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A Wee Bit O Pop for Your Morning

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Let’s do this.

There’s a new Lego Movie trailer. I’m an unabashed fan of the Lego games, yet I still feel a little sheepish stating that I’m actually looking forward to the Lego Movie. It looks pretty funny, it’s got a number of my favorite comedic actors in it, as well as Liam Fucking Neison. That being said, he was also in Battleship, so…ugh. That being said, I couldn’t be more excited about a Will Arnett Batman. Here’s the newest trailer for Lego.

Also in movie news, Ender’s Game came out this past Friday. The author of the series, Orson Scott Card, is staunchly anti-gay and has given to numerous anti-gay causes. He’s written numerous essays and articles stating his often violent views toward homosexuals and those who would support them, including “If the Constitution is defined in such a way as to destroy the privileged position of marriage, it is that insane Constitution, not marriage, that will die.” Naturally, this has caused some concern amongst those interested in seeing the film or reading any of his further works. Is it possible to separate the man from the art or will doing something as simple as attending a movie, feed his bank account and therefore views that are aggressive in their inhumane intent toward a particular people? In light of this, Buzzfeed has written an interesting article on boycotting films and whether or not they actually ever work as intended.

As far as human rights go, a member of Pussy Riot has been moved to a different penal colony in Russia. She had faced attacks and subsequently undertook a hunger strike in protest to her incarceration. Apparently 23 year old Nadezhda Tolokonnikova was moved to a more secure prison on October 21st and her family was told they would be informed of her new whereabouts within 10 days. As of November 2nd, her husband reported that they had still not been told of her new location. Pussy Riot is a feminist punk rock group that has frequently criticized bigotry in Catholicism as well as Vladimir Putin. For their participation in a protest, two members of the group were sentenced to two years in a penal colony. At the time of sentencing Tolokonnikova stated “Our imprisonment serves as a clear and unambiguous sign that freedom is being taken away from the entire country.”

And because airports are unsafe and annoying as hell already, an alligator was found in O’Hare this past weekend. Illinois is of course the most perfect climate for gators. And he was stuck under the escalator no less (I’m sure there’s an escagator joke in there some where, but I refuse to touch it). Luckily it was only a baby, think Elvis from Clarissa Explains It All. In light of recent events, I would much rather grapple with a wild animal than a human.

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A paleontologist at Mount Holy Oak believes he has proof that the Kraken was a real sea beasty. Listen, it’s something like 90% of our oceans are undiscovered wastes of terror and possible Kraken homes, sure, and I’m well aware that Moby Dick was based on a true story (want to be horrified? Look up George Pollard Jr. and his Essex to find out more on pain and whales and cannibalism), but I’m still leaning toward rational explanations for all sea myths and legends. I’m also afraid of open ocean, so maybe my fear makes me biased…

NBC loves them some Tina Fey like fat kids like chocolate cake. It’s been announced that they’re ordering another sitcom from the comedy maven and, while details are sparse, 13 episodes have been ordered for Fall 2014. If you need to have your memory jogged of the absurd, TheDailyBeast has some of the best moments from 30 Rock, including my personal favorite: That time Liz had a threesome with James Franco and an anime body pillow.

In a recent interview for SciFy, Neil Gaiman, Lord of Dreams, Master of Mine, revealed the origins of Sandman for its 25th Anniversary. This was a comic I used to buy so much as a kid that my parents actually limited the amount of money I could spend from babysitting and my allowance on. Naturally, I then started spending the surplus on drugs. Good work, guys.

Neil Gaiman Sandman Origins

And in the vein of anniversaries, just a friendly reminder: The trailer for the 50th anniversary Doctor Who special will hit on November 15th.

The Value of a Dollar

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I chat throughout my day with friends online. We live in a world of almost constant communication and business never rests, so the opportunity for a lunch or break of any kind comes few and far between. Or not at all. The periodic chat with a friend helps break up the day without having to take more than a minute or two away from email. Helps morale. And some times, a good memory comes up.
______________________________
Patrick:  so tell me something
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me:  Are you following that up with a question that you want an answer to, or are you asking me to tell you a story, joke, etc?
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Patrick:  story
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me:  Hmm….okay….
So, I’ve had glasses for more than half my life. The first time my folks allowed me to get a more expensive pair, one that I could pick out myself, however, was when I was about 15.
I was so excited and had waited for them to come in for, like, 2 weeks, which to a 15 year old girl is an ETERNITY.
I picked them up on a Saturday and almost immediately headed over to Joanna’s wearing them, much to the shargrin of my folks.
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Joanna and I were going to camp in her back yard, in the sand of her volley ball court, which was surrounded by dense forest.
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Patrick:  ok
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me:  Our friend Jeremy lived next door, so he was having Tommy and Brendon over, and they were going to sneak out and camp with us – no hanky panky on my part, I was just good buds with those boys.
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We go out, play all night, wrestle, talk, split a beer so we’re all “drunk”, play music, whatever. Kids crap.
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I wake up in the morning and …
                                                           …where are my glasses?
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Where are they?
WHERE ARE THEY?!
                                                                                                                           Fuck, they’re not here.
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Oh, my god, my folks are going to kill me.
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HOLY CRAP!!!!!
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                                                       ….but what are you going to do?
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After a couple of hours of crying and panicking I had resolved myself to simply tell my parents that the glasses were lost and they’d just have to buy me a new pair and move on with what ever punishment.
How bad could it be? A grounding for a week? Two? Not bad, survivable certainly.
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But my folks had other ideas.
Yes, this is really my mother. I took this picture while she was yelling at me as a young adult…
…and had it put on a mug for her that same year for Christmas. She did not like it.
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So enraged were they about the lost glasses, that they refused to buy me a new pair, as they should have.
I was told I would not be getting a new pair, which would put my future in jeopardy because I would not be able to drive without them, heaven’s to betsy!
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I couldn’t not learn to drive in the next year!
{Appropriate Teenage Freakout ensues}
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So, I headed back to Joanna’s and searched.
                                           And searched.
                                                                 And searched.
                                                                               Until it was night again.
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Defeated, I crawled back home, face puffy and red from crying all day.
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My folks, still angry, took a small bit of pity on me, and the next day my father took me to Home Depot.
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…To rent a metal detector.
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And sent me back over to Joanna’s to resume the search.
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It took about another hour, but lo-and-behold, I found the with the damn metal doohickey. Not even a scratch on the lenses or anything. I had never been so relieved.
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 Guess what I gave my Dad for Christmas?
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Patrick: a metal detector?
me: Was there any question?

Like Dinos for Ponies

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A few weeks back I made this big stink about writing more frequently and yet since that time I have wound up writing less than ever.

I haven’t cooked anything new.

I’m still in the office a million hours a week.

And now I’ve taken on a second job, albeit a small one at one night a week, as a Quiz Master.

So, I’m writing today, dammit.

I’m trying to find meaning and balance in my life. I say “meaning”, maybe that’s a bit harsh. I am an adult now, which is easy to claim on the basis of age, but much harder to grasp in terms of…everything else. I have no children because they are expensive. Also, they smell, but I could probably get over that. I do not feel settled in my career because when you’re a child there is only the want to be. To be an astronaut, a veterinarian, a doctor, a teacher, a lion wrangler, something definitive, something viewed as great, and you’re blissfully unaware in youth of the lesser positions, such office administration, personal assisting, the horrible world that is retail, etc. You think everything is fair, that you work 8:30am to 5pm, at which point you’re allowed to have a life and holidays off. And for working those hours you earn enough cash to afford said life, a vacation once a year, medical bills, the surprise of a car breaking down. The world has changed, however. And I am cranky for it.

Where am I going with this? I don’t know. Maybe the world hasn’t changed.

Adulthood – Something I’ve sparred with more than once on here. It’s hard to view one’s self as a true adult as I base my idea of an adult on my parents, who I viewed most while a child in the 1980’s. Also, at its core my life is one of learning, of being excited for art, history, the beauty, destruction, and evolution of our past. This blurs the lines of being an adult personally because one is supposed to let go of the loves you have as a child as you grow into maturity. As a child I loved learning, I loved museums. And I will not let go of those.

Speaking of cores, we all have an inner voice within us. If we didn’t we wouldn’t be able to read silently. Boom. Inner voice. As we grow, mature, and learn this inner voices matures with us, is us, defines our rationals and decision making processes. Every once in a while, however, my inner voice isn’t me.

That sounds bizarre and creepy. Scratch that.

What I mean to say is that every once in a while my inner child speaks for my inner voice.

This morning I read an article about a new “Alien Horned” dinosaur discovered in Canada recently. It’s called an “Alien” based on it’s scientific name (Xenoceratops), Xeno of course being latin for Alien. Yeah, no, stop thinking Scientology. I mean, their use of Xenu isn’t exactly wrong, but it’s also not real. Dinosaurs were real (unless of course that offends you, but if it does then you probably wouldn’t be reading my blog).

The point is the new dino didn’t look all that different. He’s instantly recognizable as a close relation to the Triceratops.

Ole’ Xeno himself. (Photo Credit Yahoo News)

So, I see the headline of a new dinosaur discovery and I can’t click fast enough out of childlike wonder and excitement, only for my eyes to rest on a rather familiar-though-slightly-different face. And my inner child’s inner voice takes over and says to me:

“That’s not new. That’s the dinosaur I’d ride like a horse if I lived back then.”

And that’s my first thought on this matter. Not “My, a new relation of a classic. How interesting!”, not “A new discovery! How delightful!”, not “Oh, joy, something new! The World as we know it is astounding!” Nope.

My first thought is that this is boring, because I would ride a triceratops and all of his or her kin like wild ponies of the Cretaceous Period.

WHY is that my first thought looking at poor Xeno Horn over here? First of all, no I wouldn’t have. In the improbable event of finding myself stuck back a few dozens of millions of years ago in the Earth’s beginnings, I would not be saddling up great monsters. Trampled to death? Maybe. Stung by a giant, horrifying insect of yore and left for dead? Most likely. Tour around on a Xenoceratops? Absolutely not. Not only did my inner child hop a ride on a Jules Verne or H.G. Wells premise, but I also came up with the girliest, most childish thought:

Big beast. I ride. He my friend. I call him “Friendy”.

I say “girliest” because though I spent much of my youth working on farms just so I could ride horses, I would have much rather had a dinosaur or pterosaur as a trusty stead; ponies were just practice. This was me at my girliest.

I love history, I respect history, I learn from history. Apparently, however, I will not grow out of my periodic inner child no matter how immature she may forever be.

I don’t think I mind this, though. It’s that childishness that keeps me enthusiastic over the interesting things I love, and I find that joy to be easily contagious to those around me. Maybe it will even make me a good parent, if ever I decide to embark on that experience. I know it certainly made my father a good dad, albeit a pretty corny one.

Summer Charred Caesar Salad

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A misconception of Italians is that pasta is very important to us. I’m not going to lie, it was a staple in my youth growing up. But just as important, if not more so, are vegetables. Everyone in my family gardened, my uncle even had fig trees so large that they busted through his green house in Connecticut. Many of my early memories are sitting in the dirt at my grandparents house, gnawing on a cucumber I picked off the vine while they harvested the other fruits of their labors. And salad was always served at the end of the meal. After the heavy stuff was out of the way, it was onto lightly dressed lettuces, sliced pears, and shared granny smith apples. It seemed like my grandparents always had a pen knife tucked in a pocket or folded into the waist band of an apron, just to easily hand out slices of nature’s bounty.
This was a great way to be raised. If my dinner doesn’t contain a lot of vegetables today then it’s not complete, it only half done to me, or I think it’s simply not healthy. I’m always on the look out for new ways to do the same old – same old. Recently I had made some grilled corn and liked it so much I decided to expand on it. I decided my less than exciting romaine for a Caesar salad needed to be smokey, charred, a flavor you just couldn’t add to salad without real flame.
Salad (Serves 4)
2 hearts of Romaine cut in half the long way
…Yep. That’s it. This is a spin on a Caesar Salad, the magic is in the dressing and preparation, not its contents and co-stars. I also tend to look at croutons as sode: empty calories that ruin anything healthy and are the salad equivalent of a soda with a meal. It may be tasty, but you might as well have a candy bar or something. If your salad is about the croutons, you’re doing it wrong.
Summer Caesar Dressing
  • 1 shallot, thinly sliced
  • 1 tsp Dijon mustard
  • 1/2 tsp Worcester sauce
  • 2 tablespoons mayonnaise
  • 1/4 cup olive oil
  • 1/4 cup grated Parmesan
  • Pepper
  • Juice of 1 lemon
  • 1 egg yolk
  • 1 tsp anchovy paste (Optional…or, in my house, Non-existent)

Caramelize the shallots. While those are working on their golden brown deliciousness, whisk everything else in a small bowl. Once caramelized, remove the shallots to cool a bit. You want to add them to the dressing when they’re warm so they don’t cook the egg, but do help thicken the dressing; letting them sit about 4-5 minutes should be fine.

Preheat your grill to high, clean the grates, and rub them down with vegetable or olive oil. Place the cut halves of Romaine flat/cut side down and don’t touch for 1-2 minutes. They char quick and you don’t want them completely blackened.

Remove from heat, and plate grilled side up. Drizzle the Caesar-ish dressing over the grilled side, allowing the dressing to drip in between the layers of lettuce. Top with a little more Parm if you’re so inclined. Served with chicken or a grilled steak makes a memorably delicious meal.

 

PopTastic – The Hobbit, Ghost Busters, X-Men & More

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* So…The Hobbit is going to be 3 movies. There isn’t a script yet…or a budget…but, yeah, 3 films. [GeeksOfDoom]

* Global Warming opponents can go to Hell – and those in Oklahoma may very well be headed there. According to new reports, the current freak heat wave they’re experiencing is causing the street lights to melt. If we’re not going to alter our climate changing ways, we’ll have to at least tweak “Hot as balls” to “Hot as melting balls”. Naturally. [Inquistr]

* There have been a lot of talk about another Ghost Busters film claiming to be official. The newest comes from Cinema Blend stating that Bill Murray is officially out of any kind of future sequel. Granted, this story quotes Dan Aykroyd, but I’m still only taking it with a grain of salt. The only person who can say whether or not he’d be in is Murray himself, and even he wembles – it’s a word; look it up in the Fraggle Dictionary. The fact of the matter remains: These men are old. Like Indiana saving relics from the Nazi’s, perhaps this story should close completely. Can’t Hollywood come up with some new ideas, not simply “new-ish”? [CinemaBlend]

Photo Credit Inquistr

* The next X-Men movie has a name and it’s not “Second Class”. The next X-Men film, expected, will be called X-Men: The Days of Future Past, which to me is wordy and a bit Doctor Who-y. It’s also a fairly well known storyline of the comic book, making it a bit of a spoiler alert. This comes on the heels of set photos and video from the set Wolverine 2, which is currently filming. [HotOffThePressesHollywood Hills]

* There are rumors afoot that Jimmy Fallon may be in talks to host the 2013 Oscars. Lorne Michaels is expected to produce. Think he can get through any funny bits without giggling? I’m a fan of Jimmy Fallon, truly, and feel he’s definitely come into his own as a talk show host on Late Night with Jimmy Fallon. [LATimes]

* Will Ferrell is super upset about Kristen Stewart cheating on Robert Pattinson, y’all. Like, super upset. Even calls BitchFace a TRAMPire. Oh, that “bitchface” thing? She’s got super bitchface, it’s just a matter of fact. Listen, if you want me to get all girly about it, no one should be so pussy whipped that he’s willing to dip his pen in the same ink at the same time as another man. Also, she’s shit for acting, also just matter of fact. Don’t let losers drag down your own rising star. Boom. What was I talking about again? [Inquistr]

Spicy Coconut Curry Stir Fry with Tropical Quinoa

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In the ever constant search for something new and exciting in the kitchen, I’ve decided to start making that which I crave from restaurants. The below recipe is very similar in flavor to P.F.Chang’s/Pei Wei’s Thai Coconut Curry sauce. I made this with a teaspoon of red pepper flakes and a teaspoon of chip oil and the heat is barely noticeable, just a hint, which is nice. And my heat tolerance is not very hot at all. Filled with veggies, lean protein, and quinoa instead of rice, this is a flavorful, healthy dinner that comes together relatively quickly and is super tasty! This makes enough for 4 people. You can also use shrimp instead of chicken for extra awesomeness.

Sauce

1 TBSP Sharwood’s Mild Curry Powder (That’s what I used because it was easily found in my local grocery store, but you can use whatever you like or can find.)

1 tsp red pepper flakes

1 tsp chili oil

2 tsp ginger

juice of one lime

1 cup coconut milk (You can use Lite if you’d prefer)

1 tsp black pepper

1 tsp salt

Mix the sauce ingredients in a bowl, whisk together, and let sit for flavors to marry. Set it aside.

Stir Fry

1 20oz. can pineapple chunks, drained (reserve some liquid for the quinoa if making as below). You want to slice up a pineapple fresh? Go nuts.

1 red bell pepper cut into 1 inch pieces

1 small or 1/2 large white onion, diced

1 1/2 cups snow peas

1 8oz. can baby corn, cut or whole

6 oz. boneless skinless chicken breast

2 TBSP coconut milk

3 cloves minced garlic

In a large sauté pan, caramelize or brown the pineapple chunks over medium high heat, about 10-12 minutes. Remove pineapple from pan and set aside in a bowl for later. Add a TBSP vegetable or olive oil in the same pan without cleaning the yummy residue left over from the pineapple. Add the chicken and brown, just cooking through, about 4 minutes per side. Remove chicken from pan and set aside. In the same pan add another TBSP of oil and toss in the onion and red bell pepper. After about 2 minutes, turn the heat down to medium.

Quinoa

1 1/2 cup uncooked quinoa

1 cup chicken broth/stock

1 cup + 2 TBSP coconut milk

2 TBSP pineapple juice (bottled or from the can of pineapple chunks)

Place the quinoa and liquids into a sauce pan. Heat to a boil, cover, and then turn the heat down to a simmer and for 10 minutes. Remove from heat and leave covered for an additional 5 minutes. Fluff with a fork and try not to immediately start gorging yourself on this. It’s super tasty, slightly sweet, and a little nutty. The perfect compliment to the Stir Fry.

Whale of a Fear

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I’m horrible to watch Antiques Roadshow with. I find myself shouting at the screen a la Indian Jones, “That belongs in a museum!”

And this really is the core of my being: I am excited by old things, find them amazing, fascinating, want them to be accessible to all, and want to get others excited about these objects as well. To learn is to better one’s self and I’d love to write and educate, to spread enthusiasm for something in my daily career.

There are 2 things I want to do with my life. To the average person, they’re very mundane. But to me, however, they’re the equivalent of becoming a rock star.

I want to:

1. Write lesson plans in accordance to state regulations for historical societies and museums in order to entice local schools to take field trips to such establishments.

Or

2. Work and write for Cook’s Country/America’s Test Kitchen, working as an Ethno-Foodologist or, even better, a Food Archeologist.

When I was in junior high and high school I would skip class about once a month or so. None of my friends would ever want to join me and my parents were always very supportive of these escapades. You’d think I had egghead friends and that’s why they wouldn’t skip, or that I had hippy dippy parents that would allow me to be so flagrant about my education, but neither was the case. Well, my mom could kinda be hippy dippy, but that’s a different story. When I decided to skip school I would get a ride to the train station and take Metro North to Grand Central Station. Exciting, right? Who wouldn’t want to skip school to hang out in The City all day?! I would then walk up Park Ave. to The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Or I would head west across the park to the American Museum of Natural History (or what’s know as the Museum of Mother Fucking Awesomeness by its fans) and I would spend hours and hours reading in silence, smiling over beauty…with the periodic stop off at the Central Park Zoo to finish the trip. I did this over and over and over again.  In high school I was fairly popular, I was certainly no prude, and the most epic parties were normally hosted by my brother or I. But when it came to what I really wanted, it was historical solitude. I would have shared that time with others, allowing them to tag along, but who cared for those things but me?

Photo Credit Jessica Hische

I’m extremely fortunate in the sense that I’ve been to the museums of NYC so frequently that I can’t even count the days spent in their ancient and loving embrace. Dozens of times? Definitely. Hundreds? Very possible. I’ve moved away from that area a couple of times since graduating high school and being unable to take advantage of those museums is always the number one issue that I have when living more than a train ride away. I guess I miss my family, too, but I really  miss those museums. In fact, when I visit my family, a jaunt to a museum in NYC is always one of the first afternoons planned. I am not so ego maniacal to ever think I could work at the Museum of Natural History or the Metropolitan Museum of Art. In order to do something like that I would have had to make all the right moves, and absolutely no mistakes, in the professional decisions of my life. The employees and curators of those establishments are my heros, my Steven Tylers and Brad Pitts. Unfortunately, it seems I’ve done the opposite of not making professional blunders thus far in my life. I’ve created quite the resume and educational experience with not one, but two degrees under my belt. They’re just as far from the museum and/or food path as humanly possible. Awesome.

The first time in memory of going to a museum, I was about three years old and with my parents and brother. We headed out to the Museum of Natural History. My brother and I never really got along very well, and on trips like this we were more simply in the same place at the same time rather than actually experiencing something together. We walked passed the dinosaur skeleton in the entry hall and made our way around the mammoths and the naked, hairy neanderthals with the droopy boobs. This was prior to the Rose Center, otherwise we would have probably made a bee line for the giant glass box of Space. The favorite at this time, however, was the Great Hall. The Great Hall is massive, primarily so it can fit the life-sized model of a blue whale. It’s romantically lit, and by that I mean, that it’s somewhat dark, like the depths of the ocean. It consists of two levels with marine life exhibits lining the walls and a large open area in the center, from which one can admire the whale.

Photo credit Linden78. That bitch’ll crush yo’ ass.

I say “admire”.

There are two things I remember from this day, one of my earliest trips to the AMNH:

1. Being horrified in the Great Hall by this massive whale that was going to crush and/or eat me at any moment while…2. George Michael’s Careless Whisper played over the loud speaker. I mean, yeah, technically it was a Wham! song, but, c’mon, it was all George Michael and that damned whale. My mother said she heard “teeny, tiny pounding feet” and turned to see me flying toward her staring over my shoulder at the whale, horrified. And what self respecting toddler wouldn’t be? Even at that young age I knew anything from above could crush you below, both literally and figuratively.

It’s a hazy memory, but it’s very real, and it didn’t just end with that day.

I then proceded to carry around a fear of being in an ocean for years. Playing in the surf = good. Playing far enough out where water could go over your head and therefore allow you to be crushed from above by a whale = bad. It wasn’t until I was in my twenties that I could picture myself getting out of a boat and into open waters. I wasn’t afraid of whales, so much as being in water with them. I grew up along the north eastern seaboard, so going whale watching was a common activity. I respected their beauty and their power. And their ability to crush me in real life in the ocean or as a giant model in a museum.

Soul inhibited experience or no, I knew to differentiate my fear from what actually caused it and not where the experience occurred. Loosely translated: I didn’t blame the museum for this silly fear that followed me around for a couple of decades.

And to this day I want to be apart of some historical and educational organization that learns from and loves the past, whale or no.