This Little Piggy Fell Down Dead

Swine flu. In two weeks, I'm leaving safe, uninfected Maryland to fly on an enclosed airplane with a hundred or so potentially-infected passengers to Claremont, California, where one case of swine flu has already been confirmed! And that's just one case! There are a ton of other cases of swine flu (120, perhaps?) all across the United States that are quite the hot topic of conversation.

And I'm not scared. Not just because I think I'm invincible and that I could never come down with swine flu, but because everything I've read tells me that this is just another flu virus. It can spread quickly and easily among people. It can mutate faster than we can track. It can kill. Sure, I don't want to come down with any flu, but I've never panicked over the regular flu, so I'm not going to worry too much about swine flu.

Now, I do know that the major difference between the regular, ol' flu virus and this strain of flu is that this one apparently has the potential to kill young, healthy people in their 20s and 30s. That's what happened in Mexico. However, something tells me that there might be a bit of a difference between living conditions in Mexico versus living conditions here in the U.S.. After all, I've never had a friend become violently ill from brushing their teeth with tap water in the U.S.. I have a sneaky feeling that the swine flu may not have been the only factor in the death of these people; their access to resources could very well have also influenced how they reacted to the virus.

And this is what really irks me about this swine flu panic. I know that the World Bank and other agencies or countries have sent aid to Mexico and I think that's awesome. But around here, all the media can talk about is how to avoid getting swine flu, how to tell if you have it, and where cases have broken out in the U.S.. Healthy people in Mexico have died from what is essentially a fancy version of the flu, and instead of seeing that as a sign that Mexico and its people might need some serious assistance, people here focus all their energy on making sure that they don't get sick, that we have a vaccine ready as soon as possible. Don't get me wrong, I want a fever and nausea as little as the next guy, but if I have a few days of vomiting because my country decided to use its resources to save lives elsewhere, I have to say I'm supportive of that.

So really, everyone? We don't have to worry about swine flu. But there are people out there who do, and as far as I see it, that's indicative of bigger problems that should be exposed by this swine flu outbreak. So pull your head out of the toilet, wipe that vomit off your mouth, and let's get to helping them!

Quite the Character

Apparently, whenever I go dancing in Baltimore, there is some other-worldly force that guides me toward men who are easily described as cartoon characters.

First, there was the leprechaun. He was remarkably short, had messy red hair, and used "fuck" at least three times a sentence. He may not have worn a little green top-hat, and he certainly did not have a pot of gold, but he was legitimately Irish (not yet a US citizen), and fit the stereotype well with his 30-odd cousins and penchant for drinking.

Then, a couple Thursdays ago (Holy Thursday, to be exact), I met a sailor. To be fair, his status as a genuine sailor is questionable, but he was legitimately a mate on a boat and had sailed around the world three times. I didn't get around to questioning him about any bouts with scurvy, but he did inform me that he did not fit the stereotype of a drunken sailor. After all, he explained, someone on the boat must be responsible, and that's hard to do while drunk.
He also, however, described to me his inability to return to his hometown near Charleston, SC because he had an ex-girlfriend there whose dad wanted to kill him. And then he tried to pull down his pants to show me where this man had actually shot him in the ass with buckshot. To which I responded that it's good he lives on a boat, where it's hard to find him.
Finally, despite my neglect in the scurvy-answers category, I did get a chance to ask him if he had an anchor tattoo. To my surprise, he did not - he had a large cross on the back of his arm, instead - but was indeed looking for a good tattoo shop to get his next tattoo, which was to be - you guessed it - the anchor.

Last, but not least, I met a policeman last Saturday. Kind of. A man approached me while dancing and told me that - according to what I could hear - his friends had dared him to ask me to touch his "junk." Of course, I've never been one for touching the genitals of strangers just because they asked, so I argued that he had held up his end of the bargain. He had asked me, after all; the dare wasn't that he must get me to actually do it.
He didn't seem to follow this logic, however, and repeated his request, but this second time, "junk" sounded almost like "gun," so I jokingly placed my hand on his pants pocket. He shook his head and told me to touch higher and - since higher meant farther from his penis - I comfortably obliged. That's when I found out that he had indeed said "gun." He was an undercover police officer and I had just groped his concealed weapon.
Because policemen make me uncomfortable - and because he probably had a good 10 years on me - I did not ask for any more specifics on his job. So, sadly, I cannot venture a guess as to how many times he's been shot nor to whether he frequents Dunkin' Donuts for their coffee or their namesake.

And now, it's Wednesday and I don't have any plans to venture to Magerks until at least the weekend. But perhaps I'll get lucky and meet a millionaire on my next visit! Or a prince!
Oh, the possibilities are endless.

April Fools!

I do not like April Fools Day. My second-hand embarrassment plus my fear of looking stupid makes me a poor sport in the case of April Fools pranks. I don't like fooling and I don't like being fooled. Last year's April 1st was the first exception to this rule, after I became the butt of a remarkably well-played joke.

April 1, 2008 started out just like any other day. I biked to school, I ate lunch with friends, and I hated life on the bike ride up Indian Hill on the way home from school. But when my housemate, Margy, came home that night and greeted me with, "Is someone living in our garage?" the day took a turn for the weird.

Apparently, Margy had been looking in the garage for an exercise ball (or something) and stumbled upon a bed. When I went to investigate, I found that -sure enough - there was a sleeping bag, a pillow with a book on top, a jar lid full of cigarette butts, a broken cookie, and even a paper bag with a little bottle of booze sticking out, all hidden behind the spider chair.

Explanations raced through our heads as we ran back into the house to discuss the situation. It had to be someone we knew; otherwise, how would they know that we hardly ever go into the garage? If it was someone we knew, what kind of trouble would spur them to secretly move into our garage instead of just asking for help? Should we leave a note on the garage door explaining that they should just come talk to us and we can probably find a space for them in the house if they need it?

Then it dawned on me. It was April 1st! Margy laughed and yelled that we had been so fooled. But there were more questions to answer: Who did it? How did they know that we would find the bed on April 1st, especially considering that we really never go in the garage?

To be sure that we were right, we returned to the crime scene. With this revelation, the setup did indeed look too perfect to be real. The determining factor, though, were the cigarettes. The jar lid held cigarettes, but no ash, and I ask you - who smokes a cigarette in one place and returns to their bed to deposit the butt in their "ashtray?"

Finally, a call to Kirsten cleared up the entire mystery. She and Phoebe had made the set up and even had plans to sneak out that night when we were all home and make creepy noises in the garage to freak us all out. Turns out, they hadn't planned on Margy going into the garage that day, either. I have to say, I'm pretty glad it didn't get that far; I'm not so sure I would have thought it so great a prank in that case.

So, my friends, that is the story of last year's April Fools Day, the first time that I enjoyed the holiday for what it is - friends playing good-hearted tricks on other friends. I'm still not sold on the holiday, though. So don't get any ideas.