I Don't Like Commitment

Amy: On a scale of 1 to 10, how often do you actually use a one or a ten to describe something?
Julian: ...Two.

In a World Stacked Against Love

It's important to me.

Return to Africa

Well, not exactly...but my lifestyle here at my "luxury" apartment in Claremont (or Upland, to be exact) has mirrored my life in Botswana in so many ways, it's a little weird. And so I give to you...
Ways in which my apartment makes me feel like I'm abroad again:


1. The hot water is unreliable.
This is not exactly true for Botswana. I was pretty much guaranteed hot water for my morning bath every day; however, since only my feet could be submerged in the warmth of this bath, leaving the rest of my body to shiver in the chilly air of the African morning, I feel justified in including my baths in this category.
At my apartment, I have the luxury of feeling water cover my entire body during my showers, but there is still no guarantee that my bathing experience will be a warm one. The hot water has been a bit flaky, so my rushed showers in California probably provide just as much (or little) cleaning as my bucket baths in Botswana.


2. My commute to school involves an inordinate amount of dust in my face.
In Botswana, as you'd expect from a country that is half desert, the land was incredibly dry and barren. Thus, on my trek to and from school every day, I had to hike through piles of dust and endured many gusts of wind that gave me a faceful of the stuff.
Here, the stretch of road leading from my complex to Claremont Blvd. is essentially a wasteland of quarrys and nothingness. In the dry heat of Southern California, this also means dust. To make matters work, numerous construction projects are underway on this empty expanse, causing the dirt to be disturbed and facilitating its journey into my face.


3. I cook things on a gas stove.
I know many houses in the U.S. have gas stoves, but having grown up on an electric stove, the smaller high to low temperature spectrum and constant fear of extinguishing the flame are (almost) new experiences for me. The only other real experience that I've had being in Africa. Granted, in Botswana, I had to turn the dial on the actual gasoline tank and then light the stove with a match by hand in order to get the burner going, but it was a gas stove nonetheless. Similarity.


4. I live behind a gate.
I had a fence the yard of every home I lived in in Botswana, but when I lived with my third host family in Gaborone, the capital of Botswana, I had a legitimate gate that often required a key to get through. And on the occasions that it was unlocked, it took some serious pulling to secure an opening wide enough to squeeze through.
At my luxury apartment complex, we too have gates that require either a key to open or an oversized remote control. Though some would see this as an appreciated form of security, I see it only as a hassle - an extra obstacle in my journey to and from school.


5. I open cans with a knife.
That's right. Who would have thought I would come away from Africa not just with a new cultural understanding, but with practical how-to knowledge. It may not surprise you that I had no can openers in Botswana, so my opening tin cans with a knife would be a plausible, resourceful practice. However, you may feel differently upon learning that I use the same technique here in my luxury apartment. But what do you expect from a college kid in a new, unfurnished home?



So maybe I didn't really have to get all those shots and take long plane rides to experience a different way of living. Of course, I won't make that claim just yet...at least not until I have to dodge cows and donkeys on the road and my neighbors start speaking Setswana.

Homelessness and Harmony

Last Saturday, I went down the Inner Harbor for a day of leprechauns, Johnny Rockets, and people in crazy Otakon outfits.
For those of you who aren't from Baltimore and don't know of it's amazingness, there's an amphitheater right in the center of the Inner Harbor called Harborplace and every Saturday and Sunday evenings they have live, outdoor performances for free.

After having a delicious grilled cheese and wandering around the waterfront for a while, the leprechaun and I settled down to watch a barbershop quartet-kind of deal perform. They sang many favorites, like "My Girl" and "Stand by Me." However, there was a performer of a different kind out to steal the show. A tall, skinny, very dirty man wearing a zip-up vest that was a little too short, a white bandanna around his head to hold back his short, greasy blond hair, and no shoes, staggered into the center of the amphitheater to dance. He clearly did not have what most people would consider a respectable home (aka - he probably slept on stoops and under bridges) and he was definitely either under the influence of a controlled substance or had frequented such substances to such a degree that he could no longer function in a "normal" way, but he was having the time of his life.

Not too long after he started dancing, a shorter, rotund fella in raggedy camo shorts also staggered into the amphitheater and began dancing. He had long, gray hair pulled back in a ponytail and he was wearing dress shoes that didn't quite match his outfit. He danced for a while and then went and sat with the other man (who was sitting with a dirty woman who was nothing remarkable) on one of the steps. As they sat, the skinny guy began to brush round-guy's hair. I'll be damned if it wasn't one of the cuter things I've ever seen. Sure, they were dirty, drug-addict hobos, but come on - a man brushing his friend's nasty hair? That's cute.

Now, I'll admit that the first time the skinny man came out and started dancing, I was uncomfortable and wished he would stop. I told myself it was second-hand embarassment, but really it was a mixture of that and a kind of disgust that he would showcase himself like that in front of all these nice people. But then, after the hairbrushing event, as they continued to get up at random intervals and dance, I realized that they had just as much of a right to be there as anyone else. They weren't panhandling; they weren't trying to steal from anyone; hell, the only time they even touched anyone else was when the skinny man tried to shake an old woman's hand to wish her a happy birthday.

During one of the breaks, the dirty hobo woman walked over to a woman who was sitting in front of us with her infant and tried to talk to the woman about her child. She wagged her finger in the baby's face and cooed just like any friendly person. While watching this, the woman sitting next to me leaned over and whispered, "No way in hell I'd ever let her touch my child." I smiled awkwardly, but the comment made me sad. These were people who were just trying to have fun; after all, they probably don't have the opportunity to hear music frequently at all, let alone live music. Just because they are less fortunate than the rest of us doesn't deny them the right to gather peacefully, watch a free show, and dance and sing along when they feel fit.

After the barbershop quartet, it seemed time for the two men to leave. As they walked off, it was like something out of a cartoon - a tall, skinny, short-haired man in barefeet tottering next to a short, round man with long hair and dress shoes. It couldn't have been better if it were fiction. I'm glad they were there and that they had a good time. They certainly enhanced my Inner Harbor experience.

The Time My Fake Band Turned Real

So many of you may not know this, but I am in a world-famous rock band. We are called Niptuck Bruiser and I play the drums and am the rapper. Cara is the singer, Jessica is the bass player (because she has the biggest hands), Sarah plays the keytar, Caroline plays the triangle, Sophie plays the digeridoo, and Mandi plays a tiny harmonica. Like Disney movies, our albums are currently in the vault, but we have a number of them. Through the years, band members have come and gone, but every year, those of our band members who are available make an appearance at my summer camp where we are mean to little kids.




Our band, however.....is fake. It all started when Cara, Jess, Sarah, and I were sitting in Sorrento's Pizza in Catonsville and realized that we were such an incredibly pretty group of girls that we should probably be in a band. We called ourselves The Bruisers and assigned instruments and funny accents for each of us. The "Niptuck" bit got added when we went home that night to watch the amazingly trashy Paradise Hotel and were astounded by the graphic commercials for a new soft-core-porn-slash-slasher-show called Nip/Tuck. Since then we have dressed up for our campers every year, but we haven't really played any shows or recorded anything.

Imagine my surprise, then, when I discover that our band actually exists in boy form. They are called The Polygons and - though they are lacking a digeridoo, tiny harmonica, and triangle - they are a real-life incarnation of our band.
I met the members of this band while out dancing at Magerks in Federal Hill. Cara and Kate noticed this guy in the room singing along to every single song and told me to dance with him. And once he started doing the lawnmower, how could I resist? Turns out, his name is Lee and he is the drummer for the Polygons. He has since told me that he is also a rapper, but I like to think of him as a liar and that would just be creepy, besides.

Anyway, Lee is the drummer for this band...big deal, right? Except that he then tells me about Ed, who plays the bass and Parker, who plays the keytar.
AND. Though they don't have funny accents like those of us in my fake band, Ed is Mexican and Lee is Irish - making them a real band with nearly the same multicultural status as our fake band.

Perhaps next year, we will invite the Polygons to come play at our camp. They can open for Niptuck Bruiser. After all, while they are a real-life band, let's not forget that NTB is still a world-famous band.

Following Doctor's Orders

After Jen stopped her silly attention-grabbing death act at the hospital, she was moved from her private room in the ICU to a double room in general care so she could recover with proper medical supervision without taking up a high-demand specialty bed in intensive care.

As a few friends and I were visiting the first night she moved in, we heard her roommate page the nurses quite a few times requesting some ice, but to no avail. We cringed as Jen's sister, Heather, ranted an "I-told-you-so" speech about the lousy service people get in general care. So when Jen's doctor came in to introduce himself, Jen (being the kind soul that she is) asked him if he could get her roommate some ice because she had been asking for it for a while but no one had come. He said he would see what he could do and left the room.

He came back a few seconds later and quietly told us that Jen's roommate wasn't allowed to have anything by mouth because they thought they might have to perform surgery on her for some reason. Once he left, Heather, the only one in the room who actually had a view of the other side of the room-divider curtain, looks at us and goes, "She's drinking an orange soda!"

Her soft-drink transgression was just the beginning. The next morning, as the nurses who serviced both the roommate and Jen were taking Jen's vitals, the roommate, who was hidden by only a flimsy curtain, chowed down on some KFC that her boyfriend had lovingly delivered to her earlier that morning. Though the curtain kept her secret out of sight, I'd venture a guess that the nurses could somehow sense her disobedience as the thick aroma of fried chicken filled the room.

Later, when Jen's dad was visiting, he boasted of his abilities to woo anyone into giving him free food while asking us if we wanted any soda or anything from the nurses station. Since he's kind of a loud guy, Jen's roommate overheard and called over to ask if he could get her a bag of chips. Jen and I hurriedly whispered that she's not supposed to have anything by mouth, but the damage was done. Thinking quickly, Jen's dad walked into the hall and went "This woman wants some chips? ....Oh, she's not supposed to eat anything? Oh, alright." And came back to explain that the nurses had told him that the roommate wasn't allowed to eat anything by mouth. Though the roommate protested, he explained rather sincerely that he didn't want to do anything to mess her up and that he was really sorry.

Two days later, she checked herself out of the hospital after refusing to let anyone even check to see if she needed surgery. After all, surgery would have required a much longer stay in the hospital and, though they had pain medication, the hospital's food service couldn't compare to her fine, fast-food cuisine.

Words Fail Me.

A week ago, my B.F.F., Jen, skipped out on a concert where my other best friend, Cara, was performing because she had a fever.

Three days ago, Jen's sister, Heather sent me a text message saying Jen had been taken to the hospital because her fever had risen to 105.

Wednesday, Jen was released and not 8 hours later, had to be taken back to the emergency room because she was bleeding from her eyes. At the hospital, her blood pressure was 55/27, her left lung collapsed, and everyone thought she was going to die.

Tonight, I got to watch Baltimore's 4th of July fireworks from the waiting room windows with Jen. She still has monster eyes and she still needs morphine every once in a while for her chest pain and headaches, but she talks and walks (in little bits) and she still thinks I'm funny. I don't want to sound too sentimental and corny, but I just want to vomit with happiness.

For those of you who knew about this whole situation and kept Jen in your prayers, thank you so much. For those of you who are just finding out and who pray, it would mean a lot to Jen (and me and her family) if you would pray for her. For those of you who don't pray, you should wish on a star or think about her a lot or just do whatever you do to send happy thoughts and hopes for a speedy and thorough recovery.

An Alliterative Start to Young Actors' Theatre

A camper complained of feeling under par per an upset stomach. Prior to accomplishing a trip to the proper care provider, this poor, inopportune person puked on the playground.

A silly, slightly unwise student searching for the restroom and discovering both first and second prospects in use, secured herself in the stairwell after supposing the entrance suggested access to another chance to assuage her pressing necessity.

A tremendously talented troupe completed an entire instruction of a tough, tricky quantity of tunes.

Other awesome incidents occurred, although I am out of alliteration and exhausted.

Doublecrossed

When the Pennysaver came in the mail a few days ago, I was at our kitchen table working on a crossword puzzle from The Catonsville Times that was proving to be too much of a challenge for my inexperienced little brain. Eager to move on to something a bit less strenuous, I turned to the crossword in the Pennysaver. The great thing about this crossword is - it has the answers upside-down on the bottom of the page so that when I've exhausted all the answers I can come up with, I can give a quick check, fill in a word or two, and see if those extra letters help me figure out other words.

Let me take this moment to say - I'm not very good at crossword puzzles, so when I come to a clue that I definitely know, it's really exciting for me. This was the case with 8-across: a four-letter word for "The radiant glow around the head of a saint." I confidently penned in "HALO" and moved on.

Later, while trying to figure out the answer to 11-down - a three-letter word for "helps small business" (or something like that) - which shares its last letter with "HALO" of 8-across, I take a peek at the answer key. "SBA" it says...and I pause. Halo doesn't end in an A...

So I check their answer for 8-across. They've put "AURA."
...What?!

I apologize, Pennysaver-crossword authors, but auras are not "the radiant glow around the head of a saint." That would be the definition of a halo, and though similar to an aura, the two are not alike enough to share the same crossword clue.

To be sure, I checked Dictionary.com and they have defined an aura as:

1.	a distinctive and pervasive quality or character; air; atmosphere: an aura of respectability; an aura of friendliness.

2.	a subtly pervasive quality or atmosphere seen as emanating from a person, place, or thing.

3.	Pathology. a sensation, as of lights or a current of warm or cold air, preceding an attack of migraine or epilepsy.

Somehow, "a subtly pervasive quality or atmosphere seen as emanating from a person, place, or thing" doesn't quite seem the same as "the radiant glow around the head of a saint."

But maybe that's just me.

I've Heard Hitler was Pretty Kinky

Last night I had an awful dream where my school was taken over by fascists. Through the whole thing, I just kept thinking about what I had learned in my Philosophical Roots of European Fascism class that I took last semester at CMC, but these were Spanish fascists taking over, and we only learned about German and Italian fascists so I was screwed.

It's interesting that I would somehow have a dream (kind of) about that class in particular because I certainly did not like it at first. The professor, as one of my CMC associates put it, "had one foot in the grave" and, though I don't have anything against old people, she certainly didn't seem completely "with it." She often told us not to be afraid to speak up in class because she couldn't remember who we all were, so there was no way she would mark us down for a stupid question - not exactly what I'm looking for in a professor, but hey, the tests weren't that hard, so I stuck with it, and by the end she had grown on me.

On the first day back from spring break, I decided it would be fun to wear my "Kill" shirt as a little commemoration of how I felt to be returning to classes. Of course, everytime I wear this shirt, it's all in good fun.

This apparently did not come across to my Fascism professor, though, because she noted my shirt and commented, "That's a very hostile shirt you have there."
I laughed and responded, "I thought it was appropriate for the first day back after break." To which she asked "So that's what you would like to do to all your teachers."
Baffled, I told her that I wouldn't want to kill anyone and she responded with some comment about the fascists and killing and we got on with class.

For the next couple classes, everytime I came into the room, she would ask me if I were wearing "that angry shirt" until one day, when I happened to be wearing some very flamboyant orange, blue, yellow, black athletic pants, I tried to explain that I wore the shirt ironically. "Kind of like these pants - they're ridiculous!" I told her.

The next week, we had a midterm. We all put our cell phones at the front of the room because, according to this professor, students themselves have told her that they use them to cheat, and sit down to receive our exams. A little way into the period, as we're all silently working, our professor says to me, "I saw your pants in Vogue." I looked down at my pants confusedly; I had worn a pair of my gross, plain black pajama pants to school that day and thought that, of course, she would see pants like this in Vogue - they probably have plain black, somewhat baggy pants in Vogue all the time. I give a little "Oh" to acknowledge that I heard her, but to be sure not to encourage conversation. We were in the middle of a midterm, after all.

"You know, those pants that you called 'revolutionary.' They were in Vogue. Isn't it funny how revolution gets co-opted by capitalism?" She continued. At this point, I truly feel like an ass for having instigated this rant in the middle of a test. I try another "Mhm" and continue working on my exam. When I had finished - early, because I don't like to dwell on things - she made an announcement to the entire class that they should strive to be like me because I had finished first. I grabbed my cellphone and hurried out the door, anxious to escape any more interruptions that I may cause. I can only hope that my classmates recognize that these disruptions were spurred by our crazy professor and not by my crazy fashion sense.

Shower Power!

I smell like a dirty hippy who tried to cover up the rank smell of her b.o. with patchouli oil. It's probably because I tried to cover up the rank smell of my b.o. with patchouli oil.

Glory to God in the....Desert

I don't remember if Jesus Christ Superstar would have made it into my list of favorite plays as a kid, but it certainly worked its way into my list of most-often-attended plays when I was littler. So when I was browsing the On Demand movie menu on my mom's fancy television the other day and saw it listed, I had to watch it. Turns out that it's not just a movie version of what has become one of my favorite rock operas of all time, but it's a glorious hippy version!

To get a sense of the wonderfulness that is this movie, check out the overture:

It's a little slow-going at first, but at about 1:25, the glory that is the The Bus makes its debut. The movie is essentially a huge group of wonderful, 70s hipsters who go out into the desert and act out Jesus Christ Superstar.

The movie makes me want to take a huge bus into the desert with all my friends and pretend like we're biblical characters reliving the rock spectacle that led to the crucifixion of Jesus! Of course, I'm not so much into role-playing, so we could leave out the acting part and just kind of party in the desert in our own little communities that each have their role in some larger society that we've created especially for our desert excursion.

Or I guess I could just go to Burning Man.

The Masculinist Coalition at Pitzer

So there's been a lot of positive press surrounding what's been going on at Pitzer with this kid who's trying to start a "Masculinist Coalition" club and this is all I can think to do right now to try and get some word out there about what is so bad and awful about this club. (Plus I was thinking about starting to blog a little more often now, so why not start with this?)

A couple weeks ago, this kid at Pitzer (who I'm not going to name since I have a lot of issues with the way this person has been putting everyone else out there on the internet) sent out an email about starting a Masculinist Coalition for heterosexual men on Pitzer's campus to get together and do "manly" things like drink beer, watch sports, grill, go to strip clubs, etc. Twice in the email, it said that they would "celebrate men (not in a gay way [not that there's anything wrong with that])," which is just not a good way to start (you know, kind of hostile and unaccepting and all that).

At the first meeting, many of my friends who are members of the Pitzer Feminist Coalition and the Pitzer Queer and Allies club, along with a bunch of people who aren't affiliated with these groups but are feminists and queers and allies, came to voice their opinions about why this club is hurtful, offensive, and oppressive. I didn't go to the meeting because I can't deal with people being assholes (any people - even my friends), but I of course received lots of reports from my friends. One of the things that upset me the most is that, apparently, the person who sent out the first email (who is also the leader of the club) made a statement about discussions the group might have about prison rape that went something to the tune of "I'm not going to say that rape of men in prison is more intense than other kinds of rape, but..." and left off there.

Additionally, throughout the entire meeting, this person had a video camera rolling (though it was only focused on this person leading the meeting). Afterwards, this kid posted the video to the masculinist coalition website (yes, they have a website) with some really upsetting captions. For one video, it ridiculed my friend, we'll call him Ryan, for getting upset after being harassed for his comments at the meeting. The leader of the masculinist coalition later sent an email to the entire student body with a link to these videos and the statement: "Please be aware that any emails sent over student-talk or to me
privately might very well be posted in multiple locations online."


Eventually, the group went to Pitzer's Student Senate for funding and recognition of their charter (which would make them an official club) and were denied on the basis of their behavior at the meeting. The leaders of the club came to Feminist Coalition that week and a very productive and calm dialogue about what about the club was offensive and how they can fix it and everyone came up with the idea that the club should be called the "Broalition" and it should be about drinking beer and watching sports and everything that they originally wanted to be about. That way, all of these activities can be tied to a male identity if they want it to be, but it isn't making such a blanket statement that that's what masculinity is all about. Not to mention, it helps Pitzer save a little face, too, since apparently the masculinist movement was a hate movement against women.

However, the leader of the club decided that, in good faith, the name could not be changed and they would remain the Masculinist Coalition. They returned to Senate again this past Sunday with a revised charter and were again denied funding, this time on the basis of their name. Keep in mind that, this whole time, everything regarding these decisions has been publicized on the internet.

Yesterday, the kid who sent out the email (who is also the leader of the club) went on KROQ for an interview regarding the whole situation. My friend, let's call her Lauren (even though her real name is on the internet - I'm sticking to my disgust with that, though), called in to offer a voice about why the situation is actually serious and offensive and more than just a matter of some poor kid being denied funding. I haven't listened to the interview yet (again, because I can't stand assholes), but Lauren said that she was cut off by the DJ with the statement: "Now you think you're a feminist and that's adorable, but this is the real world and I'm the man." (something along those lines - but definitely "I'm the man"). The masculinist coalition leader then sent an email out an email to the entire student body with the link to the streamed version of the interview that was posted (by this person) on funnyordie.com, where Lauren's full, real name has been used to tag the video.

Now, I'm not well-versed in gender and queer theory at all and I probably couldn't tell you the broader implications that a formation of a group like this might have in regards to the feminist and queer movements, but I do know that on a practical level, not theoretical, the person who started all of this has been really intimidating, and not just unintentionally. It has become bigger than just some joke, and it really upsets me, not because of the implications it has for feminism and for gay rights, but because I don't feel safe anymore.

So I don't know what to do. Right now, I'm just trying to get a voice out there about why this club is bad. This isn't a voice that says a club like this can't work out or that straight men don't deserve their little space on campus, too. It's a voice that's saying that I should feel comfortable in that space as a girl and I don't. That's what's wrong with this group.

So do what you can to make this voice heard. Visit this blog from as many different computers and IP addresses as you can - get as many hits as possible. If you blog, write a little something about it. I dunno - I'm clearly not as internet savvy as this kid. But I'm hoping other people will help. Get this side of the story out there. Make people realize that it is not a joke.

Sending all my love to the world (even to the haters).
heart out to the max!
-Amy