Banana Bread From Day's Past

"Eh, haole boy. You like banana bread?"

"Yeah, Rocky, I would love some."

"Eh, you know how I wen make um?"

"How?"

"Ho, first ting, I take da brown shooga, den I go take da jeenja, and den I take da bananas, but not da yellow ones, I get da brown ones. Ho, den I mash um togedda in one bowl. Turn da oven to fo-fifty. Eh, next ting you know, banana bread!"

"It's good, Rocky."

"Ho, mean eh?"

Five Star Cuisine

Logan Lott

April 16, 2012

ENGL 461

Five Star Cuisine

This is my chance to impress.

Anton journeyed to this five star Manhattan suite to sample five star cuisine amongst five star guests. A decade he had spent vying for this spot amongst the top food critics in the city. And here he was. 

A pair of men with ivory white gloves opened ivory white doors to reveal the party in full swing. The slicing notes of a violin coursed through the ocean of soft banter. A thirty year old glass of Sauvignon Blanc found its way into his hand. This vineyard’s keepers had a surgeon’s precision in selecting these varietals. Dry, like one would expect of a sauvignon blanc. Its boquet, floral yet demure. Its aftertaste smacking of ripe melon and lemon zest. Swirling the glass, he scanned the crowd with hungry eyes.

“Anton! Over here!” Across the piano, the esteemed Mr. Gregoire Pascell waved him over.

A round of hors d’ourves awaited. Anton knew he was expected to sample the Michelin starred fare yet he had not expected it so early in the evening. Gregoire Pascal was not a man to be kept waiting, however. Behind a tissue-thin facade of a benevolent father figure, lied a supreme power that only could be possessed by New York’s reigning, top food critic.

“We’ve been waiting for you to try these, Anton.”

A silk-gloved waiter lifted the ornate silver lid from a sterling serving tray. The odor was powerful, authoritative really . . . familiar. Can’t readily tell whether the dish is meat or vegetable.

“Well, go on. Try it.”

A toothpick from a silk glove stabbed a chunk from the platter and rested onto a lavender serviette. Was that a hair? No. Anton plopped it into his mouth and sealed his lips around the chosen nugget. Something of a curried exterior. Crunchy on the . . .

The notes of the violin reached its top octave and screeched through the air.

“BLAGH!!! This tastes like shit!” 

“Well, that’s because it is. You see, we at the Pathfinder club believe that the next wave of gourmet food trends lies in feces.”

“AAAAGH”

“Pull yourself together.”

“WHAT KIND OF FECES?!”

“Why, human, of course. This one is an Ethipoian/Somalian blend. We found that last year’s drought in the region had naturally dry-aged the feces, giving it a leathery texture and a silty mouthfeel. The aftertaste is quite smoky.”

“IT’S SHIT!” Anton blurted as he leaned against a window sill, his insides writhing. A translucent brown mixture of mucus and saliva and human feces dripped from his face. “HOW CAN YOU EAT THIS?!”

“Anton, when you come to terms with it, it’s clearly the most acquired taste of all. In mastering it, you master the challenges of the culinary world! Here, try this one.”

The esteemed Gregoire Pascal extended a toothpick to his crouched compatriot. Tan globules dripped onto the eggshell carpet on its way to Anton’s quivering grasp.

“As you can tell, this particular variety is quite pungent. It comes from the eastern rainforest region of the Congo. The civil war there has really affected the last few years’ crop. You might notice a recurring theme here, Anton. We are devouring the shit of the people who are at the utmost of human suffering.”

The esteemed gentleman was right. 

Anton could taste it now. Plums, raisins, barley, pumpkin seeds, green pepper, tobacco, walnut, bratwurst, black cherry, cocoa butter.

“My trouble, Anton, is trying to pair them with a suitable wine. What do you think for this one? I was thinking a pinot noir.”

Anton vomited.

“Waiter, shovel that up, will you?. It could come in handy.”

Ethnic Beauties of Wells Fargo: Big Momma's House Edition

The Ethnic Beauties of Wells Fargo Part III

What could she possibly be looking at that has to do with a bank?

The exotic Women of Wells Fargo, Part II

The exotic women of Wells Fargo, Part 1

The Wells Fargo site always introdces me to such nice looking ethnic girls.

Petey Greene: How to Eat a Watermelon

West Bengal, India: The Darjeeling Mist and Slums of Kolkata

I ended up going to Kolkata (Calcutta) and Darjeeling for my study abroad's ten day travel period. Didn't end up going to the Bodhgaya Buddhist Temple or into the jungle in Jarkhand. Oh well. They'll both be there for at least another decade or so. I had hoped to see some of the Himalayan peaks, but it was bad weather and so we just shivered in the cold, greyness of Darjeeling. It was kind of like Juneau really in that respect. Still, it was an interesting time. From Kolkata, we took a 12 hour train ride, traveling by way of the mouse and cockroach-infested sleeper class to a Northern West Bengal station called NJP. After waiting for more than an hour for our four-wheeled vehicle of people to fill up, we left NJP for Darjeeling. The five hour trip careening on up through muddy roads was quite serene, even though we couldn't see out of the blanket of white clouds. A little after the five hour mark, we finally entered into the Darjeeling area and were immediately greeted by a massive protest. We had known there were peaceful demonstrations going on the area, but we definitely were not expecting them to be our welcome into Darjeeling. A few hundred old women followed by a smaller group of older men filed passed our now-stationary vehicle shouting "Gorkhaland! Gorkhaland! We want Gorkhaland! Justice! Justice! We want justice!" Then they repeated these chants in their Gorkhali language. Apparently, a lot of people in Northern West Bengal want their separate state of Gorkhaland, separated from the rest of West Bengal. I don't really blame them as the two regions are separated completely by climate, culture, religion, ethnicity, and language. Additionally, Indian people can be quite racist towards the more East Asian-looking people. I've heard Indians describe people from the Northeast as being "chinky-eyed." So this was all new to me.

Anyway, because of lack of visibility, our options for trekking went out the door and it was probably for the best anyway as I really shouldn't have tried to put pressure on my newly operated on leg (that's all gone along fine just so ya know). So we instead visited local sites: Buddhist and Hindu temples, Tibetan Refugee Center, Gorkha War Memorial, and others. Also, we stuffed our faces with Tibetan momos (dumplings with veg or non-veg: chicken or cabbage, and a spicy-red sauce and a broth). After four days of waiting for visibility and spending way too much time and energy buying gifts for people, we said goodbye to Darjeeling. It had been nice to get out of the heat for a while, but the place had become quite lethargic overtime, which is what all that gray does to a person.

We went back to Kolkata quite disappointed that we hadn't had the time of our lives in Darjeeling and were adamant on going somewhere sunny and nice. I was really kicking myself. It seemed I had wasted this one opportunity to really travel India by going to a place that just seemed like a Tibetan version of Juneau. I've always considered myself to be more of a beach and jungle kind of a person. Because of mountains of schoolwork, I had not given enough thought in the planning. Thus, I was quite disappointed with my rash decision to head to Darjeeling.

Safely back in sunburn territory, we sulked over our plates in a small Kolkata diner called Super Chicken. Behind us, two other foreigners (one British and one American) were having a discussion on volunteering. The girl said something about Tanzania, and I found this my opportunity to meet some new people. "What were you doing in Tanzania?" I spun around and blurted out. Turns out she really wasn't the interesting one. The American guy, Hemley Gonzalez was born in Cuba and was raised in Miami. He was a real estate agent in South Beach, but came to Kolkata to do charity work. He started up his own NGO in a small area of the slums there. He currently helps 19 families. On a previous trip, he had volunteered with Missionaries of Charity (Mother Theresa's charity) and had a very negative reaction to what he experienced there. He witnessed nuns washing needles with cold water before using them again, using expired vitamins, electroshock therapy as punishment on women and mentally handicapped people, no experienced medical staff on hand (a doctor reportedly shows us once a month and doesn't touch patients) and people lying around for hours on soiled cots prevented from learning or doing anything so that, in Hemley's opinion, the charity could maintain the shocking appearance to visitors in order to continually gain donations. Additionally, the nuns refused his offer to install hot water for showers for the sick and denied him to bring in playing cards or games or books to entertain the dying. The organization also refuses to disclose to the public any financial details of their operation. He has a bunch of disturbing photos on his facebook along with disturbing stories. He and others with similar experiences were interviewed by Forbes of India. I know this is a lot of detail about this thing, but it was quite eye-opening to hear all of this.

So, in response, he opened his own charity, Responsible Charity, run mostly by donations from facebook friends in which he offers complete transparency. We went to the slums with him on our second day back in Kolkata and helped him in distributing 14 fans to 14 families. Its just so amazing how warm people are in these kinds of living situations. There was a point where we entered into a shack, stooping because of the low ceiling (which Hemley has raised the roof of many of these shacks in donation-funded construction ventures in just three short months) to give a Muslim family a fan. They had a celing fan that was rickety, and slow, and it was abysmal in that shack. The grandfather, an grey-bearded Muslim man, burst into tears as he hugged us and kissed our cheeks (the common greeting in this Muslim area of the slums). I truly had to hold back tears myself. Hemley informed me later that the man was most likely in his dying days because of lack of available funds for surgery. Outside the shack, Hemley pounded on a heavy cement and brick wall topped with barbed wire, "This is where the Missionaries of Charity keep themselves locked up, in this compound. "They throw biscuits out of that door right there, like they were feeding animals."

That night, we settled on a rooftop bar to watch the momentous Cricket World Cup final between India and Sri Lanka. As you may or may not know, India won. The streets of Kolkata subsequently went insane. People were shouting "India!", throwing fireworks, dancing in the streets, waving Indian flags whilst standing on top of speeding motorcycles, it was insane. The week prior to this had been a Hindu festival called Holi in which celebrants throw and smear colored powders on each other. So now, in celebration, the people Holied one another and us all over again. And so we, now four Americans and two Frenchies, smeared with red and yellow war paint, stumbled through the throngs of wild Indian cricket hooligans. And for a while we half-shared their excitement. And then we noticed, "hey, there's no women here." And then the girl that was with us started to get grabbed from all directions by all ages of men. So, we got out of there before our own masculinity would create an international scene.

Also, within these Kolkata days, we met some boys that played cricket with us (I played poorly, as I do in most sports) and we went to the Kalighat Temple where they sacrifice goats daily (we gt to see that morning's row of decapitated goat heads . . . mmmm)

Two days later we arrived back in Pune. And now I'm doing my internship work and that is a whole other blog.

Diwali And a Haircut

Last night, on seeing me in the living room using the "bright" light to study, my Indian host mom informed me, "We are not celebrating Diwali. Use the dim light."

And an hour ago:

I crash on the couch. "I'm going to take a nap."

Auntie - "and how was your day?"

"Long. I'm exhausted. Too much school."

"Well yes, but at least you have nice new haircut, no?"

"Yeah."

"It makes you feel good, no?"

"Yes."

"Ok. I'm going to temple. Goodnight."

Coming Back with a Vengeance

So my last girl didn't work out. Its alright. I'm comin back. I'm going for both of these two hotties, Miss Jamaica Universe and Miss Phillipines Universe. That's right, I said both. You can't limit yourself, ya know?





Alright alright, I gotta be real, you're right. I would probably have to choose between the two. I don't want them to be fighting over me all the time. I'd have to go for Yendi Phillips. The accent is fucking hot. And her "rocket launch" impression won me over. Sorry Venus baby.

Sort Things Out

I have so much on my mind right now. This isn't going to be my normal blog post, though, I don't normally blog anymore. I just really need to sort things out.

Taking 14 credits and working 18 hours a week fucking sucks. This has been a huge failed experiment. Never again. The exhaustion is killing me. Also, the girl I fell in love with doesn't seem to feel the same she used to. I know that this last part sounds a bit teenage, but I need to write this out.

Being a guy, I don't have anyone to talk to about these things. And you can't exactly post on facebook, "Guys I'm really lonely and depressed." Because your friends will pounce on your weakness. Expressions of frailty like this aren't looked on highly, at least in our culture. Everything must be good. If its not, make it at least sound funny. Don't want to put anyone in the awkward situation of feeling for you.

I don't know if any of this is coherent. This whole thing is kinda just for me, but for whatever reason, I'm never able to write for myself only. I always feel this need to put thins out there just a little. I don't know why. When I was a toddler, I used to make funny faces and dances to make the neighbor girls laugh. There's definitely some kind of showmanship I carry with me and I don't know why. I suffer from some kind of bipolar self-confidence.

The situation with my former lady friend isn't so black and white as a break-up or what not. I met her in Kenya. She immediately struck me as absolutely gorgeous. And she was smart. Her level of intelligence would have normally put me in check, as I wouldn't have felt good enough to go for her. But she seemed genuinely interested in me for whatever reason. It was probably my elementary Swahili-speaking that got her. I have no idea.

We were in this strange, beautiful land together and having the best times of our lives. We traveled together throughout Kenya, Uganda, and Tanzania. We made love everywhere we went. Not only in bed, but in the way we walked, when we talked. And our every body part was made for one another it seemed. Never have I felt everything fit so perfectly. My lips and hers. Her body intertwined with mine in bed or on a bus. Her fingers laced with mine. Though she was a strong woman, I was her protector.

Because I am white and she is Chinese, we were quite the sight to the Africans. On the streets of Kampala, the capital city of Uganda, we heard, "Look! China and mzungu!" I loved every bit of it.

Again, everything was beautiful everywhere we went. The first time we made love was in a safari tent. We made love under a mosquito net our first night together. Being inside the meshed mosquito nets, it looked as if we were being swallowed by giant jellyfish. The next morning we went out and secretly held hands while looking over the Kenyan savanna, using our free hands to point out lions and elephants and zebras. Everything was so exciting yet so tranquil. God, how our skin just melted together.

Later, she met me in Uganda. Our first night there, we made love as the mighty African rains poured outside of my room. The thunder roared outside as we clutched each other's warms bodies. Just thinking about the way we would rest our faces together in between kisses. It almost makes me sick, ya know?

There was one night on a beach in Zanzibar that was completely intoxicating. I don't think its possible to ever feel that way again. We just sat on the beach in the night. The beach was ours alone. We had a bottle of red wine and a package of chocolate chocolate-chip cookies we found in a little store further down the way. We just sat there, sipping the wine straight out of the bottle, her head on my shoulder with that amazing straight, black hair. Her hair made her a queen. Miles away, there were lightning storms scattered across the ocean's horizon.

We spent our last night on Zanzibar in the House of Abdullah, a cheap and convenient hotel in Stone Town. It was here I told her I loved her. She told me she loved me.

We've tried and tried to keep something going. Unfortunately, we have these stupid, innate drives in us to accomplish certain goals, and so this keeps us apart. Yet, I don't even know if we ever could have the love we once did. Was it all just Africa? She came to visit me in Juneau. I visited her in DC. There were flashes of that passion we once had, but alot of the time we just fought. Until two days ago, I have again and again tried to reach out and get more of what we once had. She kept pulling back.

To make things short, I've decided that I just need to cut this relationship off. It hurts so much to not call her or text her. It feels like I've lost a part of my body and when I try to use it, I'm forced to remember I don't have it anymore.

I don't know how to end this. I just don't know.

Nairobi Horror Stories

"Um, how should I say this without offending anyone?" John said to me in a hushed tone, glancing over his shoulder to the middle aisle next to us where a black, Kenyan man was reading a newspaper. And hushed tones or not, I felt that John had said this a little too loud, "Kenyans can be quite brutal people."

Thus begins the Nairobi horror stories.

A former business associate of John's had married a Kenyan woman and settled down in the plush (white) neighborhood of Karen.

The guy's wife had cheated on him and she contracted HIV. When she later died of AIDS, the house was thrown into some kind of a custody battle of sorts between he and the former Mrs's family members. I'm not really sure how the family would have any rights to the place at all. John didn't clearly explain this. Most likely, it's some kind of a racial law which gives privilege to black Kenyans. I'm not sure.

Anyhow, the woman's family came up with a solution.

The man's body was found hanging in the living room. In addition, evidence suggested he had been tortured to death in a multitude of ways.

Failing to get me screaming for an emergency landing, John decided to try again, this time with a personal account.

Some years ago, John was in Nairobi on business. Upon leaving the entry way of the Nairobi Hilton, a massive Kenyan man presented himself. The man stretched his hand out and guessed, "Dutch?"

"No, British", John told him as his hand rightfully shot out.

The man, however, had no plans of letting the John's hand go. He began dragging John toward a "particularly nasty" piece of downtown Nairobi called River Road.

John found the man's grip inescapable. He then told his giant captor, "Look, either let me go, or I'm going to yell, 'thief'". In Nairobi, calling someone a thief is akin to a death sentence. Apparently, crowds of other Kenyans will pounce on a thief and police will shoot to kill without hesitation or interrogation. Understandably, John's hand was immediately freed.

After these delightful tales, John relocated himself to a row of empty seats where he could lay down. Yet, for some reason, I couldn't sleep just yet.

Jetplane To Nairobi

Where was I?

Ah yes. Africa.

After the suffering the city of London for a day, and finishing my weird corn and chicken sandwich, I brushed myself off and boarded my flight to Nairobi, Kenya, Africa.

I was pleased with myself at having reserved a window seat so that I could look out onto great Africa when I awoke.

Also, I was surprised to see that the flight wasn't completely full and I had an entire row of seats to myself. That is, until an older gentleman sat next to me.

Tanned white skin, gray hair and gray mustache. He turned to me at some point before takeoff and introduced himself. He was John from England. He had business in Nairobi. He flew in 6 times a year to check in with the company's progress.

He asked me what I was doing, an American on my way to Kenya. "I just want to help people." One of my many vague answers I'd give out when people asked me. I was going to be a part of a volunteer group, teaching English to kids.

Was I certified to teach? No.

Did I have a passion for it? Not really. No.

In fact, I had problems with the upfront mission of teaching English. Why did I want to teach English? Why should everyone speak the same language? Wasn't that just making the world flatter and tame? Wasn't I contributing to some kind of new world order? To mass industrialization? Was there even anything wrong with that?

Really, I just wanted to go to Africa and experience it on the inside. To attempt to see it eye to eye.

I had vowed that I wasn't going to be the normal tourist and just go to see the giraffes and elephants. I was going to be different. I was going to help. Somehow. Armed with my white skin and some half-stoned mission statement, I was going to be part of the change.

So I gave John the "I just want to help people" line, and he had responded just how three others had the day before with the exact same word. Apparently, what I was doing was "admirable".

Soon after, John decided it was time to scare the shit out of me with Nairobi horror stories.

Logan Worldwide, Part 1: Along the way to Africa

I know I should've updated this blog like everyday since I first got to Africa. I'm lazy though. So now I'm gonna try and do a recap of everything I've been up to since I first got here exactly one month ago.

I left Juneau, Alaska at some point in early January. I don't remember off hand what day it was. Let's say it was the 8th.

Flew to somewhere else, most likely Seattle. Connections between flights are unimportant. Flew to Newark, New Jersey and then caught the NJ transit to New York. I had never been farther east (in the US) than Illinois. And now, here I was big bad New York. I was excited and a little scared. Your entire life, TV and movies fill your head with all of these expectations about New York. A lot of people translate this propaganda into fear, and I think some of it rubs off.

I love New York. I'm not gonna buy the tshirt, but I thought that as a place, it was no less than amazing. This, of course, is based on an experience of three days. So yeah, I ate a hot dog and a pizza, caught the subway everywhere, went to the Met and to Times Square. I didn't go to the Statue of Liberty or the Empire State building or the WTC site, because I have very little interest in those areas.

The whole time I left all of my stuff and spent the night at an insanely cheap hostel in East Williamsburg in Brooklyn. East Williamsburg is the hipster, artsy part of a traditionally Jewish neighborhood. I didn't really do much there. Every morning I got on the subway and left to explore. Oh, the price. The hostel was around $10 a night and had everything you would want. It was clean and I didn't even lock my shit up while I was there, and I was only there late at night.

So, I went to all of these places in New York and left JFK on day 3 or 4. Don't remember exactly.

I had a 12 hour layover in London, so I decided to get out of the airport and go exploring the city central. I didn't have anything to do for such a long time so I just walked . . . and walked . . . and walked. In between all of this walking, I took a subway or three.

Now, about London, it sucks. I was only on the streets for about seven hours, but goddamn was that place the most miserable place I had ever been to. Cold, gray, and the people were just the same. The architecture was cool. I'll give you that, but the place itself was like some kind of purgatory leaning towards a cold hell.

The only interesting things, to me, were these cute, little packs of cigarettes with pictures of black lungs and dead babies on them. So I bought a little pack. I'm not normally a smoker, but London is depressing, and so, I felt like smoking.

Walking around London, I got hungry. There were places with "food" being advertised with pictures, "Beans & Toast!". Disgusting. So I got some Indian food from a little stand. There was no where to eat it, and so I went to the trash-filled outside dining area of a McDonald's.

Now, not that I'm a connoisseur of McDonald's, but the place was insane. I didn't want to just take up the eating area without purchasing something, so I bought a coffee. In America, in any city or town in any state, the inside of a McDonald's is somewhat clean and the customers operate in some sort of orderly fashion. Not here. There was no semblance of a line at all. People just pushed through each other in a crowd to yell at the Indian employees the things they wanted to appear at their mouths. Here is a list of things I could compare the situation to:

Looting during Hurricane Katrina.
Stephen King's The Stand.
Black Friday.
South Vietnamese evacuees.

Finally, after I got this post-apocalyptic McLatte, I sat down outside. I sipped it down and observed my surroundings. People smoking 2 feet from the entrance/exit. Trash everywhere. Birds eating it. Among this, I had been aware of how noticeably different I looked compared to the Londonites. I was wearing jeans. Nobody wore jeans. I had on a baseball cap. They don't have baseball, so no one wore one. Everyone was dressed very nicely. That's one compliment I'd give. They might live in a bitterly cold trash heap, but they dress very much like civilized human beings. Or robots. Robots with an inner core of hatred and anxiety, but fitted outwardly with a coating of perfectly creased slacks and a peacoat(sp?). And the entire outfit probably cost as much as a new computer.

I know it sounds like my view of people in London was nothing but bad. And it was. Besides the Indians and one guy that worked for the subway (in my head, "Oh my God, you're talking to me!"), no one was nice. Londonites were nothing but dirty hostile personifications of Satan.

I could have stayed longer, but why would I want to prolong a session of torture? After 5 to 7 hours of mostly wandering around aimlessly, I went back to the airport, and found my way over to a little shop away from the crowds of European and Arab "mmm, yeah I really need to buy cologne and a jewel-encrusted handbag in a motherfucking airport" douche bags. I nursed on a 5 lb. beer and ate some weird chicken salad & corn sandwich. I felt like, psychically somehow, these people had all been calling me names and kicking me in the stomach repeatedly while I lay in the fetal position. And now, I was at the far table, the unpopular kid, pushing my glasses up and trying to escape eye contact.

Things were going to get better.

Next post, Africa!

NOT SUBLIME. YOU SELFISH, MONEY HUNGRY FUCKS

From Crave Online:

The SmokeOut featured the much-debated return of Sublime, with a guy named Roman filling in for the trio's long-deceased singer/songwriter. It was a display of feel-good sacrilege that, by many accounts, should never have happened; Bradley Nowell's family and estate holders, the rightful owners of the Sublime name, have expressed their distontent. “It was Brad’s expressed intention that no one use the name Sublime in any group that did not include him," they said in a statement, "and Brad even registered the trademark ‘Sublime’ under his own name.” But a District Court judge allowed the show to go on, and remaining members Eric Wilson and Bud Gaugh returned with their own catty missive, which read, “While we all mourn the passing of our brother and bandmate Bradley Nowell some 13 years ago, Sublime still has a strong message of hope and love… Brad’s heirs apparently do not share this vision.” Or capital ambition, is more like it.



The crowd, largely oblivious to the controversy, were just happy to revel in the '90s nostalgia overload. Roman held his own, but Bradley's rambunctiously mischievous presence was a key missing ingredient in the memory-lane walk. Promoter and Guerilla Union mastermind Chang Weisberg was beyond excited about adding the new version of Sublime to the show. “The last minute addition of our very special guests Sublime is crazy. We always strive to make our shows a once in a lifetime event. I know Bud, Eric and Rome can’t wait to tear up the Smoke Out stage.” Gotta hand it to Chang - he's a great guy, and he sells it well, but come on. This is like Meg White carrying on the White Stripes without Jack, or Nirvana getting a new singer. Some bands' formulation doesn't allow for history to be written over. Sublime was one of them.



From me:

NO NO NO NO NO. Fuck that. Sublime was a pivitol part of my youth, especially as a white kid in Hawaii.

Again, fuck this. Bullshit. Terrible terrible terrible. You just don't do that. You can say it's just a name, but you would be wrong. No no no. Boycott this shit. Nothing else to be said.

Kirk Cameron: Son Of Palin

Whenever someone is being a racist, illiterate, religious nut job, I think it should be the new thing to call them a "son of Palin."

Tofurky: The Reason I am Morally Opposed to Vegans

I keep running across articles and discussions about Tofurky and the "curse" of being a vegetarian/vegan on Thanksgiving.

I am not vegetarian or vegan. I do, however, limit my meat intake to one meal a day. On top of that, I also try to live by a rule that I don't eat multiple kinds of animals within a day (though, eggs and bacon 1 or 2 times a week kills this). I watch what I eat and I regularly go to the gym.

I once heard a veggie person tell me, "Humans weren't meant to eat meat." I was dumbfounded. Usually, when I hear something stupid like this, I snap back with something. But this, this was probably the dumbest thing I had ever heard, and the audacity of the for sure manner in which it was said strangled my brain. This absurd statement always comes to me from the back of my mind whenever I hear anything about vegetarians.

Meat is what made us human. Biological anthropologists tell us that eating meat allowed our brains to grow. Furthermore, the hunting and butchering of animals continually reinforced our unique ability to develop tools.

When you give up meat, you are not only giving up the precious proteins and fats your body and brain need, you are forsaking the hardships and the knowledge of your ancestors. When you are at the Thanksgiving table with your arms crossed and you refuse a helping of turkey from your grandmother's outstretched hand, you are not giving thanks. You are selfish, and you are standing alone in your self-righteousness. You are a douche bag.

The review I submitted about my Health Science Class

I really enjoyed this class, and the regular amount of speakers Mrs. Stillner introduced to us. However, there was one class session in which two speakers were present, and I did not see the point of either of them being in the classroom. These speakers were the Naturopath and the Police Officer.

The attendance of the police officer, I found to be just pointless. The Naturopath, however, I found to be utterly reprehensible. I commend myself for finding the ability to not shout obscenities at her, instead focusing my frustrations on my lower lip which had clear indentations from my incisors. A hippie, pseudo-science has no place in the university. It was really painful to sit through, especially as she darted from one stoned hypothesis to another. I shudder everytime I think of her describing the human soul; "the light in your eyes". Only in well-off, white liberal towns would people pay money to visit such a medicine woman. I'm sure she has several rainstick therapies to soothe my irritability.

Self-Destructive Behavior

Yesterday at the gym, I was on the stationary bike, on the program "weight loss". I had the earbuds of my iPod plugged into my earholes (or as my Bio Anth class would call it, my "external auditory meatus"). I wasn't playing any music because I had some reading for a class to catch up on. I only wanted silence.

About three to five minutes into my workout, I hear some grunting from the man on the elliptical behind me. The first time I heard it, it didn't strike me as anything out of the ordinary. Then, it became rhythmic. Every twenty seconds, two grunts, three grunts. I noticed this as something called "stimming." This is a behavior closely associated with autism. My brother is autistic, and he makes throat noises that are described as "popping".

Many people who know me may never notice this, but I, too, at times have a stimming disorder. I have, at intervals, had bouts of prolonged blinking, eye-rolling, lip-biting, breath-holding, and what I think could be the strangest: finger counting. When I was 14 and 15, I would go through these periods of plucking the top joints of my fingers to add up to the number five. I would pluck each one, one time for five. Then, two fingers at once, followed by the other three. Four fingers and then one. Needless to say, I probably looked like a freak. People never seemed to notice this last stim, but they would notice my eye-rolling and often call me on it (and not in a nice way).

I think stimming is common amongst siblings of mentally handicapped persons. My only evidence of this is what I have gathered from my own behavior and of a childhood acquaintance of mine. My friend would harshly blink repeatedly, so harsh that his head would jerk down whenever he did it. I'm undecided, however, if stimming is a behavioral trait inherited, or if it is simply caused my prolonged stress. My childhood friend and I, as siblings of severely, mentally handicapped persons (and we both lived in strict religious households, him more so) lived in VERY stressful environments. Looking back on it now, I kind of wish that we would have connected more on this shared struggle, but we were young and too interested in X-Men and basketball cards.

I thought I should add that stimming feels horrible. It makes you hate yourself. You try and stop it yourself, but it is impossible. For me, the only solution has been to physically remove myself from whatever environment was making me stim. This took a long time to realize.

Anyway, this guy at the gym was obviously stimming, but I wasn't sympathetic towards him like I probably should have been. Instead, I became angry. In my head, I was screaming, "SHUT THE FUCK UP!" and after five minutes worth of hearing his cadenced grunting, I angrily slammed down my book and pushed play on my iPod, blaring Queens of the Stone Age into my head.

Now, I was pedaling faster.

Bus Stop Memories: In the Doorway

Recently, I've been listening to alot of The Misfits (the true version of the band, with Glenn Danzig as the singer), a band who I ADORED when I was 19 to 22. This song "In the Doorway" was released as an "unreleased" song for a reprinting of Static Age in 1997.

I remember carrying my bulky portable CD player, gently nestled in the pocket of an old Air Force jacket my dad gave me, along with my backpack, jampacked with schoolbooks and five or six CDs(each in their respected jewel cases). Waiting and waiting and waiting at the bus stop in the snow in Juneau, or in the red dirt and garbage of Oahu, slowly meandering back and forth, singing this song to myself. I was in love. It's not even 2 minutes long, but it grabbed me, and I don't know how many times I pressed the Prev track button on my CD player.

It seems only a few others really loved this song like I did, and maybe it's not for everybody, but it is for me. The first video here has the original, and the following videos are people doing covers, which I was surprised to find.



Girl with a piano. She does this song so much justice. And such a unique version. I think I love her.



Acoustic (though the audio is a little crazy; keep the volume down):