Squatter's Rights

I have only been in China for 10 days. And people, it has grown on me. I've already adjusted to the 13 hour time change, a feat I never thought I'd overcome, and I am fitting right in. Well, as much as a 6'5" White American who speaks no Chinese possibly can. I don't even know where to begin. So I will start with my apartment. I was given a key shaped like a Phillips-head screwdriver and led down the hall to my unheated room. The living space is pretty large, but smaller than all the rooms in my house. Then there is a sink area with a window and a shower/"squatter" combo that I will discuss later. The decor of the room is what I would call "Communist chic." Whitewashed walls, an exposed flourescent lightbulb, and a tabletop fan mounted to the ceiling. It came pre-furnished with an armoire and broken television, and of course a bed. I took a table and some chairs from an empty apartment and ta da! Home. The heater is controlled by some outside force or entity (I think the Government) and will cease to function whenever it pleases. Once it decides to stop providing me with heat, it cannot be turned on again unless I go outside and reset the electricity for my entire apartment. This happens multiple times per day. And I'm the lucky one. Other teachers report non-functioning heaters, no electrcity, and missing lightbulbs. In addition, my apartment came equipped with a microfridge, microwave, and nugget sized washer. I am therefore King of the People's Republic of China. My most reliable heat source is a space heater I bought from Tesco yesterday. It cost me 28 Yuan (about $4.50) and does a very good job heating the 3 feet around my head. I keep it right next to my face at night while I sleep. I think that's why I woke up to the smell of burnt hair this morning. My surroundings are squalid, but I couldn't be happier. I roll with a pretty peppy bunch here at ILP. I get along with almost everyone here; it's in my nature to be social. My happiness comes not from the people I am with, but mostly from all the foreign experiences I am having. Even though some things about China are strange, and even depressing, I'm enjoying everything. Every day, I eat 2 meals out of a tin bowl with tin chopsticks. I don't know what the food is. I don't ask. I just eat. It doesn't taste good, and it looks even worse, but I still get seconds. I would never do that in America. I bought some food at Tesco. Western-ish stuff. For example, I got a bag of what I though was beef jerky. It had a picture of meat and a campfire. Pretty self explanatory. This was a terrible falsehood. When I opened the pack, I was assaulted by a smelly brown substance that had never been anything even resembling meat. It was sitting in a broth. Further investigation informed me that the substance was "100% (Chinese characters). Obviously, I have no idea what that means. It could be 100% Angus Beef or 100% cat poop and I would be none the wiser. Part of the appeal of beef jerky is its versatility. Meaning that I can eat with my hand, directly from the bag, in my bed. My bed, which appears deceptively comfortable, literally has no mattress. It is actually a raised platform made of wooden boards. Yet every night, I pull a blanket up to my chin, and let the Tesco heater do the rest. My toilet is a hole in the ground. In the same area where I shower. My shower is filthy, yet I bathe in it every day. I brought Irish Spring, a strong-scented soap, fully prepared for the stankiness I would encounter in China. Little did I know, the water stinks too. I could shower in Chanel No. 5 and when I rinse, I will smell like the Yellow River, just like everyone else. I brush my teeth with bottled water. There are no garbage cans in the entire People's Republic. Also, there is not a great deal of soap. The filthiness of it all would make my mother perpetually vomit. The people? They're actually great. I am a celebrity here, finally. My height and Whiteness make me quite the public figure. I want to subtly convince the Chinese that I am in the NBA. In the event I am challenged to show my basketball skillz, I will politely decline, pointing out that my ankles aren't insured in the Pacific Rim. People stared at me while I shopped yesterday. An older man even followed me around for a few minutes. People peered into my cart, wondering what foreigners required for sustenance. The coolest part is that they will often buy the exact same thing as me. This level of emulation is undeserved, unprecedented, and perfectly awesome. Everyone is friendly. As I was browsing the milk tea section, a woman advertising Lipton came up to me and gave me her schpiel. In Chinese. "Rfbgoodafbjn-ednboldknsl sldvnkljnfb. Anhgvosfnbofhb owsofbosfn bjsfbondojbnso spdknspng. UJiosfnbgnlskns sdoijngonsobg." This continued for about 2 or 3 minutes. Apparently at no point did she see or understand that my pallid face and English stammerings that I don't speak annny Chinese. I eventually picked up her box, said "xia xia" (or however you spell "thank you" in Chinese) and sped away ashamed. 1.25 liters of vodka, at 5.80 Yuan (about 75 cents) was cheaper than juice (9.90 Yuan or about $1.50). Milk is about $10 (65 Yuan) and comes in small boxes. There is basically no cheese. And driving? Fugged about it. It's a disaster. One girl in our group got hit by a couple of dudes on a motorcycle on our first day. (She's fine, of course) Drivers honk to remind people they are on the road, that's it. And there are a surprising amount of expensive, foreign cars here. It's odd to me to see a Mercedes at a stoplight while on the other side of the street, a toothless man is urinating on the sidewalk. But I guess that how it goes here. And I am both impressed and horrified by the lack of "pansification" here in China. For example, there are no wet floor signs, no smoke detectors, no health codes, minimal indoor heating (you can even see your breath in Tesco) and no FDA. It's nice that the government here actually believes people have common sense, but I am used to being warned- the coffee with steam billowing from it may be hot. A recently mopped floor is wet, and so on. I've actually adapted to some of the nuances of Asian culture I once considered ridiculous. The best example is the slipper. In Tennessee I go barefoot (shocker) and only put shoes on outside. In China? I have a ridiculous circus of shoes. Immediately after stepping into my apartment, off go the shoes, and straight into slippers. A trip to the bathroom requries a seperate pair (I'm not about to track squatter water all over my house) and the only time I am barefoot is in bed. I used to laugh internally at the slipper, thinking it was a ridiculous, complicated and outmoded tradition. Now I understand that people just don't want poopy water on the floor of their home. This seems reasonable. Shanghai is a grand ol place too. Twice the size of New York, and still no one will take my American Express. Really, China? Really? Pull it together soon, please. I want to like you, I really do.

Up in the (Korean) Air

You were promised a tale of my journey from the rolling foothills of Northeastern Tennessee to the smog-filled streets of China; well, here it is. Tuesday night, my last night at home, was spent packing. My family room became a metaphorical deli counter for suticases. Scales and piles of clothes
littered the floor. The weighing and re-weighing was seemingly endless- each checked bag had to weigh less than 50 pounds. Anyone who knows me knows that with the sheer amount of clothes I have, this was certainly an ordeal. It was an endeavor that required a lot of undignified stomping on my luggage
and straddling my bags just to close a zipper. When the last bag had surrendered to my desperation, I went to my temporary bedroom for a few hours sleep. The next morning, I woke up in eager anticipation of my last American shower. I couldn't wait for the blistering, lava-hot water and the jet stream of water pressure. Who knew if China could provide the same showering satisfaction? The water was freezing. However, my tiny morning rampage fell on deaf ears; it's kind of hard to feel sorry for someone who was about to set off on the journey of a lifetime. After several false starts, we finally left the house. We sped along through Virginia listening to Colin Cowherd on ESPN Radio, with DC getting closer by the mile. The next step for me was dinner at my favorite restaraunt- Filomena Ristorante in Georgetown. It has the best Italian food I have eaten thus far in my entire life. And at $40 an entree, it's just the kind of awesome Western gluttony I needed before my long trip. Once we hit Reagan Airport, my mood darkened a little.. I came to the realization that I had never traveled alone. And here I was with 3 flights ahead of me and not a second of international
traveling experience. Of course, we all know how friendly airport workers are. So that definitely made things easier for me. Thanks, TSA, for doing your job with a smile. By the time I had boarded the plane in DC, I had pretty much lost faith in the decency of mankind. As a product of the American South, I expected smiles and kindness, and was met everywhere with cold indifference. Clueless expressions and a complete lack of knowledge about the minutiae of traveling didn't help matters too much either. By the time I was in my seat, I was forlorn. An exhausted flight attendant mumbled the safety procedures and we took off. Country fried hillbilly that I am, my face was plastered to the window as that awesome, sinking stomach feeling of takeoff spread through me and the plane sped upward. Once we leveled, I took a second to look around the plane. It was like a cigarette with wings. It was, without a doubt, the tiniest form of air travel I had ever seen. I half expected the flight attendant to give us instructions on how to prepare for the upcoming parachute jump.
But it never happened. Approximately 45 minutes later, all dozen of us were on the ground at JFK. My time in New York was spent trudging from terminal to terminal- endless lines and luggage mishaps contributed to my exhaustion. When I had reached the Korean Air counter for the second time, I was a sweaty disaster. I handed my passport to the woman at the counter (who I thoughtfully nicknamed Jersey Shore) and I was informed that I could pick up my "luggages" in Shanghai. I quickly realized that this flight was going to be different. The gate was full to the brim- mostly with Koreans. Their chanting, sing-song language filled my soul with horror. I looked around and found some White dudes, and they were even right around my age. But they were less than welcoming. After some eavesdropping, I realized they were military men of some sort. They took one look at my Kindle and Sperrys and decided I wouldn't really be much use in a conversation. Even though I was 4 feet away, and the only other English speaker in the vicinity. For 2 hours. Thanks, guys. Semper Fi, or whatever. I lugged by broken duffel bag up the ramp an onto the most giant plane I have ever seen in my life. There were 2 aisles and 7 seats per row. And over 100 rows. I didn't really have time to take it all in; I was too busy attempting to shove my 7,600 pound duffel bag into the overhead compartment. It didn't work. I was being glared at by scores of pissed off Koreans, until a 90 pound flight attendant whisked my bag away to a larger compartment. After firmly establishing myself as the village idiot of the entire plane, I took my seat. By this point, I had literally never felt more alone in my entire life. I missed my parents and my friends.I knew there was no turning back, but I didn't want to go home. I just wanted someone to have a conversation with me. Fortunately, an English speaking Korean businessman seated right next to me did just that, and thus restored my faith in people. Over the course of the 15 hour flight, he told me what in-flight meals were best, and how to eat the Korean foods I was being given by the incredibly hot
 Korean Air stewardesses. The conversation periodically lagged, and I watched a few movies in my complimentary in fight slippers. Now this was the life. I fell into fitful sleep, not knowing or caring what time it was. When I woke up, my flight companion informed me that we had just flown over the North Pole. It was the coolest thing I had ever done. After I had been given some advice and wished good luck by my new friend, I "de-planed." As in all other flight-length comeraderies, I never learned the man's name. But he had done me a lot of good, being helpful and friendly when I needed it most. I will never forget the feeling I had when I took my first steps into the Incheon Airport. I looked out the windows, wide-eyed at the unfamiliarity of it all. The tiny, foreign cars. The Korean scribblings on every sign. The roof of my mouth was dry as my mind tried to take it all in. It was my first time outside the Continental United States. I was bewildered, excited, and scared. For a lifelong travel fanatic, it was the bizzare and amazing realization of a long held dream. I floated through Incheon, by this time a far more seasoned and confident traveler. I found my gate quickly, and scoured the airport for a Starbucks, with no avail. I then waited for my group to arrive from LAX. They came, and we left for Shanghai. We quickly formed bonds over bean curd, and my mind was finally at ease. We had all touched down in Shanghai, most of us for the very first time,
preapred for adventure.

Mountain Sunrise Doorknob

As my departure to China creeps closer and closer, I'm getting a little less confident and a little more- well, petrified.. Of course, there are a lot of things to be afraid of.  The way people talk, Communism must be the bedside reading material of Satan himself.. I suppose it's not really the Marxism, but the implications- no free speech, no internet, a decrease in the emphasis on personal liberty and the value of human life blah blah. Trust me, people, I have been sufficiently warned. But even the totalitarianism doesn't scare me too much. It's just a giant nuisance, a metaphorical thorn in my freedom loving side. Nor am I scared of traveling by plane, large cities, or being tricked repeatedly by crafty Asian merchants. As naive as I may be, I feel pretty prepared in all those aspects. No, the thing that has me running scared isn't dangerous at all. It's the Chinese language. Every time I see Chinese characters- on my work visa, in my address- even on a pack of takeout chopsticks- my palms start sweating. Since my subtle arrogance knows no bounds, I consider myself something of a linguist. I picked up Spanish pretty quickly (retention is another matter entirely) and I enjoy learning about the subtle nuances of foreign language. I feel like if I traveled to Europe, I would know that a pastecceria would be a place to get bread and little desserts and that I could probably use a telefono to call people. But Chinese? Really? All I think of when I see those characters is those little stick figures hanging from the trees on The Blair Witch Project. They literally mean nothing to me. I could see a sign on a building and not know whether it meant "This is where you buy fish!" or "This is where a person comes to be disemboweled and thrown to the hounds." This lack of knowledge could cause some problems.. I do plan on speaking some Easy Chinese- the Easy version of any foreign language being shouting what one wants in English at the top of one's lungs- until I learn a few useful words. Some apropos examples for me include "PLEASE REMOVE THE BEAK AND FEATHERS FROM THAT CHICKEN BEFORE YOU SERVE IT TO ME." Or "IF YOU THINK I AM PAYING OVER $3 FOR THAT JADE LION, FEEL FREE TO THINK AGAIN." I'm sure my behavior won't do much to help eradicate the stereotype of Americans as pushy, obnoxious people who refuse to adapt to or respect the cultures of others, even when they are guests in that nation. But I never said I was out to change the world. I think I can get a handle on the speaking, the various chings and chongs will hopefully roll right off my Anglo-Saxon tongue. But I don't think I'll ever grasp those pesky characters. I did get a useful suggestion from a friend, however. She told me instead of attempting to learn a 5,000 character lexicon, why not just see what the characters look like and say that instead? It is, after all, a language of pictures. I started with my work visa. Let's see... "houseboat, lantern, toaster oven, stool." My friend then pointed out that if I said these words in rapid succession with a Ms. Swan kind of voice, it sounded something like Chinese. So, until Wednesday, a good Treesubwoofersmallchildeatinganapplewindowpane to you all.

Bleeding Red, White, and Blue (Well, Mostly Red...)

Alright, people. Prepare for the insufferable. From this point forward, most of these blog posts will talk of nothing but China. Whether it's anticipation of the trip, an account of my nonstop 16.5 hour flight from NYC to South Korea, or my adventures with the Chinese Nuggets, my blogs will inevitably take on a certain...slant... I mean, I could talk about China, or I could give you a scene-for-scene recount of the Seinfeld episodes I watch on any given day. That's about all that's going on in my life until our Buffalo Wild Wings opens. For those of you that have had enough already, I highly recommend Stumble Upon as an alternative way to waste your time. Self-depricating ramblings aside, I have less than 2 weeks before I arrive in the People's Republic of China. I suggest the Republic prepare itself accordingly. As my departure date creeps closer, I get asked more and more-what will I miss most about being home? My family, my friends. The answer seems a little obvious to me. Of course, there are also quite a few non-human aspects of American life I will miss. My car? French fries? Drinking water that isn't full or carcinogens and poison? Sure. But there is something much more important to me. My rights. For the past few days, I've been doing a little research about what my life will be like in China. Will I be living in a dirt floor hut, washing my face with handfuls of river water? No. Apparently, Asia has taken a turn from rice paddies and funny triangle shaped hats. Now, I hear tales of smog filled skies and billions of industrious, well-mannered people whose heads I see over for miles in the bicycle clogged streets. I've sought advice from my parents, international businessmen, and even a close friend who visited China before. And of course, I get tons of unsolicited but helpful advice from pretty much everyone else. People have brought various aspects of my personality to my attention in an attempt to keep me from being thrown in Chinese jail. "Derek," they say, "you can't be sarcastic over there. No making fun of people. No satire. Don't wear your 'Communist Party' t-shirt. Don't complain. Actually, we would really just advise you to not say anything to anyone, for any reason, ever." As it turns out, I seem to be a pretty incendiary figure. And then it hit me. A huge part of my life, and my personality, is the ability to communicate freely using my First Amendment rights. I have Facebook, Twitter, Blogger, Skype, an average of about 7,500 texts a month, and I still talk to people face to face. I even talk in my sleep; just ask my former roommate. So what's a blabbermouth windbag like me to do in a country where even Google is illegal? Some people have tried to give me the impression that if I utter the word "America," I will be taken to windowless room and shot in the face at point blank range. Other people tell me that I don't have to change my habits at all, just skirt the Great Firewall like all the rest of the ex-pats. Honestly, I can't say I subscribe to either philosophy. But I do know that I will miss being in a land where I can say literally anything that I want. Because I do just that. For example, I think Sarah Palin is a complete idiot. All of the stupid ideas that come from her dumb Alaskan mouth make my liberal soul quiver with disgust. And I'm well within my rights to say all that and much, much more if I felt the need. That's why I love America. The constant free exchange of ideas we often take for granted force progression and change. And sometimes, they do nothing at all. We can be smart or stupid with our rights. The important thing is that we use them. As an American, I have access to an astounding amount of information. I can access my FBI file. I can write letters to my Congressperson. I can attend city hall meetings. And I can also watch YouTube videos about a fat girl that can't sing, or pandas sneezing. I can hold up signs and shout whatever I want. I can chain myself to old trees. Every time I go to DC, I see the tent with the crazy nuclear protester, right behind the White House. You've seen it. It's been there forever. And I can't help but smile. I honestly can't think of a single thing I care about so much that I would live in a tent until I got my way, but I have that right. With all this awesome free expression comes equality of opportunity. My favorite example of this is Basil Marceaux, candidate for Governor of the State of Tennessee. Find him on YouTube, and you will be reminded that literally anyone can run for political office. (Don't worry; he didn't win. We aren't THAT stupid..) Yes, I may be a nerd. My love for America and her idiosyncrasies may be a little beyond the comprehension of sane people. Despite decades of mind boggling stupidity from BOTH sides of the party line, I still have faith in the government. But more than that, I have faith in the ingenuity and spirit of the American people. (the National Anthem should begin to play in your head at this point) We built a nation based on ideas that had never been tried. We made it through Depressions, Great and small. We've watched 44 (almost 45!!) Superbowls together. Some people think America is on the decline. I say no way. We aren't going anywhere. We'd make too much of a fuss about being #2 to anyone. I will miss my freedoms while I live abroad. I'd say the Chinese would not be huge fans of this post, for instance. And I doubt I could slander government officials like I did to poor Mrs. Palin. So I plan to get out all my rants while I'm here. I'll say whatever I want, as much as I want, because I can. And that's what we Americans are all about.

Growing Somewhere

It's high time I grew up. Or at least wrote about it... Because I'm getting old. Very old. My knees and back are terrible, I have the agility and coordination of a man quadruple my age, and the last time I played Brain Age, I think my mental age was like 67. The physical aspects of my early onset aging would probably improve if I didn't drink upwards of a gallon of sweet, sweet Coke per day. If you call a life without Coke a life at all, that is.. But the aspect of my age that concerns me far more is my maturity. And yes, I do mean the lack thereof. Day after day, I get further reaffirmation of just how alarmingly immature I really am. Take this weekend for instance. I went up to Virginia to see my incredibly awesome friends. When I presented my parents with my plans, the conversation went something like this (at least in my memory): 

Me: I wanna go to SVU to see my friends this weekend. Real bad.

Parentals: Yeah.. How are you gonna pay for that? You spent all of your money on Taco Bell and clothes. It's even on your stupid blog.

M: Well, you have money.

P: That we do. Like the money we're using to send you to China. And put gas in your car that you suck at driving. And buy a house. And put 4 children through college. That money. 

M: .....Yes. That money. I would really appreciate it. I just need like $40.

P: $40?!?! Do you know how much you eat?!?! You'd need AT LEAST $100 for food alone! (fat joke)

About an hour of intense, hurricane strength begging followed-without any shred of dignity. We eventually had a stalemate, as the Dixons are excellent arguers. I'm pretty sure our coat of arms shows a bunch of medieval dudes shouting at one another and refusing to admit fault to anything, ever. Heritage aside, I gradually saw the error of my ways. Oh yeah, I did squander my money on fake chicken tacos smothered in Heaven only knows what... I will not be able to drive 400 miles without filling up my car, which costs money. And I will have to eat at some point. And my parents, reasonable people that they are, knew I really wanted to see some friends. So the trip happened. I made a scheme, right then, to be as frugal as I possibly could. Ha! I'll show them!! I'll starve myself and give them their money back! I'd present my parents with a big wad of the cash that I didn't spend. They'd hold me in such high esteem. "Look at our son, not spending money. Maybe we should rotate the food storage, because the apocalypse is obviously imminent." My plan failed, miserably. I came home with about $3. I couldn't even be frugal out of spite!! Perhaps the scariest thing about all of this is what I had planned to do about a year ago. I was saving all my money to go to school in Boston. I had just enough for rent and the security deposit. I planned to stick with my valet job for one more year to make up the rest. I was gone, and I was never coming back. Had I stayed at home, this disaster of a life decision would have gone through. Retrospectively, I think I would have lasted about 24 minutes in Beantown. Or anywhere on my own, for that matter. I'd break down when I realized I couldn't have a Chelsea Lately marathon every night, because I'd have to wake up and do some thankless job to pay rent. Smoked salmon is no longer a culinary option, even for bagels. Heck, even bagels are probably too expensive. And I can't get season tickets to the Celtics and still expect to have electricity. Then there would be the questions, with no one around to answer them. What? I have to pay taxes?! The interest is HOW much?! My next question would have doubtlessly involved directions to the Massachusetts Welfare Department and a few good homeless shelters. I was not ready. I'm still not. And I have a hunch I'm not alone, for people in my age bracket at least. I may be immature, but the haunting truth is that I'm probably better off than a lot of people. Has anyone ever watched The Jersey Shore? Yeah. I think I have them beat. But surely there is a fine line between functionality and failure in the real world. It separates the people who pay their bills on time from the people who use them as joint paper. The people with stainless steel kitchens from the people who have to open up soup cans by pounding them with butcher knives. The people who wear suits every day from the people who fish their filthy Ed Hardy t-shirts from a pile of clothes on the floor. It's a thin line indeed, and it's scary. When I'm 25, no one will care what Daddy did. I won't be on the Family Share Plan anymore. I can't take weekend trips with no money. And 25 is soon. We'll all age no matter what, and it's getting time to pull it together. Maybe I'll learn a thing or two from the millions of starving Chinese people. I'm sure they'll point out how I bring dishonor upon my family like all the time. Probably every day. Despite John Mayer's protest to the contrary, there is such a thing as the real world. And unless some stacks of ca$h fall out of a flying pig and land in the living room, it's not gonna be easy. Truth be told, some people never grow up. They're the people you see driving their 1989 Mercury Topazes with bumper stickers like "My Other car is a Broom" or "Horn Broken, Watch For Finger." They mix their vodka with Kool Aid and steal the neighbor's cable. Winners. Or the lucky ones end up like Snooki, with all due respect to Miss Polizzi. And we all know she'll either die from some drugs or become culturally irrelevant, whichever happens first. But I'll give my readers the benefit of the doubt and assume they aren't stupid. I mean, there are quite a few 3 syllable words in here. Hopefully we'll grow up soon. Because no matter how we try to turn back the clock, we're all growing somewhere.

Looking Eastward/Homelessness

In a few days, I will be officially homeless. After a long day of moving, there is basically no furniture left in Parents House #1, as I've come to call it, for we hauled it all, box by box, to Parents House #2. (Movers? Ha!! We're Appalachians!!) My parents thought they'd play a nice game I decided to call "Where to Shove Derek Until He Leaves." There are 6 members of my family, and 5 bedrooms. The math is simple, but yet my parents are still unable to find a place for me to stay.. Door #1, the playroom- which is basically the Purgatory for the furniture that didn't achieve Rec Room or Family Room status, but features such amenities as the fussball table, which no single child deserves in his or her room. Plus it has one of those creepy split doors like in a nursery, and I don't wanna be crept upon by my family. Door #2, share a room with my brother. No. Door #3 the office- That's more like it. Even if the former occupants put up what appears to be jungle themed wallpaper, I can manage for a couple of weeks if it means I have some privacy. So even though my entire family will be staying with my aunt until the new house is ready, making us all officially homeless, I am the most homeless of all. But I don't have time for such American nonsense. As you very well know, I am going to China soon. Anyone who has spoken to me for more than 6 seconds since about November knows this. I am unfathomably stoked, people. My head is filled with visions of rickshaws, miles of silk I can turn into some ballin' pajamas or a few Hugh Hefner-esque robes, pearls that I can ceremoniously toss in the air like confetti since they're apparently like 4 cents. I will stuff my face with rice, noodles, and whatever else they eat, and on my return to America, my chopstick proficiency will put everyone to shame. And besides the chance to live abroad for 18 weeks and Anglicize the little Asian nuggets with my English skillz, I get to take advantage of the awesome Chinese currency exchange rate. Which, to my understanding is basically 7.4 trazillion yuan per dollar. This knowledge is even making it difficult to spend money now. $8 for a BK combo?!?! I could buy a Kia Rio for that in the Orient!! I can't wait to buy presents for everyone. And I can't wait for the customs people to see what I bring to the U.S. My plans? 1 suitcase of jade lions, 1 of pearls for the lovely ladies, 1 of tailored suits, and 1 of throwing stars, in case people get sassy with me/get all up in my grill. Yeah, suck it, TSA. That's what you get for running people through those naked pervert scanners and making me take off my shoes! My feet don't always smell good, ok?!? So with most of my yuan already mentally spent, my thoughts return to my living situation. After some contemplation, it doesn't bother me a bit where I live. I have no home. And I could care less. Having all my stuff doesn't make a home for me. People do. And even as I am tossed all over the world, I keep my friends and family in my memory, on my mind, and in my prayers. My roots aren't set in any specific location, nor will they ever be. My roots are set in "my" people. My friends from high school, from work, from Southern Virginia- I know there are people I can talk to whenever, wherever I am. My family watches out for me the best they can, even when I am on the other side of the world. As long as any vermin are small enough to be vanquished with Birkenstocks, I will put up with any living situation. Because surrounded by the love and good wishes of the people I care about, I know I will always be home.

A Class Act

Occasionally, I allow myself a couple of minutes of self-reflection. If I reflect too much, I usually end up blowing the dust off my fitness club card and vowing to read a classic novel by the end of the month or other such self improvement nonsense. So I try to avoid it when I can. But a few nights ago, a haunting question came to my mind- am I white trash? The quick answer seems to be no. I mean, I wear sweaters like all the time. I speak moderate Spanish, and I have a Kindle, people. That is a trifecta of classiness. But when I initially asked myself the question, I had just polished off a pack of Frosted Strawberry Pop Tarts and some string cheese. In bed. Again. This particular instance of reclined gorging was to celebrate the It's Always Sunny In Philadelphia mini-marathon that I was having at the time. The final episode I saw really got me thinking. Its title? "Mac and Charlie: White Trash." If that's not a wake up call, I don't know what is. The plot was thick with hilarity, shenanigans, and class warfare. But I'm not a television critic. If you want to watch it, be my guest. Otherwise, I could seriously care less. So at the culmination of this episode, I decided to take stock of my trash. First and foremost, there was the literal trash evidenced in the halo of food wrappers around my head. That needed to be dealt with pretty much immediately. Trash 1, Class 0. Once the debris was cleared, I began some serious thinking. My driving habits. Now, before all the cyber world, I will admit that I am an aggressive driver. Notice how I did not say bad. Aggressive. When the situation calls for it, that's just fine. But as much as I'd like to, I don't live New York or Boston or Philly or DC. I live in Kingsport, Tennessee. And the situation in Kingsport never, ever calls for the kind of lane weaving, neck craning, tailgating prowess that I have. In a town where Wal-Mart is the nexus of the social universe, it's just embarrassing. And rednecky. Oh yeah, and I drive an old pickup truck. Trash 3, Class 0. I go barefoot in the summer as much as possible. I shop at Wal-Mart. Basically every day. (Don't judge me; it's really close to my house.) I used to eat pie with my hands, because I thought it was OK to do. Sometimes I just want to shout "YEE HAW" for no reason. I vacation near Myrtle Beach. I watch The Jersey Shore every so often. I'm loud, Southern, and willing to make a fool of myself when pressured to do so. And the tide of garbage continues to rise. I'm not saying that I have a brood of illegitimate children crawling all over me while I write this blog. And you'll probably never see me drinking Natty Light out of a paper bag in a cutoff flannel shirt, but sometimes my gut just tells me to fry up a sandwich and take it to bed for a nice Law and Order marathon at 2 in the afternoon. I should know better. When the commercials are all title loans and class action lawsuits, it's time to turn off the TV. I don't want to dispose of all my fun quirks. A little grit has its place in everyone's personality, and I'm proud of my...uhm....down-to-Earth-ness... But I also realize that I must tame the trashy beast that clearly lurks inside my classy shell. My New Year's Resolution? Take out the trash.