The Dangling Conversation

Who is better Robert Frost or Emily Dickinson? It’s no contest...Emily Dickinson. But this is why I’m unnerved every time I listen to Simon and Garfunkel's “The Dangling Conversation” and hear the lines “you read your Emily Dickinson / And I my Robert Frost.”

Seriously, Robert Frost?

Do not get my wrong, I don’t have a secret vendetta against Robert Frost. I mean, every elementary student must salute him for providing them with a perfectly pleasant poem to memorize. Which poem? The poem that is a fixture in our American public school curriculum:

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,

And sorry I could not travel both

And be one traveler, long I stood

And looked down one as far as I could

To where it bent in the undergrowth;

This song is about the communication barrier between a couple. In my opinion the cause of communication barrier is revealed in this line - it derives from their differing taste and intellect. Someone who prefers Robert Frost to Emily Dickinson obviously has elementary taste in poetry. I know my conversation would be stifled if someone started talking about the merits of Robert Frost and I was reading Emily Dickinson. Talk about a conversation killer.

Coldpay at The Gorge

Viva la Vida

Eugène Delacroix, Liberty Leading the People

This was the banner behind Coldplay for the first quarter of the concert. I nearly went insane trying to remember the artist and title of the painting. Although I could not name the title, I did guess Delacroix as the artist - two points for me. But this is a French revolutionary piece and the tour is Viva la Vida which is Spanish. So in my elitist opinion, Francisco Goya or Pablo Picasso would have been more appropriate.

The Gorge

The Gorge is a unique out-door musical venue and geological phenomenon that draws a variety of people. At Saturday's performance by Coldplay, the audience was more of a "tossed salad" -let's be politically correct now - than your average concert. The audience included my brother's high school teachers, grandparents, high school kids, parents and college students. And all of these random people sat with us on the grassy hill in the stifling hot weather. Because of the heat, I saw more nudity at this concert than at my high school prom. Women wore string bikini's, while the men showed off their hairy chests and big bellys while sporting never-nude cutoffs. To complete the white trash look, many had moustaches that would make Nietzsche envious. So I felt a little out of place in my modest sundress. But by the end of the concert I felt included because my clothes were perfumed with a mixture of every one's scents: weed, Heineken, sweat, b.o. and grass.

The Concert

Coldplay understands showmanship. They were able to keep the interest of those of us on the hill - who could barley see - by dramatic lighting and large TV screens to provided artistic camera shots of the action on stage. My favorite effect were these enormous balls - 5x your average exercise ball - on stage that reminded me of Chinese lanterns. They projected images, words and colors on these balls throughout the show. One of there most dramatic and clever spectacle was during their performance of the song "Yellow". They had yellow beach volleyball sized balloons blown out among the audience while the lighting on the stage mirrored the lyrics of the song.

Besides the spectacle, Coldplay delivered a brilliant musical performance that sounded better than their Cd's. Chris Martin managed to sing perfectly while literally running about on stage. His mannerisms and enthusiasm reminds me of a small kid whose thoroughly enjoying himself - he skips about on stage and does some moves that credit his British heritage: a bit river danish . It sounds rather silly, and it would appear to be silly if he did not have his raw unabashed enthusiasm that portrayed how deeply he feels the music while he performs.

Highlights

During this concert Chris Martin exhibited his brilliant skills as a pianist. From his CD's you know he plays the piano, but you do not realize how talented he is. For example, one of my favorite portions of the concert was at the conclusion of one of the songs he included a piano solo of Gnossiene No. 1 by Erik Satie. It was incredible! However, the highlight of the concert was Coldplay's tribute to Michael Jackson by singing an acoustic, blue-grass inspired rendition of "Billie Jean". Brilliant, simply brilliant.

Le Parapluie

Camille Pissarro

This is one of my favorite paintings at the National Gallery in London. This picture does not do it justice - in person it looks like the whole painting is wet with raindrops.

There is something so refreshing and invigorating about unexpected rain. It seems liberating and natural for me to turn my face upwards to create a larger landing strip for the down-poring drops. Also a cliche pleasure of mine is the smell after unexpected rain - the dampness gives a pungency that enhances all the scents around you. Another reason I'm fond of rain is that I have the opportunity to use an umbrella. There are several reasons for my secret fetish with umbrellas.

The idea itself is romantic: an instrument of delicate fabric that shields you from the torrential rainfall

They are elegant.

My favorite French word is le parapluie.

One of my favorite musicals and songs to sing, while in the rain, is Singing in the Rain.

It's romantic to be huddling under an umbrella with someone. My friend Katie has a motto that "good things happen on bridges." I would argue that good things happen under umbrellas.

They are a tool that is functional but also can be interpreted as art. One example is the beautiful and clever opening credits of Les Parapluies de Cherbourg.

They are a distinguished fashion statement that is often overlooked. Forget about leather gloves or jewel necklaces - umbrellas are unpretentious and so innately elegant that they are one of the most impressive accessories in a woman's wardrobe.

I even enjoy that ridiculous pop song "Umbrella" by Rhianna....it's quite a catchy tune. Don't judge me for saying that.

"So come on with the rain - I've a smile on my face," because "you can stand under my umbrella...ella, ella, eh, eh, eh."

Transformers: Living the Male Dream

Yesterday night I attended a GM promotional showing of “Transformers: Revenge of the Fallen.” I have never walked out of a movie, but yesterday tested my will-power to stay in my seat. To give some credence to my argument I must admit that I enjoyed “Transformers” and hoped that this sequel could accomplish what most sequels cannot: being comparable or better than the original. Despite my disposition to be entertained by this movie, I consider it the worst movie of the summer.

This movie “flopped” because…
a. I’m an “elitist” and demand simple things like a coherent plot
b. I lack the right amount of testosterone - a chemical which induces drooling at the sight of mediocre special effects .

It’s a movie conceived by male fantasy and filmed to amplify all masculine pleasure. But by indulging all of these pleasures - constant battle, suggestive shots of Megan Fox, body humor and stock characters – strips the movie of depth and originality. The following are my critiques of the film.

Soft Porn
The most obvious exploitation of male fantasy is Megan Fox. This porn-like idolizing and objectification is established in the first scene as she straddles a motorcycle in tawdry clothing. Sadly…it gets worse as the movie progresses. I’m almost convinced that they partly filmed the second half of the movie in the desert just so they could justify Megan Fox wearing next to nothing. But it also creates a brilliant irony when she wears a traditional hijab for a few moments in an Egyptian town to hide from evil robots.

The Battle that Never Ends
Sam and Mikalea have to run two miles to their destination towards the climax of the movie - the longest two miles of my life. In my opinion it takes them longer to run two miles in the desert than it does for me to run a marathon – keep in mind that my tennis shoes are fraying from want of use.

Stock Characters
The writers wished to improve this sequel by enhancing the personality of the aliens. What they consider personality I deem as lazily falling back on stock characters. While they’re aliens, the writers seem to want these aliens to conform to the stereo-types of our own world - they had the typical brothers who bicker in colloquial lingo and fight with one another and the “humorous” side-kick robot. The writers even included the typical annoying parents. (But if my mother and father were as ridiculous as the parents in the movie, I would shun them.) Another way they avoid having to create original characters is to overwhelm the audience with too many characters.

Body Humor
Every possible sexual innuendo which context allows or does not allow was made in this movie. In particular the testicular jokes is not only a motif but could arguably considered a theme of this movie. Also, there was too much humping. I know that men find Megan Fox attractive, but I fail to understand why an alien robot would procede to hump her leg. Thus, this just proves my point that this movie was conceived and filmed for men.

As a side-note, I found it amusing that to portray the more “primitive” robot Fallen; the movie followed the Modernist sentiment of primitivism by giving Fallen a face similar to an African mask. Picaso anyone?

So if you are a man and enjoy soft-porn, explosions, no character development and no plot...go see "Transformers: The Revenge of the Fallen." It may be your favorite movie of the summer.

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies

“It’s a truth universally acknowledged that a zombie in possession of brains must be in want of more brains.”

The pop culture phenomenon of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies can best be described in the co-author's own terms: a rather violent and disgusting plague sweeping throughout the land. The unsightly evidence of this disease are found among the pallets at Costco - the second best indicator of a successful seller besides Opera’s magical book club sticker – and it’s place among the New York Times Best Seller list.

But what is it about? The novel’s title sums it up nicely in that it’s 85 percent of the original Pride and Prejudice with a few zombies and ninjas here and there…oh and lot’s of blood. When the copyright on this classic came to an end, Seth Grahame-Smith presented his own horror interpretation of the Regency Period. But Jane Austen fans cannot condemn this novel on account of Seth Grahame-Smith. He is a qualified individual who is capable of rewriting Pride and Prejudice - his biography on the back of this novel tells us that he “once took a class in English literature”. Surely that piece of evidence will keep the critics silent.

I sympathize with my fellow Jane Austen fans that are experiencing mixed feelings. Do we allow ourselves to become one of these mindless brain feeding zombie followers? Unfortunately for me, my sister made the decision for me by sending me a copy for my birthday. With such a guilty conscience I had to read it. So having read the novel, I am going to state my qualms with it.

Jane Austen’s satire is reduced to puns

Elizabeth: “‘I should like balls infinitely better,’ she replied, ‘if they were carried on in a different manner.’”
Darcy: “‘You should like balls infinitely better,’ said Darcy, ‘if you knew the first thing about them.’ Elizabeth blushed and suppressed a smile – slightly shocked by his flirtation with impropriety and slightly impressed that he should endeavor to flirt with it all.”

I’m convinced that “balls” is a bit anachronistic - while I would accept a pun with bollocks because it’s originally an Anglo Saxon word and even was used in John Wycliffe’s Bible to refer to testicles – but even overlooking this it is still a weak and childish pun. I’m sure if Darcy had to make an indecent comment he would possess the brains (no pun intended Seth) to come up with something a bit more clever. I mean, Samuel Johnson referred to puns as the lowest form of humor, and it indisputable the influence of Johnson in Austen’s work. And once is bad enough, but Grahame-Smith uses this pun twice. If Graham-Smith wants to become more than an aspiring script writer, he must understand that you’re audience will become bored with repetition. “Badly done Seth, baldy done.”

Cannibalism
“she delivered a viscous blow, penetrating his rib cage and withdrew her hand – with the ninja’s still-beating heart in it…Elizabeth took a bite, letting the blood run down her chin and onto her sparring gown. ‘Curious, I have tasted many a hearts, but I dare say I find the Japanese ones a bit tender’” (132).

What is this, Dances with Wolves? Seriously this is just ridiculous. I’m fine with Lizzie becoming a warrior because it aligns with my feminist sentiments. However, I will NOT allow heart tasting or gorging. In no stretch of the imagination would Lizzie Bennet be a cannibal.

Pretending to be legit novel…too legit to quit

After finishing this read, you can expand the depth of the novel even further by referring to the Reader’s Discussion Guide which provides thought provoking questions like “the strange plague has been the scourge of England for fifty-five years, why do the English stay and fight, rather than retreat to the safety of eastern Europe or Africa?” However, I do have to admit that some of these questions closely align with my own: “does Mrs. Bennet have a single redeeming quality?”

Conclusion

In essence this new interpretation not only interests scholars, but also appeals to young teenage boys. From the ridiculous sexual innuendos, violence, zombies, ninjas and body humor of Mr. Wickham soiling himself - yes, soiling him because Mr. Darcy beats him to the point that he becomes a paraplegic - this is soon to be a classic among high school boys. In fact I’m almost positive my little brother Andrew will find it quite diverting, well…if he knew what that word meant I'm positive he would agree. And these adjective are how to I would like to sum up this analysis of Pride and Prejudice and Zombies: diverting and amusing.

My Philosophy of Birthdays

Birthdays are exciting at the beginning and end of your life - everything in between is monotonous and easy to forget. When you're young, every year seems like a momentous step, like you are making progress. When you get older everyone celebrates your birthday because it's a feat that you're still around - the parties get better because you managed to evade death for another year.

The middle is just a blur. (Exception: Every decade birthday)

For me, twenty three is when I begin to forget the ages of my siblings and friends. I don't know how many times people have asked me how old my siblings are and I make up an answer. I think my sister Rebekah has been twenty five for the past two or so years.

So yesterday marked my last exciting birthday for the next few decades: twenty one. It's exciting solely for the legal implications for Americans: the age to consume alcohol legally and to gamble. Ironically, all those reasons that make this birthday so brilliant do not apply to me. However, twenty one does mark the fulfillment of a goal of mine: making it to my twenty first birthday without a wedding ring on my finger.

Métro-Boulot-Dodo

The title for this post is appropriate for several reasons:

1. It is in French.

Currently I am taking a French course. Normally you take this strenuous course over a period of about four months - I'm taking it in about seven weeks. In other words, it's the closest thing to an immersion program that Provo can offer.

2. Roughly translated the phrase means Metro-Eat-Sleep.

This describes my monotonous existence perfectly. I get up early to study French, work, gorge myself with unhealthy food and sleep. If I'm lucky I can get home early enough to watch my newest neflick.

It's sad when the highlight of my day is a neflick.

Perhaps I should add the french word for "lame" at the end of this phrase.

Or perhaps while it literally means Metro-Eat-Sleep, the fact that one's life can be summed up in three unoriginal words translates into a colloquial euphemism for "your life is lame".

Twenty Things To Do In Las Vegas

Believing in the romanticized Hollywood version/perspective of the world leads to disappointment - and this includes the flickering lights of Vegas. While in Vegas I searched for the dapper high rollers and sexy Brad Pitts and George Clooneys who are attempting to rob a casino. This quixotic Vegas does not exist. However, here is a list of twenty things to do while in Vegas to make an adventurous and interesting holiday. I checked off all of these twenty items on my list and I hope that you can do the same.


Twenty Things You Must Do in Vegas

1. While driving from Provo to Las Vegas, listen to music that keeps you awake and singing.
80’s music is highly recommended.

2. Get at least two people to make insulting hand gestures at you for your aggressive driving.
Also count the number of times you would like to return the favor , and conclude that there are a shocking number of imbeciles on the roads today.

3. Leave the gas pump connected to your gas tank and drive off only to realize what happened when you’re merging onto the freeway

4. Go well over the speed limit, but make sure that you also have some serendipitous way of escape getting pulled over: more disobedient drivers or a pressing accident.

5. While in a traffic jam in Vegas, make sure to discover that your gas tank is well below empty . Warning: this step often causes one to sweat anxious bullets by analyzing every uncharacteristic shudder your car makes.

6. To fill up your empty tank, take a random exit and tour the Hispanic ghetto area of Las Vegas. Do not worry about getting lost or being rusty on your Spanish, because the street names translate into Spanish and English simply and productively: letters of the alphabet in alphabetical order.

7. Go off every wrong exit within the Las Vegas area.

8. Go to your friends beautiful wedding reception at the Red Rocks Country Club to dance and eat free food.

9. In a furious rage, throw your car into reverse and knock over a street sign at the sophisticated Red Rocks Country Club.

10. Drive down the strip and observe the ridiculous unattractive pastiche style of Las Vegas.

11. Tour all the famous hotels on the strip and observe how the real Paris, Venice and Forum in Rome are better.

12. Gawk at the pornographic outfits worn by pedestrians.

13. Avoid looking at the ground and creepy people when you walk. And when I say creepy, this often applies to everyone that you will see walking around on the strip at night.

14. Have a brilliantly hilarious time by observing numerous intoxicated women trying to walk in high heels.

15. Walk into a random bar to sing “Sweat Caroline” with a group of women waving their hands in the air.

16. Drive back to your hotel after two in the morning. Even if you don’t drink any alcohol, this list guarantees that you will feel inebriated. To know if you have done each step properly, compare yourself with my friend Cari down below. If you are not quite at this pathetic level, you have are slacking.

17. Get only a few hours of sleep and drive your friend to the airport at 7 in the morning.

18. Come to the realization that you have seen everything you want to see of Vegas and decide to say goodbye to “sin city”.

19. Grab a burger and fries at “In & Out” and eat it outside in the sunshine.

20. Arrive home and take a shower to get the metaphorical grime that sticking to your soul and the literal residue of dirt and sweat on your skin.

Returning Home

The home of my childhood no longer exists - I now live a life of transcendental homelessness.

The sentimental word "home" embodies a paradoxical place and time that can never be returned to. I left my home a few years ago. My childhood home changes without me, so when I return it's different. And home is the antithesis of difference - home is the security of sameness and familiarity.

So am I damned to wander in eternal homelessness?

My Homes

Enumclaw
Home is Enumclaw, Washington - an interesting name for an peculiar place. My dad moved to this small town, located at the bottom of Mt Rainier, when he was in high school. It's your typical small American town. For instance, some of the teachers my dad had while going to high school were some of our teachers. And my dad still holds a track record that my brother Tyson failed to beat. We have a Christmas parade and homecoming parade.



This is the view from my kitchen and family room. There is nothing more beautiful than the valley in Enumclaw Washington.

Jerusalem

I'm not Jewish - as my family reminds me daily - nor do I have recent ancestral ties to this land. But, I've never felt such a spiritual connection with a place. How can you feel like you're coming home when it's the first time you've been there? I believe that a piece of my identity remained buried in this land waiting patiently for me to return and exhume it.

London

Jerusalem is my love, but Britain is my soul-mate - we are a match made in heaven. The people are just like me: reserved, introverted, and sarcastic. I love everything about this city and I miss it everyday.

So what’s the problem if I have these homes?

While visiting Wales, I discovered a Welsh poet named David Abse and one of his poems describes my distress of returning home.

“The journey to Cardiff seemed less a return than a raid
On mislaid identities"

"And still I love the place for what I wanted it to be
As much as for what it unashamedly is
Now for me, a city of strangers, alien and bleak."

"No sonner than I'd arrived the other Cardiff had gone,
Smoke in the memory, those but tinned resemblances,
Where the boy I was not and the man I am not
Met, hesitated, left double footprints and walked on."

So I'm afraid that the act of returning home will destroy it.

GLORY, GLORY MAN UNITED!

It's sheer beauty.

Cristiano Ronaldo's most recent goal is one of the most brilliant goals I've ever seen. This past week Manchester United played against FC Porto for the quarter finals of the Champions League. Manchester United beat FC Porto with this amazing shot. It's a fantastic outcome for a nearly impossible win, because FC Porto's a wonderful team and the match took place on Portuguese soil.

The goal was taken six minutes into the match and shot from forty yards out! While such a distance and circumstances may seem to classify it as a "Hail Mary Shot," the execution was not hurried or by any means lucky. Ronaldo's control guided the ball into the opposite top corner of the goal, leaving the goalie no chance to stop it. Now go to this Youtube cite and watch the first minute and you will understand why this goal deserves a blog dedicated to it's brilliance.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AXjE22XF1Wg

Becky, this would be an appropriate time to sing the song I taught you: "Glory, glory Man United"

Remembering Palm Sunday

Exactly a year ago today, I lived in Jerusalem and participated in the reenactment of Christ's triumphant arrival in Jerusalem. I found this entry in my journal describing my experience. I only wish that my journal entry was as poetic and moving as the experience itself.

As we walked up Mt Scopos to the Mt of Olives, our Palestinian neighbors sat outside on their porches to become spectators of this Christian tradition of Palm Sunday. Finally reaching the Mount of Olives, we became part of the growing stream of hundreds of people. Among the congregation were several different languages and national flags waved through the air. Hundreds of Christians mingled on the Mount Olives - diverse people from all over the world became united in this one celebration.
As appropriate, I bought a green frond that I carried throughout the trek. While waiting for the procession to begin, I remained close to a Spanish band playing a catchy tune. I joined in for the chorus because it was repetitive and simple enough that even I could mumble along. Then the crowd began to walk downhill towards Jerusalem: past the Jewish cemetery, Dominus Flevit and the garden of Gethsemane. I looked behind me as I descended and all I could see were thousands of pilgrims waving green fronds and flags - it was a river of people stretching endlessly to a distant vanishing point. It was at this moment that I realized the magnitude of this event. As our journey led us to the Kidron Valley, we now had to walk uphill to reach our final destination. The sun was bright and it was crowded, so I was hot and sweaty when we reached our destination: St. Anne's Cathedral. Palm Sunday in Jerusalem...it's surreal.

Sunday Poetry

Sundays are fantastic days to lounge around and read poetry. Poems often come in beautiful portable booklets - their so small and short, but the thoughts they provoke provide hours of deep contemplation. During my journeys in England I started to collect petite booklets of poetry. In Wales I bought the poems of a random welsh poet and read them sitting on a bench in the countryside. In the Lake District I bought a small booklet of Wordsworth's poems at Dove Cottage. And a Portabello Road I bought a late 1800's edition of Shakespeare's sonnets and soliloquies. I read poetry on days like today, because I'm feeling thoughtful and crave something aesthetically and phonetically beautiful. Other days I'm nostalgic and I crave a certain poet's voice or poem that brings comfort. I still remember when a friend unexpectedly died, and in my shock I went upstairs and selected the work of Emily Dickinson as a companion to sort out my mixed feelings. I would like to share this poem I read today and found inspiring.

"I Am Vertical"

But I would rather be horizontal.

I am not a tree with my root in the soil

Sucking up minerals and motherly love

So that each March I may gleam into leaf,

Nor am I the beauty of a garden bed

Attracting my share of Ahs and spectacularly painted,

Unknowing I must soon unpetal.

Compared with me, a tree is immortal

And a flower-head not tall, but more startling,

And I want the one's longevity and the other's daring.

Tonight, in the infinitesimal light of the stars,

The trees and flowers have been strewing their cool odors.

I walk among them, but none of them are noticing.

Sometimes I think that when I am sleeping

I must most perfectly resemble them--

Thoughts gone dim.

It is more natural to me, lying down.

Then the sky and I are in open conversation,

And I shall be useful when I lie down finally:

he the trees may touch me for once, and the flowers have time for me.

- Sylvia Plath

Book of Mormon Macbeth

Please bear in mind the title of this blog. What can I say? I’m a Shakespeare snob.

I understood that nothing would live up to the Royal Shakespeare Company productions I saw in England; they’re the best in the world. The last Shakespeare play I saw was the RSC production of Hamlet with Patrick Stewart and, my love, David Tennant. It was the highlight of the program and a night I would never forget. When I read Hamlet’s soliloquies I’ll see David Tennant in an empty black stage, not reciting, but being Hamlet. How can BYU compete with this? They cannot. So When I heard of BYU‘s winter production of Macbeth, I resigned to the fact that it would never live up to the RSC.

Mesoamerica aka Book of Mormon
Do not be fooled as I was - the word Mesoamerica is a euphemism at BYU for Book of Mormon. Perhaps they thought they could give credibility to this productions setting by using this archeological term. But what if the audience does not understand it’s a Book of Mormon Macbeth? I know, let’s change the names of Shakespeare’s characters to match those in the Book of Mormon… a subtle hint that this is no ordinary Mesoamerica interpretation.

Never Ending Battle
My cousin Erin and I stole our brother’s lightsavers and constructed the ultimate showdown; while I lunged forward she swiftly leapt back. I would swing my lightsaver low to the ground while she would agilely leap over. It was a phenomenal display of jedi knight prowess. The fight scene in this Macbeth reminds me of my days as a jedi master…the rhythmic clash of sword against sword and agile swoops of the actor. In essence it’s a choreographed dance– too pretty and synchronized to be real. However the actors did outshine Erin and me in one area: stamina. Yes, they managed to continue this labor intensive dance for fifteen minutes.

Decapitation or Scalping?
After this painful battle, Macduff emerges from backstage with a Macbeth’s bloody severed head. I could not contain the laughter at this moment – the only thing that could have produced hardier laughter was perhaps to mount the head on a charger. Apparently in all the research into Book a Mormon culture, they preferred decapitation to scalping.

In All Seriousness
I love the performance of Lady Macbeth and the productions emphasis on the loving and sexual relationship between Macbeth and Lady Macbeth. As Steven Greenblatt points out in his novel Will in the World, the Macbeths share one of the few affectionate and balanced marriages in a Shakespeare play. The playwright deconstructs the Macbeths’ companionate marriage as the couple uses their ideal relationship to commit murder; this deconstruction ultimately allows Shakespeare to explore and intensify the disquietude of the play.
However, I did not appreciate turning a minor character, Seyton into a makeshift devil figure. They portrayed him as the leader of the witches – the devil himself. Macbeth’s soldiers do not kill Macduff’s family but the witches lead by Seyton. This interpretation unraveled the brilliancy of Shakespeare who keeps the witches aloof to emphasize the questions of fate.

Too Extreme in Saving Trees

Imagine sitting on the toilet….

Let's get the embarrassing preliminaries out of the way...most people - including myself - are pee-shy in public bathrooms. There’s nothing worse than knowing you’re not alone in a bathroom, complete silence, and the knowledge that water closets posses fantastic cathedral like acoustics. Not only have public bathrooms denied me the right to relieve myself in peace, but now I’m denied the right of using as much toilet paper as I desire, because of the pointless and expensive technology installed in public bathrooms.
I love hi-tech things - especially in bathrooms. Those automatic soap dispensers: brilliant! However, there is danger in being too automated in restrooms. A prime example is the automated toilet paper dispensers on BYU campus. In the women’s restrooms in the Wilk, to get your toilet paper you must gently pull down and the machine. Sounds harmless enough, but this machine symbolize the nonsensical level of laziness in America. More importantly, this machine makes a ruckus to let down a measly rationed six inches of toilet paper. Now, I know what your thinking: you could simply pull for more if needed. However, the ear-shattering noise of the toilet paper dispenser loudly announces to your stall neighbors just how much toilet paper you need on this particular trip to the bathroom.
Now if BYU installed these devilish contraptions in order to conserve trees – they did an ingenious job. Because, I think many of us would rather use every cm of that toilet paper rather than pull down for three or four more helpings. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for recycling paper. But in all honesty, for me, trees take the back seat when it comes to my toilet paper.

Rancid Farts & B Money

An unpleasant odor permeated my apartment for several days, and with each new day it progressively got worse. We rummaged through our refrigerator looking for out of date food and we even checked for dead animals in our cupboards. And walking in one evening with the rest of my roommates, I brilliantly discovered what the smell reminded me of: rancid farts - bitter, sour, potent farts. And this smell continued to saturate everything in our apartment.

That same night of labeling the smell, we heard a knock at our door. I don’t know what any of us expected, but it was not a shaggy homeless man with sacks full of clothes. Like an unwelcome Santa Clause, he opened the door he proceeded to let his overflowing bag fall into our apartment. Matriarch Lauren, despite her fear for her life and her virginity, spoke to the man and Cari and I tried to keep our laughter down. It was not a homeless man - it is the B Money!

Who is B Money? He’s an institution in Provo - he’s the snoop dog of Provo. Everyone knows B Money.
Notorious or not, Lauren spoke to him like she was speaking to a child. She tried to explain that we were not interested in buying B Money shirts, nor did we want to hold his t-shirts for him in our apartment. Leaving our apartment B Money turns around and states bluntly "by the way your apartment reeks!" There it is...my brush with greatness and celebrity in Provo, Utah.

This may be one of those instances where you had to be there, but our stomach muscles hurt from laughing so hard.

Here's B Money's video on Youtube. It's entertaining, in a pathetic sort of way. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SlGh64-l4IU

By the way, my apartment no longer smells of rancid farts. That same night we solved the problem: it was the trash.

I would also like to draw to your attention that with this post, I no longer have any posts from London on my page. Single tear.

Le Fête de la Musique

Some of my favorite artists released new albums within the past few weeks.

Neko Case’s “Middle Cyclone”

I just purchased this album the other day and after listening to over half this album, I can safely say I love it.

Beirut’s “March of the Zapotec/Holland”

Other EP’s have expored the sounds of Eastern Europe, “The Flying Club Cup” probes into Parisian music, and this new release explores Mexican music. Beruit even intergrates a local Mexican band with their own sound. (My mom thought that The Flying Club Cup sounded Mexican…I wonder what she will make of this new EP). The “Holland” portion pays homage to Zach Condon’s beginnings of experimenting with techno music in his room. Zac Condon's a musical genuis and I love the fact that he has musical ADD - he never stays on task and keeps innovating new sounds.

Andrew Bird’s “The Noble Beast” I already dedicated a whole page to Andrew Bird, and two consecuitive posts would seem stalkerish…so just listen to it people!

A brilliant month for music.

A Nervous Tic Motion of the Head to the Left

A nuance develops from the line “a nervous tic motion of the head to the left” when you watch the Andrew Bird’s emotionally charged head swinging during a performance. I watched Andrew Bird in concert this summer, but a less than ideal venue lessened the impact of the show. But this week I witnessed the full fledged musical prowess of Andrew Bird. Can I just say, I love this man? I love when he finishes playing the guitar and swings it behind his back and picks up his violin and begins to play. I also love it when he whistles…there is something – dare I say sexy – about his charisma.

My Reasons for Worshiping Andrew Bird:

1. He plucks his violin like a guitar to create complicated and brilliant melodies
2. He improvises and experiments with songs during live performances
3. World class whistler - he harmonizes with his whistling
4. He’s plays the violin beautifully
5. Overwhelming charisma on the stage

He the quintessential image of a slightly mad, but ingenious violinist: broken bow strings flailing madly, his fingers moving at incredible speeds, eyes closed and his head tossing to the rhythm. But, what’s amazing is that this classical image contrasts with his innovative and modern application of the violin. He takes an instrument associated with classical music and shreds it like a guitar on stage – he forcibly changes our conformist ideas of the violin.

Favorite Songs of the Evening:

1. Effigy
From his new album, the Noble Beast, this song is hauntingly beautiful.

2. Imitosis
The crowd’s energy rose to a whole new level for this song

3. Fake Palindromes

4. Fitz and Dizzyspells

5. Why?
Encore performance: just Andrew Bird and his instruments. His articulation of his lyrics and physical gestures enhanced the meaning of this songs…it was hilarious at certain points.

Also, my friend Holli will back me up on this…he reminds us of David Tennant. I must have a thing for skinny, quirky, brilliant individuals with somewhat spastic endearing gestures

He Love’s Me, He Love’s Me Not

Valentine's Day Activities for the Single

• Watch BBC production of Bleak House
• Clean the bathroom
• Go to International Cinema with my roommates boyfriend (my roommate is currently in California so he was alone on Valentine’s Day)
• Butterfinger blizzards
• Read feminist theory - I was supposed to read some feminist theory for class and I wanted to read it on Valentine’s Day to make it more ironic, but my laziness got the better of me.

Valentine Awards

• Worst Movie Kiss: 2007 adaptation of Persuasion – I’m not exaggerating when I say that it’s the most uncomfortable kiss of my life. It takes about 20 seconds - again no exaggeration - and during those twenty seconds she works a cm at a time towards his lips with her mouth open and lips quivering like a fish on land. It’s disturbing.
• Most cliché gifts: Stuffed animal, heart shaped box of chocolates and a dozen red roses.
• Favorite Valentine’s Day Food: Heart shaped sugar cookies
• Favorite Valentine’s Day Film: He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not
  This is a French film that I saw at International Cinema and it deals with love...but a psychotic love. It basically deconstructs the techniques of filming to unnerve the audience’s perception of reality and get laughs out of terrible events. If you have not seen it I highly recommend it.

Reading Lolita in Tehran

"I do not feel suppressed," pronounced the woman speaker indignantly. Her words contrasted ironically with the lacey black scarf covering her hair. Did she not perceive the irony of her statement? No, we were the blind ones who did not understand. Like many Americans, my view of Islam derived from the media’s concentration on extremist branches of Islam. However, this female speaker displayed a new dimension to the religion for me, as she served on committees for her community, attained a high education, and expressed her opinion freely; she was not suppressed because she chose to cover her head for Allah. Living in the Middle East I came to correct my one-dimensional view of Islam by finding sources outside of the American media. And when I read Reading Lolita in Tehran I appreciated Nafisi’s narrative of extremist Islam. Yet, I’m afraid that American audiences will not realize that this book only represents a small portion of the Islamic faith, and for this reason I will follow Nafisi’s example and share my own memoirs of veils and Islam.
My socks poke out of the black material cloaking my body and create friction scraping the surface of the carpet. I do not feel invisible wearing the black material cloaking my body. Instead, I feel a unique spirit sitting on the carpet in a mosque where Muslims come to pray daily. The ancient melodious words, amplified across the old city, call everyone to prayer five times a day. They drop sleep, work,
everything to pray to Allah. Our driver recites the call to prayer over the microphone to express his deep faith. World renowned for reciting the call to prayer, Atta must work as a bus driver because he would not accept money for singing; he sings for Allah.
Besides Mormon families, I have never found a more family centered religion than Islam. Visiting the humble home of a Palestinian family we were welcomed into their home as we celebrated the birthday of their son. The mother traditionally dressed in a veil gave us too much delicious food and the father sat on a couch teasing his sons and young daughters whose beautiful long hair shown as brightly as their mischievous and playful eyes. That hot day at Karnack I could only see the eyes of the cloaked woman as she handed me her beautiful baby. Drawn to my blond hair, they wanted me to take a picture with their child. "Thank you" they said through their smiles "affon" I replied, sealing our respect for one another.
"I have heard about the death of your prophet" my Muslim friend Iman says to me after the death of President Hinckley. "I am sorry for your loss." I have seen this kindness so many times - like that time in Jordan when our small group was lost in Amman and a father and son stopped to assist us. The father and son took the time to drive us in their car trying to get us to our destination. Soon the destination did not matter as we talked about movies and politics.
Words do not fail me often, but they do as I attempt to convey my feelings about these unique experiences. I do not deny the existence of the horrors in Nafisi’s narrative. I cannot dismiss her experiences, but I cannot dismiss my own experiences. I can only hope that in sharing my encounters with Islam, I can expand people’s view to acknowledge another view of this religion that exists outside of the extremist regime of Iran.

Doctor Who?

I passed my winter break watching “Chuck” and “Doctor Who”. I have continued my “Doctor Who” education at school; when I find a spare forty minutes I indulge in an episode. People wonder what I do during my quick study breaks and when I reply “I have been watching ‘Doctor Who’” everyone nods their heads to acknowledge the statement, but the eyes do not register. They do not know The Doctor! It’s unfortunate that once I begin to love the show I move to a place that everyone is ignorant of the Time Lord.
Now I am sure I’ve confused everyone, so let me enlighten you…“Doctor Who” is a British TV show started in the sixties and continued on until the early eighties. After about twenty years without the Doctor, BBC revived the Time Lord and he has won his way back into British pop culture. The show revolves around an alien who travels through space and time in a spaceship that looks like a telephone booth. It sounds nerdy and it is. The show’s notoriously low budget makes the sci-fi subject matter ridiculous, but you cannot help but love the show.
This unhealthy obsession began during my stay in London. I wished to see Hamlet with David Tennant because he did a fantastic job in Love’s Labour’s Lost. The whole population of Britain wanted to see Hamlet because he is the current Doctor. These crazed fans intrigued me and I gave the Doctor a go. The first few episodes I remained skeptical at the ridiculous alien jargon and cheap filming. After awhile you become accustomed to the unusual flow of the show; then you’re hooked. I always made fun of my father for watching Sci-fi but it’s different with “Doctor Who”.
I understand the direction my nerdiness is going and quite frankly it scares me. Now I make connections and references to “Doctor Who” under my breath, When I try to explain my obsession, the concerned stares convince me that I’m slowly going mad…perhaps I need a doctor…and if David Tennant happened to be my doctor I would gladly become sick.