"Oh come on. You haven't even tried donuts yet. You wanna store some fat, that is the way to store some fat, you'll be sweating through the winter."

Thursday night. Time: around nine pm.

In a quasi sedated state, my roommate Nicki and I decide to leave the apartment. As Nicki grabs something, I lead the way out, walking down the steps, and as I throw open the screen door, I see something that stops me dead in my tracks.

A large, brown bear.

Yes, Yogi the bear had decided to grace his presence upon the residence next door. The only thing separating myself from this nuisance was a miserable looking fence, one that said bear could pulverize in a pinch.

Alas, he was occupied in Fantasyland: four very large, full garbage cans were there for the taking. Nicki and I stood at the fence, transfixed on our visitor. While our neighbor called animal control, Nicki took photos with her phone, and I let out a "Holy shit I can't believe it's a bear" (or something to that extent) every few minutes or so.

At times, he'd look up at us, but that was all; he could care less. Funniest moment: him climbing into a toppled garbage bin, and our neighbor laughing, "If only we could shut the lid and catch him."

When he had exhausted all of his options, he decided to wander down towards an old folks establishment. "If they see him, someone's going to have a heart attack," I told Nicki. I was worried however, for he was walking towards South Street, which is extremely busy.

Running down the road, we found him chilling by a tree. All of a sudden, a helicopter began circling above us; I believe they may have used it as a tactic to 'scare' him back into the woods, and he did run away.

Later on at a friends house, I was a mere feet away from a skunk, who was apparently munchin' and crunchin' on a nice bag of trash. Arriving home, we find out that a neighbor's dog got skunked.

Yes, I made an Over The Hedge reference. It had to be expected, right?

The far right AND left scare me.

It was business as usual, my routine this morning. After a half asleep decent attempt to get ready, shove my uniform in the dryer for ten minutes to de-wrinkle, gulp down a cup of coffee, and get to work EARLY mind you, I found myself getting easily sidetracked 'upstairs'; If it wasn't for getting riled up at the news articles I read everyday, I'd worry that I was just another ignorant American.

In comes in my favorite eighty-something regular, nicknamed Duffy. Getting his signature senior citizen discounted small coffee with cream, I greet him everytime he arrives with a giant smile and a wave. Young for his age, Duffy is a bright blue eyed limber, smart, compassionate man. Once handed to him, he sits down at a table with his coffee, enjoys it slowly, and then leaves. Not usually one to pry into other conversations, he always looks like he has something interesting to say, so I take it upon myself to begin.

While a couple days ago we spoke of how the beautiful Farrah Fawcett was overshadowed by Michael Jackson's passing, today was different. I sensed in him the same agitation I felt, and I was first to let him know.

What started as a general brushing over of current events (or, me regailing him of what I'd read recently to break the sleepy spell we both seemed to be under) ended up with him telling me I should go into politics: from discussing the democrats overthrowing congress to dictatorships, I seemed to have his complete attention. And no where was he telling me I was wrong.

That's the thing, everyone wants to throw the old out the windows. Ratings came out recently indicating that Fox News is the number one rated network, and people sit there and have the audacity to say things like, "Of those two million viewers (oh right, two million) - most are old - and I can't wait until they pass." or, that they're all crazy. Where's the compassion for those who have lived through it all, the good and the bad?

I explained to him how I believe the two party system is defunct, and how there is a need for someone who is fiscally republican while being morally/humanitarily democratic, or something of the sort. "It's up to your generation to figure it out," Duffy said. "You need to get past the party boundaries." We spoke of the mountaneous debt facing and threatening to capsize us all. "I'm afraid it's even going to hit the tail end of our generation too," my dad said this evening after posing the same conversation onto him.

Many more recently have told me how I'm a very objective, collected person, and well, to consider politics - intrigues yet intimidates. I'm very good at making my case - but what would I do? What would I lobby and campaign for?

Oh right - getting my generation out of their perfunctory mindset. As I mentioned this to another bright, intelligent young woman of my age she said, "That's a difficult one." Yes, especially after they've been coddled: they think they're so important, that they don't do anything important. As generations go by and instant gratification worsens - so do the crops, and it takes a lot to get them back in shape. "I'm sick of newer generations getting sicker - mentally and physically," she said, to which I replied, "Well, it's like golden retrievers, you can't keep genetically rebreeding them; they get worse off everytime. Why do you think they're so easy to please?" and added a quip, "They'd bow down to a dictator, no problem."

Master! (This just made me think of Dug from the movie Up.)

Well, I think it's my new lifelong goal to attempt to get people of my age to see, whaaaaaat's goin' on, what's goin' on...

If that doesn't happen, I'm leaving one hell of a long ass note when I die saying "Shame on everyone." Better yet, it'll be on my tombstone.

this is not a love story

I've met two guys off of OkCupid as of this summer after moving to Southwick, mainly for the fact that I don't know any men within a 45 mile vicinity and they seem to be the only gender I get along with. I was honestly just looking for guyfriends who'd want to hike and go grab coffee/beers with - alright fine, I was looking for that possible romantic spark too.

While the first one I don't count as a date, seeing as he lived five minutes away in Southwick - one hour coffee shop conversation in which he admitted not looking for anything, to which I agreed - was a giant with a ponytail who could barely fit in his car, the second one, has baffled me.

It started with him saying:

Hello, I'm living in western mass for the summer and would love to talk with you. I started school studying literary journalism and ended up concentrating somewhere else. I like your blog quite a bit and would love to follow up with your posts and talk with you about them.

The mix of passages you've quoted in your profile is wonderful and I'd love to have jokes with you about them. If you are interested in talking I wish you would be in touch.



First off, any person I don't know who takes the time to read my blog and approve of it makes me unshakeably curious. But the last sentence just seemed too odd to me. 'I'd love to have jokes with you about [the quotes]?' Either he has stories to tell regarding them that I'd think are funny? Or events that'd happen/be experienced together in which we could pertain to the passages?

And I love how he said passages, as if I had extracted them all from a novel. (Some did, some didn't.)

So I responded back, adding on an ultra lame 'your wish is my command' [alright, so I like to be ordered around, what of it?] and we played a bit of cat and mouse with text messages for a while. He was hesitant using the phone to talk, adding on he'd rather 'meet in person whenever I had the time.'

Couple days later, I have the worst nine hour day at work ever getting verbally harassed by a customer (in which my manager had to throw him out) I went home to an empty house (to myself for the weekend), opened a bottle of vanilla smirnoff, and stayed up watching the sunrise.

To the best of my ability, I tried to get ready the next morning for work, but I just couldn't: I called in to work for the first time and had decided I needed a personal day. Laying back in bed, I couldn't fall back asleep, started kicking myself for calling in, then a hair brain scheme of spending a day in Northampton crept over me like one of those pesky cartoon clouds that follow everywhere you go - it needed to be done.

So I set off on 10 North with no particular plan in motion, besides walking into Herrells and seeing my lady love. Parking in a lot, I made my way around town, people-watching and smiling at adorable little toddlers (one in specific, was walking in between easel-like signs and shot gap toothed smiles in my direction) - I had skimmed my way through Faces in fifteen minutes and then went to the underground bookstore and sat in a chair surrounded by bookshelves and read the first 25 pages of Jean-Paul Sartre's 'The Age of Reason' (which, at page 60 now is really captivating), bought it, then booked it next door to Herrells.

As I sat drinking an 'Elvis' Favorite' milkshake (banana ice cream and peanut butter) and reading my new book while Patrice flew around like a busy bee working (but shooting me smiles!) it dawned on me that this mystery man could possibly be around, so I texted him. He was at a nearby gorge taking a swim, but said he'd be in town soon and would like to meet up.

Then it was another cat and mouse. He told me he was walking up Main Street, but I didn't know where for the life of me. This did finally allow me to talk to him on the phone, and his voice seemed to have a fun characterization to it. "Just walk in that direction and let's see if we notice each other," he said, and that was my only consolation.

The thing is, I was still so in the dark about what he looked like? His pictures showed only half of his face.

Spotting a bench, I text him and forfeit.

A rather handsome, albeit eclectically dressed fellow walks up to the right of me and says, "Give up that easily?"

A salmon colored shirt and pinstriped white pants? While we walked and talked, I tried to wonder silently what brought along the 'look' of the day. Finally caving and asking, I learned that he did have some eclectic ways to dress - like wearing short shorts along with his flamboyantly pink colored bicycle team/company shirt while driving his motorcycle, just to be ridiculous.

Sitting by a giant rock structured water fountain, we spoke of many things - the conversation ebbed and flowed into another, and I picked up this feeling that he knew many in town - a twenty something mother and her little daughter walked by, and he smiled at them. We watched a little old lady dip her hands into the pool of the fountain.

Then he asked me what I wanted to do. I'm never good at picking, but the walking and talking combination was working well, so it was between walking around Smith College or walking through some fields to visit his place. "I don't want you to try to think I'm luring you there."

I smiled into his brown eyes... I was already hooked. I wanted to be lured, and I got the sense that he knew too - for all I know, he could totally have this game down pat. But I figured, what the hell, and when we were walking through one of the fields, I joked, "You could kill me right now for all I know, there's no one out here!"

He admitted to me that he liked to be the 'good' pretentious, the one where you want to share your knowledge with others. I'm much in the same, so I did gather that vibe from him, along with a bit of haughtiness I found... alluring. I had never met someone like him.

We passed a very orderly tag sale on the way to his place and we decided to stop. We petted the dog and I was enamored by the fact that he made pleasantries with the lady: initiated a nice conversation with her; it was nice to be with someone who took charge. I found a kiddie wooden xylophone that had a song booklet, so I played a bit of jumbled 'When the Saints go Marching' to then end playing 10 notes perfectly, to which he smiled and laughed.

Living in a very purple old house (with amazing old windows), he showed me to his room (lives with roommates) to which there were was a loaded, giant bookshelf, a movie projector (which a white cloth hanging up on the wall opposite) bike tires, and random odds and ends. He started sharing with me magazines he read and liked for their literary style and as I flipped through one, he sat closer and closer, eventually giving my back a little single hand massage while I looked.

I was too scared to start anything. I was frozen, and he could sense my uncertainty. Promising he'd only do what I let him to was the ticket: after that, I was the one trying not to lose control, but the majority of clothes stayed on.

I was in a cloud of stupor afterwards: it didn't last long because he had to go to work. Walking me back towards town, I felt playful and put my hand in his, and then he put his arm around my neck. I stopped at Herrells, he departed with me on the front step, kissed me and said goodbye.

I went in, told Patrice how I was ravished, and decided to leave luckily right before the rain started.

I'm battling the feeling that he may be a womanizer.

Edit: It has been confirmed: he is a womanizer. My quizzitive nature paid off, turns out he's made creepy advances on some friends of mine. Is self denial in this season?


It wasn't like I was even considering dating the dude. I chalk it up to a new experience.

Mystery solved. I am the Nancy Drew of dates.

Pounding the pavement in western mass

With a pair of sandals on my feet and an Ipod in hand, I barreled down my unpaved street and took a turn onto Mortvining Road, my old jogging route that I haven't visited (in pedestrian form) since the summer of 2007.
Now, I live in Southwick, Massachusetts, or what's called the 'Notch.' (My father and stepmother have wanted to make merchandise, more of a joke rather when we're all inebriated) It's that little box on the top of Connecticut that juts right down into it - Granby, Suffield, and Westfield are it's neighbors. One actual part of the border is a mere mile from my house, and I pass the marker on my walk, where Mortvining turns into Vining.
After spending most of my day off running errands with my stepsister and eating the most delicious PB&J's imaginable (think apple pomegranate bread), the rain subsided, and I needed to pound the pavement.
Once I arrived at the stop sign a mile down, I didn't turn around like my typical, planned out routine. I kept going into Granby - took a random left down a little suburban street which led out to 10-202 (where the infamous yellow gaudy 'Granby Motel' sign with a backwards R stood in sight) and with some Forrest Gump kind of thought in my head, I just kept going.
Of all these roads I traveled down, all are heavily wooded, windy, hilly, and narrow - and no matter how far to the side I was, cars flew down the road, some just passing me as if I were an old car puttering down the way.
The funny thought that goes through my mind when I'm walking on busy roads (and 10-202 near the tail end of rush hour is no exception) is if they do stop to notice, do they find it weird for a little blonde young adult to be power walking, and intermittently at times, singing along to her Ipod? As I always read into everything (It is a trait that can be good and bad) I noticed some cars slowly take their time around me (unlike the ones who attempted to plow me down, to which I nodded my head in disgust) and I caught one older woman in her SUV stopped at a stop sign, smiling at me. I'd like to put thoughts in her head that she would possibly think, like, "It's nice to see a young person get out."
It was a wonderful time, because every mile there was a new scent. Passing by fields, all I could sense was aromatic flowers, the little farm down Vining choked the air with cow manure, and further down 10-202 I smelled wood burning stoves. I got sprinkled on, didn't mind, kept going, but not long after passing by the feeble little package store, I knew the sandals couldn't take much further.
What wasn't even a 20 minute walk turned into an hour, and as I walked back up my street my father's truck was coming out of the driveway. He was going to find me because he had been worried I was gone for so long, to which I said, "It's okay! I'm fine! I did it all the time in New Britain!" hopped in the truck, and kept him company running some errands.
It's nice to be back here.

Real > Virtual, but I love both.

Hour 60 of Escaping the 'Book: Re-considering. Practically my whole life I've always enjoyed sharing things that I learn with people: may it be articles, songs, stories, art, history, and more, cutting off something that has the ability to reach others simply doesn't make sense to me, especially when I am constantly away from everyone I know. (One minute, I'm in CT, the next, in MA.)

Probably only a handful of people chose to seek me outside of Facebook. One e-mail, some IMs, a few phone calls. I didn't expect many, although I was curious at best. I have found out that some do miss the added on cyber relationship, as if it is another sort of dimension to our typical lives. I just don't want it to overpower myself, and I worry about others letting it overpower them.
The important things are, I am not dependent on it for communication, I don't care what others think/say about me, and I use it appropriately.

Right now, this has been put on the back burner, and I'm actually still considering finishing out the week without it (think I'll come back soon for my typical antics) because I've been rekindling a friendship that I've sorely missed for a long time.

Put on your thinking caps!

Is it weird that I read Huff Post everyday, but at the same time, hate it? Every comment drives me up the wall; I like to do it though because I think it's good as a journalist, and a citizen of this country, to be able to identify and separate what is true, false, plausible, or absurd. Honestly, it mostly consists of people talking out of their asses.

Now, since my friends are never a help to me politically, (Have disagreed with most of them since day one of life on the eastern seaboard..) I haven't been introduced to many other websites from across the political party spectrum. Sitting down to my father's laptop at 6am this morning with a giant cup of coffee, I started typing in an html and a recently visited link to 'NewsBusters' was discovered.

My curiosity was instantly ignited by the slogan "Exposing and Combating Liberal Media Bias" (something that's increasingly perturbing me daily) and I was transfixed on each and every posting - and found myself AGREEING with most of the comments, unlike HuffPo! It really is sad to see how intelligent people are getting shut down because they're not drinking up the crazy juice that the media is inflicting upon everyone.

I'm finishing this three years later... because both sides are wiggety-whack, and even NewsBusters went sour. Pah-tooie.

Au revoir, Zuckerberg.

"Turn off your computer. You're actually going to have to turn off your phone and discover all that is human around us," Schmidt said. "Nothing beats holding the hand of your grandchild as he walks his first steps." - Google's CEO

As of Monday, I'm deactivating my Facebook for the summer. I've tried countless times before, but I really want to succeed this time. I've talked myself out of most of the reasons people see it as a good thing. It's my firm belief that it has made people care less about others around them, because they're so easily accessible (stalk-able.) Who knows. I'll probably chronicle my thoughts, reactions, and feelings towards this as time goes on. If all goes well, I'm going to beat the addiction. And if people want to know about me, well by golly, they'll have to go to the source. (Or they'll just read this blog... just maybe.)

By the way, who has dreams about being in archaic libraries in desolate locations? Apparently me.

2 Kewl 4 Skool

"When I was in college, I went to the bookstore and bought "Franny and Zooie" by J.D Salinger. I was so happy that I read it all weekend; it was short but good. I read outside in the nice weather on campus, and all these guys walked by and were completely confused why I was reading a book for fun." Peter Smith, Boston College Class of '08

Obviously, Peter is not the one with the problem. Is that even appropriate to say? People do not have to enjoy reading, it is, or what has always been defined as a hobby. If someone doesn't like reading, they may be heavily offended by the first sentence.

But then, what lies beneath that thin veneer of theirs? The unspoken but commonly known fact that reading goes hand in hand with writing is put to test: most cases (and a personal observation of trying to rope in writers at my college's newspaper for three years) have proven that writing suffers.

So what do these individuals hold on pedestals? Oh, right, sex and companionship, with an ego on the side. There are healthy egos, but there are vapid ones that only ask for more: the Gimmie Gimmies.

Guys have been 'trained' to see women as trophies and just want to score, while women like being regarded as medallions and are only concerned with 'finding that guy.' Oh yes, Hannah Montana, you have instilled in our youth the need for boyfriends. Oh no God, how could we ever live without them?

So what, are all social movements collapsing on themselves, are we reverting back to the Stone Age where primal urges, symbols, and pictures replace beautiful, articulate stories, vocal or written?


[TBC...]

It was the Summer of '99...

I've officially inhabited New England for a decade. Is that something to celebrate, the 10th anniversary of my survival? Well then, it seemed just like yesterday...

Not really. My childhood moments in the Midwest came to an anti-climatic ending, as if a rug was pulled out from under me, or like an atomic wedgie. Remembering as I stood in the doorway of my room one summer after sixth grade in Terre Haute, Indiana, I argued with my father.

"I found a job in Connecticut. We're moving there in a year."

"NO! That's like, halfway across the country! I don't even know how to spell it!"

"Well, we might be able to get a horse where we live."

"Really?"

(That was the highly condensed version.)

Now, even though he came at me with a left hook, I still fumed. After all, it was going to be the second time I'd moved in my short life: I spent the first 11 years in West Carrollton, Ohio, and said teary goodbyes to my childhood friends in the middle of fifth grade to go to Terre Haute. My dad is a computer software programmer, and was always on the search for better paychecks.

So there you had it: I had an entire year to envision Connecticut. Land of opportunity? I didn't really know. My main concerns still centered around Terre Haute: drawing, choir, forcing parents to drive a full van of friends an hour to the Indianapolis Circle Centre Mall so allowances could be emptied on Abercrombie and Doc Martens, and running around outside in the cul-de-sac (in the fields with a cow farm behind the house) where four of my closest friends lived.

We were father-less: my dad began work in Glastonbury, CT and lived there the entire school year while my mother, brother and I held down the fort back midwest.

Our house was already in boxes as the last day of school came a'comin'round the corner, and I got to end it with a large 'moving out' celebration, which ended up being twenty of us running around outside of the house, squirting each other with the hose, playing a 'scandalous' game of hide and seek with the lights off indoors, and flashlight tag. (The best hiding spot was in the cornfield.)

Hopping into the packed green minivan a couple days later, we made a brief pit-stop in Fort Wayne, IN to see relatives, and then set off on the expedition to the New World--I mean, the East Coast! This trip was actually nothing new: we had driven up several times prior to Upstate New York.

I'll never forget driving through Hartford for the first time in the warm night: with the scattering of lights on and off in every skyscraper. To me, it was the classiest city I had ever witnessed.

Glastonbury compared to Terre Haute was an upper echelon: the pristine white columned plazas, the fountain in the middle of town, juxtaposed with Indiana's rural flat-lands; the tar emissions in the air once every so often, and the overabundance of truck stops.

Fitting in was not an easy task. Starting eighth grade at Gideon Wells Middle School, everything seemed more difficult: from the grading system to my fellow classmates. After nitpicking apart my regional dialect and ignoring me in the hallways, I had but a few close friends who were in drama and chorus, and my favorite teacher on this planet, Mr. Somberg.

Discussing stereotypes one day, Mr. Somberg asked the rest of the class, "How do you think Karyn used to live in Indiana?"

"She lived on a farm with cows."

"She wore overalls and had her hair in pigtails."

"She wore flanel."



I began learning how difficult New Englanders were. Fast paced, driven, and focused, they sped particularly fast down highways, aspired to be lawyers, and celebrated Jewish holidays. (There were no bar/bat mitzvahs in the Midwest!) While they didn't seem to be as easily outgoing and friendly as I was used to, I chameleoned my way into this seemingly hectic (at times) lifestyle.

10 years later, I still find myself doing the same thing and have a bit of a half & half thing going on, a 50/50 mixture of the two areas. I still feel quite different, that I haven't lost my roots, and I try to calm and entertain my stressed out born and raised New England compadres with something quite different than what they're used to.

I used to be a shy sap; I've got the hard hittin' East to thank for my tougher 'tude. Cheers.


[Edit: I never got a horse.]

Exemplary usage of the calm facade

Today was the cherry on top of the worst year of my young adult life, with all but very few days left at my apartment complex, I manage to lose my debit card. Having used all of my pocket change, at this moment I have absolutely no money on hand. I've been short on money many times before during this past year, but I discovered this in a public place I had walked up New Britain Ave to eat at, and felt completely exposed; might as well hang a "Broke and Directionless" sign around my neck.

Since I have been a pedestrian/public transportation goer for the last six months, I've grown quite fond of slowing down and taking every little aspect of life in with these walks and bus rides. I suggest to people to at least try it, but can't even finish a sentence without getting a triumphant "Why do it when I can afford a car?" Well, that's just magnificent for the unconcerned and ignorant. I see fellow pedestrians in a different perspective as these haughty individuals, who will even follow up their brash remark with another, "I have a phobia of buses" or the ever more appalling "With those kind of people? I would never." To merely be associated with these 'common folk' is just too much to consider.

No, I don't want to explain for the millionth time my bad luck with cars; that I'm a good driver who attracts money grubbing 45 year olds who total cars and use Trantolo-Trantolo, crack dealers who steal cars from apartment parking lots, and troublemaker 17-year-olds who clearly shouldn't drive mommy and daddy's vehicle, because then they total cars who were just trying to drive to class to get an education. I was not at fault, yes I did get insurance checks, but those got used up quickly on food and necessities.

The people in my life in the last year I've attracted have been just as bad as the drivers: individuals who have the audacity to go under the radar as 'friends' that just take advantage. Take, take, take. And I'd let them: loyalty in friendships has always been something I excel at. No matter how frustrated I get with people, I can never seem to let them go, but the problem is I don't let them go soon enough. Occasionally, I even let these soul suckers eat at me even after they've gone and turned it on me as my fault, because I simply can't understand what I did wrong.

But when does it stop? Getting bit in the face by a dog, surgical abortion after being one month pregnant, severe sicknesses, writers block (every so often)... when all these things are thrown in your face at once, it is so hard to keep on going when you're a lonely miserable 23-year-old girl who is constantly remarked as looking "too young to be in college." No boyfriend, no one to vent to, family an hour away, roommates whose lives are too busy and hectic to even be at home, and I attract evil men who just want to take off my pants. Yes, I have a phobia of sexual contact now.

And no, I'm not whining, and I'm not feeling sorry for myself. I've carried this backpack of burdens as best as I possibly could without bothering other people for a long, long time. While I listen to a person crumbling apart from someone merely stealing something out of their car, I still give an answer of remorse, but really? I try my hardest not to cry and get bogged down and no one reaches a helping hand, but then they expect it? They need it?

I put on this facade of always being okay, and people take it face value. I definitely believe there are a lot of others in the same situations, but what's the use in sounding out about it? Then people just think they're looking for sympathy. Either way, I just can't seem to get any messages out to people.

To those who've been dealt the shitty hands, I've learned in a painful way that you can't always depend on others, sometimes there is no one, and while pulling yourself up is a difficult, constant struggle, it is worth it. The self satisfaction of being stronger than most can definitely be a rewarding feeling, but then it's all too easy for others to be intimidated by you. Comes with the territory!

No matter what, one most continue to channel their energy into helping others, because if I watched someone falling apart, I'd want to do anything I could to help. Humanitarians are amazing people.

To everyone else I give them the first step in understanding lifes little mysteries: the cliche 'stop and smell the roses.'


“The only questions worth asking today are whether humans are going to have any emotions tomorrow, and what the quality of life will be if the answer is no.” -Lester Bangs

“I’m proud that I’ve been able to live frugally and make work.” - Alexander Conner, Philly artist

The lifeline of a semester of four Journalism classes and one Creative Writing class: insomnia with intermittent sinus infections. One more exam, and it's onto summer free-lancing! (And a crappy mindless side job!)

Now, in-between all the reading/typing/writing I do (and my poor, beaten keyboard is wearing out on me fast) I love scouring around for random things of interest. Here's a few today:



Grizzly Bear's "Two Weeks" is extremely addictive: singer Ed Droste's vocals are as flowing and calming as Zach Condon's of Beirut, while the "Oohs" and "Aahs" remind me a bit of Dr. Dog. Comes as no surprise, seeing they're all similar and have worked with each other before. (Well, unsure about the latter.) This isn't the official music video, but I find the segments from Albert Lamorisse's "La Ballon Rouge" quite fitting.



Extra, extra! When many artists can't find jobs, what should they do? Just keep creating. NYT had an article today, speaking to artists from all over the country who have little-to-no income, yet are still determined to focus on what they do best under limited means. Because of the bad economy, one artist believes the public is craving art in a new way, that “they really have more time to see and feel things," according to NYT. Alas, artists must continue, no matter the circumstances. Luckily, art helps sooth anxiety! (Sometimes...)



To Twitter, or not to Twitter? That is the question. Whether it tis nobler to keep your inane thoughts to yourself, or to attempt to attract attention? Unless you're someone as funny as Michael Ian Black, I'd suggest not to. A recent post by Moistworks.com fits some songs into the twitter equation. In one song, the singer professes how they "think of" someone and "follow them" everywhere. Put into Twitter context, that's reading and "following" someone's tweets obsessively. Creepy much?

The Commuter Scene: Not Your Typical Banter

Photo Cred: Karyn Danforth

“I went to an abandoned highway the other day,” said a student sitting on the bench of a table, as she leaned back onto the brick wall of the Student Center. “Oh I've been there!” piped up another sitting next to her. Conversing about spray painting words and objects, more commonly known as tagging, every person within a fifteen foot radius listened, fitting in their two cents when deemed necessary. “My brother would tag Optimus Prime's head on a tank everywhere,” said the jokester of the group, and an upheaval of laughter echoed against the building.

This is how friendships transpire; it begins with a mere question, statement, or just a hello. Underneath the columnized man-made shade resides three tables, and during the course of a class ridden day students come and go, seeking shelter as they study, smoke a cigarette, or start a conversation. Those who sit outside of the Student Center are not always acquainted with one another, but are open to sharing stories.

The cement patio has come alive with the forthcoming of pleasant weather, and as the white petals of the nearby trees flutter onto the pavement, sociability emerges.
While many commuters decide to drive home during breaks, others would rather be frugal travelers and save money by staying, finding time in between the constant bustling back and forth to class to take a rest and rehabilitate themselves in or outside of the epicenter of campus activities. It's a laid back atmosphere, an easy going culture.

Sitting at the middle table with an orange locker key, a copy of Tuesdays With Morrie, and his computer, Ross Martowski is a sophomore from Westbrook, Connecticut. For him, sitting outside gives him time to smoke his tobacco pipe and work on assignments. From pipes, coffee, cigarettes, newspapers, laptops, and even hookahs, these are all items generally found at the tables.

“I get more compliments from smoking rather than dirty looks,” says Martowski about his pipe. “I do get the occasional old lady staring me down.” Explaining how hookahs look sinister in the eyes of passerbys, he said, “They immediately think weed, but it's hashish.”



Don't let your ears nor eyes be fooled by the simple, fun conversations, or by the eclectic way many of the students dress who frequent the area. These students get serious. Martowski unleashed what has been grinding his gears.

“The attitude at Central is very business-like,” he said, in between puffs from his pipe. “The majority are taking care of business, doing their work, and clocking out at the end of the day.”

Martowski was one of several students on this specific Thursday afternoon that had a general distaste of the environment that Central currently encapsulates. “I don't like society today, so caught up in the issues. Everything is too strict,” senior Steve St. John said. Pointing towards the library, Martowski added, “There's a state trooper over there, and it gives me the feeling of being harassed, that it's no fun to be on campus.”

While both students referenced the situation to George Orwell's 'Big Brother', and spoke of how it takes only a few complaints to make a law, but to question or tear down a law takes thousands. “It's so unbalanced,” said Martowski.

The cop car comes rolling past the grassy middle mall between the Student Center and the dining commons, Memorial Hall. “I mean, look at that,” said Martowski. “Is that not intimidating?”

Everyone at the table agreed this is why Central is all business. If it weren't for all of the absurd regulations on campus (for example, the 'no skateboarding' rule stereotypes skaters as delinquents) and student organizations mishandling the way they spend their money, Martowski believes we'd receive more than 'middle school fair-like' events.

Instilled with the knowledge of how Central's campus was in the 1970's, Martowski mentioned the fact that inside the Student Center, the game room Breakers used to be a bar. “A bar is a more sociable scene, I would have rather went to school back then. It should still be a wet campus,” he stated firmly.

As St. John and Martowski bounced thoughts off of one another, a fantastic idea began to emerge. Both students agreed that CCSU needs to promote safe drinking in order to combat the sketchy practices that many students pursue secretively.

“They should have a monitored event on campus,” said Martowski. For most students, having embarrassing drunken photos with alcohol products held tightly in their hands on Facebook are a no-no, and are generally buried to uphold their self image. “I think it'd be the same on campus, it's not like you'd see students walking around with it.” he said.

“Just as it gets nice, I have to go to work soon,” sighed St. John, who must leave shortly for Elihu Burritt Library, where he has been working for over a year. “It means there'll be less people there, so there won't be as much to do.”

No matter, Martowski is still on a tangent. As he constantly puts his hoodie on and takes it off again (“I get cold, then I get warm”) he justifies his words, saying, “You know, I'm not just sitting here spacing out when I'm smoking my pipe.”

“The campus put itself in a position for students not to get involved,” he said. “At the end of the day, it's a business, catering to the parents, not the students.”

Explaining that the rules need to be cracked at the state level in order for things to change at Central, Martowski gave an anecdote about participating in Connecticut's very first global marijuana march on May 2nd. “People in this state are getting tired of regulations,” he said while checking his e-mail.

Something Martowski reads stops the current discussion and thus begins another: Professor Ragavan, an International Films teacher, had sent an e-mail regarding Martowski's constant effort to create a Film Club. After having a difficult time all semester due to strict enforced rules involving the creation of clubs, Ragavan was going to see to it that Martowski begins it, no matter what.

Going under the radar, Martowski acquired the use of the Africana Center to view movies. Told to begin with controversial films, Ragavan advised him to make posters (with 'not recognized as a club' at the bottom, as to not get in trouble) and with that, a table discussion erupted on what film Martowski should choose first. “Requiem for a Dream,” said one. “American History X,” said another. “The curb-stomp is terrifying.” Another table behind us overhears this and begins a discussion on curb-stomping.

Students aren't the only ones to be found here; sometimes professors kick back for a little bit before going about their business. “An older math professor comes around and smokes cigarettes while talking to us every so often,” said Martowski. “He talks about drugs he did in the 1960's and fits math into every conversation. He's a fun guy to talk to.” Thinking about how the guy is an accomplished, intelligent professor brings Martowski back to the problems with rules.

“I have a friend in the Education Department, and if they're even suspected of drugs, they are reprimanded or kicked out,” he said. “That doesn't solve problems, it doesn't seem right. Shows how times have changed over the course of 30 years.”

It doesn't seem as if Martowski knows this for sure, but all thoughts are considered sitting shoulder to shoulder to one another on a bench.

St. John, rather silent during the majority of Martowski's statements, wrapped up the discussion in a lyric by Jimmy Buffett. “If we weren't all crazy, we'd just all go insane,” he said.

This is Central's Greek chorus.

As two students from a class walked over to measure the columns of the Student Center's awning, the group at the middle table began to laugh at Martowski's ideas of getting reactions out of police; it was back to 'business' as usual: silly, fun conversations.

“What would a cop think of pulling someone over who had a handlebar mustache and a pipe, blaring classical music out of their car?” he laughed. “That would be great.”

Archiving...

This may take me forever, but I'm in the process of cataloging 3-4 years worth of articles onto this blog. Updates will be frequent, so feel free to stick your nose in and browse around!

-K

Muggle Quidditch: Growing in Popularity

"Weasley cannot save a thing, he cannot block a single ring, that's why Slytherins all sing, Weasley is our king."

This is the boisterous chant of the Slytherin team, J.K Rowling's depiction of the bully-based squadron whose primary goal in the Harry Potter series is to rub Gryffindor's noses into the ground every conceivable moment at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry.

Breaking it down for those who have not bothered with the collection, the chant is derived from what escalates during the fictitious Quidditch, the school's seasonal sporting event, where flying brooms are mandatory and one specific player, the Seeker, must grab a flittery-winged small golden ball to win the match.

If imitation is the highest form of flattery, Rowling should be thrilled: Quidditch has now become an actual sport. Brooms and snitches don't elevate from the ground, but that doesn't stop these imaginable Potter fanatics from attempting to live out their storybook glory.

As the fan base strengthened in numbers over the past decade, so did the potential of establishing the earthbound variation of Muggle Quidditch.

"A lot of people don't realize is there's this whole underground scene," said Jennie Steinberg, a resident of Los Angeles, on the phone. A student shooting for her masters in Marriage and Family Therapy at CSU Northridge, interested in Harry Potter, wanting to play a fake sport?

Just as other groups associate their flockings with the addition of '-head' onto a word that's spoken most and widely known - indeed, Mr. Potter has captured the young spirited hearts of every country, establishing themselves as Potterheads.

"If you're a Potterhead, you get the same response when bringing up Harry Potter in non-Harry Potter circles, 'Oh yeah, I read book one and it was okay, and I've seen some of the movies and they're alright,'" said 25-year-old Steinberg. "That used to be my response too."

While the series first debuted in 1997 and now up to date has sold over hundreds of millions of Rowling's seven books combined, Steinberg didn't start reading them till three-and-a-half years ago. "When I first started dating my boyfriend, he told me that I needed to read them," said Steinberg. "If I wasn't going to do it on my own, he was going to read them to me."

Steinberg was hooked: for the first six months or so of the relationship, her boyfriend read the books aloud to each other every night. When the final installment: HP and the Deathly Hallows came out, Steinberg joined in, and they both read the chapters.

Setting out to find others who enjoy the same, Steinberg began attending 'Wizard Rock' concerts, a new genre of music dedicated to Potter. " They did an amazing job of drawing from not only the characters and the humor, but also the emotions and the wonderful lessons," she said. "That is what I think brings me back to the books."

From The Remus Lupins to the Whomping Willows, Steinberg started attending more shows on the quest to seek out others such as herself. "I was frustrated with my lack of Potterhead friends," she declared.

After having spent a night dining with six other fans post concert, Steinberg kept in contact with them online. A couple weeks later, she read her new friends had requested a game of Muggle Quidditch. Jennie jumped on the prospect, messaging them and insisting that they invite her.

Told to 'Bring Your Own Broom' and chip in a few dollars for a BBQ, Steinberg showed up at a house with a broom in hand. "A girl ran out asking if I was there for Quidditch," Steinberg said. "I joked, 'Nope! I'm here to clean your house.'"

Walking into the backyard, she noticed the set-up of mid-air hoops, which were really just hula hoops duct-taped to PVC pipe held up by sand in buckets. A pair of three hoops sat on each end of the yard, and people were already there scrimmaging. Using a volleyball as a Quaffle, they were thrown into the opposing side's hoops for points.

Sometimes the adaptions are interesting. "The snitch can be a moving person, or a remote control car and helicopter," Steinberg said. With attempts at Quidditch as a water polo sport and rigging up a harness to fly, Potterheads always envision new creative ideas.

Steinberg was ready to play. Chosen as a beater, her job was to throw dodgeballs at the chasers, who are attempting to throw the volleyballs into the goals. "It was very high intensity," she recalled. "There is so much going on in the game, it was really chaotic and fun."

Many U.S. universities are now involved in a Intercollegiate Quidditch Association, and several attended the 2008 Quidditch World Cup, as also the sport is growing recognition in youth camps worldwide. It even prompted Greg Gumbel to go do a play-by-play of a Quidditch tournament for CBS News a year ago; that is when the Muggles of the real world finally learned of Quidditch.



There won't be any spells flying around, either. "I may have tried to use the summoning spell to steal the bludger," Steinberg said. "Accio!"