Ravens Fall to Vikings on Another Missed Field Goal: Yes, Brett, They Missed It..

So it appears that the Baltimore Ravens are up to their old tricks. Or, rather, their old sloppy game of football. From top-down and bottom-up, the Ravens have made bad decisions over the course of the season, and particularly during Sunday's game against the Minnesota Vikings, that have been rather costly. The front office failed to make a move on resigning Matt Stover, and now he's off in Indianapolis, playing for "the dolts." Worse still, we signed David Tyree last week, when we really need a cornerback. Any cornerback. Our secondary's performances are difficult to watch. The Ravens really should be kicking themselves, literally, this week, after the secondary failed, again, (Mike Preston of The Baltimore Sun gave the unit an "F,") and Steve Houschka missed the game winning field goal from 44 yards out with 0:02 remaining on the clock. Houschka may be younger, fresher, stronger, and even generally more consistent than Stover is in his old age, but Stover had the experience and knowledge to make a game winning kick in a must-win game played in a dome. There is no doubt that Stover is a "clutch" player, as much as Adam Vinateri during the Patriots' Lombardi Trophy reign or as David Ortiz was for the Red Sox in the 2004 ALCS. Stover was also, surely, the quiet leader of the team. While more outspoken players like Ray, Ed Reed, and Bart Scott certainly got most of the limelight for their inspirational roles, I think Stover played a key role as a cornerstone for the team, a solidly dependable old-timer. Matt Stover, who came with the Browns team when it became the Baltimore Ravens, more than anyone, save perhaps Jonathon Ogden, was the face of the franchise. And incidentally, it seems that the Ravens are suffering from a poorly-timed identity crisis.

Until the fourth quarter, offensive production was nearly as miserable as was watching the Ravens defense collapse repeatedly. Derrick Mason dropped passes that were probably just as crucial as the drops Mark Clayton made in previous games. McGahee's production was nonexistent, and Le'Ron McClain did not make big plays. In fact, McClain has yet to have a big game this season, something that is much needed and long overdue. Ray Rice continued to churn, but with a weak offensive line, there is not much he can do. Since Jared Gaither's injury, first round draft pick Michael Oher has moved across the field to play tackle. I don't know if this move, or the relatively tame Minnesota crowd was the reason for his problems, but regardless, Oher was called for numerous costly false starts. If the stars, Reed, McClain, and Oher, aren't producing, what are we to expect from rookies and less skilled players?

More bad news: it looks like Samari Rolle is not coming back any time soon. So for now, the Ravens will have to work with their oh so promising cornerbacks. Talk show hosts and fans are off speculating about whether Baltimore should acquire T.O. I love T.O., unlike most people, so it pains me to say this is one problem that T.O. cannot solve. Unless he has a hidden talent for playing excellent pass coverage. (I'm sure he already plays better than Frank Walker, though.) So the Ravens go into the bye week strapped to a slowly deflating balloon.

But there was something eerily familiar about the Ravens game this past Sunday. Coming up just short because they dug their hole too deep. Too little, too late. Settling for field goals (although missing them is a relatively new, and rather troubling, trend.) Ray Lewis playing the secondary better than the actual safeties and cornerbacks. We won't even talk about Joe Flacco. Conservative play calling. Unimaginative play calling. Bad attitudes and worse penalties. The Ravens have forgotten who they were on their way to being, and unless they wake up from this amnesia, John Harbaugh & Co. will be watching round one of the playoffs from their couches, and Baltimore fans may not even bother turning on the TV.

Creative Piece: Games

inspired by David Mitchell's "Black Swan Green"

So I talked about the Game of Life-

You win by getting your little car to the end of the road of life first- but being two players at once is no fun.

Contestants have to guess a missing word- they win crap prizes,

Praying to scoop the kitty from Free Parking, Hugo’s already got hotels on Mayfair and Park Lane.

The scores climb high as rugby scores. One game can last hours, until the last-but-one kid goes home. And then the games are more like battles.

The cost of winning is so high that it would have been better if you’d never bothered,

Winning needs luck and bravery.

Talking with some people’s like moving up higher screens of a computer game,

My strategy collapsed and I didn’t even clear the first screen. A plastic disc floats on a cushion of air- but you need another human.

Spectators voted with their grins.

Operation’s this game where you take out bones from a patient’s body- war games’re extinct now. We played winner stays on.

Swerving, eddying, and ramming Score-Less-Than-20-With-3-Darts-and-Pick-Any-Prize! Grand Master of the Helter Skelter, tonight I leaned into the curves.

One crucial song tips the disco over,

Ain’t no TV here. I’m fishin’, I am.What was the name of that game when we were kids? Where the first one to catch up with the other won?

photo: alibubba (flickr)

Bruce Springsteen Visits Baltimore: Meet the New Boss, Same as the Old Boss

The irony is that another band that shared his 1970s spotlight, and not the Grand Master of words himself, was the one to make this statement, a proclamation that is so simple, but so true. The New Boss has not changed at all, or at least when it really matters. Bruce Springsteen is, still, The Boss. Tickets for his November 20 show at First Mariner Arena (or FDIC arena, as my dad calls it) in Baltimore sold out in a mere 20 minutes last Friday, a period fifteen minutes shorter than that which it took to sell out Miley Cyrus. Some things are better left unchanged.

Since 1972, Bruce and the E Street Band have been turning words into magic, weaving tales of the American Dream, of youth, of change. In Robert Santelli's compelling and beautifully edited coffee table book, "Greetings from E Street," he captures the essence of the band in a single quotation, taken from Springsteen himself. "I want you to put your hands together, your arms together, your asses together for the houserocking, pants dropping, brain-shocking, earthquaking, booty-shaking, viagra-taking, lovemaking, sexifying, electrifying, women shrieking, grown men crying, legendary E Street Band!" So okay, The Who may have put things more succinctly in their line, but as usual, Bruce captures the movement, the emotion, the power of the moment.

But the point is, the magic never dies, and coming off what I previously proclaimed the "best year ever," Bruce seems to be in store for the best consecutive years ever. After a bewitching Super Bowl performance, and a successful new album, Springsteen & Co. have hit the road on tour. They've sold out everywhere. They've sold out quickly. Chris Christie, the Republican candidate for governor of New Jersey, has done more than endorse his fellow Jerseyman. Apparently, he's attended 120 E Street Concerts, too. In fact, Christie is expected to belt out "Thunder Road" with thousands of other devotees this very night, during The Boss's concert at the Meadowlands. Not that Chris Christie's fandom dictates a good year, but anyone should feel good who has one man go to 120 of his concerts. Still waiting on Obama to invite the band to the White House, though- they did provide the soundtrack for his historical presidential campaign.

After their nineties hiatus, luckily the band came to their senses, or more like Bruce came to his, and reunited in 1999 after nearly a decade of being split up. And now, after 30 years, Bruce is returning to Baltimore, after he seemingly "went out for a ride and never came back." It seems preposterous that he has only played in the city once before (when he opened for Chicago in the 1970s), especially when "Hungry Heart" mentions beloved Charm City in its first line. And anyone attending the groundbreaking Nov 20 concert is in for a delightful show, as the band plans to play its "Born to Run" album in entirety.

Last week Bruce turned the big 6-0 and while no one has announced how he spent the night, I'm sure he spent it well. And two nights before, at a show in Iowa, the band led its captive audience in a rendition of "Happy Birthday." Imagine, Clarence singing you "Happy Birthday!" But E Street's expanding its label. The band was recently nominated for four Emmys, and now has developed a line of, might I say, fashion forward apparel. But that's not all, you can drink out of Bruce mugs, write your root canal appt. on a Bruce calendar, and even deck your kids out in Bruce (that is, if you're bringing your children up the right way, as mine did.) So, judging by Bruce's sheer mastery of all he attempts, I'd wager that if he wishes to pursue the fashion design/marketing track, he could soon make a mean joke of Anna Wintour, if he wanted to.

If only I had satellite radio in my car. He has his own channel. So what is it that makes this music so universal, so emotive, so beautiful? Is it that Bruce's clairvoyant mind allows him to approach subjects we all understand with an innate ability, one that we mortals don't have, to express deeper truths about these subjects? Is it the emotion and heat his music creates? Or is it something far more elementary? Maybe it is all these things, and for each person, something different resonates with them whether it be the form, the intonations, the pauses, the lyrics, or maybe just the man singing the words or that cool saxophone player?

Bruce and the band make things change. Literally, their music is used for political campaigns running on platforms of change. But more than this, they remind us of people we love, places we've been, things we've felt. The lyrics and the men behind them restore our faith in humanity, and listening to them, it is clear that their expressions are so genuine, so sincere, that they are significantly more beautiful, and more meaningful than the words that spew from other artists' mouths. They are not the only ones to discover this key to humanity, but they are some of the men who have done so most effectively.

The band uses a unique consciousness, captures those quintessential and transformative moments in our lives. It speaks of dreams, American pride, exceptionalism, values. It speaks to persistence and resolve, of struggle and of overcoming challenges. Their music is American, but even more so, their music is human, in the same way that the most essential parts of the American ethos actually reflect mankind on a whole. Thus, the band has received worldwide renown, respect, and patronage. The band speaks to unity. Most of all, nearly every song speaks of love. Making love, falling in love, keeping love, losing your grip on it, but refusing to lose it for good. Unconditional love that brings boy and girl, parent and child, Americans, people at bus stops, citizens of the world, couples on the Jersey Shore together. Love beneath the stars, in cars, and on endless summer nights. Love is that universal language, the metric system of emotions that everyone understands. Love is that aforementioned magic that never dies. Bruce and the E Street Band know this, and that is the key to being legend. The legendary E Street Band. 'Heroes get remembered, but legends never die.'

photo courtesy t.klick @ flickr.com

Creative Piece: Thunder Road Revisited

It's Thunder Road revisited

the radio plays

we know for whom Roy Orbison sings

and where there's thunder,

there's lightning

But spells break.

Pretend that it's forever dark.

It came and went

illuminating.

It thrust me in and out

of yellow blue grey black white

white hot.

stone cold. white hot.

Take shelter in a gazebo, by a school

with red brick buildings.

But I'll be the last to find the famed four leaf clover,

The storms always pass when we want them to stay.

And the clouds roll on from this town full of losers,

pulling out of here to win.

Hampden Restaurant Review: Rocket to Venus

A piece exposing Rocket to Venus's greatness is long overdue and well-deserved. While The Baltimore Sun and other local publications still have yet to pick up on Hampden's rising star, my family is definitely very aware of, and thankful for, Rocket's innovative and plentiful offerings. Located near the corner of 34th St and Chestnut, Rocket to Venus is nestled among Hampden's row houses, rather than situated on the neighborhood's main stretch, alongside other great eateries, like Cafe Hon and Golden West Cafe. Perhaps the more obscure location has contributed to its relative obscurity. This same factor, however, allows the establishment to retain its retro-quirky feel, and to cater mainly to locals and regulars. It also keeps the lines down, and I have never once had to wait for a table.

Outside, bikers can park the motorcycles and head into the bar for a drink, or they can sit on the outside patio and socialize while they sit at umbrellad tables and take a smoke. Rocket to Venus is open seven days a week and serves lunch/ brunch starting at 12 pm Sundays. The bar has an ongoing trivia contest and Rocket to Venus also hosts other weekly events like movie nights and bingos. The clientele is as eclectic as the menu, and the wait staff is at once individual and uniformly clad in skinny jeans, dark monochromes and rock & roll t-shirts. They're hip and servers give off an air of edgy self-confidence, but do not make diners feel unwelcome or uncomfortable. Local art, available for purchase, adorns the walls and is rotated constantly.

Of course, as at all good restaurants, the food is the best part. Rocket serves slider-style hamburgers, called wimpies, and also offers tofu ("sloppy jo-fu") and falafel wimpies. Who else could make falafel so appealing that it would tempt my 13 year old brother to try it, and then become his "usual" order? In addition to creative naming, Rocket masters one of my favorite foods of all time; brussels sprouts. In fact, my mom has said that we are probably the "only family that fights over brussels sprouts," but if more families ordered the balsamic roasted sprouts from Rocket to Venus, I am sure that would not be the case. I could easily eat three or four servings of these vegetables, but have to refrain in order to sample some of the menu's other offerings.

My mom always seems to go for the Banh-Mi, a vietnamese sandwich complete with pate, pickled daikon, mint aioli, and veggies. My dad likes the Andouille, Shrimp & Grits, although he tries to mix it up each time we come to Rocket to Venus. To accompany my brussels sprouts, I usually order the Rocket to Venus house salad and either a half-pound of steamed shrimp (with Old Bay) or mussels in a white wine sauce. The cheese plates make great appetizers, and my parents rave about the wine selection. In fact, my father raves about everything. He loves the servers, the counterculture-esque vibe, the unconventionality of the diners, decor, and menu. It has fast become THE family restaurant, and is currently Hampden's best kept secret.

Rocket to Venus certainly finishes strong, offering the famous Dangerously Delicious pies, featured on Food Network, and baked, literally, down the street, on its simple but unique desert menu. To top this, one can order a deep-fried PB&J complete with a scoop (or two) of vanilla ice cream, as well as caramel and chocolate sauces. I've seen people share this, but to me, it's really more of a one-person kinda dish. Regardless, you will either not want to leave or come back the next day, which is sure to be a good omen for Rocket to Venus's entrepreneurial future, not that the owners care about that stuff. They're just in it for the fun. And the food.

Snoop Knows What's Up, Visits Ravens Training Camp

Recently, Cordazar Calvin Broadus, or Snoop Dogg, as the "in" know to call him, paid a visit to McDaniel College in Westminster, Maryland. Now, one might ask, what exactly is Snoop doing in Maryland, not to mention in a town where tension still dominates interracial relations, and where Sarah Palin lovers, the angry, aggrieved white people, roam and dominate the area's demographics? None of that really embodies what Broadus is all about. Well, Cordazar was there for no other reason but to visit the Baltimore Ravens training camp, which runs daily on the McDaniel College campus. (That, and he happened to be performing with Slightly Stoopid at nearby Merriwether Post Pavillion, for the "Blazed and Confused" tour.)

But obviously Mr. Broadus was not all that confused because he knows his football. In fact, Snoop has picked numerous Super Bowl winners and expressed his interest in being an NFL coach. (If only the Ravens front office had known this when they didn't know if they could afford to replace Brian Billick...) He may be a Pittsburgh Steelers fan, but he kept that on the DL as he charmed the rough, tough Tonka's got the stuff defensive line, and the ever-composed Joe Flacco AKA "Joe Cool." He even joined the end of practice huddle and led the Ravens in their notorious "what time is it" cheer. Plus, Ray Lewis invited Snoop, and that means he can't be a bad guy. I mean come on; clearly Ray hangs with a very respectable crowd. But less on their guest visitor, and more on the team of rising talent that could well be in contention, once again, for a spot in the Super Bowl. (Such a conclusion to the season would be a fitting tribute to a number of men in the purple and black, because it would mean a homecoming of disproportional sorts. It seems that nearly half the team played for the 'Canes, and, in fact, Ray, Ed Reed, Willis McGahee, and the less publicized Tavares Gooden, all played there.)

The Baltimore Ravens look to be a defensive powerhouse once again. Countless scouts from NFL teams across the nation will be attending the Ravens' upcoming preseason game against Rex Ryan's Jets, in hopes of picking up some of the Ravens' rejects. If scouts are circling the skies above M&T Bank Stadium like vultures, hoping to dredge up some reject defenders for their own squads' starting positions, this has to say something about the astonishing pool of applicants who have shown up in Westminster this August. These hopefuls want to make the Ravens' final cuts and join the NFL's most notorious and bruising defense. In fact, the Ravens attract such fine defensive candidates, that their staff could easily be compared to the skilled admissions staffs at a handful of the country's most selective colleges and universities, who attract the nation's and the world's finest candidates for application each fall.

The Ravens also have promising rookies lining up on the other side of the ball, and second year offensive coordinator Cam Cameron has devised some interesting, albeit unconventional, plays to keep opposing defenses on their toes this fall. Last season, we saw passes by Troy Smith and receptions by Joe Flacco. Who knows what this season holds in store? Recently, the Ravens drilled on the Wildcat Offense. With Joe "Cool" Flacco back as a "veteran" quarterback, experts expect him to demonstrate even more maturity in the pocket. In their first preseason game, Flacco showed that he has committed to memory the saying "when in doubt, throw it out." Baltimore is hoping that his performance last season was not just beginner's luck, but rather the beginning of a hall of fame destined career. With tackle Michael Oher finally taking his place on the offensive line, hopefully Joe will be less pressured, and as a result throw fewer interceptions, than he did in the '08 season. Chris Carr, a cornerback, could turn out to be another of the Ravens' key acquisitions this season.

The Ravens will, of course, miss the surefooted Matt Stover, if they do not opt to bring him back. Lorenzo Neal, the big fullback who was so instrumental in the Ravens' 4th and inches situations last season, has also left the team. If Terrell Suggs continues to sit on the sidelines, this, too, will hurt the Ravens, as will the absence of experienced receiver Mark Clayton. The Ravens, however, have another receiver, Derrick Mason, who is even more experienced, and is ready to step up and be a team leader. Like Ray Lewis, he has taken on a roll as an emotional leader for the team as well. For the remainder of the season, Mason will practice wearing the No. 9 jersey, rather than his own 85, in order to commemorate the late Steve McNair, a quarterback who finished his great career here in Baltimore and was recently found shot to death. The key, however, to the Ravens offense will be its ground game, which began to develop late last season.

Willis McGahee looks to have had an attitude adjustment, and LeRon McClain, the fullback/RB has gotten in better shape. Hopefully, the Ravens will be able to capitalize off of his versatility and fitness in order to put some points on the board. Ray Rice, who had a number of carries in the preseason opener, looks to be maturing quickly and more dangerous than ever. It will be good to have Kelly Gregg back at nose tackle, and although Trevor Pryce had a disappointing season, the numerous linebackers scrambling for his starting position could prove good motivation. Ed Reed looks fresh. The key will be using veteran experience and leadership to instruct the newbies, allowing their fresh limbs to carry out The Godfathers' orders.

John Harbaugh has infused training camp sessions with visits from members of the United States Armed Forces. He does this, challenging his team to keep up with the world's most physically elite specimens. But he also does this to remind his men that football is not life and death, but rather a game, and that there are people out there who aren't playing games so that the Ravens can. Recently, as a group of USNA midshipmen, training to be US Marines, trotted onto the field at one Sunday afternoon practice, Cam Cameron called out "all hands on deck, all hands on deck!" John Harbaugh, evidently quite the comedian, added, "come on, guys, we need a few good men." The Ravens look to have a few good men, and perhaps more than a few, that could lead Baltimore back to Florida next February.

Extra! Extra! US Sporting and Political Woes

It seems like the news just keeps getting worse and worse, more disagreeable with each passing day, as from sports, to politics, to Hollywood, nothing happy seems to be happening. With each release or article comes a new crushing blow to the sporting world, another celebrity dies, another politician achieves celebrity. Or notoriety. They're becoming one and the same, anyways.

Sure, it was great to watch Lance come back from four years off and finish on the podium in this year's Tour de France. But even then, I am sure many wish he had finished at the top of the podium, after tearing down the streets of Paris in his oh so familiar hue of yellow, rather than the Team Astana jersey. But it was not to be. Before that came Andy Roddick's crushing loss to Roger Federer in a hard-fought Wimbledon final. Roddick's choke in the second set tiebreak delivered a devastating blow, Federer's composure and cool became something to abhor and resent. Federer's post game remarks, aimed at consoling the runner-up, were anything but, and rather came across as stuffy, snobbish, and apathetic formalities. But, nevertheless, the tennis great continues to be universally received as one of the classiest athletes around. Tom Watson also faltered, losing his lead in the final round of the British Open, and losing, albeit gracefully, on, quite literally, the very last hole. Was it not bad enough that these great American individuals tragically came up just short of victory as the whole world watched? Then, the United States soccer team relinquished its early lead to Brazil. The team ultimately fell back down from cloud nine, and returned to a world where the United States has a long way to go before it is a serious threat to powerhouses like Spain, Italy, and Brazil. Needless to say, it has not been a great summer for American sports.

The most devastating blow to me personally, however, came yesterday, when leaked reports implicated David Ortiz's use of performance enhancing drugs in at least the 2003 MLB season. As a devoted Sox fan, who grew to love Ortiz's smile, teddy-bear personality, and welcomingly chubby build, who was amazed by his spidey-sense timing and his clutch homeruns, and was uplifted by his performance in the 2004 ALCS as he carried the Red Sox back from three games down, and later onto their first World Series victory in 86 seasons, I am crushed and devastated. I cannot count the number of times that I have mocked Alex Rodriguez, Rafael Palmiero, and the like, and affirmed my prior belief that Papi was a true, fair slugger. I always dismissed criticism and suspicion of Big Papi as green-eyed jealousy. But, alas, it appears the last sacred, pure thing on this earth has been tainted by the "stain," that the New York Times notes is quickly spreading, like swine flu, or a harmful pathogen, across all of baseball, and beyond, into the entire sporting world. I proclaimed his purity, and now I am left wanting answers and unkindly reminded that I am not, afterall, infallible.

Switch the channel off of SportsCenter, and things do not look much better. Healthcare is failing, almost as miserably as it did in the Clinton Era, to gain traction. Obama lacks clarity and detail in discussing the healthcare program he desires; the CBO, doctors, and congressmen alike cannot decide on specifics, nor provide substantial information to the media or viewers about the details and economic implications of any plans, or lack thereof. Broad strokes are painted, and repainted, but I, like many Americans, still have no vision for what this discussion on healthcare really entails. Phrases and buzzwords like "public option" and taxing "benefits" are thrown back and forth, but few technicalities have emerged. Like the current financial crisis, no one quite seems to fully grasp the healthcare debate, and I think little progress will be made either way if details and specifics don't emerge soon. One can only b.s. his discussion of a field in which he is not intensely knowledgeable for so long. The debate dominates our newspapers, TVs, computers, and water-cooler discussions, but it seems to be stagnant and lack something essential.

The Professor Gates story has again demanded media coverage, and turned the spotlight back on race relations, racial profiling, and diversity in America. Blacks, led by Jesse Jackson and Al Sharpton, feel aggrieved. Whites, too, are feeling resentful, and they feel increasingly the victims of reverse racism and social liberalism in modern-day America. This resentment is dangerous in today's society, because it stokes passionate, often violent, emotions. This resentment among whites is the same danger that Peggy Noonan warned of, when she astutely observed that one of Sarah Palin's most successful tactics has been her ability stoke her predominantly white base's ever-multiplying perceptions of injustice. It seems that the media feel a responsible means of "re-opening" the race debate consists of finger-pointing and exaggerations.

Iran has been largely forgotten in the mass of more profitable, more "breaking," and closer to home news stories. Yet people continue to die there, many for their acts of defiance (twittering, filming protests, etc.), the same ones that we praised just over a month ago. We have pulled out of cities in the other I-country, Iraq, recently, but things are not getting any better there, either. Jobs are being lost. The stock market's rising, Goldman Sachs is doing well, but many "real world" economic indicators continue to lag behind. Sure, Republicans Reagan and Bush 43 dug us into a grave with the spending deficit, but even I have to admit that Obama is not exactly building a latter out of there. I hope we're not buried alive. Ensign, Sanford, the C-Street hangout. Gee, what morally superior individuals.

The aforementioned Sarah Palin has begun to cast gloom on the horizon, at least for many, as the realization sets in that she is wildly popular, and may, horrifyingly enough, become a reasonable candidate, with a more than reasonable chance, to make a run for the presidency. Personally, I think her candid gestures and "cute" gaffs would make for a good talk show on Fox. She could team up with Glenn Beck, and add a little light-heartedness to the mix. The most troublesome part of Palin's rise to power, however, is the thrill she gets from stoking that aforementioned resentment among her white, "middle-class," "Joe-the-Plumber" base. Her volatility, combined with her utter disregard for current events, the actual responsibilities of the United States Executive Branch, commitment to one's constituents, economics, foreign relations, physical self-composure, good spending habits, or grammar, makes the thought of her in office a scary one, and highlights the worrying trends, divisiveness, and radicalism that is coming to consume domestic politics on both sides of the aisle.

It has been a troublesome summer, and you betcha, I'm afraid to pick up a newspaper or flip on the TV for fear of what will come next. Even my ESPN isn't safe anymore. AccessHollywood and Entertainment Tonight also fill my ears with sadness. Jon and Kate are breaking up. WHAT?! How can any marriage in America be expected to survive now? Maybe next time Katie Couric interrogates Sarah Palin about her media intake, I won't blame the Alaskan for avoiding that stuff. *wink*

Creative Piece: Showcase (6/20/09)

A Performance Piece--

inspired by a graduating senior's slam poetry

go back to spring days

where children played

and boys and girls went to high school plays

eyes on the stage

velvet curtains sway

red and deep, like Chardonnay

open Act I.

the players played,

they made gestures.

over the top, dramatic

they acted out the story

shouting their lines and

singing their hearts out and

falling in love.

the curtains came down for the end of Act I

casting shadows on the stage and

the players froze.

the children rushed out to buy snacks at the bake sale

change clanging,

that metallic ring,

in their pockets.

the intermission came

a fifteen minute dose of reality

the boy and the girl they stood in a courtyard

outside the school.

they talked--

no, they didn't.

they stood and they looked

at one another

like two dogs in the park

or two babies crawling on the ground for the first time!

dragging their legs behind them.

the air crisp and clear

a light breeze

like a movie!

a Sound of Music moment

Rolf and Liesel

although we all know how that ends

with Liesel escaping

scaling

those mossy green hills.

wind whistling, leaves whirling, branches rustling

everything comes alive

with color and clarity.

a Wizard of Oz moment.

then slowly, or quickly,

because that's not the point

the rain came

with a smash of lightning.

or maybe it fell

gently, in slow motion.

isn't it amazing how it can rain so hard, you can't even see it?

the lights dimmed

time for Act II

they came crashing

through the door

and took their seats.

the real stars shone again,

with makeup, and wit, savvy, and glamor

talent and youth like a Hollywood legend.

legends, who never die,

they take root like a flower

or a weed

and shoot upward forever.

those actors they almost always hit the perfect note-

the show came to a close

a miraculous ending! fantastic!

you'd never believe!

the bad guy came back in the end

and he wasn't caught either

what d'you know?

that thing was magic, like a broadway show

my mom took me to when I was little,

except for she didn't

I'd never been to New York.

but it only cost- five dollars!

after the show

they lined up to give their friends flowers;

because it was spring!

tulips and daisies and peonies

great big globes of velvet, oh!

how wonderful

some of the soft petals dropped to the floor

drifting and landing like those propeller things

that come off trees.

but it was alright because it was spring

where brooks bubble

and liquid sunshine works magic

and vines stretch up

breaking through the good earth

winding up the lattice in my mother's tomato garden

mother kneels down

in the deep, rich earth

and digs, like a worm.

in spring, you could dig down forever

pulling out magic like a magician pulls scarves from a hat

and in spring

you could see magicians and fantastical things at the circus

and the colorful lights play up the drama.

elephants tumble across the stage

like girls in ballets

with ribbons in their hair.

after the recital daddy took the girls for ice cream

and the girl pressed her nose to the glass

plump finger outstretched, pointing.

and the girl behind the counter plucks up the scoop

fingering it like a precious ornament

and plunges it into the cool, sweet cream

on a cone it is like a high tower,

a sandcastle

or the forts children make before dinnertime

out of blankets, forts for princesses-

in some worlds they're real.

and the sweet air, honeysuckle dew drops

as sweet as her dreams or her favorite teacher's perfume.

she dug her hand into the rusty bucket

the grubby hand emerges

this time with a small, silver fish she caught in the stream

oh! the hem of her dress is damp

but it is springtime so her mother laughs it off.

she looks at the fish and says to the girl

that it has to go back to where it came from.

so the girl skips back down the street and dumps the bucket over

the water floods the edge of the streambank

and the silver skimmer edges its way back into the water

disappearing under the surface.

the girl who rode her bike

fearlessly, and skinned her knee

and went to the farmers' market on Saturday morning

only to be stung by bees, dismisses this

and goes running into spring.

She runs down the hall

and buys two tickets to the spring musical.

US Naval Academy Summer Seminar: On the Strength of One Link in the Cable

     Just last week, I returned from one of the toughest and most traumatic experiences of my life. While I was at the United States Naval Academy, attending their exclusive Summer Seminar, and living alongside other elite high-school candidates from across the country, the majority of the time all I wanted to do was go home. Granted, I was much closer to home than many of my fellow candidates to begin with. I called my mom, and after a tear-filled phone conversation, I could have easily cut the cord on that adventure, packed my bags, and headed up 95 North. But for some reason, I also didn't want to be done with NASS. I didn't want to leave my new friends, and I wanted to prove that I could make it through the grueling six days. But even more than proving that I could do it, I wanted to make it through the next six days. And I did. And luckily, the experience ultimately reinforced that my original reasons for registering for the Summer Seminar, and for taking an interest in The Academy, were valid. I had gotten so many eye rolls, and questioning glances upon mentioning my interest in the Academy. So many "why do you want to go there?"s. I felt doubtful, but the NASS reaffirmed my original reasons for taking an interest in the Navy.

     My six days in Annapolis were by no means easy, and it didn't help that many of my peers seemed to find it exactly that; easy. (It's like getting a C on a test, which may be a great Chemistry grade for you, but then having some of your closest friends milling around complaining about their 92s. Although that does happen to me pretty frequently, so maybe  should be used to it.) The mission of the USNA is "to develop midshipmen morally, mentally, and physically, and to imbue them with the highest ideals of duty, honor, and loyalty  in order to graduate leaders who are dedicated to a career of naval service and have potential for future  development in mind and character to assume the highest responsibilities of command, citizenship, and government." (Don't quote me on that; it's from memory.) One week there did just that. With a broken toe, anxiety problems, and cramps, the 8 hour sea trials were like nothing I had ever tried to do before. 

     So why did a white girl from an upper-middle class suburban family, who attends one of the nation's top college preparatory schools, consider putting herself through this? More importantly, why did a girl with absolutely no upper-body strength, consider putting herself through this? The answer can be found in the mission statement, and the 5th Law of the Navy, and Article VI of United States Military Code that we had to memorize over the course of our week at Annapolis. The United States Naval Academy, at least in my opinion, more holistically represents honor, integrity, loyalty, duty, friendship, comradeship, and love, and fosters these ideas more effectively, than does any other service academy, educational institution, government building, or street corner in the world. This is not to say that the USNA is the only institution that demands these values and principles, or that the USNA is, in fact, the best or only place where one can undergo immense personal growth, or experience these concepts in their truest forms. Sure, there are so many places like this. I have taken note of many of them, whether they be little-known restaurants that are locals' favorites, community swimming pools, the Olympic Games, or a government. Nevertheless, I will take the Navy's advice and never give up the ship. I will also never give up my personal opinion that the United States Naval Academy is the primary definition of those values. 

     At the Naval Academy, officers and teachers, superiors and peers, preach the concept that is the collective, not the individual, that is, in the end, both the prize of freedom and the key to victory. All my life, I have wanted to take part in something bigger than myself, something massive, something incredible. Something I couldn't control. Being part of the Brigade provides this opportunity. It allows you to become a physically fit, elite, highly educated individual, but more so, it demands that you lose part of your individuality and meld with your fellow midshipmen into one physically fit, elite, highly educated team, dedicated to defending the United States's greatest principles, and motivated to be the best. I have always wanted to be part of a group, a piece of the puzzle that fits seamlessly with others as it is nestled into position. In the Navy and the USMC, not only are you part of such a cohesive unit, but you have no choice but to be part of one. Beginning with the Summer Seminar, and continuing through Plebe Year, your four Ac-Years, and your summers at the Academy, you are continually thrust into situations that require you to work with your squad, platoon, company, and brigade-mates. These situations require you to trust these people, to care about these people, to love these people, and to act as if each of them is really you. This is such an incredible concept to me, and so intangible, that I have trouble even thinking about it. And I definitely can't possibly understand it. 

     You can read "Band of Brothers" and watch documentaries and movies of combat units and similar experiences until you are blue in the face, as I have done, and you will still never get it until you live it. During my week at the Academy, I got an inch of the tip of the iceberg of it, and it left me hungry for more, completely obsessed with the loyalty and comradeship that the experience fostered. Frankly, I still don't get it. I have been reading 'The Gamble,' a novel by journalist Tom Ricks about the American strategy in the Iraq War since 2006, and I think a couple of guys in there might get it. All of them actually. But in terms of all of the people in the world, very few get it, and the USNA provides an opportunity to make you someone who "gets it." I want to live alongside people like the midshipmen who guided me through my week in their home. I want to work alongside people of that moral character, that quality, that impressive nature and sense of calling that words cannot describe. I want to be one of those people, someone I can be proud of. Those who enter and successfully graduate the Academy are inarguably the most outstanding United States citizens, and extend their values and ideals to the entire world. I want to be able to depend on someone as much as I can depend on myself. I want someone I can proudly walk into battle with, someone that I know will be with me to the bitter, or glorious, end. I want unequivocal friendships built off of unconditional trust, loyalty, and love. 

     In addition to singularity rather than individualism, the Naval Academy promotes other values that I find incredibly important; honor and commitment to one's country, particularly the United States of America. Today, sitting in the lifeguard chair, and attempting to stay as alert as possible, I realized that lifeguarding for days on end is boring, but is also stress-inducing and taxing. You are not quite doing anything, at least nothing physical, which makes it boring, but at the same time, you are constantly scanning the pool, counting children in certain areas, making sure they come up for air, or don't jump off too close to the diving board. But as unfortunate as it may seem to be sitting in the lifeguard chair, I began to realize some other things. Like how I was sitting in a lifeguard chair, wearing the sunglasses I wanted to wear, and a bathingsuit that didn't cover me from head to toe. My face was not veiled, because I did not want it to be. Even more miraculous, the children in the water were similarly clothed, and splashed around doing whatever they pleased on a mid-June day. Not in all corners of this world are scenes like this tolerated, even possible. The kids making grabs at their parents wallets as the ice cream truck rolled on down was such a stark contrast from the way that in the Dominican, the children's bright eyes would sadly follow the flavored-ice truck as it navigated its way around a goat and then out of sight behind a corner. Those children didn't even bother to ask their parents for money, and a lot of them didn't even have parents. Prosperity. 

     The bathingsuits, particularly of the women, suddenly brought me to remember the images I have been watching on TV for the past week. Images of violence, and slaughter, and chaos, in Iran, where citizens continue to protest last week's announced election results. Perhaps this leap was me stereotyping Iran, and radical governments, as those who demand the veiling of women and restrict women's rights, but nevertheless, that is what I thought about. Freedom. And then it came to me. That scene witnessed from the lifeguard chair was a manifestation of all of the "principles which made my country free" (Art VI, USMC). That was what I had been learning about, reciting, trying to grasp for the past week.  That scene at the pool? That is what graduates of The Academy preserve. I LOVE this country. Heck, I love President Bush just as much as I love President Obama. And THEY both love our country. The Navy is a steadfast defender, dedicated to keeping America around, and is filled with like-minded midshipmen, who also feel the utmost respect for our nation's leaders, and devotion to our country and its principles. 

     The Academy truly does value tradition, and memory, and legacy, perhaps more than any other school in the world. It honors those who came before you, and preserves the memory of their lives. Furthermore, it has endearing school-wide traditions, such as the Spirit Missions, or Recons, that each company goes on during the week preceding the Army-Navy game, or the unique way of passing Lefty's BBQ Sauce at the tables in Kings Hall (left hand only and to the left.) Or the way midshipmen open new jars of Skippy, by rolling the jar upside down between their palms until warm, and popping its seal by smashing the jar against their foreheads. Even the most unpleasant of traditions, like the Sea Trials, or Indoc-Night, or Drill, are traditions nonetheless. The cliche USNA tradition of graduation and the tossing of the caps cannot be forgotten, nor can the great feats accomplished by the men and women who graduated before you. Now, each incoming plebe class finds partnership through a mentoring program where the graduating class of 50 years prior sponsors the midshipmen and guides them through their time in Annapolis. Traditions like bringing the Ac-Year to a close with Herndon Monument, and hanging posters on Captains' Row before big football games. Taking MOs (moving orders) to lacrosse games, and filming spirit spots, and singing Anchors Aweigh, and doing pull-up contests. My squad leader scaling every monument and statue on campus to put covers on top of each one. Midshipmen scribbling their company number (with chalk) on every single tile in T-Square. Humiliating plebe initiation rituals. Dress-whites, and the chapel, and Princess Leias (ask about those,) Bancroft, and PEP, and morning runs. Parking for Firsties on The Yard. Because the Midshipman sense of pride is so deeply tied to all of their other values, these traditions are all the more impressive.

     Finally, honor, the foundation upon which the US Military and the USNA is built, is so incredibly special, that naturally I see this institution as the best place to discuss honor openly and to immerse oneself in an educational, professional, and general culture steeped with honor. I believe so deeply in my school's honor code that attending a university with an honor code and council is essentially a prerequisite to making my college decision.  I still have the daisies I received sophomore and junior years for signing the honor statement at my school, and at all times try to keep in mind what I have agreed to and, furthermore, why. Whether it be a matter of academic integrity, or following other school policies, I remember the teachers and peers I stood in front of on the stage as I signed my name into that old, black, leather book. And likewise, midshipmen do not forget or take lightly their commitments and responsibilities. When trying to take in the full extent of the midshipmen's commitment to honor, all one really can do is feel amazement and awe, and drop his jaw like the fourth-grader, on her elementary school field trip, who is led past Bancroft Hall during noon meal formation. It is that dumbfounding.

   

     The Naval Academy may have one of the top engineering programs in the world, and excellent faculty, two other commendable characteristics of the experience offered there. It may have one of the most beautiful campuses, and be located in the most scenic and historic of cities in the world. But the Naval Academy is actually so incredible because the things that make it incredible cannot be seen or taught. Rather, these principles are present, perhaps indiscernible and impalpable, yet dependable, and unwavering as the flag, in the Academy's inherent nature. These principles live among the men and women who gave their lives to greater things than themselves. These great people now reside on the hillside, facing the water, where the sun stretches out across the bay and up the hill, warming the cold marble slabs. They reside in the deep seas, and in foreign lands, and most of all, in the minds and hearts of the next generation set to protect the same things that their predecessors gave their lives for. These principles are echoed from sea to shining sea, and nowhere do they ring as loudly as they do from hall to hall, across the green expanses and grassy hamlets, on the Naval Academy campus.

     While the USNA may not be my future place of residence and scholarship, there are so many reasons it could well be. I want to do something when I grow up. To work with others with whom I have unbreakable bonds. I want to bring social change, stability, light to children's eyes. I want to master the art of language and take in the vibrant cultures the world has to offer. I want to be part of the same sort of collective, the same principles and ideals the Academy preaches and instills in midshipmen. My single week at the Academy was largely unenjoyable, at least while I was there, and I found it to be stressful and taxing, like lifeguarding, but at the end, I feel the greatest sense of accomplishment I have ever felt, the greatest respect and admiration for those who have gone to the Academy, and the greatest patriotic fervor and love for America that I have ever known. I am a romantic and a realist. An idealist and a pragmatist. Compassionate. Dedicated. Intense. Devoted. I love tradition, history, ancient scrolls, and the past. I also love the future. Hopes, plans, ideas. I believe in force, and I believe in diplomacy. I love this country, and truly believe that it is the greatest nation in the world. I have the greatest faith in the potential of mankind, but also see places where improvements could be made. I simply love the gifts that, in the Navy, one is taught to treasure and to preserve. I guess those are pretty good reasons to like a place, right? Hoorah.

On the strength of one link in the cable,

Dependeth the might of the chain,

Who knows when thou mayst be tested?

So live that thou bearest the strain!

I will never forget that I am an American, fighting for freedom, responsible for my actions, and dedicated to the principles which made my country free. I will trust in my God and in the United States of America.

The Process: Man, I love College..

I'm sure Asher Roth is right. I might love it when I get there. Then again, he and I seem like pretty different people with very different life goals. I don't exactly "drink my beer and smoke my weed." But what I do know is that right now, I'm not so into college. Literally and figuratively.

Now that exams are over, I can finally relax and have a great senior summer. Pause- this Saturday are the SAT IIs. Three of them. Then come teacher recommendations, writing essays, preparing your common app, narrowing down your list of schools, finding schools that will actually accept you, etc...

Now that Jay Leno has departed, Osama Bin Laden's released another tape, and our economy still sucks, I'm sure you could use a laugh. In the mood for a joke? The college process is actually a joke. Recently, I went to another college fair. But this one; this one was supposed to be different. When the invitation came in the mail, it was not a flyer on cheap yellow paper. No, this was good stuff. Neatly printed on a little white card. We got it and I thought, “Gee, maybe this actually means something. Maybe it is some kind of an honor that I got invited to this thing. It looks like a semi-personal invitation, right?” Hosted by Harvard, Stanford, Georgetown, Duke, and Penn, and held at the Inner Harbor Sheraton, it is needless to say it was a step up from the usual college fairs that take place in back rooms of seedy business centers off the interstate, or hotels that remind me of the one Holden Caulfield stays at in 'The Catcher in the Rye. ' But anyways, we decided to give it a shot. Maybe I'd have some personal interaction with an admissions representative this time? Or they'd actually tell us something, rather than saying there is no model student or no model experience at their school, and explaining that they look at each student "collectively." We arrived downtown with 30 minutes to spare (we know B-More like the back of our hands) only to find that the hotel’s garage parking cost $15 dollars. Doesn’t the Sheraton, or Harvard, for that matter, know we’re in a recession?! No, I guess their multi-million dollar endowments made them forget. Which reminds me; why is it that we must pay so much to be told that we are inadequate or to risk rejection from our dream school? (NOT that Harvard is my dream school. It may be though.) $83 dollars for each AP exam. Countless more for SAT books, classes, tutors. Self-addressed stamped envelopes to send for information. Admissions/ application fees. It never ends, and it adds up. This doesn’t even count the, oh, 60,000 dollars a year easy you can tack on for tuition, room, and board, at your "institution of higher learning", assuming you are admitted to one. College is just kind of ridiculous. I sometimes wonder whether the difference in income between what I and a non college graduate make one day will actually pay off. But anyways, then you get upstairs to the conference room and realize that the mugs for the complimentary tea and coffee are already gone from the back of the room. You have come up just short once again, this time to the college-obsessed, crazy, personal-trained, espresso-hyped, super peppy moms who never stop interfering in their children’s lives, and snapped up the refreshments so that they would have enough caffeine to run on for the duration of the night’s festivities. I suppose they need their energy to ask those questions about sliding scales, GPAs, IBs, pre-professional programs, and whether Georgetown prefers one SAT II over another. Who cares. Really.

And all it does is make you feel inadequate. Your test scores aren't high enough. Your GPA isn't high enough. You don't do enough extracurriculars. You're not good at sports. You don't take challenging enough classes. Your application will make you look lazy, even if you're not. You're not oblong enough; you haven't pursued one interest or passion to a point of excellence, and you're not well-rounded enough. They tell you they will look at you as a complete candidate, but what if you, like the majority, are lacking in all or many of these departments? You're out of luck.

You're also out of luck if you're a white, suburban, upper-middle class girl from a private school in Baltimore. Because, like giving a moose a muffin, if you receive an invitation to a college fair or event, chances are, you're going to run into about, oh, 50% of your class. And not only this but, oh, about 10 other people from your class of 60 are going to be applying to your first choice school with you. So good luck on getting in. Sorry that your demographic has suddenly become the least desirable one due to the college frenzy of the 21st century.

Soon enough you are startled from these thoughts by a young, uptight woman whose hair is pulled into a bun on the back of her head, as she clears her throat. She begins to speak about her school, and what makes it special, but all the facts begin to run together, like a Monet. You have a sheet of statistics, and can almost instantly count yourself out, for your credentials are not nearly good enough to get your Common App even a second glance. But you listen on anyways, and soon a man comes up to talk about his school. It is founded by Ben Franklin, and you think, "Hey, I love Ben Franklin. American History is my favorite subject. That John Adams series was pretty darn good. I love 'National Treasure.' And one time, my godsister took me to the Franklin Institute, that was pretty fun. Philadelphia's awesome." But then he stops talking about Ben, and begins to list interdisciplinary majors and teacher-student ratios. After a night of this, and no, you do not actually get to speak with any representatives, you head home and think.

"What am I supposed to write about? I have so much to say. I don't want to write it about a specific person or experience. I don't want to limit it to 2,000 characters. I wish I did more than devote my time and energy to intangible things, and thinking, and writing. Where does thinking get you, if there is no physical manifestation of your thought? Where does writing get you, if only three or four people read it, and it is not published, not entered in a contest? Where does playing lacrosse for eleven years because you love it? And what about being on a bad team, and being a benchwarmer, but being orally presented with the "unsung hero" award at an athletics awards ceremony? What about being pulled aside by your coaches one Wednesday afternoon for them to tell you that you are the hardest worker on the team? What about how I like to spend time in the English Department office at school, talking with the teachers about, literature, politics, and my crusades against improper grammar? What about my love for sports, and how I read the economist on Saturdays, or how every Sunday I do the New York Times crossword puzzle with my mom?

'What about how I dedicated myself last summer to running and eating healthy, losing 30 pounds and keeping it off? What about how I make babies smile, and can talk with adults for hours, even though people my own age take no interest in me. What about how I lost two elections for leadership positions in school this year, but I still ran? What about how I convinced the entire grade to go all out for spirit week, for the first time ever? The sad thing is, and please excuse the narcissism, I feel like these are good qualities. Or at least defining ones. But how am I supposed to compete with someone so much "better" qualified for a school, even if they b.s. an essay about their summer program or grandmother?" I can't. But I guess all one can do is laugh. That's the biggest joke about college. I know a few great people, thoughtful people, insightful people, driven people. And all I can hope is that this rule isn't true for them. These friends and colleagues are deserving, relentless in their work effort, and devoted.

But it's some sick and twisted game. Not like Candyland, no, because for this one, we're trying to find the path to the rest of our lives rather than to a fictionalized Oz of sugary confections. And let me tell you, I already know that life is not sweet. 'The Baltimore Sun' recently ran an article (yes, it printed more than just auto ads and photos and copies of other newspapers' articles for one day) about the college process. It effectively, and surprisingly, characterized the entire process by telling the story of two students. Same school. Same classes. Almost identical grades. Similar outside credentials. One boy got into Penn and Princeton. Yale and Harvard said 'no.' A girl was accepted by Yale and Princeton but wait-listed by Harvard. She had also been wait-listed at Tufts, where a third, who did not apply to any Ivies (although he wanted to) got in ED. I know, it's hard to keep track of all that. So what can we learn from this? Nothing. The college process is as big a gamble as throwing your entire savings into the current financial market would be. In fact, it's like using your life savings to buy GM stocks. Kind of.

The point is, this process is not clear. It is not fair. And it is not fun. So college better be, for the stress and sacrifices it has caused and will continue to cause for the next nine months. And one thing is for sure. Asher Roth better be right.

Creative Piece: I Left the Lights On (4/3/09)

I left the lights on.

Wow, what a bad driver. It was only

for a second, though.

The lights were on and so 

I saw. I didn't want to see.

But sometimes lights will do that,

their faint glow realizes fears,

It's pretty easy to forget as

The battery drains down. And

at the same I can see, as

Pale yellow turns

to brown.

Shift gear, reverse, turn corner.

But still the lights are on

I see the road ahead

unfriendly, sad, and long.

I should have turned them off, not

Wasted 

All my time

The oil burns quickly, quickly

slowly,

I smell turpentine.

But not 

the turpentine I use

To paint my perfect scenes,

My still-lifes and my crafted worlds.

In those light is a thing,

of beauty. Of

vermillion

ochre

emerald

turquoise.

But here 

light is not colorful;

light is stupidity.

It's bland.

No, here, light tells a thousand truths;

but truths of red and orange, green and blue.

I left the lights on. Damn.

Creative Piece: Home(wood Field)

     Some Saturdays, the sun just barely peaked through the clouds, but others, it streaked down, bouncing off the metallic bleachers, blinding me, and radiating heat. On these days, the pale blue sky was immaculate, without a blemish, and the hot rays soaked through my skin, warming me to the very bone. The cold, silver benches, naturally dull, glittered and dazzled in the early afternoon light, and a brilliant yellow-orange drenched the players in a cheerful splendor, as they danced down the field. The stadium stood, majestic, and spectacular, in the early April light.

     I sat and watched and listened. My ears filled with the crowd’s exultations, the cheers that emanated from the sea of blue surrounding me. The shrill laughter of the man to my left, a young child’s call, the coach’s constant, deep bellowing seemed to pick up and carry with the light wind, and then trailed off as the wind shifted, and whipped in the opposite direction. The sun scorched the emerald strip of turf that was dotted and lined playfully with thick, criss-crossing, candy stripes. The fresh cut grass, like a neighbor’s lawn, or a baseball game, smelled of early spring and mixed with the pungent odor of spray cans and line paint. The hot, thick, scent of greasy food hung over the bleachers. The stadium often took on that familiar, homey feel that made me feel safe and content and comfortable. Sometimes the sun shone so bright that the whole world was enveloped in a blank, pale, undistinguishable white, like a winter morning when a frosted window reveals the world, wrapped up in a blanket of purity. 

     My hours spent at Homewood field were vibrant, and timeless. Other times, at night games, the sky would open up and the entire world would spill out on top of us. A harsh, punishing, rain would lash across my face, the wind cutting me deeply from within. And other times a monotonous drizzle would continue for hours, rain trickling down, a slow, torturous, rhythm that seemed to push the earth to its breaking point. The harsh and unpredictable conditions called to me, and seemed to test the will and mettle of others who had so contentedly filled the stands on pleasant, breezy mid afternoons. On these evenings, the sky and the fields took on a pale, glassy gray, one of a stormy coastline or a dull sheet-metal, and during those night games, a thick, heavy fog settled under the clouds, rain bogging the field in mud, and weighing the world down, leaving me alone to soak in the darkness and enveloping me in a constant, pervasive chill. Those nights stung the earth, and froze me to the core, as the raw ground cracked under the incredible pressure of the game and the world. As the bleak skies opened up to cutting winds and lightning, God illuminated the sky in a spectacular and awe-inspiring electrical storm, and even in the harsh black, rewarded me for my loyalty and faith, with a mystifying and natural light-show. 

     The most beautiful days, and even the ugliest nights, at Homewood Field amassed God’s utter power and reminded me of my insignificance in His world, of my participation in something wholly greater and more important than me. The bright days and dark nights at the field demanded my happiness and appreciation, and commanded my respect. The stadium filled me with emotions, and yet the stands always held among them the resounding thunder of the divine, and carried the resilient quality of victory, ensuring me that the stadium would always be as it was then, powerful and unchanging, and eternal.

Does Unconventionality Even Exist Anymore?

resemblance?

     Even if it is just the makeup, the manscaped eyebrows, the heavily "product"ed hair, and the piercing blue eyes, there's something a little upsetting about the very apparent resemblance between Ian Somerhalder, Chace Crawford, and Zac Efron. Each actor appeals to a decidedly different demographic, but they all look wildly similar. Zac may do it for the preteens, and Chace for Gossip Girl fanatics, but Ian is just an older version, for the more mature viewers who watched LOST back in its first season. They're even wearing similar shirts, and often bear the same facial expression. Yes Boone's look has the hardened effect of a plane crash survivor, and Zac's the same borderline suggestiveness of his High School Musical scenes, where he appears in the locker room shirtless to get a pep talk from his dad or psyche himself up for the big game. Nevertheless, these three are the perfect example of society's narrow-mindedness and our obsession with uninteresting, boring, conventional beauty. I find it at times utterly tiring and frustrating, yet widely fascinating, that we all have such similar ideas of beauty and standards for what beauty is. I think it is so incredible how we have been instructed to find certain people attractive, or have been attracted to certain people instinctively, and not others. I buy into this too, and it isn't always necessarily a bad thing, but why is Zac's, Ian's, and Chace's look so popular. Why is is so attractive? Why does it sell? Why is it preferred (generally) to a more unique looking person? 

     Social and generational trends and themes are constantly changing, and constantly interesting. Why is it that teasing redheads, or gingers, has become such a marker of our generation? Why do certain genres of film, TV, and novels go in and out of style? Why do values change? Does it take an increasingly progressive mind or political stance to stay open to such generational shifts? The Who certainly didn't care who was open to change and who wasn't. Why do certain pieces of clothing, celebrities, music tastes, and political philosophies come back into style, while others vanish? Why is Bruce Springsteen THE MAN again, after all these years? Dictionary.com defines generation as, "a group of individuals, most of whom are the same approximate age, having similar ideas, problems, attitudes, etc." Each age group in the United States's history has been given a generational title, classified with generational accomplishments or characteristics. From the Lost Generation to Tom Brokaw's The Greatest Generation, from my parents' Baby Boom Generation, to Obama's Generation Jones (55-64). Are generations, and the age groups with whom we associate great determiners as we develop our world views and personal tastes? If so, how does generationalism also promote such distinct differences as it did in 1960's politics. All of those men, members of the GI Generation, served in WWII together, and shared common pasts, common goals. Yet in the midst of new generations, of war protests, and hippies, and flower children, this older generation met a great schism that has persisted and consequentially divided subsequent generations. Do generations provide for the same amount of social diversity as they do political differences? 

     If diversity does still exist, which I believe it does, I must also believe it is the desire to be a part of something greater, something memorable, something identifiable that drives our willingness to be categorized. Our compliance in being meshed together in a 10 second Pepsi commercial that uses three, brief, stereotypical clips to capture millions and millions of people. It is pretty incredible how different everyone is, but also how similar, and how willing to make connections with others, establish some sort of legacy or reputation, find common ground. Now, for our nation's sake, wouldn't it be nice if we could adapt this viewpoint to our politics?

Johns Hopkins Lacrosse Season Preview: "We Just Wanna Lax."

     This was what the Duke lacrosse squad chanted while waiting in the wings of Gillette Stadium last may, after a sensational semifinal match between Virginia and Syracuse, who won in overtime. Eager to take the field, the Duke team had no idea what was coming. What came was a shocking upset, courtesy of the team that at midseason looked like it would be lucky to reach .500. The Dukies' enthusiasm was charming (as charming as one can be when you're from Durham and wear that dreaded shade of blue) but they had another thing coming. His name? Paul Rabil. Dave Pietramala and his Blue Jays masterfully crafted a come-from-behind, last minute victory, that would send them soaring into Monday's finals. Cue the highlight reel for  Kevin Huntley's behind the back goal.

      They ended up losing on Monday, to the evil nemesis, Syracuse. There, to me, is no more hated lacrosse program than that that has housed Gary Gait, Casey, Mike, and Ryan Powell. Oh, and Brett Bucktooth. Anyways, I did not stop crying the whole way back to Baltimore, and then some. But I was not just upset that Hopkins had lost. I was heartbroken that I had just witnessed Paul Rabil's last college game, his last game in that uniform, his last game playing for Petro, and he had not been able to go out on his own terms. Sure he scored 5 goals, or maybe six, the memory's fuzzy, but personal accolades are nothing to Paul. As a Blue Jay, it was not about him; it was about the team. 

     And now Rabil is gone. Drafted off to the Boston Cannons, as the MLL's number one pick. Gone is Doneger. Gone is Huntley. Gone is Bocklet. Gone is Peyser. Four All-Americans, countless other contributors. We now look to the new season, beginning in just two weeks, and we are full of questions. Will Gvozden be able to step up, or rather out, once again, and make the same crucial saves he had last season? Will Evans and Drenan take charge of a young defense and can Mike Kimmel become the next Paul Rabil? Apparently the new team chant is "Step Up," and the boys in blue will definitely need to keep this motto in mind. It could be a rocky season, or a great one. But one thing is certain; Dave Pietramala never ceases to surprise. Last season, the Blue Jays suffered an embarrassing losing streak, capped off by a blowout win for North Carolina on Hopkins' own turf. Yet they charged back, making it to the finals, and slashing past Duke, who had already stamped its plane tickets to Cabo for a celebration vacation. 

      Criticism and pessimism is everywhere, and analysts, fans, the media, think the impossible certainly will not be done. But Hopkins has graduated great players before. In recent years, Hopkins has lost Jake Byrne, Jesse Schwartzman, and even Kyle Harrison, who is in my opinion the greatest player of all-time. Each year, the Johns Hopkins lacrosse team perseveres, and has made it to the finals the past two years. 

     Look for Steven Boyle, the returning leading scorer, to help Kimmel run the attack, and Matt Dolente to continue his dominance at midfield, ensuring possession. Brian Cristopher is consistently strengthening and will help garner the midfield. We can also expect great contributions from rising stars Mark Bryan, Sam DeVore, and Tommy Duerr. Struggling Siena and Princeton teams at the top of Hopkins' schedule provide potential wins to start off the season.

       The main problem is not what these younger players are capable of doing, but it is whether or not they can continue to do what they do without Peyser to take the draw, or Rabil to snatch an iffy pass and finish for a goal. Without Doneger's dependability or a feed from Huntley. Without power attackers, the offense will have to shift its approach, and will rely on transition rather than Paul Rabil's power packages. As of now, no Blue Jay is dominant enough to take on two, or even three defenders, on his own during a man up situation. If Hopkins is successful in this transition approach, however, they will make it far for the third consecutive season. Before further analysis, I may need to watch a few games, but my feelings are that Pietramala and his boys could well be knocking at the door of another playoff run. 

     This season will separate the true fans from the fair weather fans, and the weak from the brave at heart, both on the field and off. It may be a roller coaster of a year, but that is one thing that the Johns Hopkins lacrosse team is not afraid of. After all, they just wanna lax.

My Apologies to Mr. Phelps

I saw Bob Bowman at a swim meet last night, and after a starstruck moment, it occurred to me that I owed his best known prodigy an apology for a hasty, judgmental, and over-generalized statement. 

Dear Mr Phelps,

     I am sorry for judging you. I know that you are 23 years old. I personally disagree with your choice to smoke pot, but that is just how I feel. Really, you should be able to do what you want. I do think it is unfortunate that you have, perhaps unwillingly, been portrayed by the media as a full-time role model/ angel. I think the main source of controversy over your actions was not that as a twenty three year old you were smoking pot and hopping from frat party to frat party. It was probably that these actions were so unexpected from you, because of the standards, perhaps unfair or unreasonable, that people have for you. 

     I would like to commend you for not putting anyone's life in danger this time, as you did back in November of 2004. That in and of itself demonstrates growth and maturity. I am, however, worried about you. Clearly everywhere you go there are many people who are not really your friends. People who want to embarrass you, cause a scandal. I am also worried that perhaps the family, teasing, and self-image problems you had growing up, and have spoken candidly about in interviews and in your autobiography, might still be haunting you. 

     I am far from an expert on the subject of chemical dependancies or psychology, but I am a staunch believer that many times, there are emotional reasons for which someone might develop habits like you have taken up. It is not so much the one hit of the bong, but the monthly trips to Las Vegas, the partying with people who do not think twice about spoiling your reputation, that worries me. As harsh and critical as I have been of you, I am still here and I still care. You still represent my city, and you are still a role model to me. 

     But I worry that while you have clearly proven yourself a man under water, you are yet to come into your manhood above the surface. I wish that you didn't engage in some of the things you do, but I know others who have done similar things, and I do not love them any less. Personally, I wish you wouldn't do these things, but even more so, I wish your happiness. I wish you were content, and felt accomplished, deserving, self-assured, above the water. Maybe this is why other people are so upset, maybe not. I am disappointed, mostly, that you have not been able to do this thus far, or at least that is what I interpret your partying habits to suggest. By all means, have a good time, but please do it in a way that conveys maturity, and self-control. You do not have to break laws to be happy, but most of all you do not have to hang out with questionable people. 

     I know that I have not always stood by you in the most supporting way. Part of me is far too willing to piece together the DUIs, party rumors, and girlfriend stories to make a terrible person out of you. But in the end, I am still here, still talking about you, because I care. I think that whether or not something like this will happen again, you should not have to say that it will not. The problem lies in that your profession and your sponsorships are ones that represent a healthy lifestyle, and a maturity level, that are perhaps refuted, at least traditionally, by the recently circulating images of you. I think you should hold the reigns in establishing who you are and what people expect from you. But most of all, I hope it won't happen again because I hope that you can find things that make you you up here on land, although if that truly is something that makes you happy, go for it, in all seriousness.

My Apologies,

                Kate