1) Anonymity.  I have lived most of my adult life in fame; this is the face that people recognize.  I have contributed to the advancement of our history books; my name will far outlive my body.  But let me tell you, this kind of commitment to our country can be exhausting.  People spend their entire lives hoping to be remembered for some deed or contribution to society, but let me tell you, it’s not all that it’s cracked out to be.  How would you like to be remembered as the dude who led that brave but daringly brave but ultimately doomed charge during the pivotal battle of the one and only American Civil War?  That’s what I thought.  Therefore, being an identity thief gives me a nice anonymity; I can be whoever I want to be without people knowing who I am.  I can shed my identity like a chameleon changes colors.  How exciting to live in a state where you can be anyone except yourself.

2) The power.  I would be able to take advantage of whoever I want, and they would have no idea.  I can just as easily rob high school students, the laboring lower-class, or soft-hearted grandmothers who would spend their mother on spoiled grandchildren anyway.  The power is intoxicating; knowing that people’s entire finances are in my hands.  So while I may be Stan Faceless, I still have the ability to destroy everything you have been working towards your entire life.  Tell me you don’t secretly long for that sort of power…

3) Materialism-the motto of America.  Forget ‘e pluribus unum’, ‘I want more stuff’ is now the unofficial motto of the United States.  And as an identity thief, I would be the undisputed master of materialism.  I could buy anything and everything I wanted, without having to do a lick of work.  I would be ‘wealthier’ than Kim Kardashian, and have to work even less than her!!  I would have the most pairs of shoes, my Sally would have the finest jewelry and dresses, and our dogs would slumber upon only the finest dog beds.  And in addition to all my material goods, I would have the most identities.  You are stuck being only Caroline Cantankerous–I can be you, Bobby the Boor, Sour Sue, and a hundred other people, all without having to lift a finger on my manicured hand.

4) Penitentiary? I think not.  And finally, the real reason I would be an identity thief–I would never be caught.  All my purchases would be online and sent to various postal boxes across the country, so I would never be caught.  I can lie, cheat, and steal, and still never be caught for it.  How beautiful is that?  I can rob Grandma Marie out of all her retirement funds by buying matching girdles for Sally, and never face a day in prison.  Clearly, identity theft is the way to go.

So who knows, at your kid’s next Career Day, among all the upstanding doctors, chefs, accountants, and lawyers, you might find me–professional stealer of identities.  I could be your forgettable neighbor, I could be your obnoxious boss, hell, I could even be YOU!!

1) Early bliss.  The two main protagonists who are destined to be together (and it is quite obvious from the start) share a period of unfiltered happiness within the first fifteen episodes of the show.  None of the villains are clever enough yet to figure out permanent ways to break apart the leading duo.  However, something tragic will usually happen, such as an untimely death (see point #3) or unexpected arrival that will (temporarily) derail their star-crossed love.

2) Unexpected pregnancy.  I am not sure if it is due to the Hispanic culture, or the nature of the telenovelas, but at least one of the leading female characters will unfailingly become pregnant during the course of the show.  The pregnancy can either be a uniting force between her and her destined partner or serve as a temporary roadblock for the astonished father-t0-be.  I tell you what though, those Hispanic characters reproduce like rabbits–no sperm clinics for them!

2A) A Tumult.  Usually at least one pregnant character will lose their fetus due to a tumble down the stairs.  There is a strong, linear, positive relationship between the height of their shoe’s heel and the number of miscarriages due to slides down the stairs.  I understand trying to imitate the Cheese Roll in England, but please, Elena, not while you’re pregnant!!

3) Resurrection.  While I am assuming that the characters in telenovelas are not secretly mutant cats who have 9 lifespans, an astonishing number of them return from an assumed death.  Naive is the leading lady who, recently suffering the loss of her beloved Hugo, actually believes he is dead!!  In Spanish telenovelas, it is more likely that Hugo has catalepsy than that he is actually dead.  Clearly the laws of probability do not apply to Telemundo.  Usually resurrection is reserved only for the leading man of the show, although occassionally minor characters can pull a Dr. Manette. 

4) The All-Knowing Doctor.  I am not sure which is more astonishing–the number of times the characters in a telenovela visit the hospital, or the vast expertise of the single doctor who always attends them.  These telenovela-schooled doctors can deliver babies, perform brain surgery, attempt blood transfusions, and treat burns.  Clearly the problem with the American health care system is that we have too many doctors in too many fields–each hospital only needs one doctor (who is seemingly always on duty) who can perform a medical miracle when called-upon.  The same does not apply for the telenovela-nurses, however; they are essentially useless and easily fooled.

5) The Kidnapping.  Usually toward the end of the show, one or two main characters will be kidnapped.  These characters may be the love child of the leading duo (see #2) or another important member of the family.  A ransom is not necessarily always demanded, sometimes the stolen child is used to lure the parents to a bomb (side note: the access to bombs in the Hispanic world is quite astounding), or the victim may need to perform a service or sign a legal document for his/her kidnapper.  All in all, the kidnapped characters are always returned safely and unharmed after a dramatic showdown in which the kidnapper is inevitably wounded.

6) The Transformation.  At least one semi-minor character will undergo a character transplant during the course of the show.  This change may be from a villain to protagonist or vice versa.  And in case you have difficulty discerning which character it is, their entire wardrobe will inevitably change, just as a subtle head slap.  This metamorphosis may be caused by multiple things, although my personal favorite is the “uncurable” brain tumor.

7) The potential for incest.  Yes, you read that correctly–incest.  It is astonishing that in a world whose population approaches 7 billion that the characters are always able to fall in love with a potential relative.  Are there not enough people in the world to satisfy your longings?!  I do understand that the first man a woman falls in love with is her father, but seriously, marrying your brother because he looks similar?!  Oh dear…  Of course, these rumors are always false and the frightened couple are never actually related (since they must end up together), but the possibility makes for a good sub-plot. 

Happily Ever After.  Perhaps the only reason (or not the only…) why people watch telenovelas is because they know that the show will inevitably end with the destined couple to end their days in married bliss.  While each show may concoct a multitude of story-lines to keep them apart, at the end of 120 episodes, they will always be together.  And in the very final episode, after all the villains have been vanquished (they do not just move to another state, they are violently and bloodily axed off), the leading pair will host some sort of party, usually said love child’s birthday, and then romantically kiss below the large block letters announcing “EL FIN”.

So why then does anyone watch telenovelas if they know what will happen?  Because it is the stuff that happens in between the aforementioned check points that is pure genius–mining explosions, serial killers, phantoms of former wives, and always lots and lots of smut.  What more could a person ask for?

Mother dear, it’s not me, it’s you.  You’re just to damn changeable for me.  One day you’re warm and smiling and two days later you’re freezing me out.  I’m sure there is a man out there that can handle you, but it’s not me.  I need a woman who is solid and dependable, not one who constantly changes her dress because she doesn’t like it.  Don’t they make medicine for these sorts of lady-problems now?  I think it’d be a wise investment.

And lately, you’ve been coming between me and my life.  You’ve gotten too needy; you won’t let me leave the house and tend to my life.  No, I have to stay inside with you.  I do think that a man and his lady should have some things in common, but this is just too much togetherness-time for me.  I’m an outdoorsman and, quite frankly sweets, you’re not letting me be outside.  I feel like I have to constrain that side of my character when I’m around you, and I don’t want to do that.  And even the things we can do outside together, I don’t like them.  I don’t like thermal underwear and gloves, and I don’t like snowshoeing; I’m more of a cowboy hat and flip-flops man myself.  I feel like you’re trying to shape me into someone that I’m not.

No, no, don’t worry, there’s not another woman.  I would never do that to you; you’re too much of a presence in my life (even in your unnatural state) for me to look at another.  Oh dear, don’t cry now, you still have your good qualities, and I’m sure there’s a man out there who can fully appreciate them. 

Maybe try William Tecumseh Sherman; I hear he’s got a heart of ice.

1) Nails.  I understand the function of fingers and toes, but can someone please explain to me why we have nails at the end of them?  The only thing that nails seem to be good for is scratching people and falling off.  Once, I slammed my thumb in the cabin door, and besides hurting like a mother, nothing happened.  The only thing that was severely damaged was the nail itself.  I did not fall over dead the next day, nor did I become a homicidal lunatic.  So what exactly do nails do?  Do they cover anything that is not sufficient for a simple layer of skin?  Perhaps they are the secret passages into our souls, and that is why a hard layer of keratin is necesary–to keep all the horrors inside.  I personally find nails to be outright annoying, and I gravely dislike cutting them once a week; it is a damned nuisance and pointless cause they just grow back the next week.

2) Hair.  Now, I understand the purpose of hair, especially on the ladies, but it is the hair on my head that perplexes me.  I personally am quite proud of my lustrous mane of gold, but it seems docile to me.  It serves no protective function, seeing as how there is a nice layer of skin and you know, SKULL, between the outside world and my marvelous mind.  Perhaps facial hair is used as a mating ritual, just as frigate birds have their large red pouches.  Forget pheromones, people are attracted to each other by their facial hair (or lack of).  Some soldier told me one time that hair is just dried, dead cells that are hanging off the top of our heads.  I refuse to believe him, however, because my golden locks are too beautiful to be unwanted, banished cells.

3) Appendix.  How important can an organ be if most doctors recommend removing it?  Most of us even forget we have one until it decides to explode.  It just sits there, a ticking time bomb, until it ruptures, spewing disgusting secretions all over our abdominal cavities.  One would think that evolution would have gotten ride of the appendix by now, but no, it’s still there, sitting away until it gets so bored it decides to kill itself and take the rest of the body with it.

4) Bellybuttons.  This one is obvious.  Unless they are a third eye or another entrance into our souls (in addition to below our nails), bellybuttons are useless and good only for collecting lint.  Forget the dust bunny in the corner, just look in my bellybutton. 

When one stops and thinks about it, the majority of our hygiene is for our useless body parts: cutting our nails, brushing and washing our hair, cleaning our bellybuttons…  Think of all the time that could be saved if we didn’t have these useless add-ons; time we could spend with our loved ones, enlightening our minds, exploring our world.  Say, I wonder if aliens have bellybuttons…

People rarely spend more than three seconds looking at the receptacle of their present before pulling it to shreds.  It is really quite rude; no introduction or exchanging of pleasantries before our innards are presently ripped into.  But alas, gift bags are not virgins waiting for the destined beau.  We are the destitute, beleaguered lower class woman who must offer herself up to maintain her livelihood–and her identity.  You can buy a beautifully designed bag, but its style will largely go unnoticed, except for the occasional “oh, this bag is so cute!  Oh, Jeremy, you shouldn’t have gotten me this!!”  We are passed along and pawed, if we are lucky; otherwise, we are thrown out under a suffocating pile of tissue and wrapping paper.  Then, we are encased in a dark, small closet until we our labors are called upon.  Not even cards, From: Sally To: Jenny, offer us a sense of permanence; they are merely ripped off when we are next needed.

Think of the saying “don’t judge a book by its cover.”  We are the ultimate book covers, although people do not see us as such.  At least book covers have the luxury of being contemplated long enough to form an opinion on.  We, sadly, are not.  No one ever says “this bag is ugly, I don’t think I want to open this present.  Sue, take it back.”  People, being beastly selfish creatures, will rip into a gift bag because they want to see what they have been ‘rewarded’. 

We are useless objects who play no role except to cradle the greater good.  We are thankless and lonely hobos who know no home and form no friendships, knowing they will soon be broken.  We are the Mona Lisas that no one notices; our sparkling colors and elaborate designs light blind eyes.  We tend toward the melodramatic because without a self-generated sense of being wronged by humanity, we shall shrivel and die, like the dollar.

Happy holidays, from a gift bag.

          Throughout its long and storied history, the United States has gone through cycles of intolerance.  Seen particularly during times of great stress, certain cultural groups have been shunned from social equality.  While the Declaration of Independence declares that “all men are created equal,” this famous statement has been overlooked by Americans time and time again.  For example, the United States was one of the last countries to emancipate its slaves, even after Russia freed its serfs in 1861.  And then the African-Americans toiled for another one hundred years after they were guaranteed political freedom to secure their social equality.  The reason for this was that Americans had difficulty breaking their self-created stereotype that African-Americans were only good for physical labor.  
          In today’s world, the ‘melting pot’ of American culture is threatening to topple.  It seems that Muslims have replaced Russians as the Number One Feared Ethnic Group in the United States.  It is true that there are Muslim terrorist groups in the Middle East.  It is true that they do not like the United States’ policies.  But what is not true is that every Muslim is a terrorist.  Largely aided by the media, a new stereotype has been created–all dark-skinned, bearded men are to be suspected.  A recent cover article of Time Magazine was entitled: Is America Islamophobic?  And with alarming speed, the answer is yes.  Not because Islam is a violent and ‘pagan’ religion, but because it is the form of worship of them.  We have allowed a single group to contort our opinions on a whole culture shared by millions of people.

Sadly, Muslims are not the only intolerated group in the United States right now; homosexuals and Latinos too are facing discrimination.  Homosexuals, it can be said, have not challenged our national security in any way.  So why are we so unsympathetic towards their struggle for gay marriage?  And due to the debate over illegal immigration, many Hispanics are naturally assumed to be undocumented and impoverished.  

A supposedly liberal and fair nation, the United States has gone through horrible patterns of ethnic and cultural xenophobia.  At the moment, we dislike people with different values than ours because we fear they will try to change our own.  We try to force people into pigeonholes because they are different than us, but we are suspicious of those who do not fit into these pockets that we created.

           Another testament to the intolerant times is Tyler Clementi.  When all the details are stripped away, Clementi died because he was homosexual.  He was mocked and scorned, just as millions of people with other values serve as convenient scapegoats for our inner fears.  In his recent speech commemorating the September 11 attacks, Barack Obama said that “We will not sacrifice the liberties we cherish or hunker down behind walls of suspicion and mistrust.”  How can the United States expect to go forward and align itself with nations of different values when it cannot tolerate differences within its own boundaries?

For me, nature is like music.  Beaches are artificial and synthesized pop so diluted by man’s presence the original instruments are unrecognizable.  But the mountains.  The mountains are so pure that everything else has been stripped away until all that is left is the mournful cry of David Gilmour’s guitar or the soaring melodies of a Stradivarius violin.  Formed over millions of years, no man can tame the mountains.

The Blue Ridge Mountains were named after the thin blue mist that shrouds them in the morning.  On the day that we visited them, there was no such mist–only brilliant rays of sunlight.  As we drove up the winding Skyline Drive, I kept flitting around the car, barely able to contain my excitement.  It seemed that every bend offered a magnificent view of the rolling mountains.  Looking up the road, I could see nothing but green trees and turquoise hills; no telephone poles or buildings or even cars.  

The hike up to Turks Gap did not last more than forty-five minutes, and yet it felt longer; nature’s true visage looks the same now as it was thousands of moons ago.  We were guided by the tall thin trees whose silver markers sparkled in the filtered sunlight.  My mom was particularly fascinated by the lime-green moss that covered the wounds of fallen trees.  We paused occasionally to sip our water to replace the droplets on our foreheads and arms.  As we drank, our eyes would wander up a trench-like hill blanketed with tumbled pieces of bark and wood chips.  It looked like a perch for Nature to rule over her humble subjects.
    When we reached the top, the trees parted to reveal the Blue Ridge.  It seemed that wave after wave of turquoise mountain rolled as far as our eyes could see.  Occasionally there would be a path carved into the side of a mountain, like a single tear rolling down a cheek.  But what was even more noticeable than the spectacular vista was the silence.  Besides the wind whistling through the trees and crackling of loose rocks, there was no noise.  We are so often enveloped in a sheet of sounds that true silence roars and echoes inside our minds.  It floods our minds like a river until the only thing that is left is us.

At the top of the mountain was a cascade of tumbled rocks–just the perfect size for climbing.  While I normally worry and think before acting, when I climbed the rocks, I did not think.  I put no thought into how I would get back down from my precarious perch atop the world.  Standing on the boulders blanketing Turks Gap, my mind was at peace.  There are few times when the mind is truly free and calm, where the worries of the world are swept away, and life is pure fun.  And that was one of those moments.  

In the English language, the most common way to show appreciation for someone is to say ‘thank you.’  But you drop this same expression when a waiter refills your water glass as you do after a surgeon performs emergency surgery on you.  Granted, your appreciation for McDreamy might be a little more effusive and teary, but at the essence, it is the same two words.  How can we expect two measly, common words to encompass a valley of meaning?  It is not a fair thing to ask of them. 

Therefore, I propose another expression of gratitude.  Just as there are the casual and polite forms of ‘you’, there should be a casual and extreme way to say ‘thank you.’  One expression would not just be used around friends and the other around strangers.  No, one would be for casual ‘thank yous’, like ‘thank you for cleaning my boots, boy’, and the other would be used for more extreme times of appreciation like, ‘thank you Mr. Lee.’  Whenever one thanks Robert E. Lee, it must be done in an extremely effusive nature; the man performs no trivial deeds.

I think that names are underrated.  They are often the first thing that a person tells you about themselves (besides ‘I am’, of course).  They arethe first piece of information that we have about them.  And whether we want to or not, we instinctly judge them on their name.  If we like their name, we like them.  And if we don’t like their name, we’re more likely to be harsh (“oh, that is something a Winfield would do”). 

Certain names have certain connotations.  For example, every man I have ever met with the name “Sam”, has been appallingly nice and courteous.  What is it about that name that makes its wearer a gentleman?  Is it the mojo of the name itself, or a reflection on the type of parents who choose that name for their child?  When I hear the name “Kyle”, I immediately think California surfer dude.  But why is it that a simple sound can immediately control our prejudices about another person’s character/lifestyle?  Perhaps it has something to do with memory; whenever I meet another gal with the bewitching name ‘Sally’, I am immediately at her disposal.  Or perhaps it’s more neurological; the effect of the name’s sound is either pleasing or displeasing to our noggins, and an emotion is released accordingly.  But this is too complicated for me, I’m just a simple soldier.

I have met a lot of people in my wanderings.  They thing that amuses me is that even though I have met fifty thousand people since them, they expect me to remember their name.  Names are cherished by their users.  Certain cultures, such as the Native Americans, had two names: an earthly name and a heavenly one.  They were known by everyone by their earthly names because their heavenly names were sacred, and could not be tarnished by the sins of the earth.  Their heavenly names served as a direct link between them and their gods. 

And lastly, why do ‘Bob’ and ’Joe’, seem to be the go-to names when naming a gentleman?

It seems that most of my posts besides the first two are discussing how it has been eons since I last wrote.  I vow that this shall change as the school year is ending and I shall have time to write more nifty posts.  Also the topic of college applications shall be added to the list of rant worthy subjects as I dive into the world of resumes, recommendations, and essays.  I might even publish and essay or two.  So that’s something to look forward too.

Now what you’ve all been waiting for……SOMETHING RANDOM!  I know this is all very exciting.  Today we shall talk about look-a-likes.  There is a theory that everyone in the world has at least one look-a-like.  I have yet to find mine but you never know.  This topic is on my mind because a few weeks ago I saw someone who looked creepily like a friend of mine’s brother.  I had never noticed this resemblance, but when good old George Pickett pointed it out to me I was shocked.  Their resemblance was uncanny.  Now some may be wondering why I am writing this post if this event happened weeks ago.  Well the answer is that it happened again today! *GASP*  Today I was watching that device called television and a person on the show I was watching looked creepily like an acquaintance of mine.  I know it’s shocking.  Anyway so the question for today is have you ever meet or seen your own look-a-like?

Before I further my argument that pie-throwing actually is not offensive to the victim, let us look back at the long and storied history of this practice.  According to wikipedia, the first pie was thrown  (in terms of slap stick comedy) in 1909 in the  film Mr. Flip.   Pie-sacrificing became popular in 1927 in the short film The Battle of the Century (what George W. never told us– the weapons of mass destruction were actually…pies?).  Rumor has it that 4,000 pies were used to film the movie (I bet they didn’t have the disclaimer ‘no pies were harmed in the making of this movie’).  FOUR THOUSAND PIES!!!  I have never eaten that many pies in my entire life, nor will I.  Such a waste.  Comedy conossieurs such as the Three Stooges, Charlie Chaplin and Bugs Bunny also were repeat pieing offenders.

In modern-day times, pieing has been employed against political figures.  Notable pieing victims are George W. Bush (told ya!), Bill Gates, Jean Cheretien (former Prime Minister of Canada), and controversial leaders such as Fred Phelps.  And let’s not forget those long-ago charity drives in school in which the winning student got to pie the principal. 

And so, dear readers, I ask you, why do we pie to ridicule?  What is so awful about having a creamy delicate piece of dessert put into the vicinity of your mouth– wouldn’t we all rather get rid of the fork middle-man anyway?  If I ran the world, pieing would be a form of affection.  Instead of hugging our friends, we would just pie them.  Why does this crazy old man think this?  Let me tell you why.

• I love pie.  There are so many different types of pies that there has to be a pie for everyone.  That being said, there is at least one pie that every person would not mind having shoved in their face.  Just think of pieing as a quicker form of eating; who doesn’t like eating like a little kid again?  Point being, if we were trying to insult or show our contempt for someone, why would we throw something they actually like in their face?  Why not borscht instead?  If I had pie thrown in my face, I would thank the person who threw it, not run after them in blind fury.
• The ideal throwing-pies are cream pies.  They have a delicate filling that is soft and cool to the touch.  Can you think of any better skin-care than banana cream pie?  No oil, just soothing cream.  Instead of products like Proactiv, dermatologists should prescribe pies.  “One pie in the morning and another in the evening.”  Granted, that would be a huge waste of beloved pies and we would all be fat, but we would have skin like Jessica Simpson!!
• Who needs ski-masks to rob a bank when you can wear a pie mask?  If you make the right type of pie, it should stick to your face long enough to pull a John Dillinger and ride off into the sunset.  Plus, pies are lighter than ski-masks and it’s easier to breathe through them.  And they make for convenient snacking in the event you get into a long shootout with police.

Therefore, my hungry reader, what is the real motivation behind pie-throwing?  Perhaps over time, it’s original purpose has been corrupted over time, just as an orange rots into black sludge.  Today, go out and pie someone that you love!

1) Navy shirts.  Now the shorter among us will not be mistaken for sophomores!  Or worse…eighth graders.

2) SO MANY DEADLINES! Which sure are great for all of us procrastinators.  Mr. Coe’s prediction that Ms. Kramer will not be pleased could well be accurate.

3) A leadership role.  This one’s a bit odd.  Our class is incredibly apathetic, but will we step up to the plate next year?

4) First choice in parking spots (…for those of us who buy them).

5) Some pretty intense classes (who else was kinda freaked out by Renshaw?).  English will not be the same as it was this year…

6) COLLEGE APPS.  Bleagh!  And we have to start working on those sometime soon…I’m still so uncertain!

7) The pressure to win things like the Spirit Stick & Banner contests…will we be one of the first senior classes to actually lose these great honors?

8 ) Eventual free dress…cheapening the excitement of free dress days.

9) The need to mature into adulthood…perhaps the most frightening of all.

Thoughts?

Anyway, the entire point of this post was about the history of the drink, not how much I personally find it disgusting.  I had wondered if the infamous queen of England, Mary I, had invented the drink herself (which might explain her less than stellar reputation), or some court jester had taken a joke a little too far.  So in order to crack the mystery, I sat down at my handy-dandy computer, and this is what I found out:

Supposedly the Bloody Mary drink was ‘invented’ in 1921 by a chap named Fernand Petiot at the New York Bar in Paris France.  (Interesting side note, the New York Bar was a favorite hangout spot for Ernest Hemingway; maybe the troubled author had one too many Bloody Marys…?) 

While most aficionados like to agree that Fernand Petiot invented the drink, they are not as likely to agree on what lucky lady it’s named after.  The drink was originally called the Red Snapper (imagine chunks of fish floating in your cocktail…yum), but the name was later changed to Bloody Mary in 1934.  Rumor has it that the drink was named after the Hollywood actress Mary Pickford; another story has it being coined for a waitress named Mary.  The nerd side of me likes to think that the drink was an ode to the Queen of England, Mary I herself, since she bathed her hands in the blood of the prosecuted Protestants (not literally though, that’d be gross).