Wanderlust Revisited

Have you ever felt so restless that you literally have to rest to keep yourself from breaking through the walls. I do...all the time. That's not hyperbole either. I oogle National Geographic dream trips like 13-year-old males oogle contraband "Playboys."

Of course, it's unlikely that I would pay for one of NG's tours, even if I had 10 grand in rainy-day cash. Sure, each trip is replete with experts, avid seekers of adventure and decadent landscapes, but for 10k I would go for three months by myself. I guess I'm a loner that way...and looking to get the most bang for my buck.

Unfortunately, I'm also nomadic, which means that to truly elevate my happiness baseline I would need to be like one of the characters in one of my favorite "X-Files" episodes. In the episode, a family has a rare condition that requires them to constantly travel west (the faster the better) forever or they die. I don't want to acquire that condition, but I would love to continue moving for the rest of my life, packing all of my necessities into a napsack and traversing the country, continent, globe.

It's now, when I'm in the limbo of early adulthood, that I realize how much of what I expose myself to in terms of television, movies, books, etc, involves travel and newness. Half of the books on my shelves are memoirs of famous travelers, old NG issues and stories about imaginary characters that are just as addicted to exploration and movement as I am.

Right now, it's Bhutan that has captured my imagination. That high, only-until-recently-inaccessible kingdom that holds the title of last country in the world to get television. The mist-shrouded Buddhist stronghold. The place where temples are built like swallow nests on sheer brown cliffs. I imagine the air smells crisp, cold and like wildflowers. I imagine entire neighborhoods paying homage to monks on pilgrimage. I imagine stories and camp fires and so many stars that you may just think you've 'slipped the surly bonds of earth.'

Of course, happiness is a perspective and really depends on me being happy with what I have right now...in the present moment. My problem, though, is that I am happy, perhaps excessively so almost all the time. I'm so grateful for what I have that I look forward to what could be if I continue to seek happiness through travel. But that thought process is circular, since you're never really traveling...you're always somewhere experiencing something that can only chronologically and geographically be identified as 'travel.' The rest is just...life.

So how do I maintain my Oneness with the Present and still desire travel?


Crocodile Jumping near our boat, Daintree Rainforest, Australia


Great Barrier Reef


Greek Orthodox Monastery, Greece


Acid Lake in Crete

Movie Review: Fright Night

Once, not too long ago, vampires existed in fairy tales. They were nocturnal parasites preying on distressed damsels who really deep down just wanted to be loved. They turned into bats, avoided crucifixes and burst into flames when touched by the rays of the sun. Then, “Twilight” and “True Blood,” which are essentially PG and R versions of each other (at least in the beginning), gave us a Mormon bloodsucker and the vampire-love-heroine that is Anna Paquin, respectively. Sure, there were vampire stories before these (who could forget Nosferatu?), but these are the tales that transitioned us into what I unpleasantly call the Era of the Vampire, when you can’t go three months without another story about another fanged something eating people.

“Fright Night” is a drop in the bucket that is this era – a fun, hefty drop. It’s a remake of the 1985 version with the same name and essentially the same plot, but with the visual effects buffed up 2011-style. It doesn’t invent any new bloodsucker lore, but instead ops for showing off why old-school vamps still have it going on. And I loved it. I don’t want to watch a band of sparkly vegetarian vampires. I want a fanged menace to make fun of them and then rip a neighborhood to shreds.

The vamps in “Fright Night” are not the brooding, misunderstood, just-trying-to-blend-in variety. Colin Farrell drives a giant black pick up and hits on anything within fifty yards even though no woman I’ve ever met would date a guy with fingernails as long and dirty as his are, no matter how hot he is. And I should admit, not without a bit of awe, that I think Colin Farrell may be the best vampire ever. He’s dripping sex and has a coy, predatory smile – and that’s before the prosthetic fangs go in. He has the gravelly voice and strut of something that’s been doing women since time immemorial. There are few men who can successfully pull that persona off, but he does so with flying colors – as long as those colors are blood. But I guess I could say I was smitten with this vamp version when Farrell’s character silently critiques “Twilight” by rolling an apple off the kitchen table and gnawing on it, a twinkle in his eye. No wholesome “virginity protecting” here, folks.

And since you’ve probably seen the trailers for this movie, no, it isn’t entirely about Farrell’s vampire. The actual story follows a nerd-turned-Casanova (Anton Yelchin) who discovers that his neighbor is a bloodsucker when all of the friends he gave up for his girlfriend start disappearing. David Tennant, who has played BBC’s Doctor Who for the past six years, shows up as a boozy Vegas stage magician a la Criss Angel, complete with appliqué tattoos, goatee and eyebrow ring. Imogen Poots, who you might recognize if you saw “28 Weeks Later,” plays the hot girlfriend who is really, really willing to have sex with Yelchin’s character but will have to wait, damn it, because there’s a vampire next door. And Toni Collette is rather wasted as Yelchin’s oblivious mom. But the best secondary character is Christopher Mintz-Plasse, who played McLovin in “Superbad.” His high-pitched geekiness is a great addition to the story line; though, I can’t tell you too much about him or I’ll spoil a lot of the third act.

Aside from some really mediocre dialog, this is a great undead flick to watch with friends. And although the 3D version does give you a close-and-personal view of stakes to the heart, ashes, blood, etc, you could save yourself the three bucks and just watch “Fright Night” in 2D.

Age is just a number and IDs are just for show

I walk into the bar wearing khaki shorts and a butterfly t-shirt, jeans and a flirty top, a dress and high heels. The bartender (male, female, young, old, jaded or not) gives me a one-over with unimpressed, diplomatic eyes. He can't just throw me out, but I know he would if he could. I'm walking a thin line, his look says. I'm testing his patience; children aren't allowed in here. But he also doesn't want to lose a tip, so he stares at me and waits. He won't ask for ID unless I don't offer it.

I take a seat (pushing up with my arm and lifting onto tiptoe to climb onto the stool) and sheepishly reach in my pocket. The only things it contains are money and my driver's license; I hate purses. I fumble to keep the money in while pulling out proof of myself. The unrehearsed feel of the movement makes me blush, which makes him believe I'm about to lie. Possibly without speaking. I try using my "grown-up" words anyway and fail:

"Here you go..." It's high and babyish. I can't deepen it even if I try.

His bored eyes shift to the plastic card. And despite having to reveal myself in every bar, restaurant or outdoor barbeque since the day I turned 21, my stomach drops as I wonder whether my birthday really is printed on there, whether he'll see it, whether he'll kick me out anyway. In middle-of-the-road countries such as Australia, where the drinking age is 18 and they actually check ID, I still get a once-over from the bouncers who seem impressed at my non-aging. Some are even brave enough to mention something.

"You look so young!" they say. Their eyes widen, their mouths contort into disbelieving, exaggerated grins -- the looks of the people who present Publisher's Clearing House prizes. Those looks say I'm not winning this money, but I'm supposed to act happy that you get it. Woohoo!! "You'll love it when you're forty." I actually love it now, all except for the suspicion of it all.

My ID is returned. The bartender's duty is done. It no longer matters if I am a 40 year old with a baby face or a 12 year old with a fake license. He gives my chest a gander, now that he knows he can, now that he knows I'm legal, then gets my drink.

The plastic card that I carry with me, that lets me drive a car or order a drink or bet in Vegas (Sometimes getting carded at each machine and by individual guards who watch me long after I've ponied up the thing that identifies me, as if I'll reveal my true age by smearing candy on the machines or wiping a booger under the seat) is like a secret handshake between strangers. We both know the dance by heart, but still don't trust the person doing it with us.

And when I begin to sway and babble, as I always do after downing only one cocktail, the bartender watches me like an adult letting a kid touch a hot stove just so she'll never do it again. He smirks and offers me a stronger drink, then balks when I accept his offer.

I'm having an Affair...

...with movie scores. I guess it isn't so surprising -- I love everything about movies and I really do mean everything. I love the neat, the weird and the disturbing -- from the fact that the set for the main room in The Shining, where Jack Nicholson's character writes his infamous "novel," caught fire because they used 700,000 watts per window per day to make it look wintery outside and then subsequently rebuilt the set and later used it in Indiana Jones, to the fact that Alfred Hitchcock used to torture the actresses who were cast in his films. Oh, and in the black-and-white days they used to use chocolate syrup in place of blood because it had the right texture and they put milk into the rain so it was visible on camera -- so it was really Singing in the Milk. And Gene Kelly was so mean to Debbie Reynolds in that movie that Fred Astair agreed to teach her to dance and berated Kelly for treating Reynolds so poorly. Neat, huh?

But that's not what has me hooked right now, no. It's the music, man -- the sound. You see, I am not fortunate enough to have completely perfect senses, so instead I have a hierarchy. From strongest to weakest it goes: smell, taste, sound, sight, touch. Strange considering how much I love my sight, but based on capability it's true. And since you can't smell or taste movies (yet!), I let the sounds keep me riveted. From the instrumental background notes during a movie that make those not-so-seamless transitions from scene to scene seem nonexistent to the Foley sounds that get recombined and distorted and shattered to create sounds out of my nightmares and visions -- I'm in love with all of it. Perhaps that's why I fell for a musician last time around :) .

I just finished watching How to Train Your Dragon and for the majority of you who didn't read my entirely unbiased movie review, I'll just say this: Watch that freaking movie! You won't regret it! I'm begging and pleading with you to be a kid again for less than two hours and rent this FANTASTIC flick NOW. Don't wait! I'm writing in freaking Italics -- so you know I'm serious...dragon serious. :-|

All right, now that I've done that, I can say that the music for this breathtaking ride of a movie has lulled me into a completely content, almost Zen-like version of myself that needs nothing in the world except these sweet, sweet notes. On a side note, though, I just learned that the main dragon's sounds were created by combining the voice of the Supervising Sound Designer Randy Thom, with those of elephants, horses, tigers, and even domestic cats. Amazing, no?

I expect only one person of the presumed many who will read this to care, but here's a list of beautiful little diddies available through that impulsive-buying trigger of triggers, iTunes:

Forbidden Friendship - John Powell
Test Drive - John Powell
Romantic Flight - John Powell
Sticks & Stone - Jonsi

In addition I'm also listening to these:
Main Title: Nemo Egg - Thomas Newton
The Gravel Road - James Newton Howard

As the Sage of Potato Hill, Edgar Watson Howe, once said, good music makes people homesick for things they've never had and never will have. And as I say, music also has the awesome and terrible ability to eat at us after we've finished listening to it, like reading good literature does. I hope some of this gets stuck in your mind like it is in mine, so you feel the little nibbles in the homesick part of your brain tonight.

Sadistic Dental Hygienist

The other day I met with the Sadistic Dental Hygienist. I don't know her name, so that is her identifier. A sign in her office reads, "I'm not rough, I'm just thorough." It's only really readable from the chair, in a position of submission to her gloved hands and waxed thread of torture. She digs into the gum with the floss, deeper and deeper until I'm sure the tooth will abandon my mouth. Then she does it again with the next. When she pulls her hands away they're covered in blood. She tells me in a frantic whisper that I have to, have to floss. I tell her I do. She tells me to go deeper, that my gums can handle it. I wonder if her husband likes this part of her personality.

I fear going to that dentist's office. The second I enter the brown carpeted office with the broken door jamb, the stink of mouthwash and raspberry cleaning paste turns my stomach. I spin the Russian roulette wheel and fervently pray for the mousy blonde cleaner. It's her or the Sadistic Dental Hygienist.

When she pulls out the scraping needles of corporal mortification, I imagine myself on trial during the Spanish Inquisition. I am about to be purged of my sins and whatever they are, they must be tooth related. One scraper rounds my left canine and I feel pain I haven't felt since I realized the constant throbbing in my jaw was caused by wisdom teeth and not a chronic nerve problem.

My feet curl inward and I clench my fists. BUT, I refuse to let her see my pain, because I think, and I'm just guessing here, that she thrives on it. That light that she shines in my eyes to distract me is really zapping all the anguish out of her victims -- the 6 to 98-year-old cavity-ridden walking mouth-holes -- while they try to stifle their tears by staring into that blinding light.

It's a failproof system -- EXCEPT when her victims are strong enough to bottle it up, suppress their terror and pain until the exact moment when they're cut off in traffic or their dog vomits on the floor. I prevailed that day. I kept quiet. I survived and lived to tell my tale...at least for the next six months.

The floor is lava

Remember that game you used to play because you were either an only child (like me) or your mother was a worry wort who wouldn't let you go outside (also me)? I called it "The Floor is Lava," but whatever you called it, it involved the same thing -- trapezial (is that a word? it is now) leaps and bounds from coffee table to couch to doggy bed to the corner of an abstract piece of art that my mom always knew I would touch and probably knock over. More likely than not knock over. (And you couldn't touch the floor)

Well, today felt like one big game of "The Floor is Lava," but instead of a game it was a rite of passage so agonizing that if I were becoming a man, I'd be alpha male by now. I guess that's an exaggeration. You see, I'm not a trapeze swinger -- my childhood leaps and bounds were often half-hearted, tentative tip-toes from armrest to armrest. I got very little air, is what I'm saying.

I'm much more adventurous now than when I was little, mostly because I didn't know that there was so much I could do. Now that I do, I don't want to spend another moment wondering whether I should or shouldn't try something. I learned the Big Do's and Don't's of life (strangers, fires and bears should be avoided, take care of yourself, treat people with respect and kill the mean ones with kindness, don't let your possessions own you, etc) when I was little -- my parents did good.

But the problem with the evolution of my openness is that I frequently regret not being more active. I'm not going to win a marathon, that goes without saying, but my dismal state of sedentarism also means I can't climb Ruby Mountain on my 23rd birthday without numerous stops and intermittent wheezing either.

So, to bury the point of this post, two days ago I went for a jog. Don't worry, I stretched, BUT I didn't stretch nearly enough. When I woke up yesterday, my calf muscles were knotted so tightly that they felt as if someone had implanted stones in there -- boulders hellbent on making it uncomfortable for me to sit ANYWHERE.

I called my friend and running man, Patrick, to ask about stretches I could do to remove the bulbous lumps from the back of my legs. He directed me to a website and gave me hints about stretching properly this time. I failed.

This morning, my legs mutinied as if I had voluntarily decided to cut them off. The second I jumped out of bed I realized that I was not able to stand upright; my legs wobbled beneath me and I crashed on my bedroom floor. When I finally stood up again, I had to walk on my tip toes all the way to the stairs, down them and to the kitchen. Even then they didn't let up and haven't -- these semi-stretched legs are holding a grudge that I have yet to repent for.

It is painful to sit on them, it is painful to bend them, it is painful to straighten them, it is painful to walk flat on my feet. So now I look like a short drunk model walking on coals, stumbling around my house on the balls of my feet, feeling what I can only describe as the physical reaction to someone grating violin strings, wondering if crawling would make it easier.

Nope, definitely doesn't.

So, I'm sorry legs. I'm sorry that I've wronged you, abused you. Darn that terrible terrible floor and its terrible terrible lava qualities. Too bad I can't blink myself back into my semi-warm cocoon of a bed.

Wish this sad little coal walker a speedy recovery...and share some tips for reintroducing flexibility into my brittle, unyielding body.

Night terrors are awkward around other people

I sleeptalk and sleepwalk when I'm anxious and I experience night terrors on the rare occasions when I am freaking the heck out. No panic attacks for me, no. My subconscious is going to work out whatever's bugging it on its own, using my body to illustrate against my will and usually without my knowledge. It's going to smack my worries in the face, even if that means putting me in a position where I physically get smacked in the face.

When I was four, I fell out of bed while chitchatting about cherries in an empty room. When I was five, I woke up to find a blonde woman in a red dress standing over me wielding a baseball bat (she subsequently popped like a soap bubble). When I was 14 and having problems with the girls on my swim team I terrified my mother with a late night one-sided conversation. I just kept saying "I understand, I understand" and when she asked me about it, I told her I was in the middle of my talk with "a man" and continued on, as if she had interrupted. It got to the point where I wished my mom would come in one night and actually find something talking to me -- like a giant pink rabbit or a hillbilly zombie. Then I could say, "See, my subconscious isn't crazy!"

I used to think acting out my dreams was pretty cool (actually, I still do), but that was before I got to college and realized that other people would witness it. Turns out "other people" are not as impressed by the misadventures of my unconscious.

During my freshman year at the University of Richmond, my lovely and tolerant roommate Chet'la coaxed me back into bed on more than one occasion and once I woke up standing barefoot (gross) in the communal bathroom (grosser) staring at a tall young man leaning out of a toilet cubicle who seemed completely unaware that I was not conscious. Chet'la also discovered that I undergo a personality transplant in my sleep -- Dr. Jekyll and Miss Bipolar.

In my second year, I went to live in the "Outdoor House," which, had it not been for the really cool English class attached to it, might have qualified as a step down from my first year dorm. I had a room to myself and only one real neighbor across the hall. During my time there, I had two night terrors -- one in which a giant tarantula tried to attach itself to my face and another in which my floor and the entire dorm building's floor was covered in cleaning liquid bottles. In both instances, I walked out of my room and proceeded to ramble on seriously to said neighbor about tarantulas and cleaning bottles and not wearing pants (I wasn't, either time -- yay me!).

The comedian Mike Birbiglia also "suffers" from sleepwalking and in his case he jumped out a 2nd story window and hit the ground running in his tighty whities. He now has to wear oven mitts and a sleep bag tied at the neck to bed. So as long as I don't end up like that, I think I'll continue to enjoy my body's inability to tell the different between dreams and reality.