The Eco-friendly Search Engine…An Oxymoron?

GOOGLE is all about black power these days.
The newest wave of green consciousness? Eco-friendly search engine use.
I got this forward the other day:

“If Google had a black screen, taking into account the huge number of times
this search engine is used, 750 mega watts/hour of energy per year would
be saved. In recognition of this fact, Google has created a black version
of its search engine, called Blackle, with exactly the same functions as the
white version, but with lower energy consumption. Bookmark it today and
pass it along: http://www.blackle.com/"

Ok, so this is the point where I’m supposed to say “OH WOW…I really love the eco-friendly version of Google! How cool and hipster like! GO GREEN! I’m going to do my part in saving the world by buying $200 free trade Levi’s jeans, $80 organic dish rags AND by using Blackle all the time!”
I tried it.
BUT
It’s just not the same.
Where are the images, the maps, and the news links? Where are the advanced search options? Especially the annoying ads on the sides? (You think you hate those ads… until they’re not there anymore…it’s like Times Square without the irksome neon billboards everywhere…it’s just not right and you just can't see anything because it's too dark).

Even worse… it doesn’t give you the same results as the original Google (believe me, I tested it multiple times with really important search terms such as “Say ain’t so, Anderson Cooper really is gay?”).

So here are the two choices everyone faces now they know Blackle exists:
A. To ignore Blackle and slowly but surely continue to kill the planet and piss off Al Gore by continuing to search with the original Google.
Or
B. To be a cool, vegan hipster that uses Blackle instead of Google and has a completely narrow view of the world due to the limited information on Blackle.

Until Blackle improves, I’ll take my chances with Al.

Traumatic Flashbacks from a Childhood Bathroom

CHILDHOOD can be a really murky time filled with new experiences and traumatic discoveries, as evidenced by the following story:

This true story took place on the playground of Grange Park Primary school in England.

Background: LILA was two classes above me. She was a recess friend and my primary protector from playground bullies. She was an immense girl (like a young, female version of ‘The Thing’), with stubby pigtails and fists like iron kettles. We would have nicknamed her ‘the enforcer’ if we had been precocious or clever enough to come up with a nickname like that in second grade. She watched my back like a hawk during recess and all she required in return was my bag of Salt and Vinegar Walkers that my mom packed in my lunch on Fridays.

One day Lila and I were standing in the playground after lunch sort of just shooting the breeze (whatever that means) and talking about really profound things:

Me (exasperatedly): Yes, EVERYONE in the whole world has a birthmark!
Lila (doubtfully): Are you sure??
Me: Of course I am! I have one too.
Lila (curiously): Let me see!
I pulled down the collar of my uniform shirt and revealed the dot on the side of my neck.
She looked distinctly disappointed.
Me: Don't you have one?
Lila (pauses momentarily): Yes…
Me: Show it to me!
Lila (pauses undecidedly): …A 'right. But you have to come to the loo with me.
Me (first strain of uncertainty): Um….well…uh…okay...but not for long!

We headed to the girl's room…I didn’t want to go, but Lila suddenly seemed resolute and I knew I didn’t want to jeopardize my contract with her. I was scrawny and the playground could be a cold and lonely place without a body guard.
After we entered, Lila walked into a stall and beckoned me in with her.

Me: Err…you need me to actually come in?
Lila: Yes! You can't see it out there now can you?
Me (stomach starts to turn): M-m-maybe we don't have to do this anymore Lila. I'm sure your birthmark is really, really lovely though.
Lila: Don't be daft S, get in here!
Me: Al…right… (enter hesitatingly).
In one fluid motion, Lila maneuvered around me, slammed the stall door, and locked it. Next, she positioned herself in between the commode and me. She began pulling down her tights, followed by her navy uniform skirt.

Me (horrified): LILA! What ARE you DOING??
Lila (impatiently): Showing you my birthmark silly!
Then she turned around (back towards me) to face the commode, and rapidly pulled down her underwear, pointed her bare butt towards me and hollered excitedly: D'YOU SEE IT?!?

It was too much for me. In the confines of a tiny stall here was Lila, the overweight 4th grader, standing in front of me half naked. I started screaming and covered my eyes in fear. Despite my screams she still stood there with an air of fierce pride, patiently waiting for me to comment. Then, curiosity gripped me and I peeked between my fingers and for a brief second got an eyeful: One butt cheek was completely discolored and mottled and the other wasn't.

It was worse than watching the movie “Ghost” which at that time was giving me recurring nightmares. I resumed screaming again, this time instead of wordless sounds I yelled in terror: "I SEE IT! I SEE IT! I SEE IT!" then, unlocked the stall door, and bolted out of the bathroom back to the safety of the playground.

After that incident I learned two things:
1) How to protect myself on the playground and 2) To stop asking people to show me their birthmarks.

Photo credits:www.artlebedev.com

One Must Draw the Line at Fat Pigeons

Tolerance and acceptance.
These are two words that summarize one of the huge social goals of our generation and while a lot of us strive for it, it’s no surprise that we’re not all quite there yet. Example of someone not quite there: Me. I love harmony, unity, kum ba yahs, and acceptance but I refuse to be open-minded in regard to one thing: FAT PIGEONS.
I hate them.

Each evening, when I cut through the park filled with homeless men near Vermont and K Street, I face an undesirable showdown with these porky pigeons. They are overstuffed, brimming with self-indulgence, and feel a sense of unnecessary entitlement regarding who has the right of way on the sidewalk. Most of them abide by the following belief: Pigeons don’t move out of the way for human beings…human beings move out of the way for pigeons.

Every day, I and many others, side step them and move out of THEIR way. These K street pigeons obviously haven’t looked at the food chain, which simply states: HUMANS TRUMP PORKY PIGEONS (and in the case of a nationwide chicken shortage, will shoot them and eat them).

It mystifies people that there is so much hunger in D.C. but here is the simple solution: these birds are eating EVERYTHING.
Seeing them try to fly is the worst part. They flap their wings as fast as possible and can barely hoist their portly bodies in the air. They fly low, presumably because they don’t have enough energy to gather enough momentum to lift themselves higher than a couple feet. After fruitlessly flapping for about two minutes, most of them stop, as if to say “Oh screw it!” and then go back to the ground for more food.

Their ancestors were respectable birds that perilously flew messages across the globe during World War I and II. They even won medals of honor for their bravery. And these pudgy descendants just waddle about gorging on food in public parks. Have they no self respect? What are their goals? Where is their purpose in life? Why aren't they pursuing lofty dreams of packing up and flying to California to make it big? It’s disconcerting.

I recently got in a right-of-way showdown with the fattest pigeon of all time—if Godzilla had a bird child this pigeon would be it.
The whole thing played out like an Animal Planet segment.
Who would win this face-off?
The intelligent, 5 foot 7 inch, advanced species with the red pashmina? Or the smaller, lard-filled winged species with monocular vision?
We both advanced wondering who was going to move.

The pigeon may have been on home turf but I felt I had the upper hand—I had 3 inch heels (ouch) and headphones on (my music would muffle out the painful caws of the pigeon being squashed to death by my boots).
The benches, the heckling homeless men, and other pigeons faded away. It was just me and Godzilla pigeon in that moment.
I made my approach.
Godzilla pigeon waddled on the spot.
I continued.
Godzilla pigeon blinked multiple times.
I was three steps away.
Godzilla pigeon ruffled a feather.
I determinedly continued my advance.
Godzilla held his ground.
My bluff was called and I quickly veered off the path.

I chickened out for two reasons:
a) The idea of feathers, gobs of wobbly cellulite, and cracked beak particles on my new shoes troubled me.
b) That freakin gargantuan bird looked like it would eat me if that was what it took to win.

So, Godzilla pigeon won the battle of the K Street Park.
And now, I defeatedly walk outside the park. Or boldly through it (when Godzilla's not there of course).


Photo credits go to: www.o-scar.com

Hi My Name is ----and I’m a Craig’s list Vigilante.

I’m addicted to Craig’s list.
Not in a cool, bohemian “Oh I love Craig’s list and buy everything for my kitschy little flat from there” kind of way, but more of in a “I’m peculiar, voyeuristic, and I religiously check out Craig’s list every day but never buy anything” kind of way.

You could say I’m a Craig’s list vigilante of sorts; I clean up the virtual dirty alleys and streets of Craig’s list.
If there’s a scam posted on there I’ll sniff it out and if there’s a sexual predator posing as a giant gorilla that gives out pez dispensers to little kids…I’ll find him. The “flag this post” is my tool of choice: When I don’t like a post…I’ll flag it. E.G. “Buy 8,000 square foot house in Arlington for $2,500”…that kind of post has “I’m a mass murderer that will kill you when you come to view this pseudo property” written all over it. I’d flag that bad boy in a hot second.

There was a D.C. company on there once advertising for “4 midgets to wear costumes and perform circus tricks for a Christmas company party.”
I bit my lip when I read it…I didn’t like it, but I didn’t flag it. I kept my eye on that post though. If their marketing department made one more kinky addition to that post, their company was getting flagged with a click of my mouse. The post was suddenly removed and reappeared 4 days later, reinvented as a company advertising for “4 little people to participate in an entertainment event.”

There was a post by a single dad with a kid who had four fantastic Hannah Montana tickets (still don’t understand how a girl with such a weird name has become bigger than Madonna was when she had pointy tinfoil cups on her chest). His conditions: a single mom must sleep with him first and then AFTER that and she and her kid could attend the Hannah Montana show with him and his daughter for free. That got a flag.

The worst part of my vigilantism is the fact that I never buy anything on Craig’s list. Never. I admire items, cluck at the prices when they are unnecessarily steep, and stare in horror at the ugly items people want to sell. It’s the couches that fascinate me….there are some butt UGLY couches in America. What do people do to them to get them in this condition? Honestly if one has a couch THAT blindingly repulsive and they don’t want it, what makes them think others will?

Last week I saw a treadmill advertised. I clicked on the post. It was a picture of a rickety old treadmill that looked like it was built during the early 1800s. It didn’t even look battery or electric powered; frankly, it looked oxen powered.
To add insult to injury the caption on the post said:
“If you want it you have to come to my house and pick it up. It suddenly stopped working…”
This advertised, unsightly treadmill from the 1800s didn’t even work!
So I did what any good Craig’s list vigilante would do: sent the seller a one line email that said:
“THEN THROW IT AWAY!”
I received no response from them. But hopefully I got in their head. Maybe they’ll think twice before posting their elliptical from the Nixon years that doesn’t even have peddles.

You may judge me and think I am a little odd, but the truth is: I police Craig’s list for you. I’m watching YOUR back, so every time you have a smooth Craig’s list transaction, know that volunteer Craig’s list vigilantes like me were probably behind the scenes screening posts to make that $15-Schwinn-mountain-bike-deal happen for you.

No thanks necessary.


Photo credits belong to Shinraven. He has some sweet pictures…check them out.

When Conservative Moms see Racy Things…

Mother: Speaking of movies…I saw the oddest in-flight movie on the way to London.
Me (distractedly): What was it?
Mother: Can’t remember what it was called…but it terrified me and really shook me up (holds hand to her chest a bit dramatically).
Me: (interest piqued) What genre?
Mother: I mean I read the synopsis of the movie in the airline magazine and it seemed fine. Nothing was amiss…
Me: Was it a thriller?
Mother: No, dear…and as I started watching it I thought to myself…where are all the girls? (widens her eyes).
Me: The girls?
Mother: Yes, the girls. There were tons of men foolishly running about the place but there were no girls anywhere…
Me: Huh?
Mother: And one minute these men were camping…
Me: Ohhhhhhhhhhhhh…
Mother: And the next minute they were JUMPING ON EACH OTHER!!! And there were no women! (Looks horrified)
I had to scramble around in my seat to turn it off as quickly as possible! It was terribly upsetting!
Me: Haha. You saw BrokeBack Mountain mom.



Photo credits go to: PPDIGITAL

UPDATE
WHOAA...Heath Ledger died today. Sad.
http://www.cnn.com/2008/SHOWBIZ/Movies/01/22/heath.ledger.dead/index.html

When a Blind Man Hits You...

SOME people are always a target for weird circumstances. They just sit there minding their own business, listening to an ipod or flipping through a magazine, not really talking to anyone, and something weird happens to them. Or in front of them.

I am one of these people. I seem to have the propensity to attract or witness odd events. I’ve witnessed everything from random jewelry robberies, to knife fights, to watching an old man fall into train tracks while a train was approaching. When I first started working in the city I had an unbalanced homeless man that would chase me from the metro to my office about twice a week— ahhh…those were the days.

Once I was seated on a stone bench in the metro station waiting for an orange line train.
I looked to my right and saw an old gentleman approaching with a young lady next to him. She seemed to be directing him. He was wearing a nice plaid cap, a brown trench coat, and a sour expression on his face. After observing for a few moments I realized he was blind. He was using a cane to guide himself and the girl was encouraging him with soothing words.

They slowly approached my bench with the blind man wildly swinging his cane at waist level in front of him.
Suddenly, I felt a swift, HARD, WHACK across my cheek—it stung like a whip and my face felt like it was exploding. It was his cane.

I was never taught the social protocol regarding being accidentally whacked in the face by a blind man’s cane, but ordinarily when someone wallops you in the face you jump up and angrily yell something like “HEY—WATCH WHERE YOU ARE GOING!!!! CAN’T YOU SEE YOU JUST HIT ME?” But considering this gentleman was blind, it seemed like an inappropriate choice of words. So instead of yelling, I remained seated and silently patted my searing cheek while feeling self righteously sorry for myself.

The pleasant faced girl—obviously horrified—turned to the blind man and said: “You just whacked a nice girl in the face with your cane!!! Aren't you going to apologize??" And the blind man with the nice plaid cap crisply responded: “So what? No!”
I was flabbergasted.
I guess the moral of this story is: Being a jerk is an equal opportunity character trait.

Photo Credits: Jupiter Images.com

New Meaning to the Term Brotherly Love

THERE ARE DAYS when I think: “WOW, I have had a really CRAPPY day.” But then I think to myself…"Actually it could be a lot worse…at least I didn’t marry the love of my life and discover he is my long lost my twin brother."
That sentiment is grounded in 100 percent FACT.
Quote from the article “Twins Separated at Birth Meet and Marry”:“LONDON (Reuters) - A couple discovered after they had married that they were twins who had been split up at birth and adopted by separate families, according to a member of Britain's House of Lords.”
…
"This did not involve in vitro fertilization: It involved the normal birth of twins who were separated at birth and adopted by separate parents," said Alton, an independent member of the Lords. "They were never told that they were twins…..They met later in life and felt an inevitable attraction, and the judge had to deal with the consequences of the marriage that they entered into and all the issues of their separation," he said.

The script writers for All My Children and General Hospital don’t seem so crazy any more; they’ve probably been waiting years from this kind of validation.This situation poses so many awkward issues…where does one even begin?
1. They’ve obviously consummated their relationship. Ick.
2. What if they’d had kids? How would one break it to them?
“Well kids… gather around…we now know the reason why you all have three arms and Janet’s ear is in the middle of her forehead…”

I had a discussion with two friends about whether you stay with your lover/twin after you make a discovery like this:
Friend 1: It’s so crazy…how could that happen…out of all the people in the world…what is the universe trying to say?
Me: The universe is saying…it SUCKS to be you.
Friend 2: I just can’t imagine waking up every morning next to …my brother.
Friend 1: Is it so wrong though? If they decide not to have kids then it’s not that weird anymore is it? Especially since they didn’t grow up together.
Me: You know what…maybe you’re right. If they want to be together, they should be together…siblings or not! It’s not their fault they fell in love with their separated twin! No one should tell them what to do! (Imaginary music slowly filling the room in support of my point) Look at what’s holding them back….just the fickle world’s opinion of them!
Friend 2: um….AND INCEST (imaginary music comes to a screeching halt).
Me (forced back into reality): Right, forgot about that part.


Photo Credits: Skeptic.com

PART II: If Wearing Pants is Wrong…they Don’t Want to be Right

Apparently the mission was sucessful...

If Wearing Pants is Wrong…they Don’t Want to be Right

New York—the epicenter of everything hip and deprave in America—has an annual No Pants Subway event run by a group called Improv Everywhere.
There are two requirements to participate: “#1. You have to be willing to take your pants off on the subway. #2. You must keep a straight face about it.”
It’s everything you imagine a no pants event to be: daring, stupid, pant-free and complete with chanting and cops arresting people.

And now D.C.—New York’s stiff and proper, copy-cat little brother—amusingly enough has a No Pants Metro event of its own scheduled for Jan 12 from 4-6pm. The fun begins in DuPont (meet point) and could possibly end in jails all across the district.

Frankly, I don’t see what the big deal is. Some people don’t even need an event as an excuse to publicly drop their pants.
A couple months ago I saw an extremely rotund woman do the following at the McPherson Square metro station:
1. Get off the metro
2. Pull down her pants AND her underwear
3. Waddle to the fare turnstiles with her pants and underwear rolled around her legs
4. Unblushingly say hi to the Metro Security guard (who genially and casually responded back to her: “G’mornin Rhonda!")
5. Proceed toward K street during rush hour.

My eyes almost fell out of their sockets.

This city is flippin crazy and they certainly don’t need a no-pants event to prove it.

Photo Credits:http://www.ekstravaganca.com/

I Blog in the Face of DANGER

THE amount of bravery needed for a profession is always judged by the worst possible outcomes of working in that particular industry.
I.E.
Firefighters: Brave. Policemen: Sometimes really bothersome but generally brave. Soldiers: VERY BRAVE. Pedicurists: OFF-THE-RICHTER brave.
Firefighters, policemen, pedicurists (you could die simply from the smell of some people’s toenails) and soldiers are generally considered brave because they risk death on a daily basis.

I never really considered myself brave…until this article came out in the Times. It tells a story of a blogger who suffered a heart attack allegedly because of the immense pressure of consistent and timely blogging. NYT analysis: there is a huge chance that blogging can kill you.
To me this translates into: the fact that I continue to blog means I am somewhat brave.
I risk my life three days a week writing about nonsense and apparently according to the communication powers that be, it’s extremely valiant of me.
While others face burning buildings, bullets, and sting rays, I sit comfortably with my Macbook and a coffee mug full of diet Coke (which strategically looks like coffee from a distance) and with every word I type I laugh in the face of DANGER because this is the perilous life I have chosen for myself.

(Seriously though: this is real journalistic bravery).

Photo Credits: http://www.appledefects.com/images/burning-ibook.jpg

The Blogging Nun…

I always thought nuns ate gruel, prayed, gardened, had a lot of sisters and mothers, watched the Sound of Music and Sister Act on repeat, made eyes at monks, and ate more gruel. Apparently I was misinformed.

A week ago I accidentally discovered a nun’s blog and while curiously scanning her posts, a thought hit me like a ton of bricks:
By George, nuns are allowed to blog?!
According to Sister Julie—the blogging nun—they can also watch the NBC show Heroes, PG 13 movies like Pirates of the Caribbean, and casually write about controversial topics like “Nun Fights Cussing with Cussing.”
It’s quite marvelous.

Sister Julie even makes STRONG political statements…actually … we both want the same presidential candidate.

Reading this blog has dispelled a lot of nun myths and stereotypes for me…however, she did go to bed at 8:30pm on New Year’s Eve...which seemed stereotypically and extraordinarily nun-like…but I guess that gives her some authenticity.

Photo Credits: http://www.naute.com/funimages/5nuns.jpg

China has more to Offer than Just Crappy Toys

THIS morning while in conversation with someone, we both realized we had seen the *same* Chinese contortionist that kicks stacks of plates onto her head. It was one of those rare moments where for an instant we were bound by our inexplicable fascination with the beauty and grotesqueness of unabashed contortionism.

Thank you China for at least allowing that.


Off topic side note: Do not accidentally yawn with a paper clip between your lips. Horrible experience; wouldn’t recommend it.

Photo Credits:http://mongoluls.net/images/mongolia%20photo%20con2.jpg

5 Things You Should Know About House Hunting

I used to think human beings were a sincere, altruistic, and gentle race that chose to help each other, eat roasted mushrooms, and live harmoniously in clean little apartments and quirky row houses.
House hunting has taught me that I thought WRONG.
Human beings are insincere, opportunistic, and filthy—at least when it comes to housing in the D.C. and Arlington area.

5 things you should keep in mind if you are house hunting:
1. An advertised “This house is a 15 min walk to the metro” blurb actually means: “This house is a 15 minute walk to the metro… for GODZILLA. For normal humans it’s about 50 minutes, give or take.”

2. The term “newly renovated house” usually means: “My husband Bill hacked a huge hole in the kitchen wall with an ax one night after the Cowboys lost and we tried to do an amateur job concealing it by spackling it with apple sauce and plaster so you won’t notice…even though you obviously do.”

3. “Fabulous gated community!” really means “ghetto-fabulous prison!”

4. Let’s say you are a landlord trying to sell prospective tenants on renting a house from you. And let’s say you are standing in the kitchen of said house underneath a noticeably asbestos stuffed ceiling that is spilling out. And let’s say you confidently turn to the prospective tenants and say (obviously lying through your teeth):“This house is a safe little place.” If ever you find yourself in this situation AT LEAST be considerate enough to throw in free health insurance with the place because your tenants will clearly need it.
Real conversation clip from this situation:
Landlord: “Great place; a family from San Francisco with a kid used to live here.”
Future roommate and I: “Ahhh…San Francisco…”
(What we really wanted to say: Ahhh…is the family currently buried underneath the garden due to asbestos poisoning?)

5. “Security deposit, first and last months rent required upfront” should be translated as: “I’m scheduled for lipo-suction surgery next week; I’m 5 thousand short, and I’m counting on your wallet bank rolling this entire procedure so rent my house even though the foundation is chipping and the roof will cave in next time it rains.”


Photo Credits: http://mcadams.posc.mu.edu/blog/signs3.jpg

Why I’ve Always Disliked Beautiful Churches and Cathedrals

I’ve always secretly hated beautiful old churches and cathedrals with their striking stained glass windows and their pious inner sanctums.
It’s hard to admit because everyone else seems to love and admire them.
If Michelangelo had showed me the Sistine Chapel right after he painted it I fear I might have said something like:
“Oh. Fancy. But why paint the ceiling of a chapel Mike? Did you run out of paper?”

While on my lunch break the afternoon after New Year’s Day I felt the urge to escape.
I still had the weight of 2007 pressing against my chest and I needed to let go of it in a grand way in order to embrace 2008.

I’m not Catholic but I wanted to talk to a priest; not really to have a confession but to have a conversation with a friendly stranger. I don’t know…it just seemed like it would be a fun and beneficial way to spend a lunch break.

I went to a huge cathedral-like church on 14th street that I pass by every day and never notice.
I climbed the steep staircase leading to the immense, oak double doors. I was planning to hurl myself into them to open them like Julie Andrews did in Sound of Music (the idea seemed sooo right and sooo natural at the time). Sadly, the doors were locked and I ended up bruising my shoulder (apparently you don’t enter cathedral churches by hurling yourself at the wooden doors…they are just for show. You gracefully enter them through the nondescript side lobby… like a guest at a hotel).

There was a young security guard/keeper-of-the-flame/elder/whatever of the church sitting at a desk watching video footage of the church grounds from a state-of-the-art security system.
He probably saw me run into the doors. Awkward.

“Can I go into the sanctuary? “ I timidly asked.
“Ehh…it’s a bad time.” He responded (apologetically). His eyes were kind.
(I thought to myself --How can there be a bad time? Is Satan dancing about on the pews right now or something?)
“Why do you want to go in? To pray? Or to look around?” He asked.
“Weeell… I killed a man with my bare hands 2 years ago and I need to confess because the guilt is consuming me like flesh eating bacteria.”
(Fine I didn’t say that, but I wish I had)
“Alright… I can let you look around…just sign in. The sanctuary is up those stairs to your left.”
I thanked him and headed into the sanctuary.
Even though there was no priest, it was everything I thought an ornate church sanctuary would be. Vast, holy-looking, and architecturally magnificent with stained glass images of Jesus carefully etched on the panes.

I’ve always hated these types of churches because they remind me of religion.
I run from religion.
Always have.
Religion seems rigid, hollow, and lifeless like a beautifully wrapped mummy in a tomb full of riches and treasures.
It doesn't live, breathe, expand or contract…it just repeats actions out of duty and stifles questions and choices.
Faith is different. Faith breathes, shape shifts, encourages exploration and is full of vitality.
But that is another story.

Anyway, so I sat there meditating and reflecting about life and about 2007 and about how there was no priest; it was tranquil, beautiful, and movie-like.
Sort of like the part in a mob movie where the mob boss quietly sits in a church after he’s just executed an innocent family to make a statement to the other mob family down the block.
Well bad analogy—I’m not like a mob boss or anything…
But then, in the midst of my serene and divine moment, an old, craggy janitor/warden/keeper-of-the-flame hobbled in.
He could have been as old as the church itself.
I looked up, smiled, and said hi to him and waited for him to respond with a saintly statement such as: “May the Peace of God be with you and the loins of your future offspring”.
Instead he turned, scowled at me and looked away.
Then he began recklessly tearing down the Christmas trees that decorated the expansive stage.
Then another guy came in from the double doors on the left and starting vacuuming loudly with a rusty, industrial-sized vacuum cleaner that sounded like it was built in the Hoover years (Hoover the president, not the company).

It was sort of like watching an engaging movie and then in the midst of a climatic scene while the actor is delivering the performance of a lifetime, having the clean-up crew come in and start deconstructing the set.

It was unholy, unstructured, unpretentious, and genuine; I found it exceedingly brilliant.
And then and there, I decided that I like beautiful old churches and cathedrals.

Happy 2008.

Photo Credits: Picture of Notre Dame from Hicker Photo

Crack is Whack...Unless You are a Reporter for the Post...

NOW to answer the question you've been pondering: Is it possible to be a crackhead AND a star reporter for a major newspaper? Crackheads get excited--Yes!
Reporter Ruben Castenada has a story in the Post called “Cracked” which recalls how he covered the nightly police and crime beat (ironically) for them as a functioning crack addict and alcoholic. It’s a well written story and it shows that the Washington Post is very considerate towards crack addicts that work for them (Ruben wasn’t fired, his editor sent him to rehab instead).

Who says newspaper publishing conglomerates have no souls? It’s not like they got Ruben to write a story about his painful crack addiction, stuck it in their paper, and then shamelessly reaped all the publicity, website traffic, and internet buzz from his old crack habit….oh wait………

But the good news is that scientists are testing out a new cocaine vaccination…yippee!
2008 promises a lot, including the fulfillment of the American dream that no 5-year-old American child shall go without his/her measles, influenza, hepatitis B, and cocaine shots anymore!

Photo Credits: www.balasanka.com