Minivans

Lately, my head has been full of cotton. No, not stuffy sinus problems. Sleepy, tired, lethargic brain problems. I've pushed myself to get some work done, but it's slow going. My brain is no fool. It knows that I'm "on break." It steadfastly refuses to engage in anything that remotely smacks of work. After fighting the good fight, and losing the good fight all morning, I gave up and went shopping for my nephew's birthday present.

I ended up at the Red Dot Boutique. Miracle of miracles, I wasn't there with all of humanity and actually found a parking space that was less than a 10-minute walk from the front door. Reveling in my good fortune, I made my way to the door. As I walked through the parking lot, I glanced over and saw a woman buckling into her minivan. I didn't pay anymore attention to her or her freak of automotive nature until I noticed that the van was getting closer - and it wasn't because I was moving toward it.

I did what anyone would do with a green behemoth bearing down on them. OK, to be honest, I did what no one else would do in this situation. I emitted a muffled squeal and jumped about 3 inches forward. I looked to my left and noticed that the van was still reversing straight toward me. Not only had I had failed to stop the van, I also failed to get out of its path. In fact, I was even further into the path. Cat-like? Decidedly not. My inaudible squeal and half step forward could not have been less effective. Doing nothing would have rendered a better result. Falling down would have been more effective. At least then, I'd be lower than the vehicle and could potentially miss the tires. Instead, I remained smack in the path of the dreaded minivan.

I kept thinking, "I'm sure she sees me. Surely she sees me." All evidence pointed to the fact that she didn't see me - or that the driver is a homicidal minivan-driving maniac who enjoys running down small-ish pedestrians in big box store parking lots. Whatever the truth, the van kept bearing down on me, no brake lights in sight. Let's quickly review my options - Did I bang on back of the van? No. Did I yell to get the driver's attention? No. Did I step backwards to get out of the way? No. What did I do? Well, I did a little skippity skip jump until I'd cleared the van's back bumper. Catlike? Decidedly not. Cool? Decidedly not. Awkward and ridiculous? Absolutely.

Once I was out of harm's way, I glared at the van. Not at the driver. The van. Again, very effective strategy. I really showed that van who was boss. I'm sure that van won't be backing into people anytime soon.

Once again, I am reminded that minivans are the source of all evil. And once again, I am reminded that I am useless in an emergency. I did manage to find my nephew's birthday present though. I hope he appreciates that I risked my life so that he could have some new clothes. Something tells me that he'd appreciate it more if I'd risked my life for Thomas. Clothes, meh. Trains - now there's a reason to throw yourself in back of a moving minivan.

Politics Georgia-Style

According to my trusty calendar, it's time for the Georgia State Fair, when folks from far and wide bring their oversized livestock and produce to the center of the state for a reminder of how simple life used to be. According to georgiastatefair.org, the fair is in Macon. Last time I checked, the state fairgrounds were in Perry, about 20 minutes south of Macon.

My only visit to the fairgrounds was for my last job in Georgia. In an effort to equalize travel for everyone, we had a statewide meeting in Perry, as close to the center of the state as you can get. The meeting was in a room that overlooked one of the indoor arenas. The first day wasn't bad. The second day, we learned that the room was not soundproof. Our meeting was interrupted by a loudspeaker announcing the beginning of some sort of horse competition. The rest of our meeting was punctuated by "So, let's hear it for..." followed by applause. We soon learned the room wasn't smell-proof either. We didn't have any more meetings at the fairgrounds.

According to my local paper, Georgia's candidates for US Senate were treated to a similar reception during their debate at the fair last night. The paper reports that "a rowdy crowd of 300 cheered, jeered, and often drowned out the candidates." Sitting Senator Saxby Chambliss apparently had a huge "Kick Me" sign on, as the other candidates criticized his support of the recent bail-out package. Their attacks were supported by "backers, most of them bused in from Atlanta." Leave it to the damn eco-conscious Atlanta carpetbaggers to ruin a perfectly good rural folk hootenanny.

But Chambliss wasn't without supporters. Scattered throughout the crowd, people who apparently drove their own cars to the fair "waved 'Saxby' signs and offered up sustained 'boos'" when another candidate mentioned Barack Obama. One woman even "hollered, 'Bomb Obama!'" That's classy, real classy. I'm guessing the woman is very familiar with "being bombed."

While the debate crowd grew more and more partisan and less and less dignified, "outside the cavernous arena, fairgoers munched on funnel cake and pork butt on a stick." Now I consider myself a good Georgian, but hell if I know what "pork butt . . . on a steeek" is. Unfortunately, the fair's website doesn't explain it either. After further research (which was a really good use of my time), I learned that pork butt on a stick is a member of the barbecue family, like a shiskabob of pork butt. I just know that there has never been a day when I've thought, "I'd sure like a pig's ass on a stick right about now. And a side of funnel cake. That would really hit the spot." I also know that if I ever form a band, I'm calling it, "Pork Butt on a Stick."

If you ask me, sounds like there was a lot of ass-chewing both inside and outside the "cavernous arena." Almost makes me wish I'd been in Perry last night, and I assure you that I've never made that statement before.

In the News

As you know, I love the Blotter in my local paper. Sure, I feel for victims of car crashes, accidental injuries, and violent crime. I also have some sympathy for the folks who go away on vacation and return to find their air conditioners gone. Or the poor college students who discover that their roommates didn't guard their possessions over the long summer break, and now they have to buy a new laptop, iPod, and Wii, because what college student can survive without all three of those things?

No, the reason I love the blotter is because of entries like the following from the past week:

You know it's going to be good when the headline reads, "Madison reports strange arrest." It all started when a Madison County woman (not Meryl Streep) reported that someone in a truck dropped an object on to her windshield and broke it. A diligent sheriff's deputy (not Don Knotts) surveyed the damage and the crime scene and came to a conclusion. Calling on his finely honed detecting skills and extensive knowledge of all of the county's truck drivers (quite a feat for someone in a rural county), he stopped in to see a man who drove a truck matching the description of the windshield breaker.

When the deputy arrived, he immediately became suspicious. According to the report, "he found the 31 year old man with a syringe jutting from his pocket and wires dragging on the ground from inside his pants." Upon further investigation, the deputy learned that the syringe contained meth residue, which goes a long way toward explaining the rest of the story. According to the report, "the wires led to a battery that made [a] homemade contraption vibrate in his pants." Seems the fellow "placed a small motor inside a pill bottle and then wrapped the bottle in pipe insulation." Then, we assume, he put the contraption where the sun doesn't shine and plugged himself in.

We can cut the fellow some slack, because what man doesn't want something that vibrates in his pants? You've really got to hand it to this guy, so to speak. I mean, seriously, he could have gotten a cell phone, set it to vibrate, and constantly called himself. Or, he could get one of those contraptions, what's it called? You know, those things that vibrate. I think they're called vibrators.

But no, this genius looked around his house and asked himself, "WWMacD"? (What Would MacGyver Do?) In response, he decided to build a better vibrator, one that risked lighting up his "little buddy" with several volts of electrical current. I think we can agree that in this fellow's case, fertility problems might not be the worst outcome. I have to say that I'm a little disappointed that he didn't use a paper clip and chewing gum. MacGyver would have. But then, MacGyver wasn't hyped up on meth, or at least we don't think he was. Probably best not to consider what the fellow might have done with the chewing gum.

According to the Blotter entry, the fellow is in jail on multiple charges that don't include "possession of a strange vibrating contraption." There's no mention of what became of his contraption. I imagine it's quite the conversation piece in the evidence room.

As if that wasn't enough entertainment, in yesterday's paper, there's a story of a woman who flagged down a police officer. It was 5AM and she wanted a ride to Odd Street. You just can't make this stuff up. The officer agreed to take her to her destination so she happily climbed into the car. That was her first mistake.

Seems she forgot that police cars are equipped with computers that retrieve information. On their way to Odd Street, the officer learned the woman's name, her real name - her second mistake. Using his trusty computer, the officer learned that the woman was wanted in a neighboring county. D'oh!

Seems she also forgot that police cars are equipped with other neat gadgets, like radios. She also forgot that police cars can go lots of places, not just Odd Street. Imagine her disappointment when she didn't arrive at Odd Street. Instead, the officer "gave her a ride to the county line where a sheriff's deputy picked her up and took her to the county jail." So, let this be a lesson to you - if you're wanted by the police, it's best to stay out of their cars. Find another way to Odd Street.

In case you're wondering, these geniuses are not in the same jail. It's probably best because there's no telling what might happen if they were allowed to combine their mental acumen.

PLEDGE

I live in what I believe to be the last blue enclave in a very red state. Last year, following a sitting Congressman's untimely death, voters elected a Democrat-turned-Republican medical doctor to Congress. In order to win the election in a district that includes very blue and very red voters, this chameleon successfully turned purple. Since taking office, we've all learned that he's red through and through.

Case in point: In recent days, the local paper has followed the story of our illustrious US Representative's proposed new legislation. Creatively called the PLEDGE Act, the law would require all school students to recite the Pledge of Allegiance and sing the national anthem in English only. I forget what the acronym actually stands for. I'm pretty sure it's not, "Please Legislate Even Dumber Grandstanding Edicts," but it should be.

This week, the local paper took the Congressman to task, calling his proposal, "a solution in need of a problem." Seems all of the schoolchildren in the Congressman's district, not to mention the entire state, recite the Pledge and sing the anthem in English. Now that he's suggested that it could be otherwise, I'm pretty sure the notoriously bleeding heart eggheads across town are busily translating the Pledge en espanol. Peut etre, en francais, aussi.

After this unfounded attack, the Congressman's campaign treasurer came to his leader's defense. The fellow also "handles church relations" for the Congressman. I don't know what this means, maybe he prays for the Congressman. No, I don't mean that he prays for the Congressman's continued good health and fortune. I mean that he actually prays for the Congressman, thus freeing up the Congressman to do other things, like come up with needless legislation and assign stupid acronyms.

Anyway, in this fellow's spirited defense, he makes several points, all of which I'd like to dispute (and ridicule). First, he argues that all schoolchildren "need to speak and read English [because] all of our founding documents and most supplemental materials about important figures in American history are in English. If our kids are going to understand the 'American experience' they have inherited, they need to read about it, study it, and yes, even learn to articulate it."

Give me a minute to dust off my bleeding heart liberal ideals. OK. Who decided what constituted a "founding document"? I'd suggest that whoever made the decision began with "must be in English" as a primary criterion. I'd suggest that the next criterion was something like, "Must be written down." So, any document or oral history in Spanish, a Native American language, or West African immediately doesn't qualify. Sorry, Hispanics, Native Americans, and African Americans, your history isn't "foundational" because you didn't think to write your thoughts down in English. Please take your place back on the sidelines while we focus on the "important" figures. In case you're confused, I'm talking about the rich white guys in the wigs.

Now, to the writer's point about the "American experience:" Whose experience is he talking about? Well, I think it's pretty clear. My point is that as a history professor, I try very hard to communicate that there is a multiplicity of "American experiences," not one "experience." This multiplicity includes a diverse group of historical actors who interact with each other in a variety of contexts. In other words, it ain't just about the rich white guys in wigs. And, here's a stunning thought - the rich white guys often act in response to historical actors who aren't speaking the Queen's English. Who's "important" now, jackass?

Next, the fellow argues that we're doing a disservice to schoolchildren if we don't teach them English because "English is the language of success in the United States." Really? I speak English. Bring on the success! As a student of pop culture, I'd argue that texting is the language of success in the United States. OMG! LOL!

Finally, the fellow argues that all schoolchildren should be forced to memorize not only the Pledge and the national anthem, but also the preamble to the Declaration of Independence (I wonder if he means the Constitution) and the entire Bill of Rights. According to this fellow, "Imagine kids knowing that stuff by heart, and even in English.... School systems are doing kids an injustice by not helping them get a handle on these core principles and history of our country."

Again, as a college professor, I have to say that rote memorization is crap. I don't care if my students can memorize the textbook. I do care if they can explain the historical significance of key events and people, broadly defined. Hell, I can sing the national anthem beginning to end and recite the Pledge of Allegiance, all in English. I can also count on one hand the number of times that I've ever stopped to consider what I was saying or singing. And, I speak English, but I still don't know what "ramparts" are. As for "core principles," how many of us know that the national anthem is set to the tune of an old English drinking song? Fine "core principles" on display.

I'll also point out that any of us who grew up with Schoolhouse Rock can sing the Preamble to the Constitution. How many of us know what it means? For a refresher, check out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q_TXJRZ4CFc. Dogboy2709 (a sure expert) tells us that his post "is for studying purposes." Hell, we don't need to make sure schoolchildren learn English, we just need to set everything to a snappy tune.

In conclusion, I'd like to PLEDGE my support for our Congressman's opponent.

Southern Masculinity

In our postmodern age, historians often discuss major categories of analysis as "social constructions." Definitions of race, gender, class and culture are determined by the historical context in which they exist. In other words, race is not solely biologically determined and static. Instead, our understanding of race and the meanings we assign change over time. Same with gender, class, and culture.

I found myself reflecting on these ideas when I pulled up behind a red Ford pick-up truck yesterday. In the time that it took for the light to change, I came to realize that this truck perfectly encapsulated the owner's construction of southern masculinity. I'm not sure if it was intentional, but it was masterful.

First, the truck itself. A Ford. Decidedly and proudly American made. And not some wimpy Ford, but one of those big Fords. The ones that scream, "Me, southern! Me, big man! Me, drive big truck! Grrrr!" And it was shiny red. Nothing hidden in that message. Big, red truck.

Next were the three guys in the truck. I think the one straddling the gear shift might have been the only contradiction in the whole picture. The passenger who called shotgun wore the obligatory baseball cap, today's equivalent of the cowboy hat of yore. I so wanted one of them to open his door and spit.

Moving on, I took in the truck "art." Here's where the owner really hit his stride. On the right side of the back window, he'd affixed the now iconic image of the little boy peeing. You know which one I'm talking about, the smirking little boy pees on "Chevy" if you drive a Ford, and "Ford" if you drive a Chevy. Yep, it's truly one of the crucial debates of our times. You can judge its importance by the medium of choice. Throughout history, all great questions have been settled by smirking peeing boy car decals. Most people don't know, but Abraham Lincoln had a smirking boy decal on his carriage. The boy peed on slavery.

This truck owner was a bit more creative. Instead of peeing, the smirking little boy on his window held a kite decorated with the Confederate Stars and Bars. I'd include a picture, but after several Google searches, I'm unable to find one and I don't want to look anymore. Scary things happen when you search for "peeing boy confederate flag kite."

Moving to the truck's tailgate, the owner had a magnetic American flag decal. There they were, the symbols of the Union and the Confederacy, separated by the length of a truck bed yet existing in harmony on one American-made truck. The fierce and enduring patriotism toward region and country on display. Southern AND American.

Then, my eyes gazed upon the truck's bumper. There, for all to see, in bright red letters on a white background, a bumper sticker proudly announced, "I [heart] VAGINA." I'll admit that I did a double-take, then sat in utter amazement, then started laughing. I'll also admit that my first thought was, "I wonder if they are gynecologists." So, although these three young men chose to sit three to a cab and one straddled a gear shift, let there be no confusion, they like girls.

Taken as a whole, the truck was a work of sheer genius. The symbols were so clear, so obvious. I began to wonder if the driver was a northern gay African American man, because he just seemed to be trying too hard to convince people otherwise.

Midwest Diners

I've just returned from dinner at a chain restaurant. I swore that I was not going to eat at any chains while I was in Savannah. There are too many local restaurants to choose from. But, then a thunderstorm rolled in at 5PM and continued. I've eaten out on my own for 3 nights and I just didn't have the stamina to seek out a local place in the rain, so I went to a chain within two blocks of my hotel. I passed the chain that's also in my hometown, so at least I ate somewhere that I couldn't eat at when I'm home.

I had settled into a quiet corner of the place when a group of 8 obvious tourists took up two tables next to me. Judging by their nasal twangs, I can only guess that they're from the nation's heartland. Good, wholesome folks, fine upstanding citizens of Peoria or the like. Somewhere where talking through your nose is the norm.

I tried to ignore them. I really did. I read my book. I looked out the window. I finally just gave up. Seems they came to Savannah to drink. One of them unfurled a map of all of the city's bars and issued a challenge to the woman across the table: "I bet you can't go to all of these places." She made some comment about "24 shots" and drank more of her Miller Lite. Another quipped, "When in Savannah..." I cringed for them. They came all this way to drink Miller Lites in a chain restaurant. Oy.

I gathered that they were UPS drivers. One talked about delivering a package to Neil Armstrong. She said that she kept looking "for the guy on the bike." Another delivered a package to Peter Frampton, but didn't know who he was "because he doesn't have long hair any more." Double oy.

Then, the singing started. No, it wasn't karaoke night. They sang along with the background music. You know, the music that you're supposed to ignore. OK, I've been known to sing along with background music, but only after I've had a couple of drinks. Who knows, maybe they'd already started their tour of the city's bars - at least the ones that serve really watery beer.

This restaurant seemed to revel in playing the worst music ever recorded. Have any idea how hard it is to ignore Faith Hill's "The Way You Love Me" when Ms. Nasal Midwest is singing in your ear? No one, I repeat, no one should ever sing, "If I could grant you one wish, I'd wish you could see the way you kiss." Seriously? She has one wish and she wants him to see how he kisses? Just give him a mirror and wish for a yacht. Yeesh.

Thankfully, Singing Girl didn't know the words to any songs recorded before 1990. Unfortunately, her slightly older dinner companions felt the need to show how "hip" they were by singing all the songs she didn't know. After Faith Hill, I was serenaded with "Your Love is Lifting Me Higher" and "Saturday in the park, I think it was the 4th of July." I changed the lyrics to "Wednesday night in Savannah, I wish that you would crawl off and die."

Not surprisingly, the younger Singing Girl wasn't impressed with the "old folks" singing, so the fellow launched into the history of Chicago. Not the city, the band. Did you know that Peter "Horsefaced" Cetera didn't sing "Saturday in the Park"? Neither did I. Do you care? Neither do I.

Next up on the hit parade: "Say You, Say Me" by Lionel Richie. Neither of the singers belted out this tune, thus proving that it is the worst song in the history of bad music. Even nasally bland midwesterners won't sing it. As I waited for them to start singing, I realized in horror that I was humming along. "Say you, say me, say it together...that's the way it should be. Say you, say me, say it for always, naturally" I then decided that Lionel Richie might possibly be Satan.

I quickly finished my bland, overcooked steak and dry baked potato and beat a hasty retreat. As I left, one of them requested a bottle of water because her tap water "tasted funny." I almost turned around to say, "Look, you can sing really bad songs. You can travel for miles to eat at chain restaurants. But don't you dare diss southern water, you nasal talker!"

Chicken Exchange

There's a story in today's paper about a couple of folks who rented a house in a nearby town. Apparently, although their landlord rented out the house, he maintained a chicken coop in the backyard, complete with $500 rooster. That house must have smelled great and those renters must have wanted to snap that rooster's neck every morning.

Lately, the landlord noticed that some of his chicken flock were missing, most notably the $500 rooster. I think most of us would assume that, in these troubled economic times, the renters were making chicken soup, chicken pot pie, fried chicken, and chicken salad. All of this would make sense - except for the missing $500 rooster. Rooster pot pie? Yuck.

After some investigation, the landlord learned that his renters have harkened back to an earlier age and revived the practice of bartering. Somehow, they convinced a local meth dealer to exchange drugs for chickens. Now, I can understand the renters' logic, figuring a chicken in the coop is worth at least a few grams. What I can't understand is why a meth dealer would accept live chickens. Even if you're high on meth, you'd certainly recognize the difference between a live chicken and cash. Cash doesn't crap in your car. You can't exchange a live chicken for more supplies to make meth - or at least I don't think you can. Of course, I didn't think you could exchange chickens for meth, so clearly I'm totally out of the loop.

I wonder what the going exchange rate is in this chickens-for-meth market. I'm also guessing that the $500 rooster is headlining at some local cockfight.

The Cost of Getting Old(er)

As I approach a landmark birthday (the one that rhymes with "Lordy, Lordy"), I am trying to convince myself that this milestone won't make any difference. I'll be just as young at heart the day before my birthday as the day after. I'll still be able to bend farther than most of the young'uns in my yoga class, and I'll still have more brown hair than gray. Forty is the new twenty, I tell myself.

The calming effect of this soothing mantra was shattered today. I received a notice from my health insurance company, telling me that they were raising my rates. Why? Well, in their words, "You have recently had or are about to have a birthday that puts you in a new age range category." Effective October 1, they'll charge $25 more each month for exactly the same services.

No happy birthday wishes. No recognition that I exercise more now than I did when I was twenty. No recognition that I'm a more careful driver, that I no longer spend Saturday nights in loud smoky bars, and that I only read in well-lit rooms. Nope. Just - "You're old, now pay up!"

I really don't understand this. It seems completely arbitrary. Do doctors charge more to test and cure people who are 40 or older? Will pharmacists say, "If you were still 39, we'd charge you $10 for this medication. Since you're over 40, it's now $45"? Should I expect my health to start deteriorating immediately after I blow out the candles? Maybe I shouldn't blow at all, for fear that I'll pass out and require both stitches and treatment for second degree burns. That's sure to run up my health care costs.

The thoughtful health insurance company does offer one solution. I can opt for a plan with a higher deductible. I'd still pay an extra $15/month, and I'd have to pay more out-of-pocket before the health insurance kicks in. Somehow, this doesn't seem helpful, especially since I'll be infirmed anyday now.

Here's the good news in all of this. When I start my full-time job next month, I can drop my self-paid health insurance like the age-ist hot potato that it is. So there. Put that in your pipe and smoke it.

Damn Good Dawg

It's a sad day in the Bulldog Nation. Uga VI has gone to the big Dawg Pound in the sky.

My 5 year old nieces are coming to visit this week and I don't think I'll tell them about this. I introduced them to Uga on their last visit and now they LOVE him. During their last visit, we went around town and found many of the painted statues Ugas that line the streets. Think: Cow statues in Chicago.

At each stop, the girls climbed on Uga's back and waved red and black pom poms, chanting "U-G-A, U-G-A!" and proudly demonstrating their newfound bulldog spirit. In a final show of devotion, each girl kissed Uga's concrete jowls and professed their love for him. It was a scene that was sure to send both grandfathers into conniption fits - one is a Vanderbilt Commodore and the other is an Auburn Tiger.

I'm not sure my nieces will understand the whole "Uga died, but now there's a new Uga and we love him just as much as the old Uga." They know that my mother's beloved west highland terrier died a couple of years ago. One of my nieces showed her understanding of the circle of life by remarking, "Grandma's dog died. Now she's in a hole." So, maybe I could start with, "Remember how Grandma's dog died and is now in a hole..." My mother has a new dog now, but they've christened the dog with a new name, so the analogy falls apart at that point. That, and my parents didn't build a marble shrine to the dog, though none of us would have been surprised if they did.

So, maybe I'll start by explaining how the Supreme Court works, or the papacy. Supreme Court justice, Pope, Uga - all the same thing really. Except Uga only has to see Clarence Thomas when the Justice delivers the commencement address at the local university.

Following the hallowed tradition, Uga VI will be enshrined with Ugas I - V in the marble vault at the stadium. The local paper has a several-page tribute to Uga VI and his accomplishments, naming him the "winningest" Uga in Uga history. The entire Bulldog Nation will be in mourning until a successor is named.

All of this makes me wonder what those folks at that engineering school do when their mascot goes to that big wasp nest in the sky.

Meatloaf

As I browsed through my favorite celebrity gossip headlines, I came across some news about Meatloaf. No, not everyone's favorite ketchup covered, fancy hamburger. I'm talking about history's most unlikely rock star.

Who else but this guy



could belt out epic-ly long songs and make it to the top of the charts? (By the way, is anyone else still wondering what Meatloaf won't do, as in he'd do "anything for love, but [he] won't do that?" What won't he do? And why not, if he'd do anything else?)

Anyway, seems Meatloaf (Meat, to his friends) had some trouble with his voice earlier this year. Some might say, "Yeah, I've had trouble with his voice, too." But I won't be one of those people. Not to worry, Mr. Loaf isn't letting a little thing like not being able to talk keep him from singing, according to Contactmusic.com:

Legendary rocker MEATLOAF isn't considering hanging up his microphone anytime soon - he has vowed to never give up performing. The Bat Out Of Hell hitmaker cancelled a string of gigs in the U.K. last year citing acute laryngitis and was ordered by medics to stay away from the stage for four to six weeks. And the star insists his time away from playing his dramatic shows for fans has made him realize he belongs in show business - and won't ever consider doing anything else.

He says, "It's like the old joke about the guy in the circus, right? He always wanted to be in show business so finally he got in the circus, and his job was walking behind the elephants cleaning up after them. He kept complaining and somebody finally said, 'Just stop, you don't need to keep doing this,' and he said, 'What? And give up show business?'"

He continued, "What am I gonna do, run a hotdog stand? Be a real estate agent? I don't know anything else."

I say good for you, Meatloaf! Don't let a little thing like acute laryngitis keep you from singing. Hell no, you just keep on keeping on. I'm sure that it's not some blatantly clear message from God. I'd recommend staying inside during thunderstorms for a while, just to be on the safe side.

But here's what I don't understand: What does his joke reference mean? If he's the guy cleaning up after elephants, who are the elephants? Bigger performers - big as in "more famous"? And is he saying that he's been cleaning up after these bigger stars for all of his career? That's so sad. Not "Paradise by the Dashboard Light," instead it's more like "Dismally Sad with a Dustpan and Broom." And, apparently, that's all he knows how to do. How very sad.

I bet he'd be good at real estate. Can't you just hear the sales pitch? "Though it's cold and lonely in the deep dark night, this house has a brand new furnace and good insulation." Or, "Ain't no doubt about it, you'll be doubly blessed, 'cause the water heater and the roof are barely seventeen and they are barely stressed."

Here's what this whole story reminds me of: There's this MASH episode where a patient annoys everyone by talking incessantly and trying to sell life insurance. BJ and Charles tell the patient that he has a rare medical condition and if he keeps talking, he'll ruin his vocal chords. The patient is quiet for the rest of his stay.

Maybe Meatloaf should watch that episode. See if he can draw any parallels.

Movies

Since graduating and getting a job, I'm catching up on my movie watching. I know that I'm venturing into a ridiculously crowded field, but I humbly offer the following reviews of movies I've seen recently, either at the theater or on DVD/TV.

Iron Man: Robert Downey, Jr. is really the only highlight of this movie. Good to see him putting his personal struggle with booze and drugs behind him by playing a guy who's hooked on booze and drugs. The movie is just what anyone would expect - lots of explosions, obvious bad guys (I had it figured out in the first 10 minutes of the movie), and mindless dialogue ("I'm going to kill you." "No you're not." - you see what I mean). At least Iron Man doesn't seem to need Prozac, unlike his superhero buddies Spiderman and Batman. I imagine the writers will explore Iron Man's tortured soul in subsequent sequels, and that's when he'll visit the Shrink to the Superheroes for his prescription. I realize that they're just trying to make our favorite superheroes more "complex," but I actually prefer my superheroes to be one-dimensional - particularly if the alternative is for them to be depressed and angst-ridden. Lighten up!

Lars and the Real Girl: I loved this movie! The premise is original, the writing is fantastic, and everyone is great. I'm not big on "suspension of reality," but I was completely taken in and I actually cried at the end (won't give the ending away). The humor is so well done. Rather than big set-ups to punchlines, the writers just seamlessly slip really funny comments into the dialogue - which makes it even funnier. And the interview with Ryan Gosling in the DVD extras - there is nothing like a man with a dry sense of humor.

Enchanted: I was determined not to watch this movie. Too much suspension of reality, too predictable, and too much Patrick Dempsey. Yeah, yeah, he's cute and has great hair. I got it. Enough already. But - I visited my brother's family last weekend and they'd just purchased the movie. So, being the good aunt, I took my appointed seat between my 5 year old nieces and watched. I was particularly disappointed in myself when I found that I was actually following the story and could explain it to my niece. Here's what I learned from the movie: if you're cheerful and beautiful, a rich man with great hair will rescue you even if you appear to be bat-shit crazy. If you just continue to be bat-shit crazy (breaking into song at a moment's notice, inviting pigeons and rodents into the house, and making clothes out of drapes), you can completely change the rich man's life so now he sings and dances too and he will set you up in your own clothing store. Oh, and if you're not as attractive and cheerful, you can still get a prince, but you have to become a cartoon. There's two hours of my life that I'll never get back.

I'm Not There: I think you're supposed to drop acid before you watch this movie. I did not, and I paid the price. This movie is exhausting. I totally fast-forwarded through the Richard Gere parts because I just didn't have the energy to try to figure out what the hell was going on. Runaway dogs, Civil War soldiers, bands playing in a gazebo, girls in coffins, old men yelling at Gere in a plastic mask...???? The Cate Blanchett and Heath Ledger parts were easier to follow, but by the end, I was totally wiped out. I decided that I wasn't deep enough for this movie. I consoled myself with the knowledge that I was too deep for "Enchanted."

The Jane Austen Book Club: I enjoyed the book, and was a bit nervous about the movie. The thing that captivated me about the book was the author's use of voice. Throughout the book, the reader views individual book club members from the collective book club's perspective. I wasn't sure how this would translate on screen. It didn't, but I ended up enjoying the movie anyway. It's one of the few movies with a happy ending that didn't completely piss me off. And, it has a great soundtrack. Sure, they could have done more character development and the ending comes together too neatly, but who wants to watch a 4-hour movie? My new goal in life is to find Grigg.

The Family Stone: Caught this movie on FX one night. It's not a good movie. It's like the writers sat down and said, "OK, we're making a holiday family movie. What would tug at an audience's heartstrings?" They came up with dying mother, gay couple where one has a physical handicap (seriously), painfully socially awkward newcomer, painfully pent-up son, painfully pregnant sister... The list goes on and on. Then instead of choosing one or two, they decided to throw them all into the movie. No one's character makes any sense because no one gets enough air time to explain themselves. Sarah Jessica Parker is particularly hard to watch as she goes from one painfully awkward moment to the next, only to be redeemed at the end by giving everyone the same Christmas gift. Then, she loses her boyfriend to her much more down-to-earth sister. But not to worry because she hooks up with her boyfriend's free-spirit brother, so it's all good. Happy ending, pissed me off.

That's all for now. More as I continue to work my way through my Netflix queue.

Pandora

Thanks to my college friend, I have discovered Pandora Radio. This has to be the greatest thing ever! Just choose a genre and Pandora plays an endless stream of music. All free. Free of cost, free of mindless commercials, free of annoying announcers making sexist fart jokes, free. I'm listening to Bebop/Combo jazz now. Thanks to Pandora, I might actually finish this consulting project that I'm working on.

You can also choose an artist or song, and Pandora will magically play music by that artist or music that sounds like that artist. You can bookmark music so you can remember what you liked. But, before you think that the folks at Pandora are musical communists who believe in equal distribution of resources, they don't let you just listen to specific songs whenever you want. No, you need an iTunes playlist for that. On Pandora, you hear it once, then it moves on. But, Pandora provides an easy link to Amazon or iTunes so you can buy the song with one click of the touchpad. Ah, capitalism.

Check out Pandora at: http://www.pandora.com/

With Pandora, NPR podcasts, BBC News online, and DVDs on Netflix, I offically declare my independence from the oppressive TV and radio schedules that used to dictate my life. I am no longer tied to the arbitrary whims of media moguls who think they know what I want to watch and when I want to watch it. I am no longer at the mercy of radio DJs who sound like the boys I avoided in high school. Farewell to four-minute blocks of commercials with scantily clad women gyrating over a shiny car while men drink beer and tell fart jokes. As God is my witness, I will never listen or watch on someone else's schedule again! (Until I quit working to watch the Top Chef season finale at 10PM tonight.)

Pandora is the greatest thing ever. According to the website, there's a gizmo that will let me stream Pandora through my home stereo. What more would I need? This must be what it would be like to find the Holy Grail, and I didn't even need to know the windspeed velocity of an African swallow.

Yes, I'm still watching a 17-inch TV and my home phone doesn't have caller ID. And yes, I realize that many of you probably found Pandora years ago. Call me a dinosaur, I don't care. I can't hear you over Pandora.

Scarecrows

No, this isn't a blog entry about the Wizard of Oz or John Mellencamp. Instead, it's about an article in yesterday's paper. Seems a small town within close proximity "wants to break the record for most scarecrows." Why? I've read the article and I still can't answer that question.

In the absence of a good reason, the Fall Festival planner explained that she wants to make her hometown with the name that sounds like a sneeze, "The Scarecrow Capital by breaking the Guiness World Record for the most scarecrows on display in a single city." I know what you're thinking. Why? More importantly, is there anything that Guiness won't record? Seriously. Anything?

Back to the festival planner, Ms. Scarecrow (not her actual name). She's not kidding around. She's working with city officials to collect 4000 scarecrows by September. And, she's issued a stern warning: "If you wear overalls, hold on to your pants." Her husband should be easy to spot because apparently, "she's already gone after his overalls." I'd bet that you could put him in a field and he'd scare more than one crow.

The town is really getting into it - or at least some of the town. The first donation was "a life-size replica of 'Wheel of Fortune' hostess Vanna White." She stands proudly behind plate glass at City Hall. Guess they figured Vanna-crow needed a place of honor. Or maybe City Hall is full of crows. Vanna is made from a dressmaker's dummy and wears a sequin gown, a mask, stuffed burlap limbs, and pipe-cleaner jewelry. Now, for the scarecrow... (ha ha ha ha).

According to Vanna-crow's creator, "When you think of someone who presents something gracefully and with style, who comes to mind first? Vanna White!" Actually, I'm proud to report that Vanna White never comes to my mind - though Vanna-crow will haunt my dreams for some time. Here's the question: Why would you want a scarecrow that can present something gracefully and with style? Isn't that the opposite of what you want a scarecrow to do? "And, crows, because you've chosen this field, we have fabulous rows of corn. Each ear comes with plump yellow kernels, milky pulp, and a cob that you can peck at for days." Seems Vanna-crow would be as useful as the actual Vanna.

According to the paper, "Business owners who walk through Vanna's gaze...aren't sure she'd scare away crows, but they agree that there is something vaguely creepy about her." I hear Pat Sajak thinks the same thing.

So, let's all hope that this little town pulls out all the stops, donates all of their overalls, and reaches its goal of 4000 scarecrows. If not, they can "wile away the hours, conversin' with the flowers, consultin' with the rain. And their heads they'd be scratchin', while their thoughts were busy hatchin', if they only had a brain."

Closed on Sunday

I had a plan. It's a beautiful sunny day outside and I resolved not to work on this holiday weekend. I need to buy a birthday gift for my 3 year old nephew and I need to buy a wedding present for my cousins. Today was the perfect day to check out the college town's local shops for unique gifts. Sunny, low humidity, perfect. Except it's Sunday.

Following a friend's recommendation, I drove to one of the trendy neighborhoods in town. It's one of those places with cute little gift shops where they sell things that you can't find anywhere else. As I easily parked the car, I wondered where everyone was. I soon realized that all the cute stores were closed up. I couldn't look at unique toys, one-of-a-kind housewares, or anything. Sighing loudly, I got back in my car and noticed that I'd been stupid enough to park between two HUGE vans. I backed blind into the street and I was off again.

I decided that the afternoon was still young so I headed to the strip mall with the chain bookstore. So I couldn't get a unique toy, I could still get started on the nephew gift with a book. As I sat at the light, I remembered that there was also a cooking store in the same shopping center. Perfect! I hummed along to REM as I felt my enthusiasm returning. (I was able to hum along to REM because I resorted and reorganized my iTunes playlists, then resync-ed my iPod this morning. I'm continually amazed at my ability to fill time with truly important and critical tasks now that I don't have that pesky dissertation to work on.)

I arrived at the shopping center, turned the wrong way down a parking aisle, got turned around, parked and got out of the car. I made a beeline for the cooking store. Closed. Dammit. "Is anything open on Sunday?" I asked no one in particular. I looked down the row of stores and noticed that Ann Taylor Loft was open, and they were having a sale. One shirt and a pair of shorts later, I came out. I rationalized that I would keep my purchases since they're clearly the wrong color for my nephew and cousins.

Although I knew that my purchases did not move me any closer to my original goal, I felt much better. I headed to the bookstore. I wandered through the children's section and really gave it a good try. Nothing caught my eye. I decided to branch out. So, I wandered through the DVDs. "Maybe my nephew would like Lars and the Real Girl," I thought, "or maybe Sex and the City, Season 5." I decided that he wouldn't like them because they were too expensive.

I wandered aimlessly and found myself in the History section. Ten minutes later, I left the store with "Inside the Confederate Nation," a collection of essays about life in the Confederate South. I feel sure that my nephew will be completely enraptured with this choice. What 3 year old doesn't want to know more about "Shades of Nation: Confederate Loyalties in Southeastern Virginia," or "The Moral Imagination of Confederate Family Politics"? Seriously.

One thing's for certain, it will be great bedtime reading, much more effective than that Thomas the Train Engine.

Amusement?

Yesterday, I received the June edition of Southern Living. As always, I flipped to the back to read the recipes first. Then, I looked for the house plan of the month and finally made my way to the beginning of the magazine. Reading the magazine from back to front is one of my many quirks.

As I read the travel features, I came across, "What's New at the Theme Parks." It's a piece about the new thrills and shows at the nation's amusement parks. This summer, Hard Rock Park in Myrtle Beach unleashes "Led Zeppelin - The Ride." In what has to be the most flattering homage to Robert Plant's endowment, the entire 15-story, 0.7 mile coaster ride is choreographed to "Whole Lotta Love." Plant must be so proud. The only way to make this ride even more perfect is to have the entire track barely contained under a thin layer of denim.

Kings Dominion in Virginia unveils the Dominator. Coming in at just under one mile, this coaster takes its place as the longest floorless coaster in the world. Take that, Robert Plant. So, if size really matters to you, head to Virginia.

Finally, Universal Studios in Orlando (Florida, not Bloom) introduces "Disaster!" On this ride, you get to "feel as if you're an extra in a disaster movie." Oooh, fun. The editors at Southern Living included a picture with this entry, showing thrillseekers "taking a subway train ride through an 8.0 earthquake for the explosive finale of Disaster!" The picture shows riders in a train while water rushes in and ceiling beams crash around them. Fun! Especially if you've been watching the news before you get on this ride.

OK, I know that the good folks at Universal Studios could not predict the actual Disaster! in China, but they must have had some inkling of the hurricane that hit New Orleans. Seems like a slippery slope from "ride based on a movie" to "ride based on an actual disaster." Just imagine: "You've seen it on CNN, now experience it for real! Universal Studios presents: Katrina - The Ride! Your adventure begins with wind and rain and eventually you have to race up to the attic and poke a hole in the roof to get away from the rushing water. Then, you get to sit and sit and sit until the grand finale - airlifting on a real live rescue helicopter!" Woohoo! Where does the line start?

With all the fires in Florida, Universal Studios might have a new ride in their own backyard - Wildfire! "Can you outrun the flames?"

Graduation

This weekend was graduation. I flew to the northeastern post-industrial wasteland where I met my parents who had driven 13 hours. From what I could gather, they got a good introduction to upstate life while they waited for my plane to arrive. There was a rowdy group who greeted their arriving friend with cheers and a big sign that read, "Welcome Home, Meat!" My parents looked a bit shell-shocked when I emerged through the door. I had forgotten how jarring upstate weirdness can be, and I decided that I can finally abandon my survival mechanism and start noticing the bizarre behavior again.

The weekend went well. Despite ominous weather predictions of violent thunderstorms and tornadoes, we managed to enjoy a sunny afternoon in a nearby river town before heading to the wasteland. I gave my parents the driving tour, and I think they're still traumatized. More than once, my mother said, "I'm glad you're not here anymore," or something to that effect. They both declared that they had made three trips to the wasteland: first, last, and only.

The graduation ceremony went off without a hitch. Thanks to the engineering marvel known as bobby-pins, my friend and I managed to affix our too-large slippery hats to our heads. We knew we looked foolish, but no more so than anyone around us. As we preened and fretted in the bathroom, someone noted, "We look like we're in a Harry Potter movie." And she was right.

During the ceremony, my friend and I managed to get our hoods and walk across the stage without falling down - a major accomplishment, if you ask me. My dad managed to stay balanced on his rickety chair to take pictures. He has a history of falling off of things, so this was also a major accomplishment.

After all the PhDs got their hoods, we sat down to listen to the inspiring words from the graduation speaker. You know you're in for a treat when they invite an economist from Cornell to speak. Apparently, he received his bachelor's degree from our lesser state school. He spent the first five minutes of his speech telling us all about his accomplishments (papers, endowed chairs, fellowships, awards, pomposity, pomposity, pomposity...). After that, he launched into an economic comparison of public and private institutions. He spouted a lot of statistics, but one phrase sticks in my head: "the growing endowments of the privates." My friend and I giggled like school girls, or Beavis and Butthead.

In the end, this full professor concluded that from his perspective in the Cornell Ivory Tower, public education was going straight into the toilet. Surprisingly, he didn't offer to leave his cushy job and return to public education. He did offer us three pieces of advice: develop coping skills, don't be stand-offish with undergraduates who may idolize you, and well, I can't remember the third piece of advice, but my friend says it was, "...and get a job at Cornell."

He finally sat down, students received their Masters degrees, and then a grad student offered some words of wisdom. In a strange, choppy speaking style, he encouraged all of us to use our imaginations. If we didn't, he warned we'd just "be whistling Dixie in the dark." Being the good southerner that I am, I leaned to my friend and said, "Ain't nothin' wrong with whistlin' Dixie in the dark." Damn Yankees.

Finally, the ceremony ended and we all gathered for pictures. My advisor, who is a force of nature, managed to hold off the rain and scare small children so we could get exactly the pictures that she wanted. Worn out, my parents and I drove the hour back to our hotel. On the way, we decided to postpone the fancy celebration dinner until I came to visit them at their house.

All in all, it was a good and exhausting weekend. When I returned home, I stopped into Cracker Barrel to get dinner. As I walked in, I read the sign on the door: "Imagine walking out this door with a paycheck." I almost screamed. What a message to receive after graduating with a PhD. As my job search continues, I can only hope that I won't end up walking out the door of Cracker Barrel with a paycheck in my hand.

Reality TV

Tonight, I caught the first 5 minutes of E! News before I returned to all the work I didn't get done this afternoon. I learned that Kate Hudson and Owen Wilson are not getting married. In fact, they broke up. Owen Wilson doesn't want to talk about it. I learned that Jessica Simpson will be attending her sister's wedding without her Dallas Cowboy boyfriend because they also broke up. That sound you hear is all the Dallas Cowboy fans cheering in unison. At least their break-up brought people together.

I also learned that Denise Richards has signed a deal for her own E! network reality show. You'll recall that Denise Richards is Charlie Sheen's ex-wife. Charlie Sheen, otherwise known as Mr. Horn-Dog. Or at least he was before Ms. Richards allegedly took up with Heather Locklear's hubby, Richie Sambora of Bon Jovi fame. Ms. Richards was Ms. Locklear's best friend. Leave it to Denise Richards to find a way to make Charlie Sheen look good in all of this. Ms. Locklear found comfort in David Spade's company, so I'm really not sure who got the worst end of this mix-up.

Anyway, Ms. Richards's reality show will follow her dating escapades - because who among us doesn't want to watch an ex-model actress single mother navigate the treacherous dating waters? I'm sure it will closely mirror my own reality, except that I'm not an ex-model or an actress or a single mother. I'd feel bad about that, but I wasn't married to Charlie Sheen so I'm pretty sure I still win.

Richards explained that she wanted to do the series because she wanted everyone to see that she is done with "bad boys." I know I've stayed up nights, worrying about Denise Richards and all those bad (incredibly wealthy) boys. Finally, I can get some rest. When Ryan Seacrest asked the obvious question, "Why would you want to do this show?", Richards responded, "My mother wanted me to do this show, to show people who I really am."

Apparently, Denise Richards's mother is the only person who ever believed that reality TV is actually reality. There's something very "Being John Malkovich" about this whole scenario. Because the media has distorted Ms. Richards's identity, the only way we'll ever know her true identity is if we watch a carefully crafted and edited TV show. This is what we've come to. So much for my rest.

Favorite Rejection

In the past several months, I have received a number of rejection letters. On the advice of friends, I'm trying not to take this personally. That becomes more and more difficult when faced with a growing stack of letters that say, "We had a number of highly qualified candidates, but we think that Professor X is a better fit for our department at this time." OK, I don't want to end up somewhere that's a bad fit, but c'mon. Someone else is always a better fit? How is that possible? I've met other historians and let me tell you, they ain't all that. There must be some secret historian handshake that I need to learn.

The other day, I received a letter from a small public university in the midwest. I'd never heard of them when I read their job announcement in December, but I applied for their position because it was a broad search. Basically, they wanted someone who could teach US History since 1865 and knew something about women. Check on both counts.

I sent my application materials and I didn't hear anything from them. By about March, I'd decided that they had "found someone who better suited their needs at this time." This week, I got the thin envelope. "At least they did me the courtesy of sending confirmation that I wasn't the chosen one," I thought as I opened the letter. Here's what they had to say:

"Thank you for your interest in Small Midwest University. We did have several highly qualified candidates for the position and it has been a difficult decision, but we have chosen to close this search and resume it next year in an effort to find someone who more closely meets the qualifications for which we are looking."

In other words: We were extremely vague in our job announcement so you might have thought that we didn't know what we were looking for. Ha ha. Fooled you. In fact, we knew exactly what we were looking for, we just didn't tell you. Oh, and by the way, you weren't it. And our qualifications are still a big secret, so don't ask. Please don't bother to apply when we do this same search next year as we've already decided that you stink.

Alternatively: We were extremely vague in our job announcement because we didn't know what we wanted. Your sorry-ass credentials helped us to better define what we're looking for, and it ain't you. Please don't apply next year.

I guess they're not all bad. They did wish me "good luck in my future endeavors." Thanks.

Another Saturday Night

It's 7:35 on a Saturday evening and I just put on sweats. As I changed from my day clothes, I thought, "Time was, I'd feel pretty bad about this turn of events - Saturday night, no plans, no special someone to spend time with." Tonight, not feeling bad at all. I got home from the airport at 10:30 last night and I'm still worn out. Sweats, a glass of white wine, and X-Files on Netflix sounds pretty good right about now. I'm old and I don't care.

The nice young man who bought me dinner last Saturday did not call. He said he would, but he didn't. I don't know this fellow very well, but I've decided that he must live on the Lost island. This is the only possible explanation for his total lack of awareness when it comes to time. He lives in a temporal anomoly. According to him, it's only Tuesday. Plenty of time to call for a date on Saturday. Of course, if he does live on Lost island, he'll either be dead or stranded there very soon, and well, I just don't have the guts to deal with Ben Linus. The nice young man is on his own and I'll gladly spend my Saturday evenings in sweats. Ben Linus is one scary you-know-what.

On a different note, I read in today's paper about a 21 year old fellow who walked into his local North Texas bank and asked to cash a $360 billion check. That's 10 zeroes. When the teller rightfully inquired as to the origin of the check, the fellow explained that his girlfriend's mother gave him the check to start a record business. Sure, that sounds totally believable. Almost as believable as "I'll call you."

Quick thinking bank officials guessed that the check was a forgery, but checked with the girlfriend's mother just to be sure. The poor woman verified that the fellow did not have permission to cash the check - only after she started breathing again and regained control of her bowels. I'm not sure there are instuments to measure how far the multi-billion dollar check would have bounced.

The young man is in jail, charged with forgery, unlawful possession of a weapon, and possession of marijuana. I think the last item in the list explains a lot. I bet he still thinks he was demanding $360 gazillion. I'm also guessing that he's not dating his girlfriend any more. And people wonder why I'm still single.

Hotel Coffee

I'm back in Charm City for work. I've been here for three days and will head home tomorrow. Three days means three mornings of hotel coffee. Here's what I've decided - there's really good coffee, the kind of coffee that makes you happy to be alive and addicted to caffiene. Then there's OK coffee. The kind of coffee that responds well to help in the form of sugar and cream. Then there's bad coffee. This includes weak coffee and coffee that only dreams of a rich taste. It's coffee that has good intentions but just went awry.

Finally, there's hotel coffee. Hotel coffee is the coffee that they leave in your room. The coffee that only the serious addicts will drink. The coffee made from the beans that Juan Valdez and his mule stepped on as they made their way to the good beans. The coffee that tastes like liquified cardboard. The coffee that makes you think that your last caffiene-deprivation headache wasn't so bad. You can stand another day of misery.

But instead, you make the coffee. You try not to think about everyone else who has used this coffee pot as you pour the water into the machine. You tear open the coffee package, careful not to tear the pre-packaged coffee filter because you've done this before and there's just no salvaging the torn package. You also make sure that you have the regular coffee, because if you're going to suffer, you're damn sure going to get a fix. No decaf for you. You put the package in the basket, seam-side down. You're not sure why the seam needs to face down, but that's what the directions say, so that's what you do.

You hit the button and wait. When it's done brewing, you ignore the slightly rancid smell and pour yourself a cup. You know you're in a fancy hotel when there are actual coffee mugs, not styrofoam cups wrapped in plastic. Before you pour, you check to make sure that the black mug is right-side up, because you remember when your half-asleep friend didn't and tried to pour coffee into the bottom of the mug. You remember how you laughed as she exclaimed and jumped, but you know it won't be funny if it happens to you. You thank your friend for her cautionary tale.

Now, the good part. You open the condiments package and remove the envelopes containing the creamer and sugar - both powder. No matter the hotel, the condiments are all the same, two packets joined together for all eternity. No liquid in hotels. You tap the creamer, hoping against hope that the powder will slide to one side of the envelope and you can tear it open without spilling the precious powder on the counter. The creamer doesn't shift. It never does. You spill some, as you always do. As you dump the remaining powder into the cup, you pray that it dissolves because sometimes, the creamer is a brick that floats around in the coffee, daring the hot liquid to dissolve it. This is a bad omen. After the creamer, you repeat the process with the sugar. Then, using the elegant and graceful plastic stirs, you mix your concoction. It turns a slighltly lighter shade of brown. You turn a slightly lighter shade of green.

Finally, you drink. You drink quickly because you know that hotel coffee can only get worse as it cools. You're certain that the coffee is eating away at your insides, but you drink anyway as you count the minutes until you're back at home with your coffee and real cream.