What I am saying here is this: 99% of the people who read this blog have had time fly in their lives, been in another country, or both. More than likely, both have happened. I don’t feel like preaching to the choir.

The only thing I feel like writing about are some the people I have encountered here, two in particular. I will not use their full names because they do not know I am writing this and I do not want them feeling uncomfortable if they find out I have. I will call them M&M because their first names both start with M. I am incredibly lucky that I met these two people and their friends. They made me feel completely welcome from the first moment I met them and I can’t imagine Timisoara without them now. I have been here 3 weeks but I already know that I will miss them dearly whenever my time here is over.

They invited me to their church, introduced me to their friends and made any lingering homesickness vanish. There is something comforting about being around people that you know are good all the way through and that helped me tremendously. The time I spend with them and their friends is not all hunky dory, however. The language barrier is utterly frustrating at times. I am pretty sure they all speak at least some English but they are periods of time where I hear nothing but Romanian. I mean, hours of Romanian and only a few comments my way in English that let me know what’s going on. It can be really taxing sometimes.

Don’t get me wrong, I know that it would be completely selfish of me to expect them to speak English all the time just because I am around and I do not expect them to. I am just expressing my frustrations at the language barrier. I have begun trying to teach myself Romanian to alleviate this problem but it is a complicated language, especially for a guy who is terrible at learning new languages. I have been offered the opportunity to take some Romanian lessons and I will be definitely be taking that up!

Anyways, the real reason I decided to write this post was because of an email I received from M&M about an hour ago. I quote:

“You know….it’s probably a cliche to say  ’you ended up here in Romania for a reason’,  but in your case, I strongly feel that it’s more than just a cliche if I say that. Seriously..it’s weird..I just feel that you will get some unique experience from this year you’ll spend here, something that will change you and that will influence your journey from here on… Just don’t let it pass by..”

I won’t!

Now that the non-believers have filtered out after that bunker buster of a topic, we can get to business. Thanks for sticking with me. I’m in Republic, Missouri tonight after a long day of being awesome. My day started out in Osawatomie, Kansas, which was the site of a particular battle against pro-slavery forces and free-staters during “Bleeding Kansas” prior to the Civil War. John Brown led a small group of badasses against a substantially larger group of badasses, and lost. That’s fine and dandy but it’s pretty well-worn territory as far as marginal battles go. What really got me wet was the Pottawatomie Massacre just a few miles west of Osawatomie.

You see, Kansas was the epicenter of epic-ness during the 1850′s and John Brown wanted a piece of the action. In 1856, the town of Lawrence, Kansas was a hot bed of abolitionism and needed to be taught a lesson, at least that’s what Sheriff Samuel Jones thought. He formed a posse of border ruffians and went to give Lawrence a spanking. It wasn’t a “this is going to hurt me more than you” type of spanking, but more of a “this is going to feel so good on the palm of my hand as I spank you” type of spanking. As far as spankings and metaphors go, Lawrence’s first spanking was a deep tissue massage compared to the spanking that happened there 7 years later by William Quantrill. (Over one-hundred and fifty were killed during the Lawrence Massacre.)

Back to Brown. The first Lawrence spanking ignited a furor in Brown that could only be quenched with MURRRRDERRRRR. So John Brown wrangled up a couple of his sons, which wasn’t hard considering he had over 20 to choose from…no joke, and set out for revenge. John was all like, “Gunz R Gay” and decided to use BROADSWORDS. That’s right, Brown decided to use weapons that hadn’t been used since roughly 1600 A.D. Do you know what a broadsword looks like? It looks like this:

don't bring a gun to a broadsword fight.

John Brown was a bad-ass. Now, it isn’t known whether he actually partook in the hacking of 7 men in Franklin County, but he supposedly put a bullet into the head of one of the men to make sure he was dead. Do you know what this means? They had guns with them but still chose to use FREAKING BROADSWORDS to start the festivities.

Now, I drove to Franklin County this morning in an attempt to locate a few of the massacre sites but had no luck. I tried, to the point of desperation, to find the sites but luck wasn’t in the passenger seat. I asked roughly 10 people if they knew of the locations but only got vague answers and shifty glances. The main problem is that the sites people do know of are on private property and, considering this regions history, I didn’t think it would be wise to test their patience. I did anyways. I drove on some back roads and knocked on some doors and was eventually pointed towards the house of a man named Albert.

I drove down an unassuming gravel road, rounded a bend, and saw Albert’s house. I pulled up, got out, and was met by literally 15 cats. It was intimidating to say the least. Albert wasn’t home so I drove further down the road in a last ditch attempt to locate the areas that would undoubtedly make my heart flutter. I came to a private drive that wound against a hay field on its left and tall oaks on its right. I honestly thought I was pushing my luck considering I wasn’t even on a road anymore but a driveway instead. I eventually came to a house and started walking up to the house to knock on the door. Timing is everything, apparently, and I managed to catch the proprietor of the property pulling out of his driveway. I ran up to his driver side window, introduced myself, and told him about my plight. Wouldn’t you know it, he just happened to own property that 2 of the men in the massacre were murdered on. Sadly, he had just undergone major surgery and didn’t think he was physically able to show me the area…this time.

We exchanged phone numbers and he told me he would ask around to see if someone else could show me the other sites until he was well enough to do the same with me. He called me 2 hours later, bless his heart, and gave me…wait for it…ALBERT’S phone number. I told him I had stopped by Albert’s house already but he wasn’t home. How serendipitous. I called Albert and if all goes well, I will be visiting areas that only a few have visited since the actual massacre. I am awesome.

I have a long drive tomorrow but it will be completely worth it. Sorry for the book. Not.

1. The Yankees
2. The Yankees
3. Their arrogance (Citizens and members of the Yankees)
4. Rudy Giuliani
5. I don’t like any city that is named after its state
6. Gov. David Paterson (He is a double minority, black and blind)
7. Cash Cab
8. The Yankees

Why would I want to visit it then? Because I want to be able to make fun of it within city limits. Durrrr. Long ago, I almost had the opportunity to visit this fabled city that was named after York, England. I personally prefer New Amsterdam (where’s your song now, Jay-Zzzzzzzzzzzz?) It was nineteen-hundred and ninety-six and I was a mere ten years old considering I was born in nineteen-hundred and eighty-six. Our family was bombing around the Eastern U.S. on a road trip and we managed to hit all of the hot-spots: Boston, Maine, Niagara Falls, Cape Cod, etc. We did not go to NYC. Why?

My memory has apparently faded quite a bit, but the reason is due to a large rift in our family. This rift is Basketball. My mother and sister think that the Indiana Pacers are the absolute TOPS! More specifically, Reginald Miller, or Reggie (GAY). They love him more than they love love. I don’t know if they truly realize how big of a douchebag he was but that is another post entirely. You see, Reginald and his Pacers had a substantial rivalry with Patrick Ewing and his New York Knickerbottoms (or something) and this is where the family rift shows its ugly head.

I’m a Chicago Bulls fan and think know that Michael Jordan is the greatest that ever was and will ever be, but he got cocky (rightly so) and decided to retire from Basketball and play Baseball. Big mistake? Yes. The reason his absence is so important is because it allowed other teams to compete for the NBA championship. This is where the Pacers and Knicks come in. Long story short, Reginald got lit up in the playoffs by the Knicks in 94 but came back a year later and beat the Knicks. Big deal, right? I mean, the Houston Rockets won the championship twice during Jordan’s absence. Houston Shmuston. In our family, the Knicks are hated upon by my mother and sister without a doubt, but the Knicks biggest fan is hated upon even more. Spike Lee.

Our road trip was going along nicely. We had a new badass Suburban with TWO ROWS OF SEATS, not counting the driver and passenger seats. We were ballin, for sure. This is where the family rift ultimately affected my future.

The decision was made to not go to NYC because:

1. Spike Lee lived there
2. My sister (Courtney) did not have any of her Pacer gear with her and this goes with number 3
3. My sister was afraid she would run into Spike Lee on the streets of NYC and not have her Pacer shirt on when she decided to talk shit. (And she would have)

I am completely serious about our decision to not go to NYC. In hindsight, that seems like an absolutely absurd reason to not go to NYC and this is coming from the guy who hates it but I still have a rich desire to walk within its city limits and say, “Go Red Sox!” I do. I do. I do-o-o-o-oo. This revelation of our decision to not go to NYC has given me one reason to love the city:

1. Spike Lee

Aren’t family rifts FUN?!

Stephen Sommers directs movies. He is most widely known for directing The Mummy and The Mummy Returns. I’ll be honest with you when I say that I thoroughly enjoyed both movies. I love a good action-adventure story; I do not care how far-fetched the story is. Stephen’s grasp on storytelling might be minimal, but good lord can he do action. He’s like Michael Bay if Michael Bay went to film school.

The reason I wrote this blog is because I just grimaced through The Mummy: Tomb of the Dragon Emperor. Stephen Sommers did not direct it, Rob Cohen did. It was absolutely god-awful. I wanted to enjoy it, I really did, but I couldn’t. I even tried to convince myself that having the story, with the title: The Mummy, take place in China could work. It did not, at all, whatsoever. Problem number one. The script. Who interprets the script? The director. I do not want to get ahead of myself so I will discuss the script first.It appears to be clever. Everyone knows about the terra-cotta army in China and so on and so forth. The problem is trying to expand the franchise into something that has absolutely nothing to do with…here it is…MUMMIES.

Mummies are from Egypt. Terra-cotta armies are from China. Big difference, huge difference. That is why the first two movies worked and, lest not forget, were so successful. I could write an entire new blog on the Box-office receipts of the first two films, unadjusted and adjusted for ticket inflation, but I will not do so here.

The script is why the movie sucked. Seems obvious, but you obviously do not understand Hollywood. Rob Cohen (the director) did what he could, God bless him, but he did a terrible job. Aside from having a Mummy story take place in China, they had Rachel Weisz replaced by Maria Bello. I wanted to shoot her and then shoot myself. She did not fit, at all. I am well aware that I was used to Rachel Weisz, therefore making it difficult to accept Maria Bello, but she was just annoying and God-awful. The other actors (Brendan Fraser and John Hannah) clearly needed some money and assumed that Rob Cohen would have a similar vision to Sommers.

Yetis. The stupid guardian of the Dragon Emperor (who is a terrible ninja, and a girl no less), is able to summon three Yetis in the Himalayas? I am about to shit inside of the cloth that resides upon the interior of my pant leg. Is she completely dense? Yetis are hairy…so she should  just summon them, shave their bodies, and have THEM guard the Dragon Emperor. Then she can go to her stupid prom. If it gets too hot for the shaved Yetis, just plug in some freaking fans. The worst case scenario would be that they are hot and absolutely miserable so if any cocky archeologist thinks they are about to make some huge discovery and change history would ultimately be met by some pissed off hairless Yetis who want to literally disembowel EVERYTHING that comes before them. Problem solved. No more Paramilitary troops trying to find some dumbass gem to bring Jet-Li to life. The thought that three pissed of Yetis are guarding him is enough to find another profession. MOVIE OVER!

Oh wait…Rick has a dumbass son. This makes sense because he becomes interested in the dumbass guardian of the Dragon Emperor (still a girl, though I wouldn’t be surprised it it ’twere a man). Alex O’Connell is a smug little bitch who thinks he is above the law. He is. Wait, ok yeah he is kind of badass. Moving on… Alex is all like, “Dad, my guns are better.” and Rick O’Connell is all like, “Hey, son, shut up.” Case closed. And oh yeah, Alex just so happens to know Chinese (Ancient and Modern).

Let’s just say I did not like this movie. Also, I am tired of writing about it…I should really learn how to end a post because

Seeing the indentation of the fingers that penned some of greatest speeches and documents in American history left me in a state of awe. I was also able to look at a lock of his hair and his very own blood; this being the blood on the gloves he wore to Ford’s Theater. It was really an emotional moment for me. Then I went to his grave.

Wow. I think I will have trouble describing the feeling it gave me. The air in his tomb felt heavy, clearly weighted down by his place in history. I walked through the corridors, past the many different statues of the man, and felt light-headed. Barring the fact that he is not actually in the marble sarcophagus on the floor but buried 10 feet under it by concrete with Mary and his sons, it was still incredibly emotional to look at. (the empty sarcophagus). I know that he was only a man, but to be honest, the experience bordered spiritual. I literally got high from it. I know it sounds pathetic to get so caught up in just one person, but I am happy it was Father Abe and not freaking Lady Gaga, John Mayer, or some other moron who will be forgotten about in 10 years. Even if Gaga and Mayer are remembered in 100 years, it will still be 150 years less than Lincoln. Suck it.

I need an idea that conforms to the mindset that I am currently in. My current mindset is that of confusion. This confusion stems from a particular mindset that has been forcefully ingrained into the very fibers of my brain. Let us delve deeper into this psyche…

I wake up. The night has been long, The light coming through my window tells me this. My phone is ten feet out of my reach. It seems to be light out. I seem to be wide awake. The light that streams through my window gives me the impression that it is 7:00 a.m. I literally debated the decision to get out of my bed and walk the ten feet to my phone to see what time it was or throw the pillow back over my head and not give a shit. I checked my phone. It was 4:00 a.m. I felt deceived by nature. The fact that I assumed it was 7 in the morning was met harshly by the depressing realization that snow reflects light. Light can be a fickle thing. Light from our nearest star takes 4.3 years to reach our collective beady eyes. The light that I was witnessing came from a security light. The light from this inconsequential beacon traveled from its source, bounced off the newly laid snow, and traveled into my room, through my eyelids, and into my brain. It woke me. I was awoken. I was confused. I was angry.

This particular light was apparently blinding. I assumed that is was blinding because my eyes had been shut for an extended period of time and the sudden light made them unhappy. The motion of my legs from the bed, across the ten foot expanse, to the phone, and back again, gave me the realization that I hated winter.

I eventually went back to my bed and began to ponder human emotion. My bed is confined to my body and my body is too big for my bed. I am tall, but not incredibly tall. I am average. My emotions had nothing to do with the average height of my particular age group. When I began to ponder human emotion, I really only pondered mine.

I laid back down into my bed and really thought about my future. I had no future. If you think that the future is any period of time beyond your current time, you are wrong. The future is something you can’t control. The future is not deciding to go to bed at a certain time or deciding on what you will eat for dinner; the future is the unknown, therefore inconsequential.

I just re-read that last paragraph and my brain detonated in a ball of detonated balls that detonated only when balls detonate.

My life has been incredibly blessed beyond anything that I can comprehend. I am literally to the point where expressing gratitude seems pathetically inept and not worth explanation. I am still thankful.

I laid back down on the bed that couldn’t contain my legs and tried to fall asleep. My mind drifted into a state of unconsciousness.

I dreamed that I was running. It started as a walk, then jog, then run. The run seemed slow at first but progressed into a glide. My strides elongated to the point where I was no longer running, but flying. I flew up to incredible heights. I dodged looks, I dodged thoughts. I swooped up and down and all around. I laughed…I literally remember laughing. It felt as if I was gliding effortlessly through the air, almost in a fashion that could only be relived by looking at dolphins swim.

I was genuinely happy. This elation was met by uncertainty, however. I remember actually thinking in my dream what would happen if I forgot how to fly. I wanted to go higher, but was held back by uncertainty. I realized that I am confined even in my dreams. That is a terrible feeling. It is almost earth-shattering. It is never fun to wake up depressed.

It is easy to think that dreams force a certain mindset that can be easily confused by the conscious mind but I honestly think that dreams have meaning. Like I mentioned, my previous dream had me flying, only to be shot down by uncertainty. I completely agree with my over-analytical brain in that regard, I worry too much, I worry about a ridiculous amount of things that had absolutely zero impact on my day to day life. I need to sabotage my dreams in that sense.

I am so pent up on a stable career, decent income (and benefits) and other material matters that I am completely missing the picture. This picture has nothing to do with you. It is my picture, completely mine.

I had woken up depressed. I am going to bed encouraged.

Yeah, I texted 90999 to the American Red Cross to help Haiti…thankfully I will be able to sleep well on top of my cushy mattress where I will be able to cross the hall in case I need to use the restroom or walk downstairs in case I am feeling hungry, well…not even hungry, I just feel like eating. I will sleep well with an empty bladder and full stomach and the satisfaction that I took 5 seconds out of my lazy day to text 5 numbers to help people that would literally do anything to be in my predicament.

I feel utterly worthless. I was brought up in a society that champions hard work, selfishness, and greed. But wait…if I am a good person and go to Church, the good things that result in those attributes are considered blessings. I am completely fed up with the American Dream. “I went to grade school to go to middle school. I went to middle school to go to highschool. I went to highschool to go to college. I went to college to get a career. I got a career so I can retire. I retired so I can finally do all those things that I dreamed of doing when I was young and able.” How backwards is that!?

If anyone that read this actually donated to Haiti, I do not mean to put down those actions. This is just my weird way of dealing with this absurdly ridiculous society that we were born into. Money is the culprit, and now that I am running out of it, I see how worthless it really is.

While my Dad and I were in the wilderness of northern Arizona, a group of political activists known as the Tea Party had their first convention. As you all know, the keynote speaker was “populist” (LOLZ) Sarah Palin.

Actually, we were staying at a lodge at Jacob Lake, AZ the night before we were supposed to start our hike in the Grand Canyon and were able to watch most of her speech. She claimed that her $100,000 speakers fee was a mere formality and would all go back to the movement…but something had to pay for her exorbitant travel expenses and *cough* private jet *cough*.

What Sarah Palin and the GOP are doing is hijacking a fundraising movement started in 2007-08 by supporters of Ron Paul. The same people who lambasted Paul and his ideas then are using them now for political gain. The Tea Party has turned into nothing more than a subsidiary of the Republican Party now and Palin…Palin will continue to use her clout in the movement as well as her own mainstream “gotcha” media outlet (Fox News, where she was named a regular contributor) to garner more and more support for her eventual run for President in 2012 (And she will, God save us).

As the sun rose the next morning, we were greeted by a few feet of snow outside the lodge. We were at 7,000 feet and figured by the time we descended the few thousand feet from the summit to the lower elevations, the snow would be gone or close to. It wasn’t. We weren’t even able to make it to the trailhead at the base of Saddle Mountain. If we had made it, there would have been a hike through knee to waist high snow up the mountain until he reached the Nankoweap trailhead at the rim of the Grand Canyon. Beyond that would have been a mystery, or close to anyways. You see, my Dad and I previously hiked up Saddle Mountain through knee high snow during my freshman year of college. The snow was powdery enough to make the hike manageable, albeit exhausting. When we finally reached the rim, we looked into the magnificent Grand Canyon and noticed snow all the way at the bottom. We turned back, smartly.

This time, the snow was old, having accumulated over a period of a month or so and was not powdery, but crusty. It would have been hell to trudge through, not to mention that it was becoming increasing hard to drive in the stuff on the access road we were on. We did not even make it to the trailhead. We turned back again, smartly.

This left me more time to ponder the course of recent history. Sarah Palin’s speech rested inside my mind like bad nights sleep, even though I slept well the night before. People are absolute sheep. They will cheer at the negative comments made by Palin about Obama using a teleprompter yet turn a blind eye to her using her OWN HAND as a teleprompter, dubbed “hand-prompter”. You can see her refer to it as she was asked questions by the moderator. Ridiculous. Oh, and by the way, the questions she was asked were already pre-screened by her people so Palin could have an idea of what to say. This makes her hand scrawling even more absurd. Wake up people. It’s not about being Conservative or Liberal, Republican or Democrat; it’s about not being, as Rahm Emanuel and Rush Limbaugh so eloquently put it: “Retards”.