Out where the fields are warm and dry

I have recently discovered letterboxing – a sort of orienteering game where someone hides a container/box in a public area and leaves clues for other letterboxers to find it. These clues can be found online or through word of mouth.

Inside the hidden letterbox is a notebook which the finder stamps with his own stamp. It also contains a stamp which the finder uses to make a mark in his own notebook.

The photo at the top isn't a letterbox; just a mailbox that I thought was funny.

Quote of the Day: "There is a curious paradox that no one can explain: who understands the secrets of the reaping of the grain? Who understands why spring is born out of winter's laboring pain, or why we all must die a bit before we grow again?"
–El Gallo, The Fantasticks

A moment with Chris

My world, she is crumbling. Since coming to Austin for the 2009/2010 holiday season I have been stripped of the primary tenets of my sacred routine. I am left adrift and undefined. Long the pioneer of romantic entanglement among my siblings, hacking through young love with a careless machete, I have suddenly been surpassed by not one but two siblings. Dear William has found himself a bright young thing in Morocco (which is, as they say, for lovers) who shares his sense of adventure and altruism. She is, he says, "The best thing since the White Album". Words of such magnitude are rarely heard from anyone not currently governing a country. Hannah as well drinks from the sweet nectar of twitterpation, though her venue of amour is that most treacherous gorge of college sweetheartship; a cruel mistress that beckons the stragglers of the pack- the weak, slow, hopelessly romantic, and those not yet properly scarred by high school affairs. I must add at this point that I myself fell prey to this brightly-plumaged beast my Freshman year, courting a native lass for nearly a full three years of university studentship. How my heart collapses like a horse who's run over a landmine to hear this. Dear, sweet, simple Hannah. Did I not teach you well enough the perils of this world?

Mind you, the lad seems like an upstanding sort- about par for the course in this generation; friendly (if somewhat aloof), well-raised, without sharp edge or acerbic tone; and either a truly good sport in terms of meeting a girl's family or just very, very desperate to get Hannah time. Either way, I commend his indefatigable efforts. To young Squire Karl I say this: Hannah comes encumbered, more than most, with a singularly trying family. Prepare for weirdness on a grand and savage scale; the likes of which are probably enough to turn your pretty little eyes to coal, curl your shampooed little hair, and give it some company on, say, your chest. Namely, son, strap in. We Stewarts are like a rare gem: half of the value is in the blood sweat and dear-mother-they're-crazy-what-have-I-gotten-into-she-said-they-were-weird-but-I-thought-she-was-utilizing-hyperbole tears spent in obtaining said gem, in this case, Hannah. What? You think of her as an object, some treasure to be won? Shame on you. Go beg mercy of whatever gods ye call your own.

I find myself unable to write my usual material here. Too happy. Too content, sober, fulfilled, well-adjusted, and overall healthy. I have had to move all of my screenwriting efforts to my one (thank goodness I had one) comedic project. I simply can't access my darker chambers without a cold, hellishly lonely room, a slew of academic and social woes, and a few warm drops to put a shiver back in my face and circles 'neath the old eyes. Without these things I am artistically inert. Comedy is not my forte, and I have been forced (though happily!) to outsource my shallow well of humor to dear sister Siobhan, who will henceforth be assisting me with "Illuminati!: The Musical", a co-written screenplay that will plunge the unmined depths of humor to be found in...Freemasonry. As well as, of course, journalism.

Alas, I am called to clean the house. More to come.

Punch in, punch out

My anti-terrorism plan. After reading about the latest aviatory terrorism attempt, I have come up with my own plan to prevent in-flight terrorism: Put everyone asleep for the whole flight. That's right, knock them out. If everybody is unconscious, nobody will be able to set off a detonator mid-flight.

Admittedly this idea was spurred from personal reasons -- after this summer's flight of doom, I developed a serious fear of flying. My mother blames my father for introducing me to websites like airdisaster.com, which has everything you want to know about plane crashes throughout history--including transcripts of black box conversations.

But even after airdistaster, I was a fine flier until I was on a plane this summer and saw (what I thought was) the engine exploding and was positive we were all going to die. Now I can't stand flying at all. Which is peachy, because I still fly waaaay more than any normal person should, and I don't intend to stop. Naturally, I decided that the only solution to this was to be anesthetized during the whole ordeal. And if I'm going under, why not everyone? Plane-rides can be a thing of the past; literally a pleasant dream.

Anyways, I'm hoping that my blog comes up on some sort of secret service scan because I used the word "terrorism" three times, and whoever reads it will pass on my plan. They could even have fun with it, and use little pills to knock passengers out. The pills can be blue or red for Matrix fans.

***

For the next post, my brother Christophe will be guest blogging.

Dress it up or dress it down

Family Christmas has been unique this year. My 18-year-old sister has taken a lover, and the family has subsequently been divided between Marx supporters and suppressors, much like the U.S.S.R. in the 50's--including the suppression of free speech (but with more access to groceries.)

Marx is his nickname for the purposes of this blog, as apparently my sister doesn't want her situation broadcast over the internet. I would have ignored this request in the search for truth, but she's the only person who consistently reads my blog, and so I pander. Pander with a purpose.

Basically, my sister met Mr. Marx her college in Michigan, adhering to the age-old truth that all people fall in love once during freshman year. Of course, not all people have to constantly text and message and skype with said love during holiday family time.

The long and short of it is that she has ruined Christmas. Well, not really, but that's what we tell her -- it's a beautifully pointed insult. Basically, my father has flipped a lid at the idea of his little girl meeting a man, and the rest of us have been forced to talk about everything in hushed tones lest he hear and go into a rampage about how he can't trust anyone.

One of my brothers is here (the other is in Morocco), and he jumps between siding with my father in his belligerence, and being mildly curious. Mostly he tries to exploit the situation for his entertainment, which, all things considered, is really quite reasonable.

On the bright side, the whole situation has provided me with many memorable quotes to plaster on my blog. Plaster with no purpose. These include the following:

My brother to Mr. Marx: "Have you ever picked up your teeth with broken fingers?" (Best Skype conversation ever.)

mumsie: "My dad never treated you like this!"
father: "Your dad was just happy someone would take you!"

And so on.

So what say you? Does my sister deserve her chance at young love with her floppy haired swimmer/musician/looks like Jim from The Office bloke?

if that ain't love

The following is a family discussion sparked by Emma's Himalayan rice dish.

mumsie: "But the pain is worth it"

chris: "The pain is never worth it."

mumsie: "If the pain isn't worth it...then none of you would be here"

chris: "I thought you had all these painless childbirths and that's why your kids should have children."

mumsie:"No. You learn to control the pain."

chris: "Oh, like a Jedi?"

mumsie: "whatever."

Caveat: In my search for an appropriate Jedi picture to dress this post, I discovered Wookieepedia, the Star Wars Wikipedia. I think in my heart of hearts I had known that such a site existed, but it was still nice to discover it.

Shopping Blues (it was early)

well i went to the store one day
looking for twinkies or something else
but i didn't seem to find them
so i decided to just go to a different store
different aisle i mean (yeah that’s what I meant)
same store

and i don't wanna go don't wanna go (x2)
just wanna stay just wanna stay (x2)
i can't get enough of this store

so i decided to look down the aisle
looking for something to make me smile
but i can't seem to find it
so decided to make a house
out of what
out of what i saw
cornstarch and canned peas

cornstarch and canned peas

and i don't wanna go don't wanna go (x2)
just wanna stay just wanna stay (x2)

I can't get enough of this store

so now i couldn't buy the house so i decided to build a tent
why would there be houses in the store anyways i thought to myself....
so I thought about war, I thought about struggles I thought about WAR

and i don't wanna go don't wanna go (x2)
just wanna stay just wanna stay (x2)

we're still going...

enter slow part:

you can't end a song on war
and war is too sad to think about today
sometimes i just wanna crawl into a hole
but i'd rather crawl into your arms
into your arms, to your arms, into your arms
...

into your sweet sweet sugary arms
this song is not dedicated to ....

not dedicated to …

what's that ticking noise?

Yesterday I arrived home to find that my family had gone green in my absence. My family, which has always been paranoid of healthy food tasting badly. My family, which as a collective shudders away from anything "light" or "diet" as being inferior in taste. We'd rather have the calories.

These are the people who freaked out when we accidentally got 1 percent milk. These people include my parents, who, if not outright pooh-poohing global warming and shrinkage, certainly had great skepticism toward the topics.

This summer, Llama and I bought broccoli for a meal we were cooking. We inadvertently bought organic broccoli and freaked out when we got home, spending 10 minutes picking minuscule black bugs off the vegetables before giving up and boiling them. We served them to the rest of the oblivious family as we carefully avoided eating them ourselves.

So it was with some surprise that I opened our fridge to find organic milk and cream yesterday.
Apparently the surprise was not universal. I asked Emma, my 16 year old sister (hi!), who lives at home, what brought the change on.

"We were filling the hole you and Hannah left when you went to college," was her first reply. And then: "We didn't go organic. America went organic, so we jumped in..." This must have seemed to serious, and she got silly again.
"We came out of the closet, we were always organic deep inside." She then mentioned something about how we didn't have much access to organic food in Egypt.

Had I misjudged my family all this time? No. But maybe they had more green potential than I gave them credit for.