Backdraft

Since I last wrote to you about the fire alarms a lot has happened. Flatmate Mags, for example, has moved out and taken her toaster with her, which means that I have been consuming untoasted sandwiches for the past couple of days. Many of you have written to me about fires. Who knew for example, that I had so many arsonist readers, especially from Wyoming? Or that Kaz's flat was so hazardous and that Colin had so many names? Or that so many of you would write and protest that indeed, no, Dave was not as hot as he imagined himself to be? (See that upper right hand corner, DJ? Those words in bold? About Me. That's right, this site is about me, not you.)

And who knew that I would experience not one, but two fire alarms in one night, at Vita-L's flat? That makes it three fire alarms we've experienced together while studying for archaeology, and one more we missed together because we were taking the exam. Last night, cramming for archaeology in Vita-L's room, we heard the alarm go off but for quite a few minutes, decided not to move. For some reason, we both thought that despite its late nature, the alarm could have been a test. After a few minutes of just sitting there, looking at each other in silence, occasionally muttering, "You've got to be kidding" to break the monotony, we finally decided to get up and slowly put our jackets on.

It was at this point that I stepped into the hall and spotted one of her flatmates shrieking and running into a room wearing nothing but a bikini and an apron. "Did I just see Jamilah do that?" I asked Helen, another flatmate, who was running into her own room. But Helen, too, was giggling, and she was wearing a classy, albeit short, black dress- at 11:30, on a Sunday night.

Many more minutes later (had this been a real fire, they would have been searching for our dental records by now), we all gathered downstairs, outside of the flat, and try as we may to pretend that we didn't know them, Vita-L's roommates stuck close to us. Now I don't really like drunken antics. And I hate it when other folks are having fun when I can't. But you've just got to love these girls and their logic.

Moi: So what were you wearing?
Jamilah: Oh, we were practicing to be housewives.
Moi: Hence the apron. But the bikini?
Helen: Hot housewives.
Moi: (motioning to last flatmate, Kim, in a smart blazer, and short aprons over jeans, with big sunglasses) And what are you?
Kim: I'm a bartender.
Moi: Well, somebody's got to support the household.

Much more waiting and griping later, we all filed back into the flat. Vita-L and I returned to our studying while the girls returned to, well, we're not sure. All I know is that thirty minutes later, a little after midnight, just when the studying was getting exciting and I was trying to remember exactly where that early iron age cist was (Sundayswell Hill), the alarm rang again. And again, Vita-L sat there looking at each other, unmoving. And again we slowly walked out to find the flatmates wearing clothes that greatly exposed them to the elements. Except this time, they wore their ridiculous outfits downstairs.

Miss Kim, for example, was still in her bikini top, albeit with a blazer over it.

Moi: Now I know that you totally had enough time to put something on, so why are you still in this bikini top?
Kim: Well, we decided we couldn't wear the same things this time, everyone has already seen our outfits.
Vita-L: It's been thirty minutes. Everyone is wearing the same clothes.
Jamilah: I know. We couldn't do that. Kim's basically wearing what I wore that last time we came down.
Vita-L: Helen's blazer looks nice, where did she get that?
Moi: I think that's what Kim wore down last time...

I do not condone drunk antics, especially uninhibited screams and giggles, but if you're going to do it people, do it right like these girls, fuzzy logic and outfits included.

(The morning after: Vita-L and I just came back from our exam, moping about our B's and about to go for pie, all three flatmates came to greet us in her room, clad in pajamas, some still clutching their blankets.)

Moi: Did you all just roll out of bed?
Jamilah: I don't know about these two, but I shuffled down the hall on my own two feet. No rolling involved.

Speaking of Vita-L, I can't wait to see the American Vita-K again.

Finito!

I thought "finito! Bonita!" sounded good together, then I realized that finito was Italian and bonita Spanish.

Nevertheless, life is beautiful. You better hand me back that change, slash the price by 15% and give up your seat because I, my friend, am a senior.

So I may be getting a B or worse in what I had considered to be my easiest class all semester, Archaeology of Scotland 1B. It was a first-year level course and not a third-year honors class with grad students. I'm not sure how it happened, but somewhere along the line, maybe it was the last-minute cramming, the procrastination, or maybe it was not doing all the readings, the quality slipped and the grades aren't pretty for this class. Vita-L and I were discussing this (over a nice savoury pie, might I add), and we're not understanding. We totally crammed for hours last night. And the night before our portfolios were due, a couple of months ago. Shouldn't that have been enough? But this is getting off track, because, oh that's right, I am done with exams. There will be no academics for the next three months- except for when I'm preparing and carrying out my senior research, but that's only my entire summer.

Son of a Teacher Man

My parents both are and were teachers, before and after they decided on the God-gig. As were my grandparents. So you see, I have a healthy dose of respect for people that teach. Why else would I share ridiculous encounters about my profs if I didn't admire them just a little? As a result of all this, I've always also felt a little guilty about not wanting to be a teacher and showing no special gifts for teaching. It seems such a noble thing to do, but I haven't jumped on the wagon yet.

Someone who has, apparently, is Monica Yellow.

So today, I present you links to two poems by Bowdoin alum Taylor Mali, one of my favorite poets* and someone that always makes me feel awful about not aspiring to be a teacher. The second poem is his most oft quoted, and has sort of lost its flavors because it has become so Prayer of Jabez, but the recording is from a live performance he did a few years back, so it's still got some punch.

*Favorite poets, another one of my pretentious favorites, along with favorite literary magazine, favorite organic tea, and favorite charitable foundation.


We haven't done our trios in awhile, so here goes.

Three Least Favorite Feet Sensations:
1. Wet shower shoes.
2. Dirty carpet.
3. Sticky sneakers.

Three Odd Sensations
1. Ear that has fallen asleep.
2. Eyelid twitch.
3. Cold water traveling down to empty stomach.

Three Favorite Feet Sensations:
1. Beach sand, after coming out of the water. I love walking against the sand to dry off my feet. Afterwards, everything just feels so smooth and hot.
2. Tickling.
3. Pair of thick socks (think hiking socks, SmartWool or L.L.Bean) right out of the dryer. It's like walking on melting butter.

There's No Error About Jesus

Dearest Mon: I've also operationalized and quantified 'Greatness.' And you're wondering about errors? Oh, do not question my sample-collecting ways.

The Cool Will Not Be Televised

This, is a picture of my brother:









*Sometimes, I refer to myself as 'world.'
There is just something so utterly uncool about being a fan. About fanatically admiring someone. About devoting so long in considering someone so much better than ourselves, especially someone we know well. I hate that, being the vulnerable one, not having the upper hand, blowing things out of proportion. So I will try to hold it together for this entry.

Last night, Brother got me and friend into a show for free. Originally, the gig was sold out, but he knew the opening band (and dictated that I go see them) and suddenly I was on a VIP list. Me "plus one." That's right, I had a "plus one" and her name was Fi. This meant the blue wristband instead of either yellow or white or those sorry folks that just had tickets. That's the same color wrist bands the band wore. Also meant walking backstage to talk to the band after they performed. And finding the earpiece for the drummer because he dropped it backstage and I had nimble fingers. For the time being, I need everyone to ignore the fact that the only backstage I went to was literally next to the stage and not some posh seating area with cocktails and more importantly, cocktail sausages. Whatever, there was a gate and I waved my wrist and went through with ease. And we didn't see anyone else do it, except for people actually working for the band. We will also pretend that certain band members were not super friendly because they were super sauced. And lastly, I need your help in pretending that picking up someone else's ear piece isn't gross at all. I hadn't actually considered it as gross until Vita-L, very unimpressed with my story, looked at me and said "Ew, ear piece?" But whatever, she's just jealous. And my rock and roll lifestyle has no room for jealous people.

Discussing how half the venue seemed to have bracelets...

Dave: Do you think the yellow bracelets were for people on the Dresden Dolls' VIP list? And the blue was for your band? That's why they wore the blue, too?

Fi: It can't be, can it? Other VIPs?

Moi: No. It can't. We'd like to keep thinking that we're just better than other people.

The actual venue where this all went down was in a neighborhood far, far away. I have the blisters to show for it. The place was called "The Exchange" and on my map, about a block away from the street address, there were the words "The Exchange" in big bold letters. That led us to believe that there would be a clearly labeled, big concert hall called The Exchange in that viscinity. But we were wrong. We looked around and saw a big E down an alley and blindly followed it. Too bad it was for the club Establishment. We have no idea what the map meant by "The Exchange." Many more narrow turns and un-posh map consultations later, we finally came upon a door of a quiet street, where a flock of kids were waiting outside, with one notable body-painted bright green girl in the crowd, with a short neon pink dress, handing out candies. "Oh God, don't let this be The Exchange," Fi said. But The Exchange it was. The inside was actually quite big, but the outside was small and insignificant. Very much like the young King David. And oh, they offer weekly Pilates classes there.
The actual shows, which I have no photographic evidence of, were really sweet. The burlesque dancers during intermission gave us a perfect excuse for a bathroom break. And the leg lamp that turned out to be a pair of actual legs attached to an actual human torso standing on a table, well, that was an interesting discovery. What was not sweet was the grandmother (at least late 50's, if not 60's) in tight ripped leather pants and an open back tank top, there with her daughter/grand daughter. She wasn't even the faded-glory, once-beautiful aging old lady holding onto her former skanky ways type, but short, stumpy and very grandmother looking. She gave me nightmares and "my days be turning into daymares..."

Afterwards, Fi and I were giddy. We hadn't expected to enjoy the music so much. Nor for the folks to be so nice. As a result, many a praises and words of thanks were showered upon Brother as we walked and debriefed. May have made blasphemous comments about his greatness, though upon closer inspection, the Brother vs. Brother greatness analysis should actually be as follows:














That's Jesus pulling ahead with a slight though steady lead over Earthly Brother. But other than Jesus, he really is the greatest brother I've had so far.

Papa's Got A Brand New Outfit

I volunteer in a charity shop. Because I am a good person working toward getting as many Kingdom Points as possible. (For the unlearned, Kingdom Points are Jesus brownie points.)

In the course of my time there, I meet a lot of people. A lot of old people. A lot of people with accents I cannot understand. And then, occasionally, men on special substances. Last week there was a man that told me that he didn't shop in stores much, so he didn't know the layout of the store, and asked me to point out the men's section. I did. (The store is very small and we were standing in the section.) Minutes later, he flags down a customer and asks, "You seem like someone who's been here, who knows what he's doing, do you know where the men's shirts are?" Mind you, they are standing right next to the rack. The customer was confused but friendly, and together, the two of them wandered into the women's section. I had to point them back to the men's shirts. Apparently, the guy was buying clothes for a friend who just moved into a flat. Today, a guy came in with a plastic bag full of clothes and stuff. He bought a backpack to put everything in. Then he, too, asked me where the men's section is. People, the store is only split into two halves. Men's and women's. Children's is in the back and books and knick knacks along the shelf. Not that difficult. Again, I point him in the right direction, a foot behind him. He goes to the dressing room to try some outfits. Asks if there are any bigger mirrors. No sir, the long mirrors in the rooms are all we have. It was then that he started trying on shirts outside of the fitting rooms, so he could get a better look. Now that's ok, a lot of people do it, standing in the hall but looking into the mirror, since the rooms are so small. But this guy took off all of his shirts to put on new ones, leading to stretches of time when he'd stand half naked, in the hallway, trying to figure out shirts. And at last, when everything was finally tried and it was time to make his purchase, he stood in front of me at the register with all of the items he wanted on him and his old clothes in hand. Then proceded to rip off all of the price tags on his body so I could ring them up. Then engaged me in a conversation about how useful the buckles on his new backpack were as he tried to stuff his old clothes into the bag. A very nice, albeit slightly altered man.

Steamed Buns

I just realized the absurdity of the name of this Chinese delicacy. I cannot believe I haven't made a steamed bun joke yet. I've only made cinnamon bun jokes. Oh, it's good to be alive and be a 'third year.'

Things That Set Off The Flat Fire Alarms: Fire. Smoke from incence, cigarettes, or toasters. Hair blowers. Overheating electronics. And apparently, hot showers.

Yes, the water from the showers turn into steam at high temperatures and sets off the alarms.

I. Love. This. Country. Where water is cause for fire alarms.

Of course, the only person this has happened to is Dave. If it had happened to me, I'd probably make a crack about how I'm so sizzling hot that my showers set off fire alarms. But it happened to Dave. So I won't. Because then it wouldn't be true. (Snap!)

Flavourless Caroline

Holyrood Palace:














































The Queen's summer digs: Pretty? Yes. But check out the sprinklers in the first picture. Note how she doesn't have the automated built-in kind but hers are of the above-ground variety that you have to move around. I have better lawn equipment than the Queen. Of course, she can afford to start watering her lawn in May while lately, we haven't used our sprinklers system at all. But that doesn' matter. Ours are still better than the Queen's.

In other news, soft-drink companies are now voluntarily removing sugary drinks from schools. They're not voluntarily leaving and no one is asking them to stop advertising to students and creating early dependencies on their products. No, they are voluntarily removing sugar drinks to be replaced with their own sugar juices. I am surprised by the lack of action from high schoolers, protesting their freedom to choose. That sounds stupid, I know. The vending machines dictate what students eat and drink. In our senior year of high school, we got a new milk machine and drinking milk became en vogue. Still, I am saddened that no one has protested this yet. In my last couple of years of high school, my lunches generally consisted of Pizzalicious Pringles and a lemon iced-tea. They really were pizzalicious and I loved my 'lunches.' And now, in the furor of fighting obsesity, millions of high school students will not be able to enjoy the crap lunches I once did. I am saddened for them, and saddened even more for our future generation, unwilling to fight for their rights to have heart disease. We don't trust them to make decisions, but don't they trust themselves to choose what they want to eat? Where's the stupid youthful protest? I no longer consider chips ("crisps") and sugar water to be an adequate lunch (they never really were, just something to last me until I got home) just as I no longer eat Number 1 meals at McDonald's (oh, but they were so wonderfully bad) because I grew up just a little bit. Instead of making pacts with soft-drink companies, why don't we show enough faith in our education systems that other children will learn to do the same. Because while the good people of Chinar and Taiwan may disagree, I am not morbidly obese because of my past transgressions. And then later, let's keep our words, and educate.

A Will for Bill

I don't know what the deal with ResNet and Dakota the Computer is. But I have recently discovered that contrary to what I had believed for all of 2006, my computer is capable of using messenger programs. Just not AIM. Or Skype. Or a lot of Google software, though I haven't tried GooleTalk. Or any other program that people use. But MSN? Oh, Dakota the Computer and ResNet love MSN. And apparently, I can chat with people. Are you on MSN? If so, let's be friends. Because my computer is siding with Microsoft in the new Microsoft-Google Battle of the Monopolizing Giants. (It's like Battle of the Network Stars, but contemporary, and not fun.)

The only MSN friends I have are my wonderful British buddies, who have recently discovered that their conversations were being taken down by me and posted here, pictures included. I do believe they're quite creeped out by the whole thing.

Is that going to deter me, though? I think not.

Elle: We kept thinking up these American sayings that were really crude and vulgar.
Moi: Like what?
Elle: Like, my pants are wet from the rain. Can I take my pants off?
Moi: I'm pretty sure that's inappropriate both ways. We don't just take our trousers off either.

Whose Woods These Are

I have no idea. But they sure smell during certain parts.

So here's the story. I am going to Chinar this summer for "research." It's in quotes because I doubt my capabilities as a researcher. But it means that I get to buy a cool MP3 player, so that's pretty cool. But I digress. To get there, I need a visa and for once, it's a visa everyone has to get. Beat that, holders of blue and red passports. Yesterday morning, I set off on a trek for the Chinese Consulate General, who chose to place the Consulate far farther from the city centre than any other nation and placed itself right next to a football stadium. Well done, Chinar. So, I take the bus. Then the long walk. (Because I didn't know how far exactly it was from the Stadium and didn't think to take the bus there...) And then I see a sign that tells me that the Visa Office is closed for the next couple of days. Awesome. I have to trek back to civilization where I can then take a bus home. Because I don't know the stadium bus routes and didn't want to hop on. Plus, it was sort of a nice-ish day, because at least it wasn't raining. It was just windy, cold, and cloudy.
So I'm walking along a mostly deserted road (apparently, outside of the city centre, people drive cars. Bizarre, I know). And two roads diverged in the yellow woods. Except by "yellow woods" I mean the main street. There was either the broad, paved path that I was already on that led me back to town center. Or a tiny little path, the crooked and narrow, with a sign proclaiming it as the "Waters of Leith Walk." Intriguing. I had wanted to go there. I thought it was farther away. I wonder how long the walk is. And so I be one traveler, long I stood, and looked one down as far as I could, to where it bent in the undergrowth. Then took the other, as just as fair, and followed the tiny sign and sketchy path and walk behind a couple of backyards and come upon a tiny stream, which smelled pretty bad at parts. And then I realized that I am all alone in a secluded area that I don't know. And wonder if perhaps following this path wasn't the best idea. But, lacking any common sense or sense of urgency, I pressed on, though ever fearing that I would be the first person to discover some dead body along the water. (What else can explain the weird smells?)

These were my discoveries:


















Just about the meanest bike path ever, don't you think? Upward stairs?! No railing?! What kind of bicycles are these meant for?!















Do not look too closely into the water's reflection. You might spot something rotting. Seriously. If I ever kill someone (purely hypothetical, people), this is where the body would go. There are houses all along the first half of the path, but I don't think they're on the look out for anything.















What? Does every photo need a caption? These are flowers.



















Here, was the cool payoff for me. I'm sure if I stuck to the path long enough and saw the more impressive parts of the Waters of Leith, it'd be cool, too. But instead of following the path I crossed the bridge and came upon the gate of the National Gallery Museum of Modern Art. And the Dean Gallery. And that was too cool, a hike in the woods to get to a museum. Where else do you get to do that?















View from the Museum of Modern Art.

So one road diverged from a big, wide path, and I, I took the one less traveled by, and that, has made all the difference.

The Parent Trap

Remember when Lindsay Lohan was a little girl? That was nice.

(Talking to my parents on the phone.)
Mom: Do you need me to send you anything?

Moi: No, don't worry about it. I have no room left in my luggage.

Dad: You know your mom is just saying that out of obligation. She had no intentions of sending you anything.

Moi: Yeah, I pretty much figured.

Mom: I totally wasn't asking to be nice! I don't do that. I only send care packages if she asks for them.

And that, is how my parents say "I love you, Child."

By the by, a deep-fried Snickers bar tastes far better than a fried Mars bar. Will never allow tongue to touch such inferior fried products as a battered Mars bar again. Will instead give up idea that deep fried candy bars are horrendously unhealthy and indulge in as many Snickers bars as possible before the end of May. Though one tastes better than the other, it must be said that both pretty much look like fried turd. Fried delicious turd, that is.

I Can Show You the World

This morning, with Jenny in tow, we decided to indulge in our bad habit again and climb Arthur's Seat early on in our Saturday. Then have some marvelous bacon-sausage-eggs-and-muffin sandwiches. Arthur the mammoth, Elle taught us today, was vegetarian, as all mammoths are, and not interested in devouring any of us. This gave us extra confidence to stomp around the top. And befriend dogs that belong to little children. Dogs named Terry that slip down the rocks when Elle tries to pet it.















Dave. Alan. Elle. and Jenny. On the peak. Looking like catalogue children.

On the spectacularly nice weather we've been having, and the faint sunshine we enjoyed at the top:
Alan: Where's the wind? I've never been up here when the weather has been nice. This isn't right. This isn't Edinburgh.















A view from the top.

Moi: Last night, when we were singing 'How Great Thou Art' at CU? I was thinking of the view from Arthur's Seat when I was singing.
Alan: From lofty mountain grandeur?
Moi: What?
Alan: That line from the song, "from lofty mountain grandeur?"
Moi: Oh. I didn't even know that was part of the song. I was thinking about the line with the stars and the skies. ("I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder.")
Alan: You do know that you can see the stars from pretty much anywhere, right?















Dave showing off on the highest point. We humored him by snapping lots of pictures. And emphasized that his stunts were only cool because they defied death. And warned that he had better keep defying, because we didn't want any trouble. Until we got tired of looking impressed. Then poor Dave had to stop.



















Now that's a facebook profile picture.

(Later)
Elle (of English/Scottish descent): ... and this was extra funny because she said this all in an Irish accent. She asked, "Would you rather smell through your bottom or pee through your nose?"
Jenny: I think you just did an American accent.
(Everyone nods in agreement.)
Elle: Oh. What's an Irish accent then?

Well, which would you rather do?

Also, an update on the Zacchaeus controversy. The Irish and Northern Irish staunchly stand by Zacchaeus as a very little man. (And not 'really,' as I have previously reported.) But the Scots, led by Hannah, whose grandfather was chaplain to the Queen, so she must know her Sunday school songs, agree that he's a funny little man. The English of us do not know the song well, though Elle was tempted to side with very. And no one is backing the wee. Hannah has a theory that the Scots rejected him as a wee little man once they heard the Americans singing it.

Elle: ...he climbed onto a sycamore tree. Why did he climb that sycamore tree again? I always forget.
Moi: Because Jesus he wanted to see. That was the next line in the song! He climbed onto a sycamore tree because Jesus he wanted to see. Obviously, you did not get very far in Sunday school. Zacchaeus, you come down, I'm coming to your house today!
Alan: No, Jesus and Zacchaeus had tea. I'm coming to tea today.
Moi: What!? Jesus did not have tea! Jesus want to his house. Jesus was not British!
Elle: He was a white, bearded American, right?
Moi: Of course, he was.

Tactless Attacks

One thing my morning with the Queen (ok, the Queen's summer palace) taught me about royalty is that they are not subtle people. Take the story of Mary Queen of Scots. Her husband, jealous of her relationship with her Italian secretary (why was he Italian? She was raised in France, briefly queen of France and Scotland, considered by some to have deserved the English crown- and her secretary is Italian?), plotted for the secretary's murder. Except 'plot' really isn't the right word to use. One day, while the secretary and the Queen were eating, the jealous Lord Darnley (you don't become King if you mary a Queen, only the other way around) barged in with his people and started to drag the secretary away. When that proved difficult, what with the secretary clutching onto the Queen's dress and fighting for his life and all, the King and his people stabbed him right then and there. Lamest murder ever.

Where was the shock? The betrayal? The ingenius getaway? You can't just storm around and stab people in daylight!

Crisis Averted

I don't know if you have this system. But if you don't, I suggest you adopt this immediately. It's the best way to go.

I always have a stash of emergency socks. There is always one pair of new socks, or almost-new socks, that I do not break in or regularly wear.

And yesterday, I needed my emergency socks. As in, all of my other socks have either disappeared or become incredibly, incredibly dirty. Let's not dwell on why. They were just gone. But the thing is, I couldn't find my emergency socks. So I had to wear my pair of almost-too-small ankle socks. But then, miracle of miracles! I found my emergency socks. And my feet were kept clean.

The End.

Perfect Ten

There's a Chinese adage that articulates the perfection of the number ten in a better way, but it doesn't translate well.

So I lied about not having time to update. Well, that's not true. I really don't have the time. But I prefer this to studying.

Anyway, here is one more reason to be nostalgic about childhood, from today's NYT:

According to Professor Karmen, 10 is the safest age. "You're too old to be abused or neglected as a child," he said, "and you're not old enough to be out on the streets."

Too Sexy For Your Love

So I have about thirty stories I still haven't shared. And I would like to. Especially since this place has been seriously lacking in the anecdote department lately. But the thing is, this girl, is here for a visit:
Yesterday, we embarassingly held up signs made from the backs of envelopes and coloured with highlighters (well, do you pack posters and markers when you study abroad?) to welcome her at the train station. Fi and Heather could have killed me for the awkward humiliation I subjected them, but hey, I was undaunted. The chances of me running into someone I knew at the train station were far, far slimmer than theirs. Too bad we got there too late and were spotted first. But now, what with showing this girl around town, seriously underpreparing for my important exam, sleep, and quite possibly subjecting myself to a climb Saturday morning, despite still being out of shape and out of breath, I won't have a lot of time for you the next few days. Just a heads up. I know. I'm sorry, too. But I've got people to see. Like the Queen. Today, we will hang out at the Palace (the summer one) and I will present her the greatest birthday present ever, second only to lightening reaction- frozen peas.

But This Is My Surprise Face

I. Love. My. Generation.
And thank you, New York Times, for capturing it all in your detached, and disinterested* tone.

*Insert PuMan lecture on difference between disinterested and uninterested.

In today's piece on My Super Sweet 16:

"We both want to lose three pounds," said Priya, who received a Mercedes convertible and an assortment of diamond jewelry for her birthday. Her sister's graduation gift package included a Bentley, diamonds and two homes in India.

"I was really surprised," Divya said, "because I was only expecting a Bentley and one house."

Flash Dance

Just about the best game ever. And last night, that, was how we spent our time at small group, which ran a marathon 4 hours. To be fair, most of it was spent talking, shocking each other, and decorating cakes, but we did mention Jesus and pray, too, thus making it a legit small group gathering. The game is so simple it's a wonder why no one has thought of it sooner: four players gather around, each holding a controller, and waiting for a green light to flash. When it does, the last person to press the controller gets an electric shock (can be set from low, medium, to high). I didn't even know that was legal. The music is painful, as is the suspense, and the shock tingles or numbs depending on setting and how many times you've been shocked. Just ask Hannah. She'll tell you all about it. Oh, my eyes have been opened. I cannot wait to try out the Extreme version when I go home. Somebody buy me an early Christmas/birthday present, please. Last night, as the game was being unwrapped (it was Andy's birthday. This month. I gave him a toy car that cost 10p and Kaz showed me up by buying the best present ever- batteries included!), all the girls shrieked as Alan tried to act stoic and not scared. He said something about speedy video game fingers, but he got shocked a few times, too. Beat that, nerds. What was most fun, however, has got to be the cheating, with Hannah blindfolding Andy so that I would automatically win. And then messing with circuits and holding hands to figure out who would get shocked. I don't konw why I kept volunteering to see how circuits complete. I was a bit fried by the end of the night, but it was freaking awesome. Did I just write a senseless rant about a toy? I think I did. But seriously, have you played this game?

Just Say Well, Maybe

It's an hour before my exam. Breafast? Study? No, I'm updating. Because this will help me ace the exam, of course. Whatever, I don't care. Just woke up from a dream about taking the MCAT so I'd rather not think about school for a few minutes.















Maybe I should just move here to the UK, where they're a lot more chill about being a doctor. (5 years out of high school and presto, Bob's your uncle and you're a healer.) They're also a lot more chill about taking drugs. Because it's ok if you do them as long as you don't drive afterwards. What, drinking? This is Scotland. I don't think they have an alcohol unit in their health education.



















The Scots really capture what makes America great and proud- coffee. That's the real essence and flavors of America. Let's not aim for Columbian or anything, just coffee as good as they make it in America.

It Can Touch The Sky

Over the weekend, touring the Highlands of Scotland once again, I thought a lot about this land. I have concluded that Scotland lacks initiative. This can be a beautiful country if only it puts its mind to it.










































See? Some of the most beautiful landscape I have ever seen. And this from a kid that's seen most of Sri Lanka, Taiwan, and the US. Scotland can be charming, too, with its highland cows (cowbacca) and sheep. This weekend, we got in several "highland traffic jams" as sheep crossing the road held up our tour buses.














But for Scotland to be a truly great tourist attraction, it has to try a little harder. Castles, for instance, should be interesting both inside and outside. Battlefields should perhaps only be attractions if they actually impacted history in some faint way and most importantly, the weather should be clear for more than three hours a day and at least two days a week. Because wretched weather conditions cancel hiking plans and photo-ops, and create conditions hazardous even for walking, like yesterday:


















More stories on the weekend. From weeks past. And how I have trouble with hostel breakfasts, will trickle in sometime in the near future. Exams are upon me, as are springtime, laziness, and things to do, so we'll see.