BSG: Everyone Is So Angry

There's a lot of angst in the world, for some reason. No one really ever seems able to get rid of their angst. I assume that if we found a way to eliminate angst, then there wouldn't be either any entertainment or need for entertainment. In this respect, angst in a good thing.


Even in the future, there's a lot of angst. Cheif (who is no longer Cheif, but now Petty Officer Tyrol), Tigh, Adama, Roslin, Baltar - these are all very angsty people.


Take the Cheif for example. He's swamped with greif over his wife's suicide, thinking that it was his position as a Cylon that drove her to such (when really, it was not a suicide, but murder). So angsty is he that, in a dramatic turn from the beginning funeral, where he spoke up one side and down the other on how Callie was the light of his eye, the spring in his step, the dead skin cells in his hair, et cetera, he goes on a drunken tirade, and claims that Callie was a form of settling, that he was really supposed to be with Boomer and that Callie represented a life chosen from a limited stock, a life forced upon him. As a result of his defaming Callie, the Admiral demotes him.

Tyrol has always been one of my favorite characters, simply because his emotions were pretty well guarded. Besides one second season episode, detailing his fear that he, too, is a Cylon (which, wink wink, was true), he was very clouded - his relationship with Callie even more so. I'm not sure what to make of his ramblings - whether or not we're supposed to believe that Callie was settling, and as replusive as he described - but it was a speech I had been waiting for.

Tigh, still trying to find his way without anyone knowing he's lost, attaches himself to the Number Six. He wants to know how to cope with guilt, with everything from Ellen, the wife he murdered, to his own position as a Cylon. Guilt seems to be to Battlestar was fate is to LOST - the overarching theme. The show's supposed to be, underneath, about humanity dealing with guilt. Guilt equals angst, and so on. Six, instead, launches into a speech on her love for Baltar. Tigh hallucinates and sees his Ellen giving the same speech, making Tigh and Baltar interchangable, at least to the women they love.

Oh, and then Tigh asks Six to hit him as hard as she can.

Baltar, angst because his cult was being raided by the ominous sounding Sons of Ares, fights the man. He storms a local church service, acting like Jesus driving out the merchants, and points out something that many people gloss over: Zeus was, in fact, a serial rapist. But he's doing much of this initial stuff against his will. He's actually forced by his hallucinations to march upon armed guards, who beat him senseless. This experience, however, fuels his own Sermon on the Mount type speech. Baltar believing in himself? That's scary.

And I listed Roslin as angsty, but that may very well be simply because she is dying. Can't help that. And this episode she felt like she had to point out at every turn that she really was dying. Though this time it is carrying much more weight than last - look, this is a wig. Look, this is my funeral. Look, this is my love. Will Adama and Roslin ever get over their respect angsts to come out and say that? Maybe in the season finale.

IN OTHER NEWS, Tori thinks herself perfect and sans guilt, Tigh and Six start a fight club, Tigh and Six may have started a relationship, and there were three seconds of Starbuck because the producers could not think of any way to fit her in outside of montage.

Will the crew of Galatica ever get over their angst, make amends with their dads, and finally get the girl who's currently dating the cool kid in school? Only My Chemical Romance knows. But, again, I'm assuming everything will be just peachy at the end.

I Find Room In The Stables

Yesterday, I awoke at six in order to catch the first train out of Rome going to Cinque Terre, an Italian national park, which moonlights as the Italian Riviera. I wanted to spend my last weekend abroad in Cinque Terre, alone and all reflective like.

The train I rode on had compartments like a small house, with bedrooms of six seats each and a long hallway running beside. It was so full up that I rode the entire four hours in the hallway, on a makeshift seat in a long line of placeless people, feeling very much like a part of those pictures of rural buses with as many people and chickens sardined in as possible.

Cinque Terre, it turned out, was much the same. The park has five towns, all connected by hiking trails overlooking the ocean, but yesterday, people walked four abreast up and down the trails, so that those on the inside track of the trails couldn't even see the ocean. The trails were paved with people like cobblestones, from American and Germay and Japan and Italy and so on.

Yesterday was Liberation Day, which celebrates the end of the Nazi occupation of Italy. I watched a movie about it once - the occupation, not the end. It was called Open City. It was extremely good. However, my experience with Liberation Day was not so.

After spending the day hiking through a flesh forest of tourists, I turned to the hostel in Cinque Terre, in one of the five cities, Manarola. There was a sign on the door: FULL. Oh. On talking to the proprietor, I found out that there were no rooms to be had in all five towns; he directed me to the neighboring town of La Spezia. So I went to La Spezia, and found that they, too, were completely full up - not a room in town. I did meet two other students, Mack and Maggie, from UC Berkley, who were in the same situation. They suggested going to Florence, and, without any other ideas, I conceded.

I first found that there was no room in the hostel around 7:00. I boarded the train to Florence at 9:20. And it was on this train that someone, no doubt overwhelmed by an intense patriotism brought on by Liberation Day, stole my bag.

So, in addition to the MacBook Pro, RIP Mountain Smith Manny Pack, Jules Verne's Around the World in 80 Days, Ernest Hemingway's A Farewell to Arms, another notebook, a camera, a nalgene, and my passport.

I actually feel a little bad for the thief, who went to so much trouble to snatch my pack, but who doubtlessly felt his heart sink when he opened the bag and found only a few novels, a notebook with notes on the narrative logistics of time travel, and my passport. What seems very precious to me probably didn't carry much weight with him. Thief, whoever you are, I am sorry I didn't have anything better.

Once in Florence, in true California kid fashion, Mack and Maggie abandoned me; I was left to my own devices, which were few now that I had no luggage. It was around midnight. After an hour I ascertained that there were no more rooms in Florence than in Cinque Terre or La Spezia. Liberation Day is a very popular holiday. So I took in as many cups of coffee as possible before being thrown out of a closing bar, and spent the night wandering the streets of Florence, attaching myself to various English speakers, and writing on a few napkins I nymmed from said bar. After the train station opened at 4:00, I found a quiet spot and remained there until my train back to Rome at 5:50.

And so that is how I ended up spending the low point of my semester in a window display case in the train station of Florence, writing on scrap paper and making basic conversation with another homeless man.

The passport will be reissued by the American Embassy, but not until Monday; my flight, which leaves Monday, will have to be changed. With all luck, I'll now be home on Tuesday.

I Cut A Greatest Hits

With only a few days left in Italy, I've already run the entire gambit of leaving sentimentality. I was eager to go home, then eager to leave, afraid to return to a world that passed me by, looking forward to reinserting myself into society, hungry for fried chicken, anxious to watch English television, nostalgic for Italian television, but I have finally come to terms with the separation. I think the mark of all good break ups are a Greatest Hits - not favorite moments or melodramatic cream clouds, but the actual entertainment that gets one through the entire debacle. So here is mine.

Whilst here, I've read around 8000 pages, watched and listened to countless hours of iPod, and I tell you this not trying to top any story, but so that you can understand my newfound position as ne're do well. As it turns out, when you take away my immediate friendset, I'm out of ideas.

I didn't include things like iTunes, the institution of writing, or Luke Holland, simply because they weren't mass marketed entertainment. A good rule of thumb is that the selections have to be able to be preformed in charades. Which is another thing I didn't include on the list, but might be an Honorable Mention.

I also didn't include my computer, because it left me, and I'm still bitter. Since it died, I've been having to post from an internet cafe that's more like a computer closet. I have an account here, under the name Donald Turbo, which is something that I did not instigate. It was an honest mistake by the Indian proprietor. I also didn't include psuedonyms and false prefixes, though I've used a lot of them in traveling, from Captain Cass to Doctor Donald.

And so on.

10) THE AMAZING ADVENTURES OF KAVALIER AND CLAY; Michael Chabon. When my mother came to visit at the beginning of March, she brought this book. It won the Pulitzer or something. Whatever. It was not only a fantastic story about growing up, but it was thick as a stone when it came to the world it took place in. Years, literally years of research went into it before Chabon started writing. That's heroic. Plus, it was suggested to me by Seth Cohen.

9) THE SUMMER BUMMER; episode six of the fourth season of THE O.C. Pivotal episode in THE O.C. canon. It's the point where THE O.C. ceases to be THE O.C. anymore and becomes something wholly different. But I love it. It's the end of all the drama and the true beginning of the end, plus there are some great Seth Cohen moments, and a solid O.C. music montage at the end.

8) GALAPAGOS, BREAKFAST OF CHAMPIONS, and OTHERS; Kurt Vonnegut. I read Kurt Vonnegut's books simply for the prefaces - completely serious. Any Vonnegut books I could find in Rome, in English, I would sit down with and read the preface, where Vonnegut spins so many metaphors so quickly that it all goes over my head, and all I'm left with is what seems like a congenial conversation with a wise, innappropriate friend. I then bought the book. I've actually bought every Vonnegut book I could find in Rome.

7) BATTLESTAR GALATICA; seasons three and four. Though the fourth season only debuted a month ago, I have been watching BSG at intervals scattered across the semester. Before the start of this final season, I watched about half of the third season, choice juicy selections coming from the beginning, middle, and end. And you may ask, why didn't you go outside? You're in Rome! But at this point in the year it was too cold.

6) FEEL THE ILLINOISE; Sufjan Stevens. Stevens may have become my very favorite musician, which is a position I know he has been personally jockeying for, going on a year or two now. Well, congratulations, Sufjan. You did it. You impressed me, with your sly lyrics, your trumpets, and your sublte wisdom. Kudos to you, my friend.

5) HITCHHIKER'S GUIDE TO THE GALAXY; Douglas Adams. I was looking for something else to do (you know, besides walk around Rome starstruck) in the Lionhead Bookstore, the big English bookstore near Piazza Popolo, when I found this box set of the five books of the series. It all went quick and so swimmingly - Adams has a masterful imagination but stops short of seriousness, and, as we all know, seriousness is what keeps science fiction out of the mainstream. Plus, the GUIDE was invaluable when I went to London, for various landmarks it provided.

4) ARMCHAIR APOCRYPHA; Andrew Bird. This album was declared the official album of Rome by the Pope a few weeks ago, right before he went to America and started a Catholic (read: universal) revolution. It has a string section like Bocelli's larynx, and lyrics that fall into the category of "Don't Mean Anything But Sound Like They're Very Deep," which are a favorite of mine. The song Scythian Empires was the official theme song of Rome (so said the Pope).

3) LOST; season four. So season three, yes, it might have drug a little. There were some misfires. And this season, too, has had a few misfires, and several miscues, but these do not usurp the show from it's position as the network arena's Zeus - it is the best show on television, and the Desmond episode early on, The Constant, proved it. Look for a strong finish.

2) DAVID COPPERFIELD and A TALE OF TWO CITIES; Charles Dickens. No one knows more about growing up than Dickens, other than, say, God. And he's a master at telling these type stories, any which way: with a slow moving, cuddly plot in COPPERFIELD or an action story in CITIES. Also, he may very well be the funniest writer that talks as if he's recently turned into Samuel Johnson's dictionary.

1) PUSHING DAISIES; season one. And there's only been one season so far. It returns in the fall. In fact, there's only been nine episodes so far, due to the strike, but I've seen them all. Three times. Yes, in my semester stay, I've watched the entire first season of PUSHING DAISIES three times over. And I love it. It's a fairy tale soap bubble that doesn't pop, and involves drama that provides little unwanted tension, so the show's climaxes can still be watched by smiling faces. If only so the world.

Reading over the record of my semester, it now occurs to me that I may not have gone out of doors much. Well - that may be true. I did visit some monuments, but all that is becoming hazy now. There was a great big...thing...you know what, these things don't matter. I can always look at pictures. I just want to be entertained.

I Am Finished

An hour ago, I finished my schooling here in Rome. At the end of four months, all I can remember now, after about an hour of slipping away, is that the painter Caravaggio killed a man and spent his artistic career on the lam. That's a fact you don't easily forget (neither did the authorities, who hunted him until he died at 35, immediately after being pardoned). However, all other knowledge not tied to interestingly colored anecdotes have passed away, lost in the swirling edies of unconnected thought - no, my mind isn't always disjointed, but it is on most occasions double jointed.

The point is, I've spent a semester learning a trade that I'll only remember by tidbits and fun facts. If I ever return to Rome, I foresee a future staring at various buildings and art pieces, knowing that at one time there was a place in the very back section of my brain, a section cubicle that held all the information pertaining to the art and artisan, yet I'll draw a blank. I will have previously spit out all the pieces that slowed me down and distracted me from distraction. But I guess that's what blank spaces really are: areas of information which we threw overboard in storms, to try and make our heads lighter and concentrate on the things that really interest us, like Caravaggio's off color life. Now that's entertainment.

I haven't lost it all; I have some records, notes and notebooks of what will seem, in a short while, jibberish, but which involve mostly all that I've learned. I've also my sketchbook, which I had to keep for the architecture portion of the program; I had to practice sketching one building and then the next, expanding my understanding of arches and supports and flying buttresses and such (there's something I will remember: the flying buttress. I won't remember what it did, but I sure will remember it).

I had to turn in twenty of those sketches as a part of my final. All the other students, who have been so sketching going on at least four years now, came off with sheets that I would hang on my walls. I cam off with some odder things.

This comes from Hadrian's Villa, in Tivoli, south of Rome. As you can clearly see, Boba Fett was there, flying over the main wall of the courtyard.

These are the apartments of the Garabatella, which people were put in when Mussolini demolished their neighborhoods to make way for his nationalistic boulevards. And yes, that is the Hamburgler there, on the balcony.

This is the view of the Tate Modern in London, from the Millenium Bridge. Honestly, this is as good as it gets. And you may say, that's not a true likeness of the sun, but, have you ever tried to sketch the sun?

And yes, I did turn these in as part of my final grade. Pity me, I dare you.

BSG: And There Shall Be No More Happiness

The Ties That Bind, the third episode of the season, pretty much killed all happiness and good will fostered by the previous showing. Since it's the beginning of the season, I can only guess that it's downhill from here. So, way to go, Battlestar Galatica.

Adama and Roslin made up the same way that they always do: by pretending that nothing ever happened. I swear, there are no apologies needed in the fleet; Lee expounded a little on this theory in Baltar's trial, but pretty much forgiveness is floating around in the air. There's probably a forgiveness ship in tow, processing sins and churning out saints. So, Adama and Roslin are back to buddy buddy old flames, though I'm guessing Adama's son will cause a little rough water. Real sons always have issues with step mothers.

Lee has finally made his last transition from pilot to politician, with was hailed with one of those, I don't know what I'm doing moments, a Mr. Smith Goes to Washington move of standing up in court and saying something that gets shoved right back. Lee here, however, is a little manipulated by Tom Zerek, the current vice president, ex subversive, and former Captain Apollo in the 1970s. Apparently, Roslin's turning the fleet into a facist state, with a Madonna at the lead. Doesn't fly with Lee, who lets freedom ring even with scumbags like Baltar. So he calls her out: with Zerek's help (which is undoubtedly fueled by selfish motivation), Lee reveals Roslin's preliminary plans for a tribunal answerable only to her, with powers to hold and try anyone. Just like the Cylons on New Caprica.

Needless to say, there is little love being lost between Lee and Roslin, at the moment.

Little love lost between the Cylons, too. (Where are these people losing love? Can they find it? Do they need help?) An all out civil war has erupted following the self aware status of the Centurions and the move to unbox D'Anna and find the Final Five. Brother Cavil, who is carrying on a May-December fling with Boomer, ugh...ugh. Oh man. Let me recover.

Brother Cavil pretty much broke bread all over the Six and her crew, in such a way that bread need not be broken no longer: he destroyed the Six controlled ships in an area where downloading, and thus resurrecting, is impossible. How will the wronged party return? Well, they'll find a way. Cavil's too creepy to win. Also, Cavil might in fact be the creator of the Cylon skin jobs. He seems so intent on keeping rank and law that he must have some sort of stake in this beyond what the other models see. But that's wild supposition.

Kara's sewage ship, which somehow hand picked the biggest brains on Galatica, is lost. Actually, it's dirty, and it's lost. The disorder might be the first problem. No one actually thought to clean up the sewage ship before heading out, or even in the down time while traveling. Sewage helmets, and I'm only assuming they are thus, cover the tables where these people eat. That rules out any form of a three second rule. Another explanation might be that there was a raging costume party the night before.

It has been three weeks since they launched, and everyone hates Kara except Sam, who has nothing but puppy love, and Helo, who is incapable of ill will. Kara sits in her private quarters on the space version of the ship from Heart of Darkness, painting pictures and changing her mind. She also likes to mess with Sam's heartstrings, but, let's be honest, he doesn't stand a chance. She's slipping, she tells him, as if her body is an alien form. Yes, she has a one way ticket to a climatic death come end season.

But the kicker to the show was Cally, Cheif, and Tori. Cliff notes: Cally commits suicide, Cheif becomes depressed, and Tori is a bad guy. But I have to get something off of my chest. Cally has always been the one character I hated. She has a fat face and a bad delievery. The producers were wise to keep her in the background, and I even began to like her innocent flirting and adrupt marriage with the Cheif. However, whenever she said anything or got angry or was shown at all as the center of a shot, I hated her. I so glad she's gone. Next, Tori has always been teh one character I strongly disliked. She always looks as if she's been drugged and she is not, I repeat not a looker. I thought I was to get a two-fer in that airlock, but no.

The question is, Tori? No doubt her motivation comes from Baltar, who she might have love at first sight with. His absence from this episode is a strong indicator that he instructed her to do so, which means he probably knows everything Tori does. He has his theories about Hera, the Cylon-human hybrid. Finding out that the Cheif was a Cylon, meant that his baby was also a hybrid, and fundamental to the future. Thus, Tori was sent to comandeer the child and knock off an annoying character.

This begins what would seem to be one big spiral for the Cheif. I loved the flashbacks, and the reminders of the happiness of the seasons past, and how young and thin he looked back then, but really, that's the happiest we'll see him till this show ends. He's in a corner, and dangerous in the same degree of Tori (who, still at Roslin's side, could be sowing much more damage than just one kill).

IN OTHER NEWS, all familiar faces not needed were exported to a sewage ship, Kara married Sam because he was pathetic, Sam got a very pathetic tattoo, I like Sam and Sam's tattoo, am I pathetic?

Like Cheif, I suspect that, given the relationships that have been destroyed (all save Helo, that mirror of constants), right about now is the time that characters are going through that unhappy stage that has to come before the happy stage in fiction. So, no more happiness until the end. I'm reminded of the point in The Muppet's Christmas Carol, where, when the action gets a little scary, narrators Gonzo and Rizzo peace out, telling the audience, "we'll see you in the lobby."

I Cook? Again?

After a month and a half of hitting the kitchen like I hit the weights, with an open palm, because, let's face it, if you hit the weights with a closed fist you'll break your hand, I took a brief hiatus from the hot plate in favor of someone else's cooking. For about two weeks now, I have been bouncing around from restaurant to restaurant, avoiding the act of preparing my own meals like someone who's fallen off the horse. But, I had Chinese food a few nights ago and the subsequent morning got sick directly in front of my departing guest, Mary Kate the Actress, who came to Rome after I visited her in London. I gave her quite a send off, with fireworks and everything.

So I've decided, especially in the light of my remaining funds, to recommit myself to the culinary arts. In fact, I've so recommitted myself that I'm going to go ahead and throw all of the suppositions and standards of cooking out the window and create something that truly reflects who I am. I won't be held by petty traditions. I will make meat sauce.

Meat sauce is about the only thing I haven't touched, and thus mangled beyond edibility. I have sauted mushrooms into peanuts, I have cooked fish into chips, I have swung three times at alfredo sauce and struck out. So I thought, why not screw up the meat sauce part, too.

Pretty much all you need, I was told, is a block of hamburger stuffs and possibly some spices. Put the hamburger in a pan and the pan on a hot plate for however long your heart tells you, then add those various spices, just like Emeril. Then probably some sauce.

Did you know that the grease that comes from meat hardens, real fast? DO NOT pour it down your drain. It is known to cause problems.

BSG: Wipe Those Tears Away, Soldier...Sailor...Whatever

For the second episode of the final season of Battlestar Galatica, Six of One, which concerned all those fickle space characters and their all important life goals, was pretty up ending. Not a whole lot of people died. In fact, only Cylons died, which doesn't exactly count. Considering that the producers have promised to kill off a great deal many people, I guess they're just storing up backpayments for the grand finale, which will be all madness and mayhem, plus just an inkling of hope.

No, as could have been guessed, Kara did not shoot Roslin, because that would have stopped about half the wheels in the story machine. Instead, Roslin tried to shoot Kara, and ending up shooting a picture of her and the admiral. Heavy handed foreshadowing? Okay, so it is. But at least they're going somewhere. Adama and Roslin haven't been at odds since the first season of the show, and have been lovey dovey since, making out like an old married couple. Well, now they are having drunken fights like an old married couple. I was almost afraid that Adama was to backhand Roslin, but it didn't come to blows. It just ended in Adama saying, "You can stay in my room, but stay out of my head." Ouch. I guess we won't be healing that wound in the next couple of episodes.

Yes, Adama's having a hard time. Roslin, his lady love, is dying and he is not the person to talk about such things. Plus, his psuedo daughter may be a Cylon and is on the fast track to execution, like Texas except in a space craft. Finally, his son is leaving the service after three seasons.

Yes, Lee leaves his job as CAG, which gets readily associated with JAG in my mind for some obvious connections, both in plot and name, in a move precipitated by last season, when he adruptly quit in yet another father son arguement. This time it stuck, however, and he went through a montage carbon copied from those times that soap operas waved goodbye to their departing stars. Lee will not be leaving the show, though, because he is yet another wheel in the story machine. He still has work to do. It was nice, though, to have that moment of happiness, to see he and his father in the happy moments in between, and all our favorite pilots (Hot Dog? Where have you been?).

In the Cylon fleet, everything went to bedlam, which, as we all know, was a famous English mental hospital. Three of the models wanted to lobotomize the raiders, the TIE fighter doohickeys: these are led by Cavil, who seems to be trying to keep the Cylons functioning as they are meant to, keep them honest. The three remaining, of course, oppose this. So the solution is to uninhibit the Centurions (read Storm Troopers) and let them off the offending parties. Mirror image of what happened to the humans to start this whole thing? The next step, involving the victors who are so keen on finding the Final Five within the human fleet, will probably be to unbox D'Anna, who has seen their faces. The reason I guess this is because D'Anna's still on the cast list. I know, genius.

The Core Four, in the fleet, are still searching for the fifth, though, and send Tori to use her womanly ways on Baltar, now the leader of a woman cult. You'd think he'd be able to withstand a little seduction, but Baltar is Baltar, and now he's seeing visions of himself, which (or who) gives him advice on what he would do. What? Exactly. Although I don't understand it, it's darned funny to hear the Brothers Baltar talk through his thought process and compliment one another. And nothing was really accomplished; they may or may not have made a baby, but that's to be seen. No information was exchanged, minus numbers.

Finally, when everyone thought Kara was to be thrown out the airlock, Adama gives her a ship, and crew, and Helo, the Man Mountain, to go find Earth her way. His reason was simple: he was tired of Roslin being right. Score one for masculinity! Stick it to the woman! Though now that I think of it, it kind of hurts, knowing Adama and Roslin, the very cute gerry atrics, are now at odds, and fighting one another in very diplomatic ways. Sigh.

IN OTHER NEWS, Lee and Dee went through a very civil divorce which involved no ceremony at all, Lee and Kara still have emotional baggage to sort through, Tori may be falling for Baltar, Adama and Roslin are on the rocks, and this really is turning into a soap opera.

Since it has taken me this long to watch and write about Battlestar, my comfort is a new episode is standing in the wings. So hurrah and good luck to you, my friend.

I Expound On Henry V

Henry V is what happens when Shakespeare watches Braveheart then says, "I could do better than that." Yes, in fact, that instance did not happen, due to time constraints, but Mel Gibson did watch Henry V, and then said, "I could do a version of this that's not as cool - but no one really watches Shakespeare any more, so no one would know."

FUN FACT OF THE DAY: William Wallace's "Freedom" speech in Braveheart is actually based off of King Henry's St. Crispin's Day speech.

Last Saturday, whilst still in London, Mary Kate the Actress took me to see Henry V in the Roundhouse Theatre. Yes, the theatre was named after a martial arts movement, and yes, theatre is spelled with the "e" and "r" reversed, but these are things I can abide. I still cannot abide the English driving on the wrong side of the road.

The Royal Shakespeare Company has assembled a crack team of thespians to put on all eight of Shakespeare's History Cycle plays in one stretch, using the same actors in the same parts, so that the King Henry in Henry V was also Prince Hal in Henry IV, I and II. That's a lot of lines to remember. But I guess that's why they're Royal. Another indication of their pedigree came immediately with the start of the play, when the Chorus began changing his lines, and further on, when characters swapped lines or cut them out. Once again, when you're aristocracy, I guess you feel like even Shakespeare isn't sacred.

Henry V follows this guy, whom we'll call Henry, in the first part of his reign. Formerly a surly youth, once he became king he shaped up and got his act together. The first act sees him calling for an invasion of France, which is everyone's favorite extracurricular activity. Subsequent acts see him breaking bread on some Frenchmen, wearing the blood of his enemies as make-up, and winning both the throne of France and the heart of the French Princess. Basically, he has a really good day.

Given my extensive experience in theatre, I can with a solid countenance delcare this the greatest Henry V ever told. The words, they never change, from production to production, but the Royal Shakespeare guys pulled out the rest of the stops. King Henry and the English spent most of the play past the first act covered in blood; they wore these Matrix uniforms of black trenchcoats and chainmail, which, along with swords, will be how my groomsmen dress. The French characters spent the whole play on trapeze, descending from the ceiling. In true French style, they even had the audacity to jerry rig a piano to be raised and lowered from the roof, a piano which was manned by the Chrous and spent all of its stage time in mid air.

It is commonly known that any play that suspends a piano in mid air is worth its weight in gold. The piano's weight, I mean, because there's no real way to weigh a play.

The explosions and lightning in the Harfluer and Agincourt scenes were icing on a already very delicious cake - given how the play was going, you knew the battle scenes were to be the cat's pyjamas. It was just a matter of waiting. Even in scenes with just two characters and their dialogue (who would emerge out of trap doors in the floor, like military trenches), extras still ran from side to side, in and out of the audience, at full speed, carrying barrels of gunpowder. Unsafe you might say, but I would say...yeah, you're pretty dead on. That is unsafe.

In a few days time the RSC performed a trilogy, Henry IV Part I, Henry IV Part II, and Henry V, which would not only be exhausting to the viewer, but one heap of exhaustion to the actors in it. But, again, that's why they're Royal.

A Place To Read A Book And Write A Letter: London

This weekend past I took my last flight until the flight home, and I took that flight to London. Traveling under the guise of Dr. Donald Trumbo, I went to London to visit my friend Mary Kate the Actress, who was in the British American Drama Academy, or BADA. I love acronyms.

Wednesday, Thursday and Friday were the culmination of the semester for BADA, where, instead of finals, students acted in plays. I caught the Comedy of Errors on Thursday, which is a Shakespeare play about two sets of identical twins, so basically I didn't catch anything, and then Mariana Pineda on Friday, which is a play about a Spanish patriot's execution, so, you can guess how that ended.

Mary Kate was billed as Lucia/First Novice in Mariana Pineda, and for her performance I awarded her Baller Status, which is usually an award I reserve for great science fiction but which I also give out when I feel so moved by particularly deep emotions or beautiful people.

It was in London that I recently became cultured. On Friday, I went first to the National Gallery, and then to the Tate Modern. It seems like London has art up one side and down the other (wherever those sides actually are, I don't know); the National Gallery contains the great works of the world, whatever that means, and the Tate Modern in its turn has the great works of the modern era. I know what that means. It means a small guild of artists went into the Tate Modern, put on blindfolds, and started throwing paint around. It was in the Tate Modern that I, for the first time, left an exhibit in actual fear. Things in the Tate can get out of hand, pretty quickly.

The National Gallery, by the way, contains many paintings from Picasso's Blue Period. I can only hope that when I die, people will anthologize my writings and label one section of my life the Shenanigans Period, where I could not stop using the word "shenanigans."

I spent a lot of time in Hyde Park, on the suggestion of Douglas Adams. "Let's not mince words," Adams wrote, "Hyde Park is stunning." Spot on, Adams. I had planned out an entire day of activities, but ended up scrapping a good deal of it in favor of remaining in Hyde Park. One of the big differences in Rome and London is the space. Rome is extremely compact, and comes off as a Hollywood caricature of a big cities, with big roads that look like alleyways and no actual alleyways at all. London, however, loves its open space, and has alleyways aplenty. Hype Park, as well as other parks scattered across the city, are a testament to how much space they love. It's like a two way mirror, that from the outside looking in the city can see the park, but from the inside out the Park doesn't register the city. Love it.

I went to Westminister Abbey only to see the Poet's Corner, where all the great English figures of art are buried. Yes, Westminister is huge and gilded and a masterpiece, but by this time I have had it up to here, and though you cannot see it I am pointing to a point a little below my left ear, with architecture, so I get to pick and choose what I process as a tourist. So I saw the tombs of Shakespeare, Edmund Spencer, John Milton, et cetera (et cetera in this case encompasses Chaucer, T.S. Eliot, and others) and got repremanded for photographing the tomb of Dickens.

On Saturday, Mary Kate took me to Henry V. This requires a new post, because what I have to say on Henry V cannot possibly be shoehorned into this airport bookstore travel log.

P.S. Spending the night in an airport is a bad idea. Sometimes it is necessary, as if your flight leaves at seven, thus you have to be there at five, but then you have to leave the city at four, et cetera, but if you can avoid it, do, because the reason all benches in all airports have armrests is to prevent people from taking a good night's sleep.

I Smith Wonderful Puns

Coming off the great success of my very well received Otter Joke, I have set about to craft yet another blow to the funny bone of humanity. For quite some time now I have been testing the humors of the English language to create the ultimate in humor. Today, I believe I have found it.

I now unveil what will become known as, "The Moose Joke."

So two hunters where trapsing through the woods in search of prey when they heard voices beyond the trees. Thinking about acquiring tips on game or maybe just bumming a beer, the two hunters headed for the voices. Stumbling upon a clearing, the two beheld a group of four moose, sitting on lawn chairs taking their tea and talking about the abominable weather. Needless to say, both groups were taken aback by the sudden presence of the other. However, the moose were the first to act, swiftly moving to capture the two hunters.

One moose suggested that there was nothing to do except kill the two hunters, who would doubtless tell the rest of the humans that there were talking moose in the hills. Another moose said no, that killing was against the moose code. So on a suggestion from a third moose, the group sewed shut the mouths of the two hunters, and released them into the wild.

The two hunters stumbled as fast as they could back to civilization, and ran into the first bar they found. Once inside, they made a great scene, motioning to their lips, as if to say, please, someone remove these sutures so that we can speak on the talking moose of the hills. After the initial commotion, though, the bar's burly patrons turned back around in their seats, once more took up their beers, and ignored the two hunters entirely.

Why?

Because in this town of flannel and facial hair, moose stitches are nothing to get excited about.

DA DA CHING.

RIP MacBook Pro Model Number A1150

MacBook Pro Model Number A1150 died Wednesday night in it's sleep mode, in an apartment on Via Nicola Fabrizi, in Rome, Italy. It is survived by its owner, Cass Trumbo; it was shortly thereafter followed by Cass Trumbo's notebook and will soon be followed by Cass Trumbo's cell phone.

MacBook Pro Model Number A1150 was delievered by a stork of sorts in July of 2006, and enjoyed an aimless life of playing music and fiddling with the internet until it discovered its true purpose in word processing. Soon, MacBook Pro Model Number A1150 became a factory of words, churning out stories, limmericks, and nonsensical things that no one should ever be allowed to read. Luckily, those nonsensical things (along with all such sensical things) were taken by A1150 to it's grave.

Says owner Cass Trumbo, "My stupid computer's broken." It will obviously be missed.

Shortly after the death of MacBook Pro Model Number A1150 on the night of April 2nd, 2008, Cass Trumbo's notebook managed to slip out of its pocket somewhere between Campo di Fiori and Piazza Trillussa. The notebook, which originated the stories that A1150 inked, supposedly committed suicide in the grief caused by the loss of its writing partner. The notebook most likely jumped to it's death somewhere on the bridge of Ponte Sisto.

Cass Trumbo's cell phone will shortly be following the other two possessions: it has been struggling with a cancer of the circuts for many months. It will not die as the notebook, in grief, but simply because it is obstinate, and can't stand working properly.

BSG: Morning Glory And Hallelujah, Commander

After almost a year, I have thrown off my sack cloth and cleaned myself up (kind of), because Battlestar has returned. I breifly put said sack cloth back on after learning that the season will be split into two: one ten episode run this spring, and a final ten episode run either this fall or next spring, immediately preceding the Seven Trumpets and Jesus Christ's Second Coming, because, let's face it, after Battlestar goes off the air, God's work will be finished.

A week ago, my computer metaphorical exploded, leaving me in a literal stupor. Yes, the sack cloth came back out of the closet, but I recently put the Apple to rest under a tree in my Roman backyard. As Andrew Bird says, "ScotchGuard Macintoshes will be carbonized." Well said, Mr. Bird, whatever it is you meant to say.

So I had to watch the season premier on an old jalopy desktop in the school studio, the whole dragness of which I felt in the opening minutes. The initial battle that just flows out like the water that turns the turbines of a dam was amazing to watch even in a screen that would be forced to scale down my fist to fit it in (and I almost put my fist into the screen, at a point where I was having buffering problems). Talk about grabbing the audience by the horns, or, in the case of audience members who don't have horns, the hair.

So much for the people who weren't entirely read up on their Battlestar. I guess that means Joe Kane is the only person reading this post. High Five, Joe!

The Four, that being Tigh, Anders, Cheif, and Tori, spent the episode flopping like fish, trying to get ahold of their new existence as robots. Tigh day dreamed of killing Adama, and Anders was unable to engage the enemy in combat. There was a friendship pow-wow, where it seemed like Tigh said, "There shall be no more nonsense," and produced a gun for a group suicide party, which everyone heartily agreed to, but that was left as is. Figures there wasn't any resolution.

When flying, Anders did make awkward eye contact with a Cylon raider, in which Anders eye turned red, and the Cylons retreated. Basically, the Cylon raiders recognized a Cylon, but the human models can't; this is explained in the third season, where the Cylon toasters can't distinguish between the human models. Does this mean the Final Five are of the same makeup? And will Anders' Bright Lite eye come into play, as receiving some sort of orders?

Baltar has become a leader of a girls-only-plus-two-extra-guys-just-in-case cult, where they commune with their mathematically challenged god(s) through love. And Baltar thinks it sucks. What's up with that? Also, what is up with Baltar getting religious? The ultimate atheist fell to his knees with vulnerabilty to pray for a sick child - the only thing keeping the scene in character was the fact that he made a point that he didn't want forgiveness. This is as suspicious as the number of gods the cult worships.

Kara is back, and medical survey says not a Cylon (duh. Too easy). She claims to have some sort of Contact-esque experience, remembering only bits and pieces of the six hours she claims to have been gone; everyone else remembers the two months that passed since she died. So Roslin calls shenanigans on her and locks her up, but apparently with a doctor's note that says she can go wherever she feels like. She does have pictures of Earth, and a little voice in her head that tells her the fleet is going the wrong way. Roslin however believes in the saying, "ice in the knees, ice in the threes," which doesn't really apply to the situation, she just believes it. She also believes in being cold hearted and calculating, and continues on the fleets current course, till Starbuck puts a gun to her head. End Scene.

IN OTHER NEWS, Apollo quits the flying gig, ergo Apollo can't be called Apollo anymore, Anders confesses undying love to Kara and Kara pretty much says that at some point in the future, she will kill Anders, Helo just can't stop himself from being everyone's best friend, and for some reason Roslin is shacking up with Adama.

Next week will probably begin with Roslin not getting shot, and then Kara will probably be in big trouble. And at some point, Lee will probably have to have a reason to stay on Galatica. I mean, he can't really not live there and still be in the action, but he needs an excuse. Hey, Baltar found one (overlooked compartment? Questionable). Overall: Yeah for Battlestar!

I Test The Validity Of Wikipedia

All this talk of whether or not Wikipedia is a viable source of information just complicates the issue. If the information is true or not, or if even it is true, whether or not it is academically honorable to use such an information super-duper highway that receives it's maintinence from any which passersby. I say, if the USSR was still around, this is how they'd do it. And we all know how well that country ran, till the whole downfall thing.

In order to defend the integrity of Wikipedia, I have taken it upon myself to experiment with all sorts of information, in order to prove the hypothesis that when everybody voices their own opinion on the truth, it may get convoluted, but that doesn't stop it from being awesome. For instance, Wikipedia claims that the Oliver Typewriter Company created the first "visible print" typewriter at the turn of the 20th century. Experimentation: Check. Wikipedia claims that for a supernova to destory earth, it would need to be 25 million light years or closer. Experimentation: Check. Wikipedia claims that Patrick Swayze has cancer. Experimentation: Check.

A few spaces of silence for Patrick Swayze.

But this wasn't enough. I needed a live test. I found one in Joy Williams.

Joy Williams was originally Joy Williams until she became Joy Williams Yetton by a process known as marriage. This was invented long ago, probably by God. Wikipedia Experimentation: Check and Check. She and her husband Nate came through Europe into Rome and stayed with my friend, Dani the Perpetual Exchange Student (this was not on Wikipedia, but I saw it with my own eyes. Later this week I will add it to Wikipedia). I read over her Wikipage and Wikidiscography several times, and then let the scientific process run amok.

After a couple of dinners, I was able to ascertain from both Joy and Nate that the following Wikipedia claims are true: she did grow up in California, she was an overachiever in high school, as well as a varsity athlete, and she did release a "Best Of" album in 2004. I kind of got distracted after that.

EDITOR'S NOTE: The above photo is not of singer-songwriter Joy Williams, but of short story writer Joy Williams. It did not come from Wikipedia, but Google. Just another instance of why Wikipedia is better.

Why Nate himself doesn't have a Wikipedia page, I don't know. After I update Joy's, I'm creating him one as well.

Joy and Nate are pretty much the coolest people ever, and though that's not on Wikipedia, it soon will be. After they leave I'm going to start telling people that Joy is my half-sister, and that Nate is my third cousin (second cousin to my father), though these relations do not in any way mean there is mixed blood between the two. It's just one of those odd coincidences of the universe, I'll tell people. If I'm pressed further, I'll admit Joy isn't my sister, but I'll remain adamant that I am related to Nate.

BSG: A Brief Course

This one's for Joe Kane.

I like to backup my assertions about science fiction with hard science fact, so here it goes. In June, at a summit of the brightest minds on the face and body of the Earth, on a summit of a mountain, no less, a panel of scientists were asked what would happen in the final season of the television show Battlestar Galatica. After several hours discussion, the scientists admitted they had no clue, but they could guesstimate that it would look like all the worst parts of the Bible, but with a positive spin. Four of the five then voiced their opinion on Trident Gum.

Well, those scientists are about to find out.

This Friday, April 4th, Battlestar returns in its fourth and final season, going down in a blaze of glory after NBC told it to can itself. But Battlestar cannot be canned. Nay, it cannot be contained, because it is the greatest form of entertainment ever since Plato's Cave, and arguably better than that, because even Plato wasn't so high on that concept. It is certainly the best thing you'll ever see, so sit down and listen up.

The producers took a sheet out of LOST's playbook (unfortunately, said sheet didn't have any spoilers) and spliced up all three previous seasons into one eight minute short, found here on YouTube. They actually used the same narrator as the LOST promo, with the same deadpan (thank you, anonymous narrator, for pointing out that papers have no corners in the future).

In the past week, I've taken it upon myself to watch half of the 22 episode long third season, in order to give a full account and be well read, in a sense, before the final opener. So:

FINAL FIVE: The big one. There's twelve Cylon models, we only know seven, blah blah blah - in the previous finale, however, we found out four of the final five: Cheif, Anders, Tori, and Tigh, all of which scream irony, because they are all so vocal about their Cylon hatred. The real question is how Cylony are they? As opposed to many copies, there seems to be only one of each. In D'Anna's vision of the Final Five, they seemed more like demigods than Cylon brethren. So, yes, they're still good. They're meant to lead the humans to Earth.

FINAL FIFTH: The really big one. There's still one Cylon left, and undoubtedly he/she/it is the trump card of fate. I'm ruling out Adama - possibly Roslin, the dying president, merely because she is that dying leader who will take her people to the promised land. Sounds like someone's fulfilling their fate/programming...but the next robot is certainly not Starbuck.

STARBUCK: Not dead. Even though she died in the latter half of season three, she came back at the end, during the crescendo of Dylan's All Along the Watchtower (because, obviously, that's the Cylon theme song). She promised she had been to Earth, and would take the humans to their new home. Is she the fifth Cylon? Certainly not. Too easy. No, we're getting into some sort of metaphysical territory here. Angel/Spirit/Super intelligent shade of blue?

EARTH: Last shot of the last episode was that of Earth, or more specifically, America, because that's pretty much Earth in a nutshell. What time period will it be when the fleet arrives? Hopefully not present day, because that would be a cheese factory, and would only serve to date and hamper the Greatest Show on Earth (Not Under a Big Top). I think it will be primordial Earth, and the fleet will serve as our ancestors. Or something along those lines.

EVERYONE ELSE: Baltar's now a cult leader, Apollo's now a civilian, Adama and Roslin are now about to hook up like old people, and Helo's even yet still awesome.

MANNIE FRESH: As with LOST, rumors of a guest appearance as the Fifth have proven not 

true, and so with small powers of deduction one can assume he will not be performing his hit single, "Real Big," with all the pimps and hos of the fleet.

Friday, April 4th. Be there, or be a Cylon collaborator. And we wouldn't want that.

I Travel Through Time

Early Sunday morning - and I mean early early, two in the morning early - I found myself hurtling through time. No joke. I was lying in bed, when I felt a rumbling in the Venetian hotel room. I immediately sat up and looked about me and noticed a great big black hole in the room, right where the door to the bathroom used to be. I got out of bed entered the black hole, and was temporaly displaced.

Traveling through time is a lot like falling asleep. Images and perceptions from reality slowly blend with the thoughts of the mind, to create the sort of experience that no one can ever seem to remember clearly. In this case, though, instead of the memories of the day melting with my consciousness, it was the memories of the future.

However, I only traveled an hour ahead in time, so the visions that flashed before my eyes were pretty bland. I just saw myself sleeping. Plus, there were some monsters and aliens, Anna Friel, a dragon, postal workers, Viking beserkers, boxes, foxes, bagels with loxes - but the vision was mostly of myself, sleeping.

Traveling through time would be very exciting, if it didn't happen only at night. Can you imagine, going through twenty years of time? You'd see twenty years of your life, played in fast forward, or maybe cut up like a newsreel or the "Previously On" segments of television shows. You'd see the most significant portions, combined with the dream imagery that that flows in and out of your imagination without you knowing it (I believe they call it the subconscious).

Sadly, time travel only happens at night, and only at intervals of one hour. In the spring, we travel one hour into the future, and in the fall, we go one hour back in time.

When America set its own clocks back several weeks ago, the Italians did nothing. "Imperialist Swine," they said, "we will not follow their lead, no, no matter how practical." So in Italy we bided our time, waited until the Americans were not looking, and quickly set our clocks forward. Because, you know, it's a good idea, we just don't want to give credit where credit is due.

A Place To Read A Book And Write A Letter: Venice

This weekend the whole Arkansas in Rome program took a field trip to Venice, the city of salt water and the ever present feeling that one is sinking. There are small roads in Venice, but all mass transport takes place on water - no wheels for rolling or for steering, only fins and helms. All cars are parked and left outside the city, on the mainland. Not even a Vespa is permitted.

Venice was built on a marsh, which seems to happen a lot with old major cities - which is ironic, given what a bad idea that seems to be. Settlers fitted wooden poles into the mud of the ocean floor, waited for a spell, then started building on top of said wood. After learning this, the whole of the time I spent in Venice was accompanied by a small minor fear in the backwoods of my brain that said that I was about to bear witness to a second Atlantis, and that maybe in another three thousand years people with say that Venice was just a myth, and that Cass Trumbo was just a legend - truly, no one could ever be that handsome and smart. Certainly no one could ever run as fast as they say he could.

One thing I found interesting was the patron saint of Venice, St. Mark. In the beginning of the city, there was another, lesser saint tasked with divine protection. Once the power of the Venetians grew, they decided they deserved a higher ranking saint, possibly one who was on Jesus's T5, and so they sailed off into the sunset and stole St. Mark's body from Alexandria. When asked about this turn of events, St. Mark had no comment.

Our eccentric professor Emilio led us through the smaller streets of Venice, touring buildings and making up stories about his lost loves. Not once, but twice did he feign an attempt to commit suicide over fictional affairs, trying to climb over railings and jump into the ocean before his students could hold him back. In the end, though, no one was harmed. Though I did see a Penn State student jump off one of the two bridges spanning the Grand Canal, landing in the water twenty feet below. When asked if I was next, I said I'd jump for a dollar and good moral support. However, no American dollars were to be had, and no support was to be found.

Abstract art is on the opposite end of the spectrum from understanding. Venice is one of the three places in the world with a Guggenheim Collection, which is apparently a big deal. I didn't know. I went there by myself, which was a very bad decision - I think the Guggenheim took a piece of my soul. I spent about an hour wandering aimlessly, unable to form any sort of plan for seeing the entire museum, nor to assess the meaning of various works, so assailed by the forces of surrealism was I, that I was driven to abstraction (which is much worse than being driven to distraction).

The Guggenheim is staffed almost entirely by young people, earning pennies on internships from around the world; and I say around the world, but most were from English speaking countries. Heavily discouraged by the surrounding art, I turned to talking to the staff, and managed to strike out with the British answer to the strawberry blonde.

ME: What do you make of it?

SB: I believe it's Picasso's The Studio.

ME: Oh. I thought it was a rocket ship.

SB: Well, that's obviously his self portrait, and that's obviously a figure of a woman.

ME: Yeah, you see, I figured that was a square, and that there was a circle, but beyond that I was lost.

SB: Then you are an idiot.

And you might say, no one could either be that rude or know that little about Picasso, but if I'm lying I'm dying.

I Am Hired As Immigrant Labor

Last night my friend Virginia the Architect and I were in my personal domain, the cafe Bros, having coffee, when I was approached by the owner Claudio. He sat down in the middle of a private conversation and began speaking with incredible speed in languages including, but possibly not limited to, English, Italian, and Portuguese (as Bros is a Brazilian bar). After several minutes, I was trying my darnedest not to wear my confused face, but Claudio noticed. So he concluded his speil by asking, "Agreed?" I responded, "Si," and we shook hands. Then I shook my head.

After Virginia left, I went back to Claudio, sat across from him, and asked him to speak once more, a little slower. I'm still not exactly sure what all was said, but I did catch a few key points: 1) Aurora University is an American institution in Rome, 2) Aurora University has reserved Bros next week for a private party, and 3) Claudio told them I would host it.

I'm not completely familiar with international law, but from my limited understanding, I don't think that I can legally work in Rome on a student visa. Does this make me an alien (something I've always wanted to be)? At the very least, it puts me in the same situation that many families are in, in Northwest Arkansas.

The specifics, as I understand them, involve me contacting Aurora University, arranging all the specifics, and hosting the party next Friday, April 4th (which, coincidentally, is the premier of Battlestar Galatica - I didn't tell Claudio this). I believe I will be paid in coffee beans.

Fun Fact of the Day: Coffee beans were used as currency in Ancient Egypt.

Only now am I beginning to understand the extent of the damage my mother incurred when she was here. I introduced her to Claudio, and, in my absence, she told him to take special care of me. Ever since them, Claudio has called me by name, given me free coffee and appetizers, used my computer to check his mail, asked me to fix his own computer, and generally hosted me old fashioned. Normally this would be a relationship I could only wish for - my own private coffee confidant. But early on in the semester I claimed Bros as my workshop - I usually spend several hours a week there, writing. In the last few days, I've been seeking out another place to write in, because everytime I go into Bros, Claudio wants to be nice to me.

Not content with taking simple care of me, he felt he needed to offer me a job.

Roots: I Complete My Journey

After Delphi, we stopped off at the island of Aegina for a very rainy day - previous days had passed like a flash of lightning, but Friday, Aeginaday, in spite of the rain was excruciatingly  slow. Rain does that. Without any enterprise to apply ourselves to, due to the bad weather, we rented a car again - this time, and Suzuki Samurai. We thought about naming it, too, decided that the Suzuki Samurai was much better than anything at hand.

(Take note that the picture is dated - that would be Emaline the Fiat, spouse of the Suzuki Samurai, in the picture, in Ithaca. Also, take note of the sunglasses of distinguished heart surgeon, Dr. Ted Fish.)

Using a map that the city's information officer had drawn in crayon and then photocopied, we played snake across the northern half of the island, periodically stopping to look at a church, or walk along a beach, or to let other people pass. I did that a lot. The Samurai was a stick shift, and I don't think I left second gear that day.

We ate dinner alone, and when I say alone I mean that we were the only party in a restaurant of two big empty rooms. The cook, a large Greek grandmother, would serve us herself, then watch us eat through a small window pane connecting the two rooms. I would have offered her some food, but I didn't know how - she speaks Modern Greek, you know.

The final port of the EasyCruiseOne was Athens. We did the things good learned people do, made the pilgrimages that the good craftsmen and commoners alike make: the Acropolis, the National Historical Museum, the Temple of Zeus. But, like other people, I was underwhelmed. It could have been the wear of the EasyCruise upon me, a sleepiness that settles when I know I'm ending a journey. It could have been the proximity of Rome, time-wise. It could have been aliens, to tell the truth - I never can rule them out completely. But outside of the area of the National Gardens, I could have passed Athens in the night and not known it. The Hellenic period is so far removed that all that's left in Athens is this crescent of ruins in the southern part of the city, plus a pretty cool museum. The rest of the city is another metropolis, where you don't understand most of what's said, on ground of it being another language or heavily accented. I could have been anywhere.

No. Rome is fine with me. I think I could fall asleep anywhere in the world, wake up in Rome, and know it immediately, so distinct is this city.

All roads lead to roam. Or Rome. Also, Baroque Church Domes, Sea Foam, and Funeral Homes.

As it turned out, the most expensive thing I bought during my trip was a book in the Athens airport, as I awaited the plane ride home. I had already gone through the other two I had on me, and needed something else to pass time until I got home. There's not a whole lot of selection in airport bookstores, you know? I've never bought a book in an airport, or any transportation hub, but it's quite difficult to find anything good, especially if you're looking for good smut, which is vital for any reader. I eventually settled on The Secrets of the Chess Machine, on account of its mentioning dwarves, robots, and 17th century Prussia all in the first sentence of the synopsis.

LOST: And Now For Something Completely Different

In this final episode until the longest month of my life is over (beware of the ides of March, I was told; I should have listened), we get what feels like three separate vignettes: real time Freighter, past time Michael, and the obligatory cliff hanger ending, real time Island. This new format, the Tarantino, is questionable. As much as I like to defer to the hidden wisdom of the High Council of the LOST Scribes, I must protest the ending. It had nothing to do with the story, and felt like the ending to Great Expectations: as if, after feeling an initial reaction of everyone not having their hearts leap out of their bodies at the sheer glory of the original ending, the author went back and modified it to give the audience what they wanted. Dickens added a romance. LOST added two deaths and yet another cliff hanger.

So, first, Ben, with the collected self that seems to say, "I know how this is going to end," sent his daughter Alex, her boyfriend Karl, and her birth mother Danielle off to join the others in the specified Other's Special Place. Halfway through their journey, Danielle and Karl kick the bucket by way of bullets and leave Alex to surrender. The question: Freighter fire or Friendly fire? Certainly, the silencers on those guns seem above the technological reach of the Others' armory, and in flashback Michael witnessed the freighter crew gearing for battle, but when in the world did they land a strike team on island? It seems that the initial team, minus Miles, would abhor the thought of violence, and I'm betting that Frank would refuse to fly such warriors to the fray. The other option would be that Ben sent his rival in parental affections as well as the boy who might knock up his daughter on a one way mission. This seems the easy way out of such a cliffhanger, and I fear that it is the truth.

But the real story was Michael's. I for one liked seeing the consequences of his leaving the Island. At the end of season two, there were many questions, and the first being, how does Michael explain his sudden reappearance? Well, apparently he doesn't. And thus his life sucks.

So a man with nothing to lose, and hungering for some sort of redemption that flows like a river motif throughout LOST, is recruited by (a finally out of the closet) Tom to wreck the ship. It all proceeds pretty much in a standard line from there, except for the part where I could have sworn Michael and Naomi were going to be crushing on one another. But in all truth, I just desperately want Naomi back in the show somehow.

Oh, and P.S.: the Island is a demigod. Huh. It won't let Michael commit suicide. And it seems that the Island has the power to reach across half the world, into Manhattan, and project images of the dead. So, in a show that revolves so continuously around fate, we are finally given the fate machine, The Great and Terrible Oz, the Island.

The new information we were fed was the fact that it wasn't Ben, but Widmore who planted the plane between the palisades of the ocean floor. Now, this might start an argument as to who is telling the truth, but the Widmore story is not only backed up with paper evidence, but makes more sense: as someone who wants to be the only one to find the Island, dealing with the rest of the world in one move is much more to his advantage than Ben's, because, from Ben's point of view, no one yet has been able to find the Island, so why attempt such an expensive misdirection?

IN OTHER NEWS, Karl dyed his hair then died, George used to be really cool, a clean Danielle looks the same as one who has been dirty for seventeen years, a clean Danielle died a very bad death for a character with her abilities on the show and her ability to scare me in real life, and, gosh darnit, why can't they work Naomi back into the story?

And as we say goodbye to LOST, we are reminded of the immortal words of Semisonic, that "every new beginning comes from some other beginning's end." Yes, Battlestar Galactica starts next Friday, April 4th, so take your pants off now, because the premier will knock them off, anyway.

Roots: The Ship Is In Shipshape, And The Whotu Uprising Is Over, Over

Unfortunately, unlike Fred Randall, for me, the Whotu Uprising is not over, over. If you are unfamilar with the Whotu Uprising, it's an event in the glorious Rocketman. It was also the name of a three-on-three team I played on, in eighth grade. It's also the broad sweep term for Greek civil unrest.

The past three days have been shaken by the earthquakes of the Hellenic proletariat. He has stood his ground these days past and shouted, "There shall be no more garbage collection! There shall be no more running of national monuments! There shall be no more electricity!" And after a few more moments consideration, he also shouted, "And there shall be no more nonsense! I've had quite enough of it!" When we ported in Patras, the streets were filled with garbage that looked like beaver dams - the city's workers were on strike, against what I do not know. Possibly over the level of nonsense in the Attic government. The national government workers also went on strike, and shut down all archaeological sites for one day (as they promised: they notified all that they would only strike on Wednesday, then go back to work. Not very effective bargining). From Patras we were supposed to travel to Olympia; this was ruled out, as well as the possiblity of any fun, given the surrounding trash and bad weather.

After a gloomy morning, we finally made it out of the city to an old German winery named Achia Clauss. A Grecian suggested it, as a model Grecian winery, which was founded by a German and run by his Germanic family. But wine crosses all borders. Being the off-season for tourism, the winery was open but only staffed by two: a receptionist and a bartender. The tour guide called in sick. So we made up our own tour, climbing into windows and scaling buildings, taking cover at the sound of footsteps or conversation, and pretty much trespassing all over the vineyards.

I will say that this trip has showed me how sovereign God is, concerning transportation. If I was an atheist coming into Greece, I would be a theist leaving it, on account of the miraculous happenings of arrival. No matter how late the bus is or how confused I am towards the route to take, God always delievers my party and I back to the ship.

From Patras we sailed to Itea, from where we took a bus to Delphi. Delphi was the ancient site of the Oracle of Delphi (go figure), the main consultant of antiquity. It was also the ancient site of a city built at a 45 degree angle. Climbing all the way to the top, to see the complete ruins, I think I doubled my exhaustion, and doubled my sweat, by trying not to show that I was tired. I'm traveling with two girls, and thus I cannot show weakness.

The museum at Delphi is home to most of the old things recovered from the archaelogical site, including the statues of Kleobis and Biton. I had actually studied these in my Classics classes, and once translated their story, which went like this: Kleobis and Biton's mom had to get to Delphi for an engagement, but their oxen weren't running properly, so Kleobis and Biton hitched themselves to the ox cart and dragged their mom the whole way. Once there, their mom was so grateful that she prayed to the gods to give the two brothers the ultimate gift. Thus, Kleobis and Biton lied down that night and died in their sleep. In a completely unrelated note, I almost died of heat exhaustion.

When night came, we found out about the third strike: there was no electricity in the whole port of Itea. Sad day. This, however, was balanced by a chance encouter I had. An old man, who came from our boat with way too much to drink, hailed me as the Duke, due to a Duke University shirt I had on. I was slightly embarassed, and told him, no, sorry, I'm not a duke - I'm a Captain. Immediately he saluted me. Then I gave him leave to get some Rest & Relaxation.

Roots: Ithaca Is The Cheese

I fear that before EasyCruiseOne docked in Ithaca, another ship under a black flag swifted into port and made off with all the young people. I say this because there were absolutely no youths to be had throughout the entire island. I came to this land, supposing it to be flowing over with milk and honeys, and am yet to alighted on a single honey. I will simply have to bide my time.

Ithaca is the cheese to my everything - my omletes, my pasta, my nachoes, et cetera. It is the bee's knees, the fly's eyes, the cat's meow, the dog's bark, my grandmother's exclamations. In short, I think Ithaca is one of the top five places on Earth, right in front of Blair Library in Fayetteville. It is an island of about 8000 people, with two major towns; when I say major, I mean that the populations of those two are both calculated without the census skewing inclusion of animals. Vathi, the port, has around 3000, and Stavros, above 1000.

I stand by my assertion that the young people of Greece are kept in the backrooms of tourism. Everyone had faces carved out of wood, or maybe the rocks that the island is made out of. Yes, like Tellson's Bank in A Tale Of Two Cities, young men are kept behind locked doors until the age like cheese and are acceptable to be brought out into the light.

To tour the entire island, Virginia, Emily, and I rented a small, pastel yellow Fiat from a foreigner named Charles. When Charles made us guess at his own port of origin, we only offended him, in increasing doses as our guesses became wilder, with the likes of Australia, England, Ireland, and climaxing in Poland, of all places. Charles was from South Africa. We took turns in the Fiat: Virginia drove north to Stavros, where we stopped once to survey the Odysseian olive trees, terraced into balconies overlooking the sea, and again to let a heard of billy goats gruff cross the street (jaywalking, in case you were curious). Emily drove south back to Vathi, where we stopped at the School of Homer, the supposed site of the Palace of Odysseus. It was nothing more than what could have been the remnants of the foundation, or what could have been children who created a small fort out of rocks.

This entire time, we spent our minutes driving trying to come up with a name for our pastel yellow Fiat. My suggestions (The Hands and Fiat, The Fiat of the Giant, A Fiat of Strength, A Fiat of Homeric Proportions, The Final DeFiat) were all rejected on the grounds of being band names. So, Joe Kane, take your pick.

I drove east of Vathi to a beach named Sarakiniko. As it is March and still winter here in Greece, Sarakiniko was deserted. It was a beach made of rocks and surrounded by trees - we had to cross a path along a cliff to reach if from where Emaline (the final name) was parked. After a few minutes looking into the water, a straight shot line of sight to the bottom, and wishing that I had worn swim trunks, had brought a towel, that it was hotter, later in the season, earlier in the day, that I had a million dollars or the complete works of Sufjan Stevens, Emily decided to jump in. Not to be out done, so did I.

I read once that a person can contract hypothermia from water up to 70 degrees fahrenheit. This may very well be true - the water next to the beach of Sarakiniko was definitely not 70 degrees fahrenheit, and immediately after jumping in I could feel the skin on my chest shrink like wool in the washer. My breathing sounded like I was running the 400 meter dash, over and over again. After an acclamation period, I stopped thinking about myself and looked about me.

Did you know that the Aegaen Sea is crystal clear? I mean the kind of crystals used in lasers and science experiments of the future. Once I stopped treading water, and looked down that straight shot line of site to the bottom, my personal problems were overtaken by the plain jane magnificence of the sea. In my head, I was thinking, I can obviously touch the bottom, but, as it turned out, the clarity of the water acted as a sort of magnifying glass, and the water that was beyond a shadow of a doubt shoulder high, in application showed itself to be over ten feet deep.

Sadly, I have to say, I have no idea how far the water went down. In fact, I only marvel to this extent in retrospect. In the water, yes, I was amazed, but that amazement could not manage to overshadow the feeling that I have carried with me since birth: that there is a sea monster with my name on it, following me where ever I go, and biding it's own time until the opportunity to eat me presents itself. While swimming in Sarakiniko, I did not see the monster, but I think it touched my leg.

I Go In Search Of My Roots

I am spending this spring break in search of my Roots, in Greece. Architects Virginia and Emily have come with me to the Aegean Area to try and seek out our ancestors. And we're taking a cruise to do so.

It's an EasyCruise. Yes - this is the same company that runs EasyJet, a gigantic EasyJest, the Dollar Tree form of travel. These are the same people who turned me away from my flight to Lyon, but I'm a forgiving type of person, and forgiving in this sense can be interpreted as a synonym of poor. Yes, I'm a poor type of person, and to my type of person, EasyCruise, which is nothing more than a floating hostel, appeals. (In EasyCruise's defense, there is an inhouse deejay, DJ George, who laces international tracks seven days a week in the designated party center, the Sun Moon Bar. His audience is mostly grandmothers.)

Yesterday we ported (I love that word) in Kiato, a very small town, from which my party of three took a series of very confusing buses and by the Grace of God ended up in Mycenae, which was Agammemnon's seat. There was the Tomb of Atreus and the Lion's Gate, both behemoths in size and weight, but what interested me more were the surrounding mountains, which looked as if they had been quickly hewn out of a solid block of stone and hastily covered with moss. They looked as if they were in the process of creation.

I will say a word for the Greek peoples: they are much more gracious than I would be. I often say, when asked, that Ancient Greek is eight times removed from Modern Greek as Shakespeare is to Amerlish. In truth, it is even farther. The only thing I retain, and am able to convey, are the prepositions. Even so, I have picked up one word along the way (thank you, which is IFXAPISTO), and use it as often as possible. The Greek peoples, who look as if they are all retired, as if they have taken all the youngsters and put them in the back rooms of tourism, have nevertheless been great hosts, and have taken care of my group in our ignorance. In fact, one beratement by a transportation official aside, I have had a humorous, if not smooth, time communicating.

Today we ported (I love it!) in Ithica, the island of Odysseus. We did not raid the town's stores and carry off the women, as I had suspected (before getting on the EasyCruiseOne, our boat, I had thought it might be a pirate ship, and the patrons might be forced into a life of buccaneering; this did not happen, and I almost regret it). I will relate the spoils of my journey further on.

LOST: Now With References To The Muppets

Did anyone else notice how much Frank Lapidis, helicopter pilot, looks like Sam the Eagle? Especially, when he talks about the universally feared and respected anger of the Captain? All I could think of, watching him, was the speech First Mate Samuel Arrow, played by Sam the Eagle, delivered to the cabin boys in Muppet Treasure Island, concerning Captain Smollett, also known as Kermit the Frog:

The man is a raging volcano, with inner demons the likes of mere mortals cannot fathom.

The name of the freighter's captain, Captain Gault, even recalls Smollett a little (also, John Galt, who built a isolated paradise, away from the corrupt world, of various geniuses, in Atlas Shrugged. But don't read it). It is from the Captain that we learn that is indeed Ben who launched the cover up, planting a fake plane and three hundred plus bodies at the bottom of the ocean. Something like that must have cost more than War of the Worlds. Maybe money does in fact grow on trees on this particular island.

What's up with Regina? I say, the sickness that infected Rousseau's people. If you will remember, all of Rousseau's French friends went crazy after a few months on the island. At first, I thought this was Existentialism, but after seeing Regina jump off a boat, covered in chains like the ghost of Jacob and Robert Marley (they're brothers in the Muppet version), I think that maybe the French got a little cabin fever, too.

For further parallels between LOST and the Muppets, see the Treasure Island song, Cabin Fever.

I want to come forward immediately and say I do not appreciate being trifled with. The mix of flashbacks and flashforwards, with no apparent reason but to mislead the viewer, feels a little underhanded. I admit, I was sore afterwards, and not because I fell down or anything. However, Taylor the Architect, with whom I watched the episode, said he saw the ending coming (which I didn't), because he was anticipating being screwed with. Let's face it: everyone is expecting LOST to trick us more and more. This is what happened to M. Night Shyamalan; people came to his movies expecting to get a twist ending, and so in thinking about it, they eventually realized the ending before it came, and walked out of the theater hating the movie. With this episode, I feel like the producers and declaring war on the audience, in the way that Englishmen used to declare war: with the idea that war is much more diverting than peace. They're saying, we dare you to guess at where we're going next. And I love it.

Obviously, in a writer's room meeting, some random hand stood up and said, "Jin is becoming way too good of a person. He's almost fully worked through all his emotional problems, and his relationship with Sun is becoming dangerously healthy. So, he has to go." Jin is one of the best characters on the show, the man who always does the right thing - someone so functional cannot last long on a show known for its complex and conflicted characters. So, he's getting offed. When? In the next three weeks, showtime. Juliet said that Sun had to get off the island in three weeks. Jin, along with Claire, can be assumed to be those two who, according to the official story, survived the crash but not long enough to be rescued. Might the captain's inner demons, which the likes of mere mortals cannot fathom, get him?

And, yes, Claire will die. Charlie sacrificed himself because of a vision that involved her getting onto a chopper - she does not stay on the island. And for a mother to give up her child, some enormous force would have to play a part, like, say, death. My guess is it is Claire's death that sends Sayid over the edge, to work with Ben.

Does it make me a bad person that I felt a bit of joy in the last flashback scene? Between Hurley flying across the largest ocean in the world to be a substitute father figure, if only temporarily, and Sun weeping over Jin's grave, it gave me a bit of hope that yes, the people on the island are capable of love, and not just the type of love that involves a triangle.

Oh yeah, and Michael is the man on the boat. But that was kind of obvious.

IN OTHER NEWS, no one will be nice to Dan (give him a break, islanders), Bernard proves he has a purpose by acting as the token old man wisdom, Juliet is a cold hearted broad, and Jin's flashback music flourishes makes it more material for a children's comedy than a prime time drama about time travel.

So, does this mean the Oceanic Six are set? Jack, Kate, Sayid, Sun, Hurley, and Aaron? As for me, I'm not done fighting for Locke. I say Aaron doesn't count. I mean, who among that grouping of people wouldn't have anyone come to their funeral? Someone needs to be universally hated to get that treatment, and so I'm not done pushing Locke.

As I understand it, next week's episode will be the last until late April, so put on a hat and then hold onto said hat tightly, because, to be sure, it will attempt to trip you up, and will inevitably sucker punch you with information like, rapper Mannie Fresh is actually the smoke monster.

I Fear My Hair Has Become Sentient

My mother used to cut both my sister's and mine own hair when we were elementary children, so that we looked like different sizes of the same doll, drawn to scale. My father put a stop to this when I was in seventh grade: he took me to the local Sam's Club, bought a Con Air Home Haircut Kit, and shaved my head. I've had that haircut ever since, and haven't paid for such a service since then, when our family would get touch-ups from a stylist who worked out of a defunct train caboose.

After shaving my head once more in May of last year, before I went to work for a summer camp, I let my hair grow for a good seven months before my mother made me do something about it. What I did was make a decision to do nothing: I pledged to her that I would not cut my hair until I had come back from Rome. In this regard, I would be much like Samson, and, I warned her, if I got off the plane carrying the jawbone of a donkey, people best get out of my perimeter, before I break some bread on a few fools, courtesy of my divine locks.

Now, two months before I once again cut my hair, I have lost all illusions. Long hair is insufferable. I have to shampoo everyday. Not only that, but many times I have to shampoo multiple times a day. How ludicrous does that sound? If you're not a girl, it should sound ludicrous enough.

I could harvest grease like maple syrup, bottle and save it for a later date, for what purpose I'm not positive on, but I could, so much grease does my hair produce. And I find that I perfer the greasy state of hair, because the alternative, a clean beautiful lion's mane, is impossible to control. With my hands in my pockets, I am constantly forced to perform what my sister calls the "Mississippi Boy Swoop," where I swing set my head from one side to the other, in order to get the hair out of my eyes (in my defense, I try to make this motion as awkward and graceless as possible, so that no one could accuse me of "Mississippi Boy Vanity").

So I lie awake at night, fearing that once I truly fall asleep my hair will form dreadlock tentacles and become nefarious, strangle me to death or attack my roommates or update Wikipedia with false information. Do you know what it's like, to fall asleep in fear, especially of your hair? But I still have the rest of March and April to live with this stock and the split ends (honestly, how do girls live?), before I return to home and friends who will, no doubt, briefly want to see what I look like when I wear a mullet.

I Am Disconcerted At The Palazzo Farnese

On Wednesday morning, my roommates woke me up thirty minutes early and told me that I needed to get to the bus station Termini lickety-split. I complied, without question, in the same manner with which, an hour later, I boarded an out-bound bus when so instructed: with an unaffected air that suggests I have no idea what's going on, and have not had any such ideas since arriving in this country over two months ago.

The what's-going-on was shortly explained, as it had been the previous day and the day before that, but that was an explanation I missed, because once I sat down in the bus I immediately took out my current book, The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay, which, by the way, was recommended to me by Seth Cohen on the first season Chrismukkah episode of the O.C. That is where I get most of my reading material.

Instances like these, missing out on important instructions and instruction because I am star gazing or, the more often occurrence, glazed gazing, where I become as comatose as an animated person can, define my time here. Ignoring Professor Emilio's itinerary outline in favor of my own personal world, complete with personal rules and physics, I think, is a cookie cutter cross section of my Roman academic career.

Once inside the massive Palazzo Farnese, I caught up to a classmate and finally got some answers. "We're in the Palazzo Farnese," she said, with the words you here in movies where someone caught time traveling asks a passerby what year it is; "weren't you listening?"

The Farnese were a very powerful Roman family, spawning multiple popes and many of their secular counterparts. They built this palace about an hour north of Rome, as the bus drives, but I guesstimate it took longer by horse and carriage. The building is a pentagon centered on  a circle; the innards dazzle with biblical frescoes and a sense of humanism that almost upends such frescoes with sarcasm. Much more interesting were the gardens.

Behind the Palazzo Farnese lie three successive gardens, each increasing in magnificence. The backyard is a small, take a turn about the garden type; very square and small, hemmed in with shrubbery crafted like tile. The second garden was a bit larger, and resembled (as was a common motif there) as miniature hedge maze. Show me a man who does not dream of participating in and reigning victorious over a hedge maze race, and I will show you proof that there are aliens, and that they have certainly not ever heard of a hedge maze, poor things, or they would wish to race in them, as well.

The third upended and moved itself up the street, at the top of the hill, in a bit wilder and more secluded suburb than the first two. Walking up the path, it became obvious that the Palazzo Farnese was a hot spot for jerry atrics; we were by far the youngest, and apart from our group, everyone was living off their retirement checks, I imagine. There must have been a shuffleboard hidden away in one of the more dense recesses of the park, because there was no other reason for so many old people to congregate in such a place.

The upper park was the Italian Pemberley; I realize that houses and lots do not have legs, but, upon my honor, I swear the Palazzo Farnese stepped out of a Jane Austen novel. The grounds were sprawling, and the bushes trimmed in such a way as to coil about the place with a purpose; no, the hedges were not so high as to satisfy my height, but they would certainly give young children and dwarves a run for their money. There was such a symmetry in the place that even fountains had their twins, facing them from across the lawn; Emilio at one point funneled us all into a small room, which soon revealed itself to be one of those fountains, long dormant, soon activated, as it laid in wait for unsuspecting Americans, pied by piper professors.

As bluehairs filed in like wayward Israelites under new management, I realized that the reason America is considered so uncultured by the world is simply because we have no real gardens. Any country without such a reserve as the Palazzo Farnese should be considered barbaric; add this to the ever growing list of such things. It shall join the ranks of widespread public transportation, multi-use buildings, and coffee shops that don't demand payment up front.