Getting Reacquainted with Fall...

A year ago this time, doused in stinking sweat, covered from head to toe in unyieldingly agonizing mosquito bites, all I craved was one very simple, American beverage: a refreshing, effortless pint of pumpkin ale.

Not too demanding of a request, right...?

Wrong! This was actually quite the foolish craving on my part because...well, because I was then currently living on the diagonally-opposite side of the world.

You see, folks, for me, the hardest part about my four-month stint in Vietnam had nothing to do with uncontrollably pungent body odors or abundantly irritating insects. Nor did I have exceptional beef with the exhaustive language barrier, which had me emulating the most admirable of sign language enthusiasts after only three weeks in Asia. (Almost positive I've single-handedly invented a new language that constitutes the frequent use of eye-rolling, wild hand 'n arm gestures, and funny gurgling sounds, induced by the many frustrating encounters with the motorbike taxi men of Can Tho.)

But, putting my insignificant communicational achievements aside, back to my initial declaration:

During those four months abroad, I was most nostalgic about one thing, and one thing only: this would be the first time, in my twenty-three years of existence, that I would miss out on the progression of the autumnal season. The one season, I am naturally inclined to believe, that nobody quite enjoys, or celebrates, like Americans.

There is something so superficially comforting, so expectantly routine about the commercialization of Halloween in the United States - the haunted hayrides; the apple and pumpkin picking; the unnecessarily large bags of calorie-packed candy that can be found in any domestic grocery store, crammed with individually-wrapped packets of crappy chocolate but loved, nonetheless, by millions of Americans, myself included. The fake spider webs adorning corners of coffee shops; the cardboard cut-out gravestones clumsily entrenched in your neighbor's front yard; the distant glow of a lunatic-looking Jack-0-Lantern, crooked smile and all. These are, at their core, what make up the glorious season of autumn for me, along with the smell of cinnamon permeating the air, and the taste of warm apple cider, rather poorly confined in a cheap Styrofoam cup, on sale for 50 cents at Conklins' family-owned farm in Rockland County, NY - sadly, one of the only few farms left in the area.

This year, my participation in fall activities will not be unaccounted for. I will drink apple cider until my stomach hurts. I will carve the craziest looking Jack-o-Lantern, simply because I can. I will, in effect, make up for last year's loss - but also, at the same time, I will be recollecting the following thoughts in my head:

Last year, I was eating pho every morning, enjoying unheard of tropical temperatures in the month of October, and teaching English to foreign children who, every day, managed to put a smile on my face. And I will miss that.

Funny how nostalgia works...

Live the Life you Love

There's something very wrong with me.

Here I am in Room 6320 of Aruba's one and only Holiday Inn - a hotel that was infamously and reluctantly pushed into the spotlight following the fishy disappearance of high school senior Natalee Holloway in 2005 - with full access to a breathtakingly beautiful beach, and an unlimited supply of all-inclusive alcoholic beverages.

But all I keep thinking about is Vietnam.

The mental probing started yesterday when I went for a run. I needed the solidarity. I needed time to reflect about my life, which direction it's going - and what the hell my "plan" is come the end of the summer. As if I'll ever actually figure that one out. But my comfortable and somewhat-lucrative lifeguarding gig terminates in five weeks. So, therefore, must my characteristically-Kelly procrastination.

I was pondering just this when the course of my run took me past a native Aruban, grilling something in the back of a (his?) truck. Exactly what he was cooking, I couldn't tell you. And where safety hazards are concerned, this probably wasn't the best location to set up shop. But whatever it was, it smelled fucking delicious. He looked at me and smiled. And waved. He uncannily resembled a man I used to pass by on my way to and from school every day in Can Tho, also contentedly stationed at his grill: same bronzed shoulders, same ragged tank top, same genuine smile.

...I regret, in many ways, coming home early from that assignment in Vietnam. Sure, it was difficult to wake up every day and go to bed every night in the sweltering heat, constantly combating mosquitoes and trying, effort after effort, to communicate my needs and wants to the locals, as my attempt at making any progress in Vietnamese was just plain comical, to put it nicely.

But there aren't many places like Vietnam. And Aruba is, despite its slightly bluer waters and "tanner" citizens, more or less an extension of any commercialized beach town in America. There's a TGIF's, a Burger King and a Dunkin Donuts right across the street from this resort. Signs of these familiar chains comfort most of my fellow countrymen. To me, they're an eyesore of the worst sort - a painful and ugly reminder that our world is globalizing and therefore, shrinking, at a rapidly dangerous pace.

It makes one think, and fear: is there still enough time to see everything in its most authentic form before it evaporates from the face of the Earth?!

I want to believe, try to believe, that there's still time, despite my foolish choice to leave a part of the world that I had yet to truly discover, to see more of what I lust for - and that is, something different.

So why did I leave it in the first place, when I was already there?

I still don't know the answer to that.

But I do know that I want to live, like most people, with minimal regrets.

As the old saying goes:

"Live the life you love, love the life you live."

Irish Beer Cheese

Like most normal human beings, I love cheese. And I'm talkin' all kinds of cheese: my likes range from the nuclear orange awesome-ness of Velveeta to the unbearably pungent imported products that one can find at an international cheese shop (or, in most cases, at your local supermarket.) And what's even cooler is realizing how many different products go into cheese making...

In this case, I discovered one made with BEER! (If you're reading this and you already knew about it, you should have told me!)

If you're not a beer person, this type of cheese may not sound appetizing to you. I get that. But I can assure you that it is quite delectable. The hint of Irish stout is just right - doesn't overpower the cheese at all. In fact, this may be the best tasting fromage I've ever brought to my lips.

However, to ensure maximum satisfaction, accompany this cheese with a kick-ass Irish Stout. You surely can't go wrong with that ;-)

Revelin' in Reggae

I'll confess: I have no idea what's going on in this song. But that doesn't stop me from liking it. There's something about reggae music that just makes me feel all tingly inside. Lame, I know. But it's the truth. How can you hate on guys that are just pot-lovin, peace promoting island boys, preaching love and unity to all of God's chillin'? I mean, for all I know, this dude Gyptian could be advocating underage prostitution. That's how indistinguishable his words are to me. But hopefully, for the sake of the happy mood that it puts me in, this song is about what I think it is: good ole fashion love.

Listen to it. It'll make ya feel good, even though you probably won't know what the hell he's talking about...

Jerey Shore Goes To The Big Screen...

HUDSON VALLEY RESTAURANT WEEK!

Sorry for the recent blog absence. Hasn't really been much going on in my life lately. But I felt like it was appropriate to come back with a BANG and inform you good people about this:

What is it, anyway?

Hudson Valley Restaurant Week! Duh!

When is it?

Monday, March 15th - Sunday, March 28th

Who participates?

Over 140 restaurants in Westchester, Rockland, Orange, Putnam, Duchess, Ulster and Colombia counties. One of the restaurants, in fact, is Peter Kelly's famous X2O Exaviars on Hudson, featured on a recent episode of Anthony Bourdain's show, No Reservations, where Bourdain dined with none other than long time adored movie actor Bill Murray, a Hudson Valley resident himself.

What's the deal with pricing?

Restaurants will be serving three-course prix-fixe lunches for $20 and three-course dinners for $28. Drinks are not on the house, though. However, one must consider the deal they're getting here - most of these restaurants are OUTRAGEOUSLY expensive!

To find out more info, go here:

http://www.hudsonvalleyrestaurantweek.com/home.php

ENJOY :-)

Practicing Painful Pilates

Now, I know what you're thinking. Pilates doesn't look painful. After all, the girl in the above picture is smiling, ain't she? But let's assume that she's been practicing for a while - for weeks, months, years even. And by assume, I mean let's come to a definite conclusion, because nobody that I know can hold their legs up like that for an extended period of time and actually look happy about it.

To bring some visuals to the table, let me start off with this: my instructor resembled Linda Hamilton's character from Terminator 2. Or as I like to say, Bad Ass Bitch. The sight of her biceps alone were enough to shut the whole class up when she came strolling through the gymnasium doorway, decked out in an off-pink Yoga suit, clutching the same colored Yoga mat under her bulging right arm.

Silence.

Unlike her physical exterior, though, our instructor's voice was very soft and mellow. She kept reminding us that Pilates is all about breathing and not so much about body movements. In fact, your body should move very little - your breathing should do the moving for you (?). But many participants had difficulty grasping this concept, and released their air in other ways...

...or should I say, through other ends. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, you know what I'm talking about here. And what can possibly be more embarrassing than passing wind in a room full of complete strangers, knowing that you've got nine more weeks left to go?

Note to self: Do not eat beans before Pilates class. Ever.

Italian Cooking Class, Numero Uno

Fact: Italians make awesome food.

Fact: Even when they teach cooking classes, Italians do not measure anything.

Fact: I will never learn how to cook like an Italian.

Today was my first Italian cooking class at Nanuet middle school. Actually, it was more like a cooking observation. All of us foodies gathered around our short n' sweet chef, Mrs. Brancatelli, as she merrily prepared escarole soup with cannelloni beans. Despite her vigor and pleasant persona, the resulting product tasted about as interesting as its given name. (For those of you who don't know, escarole is just a fancy type of lettuce.)

I learned a few things about this medley of greens and beans. The first, that escarole grows in sand. And because of its not-so-sanitary upbringing, escarole needs to be scrubbed clean of dirt the way a homicidal murderer would scrub the bloodstain out of an ivory colored carpet. Thorough, ladies and gentleman. Meticulous and thorough.

I also learned that even this seemingly easy-to-make dish can ignite stress in the most neophyte of culinary arts students. One Irish-looking woman behind me threw her hands up in surrender as our Maestra took her third estimated 'pinch' of salt, which was cast into the soup among other 'approximated' ingredients.

"That's the problem with you Italians!" the woman behind me said, exasperated. "You never measure anything! And I come here to finally figure out how to cook, and you still don't measure!"

Our chef just shrugged, looked down into her pot of boiling beans and said, "I'm sorry, but it's in my blood. I just know what needs to be added in and I add it."

That's probably not the answer that Miss Irish was looking for. But I've come to the conclusion that as long as I can still eat like an Italian, I don't mind if I never end up learning to cook like one.

Battle of the Beautiful Boys

I have one pressing question about last night's Academy Awards, and one question only: what the HELL was wrong with George Clooney?!

Now, most women would probably exonerate this most handsome of academy award-winning actors for the glaring death stare that he shot at host Alec Baldwin when it came time for the 30 Rock star to ridicule one of Hollywood's favorite hunks. But just because Georgie's got a pretty face doesn't mean we women should let him off the hook so easily, does it...?!?!

Traditionally, the men and women who are selected to host the Oscars are more or less required to taunt the talented individuals who are nominated for prestigious awards in their mastered art of acting. It makes the show more engaging and allows us regular people to see the softer (or in Clooney's case, hard-ass) side of our cinematic idols.

But instead of a joke said in jest, an eerie exchange of silence passed between the two multi-time winners of the Sexiest Man Alive award - Clooney looking as if he wanted to rip Baldwin's head off; Baldwin looking as though it might be a good time to move on to the next victim before Clooney slices his jugular open.

And funny enough, after a little bit of pointless research, I discovered that there is still some tension between the two stately gentleman which circumnavigates around Clooney's usurping of Baldwin's Sexiest Man Alive throne, back in the mid-90's.

But if this is really the case, shouldn't it have been Baldwin that was throwing the death stares at Clooney?

I believe further investigation is in order here... only if I care enough to figure out the personal lives of these men who are distantly removed from my own.

Until next time!

Boston Beer Fest!

Event: American Craft Beer Fest

Where: Seaport World Trade Center
200 Seaport Blvd in Boston

When: Friday, June 18th - 6-9:30 pm
Saturday, June 19th - 1-4:30 pm
Saturday, June 19th - 6-9:30 pm

Tickets: $40/per person
Includes:
- All 2 0z. beer tastings
- Access to over 325 craft beers!
- Fest guide
- Tasting cup

SEE YA THERE!!!!!!!!

King James Bible At Your Command...

I don't know, man. Maybe it's just me, but when religion and technology coalesce, I don't feel right about it. Not that I feel right about religion to begin with. But watching these two seemingly distinct entities converge is just plain awkward. Like, that should never happen. Ever.

I once saw a monk at a bus stop in Vietnam, garmented in his traditional orange robes, hugging an hp laptop to his chest. He smiled at me, and, to be polite, I smiled back. But my mind was buzzing with questions. Why does he own that laptop?, I wondered to myself. Is he e-mailing the Holy One? Is Buddha on Facebook now?!

I understand that popes, priests, monks, rabbis and all the other "chosen ones" are people, too. They probably enjoy their funny YouTube clip just as much as the next guy. And who can blame them? That stuff is hilarious. But isn't the whole idea of being a spiritual person to lead a humble life, stripped of possessions, trying to show others that the less you have, the better you'll live, blah blah blah?

Having Jesus Christ at my remote control command is cool I guess. But if the Christians who actually bought this DVD were truly devoted to him, they'd get off their lazy ass every Sunday and go to Church to prove it. And the Catholic church's attempt to make yet even MORE money off of one bearded dude's teachings more than 2,000 years ago is no surprise to me.

Bill Maher is probably having a field day with this.

Bye-Bye, ABC!

As of Sunday, March 7th, television network ABC7 will no longer be broadcast via the popular Cablevision network, which services the homes of millions of Americans nationwide. The reason for this sudden abandonment on behalf of America's Most Watched News Network? Well, I'm too lazy to explain it all. So you can individually listen to each corporation's side of the story at the following websites:

Cablevision: http://www.cablevision.com/abc/index.jsp?ftrack=abc

ABC: http://www.saveabc7.com/

What it comes down to: Monayyyyyy $$$$$$$

To be honest, I'm not too perturbed by this recent schism. It's all about money, which both conglomerations have MORE than enough of. And more importantly, as Cablevision states in its own public service announcement, most of ABC's TV shows are available for viewing, FREE OF CHARGE, on their website. So what this means to me is, I can still get my Modern Family fix...and that's pretty much the only thing I care about.

These announcements are great though. Especially if you want a good laugh. I feel like I'm watching two political competitors slander one another at desperate attempts to get more voters on their side. But who really knows the authenticity of both parties claims at the end of the day? We won't know it in politics; we won't know it in television.

And that is the God's honest truth, folks.

March MADNESS!

In my relatively short twenty-two years of life, I've come to accept this one fail-safe basic about nature: rarely does it ever play by the rules. For instance, my hometown of southern NEW YORK has been victim to snow in mid-April, witnessed 76-degree days in mid-December and...well, do you really need any more evidence to prove the Whackness? Those two phenomena alone should be reason enough to bring any global warming skeptic to his cynical knees.

But today was totally different. And by different, I mean totally normal. Today actually tasted like the sweet breath of early spring. I saw the snow melting, heard the soft melody of birds chirping and felt the heat rising as I eased into my Saturn Ion, eagerly switching the temperature dial all the way to FREEZING for the first time in seven months. All-right!

To be honest, I thought winter was never going to end. After last week's two-day fiasco of swirling snowstorm MADNESS, I thought we were all doomed for eternal Ice World. I even Google'd "How To Construct Your Dream Igloo" and "What To Expect When You're Expecting Ice" just in case. But luckily, I won't be needing any of that now because...

Spring is here! HOORAY! Time for mind-boggling movies like the Mad Hatter, which I probably won't see in theaters. Time for awesome Mardi Gras celebrations, which I've never actually taken part in. Time for March Madness basketball, which I don't really care about, but to my credit, will watch every once in a while if there are no re-runs of The Office playing. But still, March is a good month. The best, in my opinion, because it speaks of so many good things to come: warm weather is just around the corner, and so is the retrieval of my good spirits that I lost back in the cold. I'm comin' for ya, guys!

"Women Come And Go But A Stuffed Dog Is Forever"

The month of February has been, to date, the most uneventful month of my life so far (read: my unemployment status, my foggy future, etc. etc.) But tonight, thankfully, this month has managed to give me some laughs by airing a relatively funny talk show about marriage, appropriately titled The Marriage Ref.

Comedian Tom Papa hosts the show, accompanied by three judges - Alec Baldwin, Kelly Rippa and Jerry Seinfeld. Papa shows the audience video footage of a couple and their respective problem (tonight's two problems consisted of (1) some husband's dead stuffed dog named 'the Fonz' that he keeps around the house like a stuffed animal, which his wife, understandably, can't stand and (2) one husband's encouraging of a stripper pole addition to his bedroom, met by hostile opposition from the Mrs.) And after they air the footage, the judges discuss, throw in their two cents and then video chat with the couple at stake to give them the verdict: who's in the wrong, and who's in the right?

Aside from the fact that Baldwin should probably be the LAST guy to discuss the morals of who's right and who's wrong in the holy institution of marriage, he does, as usual, steal the spotlight. When Baldwin is dressed to the nines in a suit, any suit, whether it cost him $200 or $2,000, I can never divorce him from his character Jack Donaghy from 30 Rock, pompous and overtly sarcastic. But maybe that's not really his character after all. Maybe that's just Baldwin?

Call me the anti-everything-funny here, but I'm not a huge Seinfeld fan. Yes, his show was funny, but he, individually, is not. And Kelly Rippa is, well, Kelly Rippa - loud, annoyingly blonde and skinny, and whose feedback is as important to this show as Paula Abdul's was for American Idol. (Need I say more...?)

However, all is not lost yet for The Marriage Ref. It has some promising guest stars in the future - Ricky Gervais, Larry David and Tina Fey, to name just a few. And if the couple's problems may not be interesting (and tonight's most certainly were not) hopefully the guest appearances will be! Stay tuned, folks...

Three Tips I've Got For Current Undergraduates

I won't lie to you here kids. Life after college is NOT fun. Sure, you might only be a freshman now and think that the "real world" is light years away from where you stand today. Hah. Think again! Those four years are going to zoom by so fast and before you even know it, you're back at home, living with your parents, re-doing your downstairs bathroom because (a) you're unemployed and (b) pretty much expected to help out wherever you can now. Welcome home, kiddo!

In all fairness, I have a loving family that is supportive of everything I do, allowing me to take a temporary leave of absence from the working world until I find a job that suits me. So I can scrape off some wallpaper and do some white-washing in exchange for this fair arrangement. But as I prowl through job search engines hour after hour, day after day, I realize how much easier snagging a desirable job would be if I had simply networked back in school. And how easy it is to do that!

(1) Continue to be, or start getting, involved. As a high school senior with an impressive GPA and a never-ending list of extra curricular activities, I could have gotten accepted into almost any college I applied to. And that's because I was involved. Even after college, employers like to see that you were keeping busy during your collegiate years, whether it was through intramural lacrosse or becoming president of your student rights association (is that even such a thing?) Whatever. The point is, I didn't do any of this. And because I didn't do this, it's hard to impress potential employers with my undergraduate experience. But you can save yourself now by running that beer-gutted belly of yours to your school's campus center and signing up for math club, or something like that. You get the gist.

(2) Don't hate on your teachers. When I was teaching English in Vietnam last year, I managed to connect with a wonderful woman who was a journalism professor at SUNY Albany. I originally contacted her in hopes of finding someone who would publish an article I had written about my Nam experience for Albany's Last Word magazine. That never ended up happening, but what I got out of this mass exchange of e-mail was a connection. My newfound teacher friend would post some of my blogs on her own website (http://www.mystorylives.blogspot.com/), which reached a lot more readers than mine did. I was grateful for it. And my point here is - teachers are your friends. They're not only there to make your life miserable by assigning pointless projects and erroneous exams, which they have and always will inevitably do. They're also there to help you. To write recommendations. To be a guiding light when you need career advice. So remember - there's no shame, only success, in becoming a teacher's pet.

(3) Intern. Boy oh boy, did I miss the boat on this one, big time. I realized just how unfortunate it was that I had never taken part in a hands-on work experience during my undergraduate years after meeting my roommate in Vietnam, Christine (http://www.christinecackles.blogspot.com/.) The girl had made it a point to intern for at least one semester during every year she was at Marist college. And many of the connections she has today are ones that she made during those internships. Smart girl. And even for people like you and me who might have easy-to-mock majors like history or Russian literature, there's always something you can intern for, even if you're not an expert in the field. So please, folks, don't do what I did and trade your books for booze - make something of your college experience, because the truth is well-known and painful: you will only have one shot at it. So make it a good one!

Death Of The Librarian Lady

Ever since the release of James Cameron's ultimate Man vs. Machine movie, The Terminator, many have questioned the validity of the film's main argument: the inevitable annihilation of planet Earth's most dangerous predator (man) by none other than mindlessly programmed machines. Okay, so people who are in touch with reality don't really worry about fabricated movie malarkey such as this. But today, after witnessing what was going on at my local public library, my sense of security has been tinkered with just a tad bit.

First things first: I've always loved the library. Now that I'm out of college, my mind is no longer granted the privilege of engaging in stimulating class lectures, so I read more than ever before. I love to read. Always have. I'm also one of those creeps who likes the musty smell of an old, scribbled-up library book. I love its tattered binding; its underlined text; its high-lighted paragraphs; its dog-eared pages. The works. I also love the peace and quiet that I'm offered, free of charge, at the library. I can actually hear myself think in there. And I willingly surrender my iPod and cell phone for the entire duration of each visit that I pay to this most tranquil of public establishments. I simply allow myself to drown in reading.

Lately, I've somewhat neglected the library that I grew up next to, less than a quarter of a mile away from my childhood home. But I had some movies on reserve for pick-up there, so the pressure of paying an overdue visit to this old friend of mine was relieved today. However, upon arrival, I was greeted with the most offensive of renovation sights: a brand-spanking new circulation desk, shiny green marble and all, with none other than SELF check-out machines! What the HELL?!

I did not like this augmentation to my perfectly fine childhood library - did not like it one bit. Where were all the librarians, necks adorned with over-sized pearls, cat-like spectacles drooping down their long, pointy noses, red lipstick smeared on the outer edge of their Styrofoam coffee cups? Why weren't they still in charge? And why did some genius come up with the brilliant idea, during these hard economic times, to replace the jobs of hard-working women with ungrateful machines that can't even utter a "thank-you" once you've employed them?

A machine can't tell me, "Oh, if you like this book, you'll certainly like...blah blah blah." A machine can't remind me, "Don't forget - your book is due March 3rd, next Wednesday!" A machine won't warmly conclude our twenty-second interaction together with the sweet sincerity of a "Good-bye, have a nice day!" comment. Self check-out machines are still just machines - unfriendly, unfeeling and, in my opinion, unnecessary at this particular institution.

And I foolishly thought that this self check-out madness would end at the grocery stores. Nope. The machines are back to haunt us, slowly taking over, making me question whether or not John Connor's services will actually be needed in the near future.

Yikes.

A Burgeoning Issue Up In The Air...

Sometimes, I get upset that I can't fit into a pair of pants. But the impending epidemic of obesity in the Air World presents a much more pressing issue at hand: people who can't fit into their airplane seats. Read on, it's an interesting article:

http://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/28/travel/prac28fat.html?ref=travel.

Who Wants To Read My Words, Anyway?

I've got this burning question on my mind lately: why do I keep on writing? And who even wants to read my writing? After all, I'm no longer in Vietnam, no longer interesting, no longer in Vietnam. I don't get frequented by exotic house guests anymore - the geckos, the frogs and the occasional crab, to name but a few. And I no longer have that feeling of soul-satisfying accomplishment, of doing a job that was note-worthy and impressive - I was teaching English in freakin' Vietnam for crying out loud! How many Americans can point their chubby little fingers at a map and even ballpark this country's approximate geographic location?! (Note: I couldn't either until after a little bit of research ;-)

Recently, I read Tim O'Brien's war novel, The Things They Carried, which is a gut-wrenchingly realistic portrayal of a soldier's experience in Nam. It was well-written and you felt bad for the guy. But personally, since I had been to Nam, the only two things in his novel that I could relate to were the heat and the bugs. Everything else was alien to me. I could not swallow his words. His Nam was not My Nam. His Nam was full of fear, anxiety and anguish. Mine was full of hospitality, love and hope. My Nam was flourishing and O'Brien's was burning to the ground. It was hard to compare his story with my own, to think that we both traveled the same landscapes and slept under the same penetrating sun, yet saw this country through two very different sets of eyes. But his story got the wheels in my mind turning. Why does he write? Why does anybody write, for that matter?

I believe that a writer writes for the same reason that a purger purges: to release what's inside of him. That toxic waste. That useless raw material. That cluster of decay that would otherwise debilitate his ability to function. A writer needs to tell his story to the world in order to be at peace with the world. A purger purges, admiring the speckled colors of what was inside him that now lay splattered on the ground, ungracefully, knowing full well that if he hadn't brought them up, this collage of colors would have forever brought him down.

That being said, I have no war stories for you. Sorry folks. The most battling I did in Vietnam was with Mother Nature. I suffered in sweat daily, and from mosquitoes, nightly. The sun and the bugs took spiteful intervals at swallowing me whole. But in exchange, I got the ability to tell stories, because I was left with not much else to do. I was able to translate my life onto a computer screen, meddling with the truth not as often as I would have thought, because life over there was, in good ways and bad, wacky. And why do I write? Because I need to tell stories, even if no one is listening. And I think that answers the question for most.

Vietnamese Beer Culture

Today, I miss Vietnam. I miss the sounds. I miss the smells (err, some of them.) I miss the colors. I miss the food. And funny enough, I miss the beer. Below is an article discussing (1) a European-style beer garden in Saigon (which I went to during my last weekend in Vietnam) and (2) bia hoi, the "people's beer," which I consumed on more than one occasion during my visits to the northern city of Hanoi. Enjoy the article!

http://travel.nytimes.com/2010/02/21/travel/21explorer.html?pagewanted=1&em

Michelle Kwan: Olympic Tragedy

What is there to say about Michelle Kwan? Well, quite frankly, a lot. During her time as a competitive figure skater, the girl had won 9 U.S. Championships, 5 World Championships and 2 Olympic medals - a silver in Nagano ('98) and a bronze in Salt Lake City ('02.) She was (and probably still is) one of the most talented figure skaters in the world, having delicately and tastefully strutted her athletic ability in countless competitions across the globe, always with the grace and beauty of an artistic performer well beyond her years.

But my heart always breaks for Michelle Kwan every time the Winter Olympics come to town. I shutter just thinking that this brilliant skater's mantel is vacant of a gold Olympic medallion, reflecting the glow of a mid-winter's fire off of its glimmering surface. She's the reason I got into figure skating in the first place. During the winter of '97, I can remember watching all of the pre-Olympic competitions with my mother and aunt, who championed her and not the other Americans performing that year (cough cough, nose-job-needing Tara Lipinski.) I ended up loving Michelle. She was cute, she was exhilarating to watch on the ice and what's even cooler, she has the same birthday as me (although seven years my senior.)

In my eyes, Michelle Kwan was robbed of a gold medal twice, first by nose-job Lipinski (who eventually got one, I believe) in '98 and later on in Utah, by two skaters whose names are escaping me now. I actually cried during that second Olympics. I couldn't believe that Michelle had only come away with the bronze. And what was worse - the number that she skated to AFTER the competition was over (all of the skaters performed a number for the crowd after the ceremonies were done) was Sting's "Fields of Gold," decked out in a sheer shiny gold dress, a hint of a tear in the corner of each eye. Even she knew that she should have won that year.

Let's face it - winning the gold medal for your sport in any other competition except the Olympics is like winning an acting award in any other category except the Oscars. Simply put, it just doesn't matter. If you haven't achieved your life's goal, which was to get to the Olympics and be awarded the highest honor for your years of sacrifice and dedication and ultimately, your unconditional love for the sport, you haven't achieved your nirvana. Your ecstasy. Your final satisfaction and your free pass to retire in happiness. It doesn't matter how great you may be - without that medal, you suffer internally, forever, the doubts of what your years of practice and patience were worth. And you always wonder why you weren't good enough.

I wouldn't be saying this right now if Michelle's face hadn't said it for her during the 2002 Olympic games. Although she stood up there, at a lower altitude than the other two performers on the podium, she looked numb. And disappointed. I don't blame the poor girl. And since Michelle, I have never gotten close to any other female figure skater. The heartbreak is just too much.

::Cue the sobs::

Nam

"Sometimes I want to eat this place. Vietnam. I want to swallow the whole country - the dirt, the death - I just want to eat it and have it there inside me. That's how I feel. It's like . . . this appetite. I get scared sometimes - lots of times - but it's not bad. You know? I feel close to myself. When I'm out there at night, I feel close to my own body, I can feel my blood moving, my skin and my fingernails, everything, it's like I'm full of electricity and I'm glowing in the dark - I'm on fire almost - I'm burning away into nothing - but it doesn't matter because I know exactly who I am. You can't feel like that anywhere else." - Tim O'Brien, The Things They Carried

Johnny Gets Gipped

Sitting in what's known as the "kiss-and-cry" station after his superb Long Program performance, with a crown of red roses perched on top of his head, Johnny Weir sat next to Galina, his Russian coach, and waited patiently for his scores. When they came, they were jaw-dropping, but not in a good way. He had placed fifth, with Evgeni Plushenko, two-time Russian Olympic medalist, yet to skate. So in actuality, Johnny would finish sixth in the 2010 Vancouver Winter Olympics. Poor guy didn't even make the podium. And what's worse than all of this? His scores were tailing behind those of two men, Stephane Lambiel from France and Daisuke Takahashi from Japan, who had each fallen once during their own Long Program performances. But Johnny had not.

How does a man, who skated an almost-flawless four and a half minutes on ice, come up short-changed like that? Well, politics has a lot to do with it. It's a known fact that most judges don't like Johnny, but no one can really extract the reason why. Is it his flamboyance? His brashness? His feathery costumes? Possibly a combination of all these things and more. But I think it's because Johnny is different, and with difference comes uneasiness, and with uneasiness comes low marks on the score board for Mr. Weir.

Those roses on his head might as well have been thorns. Okay, maybe that's an extreme analogy - but like Jesus, Johnny was wronged. More than wronged. He was robbed of a bronze medal. Sure, he was never going to win the gold, which, by the way, wasalso stolen from Evgeni Plushenko by American Evan Lysacek, whose outfit kept reminding me of Mugatu's, the fashion designer played by Will Ferrell in Zoolander. With a silver sequined serpent adorning the neckline of Mr. Lysacek's costume, I couldn't help but notice how intense and stiff this guy was - how incredibly unlike Johnny. So naturally, I don't like him.

Still, I'll give it to the guy - his performance was outstanding. However, he did not attempt a quadruple axle. Plushenko did, and landed it. Both men were as close to perfection as any male figure skater could hope to be. But as Plushenko's score lit up, so did Lysacek's eyes - he had won! Even Evan didn't believe it. Right before he hugged one of his family members, he belted out the words "Nooo way!", in obvious awe of the results - most likely because he knew he didn't deserve it.

Yes, I'm bitter. My favorite skater came away from this year's Olympic games empty-handed. But I should probably bite my tongue here, because even after hearing the news of his placement, Johnny was still smiling. The kid skated his heart out - the best performance of his career to date. As he held his head in his hands, kneeling on the ice for the last time ever as an Olympian, you felt happy for him. And even if he didn't win a medal, he has certainly won the hearts of many a fan across the globe, including my own.

And The Flying Tomato Wins The Gold!

Honestly, did you really think he wouldn't? The guy is dynamite when his feet are strapped to a snowboard. Makes me wonder if he was born with one attached to his feet. I must confess, I know very little about the sport of snowboarding, let alone about the kind of internal balance and patience one must possess in order to stay on a snowboard. But after last night's jaw-dropping, gravity-defining program, I do know one thing for sure: no one else's performance in that competition even compared to Shaun White's precedent-setting spectacle.

After his first run, when he had soared higher and more gracefully than the rest of his fellow competitors, Shaun White had already won the gold. You knew that he knew it, too. That big goofy grin spoke for itself when he triumphantly completed his first run, jumping up and down like a giddy schoolboy. Logistically, he could have taken it easy during his second run. But after consulting with his coach about whether or not to pull out the big guns, his coach simply said, "Don't do this unless you're going to stomp it."

And stomp it he did. Shaun White's Double McTwist 1260 might sound like some kind of Big Mac on steroids, but really, it is so much more: it is a trick that has re-defined the sport of snowboarding, all because one kid had the guts to pull it off, even when it wasn't necessary for him to do so. And that, ladies and gentleman, was a stunt that is all things Olympic: record-setting, gravity-defining and above all, absolutely beautiful.

True, this February has brought us Americans many a bountiful entertainment gift - the Saints triumph at the Superbowl, the awesome Vancouver Olympics, a brand new season of "16 and Pregnant." But in my opinion, this month is torturous and elongated, despite its curtailed twenty-eight day calendar. February is way too close to spring, yet so far removed from it. Funny how the shortest month of the year is feeling like the longest...

So how can we, fellow summer-supporters and beach-lovin' folks of the world, get through these darkest and dreariest of days? Well, I recently google'd the phrase"beat the winter blues" and what did I find? Stuff that my doctor's been telling me to do all my life: eat healthy, exercise, avoid binge drinking (sorry about that last one, Doc!) But most people don't follow these overly-obvious instructions. Most people sit down on the couch with a pack of Oreos, channel surf until their fingertips hurt and maybe glance once or twice at their folded-up treadmill, mocking them from across the room, sporting a fine layer of dust on its metal handle bars.

One thing I did recently to battle my own blues was sign up for two adult education classes, which start in a couple of weeks. One is Italian Cooking. The other is Pilates for Beginners. So now, I can learn how to make fattening, delicious meals on Mondays and work off those calories I consumed on Wednesdays. Move over, Giada de Laurentiis - soon enough, I'll be able to cook as good as you AND look just as good as you...maybe ;-)

Here Comes JOHNNY!

If heterosexual men had difficulty sitting through figure skating (or, even more sexuality-defining, MEN'S SINGLES) before Johnny Weir came into play, I can only imagine the distance they must keep now between themselves and their blaring television sets while this perky little performer struts his stuff on the big screen.

What can one say about Johnny Weir? Well, one word definitely comes to mind: unconventional. Interesting is an understatement; flamboyant is an insult. During tonight's short program, in his tight, open-chested black ensemble, with three pink straps stretching across his bare, skinny midsection, Johnny gave an awesome performance, as always - but he only came in sixth place. The judges are harsh on him, more so than on others, in my opinion. Not because he isn't good. He's phenomenal. But even when he gives a stellar performance, it's always short of transitions, which are Johnny's weakness.

Personally, I think Johnny has too much personality and vigor for stiff Olympic standards. His executions are always beautiful, but the level of difficulty in his programs are just not up to par with his competitors. He does, however, put on one hell of a show for us spectators, which is, after all, what Johnny Weir does best.

Calling All Harry Potheads!

Hooray! I always knew this day would come! (Or, rather pathetically, always secretly hoped it would!)

Universal Studios in Orlando, Florida has created ::cue the eerie theme music:: the WIZARDING WORLD OF HARRY POTTER, scheduled for its glorious opening this spring! Zonko's joke shop, Honeydukes homewade sweets and the Three Brooksticks pub are among the actual, TANGIBLE landmarks one can visit if they so happen to step foot inside this most magical of theme parks.

I won't be surprised if, on opening day, the Orlando Sentinel reads, "Boy, 8-years-old, Dies of Asphyxiation at Wizarding World Entrance."I'm not saying here that I want this to happen - I'm just saying that it MIGHT!

Now, before you trod off, poking fun at my child-like delight here, know this: YES, I am a twenty-two-year old self-proclaimed lover of all things Harry Potter. NO, I won't push kids over in line to get to the Dragon Challenge (which is actually a roller coaster) or to buy myself a Sneakoscope at Dervish and Banges magical goodies store. I might, however, have one too many Butterbeers at the Three Broomsticks, and then, well...I won't be held accountable for my actions.

(Note: "Butterbeer" is actually a non-alcoholic hot beverage that Harry and his buddies consume during many a late-night out in Hogsmeade. Or, more precisely, it is a made up drink by J.K. Rowling. Hahaha.)