I Acquire Fashion, If Fashion Is Defined By Playing Mad-Libs With Clothing

This Friday, Virginia the Architect, Danny the Perpetual Foreign Exchange Student, and I all went to Porta di Roma, which is the mall on the outside of town. Two hundred and twenty (220) stores. And not one of them was Eddie Bauer. Can you believe that?

A quick travel pointer: Roman malls, or just this particular Roman wall, is only accessible from one side, and that side only from a foot bridge crossing over a depressed freeway. My party circumnavigated all two hundred and twenty (220) stores, as luck would have it, and got to see all three other sides before getting to said foot bridge.

Our main goal was H&M, a Swedish clothing store that has not made the transition to the U.S., most likely because they think they are too cool for school. H&M is the kind of store that makes stretchy shirts out of recycled pants from decades past, and then sells them for the price of the original pants, if the pants aged like good wine. On Friday, however, they were clearancing all their undesirable pieces. That's my game.

So, for thirty five (35) euros, I purchased: two white dress shirts, two thick ties, a Christmas sweater, and a checkered blazer. That amounts to a little over five (5+) euros an item. Take that, European fashion. I'm sending the above picture, where I model the sweater and one shirt, directly to H&M headquarters (true story: that photo shoot took fourteen (!4) takes to get that look; I call it, "How I Long For the Wind to Carve Across My Nose, Or, Illium, NY.")

I add these purchases to another five (%) euro tie and a fifteen (!#) euro vest, canabalized from a three piece suit, making my new wardrobe worth over 55 (*@&#) euros. I only say this because the only other thing I purchased was an Italian leather notebook worth 55 (*&#$^!!!!) euros. Don't tell my mom. After I bought it, the right part of my brain said, Cass, that was very foolish, but then the left part of my brain said, you know what, for once, you're right (ZING). But then I said, at least I have the courage to do the foolish things. At least I do the foolish things right. So take that, logic.

I Wax At Hadrian's Villa

On Wednesday, through an architectural class, we field tripped to Hadrian's Villa. Hadrian was a Roman emperor in the early second century; it was him, then Antoninus, the Marcus Aurelius, from Gladiator, if that helps. He was adopted by the Emperor Trajan on account of his skills in administration (an aside: I was recently offered adoption on account of my skills in mathematics). One of the things Hadrian is remembered for is his villa, which he built in Tivoli, south of Rome, on his wife Sabina's land. He then proceeded to fill it with images of his lover, Antinous. Take that, woman. Or just women, everywhere.

The villa is an enormous small town, self contained, with a sampling of everything, even two separate baths. The place is overrun with angles (if I've only learned one thing this past month studying architecture, it is that all cities are planned using axises. Or is it axi? Axis's?). The three primary axises (axisz?) terminate at the Maritime Theater.

But it's not really a theater. It's Hadrian's private residence. You see, Hadrian built an ideal, perfect place, a getaway from Rome, and it still wasn't enough. So he created a perfect circle, erected a Pantheon-like building, then surrounded it by a moat (when I get back home, 1915 Wedington is gonna be moated). He retreated to the Maritime Theater when he wanted to be alone to write poetry, or when he got in a mean disposition, which, according to people who know about such things, was quite frequent.

We were instructed to take some time out and sketch the Maritime Theater. What? Sketch? All the architecture students took this in stride, and immediately sat down and went to work. After some hesitation, I began to draw a column, but this column ended up looking so much like Boba Fett's helmet that I decided to finished the whole figure.

After I was done with the bounty hunter, my thoughts began to wonder, till I arrived right back in the place I was originally, thinking about how funny people act. How Hadrian built an ideal place, found out it wasn't enough, then tried to build a getaway from his getaway. How people try to fill that hole inside them - the one right between the chestplates, in the middle, at the bottom of the breast. You feel that? That gap, right smack in the middle, that empty space? People try to put the strangest things there. I try to put the strangest things there.

But that's all fancy talk.

I Complete My Trilogy of Birthday Posts

In Rome, my birthday has lasted for a solid week. It's a downgrade from that six more weeks of birthday wave I ride off of the groundhog's shadow, but it's still nice.

I received a birthday package from my mom; in it were all essentials to throw a party. Happy Birthday Plates, Happy Birthday Napkins, Happy Birthday Streamers, Happy Birthday Noisemakers, Happy Birthday Credit Card. She also sent me two Vonnegut books, which are a much needed change from the required Italian literature (the Italians have any amazing capacity for the desire to be depressed).

My mom also told me of the birthday party I missed. Apparently, on Sunday, my mom invited many of my friends over to the family house and had a surprise party. Surprise. They ate spaghetti and even got party favors. I haven't been to a party with favors since I went to St. Joseph's Elementary. At the head of the table was a mock-up Cass Trumbo: face, clothing, the whole kit and caboodle. There's pictures to prove it.

The Red, my old roommate, he tells me that my face made the pilgrimage back to 1915 Wedington, where I live when not skiing in the Alps. He tells me that given its current position, in the living room above the potted plant, the face comes off as some sort of shrine for the deceased. Though I've only been gone for a month, I'm already being mourned.

So if you have it in your heart to pay your respects to the dearly departed, several countries removed me, go and visit The Red, Bo, and whoever else is living in the house (it's more like a hotel, really); they could use the company, and my grave could use some flowers.

A Place To Read A Book And Write A Letter (And Ski): Interlaken

The story I told about my birthday, English teachers would say it began in media res, which is Latin for, 'the writer has no idea what he's doing.' They would say such because it began right smack in the middle, like an art film. And since I'm rather artsy, I thought it fitting to end with the beginning.

On Thursday we flew to Basel from Rome. Basel is a border town, a Swiss town right next to Germany. They speak Swiss-German, which is neither Swiss nor German, nor is it Italian, which is the language I kept trying to communicate in. If anything, my trip to Switzerland made me realize how good at Italian I really was, as I would repeated order in Italian from Swiss waiters. Needless to say, this made me very popular.

On Friday, we made a small detour to Germany to survey a factory that makes modern chairs (you think I'm kidding; this was the architecture students' idea of fun), and then took one o'clock train directly to Interlaken.

Means between the lakes, Interlaken does. Beautiful in the way that you only use once or twice in your life. I settled in the low key hostel (I was continuously told that Balmer's Herberge, the most popular hostel, was 'where the party's at.' I declined), rented some skis, then bonded with my Korean roommates. Lots of Koreans in Interlaken, and no idea why. It's known as a stop for young backpackers, but the reason why there were so many Koreans there escapes me. And the kicker is, I don't think they ever left the hostel.

Skiing in the Alps is a lot different than in Colorado or in front of Pomfret. At least where I was, there were no trees. Ski paths were marked by poles, every ten or so yards. Poles were colored to show difficulty. Obeying the poles was not necessary.

The day I skied, my birthday, a great storm, the hand of God, descended on the mountain and blinded all the skiers like it confused all those who built the Tower of Babel. So, to review: no visibility, no trees, markers placed just out of sight of each other, and everybody else speaks Swiss-German. I had a fun ride down. When I got to the bottom, I think I was bleeding lactic acid. On the mountain, though, I did have a science fiction revelation. Went back to the hostel and wrote it out.

When Ben Rector turned twenty, he wrote a hit pop song. When Cass Trumbo turned twenty, he wrote a short story about aliens. It's up in the air as to which is a better gauge of manhood.

LOST: A Quick Update

After watching the season premier a second time, I realized two things: A) I have a very sad, base addiction, and B) since Hurley told the detective that he did not know Ana Lucia, and since the mysterious lawyer asked if "they" were still alive, then the official story concerning the crash must be that only six survived. Even Oceanic doesn't know the truth, though they (or whoever the lawyer really represents) harbor strong suspicions. Who, then, delivered the Oceanic Six to the mainland and orchestrated the lie? Probably the same company who owns the boat, the same company who staged the crash site at the bottom of the ocean.

And after doing some further reading online, I learned two more things: 1) I absolutely must find a life, and 2) Christian Shepherd, Jack's father, was the figure rocking in Jacob's cabin. This news, combined with the most recent mobisode (the mobisodes being short clips released by ABC running up to the season premier) where Vincent, Michael's dog, encounters Christian in the woods, right after the crash, Christian's other appearances on the island, and his close connection with those others who are lost (Claire's father, Sawyer's drinking partner, Ana Lucia's employer), suggests that Christian will not be leaving the show any time soon, and may in fact play an integral part in the whole island's structure.

Is Christian Shepherd Jacob? Why is his name so Messianic? What other things can I do with my time? Your thoughts.

I Become A Man

On Groundhog's Day, February the Second, everyone in America rouses their neighborhood groundhog and, if he sees his shadow, I have six more weeks of birthday. Trust me; there was an O.C. episode about it. You know, the one where Taylor stalks Ryan in a groundhog suit. And I have my birthday.

For Groundhog's Day is my birthday. I hope you celebrated it. My mom did. She tells me that she had cake and everything, all the way down to a mock up of my form with my picture pasted to it. Now that is a mother's love.

But I was not there; I did not see it. I was in Interlaken, Switzerland, celebrating my birthday. I turned twenty on February the Second, you know it? Ancient traditions say that this, coupled with some strange baby blood rituals, makes you a man. I did the baby blood thing long ago, so the only thing left to do was turn twenty.

I had my birthday dinner in a not-intended-for-tourists Swiss pub. I ordered sausage and hashbrowns, but I did not get my food for a long time, on account of the waitress had sat down with a table of elderly patrons.

These old men and women had been drinking since four in the afternoon, right after the mountain closed; I did the math while watching them. I multiplied the number of Swiss-German folk songs they unconsciously repeatedly sang by some number, and concluded that they were flat out hammered.

We ate for three hours, and never once did they stop singing, though they doubled back on their repertoire several times. These Swiss were not just old. They were old old, World War II old, use a walker and drink harder old. They did sing Happy Birthday to me in Swiss-German, though.

When I left, I had to walk about ten minutes alone to my hostel. Going across a park, I could see one mountain rising above the town, and I couldn't help but thinking it a monster. You know that scene in the movie that goes for like three minutes, and suddenly a gigantic eye opens in the background, and you say, "Mother of Pearl, that monster has been in the background the entire scene!" I kept imagining that the mountain would suddenly open an eye, reveal itself a dragon, and lay waste to the town.

Kind of like God, that dragon. The mountain. Whatever. So I made a deal with the dragon-god, and told Him if He made me a man, I would commit my first fruits to Him.

Nothing's happened yet.

LOST: Extras Like Immigrants Workers

Wow. LOST, for me, is a little piece of America, punching Italy in the face. In other words, the balm of Gilead.

The season premier was much just fallout from last season's finale. People rejoice at the prospect of going home. Big smiles all around. Everyone lets loose with the contrived jokes they save for such occasions ("Oh Sun," says Clare, "just rub in it, why don'cha!") The tension comes from the small group left on the beach, who have to warn everyone else that the boat is basically filled with bad guys.

The first sequence of the LOST premiers have usually been pieces with one giant twist. In the second season, it was the man in the hatch. In the third, it was the Anytown, America on the island. In the fourth, it was the Oceanic Six.

So, right away we're told that only six make it off the island. Hurley, Jack, and Kate, who we have already seen; that leaves three more, and I'm sticking to my guns that Locke is one (though he will probably be revealed last). The Six will probably be given in slow, small doses, so the real question is, will all the flashforwards focus on those who we know got off, or will some be on the island?

Wait - that's not the real question. It's a question, for sure, but the real one is, what are the people on the island doing in the future? Hurley tells Jack (a pre-bearded and pre-Oxycodon addicted Jack) that "they" need help; a mysterious man comes around asking about the livelihoods of "they" (Oceanic doesn't know the truth, they only suspect). Are "they" those left on the island? And why do they need help? And is the island the "it" Hurley refers to, the "it" that is won't let them go?

On thing is for sure: going with Locke was a bad idea. Though it seemed the clear choice, given the current information, Hurley apologizes to Jack of the Future, telling him that Hurley should have gone with Jack; that he made a mistake going with Locke.

IN OTHER NEWS, Naomi kicked the bucket (my money was on her to live - needless to say, I lost that money), Jack actually really tries to kill Locke, Sawyer is going soft, and Jacob's cabin is a mobile haunted house. Like the circus, only scarier.

Other than these tidbits, this episode was pretty tame. This episode, however, was completely overrun with excess extras. I mean, a new record for random extras. Congrats, LOST.