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.