It is, by far, the most rewarding experience of my week. It also teaches me more than I ever thought I would learn volunteering. Every time I volunteer in Purple 3b, I relearn that most Americans have misinterpreted happiness. Because I have seen true happiness, and it came from those kids.

But why should they be happier than me? I’m from the suburbs, they’re inner city. Their parents are lower class, mine are upper middle. For Christ’s sake, I have a car; they barely have tricycles. Yet, they possess a genuine sense of euphoria that I could only hope for.

I, similar to most Americans my age and older, have become jaded with the little things in life. A telephone that can show you videos, check your mail, and allow you to talk face to face with someone half way across the world no longer interests us. That’s just an iPhone. Who cares?

But these kids…these kids get excited over the tiniest little things, like graham crackers or a new book about trains. The way their faces light up when they hear they get to go outside and play is enough to put anyone to shame.

I think Americans need to rethink what makes us happy. TV commercials show us at our happiest right after we’ve bought a car, or our parents have given us the latest and most expensive Apple product. But after spending an extended period of time at Operation Breakthrough, I’m pretty sure there’s a lot more to happiness than just a price tag.

Our generation doesn’t know how to make eye contact. Political efficacy has come to mean commenting on Facebook statuses instead of picketing in front of the Capital. We have become so invested in remaining in a stagnant setting: sitting at a computer screen in the safety of our homes. When we do take action in the flesh, we hardly know what to do with ourselves.

Our generation doesn’t know how to make eye contact. What would happen if we put a group of Redditors in a room with nothing but a couple of phones and a phonebook and told them to take action. No computers, no memes, no Internet resources. Would they be able to make a difference?

Our generation doesn’t know how to make eye contact. If you are standing alone in the hallway, how many of you whip out your phone? If you manage to engage in conversation and it starts to die, I can almost promise that you will start texting.

Our generation can’t make eye contact, and there is no excuse for the lack of face to face interaction. The thing is, our world is changing. Those face to face interactions aren’t as important anymore. The SOPA/PIPA online protest was probably one of the largest protests ever orchestrated by young people and when that becomes a cultural norm, our generation won’t need to know how to make eye contact.

And then I started reading.

At its core, “The Fault in our Stars” is a romance book wrapped in a cancer story. It charts the romance of two teens dealing with tragically fatal cancers as they fall in love and travel the world. John Green sticks to his unique style of blending dialogue that reads exactly as a teenager would really speak with philosophy that causes the reader to see the world in a completely different light. Unfortunately, when it comes to writing the relationship between two cancer patients, Green falls short.

The lovers in the novel, Hazel and Augustus, have an infuriating habit of believing that they are somehow on a plane above healthy people because they have suffered. They treat everyone without cancer as if they are less intelligent, less able to understand the reality of life. I am not saying that their view of life would not be different after dealing with cancer, I just feel that the fact that their parents have not does not mean that their thoughts are of no merit.

Green also falters when writing the dialogue between Hazel and Augustus. It may be speech that is very close to how I speak in real life, but scenes that are full of emotion and power are struck down by a few stupid quips by one of the teens. While on a perfect date in Amsterdam, Green describes everything in mellifluous tones until the couple decides to talk. Bad jokes, ridiculous flirting and banal lust-filled lines kill any hope for a scene that doesn’t end with me face palming at the similarities to a “Twilight” movie.

This is not to say that the book doesn’t have merit. Several chapters contain Green’s thoughts which show the hours he spent studying philosophies and world religion at Kenyon college. He talks about an author’s connection to his work, dealing with the eventuality of death, and a study of the concept of infinity. Green does a fantastic job of describing the death of a close friend, how it feels to think that you may die without making a difference and whether it is actually possible for someone to live and love without making a difference.

So no, its not the pinnacle of pubescent publications. Its not the next book to make the SM East tenth grade required reading list. But it is not a stereotypical teen book. It’s not a stereotypical cancer book. It’s a book that shows that no matter who you are or what you are dealing with, there is always hope and there will always be love.

“I’m melting! I’m melting!” The phrase echoed in my skull. My brain was slugging. “No more thinking…too much analysis…must have simple…” The mini-me’s of my mind scrambled back and forth under the wailing drones of the overload alarm resounding every thought. I couldn’t write any more coherent logical mumbo-jumbo. Ondaatje and Einstein were morphing into one confused personality. My thermodynamics homework had transformed into doodles of jolly men with big noses blowing bubbles. How to resolve the insanity!?!

Baking.

No question, the straight-forward and ultra rewarding practice of combining butter, eggs and sugar with flour and love.
How could there be any stress after experiencing this joy? Cinnamon and sugar are the world’s most agreeable combination and exist fabulously in the classic Snickerdoodle. But cookies are difficult…there’s the tentative watch of the oven to achieve proper texture, the risk of burning the sugar, the multiple pans to clean after the fact, etc. So how to get the same happiness of the cookie AND resolve stress not induce it: make Blondies. One pan, 2 bowls, little mess (both in dishes and spirits).

So when feeling stressed and overwhelmed (as most of my life seems to be lately) a quick batch of Snickerdoodle Blondies is sure to cure all calamities.

Snickerdoodle Blondies
24 servings

Beyond making me thankful that I was living in an age that could flip a switch for light rather than being dependent on grueling child labor to make candles, this experience was the first time where I considered something in terms of how it was made rather than assuming it magically appeared on a store shelf.

I recently read Leo Tolstoy’s “The Death of Ivan Ilyich,” a beat up, hard-backed copy whose book sleeve some other library user had long ago lost.

In the 126 years between Tolstoy sculpting the story and my reading it, the novella was penned, printed, stored, shipped, translated to English, reprinted in Long Island, New York, assembled, stored in a dusty warehouse, driven cross-country in a cardboard box of its brethren, stored, exchanged, and finally stamped “Plaza” in red ink on June 13, 1998, where it was passed between readers in the Kansas City metropolitan area.

Skimming the thirty-four-paged introduction written by some editor in his mid fifties, I found the occasional pencil annotation: tentative underlines, arrows, asterisks, and a scribbled note.

And this says nothing of the librarians who filed it onto the shelves, the computer nerd who created a catalogue system and assigned me a number, or the designers or manufacturers of the arm chair I sat in to read.

The point is: an unspeakable amount of work, time, and energy went into the products that allowed me to enjoy a great book.

Since December, I’ve been directing and working on my Frequent Friday. To put it lightly, the process has been exhausting and invigorating. Metaphorically speaking, I am Tolstoy, the editor, the translator, the publisher, the librarian, and the guy who wrote his notes on the side of the book to leave his impressions all in one. Regardless, I believe my cast and crew, the metaphorical words printed on the pages, will do a fantastic job of telling the story.

I promise you won’t have to think about Leo Tolstoy’s publishing process to enjoy the show.

To me, it’s the meaning behind the tattoo that makes it worthwhile. Not the picture or the color. The meaning. And I think a lot of people forget that. All too often, people get tattoos solely because they can.

The idea of getting a tattoo simply because you’re old enough and have the funds to do so is belittling to the art form. A tattoo is far more personal than people give it credit for. It’s a permanent depiction of an important part of your life, and there should certainly be thought put into whatever tattoo a person chooses to have permanently inked on their skin.

A tattoo is permanent it’s not like an earring where you can take it out, let it heal, and forget it was ever there. A tattoo will be with you for the rest of your life, so it seems almost silly that someone would get one just because. You’d think that if you were going to spend the rest of your life with a picture on your skin, you’d put some thought into it first. Leopard print stars down the side of your stomach aren’t going to look nearly as good when you’re forty-five and overweight as they did when you were eighteen, but at least some sort of sentimental value justifies that.

Personally, I love tattoos. I think they’re a really lovely and bold form of expression. But I also feel like they’re easily abused. To fully capture the essence of a tattoo, there has to be some sort of deeper meaning; otherwise, it’s just a picture.

No, they haven’t tabled the bill indefinitely. In fact, as of today it is scheduled to be brought up in the House Judiciary Committee again in February and no, they haven’t officially said they will make it their goal not to pass it. If you look at the numbers, you will see that these claims are just additional indicators that the bill is dead where it stands.

So far this session, the 112th Congress has passed 80 public laws in comparison to the 430 public laws that the 110th Congress put through during their session. These 80 bills have been essentials: not trivial bills for show. SOPA has not been deemed critical to improving the economy or creating jobs. Do you really think Congress is going to pass a controversial bill when they are essentially in a deadlock on things that keep our nation afloat?

“Don’t worry,” many people have said. “Obama will veto SOPA if it hits his desk.” When I hear this, my answer is simple: Obama will never be forced to decide if he should sign SOPA. The bill would have to survive committee and then pass in the House and Senate. Only around three percent of bills become laws and something with as much public animosity as SOPA stands no chance of coming out as a law. When our Congressmen and Congresswomen receive public opinion, they listen. They heard about SOPA long before this blackout was even planned.

This SOPA/PIPA protest is needless. I am glad people are sharing their opinions, but I would rather see the National Defense Authorization Act get a day where sites “go black” for what it stands for.

SOPA is heading nowhere, and getting there fast. In what Time essentially called “the year of protester” we need to shift focus to larger issues. Congress has passed almost no legislation and one of the few things that was passed took away habeas corpus. There are some more pressing issues on the table so let’s stop looking at the three percent stage and look at passed legislation that has defied the odds and made it past the three percent.

If you’re like me, there is a food that you cannot stand the taste of: or the sight, the smell or the texture. For me, it’s peanut butter. I know what you’re thinking.

“What? How can you not like peanut butter?!”

Honestly, I don’t know either. But that’s the thing: I do not control my taste buds. I did not decide to hate peanut butter, nor did I choose to have a visceral gut reaction whenever I smell the stuff. I did not chose my taste buds, just like I didn’t choose my parents or my ethnicity.

Yet every time I express my distaste for peanut butter, I get bombarded with quizzical looks and aghast faces.

It isn’t like I don’t want to like peanut butter. I mean, it has a lot going for it: protein, healthy, can be added to all kinds of baked goods and snacks. It is one of those foods that I really wish I liked, but I can’t change my taste buds.

So please, stop reiterating and degrading my taste in food because if it happens one more time I’ll just pretend to be allergic.

Third quarter has started. The dark, bleak days of winter have begun. The time has come for something fun to read. So what book do I pick? “Freedom” by Jonathan Frazen: a novel about bad marriages, depression, ruined lives and the faults of capitalism.

“Nice people don’t necessarily fall in love with nice people.”

This quote summarizes the novel perfectly. There are so many relationships within this book that are based entirely around this concept. When thinking back over the book, it is apparent that Frazen is gifted at creating heart-rending storylines between two people. Unfortunately,  his shortcomings become apparent when trying to describe the serious situations he sets up.

The first of these situations is marriage. It is clear that Frazen has had no experience with a mature marriage. He writes about the connection between a married couple the same as if I had written it: with no knowledge of what he is talking about.

The story focuses around one family and the relationships within. Every generation of the family seems to have a dysfunctional marriage. While Frazen is a brilliant writer and is thus able to make you feel the emotions he wants, it is almost distracting to read about a married couple in their fifties arguing as if they were squabbling, hormone filled teenagers.

“There is, after all, a kind of happiness in unhappiness, if it’s the right unhappiness.”

This quote addresses the second serious issue within the novel: depression. It strikes almost every character within the novel at some point. Some have it thrust upon them by the events in their lives while for some it is a mental disorder. However, once again, Frazen fails to capture it.

He romanticises the feelings that go hand in hand with depression. He makes it seem cool, much as a cigarette ad convinces you that the negative side effects aren’t as bad as they seem. He shows depression as something to be proud of, a pendant for your uniform. The writing in these passages feels bland and the reader is forced to wonder if Frazen has actually felt true emotion.

“The personality susceptible to the dream of limitless freedom is a personality also prone, should the dream ever sour, to misanthropy and rage.”

The one aspect of the book that places Frazen in the realm of brilliance is his topic of choice: freedom. He talks about freedom from parents, freedom from debt, the freedoms we are given in the US and freedom in relationships. Every character in the book is faced with some obstacle preventing them from obtaining true freedom. He even ties in the Bush era government, showing how their environmental plans limit many civilian freedoms. Frazen is actually able to make politics an interesting subject within the novel and the chapters on environmental projects were some of the most entertaining.

Finally, I have to make a recommendation, but with a warning. Yes you should read this book. But, it is graphic and repulsive and depressing and disgusting and amazing and infuriating and perverted. In the middle of the novel, I threw the book against my wall and had to go for a run in fresh air so I could feel normal again. I would take this book in small doses. But it is definitely a must read and one of the best works of modern American literature out there.

So the way I gaudy-ed this up was by using a melty over-easy egg, caramelized onion, farmer’s market mushrooms, and crisp English muffins. The egg explodes in your mouth, releasing a flood of golden awesome-ness, combining with the sweet tang of onion and the rich meaty mushroom….oh the yumminess…

Gourmet Egg Muffin
Pre-Heat Oven to 375 degrees Fahrenheit
serves: 4 (or if you have a hungry Dad in the house, he gets 2)

• 4 English muffins or 4 of those flat sandwich bun thingys
• 4 slices of American cheese (optional, I personally don’t have any)
• 1 onion (purple, yellow, whatever you desire)
• Mushrooms
• 4 eggs
• salt and pepper

Split the muffins with a fork and put in the oven for 15 minutes.

While those toast up slice the onion in half and then slice into thin half-rings.

Chop the mushrooms and using a non-stick skillet, saute them up along with the onion with a wee bit of olive oil until they have reached a slightly golden colour. Remove from the skillet and set aside.Wait until the muffins are done and then turn the oven to warm. Place the cheese on one half of the muffin along with some onion-mushroom mixture, leave this in the oven while you cook the eggs.

Now one could use sunny-side up eggs or poached eggs, I am better at cooking over-easy eggs so that’s what I use (or if some accidents should arise while cooking turn them into scrambled). Turn the skillet to a medium heat with a little dribble of olive oil. Crack the eggs onto the skillet and season with salt and pepper. Once the whites are solid in colour use a spatula to gently slid/flip them over. Cook until the eggs are cooked (though I like mine a little runny).

Turn off the heat.

Get out the muffins (the cheese should be melty) and place the egg on top. Take a bite and allow the magic of eggs consume you.

I feel caught between my mother’s goal for me to make six digits a year and my secret desire to hop trains and work as a freelance circus freak. Or a standup comedian. Or a bartender. Or a writer.

Or an artist.

Every Sunday morning, afternoon, evening, and at midnight, I find myself in a war against my keyboard. An outdated Microsoft Word 2000 looms, strutting the sloppy outline of an unwritten research paper.

Okay, picture the following. An accountant. At eight, he crawls out of his cocoon of bleached white, silk sheets and goose down pillows. A cup of coffee–two sugar substitutes and cream. The front page of the newspaper–he frowns and scoffs at the tragic state of the world, biting into his blueberry bagel topped with original flavor cream cheese. He flips to the business section to comfort himself: statistics, numbers, finances–those seem more reliable to him. Noticing the time on the digital clock above his top-of-the-line electric oven, he saunters into his blue 2008 Toyota Prius and makes the twenty-three minute drive to work. Here, he’ll sit behind his mahogany desk in his corner office overlooking his personal parking spot for eight, ten, or even twelve hours.

Sounds a little miserable, right? A little gray?

On Friday night, he soothes his exhaustion with a solitary glass of Cabernet. Saturday, however, after a brisk morning jog through the park and before meeting some colleagues at an Italian restaurant downtown for a for a distant friend’s thirtieth birthday party, he comes to life. Armed with a synthetic white bristle brush, he paints. A landscape of early spring lazes across a stretched canvas as he adds a sparkle to a friendly, blue creek.

On Sunday, he opens his briefcase and can be found behind an outdated Microsoft Word 2000, staring at the sloppy outline of a business letter. For him too, Sunday is just a business day spent trying to catch up.

But he paints. On Saturdays. If there’s time.

Okay, now take the inverse. Let’s say we were talking about an artist. She graduated in the bottom 50% of her senior class and will be paying off her student loans from the esteemed, world-renowned art college her mom refused to pay for until she’s thirty. She lives in a poorly furnished loft in midtown and rushes to catch a 7:45 bus every morning.
But she gets to paint every day. And, more than anything, she doesn’t spend Sundays having a staring contest with Microsoft Word.

I’ll be the first to admit that high school demands a lot of homework. Seriously, don’t underestimate the International Baccalaureate program. And, usually, I really do love it. I love discovering symbolism and debating political motivation. At the end of the day, the time I pour into a research paper feels like it payed off.

But honestly? On Sundays, I would rather paint.

I’m an upperclassman, halfway through my junior year of high school. In six months, I’ll be a senior. In two years, I’ll be in college. In five years, I’m supposed to have my life – and myself – figured out. And in 10 years, a majority of people in my class will be married or engaged. That’s just plain scary.

And here I am, still as tall as I was in the seventh grade wondering where the time went. Sometime, I’ll be driving my car and think to myself, “Holy crap. I’m 16, driving right now, in my own car, with my own license and my own stereo playing my own music.”

When did I get so old? Sure, I’m not graying at my roots or wrinkling at my eyes, but it feels like just yesterday I was going through freshmen orientation, playing those awful games with my Link Leaders and feeling like I was the bomb because I was a “high school kid” now.

Whenever I see family or friends of my parents, they’re always like, “Oh my gosh, the last time I saw you, you were only this big!” And I would sarcastically think “Well, the last time I saw you, you were only this skinny!” I was annoyed by their constant revelations, continuous epiphanies that yes, I was growing up (who knew?) and they were, in fact, getting old.

But it all makes sense now.

My best friend’s nephew is graduating in 2022. TWENTY TWENTY TWO. Do you know how old that makes me feel?

Am I the only one who is freaked out by this concept?

It makes me realize how short life is, how little time I have. It makes me happy that I have lived my high school years to the fullest, involving myself in everything that intrigued me. It makes me wish I had come to terms with this sooner. But most of all, it makes me hope that when I graduate in a year-and-a-half, I leave East with no regrets.

Over winter break, my family and I were fortunate enough to have the opportunity to travel to Australia for two weeks. To say the experience was absolutely incredible would be a complete understatement.

However, throughout the entire experience, I couldn’t help but notice how tourist-y I was. I’m not entirely positive as to what I thought Australia would be like, but it was nothing like what I expected. As a result, I was an obvious out of towner desperately trying to go with the flow. So here, in this blog, I am extending my hand to you, so that if you ever visit the land down unda, you will be more informed than I was and not stick out like a sore American thumb.

FACTS AND TIPS I’VE LEARNED (BASED ON MY TRAVELS)

1. Every stereo type you have about Australians is about 98% true. They’re beautiful people who worship the beach in a way that makes most religions envious.

2. Cricket players are treated like national heroes (Cricket players are to Aussies as Football players are to Americans).

3. Cricket is a boring sport that takes way too long to finish and you will be completely obsessed with it by the time you leave the country (Mad love for my man Michael Clarke; 329 not outs bringing the Aussies up to a 4/659 lead over India!!).

4. Surfing is not a sport. It is a lifestyle that boarders on an art form.

5. An unfortunate percent of the young guys (sorry, ladies) think rat tails and butt cracks are attractive. It’s startling. You’ll see the front of a guy on the beach, think he’s a super hot Aussie surfer, and then he turns around. Ugh.

6. Australia is sort of stuck in the 80s. I don’t know how to describe that, exactly, but go there and you’ll understand where I’m coming from. As my new Aussie friend, Rosie, commented, “We’re so far behind everyone else!”

7. If you’re an American, you will fall into the stereotype. One Aussie asked me if we deep-fried our garlic bread over here.

8. If you’re going to lay out on the beach, apply more sunscreen than you think you’ll need. Trust me, I know from experience that it will come in handy. Laying out on the beach in Australia is the same as laying out on the top of a mountain in Colorado on a sunny day. Basically, if you don’t over apply your sunscreen, you will be burnt and peel-y for the next three days.

9. Waiters and waitresses don’t get tipped; hence, they have not motivation to deliver your food promptly. If you go out to eat, expect to be at the restaurant for two hours or so.

10. If you’re going to spend money, expect to spend far more than you ever would in the U.S. Everything is more expensive in Australia (I’m not entirely sure why).

11. Don’t ask people for a napkin, unless you actually really do want them to bring you a diaper.

12. If you strongly desire the consumption of brown goo, avoid Vegemite and choose Nutella.

13. Aussie kids go up to grade 13 (a.k.a. year 13), as opposed to senior year in high school.

14. All of the American TV shows are about half a season behind.

15. Cockatoos are the most obnoxious birds you’ll ever come across. At first, you’ll think they’re beautiful and want to feed  them so they’ll come closer to you, then they open their beaks and start squaking.

16. Don’t tell them a dingo ate your baby.

17. Passion fruit looks sincerely disgusting, but please eat it. It’s one of the most delicious fruits I’ve ever tasted. And hands down the best smelling.

18. A bush walk is not a casual stroll through the woods- it’s an ass-kicking up the side of a cliff.

19. The sizing of clothing in Australia is half the size it is in America. So if you’re a size six, don’t try to squeeze yourself into a size six top, because you’re really trying on a size three.

20. The Australians sincerely believe a kangaroo scrotum can sell a product.You will find it on many souvenirs.

“SLC Punk!” (1998)

First on my list was a film that, due to its cult following, I had been itching to watch for a little over a year and just nevergot around to doing so. “SLC Punk!” (1998) takes place during the mid-80s in Salt Lake City, Utah, the home of Mormons, red-necks and some very angsty punks. Stevo (Matthew Lillard) and Heroine Bob(Michael A Goorjian) are two of the only punks in one of the most conservative cities in the U.S and, now out of college, are trying to keep punk, anarchy and basic rebellion alive any way they know how.

Because the film plays out like a series of comedic mini story lines it kept my attention even during the more boring parts. One of the most endearing stories involves a young Jason Segel (“The Muppets”) as Mike, a hard-core punk that dresses like a nerd and just wants to save the environment. Though a huge fan of Jason Segel, it was a pleasant surprise to see him outside his usual sweet, funny-guy character role.

The satirical piece finds a way to poke fun at the punks and at the same time support them without question. Using Stevo’s anti-establishment yet stereotypical take on the world gives the film the biting humor and interesting take on society, friendship and growing up that make it a winning comedy.

“Wristcutters: A Love Story” (2006)

How many times have you been asked about your lifestyle because you live in Kansas? Living in Prairie Village doesn’t give you a free pass. Kansas is Kansas to an outsider. To the average “Perfect Village” citizen we have the perks of access to big-city life and access to great educational opportunities.

Iowa is the state where many people think Americans revert back to where America used to be: a state with a traditional lifestyle, a traditional working environment, a traditional place to be educated. Iowa is the state where most Americans assume the citizens are farmers. In actuality, Iowa is a state that has a larger urban than rural population and a state that made same-sex marriage legal before almost any other state.

Iowa has one of the lowest unemployment rates, one of the lowest crime rates and one of the best public education systems in the country. How do those stereotypes fit?

I am not saying that Iowa plays a significant role politically. Thousands of Americans are upset that Iowa gets the first say in the primary season, and that may be a justified statement. Iowa doesn’t represent the average American, they say. Iowa is not a political house, they remark.

The thing I am tired of hearing about is how Iowa goes to Republicans time and time again. Iowa has gone to the Democrats in five out of the last six elections. I am tired of hearing that every Iowan detests same-sex marriage and want to revert back to the way things were run when Reagan was in office.

Iowa is Iowa, whether we choose to realize that the picture isn’t what we make it out to be or not.

“Harry Potter” is finished. Let’s face it, our childhood is over. No more standing in line at midnight dressed as a favorite character. No more days spent lounging in pajamas as your fingers flip through the latest adventure. Time to forget about reading and return to the latest story arc of “Breaking Bad.”

This was my approach until someone loaned me a copy of “The Hunger Games” by Suzanne Collins. I had heard quite a bit of hype, what with a movie release scheduled for this March. Maybe this was it! The written word’s newest savior. Maybe lovable Harry could be pushed aside by the more abrasive Katniss. With new found hope I set about reading the first novel in the series.

Katniss, a sixteen-year-old from a locality known as District 12, lives in a futuristic North America after the present day countries have been abolished and replaced by a continent known as Panem. At some point during the history of Panem, the surrounding districts had rebelled against the capitol and had failed miserably. As punishment, the capitol selects a boy and girl between the ages of 12 and 18 from each of the thirteen surrounding districts to fight to the death in what is known as The Hunger Games. This arena can be any climate and the event is broadcast to the entire population.

“Good start,” I thought to myself. Anything involving an oppressive government has to be somewhat entertaining. The story so far is intriguing. Although the writing is plain and simplistic, the plot keeps me glued to the book.

Katniss, as well as a boy from her district known as Peeta, are selected to be the “tributes” from their district in the games. Throughout the course of the book, Katniss and Peeta are forced to fight and sometimes kill other tributes. They eventually team up and start to form a relationship as the world watches.

“A little dramatic,” I thought to myself. I do like the aspect of rebellion creeping into the story however. Maybe this is going somewhere. One thing the author does well is tie in minor story lines that lead up to future books. This book sets the scene for a possible uprising against the capitol later in the series. Again, the writing continued to be weak but the action was very exciting so I found it plenty entertaining.

So as not to spoil the book, I wont give away too much of the final exciting moments of the games or the resulting reaction from the rest of Panem. Suffice it to say that the book starts to focus less on the action and more on the dramatic mess of Katniss’ romance. Peeta loves her. She loves some old fling named Gale back in District 12. Peeta gets mad. Tensions grow.

“Well dang. It’s a soap opera,” I thought to myself.

So maybe it is not the replacement for “Harry Potter.” It is a little corny, the writing is not fantastic, and the storyline is ripped from older novels. But “The Hunger Games” is a thoroughly enjoyable read that I would recommend that any young person read before turning to “Pretty Little Liars” to fill that void left by good old Harry.

I love walking into the gym, and hearing the clear sound of the band resounding. I love watching the cheerleaders and drill team do the same routine every time. I love sitting with my class and participating in the non-existent competition for the spirit stick, always awarded to the seniors. I love singing the school song, arm-in-arm, at the end of every assembly.

Unfortunately, I seem to be the only person who enjoys pep assemblies. Students think they’re a waste of time and teachers think they’re boring. But think about all the planning that goes into it. The Pep Club puts months into a single assembly and we just mope around because we don’t get all of our seminar time? Seriously, what’s one less seminar going to hurt?

And pep assemblies are so much better than we make them out to be.

Remember when the four administrators dressed up like the band members of KISS? What about the free T-shirts they throw out to everyone? And don’t try to sit there and tell me that the ROTC routine didn’t stir up some great memories of The Disney Channel’s “Cadet Kelly.”

Sure, the relays between the classes get a little old and the gym is so crowded it’s hard to breathe. But, when your four years of high school are over, I promise you’ll look back and miss feeling the floor rumble as we stomp and fist pump to the last line of the school song, “Lancers we will ever be.”

Classical music is not for everybody. Few can enjoy the beauty of its triumphant tunes, and only a handful of God-selected individuals can comprehend its complex messages.

Some might naively suggest otherwise. Such people may even go as far as to say that the beauty of Bach or Brahms or Beethoven is that anyone can enjoy their music.

These people are simply unaware of the complexities associated with classical music. Understanding chord structure and voicing is the key to truly enjoying Beethoven; musical commoners simply think they are enjoying it.

This is no fault of their own. Classical music is an acquired flavor that must be first tasted at a young age. It takes the top-notch education of a top-notch mind to feel chills during the theme to Handel’s “Messiah.” Only after dissecting the chord progressions of Shostakovich’s “Ave Maria” can one sense the peaceful ebb and flow of the solo violin’s tune. The opening dark tones of Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony fly over the heads of the majority of the population.

It’s unfortunate that deciphering classical music is like reading hieroglyphs for these people, for they are the ones who fill the auditorium at East choir, band and orchestra concerts. Sure, they clap and cheer when the musicians finish their pieces, but most don’t understand what they’re clapping and cheering for. They can’t pick out those pieces’ counter melodies, nor can they identify diminished chords.

The musicians are thus the ones who truly suffer, for the fruits of their labor are continuously lost on an audience that can’t tell C major from A minor. After all, doesn’t the essence of enjoying music lie in understanding the theory behind it?

Of course it does. I already said that.

If only everyone could feel the gravity of classical music! The millions of dollars symphonies spend on violins, violas, cellos, basses, flutes, oboes, bassoons, clarinets, trumpets, trombones, tubas and horns, along with the time of the musicians who play them, wouldn’t be wasted. Likewise, Kauffman Center would be a hub for musical intelligence, not a shack for nostalgic commoners who once played clarinet in middle school.

It’s tragic, really, that they will never realize what is flying over their heads.

I don’t go home until long past the sun has set and long past when most people have eaten dinner.

This past Tuesday night is a prime example of how I keep stress levels low. I got home at 9:30 p.m., after working on journalism, prepping for debate and participating in a pep-band game.

I will admit, this seems to be paradoxical, but being at East long after a majority of the school’s students and teachers have departed calms me. And do you know what? I don’t think I’m the only one that sees East as a safe haven.

From witnessing writers and editors working to meet deadlines or the drum line practicing or the categories team making fact sheets, I have seen others survive the stresses high school by (somewhat ironically) spending more time at school. Ultimately, it is this level of involvement and care for our school which makes East such a great place.

To me, this is the greatest testament to the quality of our school. Many members of the East family have become so close-knit not because of the top-notch classes and strict academics we tout, but by common interests. East is special because we transcend the expectations of a good school. We aren’t just honors and AP and IB classes, but a small community of kids who experience a genuine creative and intellectual outlet among one another.

When I get home, the early birds are going to sleep. Yet this doesn’t bother me; I know my academic growth will be pushed forward because I apply my real life encounters to my studies and essays. The hours I have spent after school with other kids who value these real life learning experiences as much (or more than) learning within the classroom, those strictly school things tend to come a little easier and my stresses seem more mellow.

At the end of the day, I feel that this collection of knowledge is what will help me the most– both in my challenging classes, and the future that I see for myself after high school and college.

After all, finals only last a few hours. And I don’t get to drive home to the sunset afterwards.

To preface this, yes, I am Jewish but my father’s side of the family is Christian, so I guess I’m a little bit of both. Because my dad’s side of the family lives further away we usually are unable to spend Christmas with them.

So three years ago I decided that I wanted to have the stereotypical Jewish Christmas: seeing a movie that had just opened, getting Chinese food and playing board games.

It took a little convincing, and by that I mean which movie to see. But eventually my mom, dad, brother and I were all on our way to see “Sherlock Holmes.”

Afterwards we called my Aunt Liz and grandmother, whom we affectionately call Ram, and invited them to our little get together. We spent about an hour discussing what to order because we had to figure out who would be sharing what and whether or not we wanted leftovers but finally we called the best Chinese restaurant around: New China Town.

The next few hours were exactly what I needed on Christmas day, a day when I was usually deprived of family and other human interaction. With my dad’s side of the family all together in Pennsylvania or South Carolina, Christmas was always the time that it was usually just all of our family members in our own little corners, reading, playing video games or watching TV.

As the next Christmas began creeping nearer and nearer our new tradition was getting a little bit of tweaking. Because our Jewish Christmas was so new we allowed for shifts to be made. I mean, traditions aren’t made in a day, right? If only I had known this tweaking would forever shape the Jewish Christmas tradition as we knew it.

Ram had decided that this year we would have dinner be a little more high end. No more dumpy New China Town (my father and my all time favorite) for us! We were going to order Bo-Lings. Unfortunately, Christmas day turns out to be the worst day for Bo-Lings. I don’t know if the chefs didn’t try, if they spat in our food because we made them work on Christmas eve or if it was just an especially dry batch of chicken but basically no one had a good meal.

But that is exactly what is so great about my family and Jewish Christmas. After just half an hour we were all poking fun at Ram for insisting on Bo-Lings and demanding that she swear we get New China Town the next year.

To us, Jewish Christmas is just one big, fun joke of a holiday and that is why it is one of the best. We gorge ourselves on lo mein and dumplings, watch silly movies and play Catch Phrase until our voices go. What could be more meaningful than that?

As Arthur Dent moved through universe after universe, following his insane friends and a depressed robot, I could easily follow along and found it quite humorous even at a young age. Recently, however, I decide to pick it up again and a quite different experience awaited me. While, on the surface, it was just as comical as I remembered, there were many elements of the story that had simply flown over my head.

Throughout the book and the rest of the Hitchhiker’s series, Adams explores many aspects of humanity and points out truths about our world that we simply overlook.

The first book in the series begins with Arthur Dent lying in front of a bulldozer trying to prevent the destruction of his house. This soon becomes a pointless action as an intergalactic fleet of bulldozers arrives to destroy Earth. Arthur manages to escape the demolition of his planet with the help of his friend Ford Prefect and together the pair journey through a ridiculously imagined universe. They soon discover that Earth was merely a supercomputer designed to discover not the answer to the meaning of life (which happens to be 42) but instead the question to which 42 is the answer. Confusing right? The book ends with our protagonist escaping from the clutches of…well…mice, and then the book leaves off with a cliffhanger as the characters decide where to go to dinner.

The subsequent books follow a similar trajectory (and by that I mean there is no trajectory), but do not be turned away by the random path. While it seems to be nonsense, it is simply Adam’s way of surrounding big, somewhat depressing issues in humor. Throughout the book he talks about the stupidity of human interactions with one another, shows that governments are always flawed, and tries to determine just what is the meaning to life.

After reading this, the book probably sounds dense and philosophical. Its not. That’s just what I took out of it. You can easily return to a blissful child-like state and skip the passages of Adams’ opinions. And if you do it is still an incredibly hilarious enjoyable read. What makes “The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy” great, however, is the fact that it is an entire man’s philosophy in an incredibly enjoyable, 200 page package.

That night I loyally presented my parents with the paper and expressed my interest in learning music. We discussed it and finally arrived upon a conclusion; I could do it, and with that a new fundamental facet of my person was established. The act itself was mundane, but by opening the door to music I took the first step on a path that would yield an enormous impact on my life. Music has not only created a fun hobby, but has influenced the way I think, feel about the world.

Fifth grade arrived and it was time for me to purchase my instrument and begin my foray into music. The Toon Shop happily catered to my lessons, and left me equally happily outfitted with a clarinet and all new peripherals. My parents also agreed to begin me on a private lesson program; I would meet my new teacher next week. After the initial shock wore off all I could do was marvel at the black and silver contraption— shining, intricate, and totally unfathomable.

Band class was a highly anticipated day by many; lots of my friends had also begun to contemplate their instruments. On that first day we walked into the music room laughing nervously, excited to discover the hidden magic in our odd shaped chunks of metal and plastic. In that hour long first lesson, much of the wonder and chagrin was shed from band, but in that same sense it became accessible and real.

For some of the kids this disillusionment was decidedly negative and they failed to join us for the second class, but personally, I found it to be eye opening and encouraging. Shortly following my public school introduction I met with my private lesson instructor. I was shy and felt overtly ignorant, but Mr. Isaac was a calming influence and reassured my confidence in a musical future. Practicing would be a large time commitment, and rounding the learning curve would be tedious and sometimes painful.

In retrospect, though these tentative initial experiences with music eased me perfectly into the flexible yet dedicated attitude that I would need. This encouragement and personal growth has characterized my lifetime experimentation in the musical arts and has been a positive constant that will always provide me with support.

But, as professed in an earlier post, because I am an Asian food addict, my mind instantly wondering towards soy sauce and ginger…but it’s the day after Thanksgiving. What Asian cuisine complements all

Sarah King | Harbinger Online

Shuffling through the cabinets, the freezer, the fridge, I was able to excavate a random jar of frozen pumpkin puree, wonton wrappers, and mushrooms and through these findings I became inspired to concoct a fresh gander at the holiday meal: pumpkin dumplings. A splash here, a smidge there, I chopped and diced until I arrived at contentment, sweet, salty, umami-y contentment. Asian comfort food at its best, pumpkin dumplings with cabbage sauté and cranberry dipping sauce is where it’s at.

Pumpkin Dumplings
(yields 30 or so dumplings)

1 cup pumpkin puree
2 Tbl minced ginger root
1 tsp garlic chili paste
4 oz (or more) cooked shrimp (cut
into chunks)
some thawed frozen spinach
dash of cinnamon
¼ tsp toasted sesame oil
1 Tbl soy sauce
1 package of wonton wrappers (or, if you have time, making your own is a lot of
fun, this women’s recipe is the bomb: http://www.asiandumplingtips.com/)

In a small bowl combine all ingredients. Place one tablespoon, approximately, onto each wonton wrapper. Wet the edges of

Sarah King | Harbinger Online

To cook you can either steam them on a bed of cabbage leaves in a steaming basket over boiling water for 10 minutes or boil in a large pot for 8-10 minutes. The dumplings are done when the dough is semi-clear. There are numerous ways to cook dumplings so I encourage you to look at the wonton wrapper’s instructions and online.
For the cranberry dipping sauce, simply take ¼ cup leftover cranberry sauce from your thanksgiving meal combined with 3 Tbl soy sauce, chili paste to taste, a splash of vinegar and some water.

I’m not just talking about the constant exchanging of “Hellos,” “Good mornings,” and “How are yous,” that Dr. Karl Krawitz offers to anyone he passes in the hallway. I’m not just talking about the assembly at the beginning of my sophomore year where Dr. K addressed the recent alcohol related deaths so concernedly that no East student has dared to die since. I’m not just talking about his inspiring speeches or his enthusiasm at pep assemblies–including that time when he and other administrators dressed as the lead guitarist from KISS in full makeup, black wig and leather. I’m not just talking about his perfect attendance at every musical, every swim meet and every football game.

I’m talking about Dr. Krawitz’s personal connection with students: hand-written congratulation letters.

Last week, sitting in my French class, I was delivered a white envelope with “Emily Donovan” written in black ink. Inside was one of Dr. K’s trademark motivational cards where his neat, cursive writing congratulated me on my recognition at the journalism convention and sent me the best of luck with the remainder of my school year. “Excellence,” it was labeled.

Last year, I received a card applauding my “willingness to make a difference” by working at the Johnson County Election Office for a day. “It is acts of this nature,” he wrote, “which need to be honored.”

Dr. Krawitz’s endearing appreciation for every major accomplishment by group or individual isn’t just written, it’s proven: he cheers on athletes at games, makes announcements to encourage charity can drives and attends plays to congratulate everyone involved.

The halls and classrooms were buzzing today–but not about free speech or Governor Brownback. Students and teachers are concerned about Dr. Krawitz.

“The media is the only winner here; everyone else has been victimized.”

The students and their privacy have always been Dr. K’s primary concern. His public statement to the media has been, “It is a school issue, a private issue, not a public matter.”

Yet, the media chose to continue the story without waiting for more sources to fact-check. Newspapers and television have exploited this situation at the cost of all parties involved.

The student herself has become controversial within the school. While there is some empathy in the air, much of the student body is overwhelmingly disappointed.

The sentiment is clear: the inaccuracies and gaps in the published reports are jeopardizing the school.

The administration and staff are flooded with emails from misinformed readers from across the nation and globe who use profanities and quote blatant falsehoods. Seriously, what did my English teacher do to receive insults via mass email?

Concerned citizens are voicing their opinions all the wrong ways, in all of the wrong places.

Within Shawnee Mission East, we all seem to know that Dr. Krawitz held a 15-minute meeting in his office with a school administrator acting as a witness where he explained how disrespect misrepresented the school and recommended writing a letter of apology to the governor, the teacher sponsor and the district coordinator, without making demands or threatening punishment.

Outside of the building, the public has been told an entirely different story. The Kansas City Star, CNN, Time, The Atlantic, Politico and other news sources’ decision to publish the story with unverified information is not only unethical but irresponsible. The public has fallen for their sensationalism and is now turning against our faculty.

In a week, #heblowsalot will have blown over for Governor Brownback. However, Dr. Krawitz, the rest of the staff and the student body may never fully clear their names.

What the media tried to transform into a freedom of speech issue in order to make headlines and pull in audiences has changed our high school’s dynamic. The media is the only winner here; everyone else has been victimized.

Almost four years ago, Dr. Krawitz welcomed me and my classmates to high school, promising us that he would always be there to support us, from that first orientation day to graduation. Now it’s time for us to support him–and the school as a whole.

We don’t want vindication. We don’t want to drag this through headlines again to get the “real” story out. We just want to go through one day without talking about this in all seven classes. Everyone here at East hopes to unite, forgive and move on.

The media has it wrong. Dr. Krawitz and attitudes like his make Shawnee Mission East excellent.

People talked about how Kenny was that kind of person you would meet and instantly feel like you’re best friends with, like you could go to him for anything. How even if you only met him once, he greeted you like family. How he was smart, and kind, and noble and selfless. How his devotion to his wife, Connie, was unmatched. How even though she died of cancer six months earlier, he stayed strong for his girls’ sake. How, even then, he never lost his faith. How nobody expected to be burying another Cardell this soon.

The tears fell faster as I remembered his daughter Maddie’s unconditional kindness to me when I first moved here. I sat there wishing, regretting, hoping.

Wishing that I had never lost touch with her after she left East.

Regretting following the crowd freshman year when everybody stopped talking to her for some petty reason.

Hoping that there was still a chance of friendship with this amazing person.

A few weeks ago, I thought about the Cardells. I thought about how Maddie and I planned a lunch date that we never went on and wondered if we could go on it over Thanksgiving or Christmas break and catch up.

Even though it had been years since I had been inside the Cardell home and talked to Kenny, I know he would have greeted me like nothing had changed, because he was the kind of person who always gave second chances.

Loss changes you. It makes you realize what you’ve got and what you’re capable of. Some of us are blessed enough to have the kind of impact on people that Kenny had.

When Kenny Cardell passed away on Saturday, Nov. 19, 2011 at 1:30 p.m. due to an unexpected heart attack, he left his world behind for a better one. The amount of people that showed up to his funeral is a testament to his life. I hope to be half the person Kenny was.

My friends and I made plans for it at the last second.

“You bought your ticket yet?”

“No, I’m getting it at lunch tomorrow.”

This went on for several days before we realized that it was Friday and the dance was less than 12 hours away.

During the few hours between the end of the Frequent Friday and when I was meeting my friends, I rushed around my house trying to decide between the leopard print dress that my sister had worn to MORP one year and my sequined, hippy Halloween costume from a few years back. Eventually the sequins won out with their shimmery charm.

After my friends and I arrived at East, showed our student IDs, and gave our tickets to the teachers at the door, we walked into the cafeteria. It was still fairly early, so the room was oozing with that awkward “should-we-dance-yet?” feeling. As the room slowly filled up, the music got louder and more people moved towards the front of the cafeteria.

The next hour or so was filled with an odd mixture of popular music, dubstep, and some songs, such as “Jump On It,” that no one had heard since middle school.

***

Later that evening, even my friend, who always complains about not liking dances, was joining in on our very freshman-girl sounding review of the night, full of laughter and raised voices.

Turns out that the simplicity is MORP’s superpower. It’s an uncomplicated, relaxed night of fun and that’s why I’m so ready for next year’s.

At the Mall of America yesterday, a native Minnesotan returned $10 that I had dropped. Not only did this man return the bill but several other people had tried to do the same before the money found its way back to my hands.

You can tell who is from where based on the two second interaction you have with them; it is safe to give a casual smile when passing strangers in a mall in the Midwest. Southern hospitality has nothing on us. More often than not, Midwesterners are friends in a matter of minutes.

There is a regional understanding of the suffering we endure. We share cold winters, hot summers and a love for baseball. Most of our cities have lost their place in the spotlight and are trying to make a comeback. A lot of us don’t have much to look at outside of our windows: no oceans, no mountains, no grand landmarks.

We dig a little deeper, listen a little harder and enjoy nice weather a little more.

We are the forgotten middle. We used to be the frontier, but as innovation swept to the Wild West, we were shoved aside. But here I am, calling for action: we can take it back. We can be the innovators, steal the thunder of the coasts. We knew what being the west was before the west did. We knew what harsh conditions were the moment we settled. We knew.

Listen up, coastal America: you may have the the tourist attractions, the natural beauty and the weather but you might learn a thing or two about compassion from those of us from the middle.

As I started listening to the mixes more and more, my dad began handing me CDs more frequently. The other morning for instance, my dad placed a CD with “Poor Edgar 2.0” written on it in my hand.

Half way through my winding drive to school through Mission Hills I popped in the CD. Expecting some Edgar Allan Poe themed jams I wasn’t too surprised by the rock n’ roll version of “The Tell-Tale Heart.” On the other hand, when Willem Dafoe started reciting “The Raven” with no background music I did a double take.

But after about three seconds I realized how incredibly typical of my dad that song choice was. My dad is the guy whose mix CDs have names like “Heart’s Filthy Lesson,” an album with Cake’s version of “Never, Never Gonna Give You Up” (a cover of a Barry White song) as well as Nine Inch Nails’ song “Closer.”

My dad’s mix tapes are now the only thing that play in my car. They are constantly on repeat not only because they are awesome but also because they hold so many memories. We played the “October People” mix every night I had rehearsals for “Night of the Living Dead” and “A Shiny Toy Mix” is our jam session of choice for long car rides to Hutchinson.

I’m beyond grateful for my dad’s weird taste in music and so glad that he is kind enough to take the time to share it with me. Whereas I used to shudder when he tried to hand me a new mix I am now begging for more. So next time you see me jamming in my car, don’t be surprised if I’m singing the words to an Edgar Allan Poe poem.

I am sitting at The Roasterie, a Brooklyn Bob in front of me. A soft chair behind me. A folded leg beneath me. And two French tourists next to me. And I don’t know if it is the accents, the fact that they’re foreign, or maybe that they might be kind of cute. But I feel exactly as Joel Barish does in the quote above. It’s not the first time either. Anytime I go anywhere I see the love of my life. Or a love of my life. So much so that it almost takes meaning away from the phrase.

I seem to revel in being a hopeless romantic, pursuing promising prospects up until the moment when they commit to liking me in return and then, all of a sudden, their beauty seems less sharp, their “interesting personality” not quite so exciting. I like being half heart broken, feeling pain for what could be rather than what is.

Enter “Almost Maine”, a play written by John Cariani and set in a cold, fictional Northern Maine town. Nine short vignettes make up a tale of love below the northern lights as couples find or lose each other in various ways. What makes the author unique is that he takes metaphors and forces them into reality. In one story, a woman returns bags of an unknown substance to her boyfriend and proclaims them to be “all the love he has given her.” Later, a man can’t stop falling down as he literally falls in love with his best friend.

I’ll be honest here. I never cry when reading. When Finnie dies in “A Separate Peace”, my eyes remained dry. The end of “The Great Gatsby”? Not a tear. As character after character found themselves hopelessly entrapped by an all too familiar feeling, I caught myself welling up several times.

And now I’m sitting next to strangers, wondering if love can be as instantaneous as Cariani makes it seem. Can feelings arise so suddenly? Absolutely not. I know that. The world knows that. But for some reason reading it on a page makes it seem possible, plausible, preferable.