*****Because I was never a boy....I was a girl.........................................................
There is something about songs that take you back to places.
I was standing next to the sink brushing my teeth listening to some oldies rock song, muttering words, that I don’t even know how I know, and thinking back to when I was about six or seven…
We used to have this summer home a couple hours away from our house, just past the city, nestled up in the woods, right on a huge river. Even though it was called a summer home, we didn’t stay their all summer, but rather, would go for the weekend when the weather was particularly nice or my parents were feeling more adventurous then usual. I remember thinking it was the greatest place, because I was allowed to walk all around alone. I would walk down what seemed to be thousands of old cement steps, across a rickety wooden bridge and to a small wooden building where you could buy food. I always thought this was the coolest thing, because I could charge it to my dad (he gave me permission,) which meant that I could sit on the big, round, wooden stools and pick out the five cent Now and Later’s and Jolly Ranchers, and put it all on my dad’s tab. The older kids would play pool and stick their extra coins in the jut box, and I would get especially excited when the song “Love Shack” came on…please, don’t ask me why, I have no idea. During the afternoons I would go down to the beach with my mom, we would take a huge umbrella and set it up on the sandy shore, then I was to wade in the muddy river, build things out of wet sand and rocks, and make friends with the other little kids on the beach. Sometimes at night we would go for walks, and the pine scent and cool breeze would wrap all around me as my dad pushed me on the swing. Or my dad would impress me with his rock skipping skills, as the sand polished stone would dance at least five times across the rivers face. On the weekends they would have night movies on a big screen, and I remember I would sit on the wood bench, wrapped in an old blanket and watch something like “The Mighty Ducks.” Or sometimes I would go off by myself and play in this mosey tree stump area. I would swing from the branches of vines that were implanted for aesthetic purposes, and end up making it about a centimeter off the ground, and not thinking much of my lack of coordination. Back at the cabin my dad would read me stories before I fell asleep, or we’d watch some cheesy cartoon, like “Rocky and Bowlwinkle.” I always wanted to play my dad’s guitar and make up ridiculous “fake rock songs” about things like bunny rabbits, and for some reason my parents never stopped me. When night came I would climb into the bed, which was always so comfortable, and smell the musty scent that the old place had and that my mom incessantly complained about, and fall into sleep.
I don’t know why that song made me think of this, but I like this memory. Sometimes I just want to be little again, it was so much simpler. When I was little I could say things that I wanted to say without worrying about what people thought, I was constantly cute, or at least unaware if I wasn’t, I felt so loved, and though it’s not that I have serious issues with these things now, I can’t deny that the thought of being little is appealing.
Life is good, it’s great, but sometimes it just gets tiring, and when I was at the cabin, settled in the woods, being tired never registered to me.
I get sick of trying…if someone is going to love me, they are going to have to love me as I am. Even if that means that I giggle at the most awkward times, if too much of my teeth show when I laugh, if I don’t have a perfect figure, if I talk too much when I get nervous, if I laugh really hard when I make a mistake, if I don’t know how to say things I want to say because I’m too afraid, if I do stupid girly things, and if I am completely 100% unexplainable—they are going to have to love me, or else I’m sorry, but I give up, because if they can’t learn to appreciate that, then they obviously forgot to look a little deeper and see that maybe I’m worth seeing. And if not, I’m fine with just me-God-my quirky roommate, and our grandma like sleeping habits.

"To flush or not to flush, apparently this is a cause for great diliberation among public bathroom goers"

There aren’t many things in this world that I don’t like. I mean, I figure God puts things on this earth for a reason, and even if something seems bad, it most likely could always be worse. But I must admit there are a few things I find beyond the realms of deal able, and though it may be petty I am about to own up to it anyway.
I don’t like public restrooms.
Where should I begin. Firstly, they smell, and seeing that it’s a public restroom one can’t walk in hold your nose and go, “Eww, man, who did that!” So, you have to walk bravely through, pretend the smell isn’t killing you with ever breath you take, and do anything not to make the slightest face to possibly offend one of the leaving patrons who could very well have been a cause to the scent.
Then finding a stall, I mean if there is a line, you kind of don’t have a choice, you have to take the first one available, or Nancy, Freda, and Pacco will all glare at you if you hold up the line because your too choosey for the stall, and when someone stays in a stall too long, then finally comes out the rest of the line has that silent, “Haha, I’m glad it’s not me who has to go in there” smirk.
Now if there is no line you can choose your restroom, but that usually ends up like shopping at a garage sale for something like socks—they will all inevitably have some sort of issue, so you have to tuff it up, find the best one and march in, but sometimes the experiences in finding the most suitable stall can be detrimental to say the least. Now when I was potty trained my mother taught me to flush, but I don’t think this is common among Americans, because I cannot express to you how many times I have seen things left in toilets that just shouldn’t have been.
Or you have the “wet floor syndrome,” when for some unknown reason the floors are covered in water, or some type of liquid, and toilet paper particles are mixed in making a white slur, this being most common at truck stop or beach restrooms.
Then there are the minor details, like a stall that has no toilet paper, and you are left calling out “Hey, Mary pass the toilet paper down here,” or no seat coverings, or the “unfriendly neighbor,” a.k.a. a loud stranger next to you…and the list just continues, such as if the door doesn’t have a lock, then the whole time you are trying to hold it, and it’s swaying back and forth, as you experience at least five close calls. And of coarse the dreaded button, that shiny metal circle that is infected with who knows what diseases and germs, located midway up the wall, that either has to be, heaven forbid touched, or karate kicked in such a fashion that it would most likely end with half of you in the toilet and your head severally damaged in some close to fatal way.
I would get into portapottes, but the fact that I have already spent over 500 words ranting on this less then unimportant subject already makes this piece pitiful, and well pointless, so I will stop there, leaving the rest up to you.

~Sometimes it all feels like too much. When I say too much you must know what I’m saying. It’s just something bad happens, and as time passes, something, yes something, heals the pain. For a Christian it’s God, for an atheist perhaps a dose of existentialism, and for someone who surfs the plains on a less deep level it is the sweet satisfaction that comes from what they do have, because what lies beyond that is none of their concern at that time, and if in fact it is God they do believe we encounter when one exceeds this life, then they do not associate him with the negative happenstance, but rather, the reality of the blessings that were fulfilled, and an icon of the future. Regardless, we all deal. Though what happens is that one moment you are fine, but then seconds later you remember how when your grandma was alive she would bake you cookies that smelt like the bakery you just by chance found yourself in that random day, or, late at night you may stare out the window off into the starry abyss and be strongly reminded of the passions you’ve now dismissed, the dreams that have vanished. And with one word his eyes or her smile may flash into your mind, and your heart aches with the bitter pain of what was and what no longer is. It is moments such as these that I do not shake off the pain, but rather embrace it. One might find this contrary to the existence of a happy life, but I find it necessary. You have two choices, to face the pain, yet truly feel. Or to dismiss the pain, but live on the outside. I neglect the latter, for fear of never truly living, and loosing the passion in not ever really letting go of something that matters to you. Or perhaps, for faith, a faith that requires no fear in emotion, a faith that requires the most painful honesty with oneself.~

* If I lay here, if i just lay here...would you lie with me, and just forget the world?*

Leaving is the worst. To look into someone’s eyes and have to say goodbye is just plain horrible. When I leave I like to do it “Band-Aid style”—quick and efficient. You can’t fully plain your leave, but rather, you have to jump into you car and hit the road. At first, you bit your lip, because you so desperately want to cry, but soon your music is turned up as loud as it can go, and you try to forget the life you just left, and remember the one you’re returning to.
I love home, I love almost everything about it, but when I stay here to long I get restless; that’s why it’s good for me to move. I love the summertime, when the sun is hot and bright, and my skin gets tan. I love the lake, and how it feels with the wind whipping at your face when you’re on a boat or a jet ski. I love to run on the soft dirt of the track, as the sprinkler splashes my face and the summer evening sets in. There is nothing like the promise of a sunshine summer morning, and the magic in a warm summer evening. I love friends, and family, and to just be, in all life’s happenings.
I don’t like goodbyes. I don’t like leaving home, but it’s good for me, and in a few days my priorities will be miles and miles away. Besides, it’s not goodbye, it’s just see you soon.

LIKE POISON TO MY EARS--

Alright, so get this: It’s Thursday night, and I’m about ready to go for my nightly (well kind of, sometimes, nightly run) when I hear it—“Are you ready to rock boys,” then bang, ba, ba, bang, and a raspy voice of what I could only safely predict came from a sixty-five year old chain smoker starts busting out the infamous classic rock jam, “Johnny Be Good.” It’s like death to my ears, rising up over the mountain…the shear tone, the very essence, ugh, the sound! Where is it coming from?
We have a very “trendy” restaurant in town. Now when I say trendy, I am referring to the mid-forties and early fifty-year-old’s dating hotspot. It is a rather quant restaurant on the corner of my ridiculously small town, and the middle aged folk flock like cattle herding toward their lunch. The women put on their racy tops, that probably should have been traded in for something a bit more modest for a mom, and the men put on their coolest belt buckles to try and hide their rapidly increasing stomachs, and they all march down to this semi-classy joint to drink way too much, eat way to little in relationship to the inflated price, and look as smashing as they can possibly pull off--and tonight happened to be band night.
Seeing that I live on a hill about 3 minutes from this night club for the middle-age, the summer winds grace me with the opportunity to hear the glorious ballads, sung by who knows who. After hearing the fragmented “Johnny Be Good” and a very sad rendition of “La Bamba” I became thoroughly convinced that the band was not even required to audition prior to playing there, and they quite possibly were doing this horrendous act of singing entirely for free; because I have no idea who would fund such a noise, but could rather see the tables turned, and the band paying the restaurant to become exposed. And let me inform you—they were exposed, to almost an extent of exploitation as that noise found its way unexplainably loud infesting my home and the residences of surrounding neighbors. There was nowhere to hide, just THAT sound, and the faint remembrance of the crickets that, in truth, should be all I was hearing on this breezy summer evening.
In closing, let me put it this way, if I was paying the electric bill, the windows would be shut an extra two hours, the air would be on, and the sound of Leroy McGee, or whoever the heck is singing his lungs out down there, would drown away. And if anyone complained to me about the effects of using the air-conditioning for so long during an energy crisis, I would simply play them a sample of that noise, and let me tell you, they would understand.

Fairly odd Family: A Melissa version of Chelle's family blog...
Mom:
-Mops our floors at lest twice a day.
-Has conversations with the cat.
-Frequently comes into my bedroom at 6:30a.m to wake me up to see if her outfit looks ok.
-Rarely ever reads the back of movies when she rents them, therefore has a history of bringing home “interesting” movie choices.
-Always refers to a food item as “nice” if she wants you to eat it, i.e., I made a “nice” soup.
-Never runs out of questions, even if you ask her to.
-Bribes you to massage her feet.
-Always buys sale items from the Gap on the internet.
-Infomercials were made for people like her.
-Always sleeps with a pillow for her knees.
-Is known to add an “S” to ever store name, i.e., “Abercrombies, Victoria’s Secrets.”
-Fears: Family being unhappy, people who chew ice, and dirt.
-Dream day: Being at home with her family, with a refrigerator full of groceries and a spotless house (including clean pets.)
Dad:
-Refuses to invest in doctor prescribed glasses, so wears awkward spectacles when he reads that look like their from the 1940’s.
-Is constantly building and inventing things.
-Is known to do yard work at 2:30p.m in 100 degree weather.
-Favorite gifts: Anything regarding tools or Biola paraphernalia that also has the word dad somewhere on it.
-Idea of dress shoes=black tennis shoes.
-Whenever I dress up always goes … “fancy.”
-When he gets full shakes his head back and forth, yet keeps eating.
-If he could, would put Tabasco on everything.
-Always gives very detailed instructions.
-Finds immense joy in milkshakes.
-Fears: Me parking in his spot and if his family stopped liking the Giants.
-Dream day: Something involving golf or pool and the family.
Me:
-Would rather pass out because of pain then take medicine.
-Never can finish a meal without spilling at least some of it on my shirt.
-Love pj’s to such an extent, that if I have nowhere to go I will take a shower, then put on clean pj’s.
-Finds entertainment in movies to an abnormal level.
-Could amuse myself for months and never get bored.
-When I sleep in, eats lunch about an hour after breakfast.
-Has to force self to be awake beyond 12p.m. (if I can make it even there.)
-Always subconsciously hums the same tune when I’m nervous.
-Can tan two shades in about 15 min.
-Frequently call my mom Carmelita, Carmen, Carms, ect.
-Am also known to call animals by different names then their own just to see their reactions.
-Always working on projects, i.e., scrap booking, finishing a book, writing, collaging, yes, once even paint by numbers.
-Fears: Not having a project to work on, having to take cough syrup.
-Dream Day: Dressing up, going to Italy, and dancing in the rain with Mr. Darcy….

Unleashing "the beast" (my car)--
Living nine hours away has its perks. Momentarily I cannot think of many, but I suppose the main perk is worth thousands—you get to be somewhere new, entirely new, and you are embarked with a new kind of independence, but when it comes to driving by yourself for nine hours in order to get home one begins to wish that home was a bit closer.
Summer school=being at school for six extra weeks. Now as daunting as it sounds, it wasn’t all that bad considering I got two classes out of the way and I was able to go on a lot of trips during the weekends to visit friends and family that live around the area. But after being in school for a total of ten and a half months I cannot fully explain to you the utter excitement that encompassed me when I was at last able to go home.
I left a day early, in hopes of surprising my mom. I literally shoved everything into my car, that is, after stuffing it all in garbage bags, and dragging it down the stairs and along the black pavement. It was nearly a hundred degrees, and I kept stuffing things into the backseat of my car. I can’t even fathom exactly how ridiculous I looked rolling down the freeway with big fluffy orange and yellow pillows peeking out the windows, and a stripped comforter as my passenger in the front seat.
After nearly two hours of labor, I left:
2:03p.m: Left campus listening to the new Red Hot Chili Peppers CD—all was good.
2:13p.m: Merge onto the 5 North.
2:17p.m: .0002 miles further down the 5, there was, er, traffic.
3:41p.m: Start over the grapevine listening to “I Heard it Through the Grapevine,” singing to myself like a crazy person.
4:02p.m: Stopping to get gas, and Starbucks, the Starbucks was a, um, mistake.
4:33p.m: Realizing my decaffeinated coffee was in fact caffeinated, and if you know me this is not good…..dancing to a strange oldies song.
4:44: Call someone and leave a 4 min message.
4:48: Call someone else
4:49: Call someone else
4:51: Is anyone home because the 5 is really boring.
5:33: Ok, I have to use the restroom, too much coffee.
5:44: Where is a bathroom?? Do people on the 5 not use bathrooms??? Can I use the outhouse for road workers on the side of the freeway.
5:59: I see an exit!
6:01: I missed the exit.
6:03: In chronic pain, has anyone ever died from having to pee so bad.
6:15: Can I just use the road? Do people on the 5 not pee?
6:17: I see an exit, I cut off two cars, nearly get killed, and take it. Sign says penitentiary 4 miles, food 9. Ok, not working.
6:19: Back on the 5, I can read my obituary now. “New meaning is brought to the saying when you gotta go, you gotta go, when a 19 year old girl literally has a fatal bladder accident.” (ok, so corny.)
6:21: I see a rest stop. Have I ever expressed how much I now love rest stops? At last the bathroom.
6:26: Back on the 5.
6:40: Undergo early signs or road rage. Why do people who are so freaken slow drive in the fast lane…I cannot handle this.
7:05: Stop for food and get hit on by locals.
8:00: Contemplate the many wonders of life…..needless to say, get know where.
8:33: Get gas at the sketchiest gas place I’ve ever seen. Lock doors twice.
9:03: Call Mom, and tell her I’m in Sacramento, and two hours from home, (this was the highlight of the trip.)
10:00: Suffer from the later stages of road rage, as trucks form in what I like to call a road barricade, taking both lanes at snail like paces, as if they are heading a parade.
10:33: Thirsty, but refuse to stop in fear of experience “can’t find a bathroom” happening again.
10:35: OFF the 5!
11:00: Road work in the middle of a county road, a sign says 30 min waits. My patience is diminishing—fast.
11:05: Open windows to try to wake up.
11:10: Road work let’s up quicker then it said, I speed home.
11:30: HomeJ
Nine hours in the car is very amusing, can’t you tell?

B-E-A-U-TIFUL!
What is beauty? Maybe things would be clearer if we really understood this.
When I was little I would try to look beautiful by dressing in my mom’s heals and work clothes. I would put on thick layers of bright lipstick, and totter around gazing at my six-year-old reflection having no doubt in my mind that this dress-up beauty I possessed was clearly princess quality. Those were the days.
Kindness is beautiful, love is beautiful, the list could go on and on, but when asked to define beauty, really define it, it becomes difficult.
In my art class we were asked this very question, “what is beauty.” I thought really hard about everything that I found beautiful, so maybe I could encompass the very word in a few nicely placed adjectives. Jesus is beautiful. Though we have no exact picture of how he appeared on the outside, on the inside we know he is truly beautiful, and that he encapsulates the very word.
But what about outer beauty? Have you ever seen someone and just gawked because you couldn’t figure out what makes them look to wonderful? Or looked at a sunset and felt like the moment could last forever because what you see is so breathtaking. We have all felt this, but what makes this?
When truly surveying it, it becomes clear that beauty is something that intrigues us, and for whatever reason this may be, we stand amazed. The pieces may not fit perfectly together, the description may seem less then par to someone else, but to us, it’s striking, and it is in this intrigue that we are captivated.
So maybe it’s looks that appeal to us, or a personality that touches our heart, even an astonishing act of kindness, but regardless, once it is infested in our heads, that beauty can not be forgotten.

Dorms. They’re a big thing on campus. So when dorm selection week rolls around, let me tell you: it’s intense. I’m talking about backstabbing, cutthroat, run for the lottery number, knock out your fellow classmate intense. There is paranoid banter running down the lines of people as people clench their dorm slip, with sweaty palms, bulging veins, wondering if they are going to get a courtside view, how close to the bathroom they will be, and if the cool RA that they really only know because they looked them up on Facebook is going to be on their floor.
Perhaps when saying all this I am speaking for the masses, but regardless, relationships between friends are affected by this, your morning view is affected by this, and the lovely shower you hopefully choose to grace daily will be affected by this. So when I chose Horton I was careful to choose wisely; naturally when I found out a couple weeks later that the dorm should be finished, the word “should” resonated nicely.
It has come to my attention that the completion of Horton fifth is still up in the air (no pun intended). This doesn’t really bother me, seeing that I am on the second floor and will not be suffering from the drafty weather conditions Horton fourth will encounter with the absence of a roof. But the advantages for Horton fourth are numerous, to say the least. With a lack of a roof, the floor will be able to enjoy a panoramic sky view, the fresh Los Angeles air, early fall rains, and who knows? Someone’s prince might scale the roof-less walls of Horton during non-open hours and create a scandal worthy of the Chimes’ front page.
The repercussions other floors will feel will be more subtle, but entertaining nonetheless. On move-in day, residents of floors one, two, three, and four may be greeted with several uninvited guests from fifth floor who are residing temporary until the completion of fifth. Imagine Charlie and the Chocolate Factory’s house if you will. If mom, dad, Charlie, and both sets of grandparents can fit into one room, think of what the expansive, spacious dorms rooms could do! Twin means two, right? So the whole twin bed situation shouldn’t be a problem.
And floor activities -- those should be fun. Of course it would be difficult to know who is on your floor if the floor doesn’t actually exist, but that can easily be fixed. I suggest the school provide tee shirts that say, “I live on fifth, sleep on fourth.” Or to avoid confusion entirely, one should go to the neighborhood Big 5 and purchase a plethora of tents, lanterns, and sleeping bags, and simply convert Horton fifth into a small, quant camping area adjacent to the power plant and parking lot.
In reality, I have confidence that Horton fifth will be completed by the fall. And besides, with a brand new five-story dorm, at least the ambiguous phrase, “should be completed” gives the materialistic, paranoid masses fodder to complain about.

Dreams are so good, so-so good, and when my head hits the pillow they capture me. Alarm is bad, so-so bad, and when the alarm blares the half-static, half-music noise from its frail speakers I am always so confused what exactly is going on, and from this my reaction is horribly delayed.
8 a.m. off campus aerobics…seemed like a good idea last December, looked cool putting its call number into my WebReg, and has been deal able all semester, that is until about two weeks before finals when the 7a.m. alarm is no other word but evil.
I get up, barely make it down the wooden steps of my bed, hardly avoid the wooden rack my laundry is drying on, and somehow manage to make it to the dingy carpet--barely alive, but breathing. I put on the work out clothes I laid out the night before (I know I’m a dork,) throw my hair into a ponytail, wash my face, eat some cereal, and leave, all the while contemplating the idea of skipping aerobics and not getting out of bed, as I have still not fully realized that I am out of bed.
The air is foggy with a slight chill, but the density of smog is far too heavy for it to be in any way refreshing. I stretch out my legs, careful not to further the injury of my swollen foot, and take off. But this morning, this morning felt different.
I began to think. Alright, think….different? No, I always think, it may very well be the ban of my existence, “the life of the over thinker,” but it was what I was thinking about this morning. I started to think about the end of the year, and began to really examine how God was working in my life.
As the weed whacker made its menacing threat in my direction, and small pieces of grass became stuck in the moisture of my eyes, I thought about what had changed in me. This year had been good, great actually, and God has blessed me in so many ways. I have made two best friends that I could compare to no one, have done well in my classes, not gotten homesick, joined a ministry that I am going to be director of next year, written for the Chimes, done Eaglevision, befriended professors, got the job as the Chimes next year’s Opinions Editor, and meet a handful of people that have touched me so many ways. Most importantly this year has brought me closer to God. But what the funny thing was, when I thought about growing closer to God, I began to seriously think, maybe it’s not just those things that have brought me to God.
Looking back on this year what God has blessed me with is pain. There has been an emptiness, a loneliness, an uncertainty within me, and in these times and in this emotion I have felt God. When I could not stand, God just held me, and though these words to some may sound corny, to me they are true. I came into college with expectations, with dreams, with ideas, and though many things are happening, they are happening God’s way, not mine. I do not know what tomorrow will bring, but God does, and it is through the pain and confusion of this year that I have realized the ultimate control God does have. You cannot make someone love you, you cannot make yourself successful, happiness is not your gift to yourself, but in all these things it’s God who works in you; if it is God’s will and you are ready he will unfold your life to you, and if you make his desires your desires, he will give you the desires of your heart.
So maybe I don’t know what the next chapter of my life will look like, or what big change in me God will create next, but in a way that is unexplainable God has worked in me this year, and that to me is an accomplishment in itself.
As the sketchy cars and unattractive headlights hit me in the eyes my run came to a close and I found myself standing in front of aerobics. I leaned on the rubber poll I always leaned on and took in a deep breath, filling my lungs, resting my exercised shocked body. This had been a long run, and thinking about an ending to my freshmen year makes me sad, seeing that I am the kind of person who hates to watch doors close and can’t look back when I say goodbye. But thinking about God… thinking about the changes in me, made me excited. Maybe next year will be painful, maybe my whole life will hurt, but God will drawl me to him through this pain, and it is when I am close to God that I can truly experience what love is.

Joy

Joy. Joy is the feeling you have when filled with God’s love. I remember I heard this at a chapel once and for some reason it has stuck with me. Happiness. Happiness, is the emotion that fills you when worldly things touch you—but joy, joy is overwhelming, beautiful, and truly a God thing.
I am sitting here right now, in a scrambled dorm room, looking at a cloudy bright sky, with about a million things to do, but truly all I can do is sit here and feel this joy from God. I don’t understand it, but that—that is the beauty of it.
There is nothing that special about today; I didn’t get a well deserved A on a paper, I didn’t have any mail from anyone special, I didn’t get to sleep in, I didn’t go buy a new outfit, I didn’t make someone laugh so hard they could hardly breathe, I didn’t get to lay on a warm sandy beach and hear the waves, hug a good friend, make a noticeable difference in someone’s life, no exciting love story, no good news from a friend or family member, and no surprises. But God, God has blessed me with joy, he is all I need, he has filled me with his overwhelming love, and though 75% of the time I tend to focus on what I want from God…..no, I do not feel this. I say God, you—you are enough.
“As I wait you make me strong, as I long, drawl me to your arms, as I stand and sing your praise—you come, you come and fill this place.”

Myspace, scantily clad to say the least...

Everyone has it. Well almost everyone that is. Myspace, the latest opinions rage that flares its way onto the morning news, casually is crossed on day-time talk shows, and has been the punch line to at least one joke on late-night TV. So then if it’s so good, what is it?
It is a networking of individuals who set up profiles and from there can interact with friends, groups, blogs….the whole shpeal. What makes it so opinionated? What makes it so opinionated is that a 40-year-old man in Malaysia can be checking out a 16-year-old girl in Tennessee, and after reading her profile alone, most generally have enough information to buy a plane ticket (money permitting) and meet her personally—just, without her knowing any of this is going on. Myspace is a stalkers paradise, a creepsters battlefield, the beginning of identity theft, and a not so intimate version of online dating (seeing as one party is generally unaware that they are being pursued.)
Now, do not misunderstand me, Myspace has its perks. You can write your friends goofy comments, aptly amuse yourself with various webpage fonts and backgrounds, post fun pictures for all your friends to see, and read about that cute guy in your math classes favorite movies (ok, quite possible on the lower part of the perk list,) but regardless in its essence, it is harmless. In its essence.
Maybe I should further this by saying, I have a Myspace. It’s blue and has falling hearts coming down the webpage to Death Cab for Cuties “Soul Meets Body.” I have about six photos, and some hundred and something friends. Mainly I keep it for the occasional comment, and so I can snoop around on other people’s when I am bored.
But recently, in one of my bored, snooping adventures I came to a conclusion—there is a serious problem with the photos girls are displaying. Approximately 15-22 year old girls are posting half to basically nude pictures of themselves that they took after epic amounts of prep time and with the adjustments of Photoshop. Myspace is littered with aspiring porn stars, who in all innocence, just post the picture of them in the fish net tights and lace bra to show their crush how hot they are. What teens fail to realize, is that Joe Brown from Malaysia is able to see how hot you look as well.
Myspace. Scary? More like frightening. Fun? At times. Innocent? Maybe in its essence. But in truth, it is sad. It is sad that 16-year-old girls can post nearly pornographic photos of themselves, and it’s sad there is no one to tell them otherwise.

Turbo 2500, I mean, our blender...

Ever since I was young my dad has fixed everything for me—well everything that can be fixed with a hammer, duct tape, or a screw driver. I live in a home that has never had to see a leaky faucet or a squeaky door, because with my dad in the house those things don’t exist.
The down side to living with such a handy man is that even when there is nothing to be handy with he seeks to build, fix, restore, and…err…invent things.
It was Easter Sunday and I was seated on the blue cushions on our squashy couch. We were just relaxing before heading over to my grandparent’s house for Easter dinner, and my mom and I were half chatting, half watching the TV when all of this sudden I hear this violent blare; one that closely resembled the sound a dying lawnmower would make—when amplified. Before even having to ask I knew it was my dad who was producing this menacing noise.
Turns out my dad was in the process of finalizing his newly created invention. Roughly one hundred dollars, and eight weeks later, my dad had created it—a blender that does not require electricity. The “little turbo” is solely powered by a lawn mower engine, which would explain the noise.
The question that was pressing me was why would one need a blender that doesn’t require electricity? I mean unless one is planning to bust this piece out during their morning commute or in the middle of the movie theatre (well, I suppose the sound would create problems,) but regardless, why?
According to my father the device is needed for blending drinks and such on camping trips and related endeavors. I think he is referring to the one camping trip we take every year in a cabin, a cabin that has full electricity that is. When refuting this to my father he answered with a concerned look on his face, “what if the power goes out and I want a milkshake?”
Needless to say, currently stationed in our garage, next to the treadmill and the Dodge 2500, is the blender. And to make matters more humorous, my equal of a handy man grandfather has spent the bulk of the past two days building the blender a carrying case.
So to say the men in my family are handy men, to say they are “Mr. Fix Its,” and the expression, “dad can fix it,” are all understatements. But hey, that’s the men of my family, and to be honest, in this I find comfort, character, and even a sense of pride---and yes, I would not want these men any other way, even if it does mean that we are the only family on the block with a lawnmower engine powering our blender.

Ignorance, a New Yorker's Bliss?

Everyone says our world has changed since 9/11, and though we may find proof of this change in the tight airport security and in the sad stories left behind, for the majority of us west coaster’s the change is more subtle.
Recently I visited New York City. It was my first time in New York, my first trip to Central Park, my first Broadway musical, the first major trip I’d been on with no adults, my first time in the Today Show audience, and the first time I had been to the east coast in March.
On my trip I shortly learned that the vast majority of New Yorker’s sought to do their own thing but were always happy to help, people on the east coast fold their pizza and eat it, Wal-Mart’s and Albertson’s are sparse, and even during a fun event like the St. Patrick’s Day Parade the repercussions of 9/11 are felt.
It was crisp and chilly in just the right way. The sun was smiling down on a city of drunks, as 8 a.m. is as intense as the drinker’s 10 p.m. on St. Patrick’s Day. Three girls walked down the crowded streets, making our way through the stench of bear and smoke. Beyond the crowds the parade was glorious. Now, I’m not a die hard parade fan, and the amusement of the loud instruments and impressive marching formations can only sustain me for so long, but regardless it was an event worth being noted. Most just lined the streets as an excuse to be in a place where they don’t have to drink alone, and others were trying to have a family day amidst the annoyances. But in reality, the event was fairly innocent, it was happy, and it was well deserved for the overworked city of New York. Even the George Clooney-like business men in their festive mint colored ties, managed to stop for a second of their time and marvel the magic of the day.
It was a day that, for most, was not thought of as a reminder of the tragedies felt just five years ago, a day that was thought of to celebrate, if anything, just life.
I stood there in my Black Pea Coat and spotted mittens, and felt the chilling air freeze up all the moisture in my eyes. I stood there in stupid dusty sneakers that did not match the rest of me and marveled at how small I was. With a stretch and a yawn my eyes left the parade, and looked up…then up…to the tip on the beige sky scraper that peered down at me. Nestled in a corner was the long black bar of a sniper, pointed, aimed, ready to fire at anyone who disturbed this scene. My heart stopped, my eyes had to re-blink, where I’m from they don’t even have snipers. Why do they even need one? I knew why they needed one, but I didn’t want to remind myself, I decided better yet would be to meld into this crowd of oblivion. Better yet would be to dismiss this, temporarily resulting to an American ignorance, to let go of the newly surged fear, and to enjoy a day, that only God can bring to a tomorrow.

Subways, Elevators, and Such



Have you ever been on a subway? I have. They don’t smell good, they have a varied crowd, and it is tricky to master the art of “this is my stop.” But on the other side of the coin, they are inexpensive, they are rich with culture, and are economical to say the least.
This past Friday on my way to Universal Studios, and a few weeks ago while in New York for a journalism conference I purchased a Metro Card, and experienced the Subway system first hand. To be honest I don’t mind the subway, and hey, without a car it’s a great option, but some of the experiences are so far from what I am used to it amuses me. On the left is the group I went with on the subway in New York, and on the right is a rather “creative” photo of the group I was with on the subway in Los Angeles. I’m sure to other people, we stuck out far more then I can even imagine.
New York—Subway Elevator: “It’s what my people do for me...” said a wiry man to a woman that was old enough to be his mother. Three girls were smashed in an elevator with a man that was discussing his selling of body parts at a volume level that would only logically be attained for such a topic if one was on drugs.
Los Angeles—Subway: A weather looking Hispanic, elderly man sat on a bench with his eyes softly shut and his feet barely touching the ground. He clutched tightly to a small pail filled with flowers that he sold to the passer-byers in the subway station. He did not flinch his eyelids at the abrupt stopping and going or the chatter, but the second the subway reached his destination he just new it, and arose from his seat, and left, to be forgotten by the passengers. But no, that image will rest in my mind much longer.
New York—Waiting for Subway: Flashy business men fumble through the New York Times in a fashion that makes my trust in print journalism feel restored. He does not look at anyone or anything but that newspaper. He looks smart, he looks successful, but I cannot tell if he is happy.
Los Angeles—Subway: Scruffy girl who looks like a hard 14 tells a random boy she’s 21. Claims she lost her id and for some reason only has a friends. She keeps scratching her head in a manner that makes me nervous. She talks about weed like it’s as common as the topic of grocery shopping. She doesn’t hesitate to share a Twix with a complete stranger. She gets the number of this random guy, for reasons that I don’t even care to know. I am amazed by how brave she is trying to pretend to be. Why is this little girl all alone on a subway at 9 at night?
New York—Subway: Man plays the steel drums in the middle of the subway. They are too loud and out of place for me to recognize if they are good or not, but I’m for sure not telling him to stop. I can’t help but wonder what people would do if I busted out a random instrument in the middle of the subway.
Los Angeles—Subway: I man is wearing a hat that says “God Is Good” about four times on it. He is big, and has baggy clothes and a hard expression. He doesn’t cause trouble, and nobody seems to bother him either.
New York—Elevator to Subway: There is a huge puddle of someone’s pee. It smells. It’s either the elevator or the stairs. With the amount of luggage we have the elevator is really the only option. It really smells.
Los Angeles—Subway: Two 12 year-old girls engage in a typical conversation about boys. They look like they want to be older then 12, and their mouths suggest this as well, as they spout of profanities like no other. The one with heavy eyeliner is very concerned if the boy her friend is talking about it cute.

Politics at Biola: A Rarity

With all senators running unopposed and only two presidential candidates in the running Associated Students (AS) faces little competition, but a big decision when it comes to the election at Biola.
Since all senators are running unopposed, the only competition remains in the presidential race.
Come April 10 students must decide if first semester junior Micah Fell, or second semester junior Cory Cress will make a better choice for AS student body president.
Both men have a solid background in leadership.
Fell has had most of his leadership experience during his time served in the Marines, where he was a squad leader and vehicle commander. While in the service Fell partook in two tours in Iraq, and supervised the lives of eight to ten other men.
Aside from the Marines, Fell has leadership experience as a leader in the Social Justice Ministry on campus, and as a political science major. In addition he worked as a youth pastor/youth summer staff director at High Desert Baptist Church in Phelan, CA this last summer.
Though Fell has a strong leadership background in the military that his opponent does not possess, he does not have as much of a political background at Biola.
Cress, a math major, has been a Sigma senator for the past two years, and this has given him a great deal of experience in AS.
“[You learn] a lot of great personal things—just practice, communication, and listening. You learn how to be open to people; how to prayerfully and responsibly get input, and then make the best response as possible,” said Cress.
But Cress is not running alone. Behind him is Benny Stripe, running for Vice President.
Stripe, junior biology major, has been a Hart Hall senator for the past year, and plays an unofficial leadership role to the men of Heat (the upper floor on Hart Hall.)
When asked his reasons for running Stripe said, “to see things I want to change and to be in that position [to change them.]”
Stripe wants to help improve the overall quality of campus life, from everyday life to big events.
Not only is Stripe eager for change, but Fell’s Vice President running mate, Festim Gashi, is eager to make his impact for the better.
Gashi is a sophomore political science major, who is currently a secretary for the International Student Association (ISA). Gashi was also a member of the Social Justice Ministry, and has past experience in missions, particularly with the Youth With a Mission organization.
Gashi brings diversity to AS, seeing that he grew up in war torn Kosovo.
“I experienced war on many different levels as a victim and refugee,” said Gashi.
Gashi feels that being from Kosovo and seeing lots of the world will be beneficial if he is vice president. It also makes him a good partner for Fell because they have both experienced war on different levels.
“It will make people more aware at Biola that there are students in other parts of the world,” said Gashi.
Gashi also has passion for the office he is running for.
“Wherever I go I like to be challenged, and I like to give a contribution to the community and belong,” said Gashi.
All presidential candidates want to contribute the way they think Biola will benefit the most.
Cress and Stripe have a platform that aims to promote unity on campus through major social events, racial reconciliation, and a major remodel of the Student Union Building (SUB), from student services to the fountain.
Though promoting campus unity is the ultimate goal of the two men, they are seeking something much deeper.
“We have specific ideas as to what [our platform] means, not just a buzzword,” said Cress.
They both are in favor of the continuing of big campus events such as concerts and a possible beach day. They are also interested in focusing more on racial reconciliation.
Both men are confident in the job they could do, and feel they are overall the most beneficial vote to Biola.
“One of the main reasons is our experience and that we’ve already started the work. If we are elected come August we can already get the ball rolling,” said Cress.
Fell and Gashi are confident that though their opponents are worthy, they are what Biola needs at the head of AS.
“The student body should inform themselves, they will see we offer the most. What we intend to bring to AS is change,” said Fell.
Fell explained that he and Gashi are targeting two things in their platform. Firstly, they want to bring community to Biola, and secondly, to promote school pride.
They want to interact with students, inviting them to their room once a month for a time of open hours, giving students more of an opportunity to give ideas and feedback. They also want to focus on Social and Spirit Board.
“We want to give students something to do on the weekends. We don’t want to invest all our money into bands that charge an arm and a leg,” said Fell.
Fell and Gashi are excited about the prospect of creative new ideas, such as a Biola Olympics, but they are also interested in more serious topics.
They want to focus on better racial reconciliation, a stronger relationship between religious and academic relations, and more support to ISA.
“We are just average students, we don’t see ourselves any different, God has brought us to this point and we feel blessed to serve,” said Fell.
And on a similar note Cress concurs saying that ultimately they are seeking “a healthy campus where people are enjoying themselves both spiritually and academically.”
It is evident that both candidates have a vision, and it’s up to the student body to decide what vision will ultimately guide Biola.

Great Lengths For The Word

Despite his battle with filariasis, threats of Muslim terrorists, and his growing allergy to malaria medicines, Lloyd Peckham managed to endure Indonesia’s brutal conditions for nearly twelve years.
Lloyd Peckham, Biola’s Introductory to Lingustics and Language teacher, has devoted the last 25 years to translating the New Testament into Mairasi.
It hasn’t been easy. In order to get to the Mairasi people, the Peckhams and their colleagues had to travel through a war zone filled with Muslim terrorists. “One half of my translation team was killed by Muslims,” Peckham said.
Peckham wants to reach the Mairasi people with the gospel in whatever way possible, but due to the severity of his tropical illness, filariasis, and his allergy to malaria medicine, he fears he will have to work with the Mairasis from a distance.
The Peckhams have faced the challenge of being isolated.
“Even when we found a relatively healthy place in the southern Philippines, it could take up to six months for a letter to get there,” Mr. Peckham said.
Despite the complications, the Peckhams are determined to continue to make a difference, bringing the word of God in the “heart language” of the people. Last December, when Lloyd and his wife Nancy celebrated the completion of their translation of the New Testament in Kaimana, Indonesia, “the 900 copies printed were presented and distributed,” said Peckham.
Mr. Peckham and his wife were led to their work in Indonesia after being forced to leave their missionary work in Mexico due to an earthquake.
Being called to Indonesia, they began missionary work with tropical rain forest hunter-gatherers in Indonesia, next to a town called Kaimana. The Peckhams shared the gospel with the hunter-gatherers, known as the Mairasis, through translating the Bible into their “heart language.”
“They get so excited [about the gospel.]” said Peckham. “The word of God is the key to understanding [Christianity]. I have seen many churches planted on poor foundations, resulting in a lot of cults.” What Peckham strives to follow is Matthew 28: 19-20, teaching all Jesus commanded.
The Lord first called Peckham to cross cultural ministry work at the age of seven, while listening to missionaries speak about their experiences. At 14, Peckham’s parents became short term missionaries, and Peckham learned Spanish and some Portuguese. Recognizing his talents in languages, Peckham knew he could make a difference for the glory of God.
To say the least, Peckham is well qualified as a linguist. He received a Bachelor of Science in Anthropology from California State University Fullerton, took courses in Greek and Bible at Multnomah College, and received a master’s degree in linguistics from the University of Texas.
“The key is knowing and living God’s Word” Peckham says. He and his wife feel that the translation of the Bible is so important in missionary work because the Word will remain with the people forever.
Nancy and his three sons have supported and aided Peckham in translating the Bible in whatever ways possible. Mrs. Peckham spoke about the amount of moves their family has undergone. They lived in Indonesia for nearly twelve years, and then left due to the severity of Mr. Peckham’s tropical illness. The Peckhams moved to the southern Philippines, where they lived until last Feburary, prior to their move to California.
“This is [Mr. Peckham’s] first year teaching at Biola,” Mrs. Peckham said. Mrs. Peckham informed that though Mr. Peckham enjoys his new job, he will be leaving Biola after this year, enabling them to do more missionary work.
Each family member plays their own significant role in helping to translate the Bible. Mr. Peckham does the majority of the translating, and his wife Nancy does the editing. The Peckhams son Joe, helped his parents on the small projects. Joe helped his father translate short stories into Mairasi.
“There are a ton of idioms in their language,” Joe said. But despite the cultural barriers Joe loved Indonesia. “It’s the most beautiful place in the world.”
After Mr. Peckham’s year at Biola, he and his wife will return to the southern Philippines. There, Mr. Peckham will be teaching in three locations, training Filipino missionaries.
“My guess is I will keep doing some [work] on the interlinear translation of Mairasi.”
The Peckhams are planning on continuing the translation of the Old Testament the best they can from a distance. They have written rough drafts in Mairasi for the books of Genesis, Ruth, Lamentations, and Jonah, and they are writing an introductory to each book in the New Testament. Peckham feels that Lamentations will relate to the Mairasis because of their experiences as slaves.
Joe Peckham quoted Cameron Townsend, founder of Wycliffe Bible Translators “The greatest missionary is the Bible in the mother tongue,” and this is something the whole Peckham family strongly agrees with. The Word of God is the foundation of Christianity, and no person should be prevented from receiving the Word. It is families like the Peckhams that make a mark on the lives of others, and we should all try to strive to fight with that much vivacity to bring God’s Word to those who need it.

This was actually picked up by KTLA and Whittier Daily News

The big red and blue colored boxes that have been sitting in dorm lobbies for just over a week remain barely full; despite the limited response to the boxes, many students think that Dr. Clyde Cook’s chapel message hit the campus on an even deeper level.
Cook gave a clear message; with part of the message addressing how stealing a fork or a cup may seem small, but it is still disobeying God. The administration gave students the opportunity to return their stolen items in the colored boxes.
“The majority [of people] I’ve heard have either borrowed stuff, or it was more or less they threw it away on accident,” said sophomore Jennifer Young.
Though some of the missing items may have been accidentally taken, that still does not account from the 2,128 forks, 1,512 spoons, 1,236 cups, 504 knives, and 51 patio chairs.
Of these items roughly five forks, six spoons, 105 cups, one knife, and several miscellaneous items such as an orange cone and eight burned CDs were put in the dorm boxes as of Monday. In addition, several bowls, coffee mugs, and plates were returned.
Though the amount of items returned is hardly notable in the large picture of things, the message was able to make a difference in several people’s lives.
“It made me think a lot about the little things people take for granted,” said Young.
Young said that she thought the chapel affected many people because they thought about it in a different way.
“A number of students have personally told Dr. Cook how much they appreciated what he had to share,” said Brian Shook, Dr. Cook’s assistant. Some people left notes…"I deleted 312 songs. It may not sound like a lot, but I only download my favorite stuff--this was very difficult but worth a sweeter communion," said one student.
A key point in the message was not necessarily to erase what students had done in the past, but to make them aware for the future, and to explain the reward of letting go of what some may call smaller sins.
“The main point is to think about how it affects the experience when you come to the Cafe. Think about the frustration when we don’t have enough cups for everyone,” said Heather Ogg, director of operations for the cafeteria.
Ogg explained that so far the budget has been able to absorb the cost of the missing items, but if it continues there will be consequences. She emphasized that the current issue is more about how the loss of items is affecting people, rather then the budget.
“It does affect everyone. [The main effect is] on our ability to provide good service,” said Ogg.
Since the topic is one that can only be fixed if students are motivated to change, it has facilitated different responses.
“I think for those students who had ears to hear, it caused them to think about where they’re at spiritually with the Lord on smaller choices,” said Ryan Low, Hart resident director.
Low explained that though the amount of returned items were fairly small, it was worth addressing because it made many students examine their relationship with the Lord.
“Making students aware is always good, it’s the first step,” said Low.

A Typical Melissa Experience

Ahh, Target. Who doesn’t like Target? I mean common, where else can you get milk, a new mini fridge, a garden hose, and a trendy blazer? Ok, well maybe Wal-Mart, but regardless, there is something about Target that is just plain appealing. Maybe it’s its openness, or possibility the amount of colors that fly out at you in every section, or could it be the fact that everything is decently priced, so it inspires one to purchase two pairs of 12 dollar dress shoes, when they really only need one pair… but they were 12 dollars right? Target, a shopping experience for thousands--let me tell you about mine.
It was Saturday. For most college students Saturday doesn’t really begin much before one. Don’t ask me what happens prior to one, but somehow, it’s one, and you’re lucky if you’ve accomplished eating yet.
It was 1:05, and my friend Becky and I were getting ready to go read out by the illustrious fountain, when suddenly I got the bright idea of Target. Now Becky and I don’t have cars, and Target is at least 5 miles away, but why should that stop us? In our growing brilliance we decided to be city-like and take the bus down by the Starbucks. Now, I don’t take buses. Not that there is anything wrong with a bus, they are inexpensive, environmentally friendly, and a logical way of transportation when you don’t have a car, but regardless buses aren’t usually an option. But today, Beck and I were feeling rather adventurous, and so with that in mind, we walked the half mile to the bus stop, still not completely sure where on imperial hwy the stop was, and set out for the well worth journey to Target.
45 minutes and a Starbucks drink later the bus that is supposed to come every thirty minutes wasn’t there. The only thing we were able to make out were the shady cars that gawked at us as we sat on the bench. Turns out the bus had a little “accident,” whatever that means, and was 30 minutes off schedule. You would think the idea of a “little accident” would be a clue, would be the foreshadowing to the rest of our day, but for some reason we were so delighted by the thought of Target, it didn’t stop us.
Thirty minutes later Bus number 4 rolled up, in a panic we jumped on. The driver looked at me as if I was insane as I asked her in an extremely concerned tone if the bus went to Target. Clearly she did not understand the joy of Target like Becky and I did. The bus proceeded, and I would like to say it was an enjoyable ride, but the lack of a seat belt, the fact that I was facing sideways to the driver, and the exhaust smell made it, well slightly nauseating. But we persisted, as dedicated shoppers do, and in a fury I saw it—Target. I pulled on the cord, like I had seen the other bus savvy riders do when they saw their desired destination, and the bus halted.
I will not elaborate on the experience at Target. It was good. Was it as good as we had anticipated? Well to be honest, with the amount of effort we put into this trip, I don’t think Disneyland itself would have been good enough. But in about 40 minutes two tired shoppers walked back, bags and all, to bus stop number 4.
We sat there…and sat…and then consequently, we sat some more. Finally Becky got anxious, so we started to walk, hoping to get a bus stop further down. Right as we got about a half a block down, we saw it, bus number 4. In a fury I ran, and then I realized it was going the wrong way, I spotted the bus on the other side of the street that was going the right way. This time slightly more panicked I tried to dash toward the bus, but the excessive laughing, bags, and the fact that the “no walk,” or rather “hand” symbol was mocking me on the other side of the sidewalk, it hindered my ability to catch the bus.
Becky and I continued our quest walking toward Biola. Occasionally we would catch sight of bus number 4, and we watched it passed us lowly pedestrians who couldn’t manage to catch a bus. About 5 miles or more, and roughly two hours later, Becky and I made it to Biola. I think I finally understand how the pioneers felt. Ok, so maybe an exaggeration. But you see, through it all, what is important is that we got to go to Target, right? Would I do it again? Yes, in a car next time though. But the funny thing is Becky and I had a lot of fun, and who knows we might even make t-shirts, “I’ve been to Norwalk, and Back.” Or scratch that, maybe I’ll just retire the experience in this blog…

Tall Grande Decaf Vanilla Latte--Whip-Whip (whatever that means)...

Nobody is a stranger in Starbucks, and if you are, it is quite likely it’s because you want to be. What I mean is, everyone has their place. Sure your place may be the quiet intellect in the corner, or the shady man who always sits by the sugar and cream table; but in the world of Starbucks that is your place, and having your place is what makes you not a stranger. Some people race in, heals grinding against tile, keys fumbling, eyes have that “ready for coffee” look, and they grumble their usual order as they think to themselves how much better the world would be if every Starbucks had a drive through. Then, of course there are the shady characters. The ones who sit in the side corner and half read half stare at every customer who enters. If you came to Starbucks often you would probably see them everyday, but if you are one of the first type of customers that I described you would most likely be in too much of a hurry to recognize their presence. Then of course you have the Starbucks intellect, possibly the over worked college student, or perhaps the determined writer who sits in a corner with a laptop or book for hours on end. They seem to drink up whatever it is they are working on, then every so often they will peer up with this weary look, gazing off into eons of space or staring in shock out the window as if they had forgotten about the world outside, and then, at last they will resume to their work. You can not forget the children of Starbucks, usually eyeing the most sugar loaded drink on the menu, as they fumble with the 5 dollar bill their mom gave them in the palm of their sticky hand. Or what about the happy couple, or the two chatty girls in the corner, they are the color of Starbucks, the ones that bring any amount of happiness to the place at all, as they seem to not have a deep desire for anything but good friendship and the drink itself.
One thing I notice about Starbucks is that it’s a place where it’s ok to be alone. Being alone is actually the trendy thing. Aback in the corner, always the corner, zeroing in on the object of amusement, and basking in the aloneness of your day, whether it is your choice to be alone or not does not matter.
One must not forget the music of Starbucks, the classy jazz that becomes engrained in your skull when you are sitting there, but later you seem to never remember the jazzy melody.
Starbucks is a place where everyone can feel sophisticated, with the classy music, the dark rich olives, charcoals, and maroons of the walls. Even if you are poorer then dirt, you can sit here for as long as you want, you can have a place, belong to something, or perhaps, belong to nothing—but at Starbucks no one will question it.

Someone should make mini lawnmower's for wheatgrass

I looked down at the small cup—it looked like a pool of swampy algae. Carefully I brought the plastic to my lips, breathing in air and this scent, this scent that reeked of “aged grass.” I can do it I thought, as I looked up at four eager faces. It’s just wheatgrass.
Tonight I went to Jamba Juice with some friends and was coaxed into trying wheatgrass. The workers cut the long pieces of grass from a plant, grind it up, and then put the pricy juice in a plastic container that is similar to what one would take Nyquil in.
Plastic cup stuck to my lips, I sucked in the foamy swamp with one swift sip, and chocked it down. A flavor that I imagine would be similar to a bite of my grandparent’s garden, filled my taste buds, but in a sense it wasn’t that bad, it was a natural taste right? The greenish goop slid down my throat and suddenly I felt stronger (on a subconscious level of coarse,) because this “health juice” was in me.
According to Jamba Juice, wheatgrass has some great benefits for ones body. Due to its content of chlorophyll and the fact that it contains all amino acids it’s nutritional. Some great benefactors are that it detoxifies your blood, makes your skin look better, assists in digestion, helps metabolize energy and fat, and helps bolsters your immune system.
So, if you are ever at a Jamba Juice and you want an overpriced, but healthy drink, then take a sip of the syrupy green stuff, and see what benefits wheat grass can have on you.

Watch Out Hollywood...Here Comes The Next Audrey Hepburn

“Yeah, sure, sounds like fun,” I manage to spill out as I survey my reflection in the dusty window pane. I had forgotten that I was standing in the dorm hallway looking disheveled, to say the least. I had on slippers, shorts, a tank top, and to set off the look, big round hot rollers in my hair, sticking up at all angles, creating an illusion that they were actually part of my head. I press the back of my cell phone to the front, closing the worn metal device, and run for my closet.
A friend just called me up to see if I wanted to act in one of his sketches, and thinking this was my chance to get my acting debut, or at least be on LATES’ website, I accepted the offer. I had just 15 minutes to disguise myself as pretty, in fancy clothes and heals, and then run up to the field to shoot the sketch.
When I got there I didn’t really know what I was getting into, you never do know with film majors, and with LATE…..
Before I go any further let me first explain what LATE is. LATE is Biola’s late night comedy show. The show started this year, and it stands for Los Angeles television experience. On the show students create skits and discussion that is suppose to enrapture Biola with intense laughter, and then they have a live taping Thursday night at 8. If you miss the taping, you can catch LATE on its website. The show is a great way for students to get comedy, production, and film experience, and is highly recommended if you just want to laugh.
The shoot for the sketch didn’t take long, and I just followed around my friend like a ventriloquist to a dummy, as he told me where to sit, what to say, and how to say it.
The sun was bright, and I tried to forget the camera was practically stalking me with its lingering stare, I tried to forget a roomful of people were going to stare intently at me when they watched this, I tried to forget how ridiculous I felt, and once I did that it became really fun.
The premise of the skit was for Valentine’s Day. We just meet each other, and we were communicating through candy hearts, in a, anything but romantic conversation. For a clearer outline of the story go to LATES’ website and you can see it for yourself! http://www.mcom.biola.edu/ev/late/
When the shoot was over, I was genuinely surprised at how cute the whole thing turned out. I was excited it was going to be on LATE, excited to be apart of this comedy experience, and excited that the jumbo hot rollers that were in my hair about an hour ago never meet the face of the camera.

A Dose of 3:37 Hopelessness

The room aches with silence, and I feel dead—dead to my heart. Locked away in the stuffy dorm room, as the window proves to be my only outlet to an outside world that I fear at the moment I am not strong enough to face.
Looking up and down the poorly lit dorm halls I can smell the scent that only this dorm harbors, a smell like no other. It is a pungent, wretched of a smell, the scent best being described as one that has been created, and with everything in this hall it has at one point reeked highly of this smell, but then had been sprayed with cheap cleaner in order to deafened a scent that cannot truly die.
As I walk down the hall, the walls are almost hugging my hips, as they secure their way to my place of residence. Directly outside my dorm room, there is a flashy lime-green exit sign, and the neon lime dances on and off, as it flickers its last breaths of energy, creating a picture that could easily be compared to a “no vacancy” sign one finds at a low budget motel. There are faces as I walk to my room, faces that I see almost as much as I see my own, but faces that don’t mean much more then the obviously hello’s that we exchange up to five times a day.
I walk into my room and it’s mellow. The kind of mellow I used to hate as kid. The kind where mom wants to take a nap on a Sunday afternoon, and dad has the meaningless tones of the jubilant football announcers echoing through our home. It is a melancholy mellow, evoking neither happiness nor depression, it just is, in all its reality, a reminder that tomorrow the week begins again, and until this happens room 145 will rest upon this.
I can hear the chattering of nature, as birds converse back and forth in what sounds like a broken melody, and then the powerful wind whispers its lullaby, cutting out the barking of the frantic dog in the near distance.
My eyelids feel heavy, as though a thousand bricks fall at my very blink, and my heart is swollen with anxiety and sorrow, as I pine the many troubles that induce me with an illness I am afraid I cannot immediately cure. I look around at myself, as I sit here unnoticed. I cannot help but dream of being somewhere else.
Maybe somewhere big like London or New York; I could stand stylishly on the sides of the cement sidewalk and pretend I know who I am, pretend I know where I am going. Or perhaps I could be somewhere more picturesque. I can see it now, rolling, lush hills of green, lakes of icy water, and rock formations that could take even the strongest mans breath away. Though both these ideas are nice, maybe I want to be somewhere warmer, possibly a beach, I could sit on the densely heated sand in a two piece bathing suit and trendy sunglasses, as I sipped on a fancy lemonade, and drifted in a thoughtless sleep as the calming waves kissed the sandy shore. I could out do this idea entirely, and go somewhere where I could make a difference. I could be a missionary in the thick jungles of Africa, I could walk into a village with my sun heated face and my heart would swell with joy at the smiles of the children, the love in the people’s eyes. No longer would I be consumed with small things, but maybe then, if only for that moment, I would forget about me, long enough to really give my love to someone else, a kind of love, Christ himself wants us to attain.
An exotic vacation would be grand, making a difference would be even grander, but as I sit here freezing on quite possibly the most painful chair, it is becoming more and more evident this is where I am. I suppose I could take off my dirt covered sneakers, the clunky earrings in my ears, and pull out my hair ribbon and slip quietly between the folds of my sheets. I could wrap the soft plaid comforter around me, and pull every blanket on my bed, up past my lips, beyond my eyes, and soon I would be covered, consumed, hidden, and forgotten. I could shut my tired eyes and dream of magical places where school wouldn’t exist and where my problems would no longer be quite as visible.
Ahh, but I cannot do that. There is a world to face, and there are things to be done, and nothing fruitful will be accomplished hidden away. So I must breath in, then breath out, do the things that are imperative that I get done, and pretty soon things will look better.