King and Bonhoeffer.

I was emotionally and physically exhausted at that point, and hied myself back to my hostel for a nap. I am now being summoned to the other end of the pub, and so shall finish later.

Trip Blog. Day Two and a Half.

2007-07-19T18:45:00.001-05:00

0:44 GMT; 18:44 CST

Important things:

1) Bars in London close at midnight on weeknights.

2) Petrol stations have fresh fruit.

Some of us slept all evening and woke up at around ten to the noise of an extensive bar argument out the window. I did not notice my hunger until about eleven and discovered rather belatedly that I've misplaced about thirty pounds. It's in my stuff somewhere, but in the interim I had to find an ATM to get more cash and then to the local kebab shop...which also closes at midnight. Hence the box of green grapes for dinner. That's alright because the bar downstairs serves breakfast at ten.

Today I walked over to Greenwich Park, which was a less than pleasant experience due to my exhaustion, but it was really pretty. I took some photos, but most of them are panoramic and I have not yet stitched them together. I didn't use a tripod or stitch assist, so I might have to redo them. I'm going back to the observatory probably tomorrow on account of the billions of schoolchildren who were impeding my progress today. The walk up to the top of the hill upon which the Observatory is built makes San Marcos look like a gently rolling plain.

I've also booked my hostel for my last four nights here and I am about to book my hostel for Brussels. I think I'll stay there for two days before starting on my Germany journey. My friend Jenny has written me back regarding getting together so I imagine that will be happening this weekend.

It feels like October; the day was pleasantly warm, and when I went walking tonight looking for food, it put me to mind of walking on the UT campus in the middle of the night in the fall. It's really quite romantic.

People in London, while polite, do not hold back when they get angry and they tend to shout at each other a lot. This morning on the Tube coming here, some men were shouting at each other for reasons still unknown to me, and this evening the people were shouting at each other for a good half hour outside the pub. Tonight when I went to the petrol station, people were shouting at the guy inside about the diesel being out, and instead of just taking it like American service type people, he shouted right back. I was proud.

Trip Blog. Day One and a half/Two.

2007-07-19T04:49:00.000-05:00

10:48 GMT; 04:48 CST

I really was not sure whether or not I was going to actually make it, but I am now sitting in the common room of the Antigallican Hotel (which is brilliant, by the way), after a thirteen hour flight and about two and a half hours of transit. I really, really, really want to sleep, but my bed will not be remade until about noon. That's ok because I at least have a place to a) relax, and b) drink some water.

I have rediscovered my impatience with flying and my inability to sleep well (or at all, really) on airplanes, and I am very seriously considering upgrading to business class for the flight back if I have the money, because I completely felt like death (not just normal traveling drained; I was really quite unwell) when I got here and have not fully recovered from the feeling. A lot of it is nerves, I think, but now that I am here, I'm good. Business class has seats that actually recline, of which I am a fan because I really do not want to feel like death when I get home.

Anyway, I got off the plane and through Passport Control in about five minutes, and saw the nice little kiosk to buy my train ticket into London (Gatwick is about twenty-five miles south of London). I rocked up to the guy and asked for a ticket, and he tells me my card is declined. The Hell you say! I briefly panicked before deciding that a) it might just be the credit function or something and b) there's a reason why I packed forty bucks, so it is not like I can't just go to the money changer or something. That turned up to not be an issue because I found a cashpoint downstairs and got out a hundred pounds. So, no worries. Also, the automatic ticket selling kiosk at Victoria Station took my card, so the guy at Gatwick can just...sit there and keep selling tickets to everyone but me, I guess.

At any rate, I got to experience the Tube at rush hour. Apparently, the Circle Line is the most crowded, and me and this very kind businessman were mashed up against the doors ("Mind the Doors, Please") for the duration of my trip, which was fortunately only two stops; I changed to the Jubilee line at Westminster Station and took that to London Bridge station. At that point I moved to the overland line and got off here in Charlton, right across the street from my hotel.

Despite the fact that it is too early for my bed, the desk chick (Eastern European? I was not sure) showed me where my bed is, rented me a locker, gave me a towel and pointed out the common room with its very nice free Interwebs.

I believe that in a bit I shall go have a shower with my unlabeled bath products and nice fluffy towel, and then possibly have a nap. And then I shall Fire Zee Missiles. I perhaps ought to have lunch at some point as well; I did not eat much of the breakfast on the plane on account of my feeling icky at that point. If I do anything touristy today (which I probably will; it's still early), it's going to be Greenwich Observatory. I need to e-mail my friends and tell them I am here. And call my mom at two o'clock.

Trip Blog. Day One.

2007-07-18T15:06:00.000-05:00

14:09 17 July 2007

The wireless network which is allegedly available to me in Terminal D, Gate Nine is not connecting to itself. They're losing money by not loading up, but whatever thrills them the most. At any rate, this might not get posted until tomorrow morning, which I know is a great disappointment to those of you waiting with baited breath to hear of my exploits.

I have not yet really actually exploited that much, so perhaps it is immaterial. Highlights so far: chastised by irritated TSA lady because I did not take out my Quart Size Zip-Top Bag of Liquids or Gels(TM) which caused both of my bags to be searched. Things I -did- take out of my bags:

-- Computer
-- Camera
-- GPS
-- PDA
-- Phone

And I remembered to take off my shoes without asking and managed to get my (aluminum) wallet into the tray at the very last second. Therefore I think that my lack of getting my Quart Size Zip-Top Bag of Liquids or Gels(TM) is really not something about which she should be mystified. Her other issue with me is that I had the temerity to use Nalgene bottles for all of my stuff and that they are not labeled. Her exact words were thus:

“We have no idea what could be in there. You can buy travel-size.”

1.I KNEW it! It is a conspiracy with the travel-size product industry! I -told- you, Amber, you with the “Oh, yes. Because they have such a strong lobby.” Clearly they do, because TSA lady was clearly advertising for them.

2.Because I clearly could not empty the travel size and put a liquid or gel of my own choosing (say, habanero salsa) into said travel size bottle, naturally if I would just conform or whatever, they would completely know what is in my less-than-three-ounce bottles. We will ignore that most shampoo bottles are opaque.

Whatever. That whole exchange took like thirty seconds, and I do not believe that the TSA lady suspected that the object wrapped in my windpants was my bunny. Which reminds me that I completely forgot to get Bob the Stormtrooper off of the shelf. This is unfortunate because he would have been perfect for photographs.

This morning, Amber very kindly took me to Kerbey Lane, where I had NOT a baked potato omelet, but pancakes, eggs and watermelon, and then kindly went with me to Target for the watch I forgot to buy yesterday, and thence to Texas State Optical for the contacts that I bribed them into selling to me despite my “expired” prescription.

HOLY cow. Those of you who went to Lee College, Mister Britt's doppelganger just walked into the gate. I am going to take a picture to prove it. Ok, I will as soon as he walks away from the pay phone which is about four feet from me. I swear, y'all. He looks like him, he walks like him, he's even wearing one of those shirts that look like they have a pattern of weed on them. It's crazy.

Right. Amber, Kerbey Lane. I was expressing my anxiety that I would not be able to fit my small bottle of habanero salsa into my Quart Size Zip-Top Bag of Liquids or Gels(TM), and Amber was telling me that I had to make a choice between bathing on the first day or having salsa for a month. I replied, “You don't understand how much bathing means to me!” and the lady at the table next to us pipes up, “I hear you, sister!” and she and Amber proceeded to gang up on me on the subject of my body wash and its relative importance compared to the salsa. The upshot of this is, I managed to fit both the body wash and the salsa into the Quart Size Zip-Top Bag of Liquids or Gels(TM). The salsa comes from Freebird's World Burrito and the guy who made mine yesterday was nice enough to fill my bottle for me.

So, I am here now, after finding my gate completely without assistance from anyone except for someone who kindly confirmed to me that Mickey Leland Terminal (D) is still, in fact, the International Terminal. My gate was not assigned at the time I left Austin (and actually, Amber, it turns out that my whole itinerary is via Continental, but the service is British Airways. Who knew?) so I sort of wandered around until I found a bank of screens that actually acknowledged the existence of my flight.

It's now twenty to three and boarding starts at quarter past. The flight is at 3:55 and we will be landing at 7:05 GMT tomorrow morning. That's 1:05 to you people. I should probably go check in now.

14:59

WOO! Exit Row! Go British Airways! I also have an aisle seat; I sort of wanted a window on account of having something against which to sleep, but this is NOT going to be the flight to Honolulu with the giant smelly men and being in the very middle of the middle section. Rocktastic! The Interweb still does not seem thrilled with my existence, which I find rather upsetting. I am feeling a lot less freaked out than I was earlier. I am not really sure what changed. Perhaps it was the actual goodbye that I was dreading.

Ah ha. My computer has detected another network which is apparently the Lufthansa lounge. Whatever. Two euros == three and a half bucks. Hello, Interwebs. Wow. Blogger is in German.

Just Another Reason why I Like Dwayne:

2007-07-02T15:20:00.000-05:00

I'll write something deep later. In the interim:

Cap tip to Dwayne for finding it first.

Elizabeth Edwards is So Hot Right Now.

2007-06-27T11:27:00.000-05:00

And this is why:

Henry disagrees on her relative hotness, but he echoes my sentiment in a slightly more well-written manner. Cap tip to Feministing.

From the Department of You have Got to be Kidding Me:

2007-06-26T08:09:00.001-05:00

Tom %&$(@#* Cruise is making a new movie. Why do I care? Because the movie is Valkyrie, and %&$(@#* Cruise is meant to play Colonel Claus von Stauffenberg, who is the guy who attempted to assassinate Hitler in the 20 July plot with a briefcase full of explosives.

Danger, Will Robinson, Danger: Historical blah blah blah ahead.

Hitler wasn't killed by the blast (obviously). There were two bombs; von Stauffenberg had previously lost his right and and all but three fingers of his left, so when he was attempting to arm them in the bathroom, with not a lot of time, he was only able to get the one armed. For reasons unknown to history, he did not put the second bomb in the briefcase, but handed it to his assistant instead. He went into the conference room and put his briefcase under the table, then left to "make a call." One of the guys still in the meeting room moved his briefcase down to the far end and behind the table leg because it was in the way and people kept kicking it. Thus, the blast was deflected.

However, a recent History Channel documentary which completely reconstructed the whole thing, what actually happened, and what could have happened, showed that if von Stauffenberg had put the second bomb in the briefcase anyway, Hitler would have been screwed. von Stauffenberg and his aide were executed the next day.

Anyway, Tom %&$(@#* Cruise? To play von Stauffenberg? Fortunately, the Germans have banned %&$(@#* Cruise from the country on account of he is a Scientologist. Now, on a humourous level, I think this is great and that more Scientologists should be banned from more places, especially when their name is Tom %&$(@#* Cruise. However, I'm not sure it's the best thing in the world to ban Scientologists from a country on a serious level, because even though I think they are full of shit, allegedly, they should still have the right to practice their religion. Except for the part where they tell Brooke Shields that she shouldn't take antidepressants.

Anyway, my hope is that the movie makers will continue with Valkyrie, and will pick someone who is not annoying to play von Stauffenberg.

Obama Actually says Something

2007-06-24T10:05:00.000-05:00

I've been annoyed with him lately for not really having anything to say, but in this speech, it looks like he's made up for it, at least a bit.

"Somehow, somewhere along the way, faith stopped being used to bring us together and faith started being used to drive us apart."

Well, give me a mud mask and call me Esther. A reasonably mainstream politician, to whom people are paying attention, is espousing a belief that I have been attempting to express for a while.

I hope someone listens; God is not a dividing, but a unifying force. He is The Force, and it is patently ridiculous that humans allow their varying perceptions of Him to become the focus of things.

Edit: To further the point, here is today's Opus, by Berkeley Breathed. He makes his point succinctly.

At Last, a Ray of...oh. nevermind.

2007-06-21T07:00:00.000-05:00

"Destroying human life in the hopes of saving human life is not ethical, and it is not the only option before us."

Oh, good, the President is seeing the light, and we are going to withdraw from Iraq, stop executions, and not ever bomb civilians ever again...

Oh, wait. Those people are already outside the womb. They don't count anymore, unless they are in a coma. My bad.

Feminism, Femmenism.

2007-06-21T06:08:00.000-05:00

For most of my life, I have been accused, as it were, of being a man-hating feminazi. One would imagine that it would happen more since I figured out my homonism, but that's not entirely true; it's stayed about the same, but I surmise that the same people who were saying it before (or the same sort that would have been) just chalk it up to the homonism. I find this ridiculous since I live with a man. I like men. I just don't want to marry them. Why is this difficult?

Recently, I began to more deeply explore the wide world of feminism by reading a variety of feminist blogs. This has had two major effects on me: one is that I now realise that I am not nearly as radical as I previously thought, and the second is that I am far more radical than I previously thought.

The latter is easier for me to wrap my mind around, so it goes first; essentially, I get way more annoyed with misogynist-speak than I did previously. I have been internalising and processing the why of that, and yesterday evening, I figured it out. The boy roommate and I were at Pluckers, a wing/burger/sports joint, and we managed to get there on trivia night. The category at this time was movies. Trivia man asks the question:

"In what (whatever year it was) movie did James Garner, Ashley Judd, and Sandra Bullock appear?"

This, in and of itself, was not the issue. He followed up with:

"Guys, you don't know this because it is a -total- chick flick. If you have a girl at your table, ask her, and if not, just give up. If you know this by yourself, you've lost cool points with me."

The nerve! The answer, incidentally, is Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, based on the book by Rebecca Wells. Why does this bother me so much all the sudden? I think it is because the insinuation from the trivia guy was that if the guys knew the answer, they were a) gay, or b) that ever-hideous epithet men use on other men, "pussies." Previously, I did not care for the latter term simply because it is rather profane, but now I realise just -why- it is profane: guys are insulting each other by calling them women.

I do not really get why I never really got that before, but the worst thing these guys can call someone is, essentially, a woman. And that really bothers the hell out of me, especially since I am meant to be so man-hating. However, I am certainly never going to attempt to insult a woman by calling her any bit of the male anatomy, and thereby a man. That's ridiculous.

The problem is, this kind of thinking, that men can insult each other by calling them women, is feeding into, and perhaps concurrent with this really, really odd idea that men helping women with domestic issues is a) emasculating, and therefore b) OMG SooooOOO SWEET! This is bullshit. Men are not some kind of omnipotent being who is so far above the menial tasks of life. They are just people. This is one end of the Crazy Men Spectrum: Men are powerful, men are above women, and when they deign to come down to are level, it is the sweetest thing ever and we should rejoice, and again I say rejoice.

On the other end of the spectrum are some really radical feminists. I believe that the truly man-hating ones are very few, and they exist on the other end of the Crazy Men Spectrum, which is to say, Men are dirt. I think it would be very helpful if the people on the ends could come together in a compromise. Men are people too, and men are just people like everyone else.

A step closer to the middle on the spectrum, but not much, are the women who take as a point of pride the fact that they do not shave anything, have very short hair on top of their head (which I find a bit silly. If they aren't going to shave their legs, why does it make sense to mess with their head hair so much?), do not wear make up, et cetera. Ok, that's fine for them, but a subset of those women conclude that I am bowing to the pressure of the patriarchy on account of I -do- shave my legs, I enjoy having long hair, I do wear makeup on occasion and yes, GASP, I both own and wear heels.

Great, so now I'm not feminine enough, and the radical feminists say I am too feminine. Here I am, stuck in the middle with...anyone?

Bueller?

Bueller?

Ok, perhaps someone else is in my predicament. I will not apologise for "bowing to the patriarchy." I do not think that's actually what it is. Frankly, I don't find shaving my legs a hideous and painful experience. It's not really that difficult. Also, I like the way my smooth legs feel. I like the way my girlfriends' smooth legs feel. I also like my long hair, and I like girls with long hair. I also like the way I look when I am wearing makeup, and guess what? I like the way other girls look when -they- are wearing makeup (as long as it's not that weird clone makeup). So, I'm not holding anyone to a higher standard than myself. I rather enjoy being a girl, with most everything that goes along with that.

I had a point, and I think it was that I really do not get why some of the people who rail against misogyny are so fascist on occasion, or why it is that other people (who are a much, much larger population) do not get that not being a poor, helpless little girl does not make you a man-hater. Most of the problems we have in our society could be solved if everyone would just sod off and let everyone else live their lives as they see fit. Why is this difficult?

Pigeonholing

2007-06-20T04:13:00.000-05:00

Just now on Feministe, I read an article by a woman who wonders if it is possible to be a Christian and a feminist concurrently. My first instinct is to say yes, of course. Look at my mom, look at me, look at my female pastor, et cetera. That seems simplistic for some reason, and processing the "why" of that is becoming a bit difficult. Since I started reading the feminist blogs of late, I have been trying to define myself within the feminist spectrum, for my own edification.

The argument, of course, is that everyone should be "outside the box" and not be "pigeonholed" or "labeled" or "categorised." I say, fuck that -- I need some definition in my life, and everyone, whether they like it or not, is in a category, even if it is a category of one which contains only them. I am the sole member of the set of me. Hooray, now what else? My first tendencies to define or describe myself tend to be "German," "Lutheran" and "homo." I hesitate even to define myself as a "Christian" anymore because the vast majority of people recoil at the word. I can hardly blame the vast majority, because I tend to recoil when anyone mentions Christians as well.

This could be on account of recent high-profile "Christians" being, well, stupid, and because one in particular blamed me for those asshats who stole airplanes and ran into buildings with them a few years back. Because that makes sense. At any rate, as near as I can tell at this time, the word "Christian" evokes the images of intolerance, anger, hate, The Dark Side, an incredible naivety/stupidity, (cap tip to Bint for reminding me of that piece), bigotry, and a general inability to function in the world. This, of course, is the exact opposite of the effect which Jesus of Nazareth intended, according the the four canon Gospels, when he walked around the Galilee for three years about two thousand years ago.

I had a point. Oh, right. I do not want to be a "Christian," really. The problem is, I find the tenets which Jesus of Nazareth preached highly compelling. Don't be a bitch. Pray quietly, not all loud and out in public where everyone will see you being high and mighty. Take care of poor people, sick people, and generally underprivileged people. Shut the fuck up unless you are perfect. It's some good stuff. And then, to cap it all off, this guy sacrifices his life, painfully, for the good of humanity. Granted, there's a lot of people who don't think that Jesus of Nazareth is/was the Christ. Frankly, I think it's immaterial (for the record, I happen to think that Jesus of Nazareth was the Christ, but that's not the point). The whole point that this guy was attempting to make was to be kind, be unselfish, and to be self-sacrificing. I think he makes a good point.

I was raised Lutheran, which is a low-key, low-profile denomination described thusly on a recent episode of the Prairie Home Companion:

"Really quiet people; they go in for comfort food, hot dishes and so on. Very self-effacing, wear dark colours, navy blue. Like Amish, except they drive cars. Sort of modest in a kind of ostentatious way."

That sounds about right (Tip of the cap to Henry for hooking me up with that). So I've been living most of my life trying to do that, more or less. But then these bitches who call themselves Christians get on TV and start telling everyone else how hideous they are for not being Christian, and that if they will send five hundred bucks to X ministry, their eternal soul will be saved. Mary Chapin Carpenter said it well when she wrote "Forgiveness doesn't come with a debt." Commercialising alleged soul-saving is akin to that bullshit the Catholic church was pulling back in the day with the indulgences and suchnot. This is just televised indulgences, and anyone who wants to argue with me can name the time and place.

I really did have a point. Oh, yes. The majority of the "Christian" movement, at least in the United States, is so far removed from even what its own holy book says about it that I reckon if Christ came back at this time, He would barely recognise Himself anywhere in it. I have such sympathy for people who say that they loathe organised religion, probably because I feel the same way most of the time. I'm in a particularly unique position: the Christians do not like me because I'm a big old homo, and the homos eye me askance because I am a Christian.

The same thing happens with the feminists. I'm not as feminist as I am meant to be, apparently, and to the more conservative, "Oh, you can walk alone at night because you are a lesbian," set, I am a big scary dyke feminist who is going to turn all their women gay. And yes, that really was said to me, and I am allegedly meant to get over it. Forgiveness and all that, but what people do not understand is how much that statement really hurt me. It does not help that I know that it is a widely held belief.

So, where does that leave me? Well, I am a member of the only ethnic group in the world of which it is allowable to make jokes (more on that later; it's not a huge part of my life, but I think it bears addressing), I am a homo feminist Lutheran who is not a particularly accepted member of any of those groups. Bint might be right; it is impossible to be part of more than one group at once.

The Defense Department Regrets to Inform You That Your Sons are Dead because They were Stupid

2007-06-15T11:18:00.000-05:00

Yesterday morning, at four or so, this happened. Everyone in Baytown is up at arms about it, as well they should be. Four kids are dead, and it stinks. There is no way around that. However, there is a certain amount of wailing and gnashing of teeth that needs to subside at this time. Why? Well, if you're too lazy to read the linked article, here follows a summary:

The driver was fifteen and unlicensed. The rest of the kids were fifteen, three fourteen year olds, and a twelve year old. They were in a stolen Jeep Cherokee, and driving really, really fast in a thirty mile an hour zone (the top was sheared off the Jeep by the railroad car), and it was four in the morning.

The parents are blaming a) Union Pacific, b) TxDoT c) liberals (I'm sure it will happen), and d) the Flying Spaghetti Monster. Let's examine this for a moment. The driver, fifteen and unlicensed, apparently stole a car. The newsies are calling it "purloined" and the whole thing a "foolish lark." STOLEN CAR. FELONY. Not a "foolish lark." I have driven over those tracks at that spot a hundred times. The speed limit there is thirty, and not that I'm a great believer in speed limits, but it does behoove one to NOT go sixty miles an hour there, because aside from the tracks, there is a very sharp turn immediately thereafter. This guy should/would have known that, but that didn't stop him, and it makes me extremely angry that his mother tried to play it off by saying he was "just trying to get that little girl home."

Bullshit. She oughtn't have been out in the first place, and there's no point in going eighty there on East Archer over those tracks because a) it's four in the morning and you are already in trouble, and b) you're going to die even if you don't hit a train because you'll miss the turn.

The other attempt is to blame the parents; this is mostly coming from the commenters on the Chronicle website. This too is bullshit. Every one of those kids made the choice to sneak out, go out, and get into a stolen vehicle with an unlicensed driver at high speeds. Both articles mention siblings and friends who said, "Ya know, that doesn't really sound like a good idea." Look who's alive.

The thing that really irritates me is that knowing Baytown as I do, had this been a car full of Mexican kids, there would not be any "poor kids!" going around. They would be being maligned as juvenile delinquents and hideous things would be being said about Mexicans on general principles, but since they are rich white kids it's a hideous tragedy.

I really, really don't get why personal responsibility is only meant to apply to specific people. Stupid crap like this goes down all the time, and the rich white kids never have to take responsibility for it. Sigh. I hope their parents make it through this mess.

What the Hell kind of country do we live in?

2007-06-12T03:46:00.000-05:00

"How did they manage to get that close to him? They're ruffling his hair and hugging him! We can't even ask the guy questions!"

That's another John Stewartism. And he's damn right. Bush went to Albania at the end of his European tour and received a hero's welcome. There's footage of him being hugged and squeezed and called George, and the Albanians really just think he's the shit. We have foreign people rubbing his head for good luck (hopefully not to improve their English), and we can't even get in to talk to the guy unless we are on a vetted list of people that his people know will a) agree with every damn thing he says and b) will ask him softball questions pursuant to a).

The question, of course, arises as to whether those people were actually vetted and behind them were a bunch of snarky Albanians, or perhaps just Albanians who don't care. I want to know, personally, why the Albanians think Bush is so great. What has he done that makes the Albanians like him so much? That could perhaps be the best reason for why they like him. What, exactly, has Bush done to make the residents of Albania regard him with anything other than apathy?

Well, according to the BBC, it's that his visit allegedly makes it more feasible for Albania to join the EU and NATO, and Bush supports the UN's plan for Kosovo to become independent. This could just be me, but I fail to see how Bush's support has anything at all to do with Albania's membership in the EU, given that the United States has less than nothing to do with the EU. In this same vein, it really seems to me that Albania should care more about what the other European countries think about any given subject than what we think.

But more importantly, my disgust with a president who is more available to foreign citizens on foreign soil than to the people he allegedly serves is absolute.

John Stewart is my Hero, and This is Why:

2007-06-08T02:29:00.001-05:00

"I am not a graphic designer or artist. I don't necessarily understand the nuances of composition and negative space and these kinds of things. But I do know what it would look like if a slot machine went down on a stop sign."

I want to be like him when I grow up.

Gay Rum!

2007-06-07T15:21:00.000-05:00

Testing: One, Two, Three. And a buffer post for this blog, v. 2.0.

Enough.

2006-03-18T18:39:00.000-06:00

I have really just had it with this realty company. I have posted an advert on Craigslist for someone to take over my lease. Hopefully I'll get some good responses and can movify myself elsewhere.

I had a lot to say on this subject before I started the post, but I seem to be drying up a bit. At any rate, that is what's happening. Even if I only find a place that's 600 a month, that's 125 extra for the next five months. Which adds up.

I'm just tired of the excess room and the feeling that I'm camping.

2006-02-15T11:46:00.000-06:00

Thirty yards. Thirty yards is ninety feet. The reason why shotguns work is that the little shot pellets spread out as they travel. That means that when they are a foot away from the muzzle of the gun, they are very close together, and they spread (generally) about six inches to a foot radially for every three feet they travel. Or one foot per yard, or two yards. For the sake of argument, let's say they only spread six inches per yard, or a foot for every two yards. Naturally, gravity and friction act on the pellets and screw up the nice circle thing and the pellets spread in a sort of lopsided fashion after a while.

Ninety feet. Thirty yards. The pellets spread a foot every two yards. Assuming a starting diameter of zero, just for the sake of simple mathematics here, that means that the shot from Cheney's gun had spread to a pattern approximately fifteen feet in diameter.

I'm sorry. No. THAT would not put a man in ICU. Furthermore, the doctors say there are still many pellets inside of him. That's not being "peppered", that's being SHOT. The article on Yahoo says there could be as many as 200 pellets inside of him yet. That many pellets, or even HALF that many pellets, dense enough to all enter a man, means that Whittington was a heckuva lot closer to Cheney than the witnesses said, and therefore within visual range.

Furthermore, hunting conventions dictate that when hunting birds, such as quail, one does not shoot one's gun at less than a forty-five degree angle to the ground to prevent just such an accident. One also does not ever sweep and fire, nor does one shoot behind oneself.

Even furthermore, the party who is operating the firearm is responsible for its operation AT ALL TIMES. That means being sure about at what you are firing. Additionally, when flushing quail, all members of the hunting party are meant to be in a line, more or less, and only shoot in an approximate 150 degree arc in FRONT of the group.

That means that Whittington coming up BEHIND the group is not a reason for him to be shot.

THAT means that The Vice President Screwed Up. Accident? Sure, maybe. Probably. Should he own up that he Screwed Up? Yes. If I hit a pedestrian with my car and it's an accident, it's still my fault because I was driving the car. The Veep is not special because he is a rich politician. Personal Responsibility, people.

Oh, and Whittington was thirty yards away just like I am secretly Charlton Heston.

Angry Post.

2006-02-09T12:09:00.000-06:00

http://borgenproject.org/Defense_Spending.html

The World's Largest Military Spenders (billions)
United States $419
Russia $65
China $56
United Kingdom $49
Japan $45
France $40
Germany $30
Saudi Arabia $19
India $19
Italy $18
South Korea $16
Australia $12

How Big is it?
According to CDI, the U.S. military budget is more than 37-times as large as the combined spending of the seven "rogue" states (Cuba, Iran, Iraq, Libya, North Korea, Sudan and Syria).

I would like to point out at this time that they cannot afford to attack us. In other words, attacking sovereign nations in the name of defense is, as I have previously expressed, unnecessary. Especially since the last people who attacked us *coughnotIraqcough* were in fact from Saudi Arabia. This is an undisputable fact. Oh, and Osama bin Laden? Not in Iraq.

What is truly icky about this is that with the giant freaking military budget, these people still don't get paid squat, they don't have decent armour, and what armour they have they have to pay for if they get wounded and discharged. "Support the Troops" my hind leg. All those dang magnets are made in China anyway and are just another way for someone to profit from this mess. Whatever happened to tying a yellow ribbon? Or is that not cool enough?

http://borgenproject.org/Cost_of_Ending_Poverty.html

World Food Summit Figures
Incremental annual public investment needed to meet the World Food Summit
goal of halving world hunger before 2015.
• $5.2 billion: Ensure access to food for the most needy.
• $2.3 billion: Improve agricultural productivity in poor rural communities.
• $7.4 billion: Develop and conserve natural resources.
• $7.8 billion: Expand rural infrastructure and market access.
• $1.1billion: Strengthen capacity for knowledge generation and dissemination.
Total investment costs: $23 billion.
Estimated annual benefits of meeting WFS goal: $120 billion.

My response to these figures (which sort of turn my stomach, given how comparatively small they are) is that it disgusts me that we have so many people in the middle to upper classes whining about welfare and stuff when we spend

Four. Hundred. Nineteen. BILLION dollars on the military, and it would take merely

Twenty-Three Billion

To significantly reduce hunger. In the WORLD.

Does this bother/annoy anyone else? Anyone else at all? To know that if we'd put more emphasis on taking care of people's lives and needs instead of blowing each other to Hell and back all that time...it would actually work?

I've been told time and time again that the way things are are "just the way it is." "We lost perfection with Eden." Ok, except that this is not some mysterious cosmic thing here -- this is cash appropriation.

I now, more than ever, find the "fallen world" excuse just that: an excuse. Damn right -- we ate the fruit which gave us the knowledge of what's good and evil. Maybe we should USE that knowledge instead of cruising around with our hands covering our eyes and ears screaming "Fallen world! WMDs! Fallen world! We have to defend ourselves!" and pointing fingers at everyone except for ourselves.

I'm sitting on the seventh floor of the library on campus, which is the highest place on campus, and I can see probably about thirty miles in each direction. And I feel so blessed to be safe, and well-fed (perhaps a bit too well-fed) and to have the family, friendships and relationship that I have. And at the same time all of that makes me angry because it's by the grace of God that I have fallen into this life. It's by the grace of God that all of us have fallen into the lives we lead.

And for some reason, it's considered more important to blow up those less fortunate rather than feed them.

SBTC removes church over homosexuality controversy

2006-01-20T21:51:00.000-06:00

http://www.bpnews.net/bpnews.asp?id=22464

Jan 17, 2006
By Jerry Pierce
Baptist Press BAYTOWN, Texas (BP)-—The Southern Baptists of Texas Convention’s executive board has acted unanimously to disaffiliate a church for violating the convention’s constitutional provision concerning churches that “affirm, approve, or endorse homosexual behavior.”

The SBTC credentials committee and two SBTC staff members met Dec. 20 for one hour and 45 minutes with the pastor of Faith Harbour -- previously an SBTC congregation in Baytown -- with a redemptive aim, SBTC minister-church relations director Deron Biles wrote in a summary of the meeting.

Biles recounted that the committee hoped to clarify Faith Harbour’s stance toward a church it is helping sponsor and allowing to meet in its facilities, which bills itself on its website as welcoming and affirming of homosexual, bisexual and trangendered people.

Additionally, the new church, Eklektos, has a female senior pastor. Biles said the committee and Faith Harbour pastor Randy Haney were unable to resolve their differences over Faith Harbour’s involvement with Eklektos.

SBTC board chairman Joe Stewart, pastor of First Baptist Church of Littlefield, said the board followed the biblical guidelines of Matthew 18 in confronting an erring brother with hopes of restoration.

“The credentials committee went through that process,” Stewart said, “and sat down and talked with the pastor about what constitutes a church that they are hosting in their building which has a female pastor and basically affirms the homosexual lifestyle.

“One cannot be presenting the life-changing Gospel to homosexuals and at the same time affirm the lifestyle,” Stewart continued. “When we sign an agreement to be a part of the SBTC, we have those theological parameters that we live and abide through and that is part of what makes us unique and distinct.

“The door is still open for them to reconcile if they will just agree to abide by the theological parameters of the SBTC,” Stewart added. “Although we want to reach out to people caught in sin, at the same time we can’t affirm the lifestyle.”

Article III of the SBTC’s constitution states: “… Among churches not in cooperation with the Convention are churches which act to affirm, approve, or endorse homosexual behavior.”

South Texas Baptist Association, of which Faith Harbour was a member, presented the church a letter notifying them of the association’s intent to disaffiliate them the same day the SBTC credentials committee met with Haney.

Haney appeared to allude to the situation on the church’s Internet blog Jan. 10.

“It always amazes me how much people hate those who try to get out of the box and take the message of Jesus Christ to those who are considered unclean,” Haney wrote. “Now that I think about it, that was part of what the Jews hated about Jesus. How dare we defile the sanctuary by inviting sinners to come and be a part of hearing the message of Christ! Doesn’t the Bible make it plain and clear that we are all sinners? Isn’t our righteousness only found in Christ and Him alone?”

The Eklektos website states: “This community of Christians is especially called to welcome and affirm people who are gay, lesbian, bi-sexual and transgendered. We are a diverse group of disciples -- diverse in age, race, gender, ideology and sexual orientation. We are united in Christ and in the affirmation that all people are loved and called by Christ to be His disciples and to be a part of His healing/reconciling work in the world.”

The SBTC consists of more than 1,700 churches in a confessional fellowship with one another -- a unique arrangement among the 41 state and regional conventions that cooperate as Southern Baptists.

~~~~~~

The Harbour is the 'other' church of which I am a member in Baytown. And we are so totally pwning the SBTC. I'm really annoyed that part of their argument against Randy is that he was allegedly letting a woman be a senior pastor. Come out of the dark ages already, people (for this reason, I am glad that I am primarily Lutheran).

The AP has picked up this story, and it's been on the news in Houston. This is going to be huge, and the couple that have the vendetta against Randy and Nelda and started all of this mess are going to feel like total idiots.

BTW, this is me gloating and not being a good Christian. That is my disclaimer. I'll attempt to be charitable about it later. Right after I finish laughing/cringing at the irony that this particular couple are the people who I let stay with me in my apartment during the evacuation when I already didn't like them. I don't think they took kindly to receiving kindness from a homo. I could point out that I only did it to alleviate the suffering of their children, but I don't think it would help.

I Want My Mommy!...or a girlfriend.

2006-01-11T05:40:00.000-06:00

At around half past eight last night, I began to breathe again. I think it was around then. I just happened to notice, right as Geena Davis was fixing one of her generals with a stern glare, that I could breathe through my nose. And there was much rejoicing.

At about midnight, I started coughing.

By two, I was coughing so hard that it was actually making me retch.

It was at this point that I realised that I was screwed. I have the same plague that my mother had last week. I tried to lie down and sleep but was interrupted in increasingly shorter intervals by coughing fits rivaled only by the end of Les Miserables. I scurried around in one of my unpacked boxes, praying that the codeine cough syrup I had gotten as prescription when I had pneumonia at A&M was still with me.

No such luck. It is probably expired by now anyway. By now it was around four, and I started a search for a twenty-four hour Walgreens in my vicinity. The nearest is, for reasons unknown to me, six miles off. Apparently people in South Austin do not get sick in the middle of the night. I then remembered that my friendly local H-E-B is twenty-four, so I bundled up, got in my car, and managed to make it over there with only two fits of coughing.

I wandered in, the glare of the flourescent lighting blinding me, and tried to remember where the medicine aisle is in this particular H-E-B. Fortunately, it was close to where I was and I walked over to the cough and cold section.

There are approximately seven thousand, eight hundred ninety-five different varieties of cough and cold medicine. There's pills, gel caps, caplets with the tiny beads inside of them, and liquids. There's DayQuil, NyQuil, H-E-BQuil, Tylenol, Aspirin. Flu. Cold/Flu. Cold/Flu/Cough, Sore Throat, Sore Throat and Congestion, Congestion only (someone should spill a truckload of that on 35), Sinus/Sore Throat, and Cold/Flu/Cough/Sore Throat/Mad Cow/Congestion. All of these come in day and nighttime varieties for your sleep inducing needs.

Standing there, looking not-quite-so bewildered as I was a woman maybe a couple of years older than me. She nodded politely and we commiserated over the unseemly variety. She mentioned that she got to be her boyfriend's caretaker as he is extremely ill at the moment, and asked if I was there for myself or for a significant other. I replied, of course, in the former, she replied her hope that I feel better, and went on her way.

It was at this point that I realised that this persona with which I have been saddled is not necessarily so much out of some personality trait that I have, but more out of circumstance. Due to my current living arrangements, and indeed my past living arrangements, I -have- to take care of myself. Or I'll die.

On the drive back home, it occurred to me that I am probably not the pillar of strength and the purveyor of intimidation for which I am apparently famous. It just so happens that I've had to adapt to situations where I deal with my own illness, my own injuries. I've never had a roommate except for that short while at A&M, and she was so busy with her own self that she would not have noticed had I carked it, much less offered to pick up my codeine for me.

In other words...I'm not so much the scary softball team captain as much as the little girl that wants to be held, loved, and taken care of when she's sick. I do not mind being the team captain for a little while, because I do want to take care of the people I love. Someday soon, though, I'd like to be in a situation where someone will go to H-E-B for NyQuil for me.

Warning: Self-righteous Religious Diatribe Ahead

2006-01-05T18:57:00.000-06:00

Pat Robertson has declared that God smote Ariel Sharon for withdrawing from Gaza. Sounds like he and Mahmoud Ahmadinejad should meet for drinks since they both think so little of the guy. I reckon they'd get along just peachy.

Robertson needs to get a life already. If God were passing out diseases and cerebral haemorrhages for sinning (not that I evenmuch agree that withdrawing from Gaza was a sin), then we'd all be stroking out, twenty-four seven. I'd have probably carked it by now. Of course, the fact that Sharon is seventy-seven and hideously overweight is totally not a reason for him to have a stroke. Medical science? Oh hell no! Can't have any of that! SIN! SIN, I tell you!

Hey Pat, what sin was it that my great-grandmother committed when she had a stroke in 1998? What did my grandma do when she died of cancer in 2000? Did I get this head cold because I stubbed my toe and cussed last week? God is NOT an almighty accountant, loser. If He were, your ass would be toast, bastard. And so would mine, and so would everyone else's.

Get a life, and/or get off the air, dude.

Incidentally, since when is only Israel "God's Land"? What is He, Walt Disney? The whole joint is His land, dumbass. He created it. All His. Sooner that everyone figures that one out, the better off we'll be. One million people watch the 700 Club every time it airs. So at least one million people are being influenced by this asshat, who thinks:

-- We should assassinate Hugo Chavez, the president of Venezuela. I'm sorry, what? So does that mean that random fuckwits from other countries can call for Bush's head? Hmm?

-- San Francisco should be left to the terrorists.

-- Dover, Pennsylvania is going to be smote.

-- Oh, and the homos are responsible for every hideous thing that happens. Especially the World Trade Center. Because me and Aud were flying the planes and all. Asshat.

Someone seriously needs to get this dude off the air. He's so busy making money that he's apparently forgotten the greater part of the New Testament, if he ever knew any of it (or followed it) at all.

On behalf of my fellow fuckwit Christians, I apologise. I swear we aren't all like that.

Clutch City.

2006-01-04T16:39:00.000-06:00

It happened over a period of time, but also all at once. For nearly a month, there had been a slight grinding noise whenever I'd hit the clutch pedal, but I assumed it was due to the sudden cold weather. But then the weather warmed up and the noise did not take its leave. I asked my daddy about it and he went into a long lecture on the mechanics of a standard transmission. I humoured him, though I knew about three-quarters of what he was saying to me already. In the end, Daddy concluded that something called a "throw-out bearing" was probably the cause of the problem, but that I probably did not need to worry about it today.

Well...Daddy is allowed to be wrong on occasion too. Even about cars.

The clutch carked it halfway between the West Loop and the West Belt. At a quarter to five this afternoon. Stop and go traffic. I had noticed about the time I hit the West Loop that the motion of the clutch pedal was slightly crunchy feeling when I had to shift back down to fourth once. Shortly thereafter, as I was considering whether or not to get off onto the access road, a loud, obnoxious, whistle/screech began to emanate from beneath the hood.

I had gotten off on the access road by now, and was shifting without hitting the clutch -- at about eighteen hundred rotations per minute, you can shift gears in my car without grinding the gears. I was incredibly thankful for this quirk of mechanics because without it I'd be waiting for a tow truck that I cannot afford. The problem with this, however, is that you cannot shift into first from a dead stop, even if you rev the engine up to eighteen hundred.

Therefore, every time I had to shift into first (which happened about six thousand eight hundred forty-three times), I had to hit the clutch and endure the evil noise.

After about another hour of progressing in this manner, I managed to get to Katy, fifth gear, eighty miles per hour, and got into Austin just fine. I timed the three traffic lights in Bastrop well enough that I didn't have to hit the clutch again, and didn't have a problem until I got to Lamar and Seventy-one, at which point my car chose to stall out. I restarted and managed to only receive the finger twice -- both times from white women in yuppiemobiles.

I got home and made dinner since I had been digesting myself since before La Grange, and considered the problem of paying the rent. The furthest I've ridden on my bike at a time since I've lived here this fall is from my house up to Fifteenth Street, and the management company is on Twenty-fourth. Up a killer hill. I slept on the idea, and then inexplicably awoke at a quarter past one. I figured there was little enough traffic that I could take my car. I did not think the clutch situation could get that much worse.

I was mistaken.

The only way to stop the whistling/screeching while idling was to turn off the engine. I managed to get stuck at the San Gabriel/Twenty-fourth light both coming and going. And on the way back, it was bad enough that if the engine was running at under two thousand rotations per minute, the screech got its continuous screech on.

I've since looked up repair shops. I'm glad I live where I do, right in the middle of everything, because there are thirty mechanics within a mile of my place. I'm worried about driving though, even that much. Aamco will tow; I hope that an independent mechanic will do the same.

Looks like I'm going to be doing well with my exercise resolution. Lots of bike riding in my future.

Resolutions!

2006-01-03T04:02:00.000-06:00

A couple of days late. Oh well.

1) Fifteen pounds. End of February. Gone. The End. It irritates me that Sheryl Crow is my mother's age and has a better body than me. Shallow? Yes. Too bad. I'm twenty-two years old, and it's ridiculous for AARP members to be outrunning me on the Town Lake trail.

2) I'm going to be kinder to people. I'm terrible about that and highly inconsistent. I'm not sure how I'm going to go about it; I think it will take some fundamental change, but I'm not sure what precisely it is that makes me unable to 'be sweet' as it were. So I guess I'll spend a lot of time pinning that down first.

3) I spend too much money on myself and so I'm going to stop that.

4) As part of 3), I am not going to buy more than ten books this year. Excluding school books.

5) I am going to read at least two books that I have not yet read every month.

6) I'm going to start sleeping like a normal person. Like...I'm going to get up every morning by eight. No matter what.

7) I will try harder to love unselfishly. That's a difficult one.

8) I will write, creatively, or at least semi-creatively, every day.

9) I will not be afraid. Also difficult.

The End. So far.

It was a dark and foggy night...

2006-01-01T02:31:00.000-06:00

So, at about half past seven, I decided that I would not spend New Year's Eve alone, threw a few of my clothes into my overnight, and set off on my way to here, where I am at this time, that is to say...Baytown.

I might have mentioned this before, but the only redeeming features of Baytown are Lee College, my parents, both of my churches, Luna's Mexican Restaurant, and my friends. The fact that it's three hours off doesn't help. At any rate, I am here now, after much personal peril and other events.

For a start, y'all might have not noticed this, but it's damn foggy tonight. By the time I got to IH-10, I could barely see the taillights of the cars in front of me, and they weren't all that far away. It thinned out a bit in Houston, but I was on the way to my friend Phil's house because he was going to blow up his Christmas tree. Phil lives in Beach City, which is basically the sticks. The fog east of Baytown was so thick that I couldn't see but about ten feet in front of me and nearly died about forty times because the damn rednecks were shooting off fireworks -right- next to the road, and when you can't see anything, exploding noises kind of freak you out.

Or at least they freak me out.

So, I finally get to Phil's house. Whitney runs out to the road and grabs me in this huge hug and whispers in my ear:

"I HATE these kind of parties!"

The party consisted of Phil and his folks, Whit, Courtlandt, Peter, James...and about forty redneck people from the vicinity with whom Phil had the misfortune to attend high school. And they were drunk. They weren't normal drunk like we get drunk, they were stupid drunk.

One such drunk, hereafter known as "The Confederate", had taken a shine to Whit (because everyone does; she's beautiful) and thus kept talking to us. And then got mad when I responded to his vulgar idiocy with less than polite remarks.

Anyway. The blowing up of the Christmas tree. This was not an inflation as some have seemed to think previously, but rather an explosion. Three thousand Black Cats and two gallons of gasoline. It exploded like whoa. And there will be pictures as soon as I can make my camera work. So that was a good time. Whitney commented that it was a sad way for a Christmas tree to die, but Peter said that it was a quick death, and very humane. I agree. It's a hell of a lot better to go out in a blaze of glory than to get hauled off by the rubbish collectors.

So that happened, and after further sorties by the Confederate, which follow:

Me, to Whitney: There's nothing scarier than driving eighty miles per hour through fog.
The Confederate, for no apparent reason: I know what's scarier than thayut! Driving eighty miles per hour through fog on snow!
Me, to the Confederate: Yeah, well, I'm not -that- stupid.
The Confederate, to me: I've done it!
Me, to the Confederate: Right, like I said. I'm not that stupid.

The Confederate then complained to Phil that I had called him stupid.

He also proceeded to attempt to eviscerate me with his...totally nonexistant wit...and then proceeded to continue to be vulgar in front of Whit and Courtlandt which really made me want to murder him, and then we left.

And went to IHOP, where the rest of the rednecks in the area had gathered, but we all had each other and it was good. The fog is DISTURBINGLY thick, though. It was really scary.

Anyway. That's all the news that is news. Happy New Year, everyone who reads this; I am glad that you all are my friends and I hope that y'all had a Confederate-free evening. I'm not really sure when I'm going to be back; I was going to come back on Monday in time for the writing group, but Whit's having her wisdom teeth out on Tuesday and will be out of pocket for most of the rest of the time she's here...so I might be back Monday night yet, or Tuesday. Not sure.

Next post will be about The Producers. Audrey, it doesn't matter that you don't like musicals. You will love this, I promise, and we must go see it.

Why Dating is Annoying.

2005-12-24T23:32:00.000-06:00

Well, no blog post could be long enough to cover that. Let's just say, I haven't been on a date in a really long time that left me this cold. In fact, the last one was with a guy. Even on my last date, where sadly, the woman I was with wasn't interested, was it this bad.

Nothing. In common. To talk about. Happened. First, apparently the theater randomly decided to close (fair enough; it's Dobie and most of the students are gone, but they should have said something) so we're walking around downtown and talking.

Correction: we're walking around downtown and I am talking. She said, "I'm not much of a talker," which is definitely true. At least mine and Audrey's awkward silences were broken by one of us (usually her) making a crude joke or a random observance about the political state of the world (usually me)...Aud, my friend, if I annoyed you this much, I apologise. But I don't think I did since we are, in fact, friends.

I'm not even absolutely certain how to describe the extremity with which I am annoyed at this date. For a start, I'm annoyed that I didn't like it. I'm annoyed that I was not attracted to her. But I'm not sure if I'm annoyed because I'm too picky. The run down:

1) Doesn't. Say. Anything. Maybe she's shy. Except, that in my car at the very last minute when I was dropping her off, she talked more than she had the entire time, and I could tell that she was hanging around in an attempt to kiss me.

2) I'm not feeling the cigar smoking, which she did not actually do on our jaunt around downtown. But really, no.

3) I think I'm also annoyed that when we were discussing The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe (the movie), that rather than comparing it to the book, she was, in fact, comparing it to the cartoon, having not read the book. That really irritated me. I'm a snob.

4) I just discovered this one. Y'all may or may not know that I'm really self-conscious about my voice. And I think that the reason is because someone's voice is apparently a big deal to me. I didn't realise that till tonight. Why? Because my date's voice...was rather grating to my ears. So maybe it's a good thing that she didn't talk a lot.

5) I am almost certain that she just wanted to hook up. This in itself does not offend me, except that before I hook up, I'd like to have a compelling reason to do so. There really weren't any.

I hope to God that I am not this bad of a date. Because if I am, I'm screwed and I think I understand why I haven't had anyone want to date me in a really really really long time. That's a girl, anyway. And that's why I feel really terrible is because I'm always the one to be ditched and now I'm being a ditchee.

But I also don't think she had anything really emotionally invested in this, so maybe it's ok.

A conversation I had with Deanna last night is making me think, though...but that's another entry.

I think I'll try again with this girl...go see the movie...she goes in her own car, et cetera. Everyone deserves a second chance. And I really want to see the movie, and probably no one would go with me. So I'll have a go.

Well, Damn.

2005-12-21T03:23:00.000-06:00

This was not going to be a personal blog; it was rather meant to be more of a literary experimentation, or an Austin blog, something that people read because it's fucking hilarious or something like that. But I seem to have gone all emo instead. Loser.

My aunt, my godmother, in a word, hates me, I think. Today, my sister e-mailed her and politely asked that she not send propaganda through the e-mail, because my sister is annoyed by propaganda. In response, the both of us and our mother received the following:

Thank you for your latest email correspondence.

You have certainly gained my attention and sorry, my bad, my mistake. Christian views that are passed on is a taboo subject. Again, my bad, my mistake.

I, too, am sad about the "massive fights" and am disappointed to say the least. But let me share one thing.... I did not start it, but I am trying my best to understand it.

I now know the guidelines and boundaries to which I am to conform when passing on emails to y'all. I suppose y'all should have given me these instructions about 5 years ago so I would not have taken up your time.

I also now know EXACTLY the status of what is going on with you girls. I have wondered for a time....

Rest assured, I will be NOT forwarding ANYTHING except maybe news (by telephone, of course, hoping the answering machine will pick up) of my passing in the future to either of you. In fact, deletion from my email list will probably be the answer, so the temptation will be naught.

No one needs to be bothered by an answer to this correspondence. I have a response set up to tell me when this message is received and read.

It should be noted at this time that I do not really cry. But I did. This freaking hurt. What the hell, really? We ask not to have to support her politics, and we get this? "Christian values" are "taboo"? What the hell? I live my life, as best I can, according to what Christ said to do. She knows EXACTLY the status of what is going on? What the hell does that mean? No way in hell she knows I'm gay. No way in hell she can logically think that my sister is. She doesn't know crap about what's going on.

You know what's going on? Our parents raised us to think for ourselves (which has backfired on Daddy because he's kind of conservative. It's funny); as such, I decided that no, dammit, I'm NOT going to live my life being miserable for the sake of appearances. I decided, no, dammit, I'm not going to stay at a college where I want to die. I decided that I'll major in something I like. I'll buy a car I like. I'll live life so that I actually ENJOY it.

And that I will not, ever, be joined to someone as worthless as her husband is. And if that makes me wrong, I don't want to be right. I want to love and be loved. I want to LIVE, to suck all of the marrow out of life, lest when I come to die, discover that I hadn't lived (Thoreau. Wish I'd have written that.). I want to have a chance at happiness, at joy...at peace.

Consequently, my Christmas plans are rather bizarre. I've been feeling ill for most of the day, and part of the evening. The only thing that saved me was the presence of my dear friends...their drama and all. What I've needed, for weeks, is to be held. I got it tonight. I just wish that this would go away.

And suddenly...

2005-12-18T23:26:00.000-06:00

All of the oxygen had been sucked out of the room. I should have seen it coming, but I'm a little dense and not just a little stupid sometimes.

Both of the people with whom I've discussed it say that it's not me. They're both lying, but it's kind of them anyway. Of course it's me. It could be the extra fifteen pounds, or it could be my sense of humour. It could be my politics. It could be that I hold the door. It could be that I'm occasionally catty and snarky.

I've never understood the whole 'compatibility issue' thing. Who cares if I like Monty Python and she doesn't? I don't want a carbon copy of myself; supposedly others don't either. But here I am again, with that kicked-in-the-stomach, no-air feeling. And I think...that I'm supposed to be ok with this? Act like it's not a big deal? Sure, for her sake and the sake of our friendship, I will. The last time this happened to me, I said I'd rather have her in my life as a friend than not at all, and I stand by it now.

I'm angry, though. It seems incomprehensible, even to myself, that I am, because she hasn't really done anything to me. Quite. She did say she wasn't interested. But she said it was because she wasn't ready for a relationship; she didn't want to date anyone. Her friends said the same thing, "It's not you, it's everybody." I thought, for some incredibly stupid reason, that if I just loved her anyway, she might come around. Or at least, she would be a happier person for it.

But no, nothing, nothing at all that I've done has made her life better or happier; none of it makes a difference. She has other friends to give backrubs when she's sore, and others to listen to her when she's angry or sad.

Well, I did say that I want her to be happy, and I do. And it looks like she is.

But why couldn't it be me, on any level, that made her happy? I don't make her happy as a friend, and I didn't even get a chance beyond that (again, what is it that's so repellent? I grow tired of hearing how I'm a great friend, but...). Everything I tried to do to make her special, loved (in a friend way), or loved in a not-friend way...backfired. Had the total opposite effect. Embarrassed her, made her feel guilty, scared her, pushed her away. I don't understand and it hurts that she derives no joy from my presence, that she feels like she has to pick fights with me to keep me at arm's length...beyond arm's length. Maybe the arm's length of some ancient giant.

And I feel like there's meant to be some higher purpose, some reason why we were thrown together -- why I felt compelled to seek her out.

I don't know what that reason is right now.

Born to be Wild (Cha Cha Cha)

2005-12-18T01:00:00.000-06:00

Deanna's post, when there is one (and there surely will be one) will much more well-written than this could ever hope to be. But she's cool like that, and she's asleep, so I get to scoop her.

After meeting a friend of hers at El Arroyo and consuming many chips and several margaritas (well, they had real food as well), we walked a bit down Fifth to Donn's Depot, which used to be a MoPac train depot, and also has several train cars attached to it (the women's bathroom is in a caboose). Deanna had been there before and said it was cool (Deanna has good taste, incidentally, and the following is in no way, shape, or form her responsibility).

As we walked up next to the place, I started having feelings of trepidation; filtering through the walls and windows were the unmistakeable strains of a very bad cover of "She's a Lady". I eyed Deanna askance, but she was deep in conversation with her friend and didn't notice. We, or rather, Deanna, paid the cover and went in, and she wisely found a table far, far from the band. We ordered a round of drinks as the band stopped playing. We assuming that they were the opening band and relaxed.

Oh, no.

No, no.

They were on a break. This band is known as the Recliners, and they play lounge-style covers. Sort of like Richard Cheese, but he is obviously trying to be satirical. These guys were serious, I think. They covered "Fly Me to the Moon" (which I didn't feel could get worse until tonight), a song by Quiet Riot of which I do not remember the title at this time, and "The Boys are Back in Town" (mess with Thin Lizzy, will you?!) and at last, the coup de gras: "Born to be Wild".

After some frantic searching for the waitress, we paid the bill and made our exit. Deanna shivered the whole way to the car.

It was all in all, a successful evening, as time with Deanna always is, the hideous lounge music notwithstanding.

Christmas Commercials

2005-12-17T16:20:00.000-06:00

Need to die. I'm so tired of the jeweler commercials...show your wife/girlfriend/resident female that you love her by giving her a nice, shiny rock.

It will be assumed that I am bitter because I don't have anyone to give me a shiny rock. Untrue! While I do admit really liking my high school class ring (which currently resides in Russia), I'm not really one for rings anyway. But that's not important now.

Maybe it's because I'm getting older and less innocent, but every year it seems to get worse -- this materialism that pervades our culture. It's especially prevalent at Christmas. They step up the commercials for diamonds and jewelry and clothes and malls...it's all so incredibly fake. I think I'm also annoyed that it appears that in December I'm supposed to magically find things for my friends and family that they will like. That's just too much pressure. I have a tendency to see things at inappropriate times, like mid-March, that scream at me "Hey! [insert friend here] would freakin love me!" and those inanimate objects screaming at me are usually right.

I think it doesn't help much that I don't have a whole lot of money to spend (inevitably at Christmas; I think it's connected to the massive tuition payment) and so I feel guilty for not being much in the way of a gift-giver.

But really, the deluge of commercials are really killing me. I don't like most commercials anyway, especially since the radio assumes that everyone who listens to classic rock is a guy. Every third commercial on 102.3 is for a strip club or for "male enhancement". I have no need for either of these things. I could sure use mail enhancement, though. My federal loan hasn't shown up yet...

So it's not as bad as I thought.

2005-12-16T03:41:00.000-06:00

After much crying, wailing, and gnashing of teeth, I have come to the conclusion that I am merely more emotionally mature than I was when I wrote that story at the beginning of this year. Yes, more emotionally mature even -after- the crying, wailing, and gnashing of teeth. I think that is just something I'm going to do forever in connection with anything I ever write.

Fortunately, my critic was very kind and didn't eviscerate me; in fact, she found the same stuff annoying that I do. Which shows either a) that great minds think alike, or that b) she's just as bad off as I am. I'm pulling for a).

I think I'm going to try to rework it. Especially since I read a blog entry by the father of one of my close friends which felt for all the world like it was directed at me, except that he doesn't know I'm gay. It essentially read, "You who are saying that you are living as a Christian, but making unChristian life choices are not following God's will and are questioning His will." I don't know to what, specifically, he was referring, but I'm sure choosing to not hate myself for being gay is on the list.

And -something- needs to be out there for people to see how it's not a choice between hetero and homo, but a choice between being happy with how you are and hating yourself. There aren't a whole lot of homosexual public figures that are in particularly stable situations or don't have some sort of eccentricity (Exceptions I can think of offhand are Melissa Etheridge and George Takei). Literature and film involving gays doesn't do a lot either (haven't seen Brokeback Mountain yet, so who knows?). I mean, The Hours was great and I loved it, but when my friend saw it tonight I had to explain to him how Meryl and Ed were lovers way back in the day before they both came to the conclusion that they were gay, but Meryl was still a little in love with Ed and so Allison was on the fringes for most of the movie, much to the annoyance of herself and Claire Danes.

I -LOVE- The Hours, but we still need a movie of lesbians who a) aren't nuts (Mulholland Drive), b) arguably bisexual, such as in The Hours, or c) in the military or something. I, of course, am not claiming that I could be the writer of such a work, but I reckon it's worth a shot.

Today I must stay up all the day, with possibly a two-hour nap. Being vaguely ill the other day and choosing to sleep in has thrown off my sleep patterns something fierce. I do not enjoy sleeping during the day except for in nap form. Sadly, it is too cold for my hammock and my couch is too short on which to sleep (THIS is changing as soon as I get my student loan in May. I love this couch thing, but it's a two-seater. I knew I should have gotten the longer one, even if it's a bit large for the living room), and I cannot nap on my bed because I will fall too hard asleep and not wake up.

Of course, now I am yawning my head off, so perhaps I'll take a nap for two hours right now and see how that goes.

Why the Hell?

2005-12-12T00:39:00.000-06:00

Do I do crap like this to myself? I reread the story I wrote for a creative writing class for this past spring semester. It's TERRIBLE! And things aren't supposed to start looking terrible to the writer for a couple of years.

It's bad. It's trite. It's about being in love. Which is bad and trite.

I guess the fact that I can see that it's terrible shows...I'm not in love anymore.

Which is a weird thing to write. I had acknowledged it tacitly; obviously I would not have been interested in dating anyone had I still been in love. I tried earlier this year and got a queasy feeling in my stomach and was busy comparing her to HER. And that didn't happen in October.

It's still weird to write. I'm not in love anymore.
I don't dream about her anymore.
I don't see things in malls or stores and automatically think of her.
I can drive around Austin without automatically thinking of her.
Funnily enough...I think I went a couple of days this week without thinking of her. I don't know for sure, since I wasn't thinking about it.

I feel so fake; I told her I'd love her forever, that I would always carry a torch with her, that I couldn't think of my life without her.

But I can now. I can see a future without her in it.

Do I still love her? Of course.
What if she came back?

I don't know.

Have I found room in my heart for someone else?

Yes.

Twenty Degrees in December.

2005-12-06T21:57:00.000-06:00

Ok. Not quite. But it may as well be. 102.3 keeps talking about busting out ice scrapers on Thursday morning. I don't know if anyone else has noticed this...but I have FINALS on Thursday. Finals. Yes. Which probably means I'll have to get up five hundred years earlier than I was going to in order to get there on time. I've never driven on ice.

My Russian Lit final is at eight on Thursday morning. I was going to leave at seven to get there on time (traffic, et cetera). It looks like half past six now. Great, great, great.

I was really happy with the 'unseasonably' warm weather. In fact, I think a world where it is eighty degrees year round is a brilliant idea.

Which is why I am going to move to Australia every winter after I grow up and have money. More on that later; my taco meat is burning.

Dear Guy in Romania who cleaned out my checking account:

2005-11-16T17:39:00.000-06:00

I hope you're happy. I hope you're happy now. I hope you're happy how you've hurt your cause forever. I hope you think you're clever! Because you know what!? NOW I am not going to give anymore money to charities who might send it to Romania. You know WHY? Because I'll be able to tell them that I've already made a twelve hundred dollar, non-tax deductable donation to ROMANIANS!

You, Guy in Romania! I have to drive home after classes tomorrow, get a police report, go close my checking account and open a new one! All because of you! I have to get new checks! I JUST BOUGHT checks! They have Care Bears on them! And now I have to get new ones! Because of you!

The bank is going to replace my money, oh yes. But I have a paper due on Tuesday. You wouldn't know about that because instead of going to a nice college or something over there in Romania, you decided to be a thief! THIEF! And now I have to drive three hours there and three back again so that I won't miss my write-in on Friday and so that I can work on my research paper!

I hope you are doing some good stuff with my money that you got out of your Romanian ATM with your fake Romanian ATM card that you made out of mine! I hope you are feeding some poor homeless person on the streets of Bucharest! And moreover, I hope you are enjoying it!

And some day, when I am a grownup and have more money than you could ever steal out of my bank account, I am going to come to Romania! And I am going to find you! And you know what I am going to do? I am going to buy you dinner! Because you OBVIOUSLY are so very destitute that you need to steal my BORROWED money out of my bank account, so that I have to drive two hundred miles home on short notice when I have a paper due and AFTER I actually have a social life where I live! So I am going to buy you dinner so that you don't starve to death, and so that, in a final twist of poetic justice, you will get exactly what you want while I laugh at you over a glass of white wine.

And then, when you are done with your dinner, I am going to kick you in the shin.

Have a good day. Remember, we will always have Amazon.com.

Regards,

Ivy

The Weather Wins.

2005-11-16T16:27:00.000-06:00

It's fifty-seven degrees out there today. So much for the nice, mild weather. The wind is blowing out of the north, and sadly, every single one of my destinations for today is...North.

Seattle's Best? North.

Austin Java? North.

At least when I go home, the wind will be at my back. But it belatedly occurs to me that I should have worn sneakers rather than flip flops because I cannot feel my toes at this time. So I am sitting in yet another yuppie establishment of which I am not terribly fond, waiting for my tutoring gig to figure out how to write a paper. Well, actually, I'm showing her, but right now she's listing things to support her thesis and coming up with statements to support them. Hopefully, this will work out for her, because I have a write-in in a non-yuppie place at seven.

Last night was scary. Borders. The mere mention of the name makes me shudder in horror. Giant mega corporation evilness...and no free internet. The independent businesses, hell, even Seattle's Best has free internet. But not the Fortune Five Hundred companies! Can't have that! So I'm sitting there, waiting for one helenathemuse to show up, on this poufy couch, feeling utterly awkward. It's quiet. The other NaNos are writing. It's nothing like the other write-ins which I have attended. We are always raucous and laughing and drinking. None of that here. I decide to leave and I am walking to my car when behold! the car of helenathemuse! Saved! And so we go back into the bookstore-which-must-not-be-named to type happily away...or rather, she agonises over whether Botticelli is gonna do it with this girl, and I play solitaire.

All in all, a productive evening.

2005-11-12T00:35:00.000-06:00

At about ten minutes past eleven this evening I was walking down Enfield toward Lamar and Austin Java to retrieve my bike. I had left it there in order to drive my somewhat inebriated friend back to her house (she then wanted to walk me back to Java, which I dismissed since she had spent the better part of the drive telling me that she hated me, ostensibly, for being nice to her) and so there I was. I got to the spot where Enfield forks and becomes a mystical half-Enfield, half-Fifteenth Street (sort of like the Green Goblin/Spider-Man's friend's dad) when, as I was crossing to take the Enfield route, a guy (UT shirt and all) in an SUV made the EXACT same noise I had been making to my friend's cat not ten minutes before.

Now, this could be me, but if you are a guy and you want to attract a girl to you, you do not call her the same way you would a cat, which, in this case, was by making little kissy noises. I resisted the urge to give him the finger and went on my way. I got my bike and began making my way back toward South Austin. At Sixth, I was met with two shirtless boys who might have been...thirteen. Now, when I was thirteen, I couldn't get boys to look at me twice. Now I am pushing twenty-two and pubescent boys think I'm hot stuff. These particular boys were on very small bikes and kept trying to talk to me and tell me I was hot. They probably just figured I'd buy them beer.

Coming upon the Fifth Street light, I had an important decision to make. Shall I cross to the east side of Lamar and go down to Sandra Muraida and across the pedestrian bridge, or shall I be lazy and take the scary "emergency only" sidewalk on the Lamar bridge? Naturally, you know already that I took the scary sidewalk because otherwise there would be no point in writing about it. My reasons are thus: it was late, I was (and still am, actually) hungry, and I was lazy. So I did, and every car that passed me did so in the near lane, and then AFTER passing me moved into the far lane. Of course.

The rest of my trip home passed fairly unevenfully. I have no other words. I have no more words in my NaNoWriMo novel. But it was overall a good evening. I'm going inside now, to fix my food deficit.

2005-11-10T14:18:00.000-06:00

There's nothing quite like the traffic on South Lamar. It defies explanation. It defies common sense. It does not defy gravity (only Elphaba can pull that off). In this way, it is sort of like the majority of the Texas Legislature (two months every two years. Brilliance at work.), or the central Texas weather. Not just any place can pull of ninety degrees in November.

In the ten minutes it takes to get downtown on my bike from my apartment south of Zilker Park, I can usually witness at least three near misses, six episodes of brake-slamming for no apparent reason, four ridiculous lane changes, two prize fights between someone's liberal-stickered Volvo and someone else's Dubya-stickered Suburban, and twenty-seven thousand, three hundred forty-six incidents of someone running across the street without looking to see if there's traffic.

Perhaps I exaggerate. But not by much.

The bumper stickers here are brilliant. You can almost tell a person's entire life by the make and model of their car and the stickers which adorn it. Take, for example, the above-mentioned Suburban, in any color, 1998 or later. It has a W '04 sticker on it. It might have a "These Colors Don't Run" or "Power of Pride" sticker on it. There is probably also at least one sticker declaring that a daughter or son is on the dance team/cheerleading squad/baseball team/football team/et cetera at X High School. This Suburban lives in Rollingwood or in one of the new housing developments around the outskirts of the city. The Suburban does not know anyone who is gay (or is in denial, or simply doesn't notice. Everyone who lives near Austin knows someone who is gay.) and voted for Proposition 2. The Suburban probably pays for the ninety gallon trash cart for curbside garbage pickup.

The Volvo. The Volvo has stickers from Wheatsville Co-op, at least three derogatory Bush stickers, a "Keep Austin Weird" sticker, probably a sticker from some Waterloo business or BookPeople, and more than likely at least one gay rights sticker. The Volvo lives inside the 35/71/MoPac/183 boundary and usually bikes, but might have been making a run to the grocery store or something. The Volvo has a thirty gallon garbage cart (unless it has roommates, then it has the sixty) and four recycling bins from the fire station. The Volvo can be found biking, rowing on Town Lake, or walking when it is not negotiating South Lamar. The Volvo might be straight, but thinks that Proposition 2 is idiotic and voted against it. The Volvo is way freaked out when it occasionally makes the trip north of town (for whatever reason), comes over that rise on 35 and sees the valley which is absolutely covered with houses that all look exactly the same and are one and a half feet apart. This is what is known as Pflugerville (not the historic part, which has its own charm).

There are many vehicles between these two extremes, and off on their own tangents. But the basic spectrum of Austin existence can be easily found in South Lamar traffic, any time between seven in the morning and eleven at night.