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June 30, 2006
Trouble with Zod
A very nice blogger whose opinion I appreciate vented that he finds bloggers mocking his faith by using Zod. As an occasional writer of Zod, I felt that I had to explain myself.
As a casual Zod-quoter, I never really thought it could be considered offensive. I like the ring of it, plus it reminds me of the improbable Kryptonian who wanted to be worshiped. Personally, I think a god should have a hot leather suit and sardonic facial hair, and battle it out with superheroes at the north pole.
I was raised Christian and am now agnostic (leaning towards atheist), yet I still respect the basic tenets, and I know them better than Congressman Westmoreland (one of the authors of a bill requiring the ten commandments to be on government buildings). I definitely don't take the Lord's name in vain, even though it is socially acceptable to do that (especially in the middle of an orgasm). Technically, most other cultures could find it offensive when someone in the Judeo-Christian faith asks their God to bless them after a sneeze. Usendroy, as a practicing Jew, finds it offensive that I use Zod. However, more conservative Jews would be offended that he writes down God, as there are specific Jewish laws about that.
Since I no longer believe in an organized god, I prefer to call mine Zod, because when I'm casting my questions into the heavens, I'm not talking to a Jewish/Christian god. If I still continued to use "God bless you" or "God bless," I would be taking the Lord's name in vain, as I no longer believe in the Lord.
For people who get bothered by anyone of a different faith/No faith being disrespectful to their specific deity, I would say that it is part of faith. Eric of We Like Sheep summarizes quite nicely about people sensitive about their faith:
....The fact that Christianity in the West is subject to criticism, skepticism, ridicule, and scorn is a very good thing. The varieties of Christianity that expose themselves to intense scrutiny and debate are, I believe, the strongest and most able to endure social, economic, scientific, and technological changes. In the short run, however, the anti-rational and literalist forms of Christianity are thriving, because they provide the kind of certainties that people want to hold onto in the midst of the chaos of their lives. But a faith based on such fragile foundations as the literal truth of the Bible can easily crumble. (Ask someone who believes that the Bible is the literal word of God who killed Goliath, or in what order God created humans and animals, or whether the Last Supper took place before or during Passover. Although Evangelical literalists always answer these things away by saying that they aren't important, to which I always ask, didn't you decide these are unimportant BECAUSE they are contradictions?)
Islam has been subjected to so little criticism that modern Muslims, even those who consider themselves to be liberal, are often shocked and offended by even the mildest anti-Muslim statements. I once had a Muslim acquaintance get visibly upset when I explained that Christianity teaches that Jesus is the Son of God. "The Koran clearly states that God has no son!" he snapped. This was a gay Muslim living in New York, but he was offended just by hearing one of the tenants of Christianity. I think that the violence prevalent in fundamentalist Islam is fueled by the fact that the core beliefs of Islam are seldom challenged or questioned in public. I don't think that Evangelical Christians are really too upset anymore when they see t-shirts like "Jesus is coming: look busy!", and mocking Christianity and the Church is pretty well accepted (although mean-spirited attacks on the figure of Jesus are pretty uncommon). Of course there are calls for boycotts and the like when something offends Evangelicals or the Roman Church, but death threats are relatively rare. Death threats from offended Muslims, however, have come to be expected when someone challenges Muslim orthodoxy (and this happens in Muslim countries; this is not just a matter of Islam's minority status in the West). The fact that the gay playwright Terrence McNally was threatened with death by Muslims for a play about Jesus shows that Muslim intolerance should be a concern for everyone who cares about living in an open society.
"Islam is perfect because the Koran says it is" is equivalent to "The Bible is the literal word of God because it says so in the Bible"...both of these concepts need to be challenged as often as possible. Laws in Europe to criminalize criticism of religion, proposed out of a misguided concern for sensitivity, are extremely dangerous, especially to those of us who might be threatened by the teachings of religion. All religions can be respected, but they should also be challenged.
The Very Reverend Alan Jones, Dean of Grace Cathedral in San Francisco (where I was baptized and confirmed), wrote "The opposite of faith is not doubt; the opposite of faith is certainty." We all need to challenge the certainty of the religious extremists, if we value living in a society where doubt is allowed. And the fervently religious should remember that even Thomas was eventually made a saint.
Posted by G at 04:52 PM | Comments (10) | TrackBack
June 28, 2006
My type of South Beach diet
I am serious about the salad, and the pie sounds perfect for me.
Posted by G at 08:44 PM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
June 27, 2006
Not quite one day left
One day left until the last kids flee the building. Since I stupidly agreed to work as the math coach during the summer, I will only have the long weekend before I see quite a few of the kids again for another 6 weeks.
Stupid, stupid man. How did I choose this?
Oh yeah. Guilt for leaving my school, feeling like I'm abandoning children. Guilt is even worse than the triple dog dare.
Well, I guess weekends will be important. Now who wants to go on some weekend trips?
Posted by G at 07:59 PM | Comments (8) | TrackBack
Shame
I've been mulling about Pride and being a gay man since I read Joe's post a few weeks back. Lots and lots of mulling.
I remember my first Pride. I was in London, I came out to my sister. She basically said "Wonderful! Did you know it's Pride? You should go!" I went, I saw the gogo boys, I hooked up with my Scottish boyfriend in the parade, and we proceeded to compare uncut vs. cut.
Since reading Joe's post, I wasn't really thinking about the parade itself. A bunch of go-go boys on a beer float don't exactly inspire me. I was thinking more about being Proud of myself as a gay man.
Being a gay teacher is a tough thing, especially in a middle school in Harlem. The absolute worst attack words the kids use are 'faggot' and 'maricon'(sp?), and they are used constantly. However, when so many other things are going wrong in the building, cursing and homophobia just seem trivial.
I think the low point for me was the fight I broke up recently between a couple of boys. They were seriously slugging it out in a room, there were no security, and the teacher had no control of her class. I charged in with a voice of thunder and told the boys that they needed to take their dating outside. They immediately stopped fighting, the other kids laughed at them, and I escorted them out. I actually used homophobia to break up a fight, as getting into the middle of the fray is dangerous, and the boys in my school would rather be dead than be a faggot.
So I'm part of the patriarchy, reinforcing homophobia, traumatizing some little closeted kid in the room. The kid who used to be me. Sick, huh?
I didn't go to Pride. I wasn't keen about the rain, I wasn't keen about the crowds, and I've been really feeling sick for the last week because of a medical treatment. It doesn't help that my internal Pride Parade gets rained on every day in my building, and that I am ashamed of some of my choices in my school.
I'm burned out by my school, morally, emotionally, and physically. It is tough to go there day after day, and I still have to teach summer school. Since I was leaving them in a tough position, I guiltily agreed to continue in the coaching position through the summer. I guess it will give me time to think of a different way to break up fights.
***Update***
As is often the way of words with me, I would like to clarify one thing about Pride parades. They are necessary and good. I wish I had gone, as my personal life seems to have too many compromises. My shame is for not speaking out more in my school. My shame is for not being a proud gay man.
Everyone needs to see that in spite of being mugged in NYC, legislated against in most states, and despised in Jeebusland, we are still going to have our drag, our fetishwear, and our personal rights. Now where the frack is my feather boa?
Posted by G at 06:16 PM | Comments (12) | TrackBack
June 20, 2006
I might just kill for some decent pizza
It was already a long day. The school is hotter than a convection oven, the kids are done, and everyone is on a short fuse. I was really looking forward to getting some decent pizza when I got home.
Oops. I live in Harlem! It is not possible to get good pizza in Harlem. The places close to our apartment just don't have good pizza. I just tried a pizza place on Broadway for delivery. Here's my five minute phone conversation call tonight:
Glenn: Hi. Do you deliver to Blank Street and Blank Place?
Deaf idiot pizza person: What?
Glenn: I live at Blank Street and Blank Place. Do you deliver?
Deaf idiot pizza person: What?
Glenn: (mentally bludgeoning man with phone, shoving phone through man's ass up to his inner ear canal to improve his hearing) I want to order a pizza. Do you deliver to Blank Place?
Deaf idiot pizza person: Yes. You want pizza?
Glenn: Yes! I want two pizzas. You have a garlic pizza on the menu. Is it garlic AND cheese?
Deaf idiot pizza person: What? You want a garlic pizza?
Glenn: No, WHAT ELSE is on the garlic pizza?
Deaf idiot pizza person: You want a garlic pizza?
Glenn: (grinding teeth, feeling rage building) Yes. Yes, I want a medium garlic pizza, a medium cheese pizza, and an order of garlic knots.
Deaf idiot pizza person: You want two cheese pizzas?
Glenn: (shouting into phone, reliving old sketch comedy of ordering large orange drink) No! I want ONE cheese pizza, ONE garlic pizza, and ONE order of garlic knots!
Deaf idiot pizza person: You want cheese on the garlic pizza?
Glenn: (barely restraining a shriek) Yes, I want cheese on the garlic pizza.
Deaf idiot pizza person: Okay, okay, we'll see you soon....
Glenn: Wait! You need my address!
Deaf idiot pizza person: Oh yeah! What's the address?
Glenn: Gives address.
Deaf idiot pizza person: Repeats totally wrong address.
Glenn: Gives address, spelling out, so clearly enunciating that even Helen Keller would have understood.
Deaf idiot pizza person: Totally wrong address, again.
Glenn: Okay. Here is my address again. Breaks down number.
Deaf idiot pizza person: Okay, okay, right. Got it. We'll get it to you.
Glenn: Are you sure you have it right?
Deaf idiot pizza person: Blurgy bumblyglurble.
It arrived after an hour. It was actually good. Now I just have to figure out how to make ordering easier.
Posted by G at 06:15 PM | Comments (14) | TrackBack
June 19, 2006
Happy clouds and men in leather
Saturday:
I did this with friends. I entered alone into Central Park, joining with approximately 150 other people, all wearing headphones and mp3 players. After a slight delay, our MP3 Experiment III host floated towards us. That is not cellulite.
The experiment consisted of an MP3 track that all of us were listening to individually but experiencing as a group. We had to play a weird game of Simon Says and then follow our guide on a search for Steve. Who was Steve?
Steve was a holy being who decides who will be element of the year. Would it be our darling but single cloud, another group's snowflake, raindrop, or sun? It came down to all of us converging upon some rather panicked park people, who suddenly had an elemental wrestling match going on.
Sadly, my elemental was the first to fall, followed by the snowflake, then the raindrop, leaving the victorious chicken-legged sun. All four groups numbered around 500-600 people, cheering this on, finishing with a giant conga line. I opted not to touch the gross sweaty back of the large man in front of me, but otherwise thought it was grand.
Tomorrow I'll talk about Folsom.
Posted by G at 10:15 PM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
June 17, 2006
Entertainment
Sean (spelled correctly), one of my fave new reads, keeps me entertained with mama insults, great photos, and stories of loud, drunk women.
He just introduced me to a video that represents the deepest urges of my boyfriend.
Thank you for the morning chuckle/snort.
Posted by G at 10:22 AM | Comments (5) | TrackBack
Who knew?
| You are a Social Liberal (71% permissive) and an... Economic Liberal (16% permissive) You are best described as a:
Link: The Politics Test on Ok Cupid |
Posted by G at 10:03 AM | Comments (3) | TrackBack
June 15, 2006
Dipping and parking
Derrick met up this evening with Matt. I've been feeling sick all week, so I opted out.
This is actually a good thing. Derrick gets to go out on his own, and I get to make my own dinner. Derrick always makes healthy things that go on plates and require utensils. I dipped tiramasalata with bread, followed up with chips with salsa and queso. Yum.
I'm going to the doctor tomorrow afternoon, as I want to be healthy for Saturday. What's on Saturday?
I am really keen on doing this in Central Park. I would love company....
Other things are happening, but I'm wanting to write about those later.
Posted by G at 08:51 PM | Comments (7) | TrackBack
June 13, 2006
This, of course, means I'll live FOREVER.
I only drank coffee when I went back to college in 96. That is where my friend Allen and I became friends, studying at a grungy coffee shop. This is also where I became addicted to coffee, as they had $2.00 bottomless cups of coffee. He and I would study our Russian texts and just hang out.
He just emailed me this article on benefits of coffee. If I can up my drinking of coffee to FIVE cups of coffee a day, I'll be an immortal!
I'll just be a really jumpy immortal who has to pee all the time.
Posted by G at 07:55 PM | Comments (11) | TrackBack
June 12, 2006
Blog'iversary
Officially, I've been blogging for four years today. Of course, in one of my transitions, I lost about 3 months of blog entries, but everyone who knows me knows that I lose things. Let's just call June 12th the start for convenience sake.
The blog is merely an extension of the former tomes I would send to friends and family periodically. I have stuff from back in 1993 saved on my hard drive. I can't open them any more, as the program I created them on doesn't exist, but I know my mom also saved EVERY letter I ever wrote, and I have those now. I miss her terribly, by the way.
Click on the extended entry if you want to read my first massive missive from Peace Corps. Zod, I was SO IDEALISTIC, plus you can find out about diarrhea and the host demon, Azamat.
Hey everyone. Sorry about the long silence. Yes, I am still alive, although living in a second-world country has wreaked havoc with my internal organs. Let's just say that my body has gone through more major illnesses in two weeks than in the last three years. I've lost about fifteen pounds, and look like a poster child for anorexia. If only I could sing as well as Karen Carpenter, I'd be famous.
So leaving Lubbock was one of the hardest things I've done in my life. My friends that came to the airport with me should have seen me once I turned the corner. A huge part of me was shrieking inside, telling me to turn around, go back to my comfortable life, surrounded by familiar places and my friends. Of course, the other voices in my head were telling me to kill everyone, but I've learned to ignore them. Well, most of the time.
As I'm sitting here in my truly bizarre room here in 2nd Otdelenia, Kubrai micro-region, I know I made the right choice, mostly about the Peace Corps, a little about not killing everyone. But back to the trip to Washington. The flight was uneventful, with the exception of a 3 hour delay in Houston, because the big haired ladies apparently lost a part of the aircraft, god bless them. Probably in my food, but I digress. I arrive in Washington, which is a most amazing town. I'm one of the first people to arrive at our hotel, which is about five blocks from the Mall. Of course, customer service isn't this hotel's specialty, as the front desk tells me I need to prepay for the room. I tell them that I'm with the Peace Corps, which doesn't faze them one bit. The guy then takes a ten minute phone call from his girlfriend, who apparently wants him to bring home some groceries. He doesn't want to buy groceries, and a heated discussion erupts. I'm still waiting for my key, as are two other people now. During this time, the bellhop is fishing around for boogers so intently I could swear he is touching the pleasure center of his brain. Finally the front desk guy resolves the food issue by apparently agreeing to bring home chicken. We are all ecstatic. The room is fine, the bellhop stops picking his nose long enough to get his tip.
I orient myself from a map, and head down to the white house, etc. D.C. is designed like Paris, if I recall. It's an amazing place, with everyone playing sports, walking around. People are playing soccer in front of the White House, children are buying ice cream, I'm developing a very sweaty smell from the humidity and walking everywhere. I was really moved at the Lincoln Memorial, as I've wanted to go there since I was a kid. You just feel so solemn, and his statue haunts you. The Vietnam memorial is also moving, as is the Korean War memorial, but Lincoln was the high point for me. After a few hours, I was feeling a mite peckish, so I went back to the hotel, where I met my roommate, Kevin Y, from California. It's a bit odd, as he also has a shaved head, and also has a very odd sense of humor. We hit it off immediately, and went down to the hotel bar for some drinks, and to meet some of the other trainees. Quick note, I'm not a volunteer until sworn in October 27, after successfully completing training. Peace Corps is really into acronyms, and I'm known as a PCT. After that, I'm a volunteer, called a PCV. There are also ET's, AS's, CD's, and all sorts of other great people who happen to be acronyms. So we meet a few others, including Allison from Houston, TX. I'm at my most smarmily charming, coaxing people to our table. One girl is so excited to meet me, as apparently we have been chatting via email. I have NO idea who she is, but she is like 'you're the Glenn from Texas, right?'. Well, I am, but I still have no idea who this girl is, and why she wants to sing with me. Later on, the OtherGlen shows up, a fellow my age, from Dallas. So yes, there are two Texas Glen(n)'s . We all go out to eat, finding a place around midnight, with very expensive burgers. This group is a fairly diverse group, and not quite what I expected. Apparently there is a movie called Volunteers that has a bunch of hippies singing Kumbayah. There are a few of those, especially this one girl whose name I have yet to pronounce correctly, She, like all of her clothing, flows about. I call her Swirlie. But for the most part, we have a group of lucid individuals, fairly intelligent, all enjoyable. My extended family now includes Kevin, Michala, Heidi, Josie, Allison, Rannell, and others are being added daily.
So the next day is filled with Peace Corps stuff, but Kevin and I slip away and see the Holocaust museum. For those of you who are still wondering why I'm doing the Peace Corps, go to this museum. It was gutwrenching to see how a world refused to help as people were slaughtered, but inspiring to see how individuals saved thousands. I want to be one of those people who makes a difference. I know I'm not going to change the world, but I'd like to try, as corny as that sounds. I have a feeling that I'll be changed by this trip, at least as far as my internal organs are concerned. So we return to the hotel for the Peace Corps orientation, and I even get to meet the head of Peace Corps, and yes, I've already forgotten his name. Let's just say that the Peace Corps has two types of employees in the US: flower children, or Fox Mulder wanna-be's. One of our desk officers is cool, the other is an absolute dork. I'm talking the highest dork levels I've seen since skating in the 70's. Orientation is boring, but they offer free food, etc., so it is all good for me. We have one night out as a group, going to a brewery close by, and I meet the rest of the group. Sixty six of us, ranging from a guy named Ashraf who is 64 to Debbie, who is 21. The average age is about 24. Pretty much they all go to bed, bless the young un's. I go clubbing, and might I say that D.C. has some very interesting clubs, especially compared to little old Lubbock.
I had my last espresso drink two hours before we left for the airport. It was tasty, and very symbolic. It wasn't made by myself, but it was still good. I take off my earrings, as they are frowned upon in Uzbekistan. My bags are packed, stuffed abnormally full actually. I might even say bloated and incredibly heavy, making the veins in my head pop up like little map trails. One guy apparently chickens out before we leave. It's an ominous sign, but I'm fine with it, as his name is Glenn, and there is already enough confusion there. The flight is uneventful, but we did get to stop in Frankfurt, where we had a grand time leaving the airport, buying train tickets for the metro, and wandering about the downtown area. No, I didn't buy any liederhosen (sp?). No scary rug rats sit next to me on either flight, so no premature murders, either.
The first week, we are at the Uzbek equivalent of a health spa. The area, although a desert, is heavily irrigated from two major rivers, so there are trees and flowers everywhere. They use an elaborate canal system throughout the entire area, and the sound of running water is never far away here. We have great food, boiled water, and showers downstairs. We're on the 5th floor, and the elevators don't really work. One girl was trapped for an hour when it broke down. I just think of it as an incentive to build up my leg muscles in preparation for the turkish toilets. More on turkish toilets later. Just so everyone knows, this country is an oven. I feel like a EZ Bake cake every time I walk around. I've been here for three weeks, and I'm adapting, but my skull melon is very sunburned. My roommate again is Kevin, and we're getting to be pretty close friends. He has a hard time with the fact that we can't flush toilet paper down the toilet. You have to put it in the wastebasket. He develops an elaborate system of multiple wrappings that rivals those notes from girls that you would get in junior high. I'm just amused, especially after using the local paper, which is basically that crepe paper one uses for parties. So now everyone knows, when in a poop emergency, party hardy in Uzbekistan.
I really like the local food. The main staple is called osh, which is a tasty dish made with rice, carrots, and other bean-ish thingies, plus the occasional rock. Bite softly. We have loads of fresh fruit and veggies, bread called naan, and the only coffee is Nescafe. I drink the tea, obviously. Snob! Apparently I also contracted a flu, as I pass out at the post office and have to be taken back to the hotel. It could also be that I took some decongestants, didn't read the directions, and doubled the dose. I have a 103 degree temp, and sleep for a few days. They give us some very basic communications. Hello, my name is, how are you, our socio-economic model does not compare well with yours, please stop humping my leg, etc. They show us the major cultural mistakes, such as the fact that 'um' means 'vagina' in their language. Um, how many times do I, um, say 'um'? Um, um, um, um, um. Time to wash out my filthy mouth with soap. So without much ado, we our sent to our first host families, where we will live for the first six weeks, training, learning the language, contracting girardia. After that, we are sworn in as volunteers, and sent to the site where we will spend two years.
My family arrives. Irgali (dad, 45), Zhamila (mom, 43), Baikodir (son, 20), Fatima (daughter, 17), Botir (son, 15), and holy evil terror Azamat (wicked evil holy terror brat, son of eldest daughter Yulduz, 3) pick me up in a Soviet pickup. I think it must be from the fifties. For the people that saw the pic on the website of me in a scary truck, that's the one. Apparently it is only twenty years old, but it still has a handcrank on the front. Because we don't have room, they make Botir walk. Later I realize it was about 15 miles, so I'm a feeling a bit guilty when he shows up five hours later. Glad I'm the guest. Guests and the table are hugely important and elaborate concepts in this country. Bread is considered sacred. I can sympathize, as I have worshiped at the coffee altar myself. I digress again, and onto one of my favorite topics. I seem to do that a lot here. Talk about coffee, dream about coffee, keep making faux-coffee beans with dirt, grind the faux-coffee, brew the faux-coffee-grinds, then drink it. I think it probably tastes like the Nescafe. I'm such a snob. But I digressed again. Oh yeah, guests. You can walk into any house in Uzbekistan, and they will usually serve you tea (choi, as they call it) and naan bread before they can even ask you your name. Theoretically, I could simply wander from house to house, getting fat. And the commands! Ooling! Iching! Utering! Basically, eat! drink! sit! One gets very tired hearing it, as it will be said to you about a million times. I'm serious. You sit there, your mouth is full of food, and the host mom will tell you 'Ooling!'. I think it is how they exhale. We have all quickly learned to pace ourselves, as they will rupture your stomach. A huge mistake is to eat a lot of something early on, as there are ALWAYS more dishes to come, and the Ooling! command is washing over you in wave after wave. Plus these foods are all cooked in cottonseed oil, which is not allowed as a cooking oil in the US. It looks like motor oil, and leaves your body in a most alarming manner. Most of us have become quite open about our digestive systems between friends. 'Good poop today? Yes, pretty good. Yours? Horrific, thanks. Food poisoning, girardia, don't really know. So are you going to the study group this afternoon?, etc'.
Of course I'm bitching. It's a skill I have. The low point for my first few weeks was an appetizer of flu, followed by dehydration, and the main course of food poisoning, barfing up every fifteen minutes for an entire day. You could set your watch by my barf. Even better, I only had a big ziplock bag, which is useful and gross at the same time. Actually, everyone's systems are adapting, and the food is merely different, and in some ways better. Not the cottonseed oil. That's vile stuff, and I don't think my system will ever adapt, especially when everything is drowned in it. We have terrific fresh eggplant, picked from the vine behind my room, and then they drown it in the blasted cottonseed oil. However, one of my six local classmates made a baba ganouge-ish dish, and we all plan on showing it to our host families. We are all very excited, as it has no cottonseed oil, and is actually very tasty. All the other foods.... kick butt. I didn't realized how good fresh stuff is. We have tomatoes, cucumbers, grapes, raspberries (new trick, never eat just one, only a handful. I feel so decadent!), apples, peaches, potatoes, mint, coriander/cilantro, garlic, bell peppers, peanuts, walnuts, and one which is called anor here, which I can't remember the English word for, which has to be good sign for my learning Uzbek. Oops, wandered off again. The table. One sits on rugs, not on pillows, although one can lean on a pillow, but only after the most senior family member has leaned. The table is covered with a cloth that is considered clean, and one shouldn't defile the table, even it is stickier than the devil brat Azamat. Tell me that isn't a devil name. Wandered again. I think I have a harder time focusing without coffee. Mmmm, coffee. Anyway, one should never step over even the edge of the table, nor sit at the corner (the usual soviet 'you'll die' superstition), pray with a knife on the table, or spill bread crumbs.
Oh yeah, bread is very special, and I'm beginning to see the reverence. Never cut it with a knife. Always share it with friends. If you drop a crumb, pick it up, kiss it, and put it back on the table. NEVER throw it away. It is like the most cherished guest at the table. With my family, each meal always has the whole family, even if it makes someone late. It progresses slowly, things are talked about (in Uzbek, so I usually just smile, nod, ignore the occasional Ooling! command), and people just share. I don't feel left out when they switch off Russian, as I really feel like a part of the family. Hell, I vaguely recall staring at my real family as a kid, trying to figure out what alien language they were speaking also. They finally trust me to pour the choi, and I'm even allowed to break the bread. Very exciting stuff.
It's one of the most annoying things in the world, really. I know that I'm an intelligent, capable person. Here, the devil child Azamat can ask for things easier than I can. My Russian is jumping forward, but still just survival oriented. Most comments are simplistic, and I know my grammar is terrible. However, I had a great moment a few days ago, when my host mom Zhamila was trying to tell me something. Well, she was trying to get money from me, because I'm an American and they don't understand that we live on 25 dollars a month here. Yes, 25 buckaroos. It's not as difficult as it sounds. Entertainment consists of looking at the stars, talking with people, and being stared at by EVERY local person. We have to find/cook/buy/kill our own lunch, but all other meals are provided by the host family. Anyway, I figure out that my host mom is passing a kidney stone, my host father has been in prison for the last ten years for assault, and she wants me to give her money. I know all of this sounds bad, but I UNDERSTOOD WHAT SHE WAS SAYING. That is really only the real positive thing about this whole situation, as I will entail in the next letter.
I can say with certainty that one doesn't truly appreciate friends and family until they're gone from your life. I miss everyone terribly and even though I don't regret this choice, I hate not being able to talk with friends that I care about, go get coffee, maybe sit in the jacuzzi I had working for only four days before I left. I'd probably even choose the friends over the coffee, except maybe in the early mornings. If anyone would like to send letters or care packages (hint, hint, REALLY BIG HINT), my mom has address labels, as it is in two different languages.
Posted by G at 07:01 PM | Comments (14) | TrackBack
June 08, 2006
Good stats
So they managed to kill al-Zarqawi in Iraq. Let me see, I'm not so good at math, but one big hit out of at least 38,000 civilian deaths means we have an excellent ratio of terrorist vs. innocents (less than .002632 percent actually).
Good for them! If I were an Iraqi, I would feel SO much better. Pundits are saying that they expect even more violence. Woo!
Posted by G at 07:51 AM | Comments (2) | TrackBack
June 05, 2006
The year of not living dangerously
I don't remember where she got her ideas about food. I just know that eight year old children shouldn't know what salicylates are, yet I knew about salicylates, carob, sodium benzoate, and the detrimental effects of pop tarts (they turned people gay). My mom would always find articles or hear some piece of information that convinced her that her family's heads would turn to pure, unadulterated evil if exposed to sugar, food dyes, or processed foods. I now understand that she was semi-wise; she merely went a little too far.
It started with the canning that filled the back shelves of our haunted basement. We had MILLIONS of jars of beets, green beans, and other earthy things. I only have vague memories of my mom taking all of us out to a farm, paying someone to pick the plants, and mom trying to convince her three bookworms that this was a good thing. The real disaster for her was putting all the canned goods in the basement. We children were naturally reticent to go fetch things from the basement, as my dad loved to lurk under the stairs and terrify us, plus we didn't like beets. Did I mention that my dad deliberately wired the light switch to the basement at the BASE of the stairs? Nothing more terrifying than turning off the light, sprinting towards the light, only to be grabbed at the ankles by the devil/dad. Beets = terror.
We never threw away the vegetables in the basement, even as mom switched to a new fad. The poor Bell jars just stood as abandoned shrines to another failed attempt to keep her family's bodily temples holy. At this new point, everything had to be natural, so all the raw sugar, all chocolate, all white bread, even certain fruits and vegetables were thrown out. I was the geeky, awkward kid who wasn't allowed to eat the cafeteria food, plus my lunches had things like carob and mockaroni.
My mom always denied the fact that, more than anything else in the world, I craved chocolate. My bodily temple was a den of chocolate thievery and prostitution, or so I believed from our cultish church. I love chocolate in all its forms- liquid or solid, dark or milk, flavored or plain. She would buy me carob, or this other horrible substitute I can't remember. The whole time she fought for the purity of our digestive systems, I was using my paper route cash to supply a steady stream of chocolate and weird candy. I hid them in our tree house, which was the safehouse for all things we hid from our mom. When mom went on a music-purification binge because the church said rock was sinful, I hid the record with the song "Love is like Oxygen" and the Star Wars disco soundtrack, not realizing that vinyl melted.
I had my own secret battle against healthy foods, but the battle exploded out of the tree house one evening. Mom had been getting healthier and stranger with her cooking (although straight corn syrup was her choice of sweetener), and then she made a casserole entirely made of seed. Seeds in salad had been okay, seedy bread was tolerable, but suddenly all of us were flapping around a birdfeeder meal. My dad, a man who preferred to avoid the house rather than argue with my mom, finally saw something he couldn't stomach- a meal with no beef. His children were more than happy to join the revolt, and my mom caved in. That night I think we had pizza while my mom cried near her gallon jars of seeds.
She was right, of course. Food is better for you if it is natural. I know this, even though I crave twinkies, pop tarts, and marshmallows. When I went into her basement after the funeral two years ago, I actually found an ancient jar of green beans. I think they were green beans, as the water was murky. They were in the back, next to boxes of my cards I had given to her when I was a kid, near the Christmas decorations, pottery we made one summer, and some of my old toys. Maybe she saved the green beans, just like the other items in the basement, as something she treasured about our childhood. More likely she couldn't reach those shelves, as she couldn't get down the stairs in the end. After all this time, all the memories of my mom mix together, just like the jumble of weird heirlooms of our basement. I miss her, and I sometimes even miss the green beans.
But not the beets.
Posted by G at 09:08 PM | Comments (8) | TrackBack
June 04, 2006
GBNYC Shenanigans
(breasts courtesy of MzOiuser)
I have to say that blog meets are always interesting, because many people write things online that they can't express easily in person. Not me- I like to express myself twenty five hours a day, but I just have a hard time remembering what I did five minutes ago. Being able to know things about someone who is reticent in person is a wonderful icebreaker. I like to introduce people to each other, explaining to them that they are both Lost geeks, they are both terrified of parasitic clowns, or that both of them like making out in public. I then flit away, my social fairy needs satisfied. I also get to satisfy my lust for hot geeks. Yum.
It was great to see so many friends, especially those from a distance, like Scott, MsOuizer, Mark&Brian, Myke, and James. It was also good to see the irregular regulars, plus I've added on some new blogs, especially a secretive man with my wrong name, Atari, my wicked twin,and the super-tasty Sean.
So now my voice is gone again, I've drank too much, and brunched too much.
I know that everyone wants to stop the bloghumping and just get to the damned pictures already, especially my nekkid pics.
Update: Jeff has also put up some cynically optimistic photos.
Posted by G at 01:39 PM | Comments (8) | TrackBack
June 01, 2006
Glenndoori
Some people might call it a place of education, I call it a bloody brick oven. Today it was about 90 degrees Fahrenheit (32 degrees Celsius) in our room. Rather than just bitch about it, I've decided to think of all the benefits:
* I don't have to actually brew coffee, as it will just steep in its own heat. It will also never cool down.
* The suddenly malleable plastic of the Dell desktop allows me to make it Dali'esque. Dare I say Dell-i'esque?
* Children immediately combust if they move too rapidly, so running is its own punishment
* Ice cream almost immediately becomes part of a liquid diet.
* It's like wearing one of those sweatsuits. If I don't drink water AND can remain conscious, I lose pounds in minutes!
* I can become the physical embodiment of a deoderant commercial.
What will be really fun is the first day that the temp outside hits 100.
Posted by G at 08:46 PM | Comments (1) | TrackBack