"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.)