Well, I have been doing as I please, once I am able to drag myself out of bed.  I think I have sleep addiction.  Do they have rehab for that?  They should.  They have rehab for everything else.  And I have been dedicating my time to artistic pursuits, if one thinks of computer Mahjongg as an art.  Hey, the tiles have pretty pictures on them.  My winning percentage is up to 89% now.  How’s that for pursuit?  I have also perfected the art of drawing Edgar Allan Poe as a cartoon.  I can check those two artistic aspirations off the list. 

He mocks me.

In addition, I am finding that writing the Great American Novel (hereafter referred to as GAN) is not as simple as you might think.  My most recent Poe cartoon has pointed out, rather rudely, that if I got off of Facebook and actually started, I might have a chance of finishing, as the GAN will  not write itself.  What does he know, anyway?  Man only wrote one book throughout his life. 

I need real friends.

See, what I have is not a novel.  It’s not even the beginnings of one.  I have a Microsoft Word Document titled “who knows,” in which I keep any snippets of dialogue or imaginary scenes that pop into my head.  It’s the junk drawer of my literary aspirations, emphasis on the “junk.”  An MSDoc of witty oneliners and madeup dialogues does not a novel make.  There’s no structure, no form.  Or characters.  Or plot.  Or theme.  Just words.  Maybe I’ll just moosh them all together and market it as postmodern.  Very, very postmodern.  You all interpret it.  Just remember, if you come up with any overarching idea, it’s very likely incorrect. 

In other news, grades have come in, and I am happy to report that I treated this semester like the Russians treated the Light Brigade.  If that reference confuses you, we cannot be friends.  Anyway, I’m still in a state of shock, given how ugly and horrific this semester has been; it’s been a cross between Antietam and Napoleon’s Russian Campaign, to add a few more ingredients to this History Channel casserole.  It’s funny to think, “I have no more responsibilities for these classes.  There is no way I can screw things up anymore”  Until mid-January, of course, when I will have to put of the GAN and cartoon Poe for real academic pursuits.  Well, cartoon Poe might come back with me.  He is insightful.

I’m off to find pictures of Nathaniel Hawthorne.  Poe needs a buddy.

-b.

I am an unapologetic Christmas Freak.  I am that person who sings Christmas songs in the grocery store, the one you want to strangle because they’re going through all fourteen verses of “Grandma Got Run Over By a Reindeer” while standing in front of the jam selection.  I am that person who really does answer the phone like Buddy the Elf (“What’s your favorite color?”), who walks around in a sort of tinsel-draped haze, spurred on by massive consumption of Christmas goodies and eggnog.  I am every sane person’s worst nightmare during this season, and you know what?

I don’t care.

I would not describe myself as a wide-eyed optimist by any means, but I do believe in the spirit of Christmas.  For thh month of December, my normal pessimism is magically transformed into peppermint-flavored joy.  For the month of December, I DO believe in Santa Claus, thank you very much.  I also believe in goodwill towards men, women, children and various furry creatures.  At the age of 21, I still always believe that I will see a white Christmas - a rare occurance in North Carolina, let me say. 

Now, while I do appreciate the religious holiday, that’s not really the “Christmas” I am speaking of.  The holiday season transcends religious, racial, and cultural institutions, as well as the commercialization of December 25th.  There is something about this season, a sort of crackling in the air, a feeling of possibility in the ringing in of the New Year. 

I believe in Christmas, and the world can’t do nothin’ about it.  So there.

Friends, citizens…America.  I come to you with a problem that we must solve NOW.  If we do not guard this aspect of our culture, we can never get it back.  We are on the cusp of losing something vital to the survival of culture, of life, of poofy hats and lutes.

That’s right.  I’m talking about the decline of the traveling minstrel.  The wandering bard.  Le troubadour.  When was the last time you saw a man walking down the street, strumming his lute and singing a chanson de geste? 

I imagine it was a while ago.

We all have fond memories of Allan-a-Dale, the folk-singing troubadour chicken from Disney’s Robin Hood.  Now, Allan-a-Dale’s human brethren are on the brink of extinction.  The death of the minstrel indicates a larger death of culture within our commercialized and overfed American society.  These days, street musicians don’t even go anywhere; they just stand there and wait for the money to come to them.  Way to support the poor dietary habits of the American middle class there, guys.  I mean, a chanson de geste simply isn’t the same if it’s not accompanied by a jaunty gait.  Where are people’s standards nowadays? 

And for that matter, who is writing minstrel songs based on current events nowadays?  And before you ask, Bilyl Joel did not write “We Didn’t Start the Fire” to be played on a lute while he strolled through the Village with Brinkley, so that one doesn’t count.  Take this for an example: Obama gets elected in 2008 – MAJOR event, not merely on a national scale – and where, I ask, were the strolling players singing “The Ode of the Caucus” and “Oo-de-lally, Golly What an Election”?  Oh, right, NOWHERE, that’s where.  Simply because we no longer live in hovels and eat roasted pig on a spit, it does not mean that we can’t appreciate a good chanson de geste. 

Do not let this cultural standard remain what is has become today – a sideshow attraction at Renaissance faires, stuck somewhere between the people dressed like Elves and the roast turkey leg booth.  Demand the return of the strolling troubadour.  Wouldn’t it be great to have a minstrel to wander around singing songs of triumph during exam week?  Or to entertain you with dirty songs while you’re in line at the DMV? 

On a side note, the return of troubadours would bring us one step closer to my ultimate, diabolical scheme, which is to turn the country into America! The Musical.  Think of it as a bonus.

We can do this, America!  Remember the Day the Music Died?  Well, we can create the Day the Music Resurrected Itself in Zombie Form for our children and their children!

-b.

Oooh, zombie minstrels…hey, if certain unnamed authors can make a killing out of annoying undead teenagers, then surely this idea will make me richer than Oprah.

The South is a magical land, rich with contradictions and flavored with its own particular culture.  The first mistake that non-Southerners make is often assuming that everyone in the south is a) Republican and/or b) Baptist.  While I have no problem with those Southerners who fit either of those two criteria, the outsider may be surprised to learn that there are almost as many people who fit neither.  I think that the thing that said outsider must remember is that manners trump all.  A truly Southern gentleperson will discuss neither politics nor religion in polite discourse, provided others are genteel enough to follow suit.  Does every Southerner follow this rule?  Of course not, just like every Northerner doesn’t keep his temper during rush hour.  I don’t judge you all by your loud Bostonians, so don’t judge us by our rednecks.

Point the second: Southerner =/= redneck.  Here’s a small lesson, courtesy of Southern Linguistics 101.  Southerner = someone from south of the Mason-Dixon line.  Hillbilly = someone from the mountains who may not be as perlite or sophisticated.  Hick = a hillbilly at a lower elevation.  Redneck = the obnoxious person who makes all Southerners look bad.

All right.  Now that I have dealt with the unpleasantries, here are some of the wonderful things about the South.  To begin: the wondrous contradictions.

Where else would you find a Chinese place next to a BBQ joint?  And, for the record, barbecue is a noun which refers to pulled pork (some people like beef; I don’t judge them to their faces.) with a delicious sauce.  The verb is “cookout.”    You also have art, learning, and sophistication living side-by-side with 4-wheelin,’ huntin,’ and rasslin.’  Don’t believe me?  Visit the western part of NC.  In the South, a fancy dinner can include fine wine, lamb, and…homemade mac ‘n’ cheese.  Pecan pie, too.

In the South, people can shake their heads at the folly of their Confederate ancestors while still taking pride in their heritage.  A business meeting can take place on a porch over tall glasses of sweet tea.  Even the most bohemian of artists drink the stuff around here.  College students, filled with fervor and the need to make changes in the world, still find comfort in the familiar foods, traditions, and, of course, Johnny Cash.  Speaking of music, the South is responsible for Ella Fitzgerald, Elvis, Johnny and June, country, jazz, blues, zydeco, bluegrass, folk and rock n’ roll.  Take that. 

See?  Contrary to popular beliefs, the South is more than a repository for obnoxiousy provincial public figures.  God bless Dixie.

-b.

Dear Peasants,

I’m on my last week here at Christmount as a member of the Summer Staff.  I can’t believe my two summers here are almost done and over with, especially this past summer, which has flown by.  Overall, I’d say this past summer might have been the greatest summer of my life.  That’s not to say it’s all been puppies and daisies: I’ve been more exhausted and emotionally bankrupt than any other time I can think of.  But I DID IT.  I made it through this past year, which was hardly a walk in the park, and  I made it through this summer.  I’ve actually learned a lot about myself, which is good, and even more about other people, which is better.  I’ve learned that sometimes people you love do really stupid things.  You love them anyway.  Unless they kick puppies or eat brains, activities which are less along the lines of ‘stupid,’ and more along the lines of ‘creepy.’  I have also learned that I am totally capable of doing anything, and that I am, in fact, too good for all the nonsense people can put others through.  I’ve been meaner this summer,  but that’s an unfortunate (?) consequence of getting old.  I’ve begun to believe in the no-win scenario, and have also begun to learn to live with said scenario. 

Hmm…well that’s less humorous and clever than I had hoped.  Whatever.  I’m annoyed right now.  More stuff later. 

Maybe.

-b

-b.

En route from Frankfurt to Venice

I’ll admit it: I was pretty antsy the last few days before we left (read: psycho and paranoid).  To those of you who were exposed to my insanity, I have only this to say: you might want to get that looked at.  And use protection.

The part of the trip that I was least enthusiastic about was the actual “traveling” part.  I have been on a plane or a bus for the last…18 hours?  It’s impossible to tell with these blasted time zones.  The crossing was particularly difficult.  By the end of it, the five people on my row had decided that all travel was evil and that they planned on staying put after this (this was partly due to the face that no one could feel their legs after hour four or the trans-Atlantic flight, so walking would be deuced difficult.  However, once we stepped foot in the Frankfurt airport (rather unsteadily, I will admit), everything changed.  I suppose that flying in an airplane is much like giving birth.  It’s inconvenient, to say the lease.  Painful, even.  But when you see what it was all for, you forget how much grief it was until you do it again, and by the time you remember, it’s too late and you are out of luck. 

But I digress.  The flight was…trying.  However, the flight crew made it all the better.  I think I love Lufthansa.  Clean planes, friendly people, adn they serve good German apple juice – none of that supersweetened nonsense you get in the States.  The crew tend to be attractive in a good, clean, Teutonic kind of way.  It’s like taking a trip with Heidi and Rolf from The Sound of Music, before he bacame a you-know-what (it’s okay, though, because we know he’ll never be one of them).  Over the course of the 8-hour Atlantic crossing, I was struck by a passionate love for the bald flight attendent who was in charge of our part of the plane.  I didn’t catch his  name, but I hoped it was Dieter.  He certainly looked like a Dieter, with the sort of strong, Germanic features one would find on the missing member of Kraftwerk, only less creepy.  I had hoped that, perhaps, if I wooed him with my feminine wiles and considerable charm, he would become enamored of me and we would run away to have lots of little Kraftwerkian (totally a word now) babies.  We’d live in Dusseldorf, where we would drink good German apple juice and chill with our mutual friend, whose name would be Rolf, of course.

Alas, my somewhat limited knowledge of the German language meant that I was unable to express my true feelings to Dieter (whose name is assuredly not Dieter).  I did say “danke schon” in horribly accented German when he brought me my dinner (another thing to love about Lufthansa: the food), after which he smiled and said something in German and I made an awkward face.  Ah, Dieter.  Destiny, linguistics, and the needy woman in seat 34-D conspire to keep us apart.

Ater getting off that flight in Frankfurt, I shed a silent tear as I bade my Dieter “Auf wiedersehen” and boarded a second plane, bound for Venetia.  I’m writing this entry from that plane, after switching my seat to allow a rather intense Russian couple to sit together.  He’s a photographer of some sort, and she’s leafing rather apathetically through what appears to be Russian Vogue.  I’m attempting to be discreet in my observation of them, so as to not seem like a creeper, but I can’t help it.  They’re just so angular and harsh – the epitome of Slavic chic.  Think Sex and the City meets Anna Karenina, with a hint of 99 Luftballons (the combat boots) and something of the Baryshnikov in his face.  Far too cool for the likes of me.

Oh, Europe.  To quote Little Orphan Annie, “I think I’m going to like it here.”

Next up: Venice!  The city of Titian, Casanova, gondolas, and very soggy people!

-B

P.S.  Oh hot damn, they just brought out the Mini-Linzerkipferl.  I’ve never had a regular Linzerkipferl, but I bet the mini ones are even better because they are so very small.

P.P.S.  They are, in fact, quite delicious, if rather crumbly, cookie things with jam in the middle.  I have spilled mini-mini-Linzerkipferl crumbly bits on my shirt, and I am sure that I look quite intelligent and worldly to the nice (and cute) Italian guy sitting next to me.  Awesome.

-B.

Being a detailed account of my first foray abroad.

March 5-13, 2009.

Well, here it is.  I’m going abroad to see the world.  And I’m not bringing my beloved Lappy (who is currently being loved on by Olivia), so this notebook will be my proverbial Lappy.  That’s right.  The Blug has gone Old School.

Over the next couple of days, I promise to type up my travel memoirs from the semester.  I kept a journal of my recent trip abroad (how very Grand Tour of me), full of sage observations (HAH!).  They could be a laugh.  Who knows?

-B.