I hadn’t listened to ZZ Top since I was a kid, but the other day, out of sheer curiosity, I dove into their This Is ZZ Top playlist on Spotify. My mission? To find out whether the band’s hit songs—you know, those catchy tunes constantly playing on the radio in the ‘80s—are genuinely their best, or simply the ones I’ve learned to love.

As I listened, something immediately became clear: the hits still slapped. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting that. I thought I might discover hidden gems, deep cuts clearly superior to their radio singles. But, surprisingly, “Sharp Dressed Man” still dominated with its relentless groove. “La Grange” still had that magical ability to transport me back to carefree days, cruising in a hot car without air conditioning, enjoying a greasy burger under the summer sun.

This led me to a deeper question: Is a song “better” because it’s masterfully crafted, or because I’ve grown accustomed to hearing it associated with good memories? Am I objectively responding to the musical structure and artistry, or simply reacting to the memories and emotions woven into the song?

Things become even trickier when considering that popular songs might become hits precisely because of this positive familiarity. It’s like classical conditioning—we hear a song during happy moments, and our brain registers it as a masterpiece. But does this make the song objectively superior? Or does it simply confirm that our love for certain songs is an endless loop of nostalgia and emotional association?

Fun fact on the side: ZZ Top’s “Tush” was written in just ten minutes but became one of their most enduring hits. Sometimes hits strike like lightning—or perhaps they simply fit perfectly into radio rotations of their time.

In the end, maybe the answer to what makes a song good isn’t tied strictly to sophisticated musical structures or universal objective value. Instead, perhaps the better question is: what song helps me feel most like myself right now? Maybe that’s enough. Because after all, music doesn’t have to be good for everyone—it just needs to be good for you.

I’ve never taken the LSAT, but I have taken a lot of breaks in diners. Waffle House, Huddle House, Joe’s Diner, Lena’s Diner, Friendly’s when they still had the booths with jukebox buttons. Once, I watched a man in Alabama write his resignation letter on a napkin while drinking five cups of coffee and eating a slice of lemon meringue pie he didn’t seem to enjoy. He looked calm. Maybe calmer than I’ll ever be.

(For context: tech entrepreneur Alexis Ohanian famously decided to abandon law school plans after walking out of the LSAT and heading straight to a Waffle House. Reddit was born soon after. I’m just saying.)

There’s something about diners. They’re less judgmental than cafés, less chaotic than Sheetz, and more permanent than fast food. They sit still while the world spins around them—open late, open early, and open to everyone. And if you sit long enough, maybe over hash browns and an existential crisis, you start to realize that diner menus aren’t just food lists.

They’re records.

Notebooks of regional identity, economic history, culinary defiance. Why does this place serve grits with everything? Because it’s the South. Why is there still liver and onions on the menu? Because someone out there still wants it. Why are the prices in Comic Sans? Because nobody told them not to. And why do so many menus feel like a mash-up of grandma’s handwriting, local tradition, and a mid-’90s Photoshop experiment? Because that’s exactly what they are.

In a world that often erases itself and rebrands every two years, diner menus are holdouts of American self-definition. They’re imperfect, sincere, and strangely trustworthy.

And maybe that’s why tech founders have epiphanies at Waffle House. Not just because of the hash brown bar (although, bless it), but because diners make space for ideas. For overheard conversations. For being alone in public. They’re like coffeehouses, minus the pretense, plus biscuits.

And here’s something else: diners don’t try to manipulate you. You can sit there for hours with a black coffee and a side of scrambled eggs, and no one’s pushing neon ads for triple-bacon stacks or discount cigarettes in your face. You’re a guest, not a target. That matters.

Philosophy majors should hang out in them more often.

Until next time, keep braking for historical markers—and laminated menus.

Overheard Haiku “My hamster is mad— I'm sure he's plotting revenge," pink-haired lady sighs.

Bus driver nodding, sage-like, world-weary, agrees: "Hamsters, man. Who knows."

The silence returns. Wheels rumble philosophical beneath tired feet.

I wonder briefly: Do hamsters lie awake, whispering conspiracies under cedar-chip blankets? Or is it just Monday getting the best of us again?

Wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget… but I still might.

I sat down at the corner café, ready to battle my notebook again, but my coffee betrayed me, turning from fresh espresso to tepid sadness faster than I could open my pen.

Last night’s dreams lingered, absurd: A spiral staircase leading nowhere, and a goldfish gently asking me for career advice.

I offered some tips— (“Swim against the current,” I said, sounding wiser than a half-asleep human has any right to be.)

Today, caffeine is failing at its only job: Coffee hits like tap water, and tap water, well, it feels more like a tranquilizer dart.

Maybe my goldfish client has it easier after all.

Wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget… but I still might.

When I first stumbled onto The P.O.D. Kast, a podcast chronicling the genealogy of nu-metal—mostly out of idle curiosity, plus a nostalgic tickle for late-’90s angst—I fully expected to spend the next hour smirking at the fashions, the haircuts, and the half-baked “angst” lyrics (because let’s be honest, that scene has long been dismissed as macho posturing locked in a time capsule). Instead, I wound up listening to Korn’s self-titled debut album at age 30: in one marathon session, I played it twice back to back; then, a few days later, I returned for another session with three complete playthroughs. It hit me like a sonic cattle prod—jagged, loud, unapologetic—yet beneath the distortion and Jonathan Davis’s snarled vocals I heard something I wasn’t prepared for: a call to drop the act, to stop performing fear, to stop hiding behind rehearsed words.

Picture this: senior year of college, late October, when I recorded a video application for a low-level programming job at Dish Network. Imagine a senior (director’s note: I was at the heaviest I’d ever been, fresh off months of compulsive eating after an ill-advised low-weight junior-year stint) sitting in my dorm room under a single desk lamp—so dim that the outlines of my poster-covered walls blurred into shadow. I read from a rigorously scripted rant about the “cutting-edge technological offerings” of satellite TV—complete with forced enthusiasm, the flourishes of memorized hand gestures, and set-piece bullet points. On tape, I sounded almost passionately engaged; in reality, I was terrified: terrified of graduating with nothing secure, terrified that I would disappoint my family, terrified of my own utter lack of conviction.

My voice that night was thin—borderline squeaky, the kind of awkward octave that suggests you’re trying desperately to overcompensate. My cheeks, swollen like overstuffed pillows from stress and late-night pizza binges, belied any shred of competence I was feigning. I still felt hollow, as though the person speaking on camera was only a marionette with tight strings. I chugged caffeine pills (one of my ersatz “antidepressants”) like they were vitamin C—each swallow a jittery confession that I was too afraid to look myself in the mirror, much less in the eyes of a potential employer.

Behind all of that was the wreckage of my parents’ divorce, which unfolded early in my freshman year and yawned wide for the next four years. By the time I was recording that video, I’d already begun to disintegrate into a creature designed to hit check boxes and chase passing grades—someone whose main survival strategy was to squash every trace of uncertainty.†† Fear had become the lens through which I saw every conversation, every test, every interview. †† In truth, I was a professional checkbox-chaser. If you handed me a form that said “List your accomplishments,” I’d comply with military precision—bullet points, standalone sentences, avoid the semicolons (they look too fancy).

With all that behind me, I discovered Korn for the first time nearly a decade after college. Jonathan Davis snarls (or begs; the emotional register blurs between exasperation and desperation):

“I think bein’ a person relies on one thing— Be yourself, let you come through. You’re too afraid to really be (Be yourself, let you come through). Someone who isn’t false and doesn’t care to be.”

It hit me like a jolt: this wasn’t a “you suck” anthem; it was a “you can still fix this” anthem. Most “you’re so fake” refrains collapse into either a sneer or a bored shrug—just a point-and-laugh. Korn’s “Fake” felt, instead, like an exasperated friend screaming over the din: “Drop the act. You’re better than this.” I imagined how that fearful, pizza-lathered senior-year me would have reacted to the refrain “Let it all go” (that guttural, half-scream/half-sing). I’d have cringed, maybe scoffed, definitely felt ashamed (“Sure, let it go—how exactly do I start?”). Yet I also sensed that, even then, a tiny sliver of me desperately wanted to believe it.

Of course, knowing Jonathan Davis’s own backstory—childhood abuse so wrenching that music became both therapy and lifeline—only cut deeper. It’s staggering to think: a person can cultivate so much pain, so much rage, and still choose not to harden into bitterness. Jonathan Davis’s voice is raw with both venom and empathy, like he’s saying, “I’ve been there too—but I also believe there’s a way forward.” That duality—bitter tenderness laced through brutal honesty—renders the music both brutal and heartbreakingly real.

Listening to Korn, especially “Fake,” made me realize that sometimes the most honest anger can make space for something real to grow. Like a sprout pushing up from the ashes—unexpected, but it happens. That’s hope. That’s renewal. That’s life after pain.

In the end, “Fake” isn’t a cure-all. It’s more like a mirror, showing you the parts of yourself you’d rather hide. For me, that meant confronting a college-era version of myself who believed fear was a valid reason to perform rather than live. And while I can’t say any single song “saved” me, I can say that when I finally heard those lyrics at age 30, I felt seen: told that my fear-driven performance wasn’t the only script available. That, if I chose to, I could let some of it go—if only a sliver—to start taking steps toward something resembling authenticity. Sometimes, a sliver is all you need to begin.

A visual metaphor of the older me sending a Korn-fueled lifeline to my college self. The poster glows like a spectral beacon — part real, part dream — guiding me through the noise.

I sit at my desk with a sense of quiet anticipation, prepared to share with you a piece of writing that means a great deal to me—a piece written by my grandfather, Gordon Alfredson, born on June 26, 1930, in Meriden, Connecticut. His father was an immigrant from the rural area of Västergötland, Sweden, and though the man himself was a man of few words, the legacy he left behind can be felt in every sentence that follows. My grandfather was a man who carried himself with a quiet dignity, an engineer’s meticulous attention to detail, and a love of jazz music that colored his days with notes of improvisation and joy.

Though he never attended college, he was, in his own way, an educated man. He was the sort of man who believed in reading, in the value of civic discussions, and in fixing what needed fixing, both in the world and within himself. He belonged to a generation of working men—he spent his entire career at Ryerson, a steel company in his hometown—who took pride in their work and in the simple act of building something with their own hands.

It occurs to me that in these days, a time so different from his, some may regard men of his background as closed-minded, or even hostile to new ideas. Yet I believe his story shows another side of that world—a time when a man could be blue-collar and still carry a mind open to reflection, curiosity, and growth. My grandfather’s life reminds me that it was not always the case that lines were drawn so sharply between thinking and doing, between working with one’s hands and expanding one’s mind.

In his later years, when the habits of youth caught up with him—when he was forced to carry an oxygen tank with him everywhere—he made a point of stopping young people on the street to tell them not to follow his path into smoking. It was a gesture that spoke of a man who had learned, who carried the humility to admit his mistakes, and the strength to try to spare others from them.

And so today, with a sense of reverence and no small measure of gratitude, I share his words—a glimpse into a time of 1930s Fords, clouds of cigarette smoke rolling from windows, and a camaraderie that made the long days of school bearable. It is a window into a past that, for all its differences, still speaks to the best in us: that desire to reflect, to grow, and to remember what it was to be young.

May you find in this essay not only the voice of Gordon Alfredson, but also a reminder of what it means to live, to think, and to treasure the small joys that make up the story of a life.

---

Between Classes

A Hicks Prize-Winning Essay by Gordon Alfredson

Everything is serene. All but one person is quiet. Everyone is in expectation of a precious moment when they may escape this exhausting tranquility.

I am waiting. Waiting and waiting.

Many thoughts are revolving in my subconscious at this time each day.

I am still waiting.

I begin to believe that the moment I am awaiting will never arrive.

All of the questions which my subconscious is asking me are almost completely answered when a faint, faraway noise rouses me. The moment of great expectation has arrived; instantly, instantly I react to the sound and gather up all of my equipment and make a heroic dash for the doorway, hoping to be the first to reach the outer recesses.

The bell is signaling that the time is twelve twenty-five and that school is dismissed.

Gad, what a relief.

After placing my brain matter under a laborious strain all morning it is a heavenly feeling to have twenty-five minutes of freedom in which to do whatever I please before returning for my seventh period class.

As soon as the dismissal bell rings I rush like a picnicker being chased like a bull. Leaving the room behind I head for my locker where I gather up my coat and lunch. After acquiring these two necessities I hurry outside to rid my lungs of the hot, stagnant air which fills the rooms and corridors of our high school.

After treating my lungs to the fresh, clean air for a few seconds and looking over the woman situation, I cross the street and clamber into a car—specifically a nineteen thirty-six Ford—belonging to a friend of mine.

The weather up on the “hill” is cold on these winter days so a warm car is a comfortable place in which to eat, talk, and smoke.

Once in a comfortable position I open up the bag containing my lunch and peer into its mysterious depths, discovering sandwiches and an apple. I quickly take a bite of one of the sandwiches. It tastes delicious. Then and only then do I realize how hungry I really am. In no time at all the tasty, hunger-satisfying food is devoured.

While I am eating, five more of my friends arrive and seat themselves in the car.

In a few minutes papers and bags are thrown out of the doors and windows, soon followed by particles of sandwiches, cake, cookies, and fruit.

When these cleaning up operations are carried out, cigarettes are lighted. The first drag is the only one I enjoy. In a few minutes the car is filled with smoke, and finally with much arguing I persuade them to open the windows a short distance. The smoke pours out of the car. A passerby would think that the car was on fire.

The after-dinner smoke is followed by conversation. It ranges from gossip to intellectual discussions. Most of the talk is about members of the opposite sex and the likes and dislikes about members of the faculty, complaints about the excess of homework, and criticisms about courses and the management of the high school.

From discussions with these friends of mine and other students who show a lack of school spirit, I have arrived at the conclusion that if we had younger, friendlier teachers and principals and weren’t held down as we now are, a remarkable improvement in the all-important school spirit would be noticed.

I take part in all of these events in the car until approximately twenty minutes of one, when I excuse myself and reenter the high school.

I place my coat in my locker and then circulate about the corridors, looking over the feminine part of the sophomore class while on my merry way to visit my favorite female sophomore.

We stand around the corridor and talk for a few minutes and then I escort her to her homeroom before the tardy bell rings.

Leaving my friend’s homeroom I go downstairs to the basement, where I stand around in front of room eight with the other students waiting for period seven to begin. Practical jokers are numerous at this scene of feverish activity. Some are eating and a few innocent souls make a useless attempt to study but are soon forced to give it up by other, more joyous students.

One minute before the bell signals the beginning of period seven I leave the crowd and hurry upstairs to await the signal.

The bell rings, and the sophomores surge out of their homerooms. Amid the noise and confusion I meet my friend, and we converse until seventh period begins. Then I say farewell and depart for my now famous seventh period class.

School, even though considered boring and dull, has its bright moments and someday when I am old and decrepit I will look back on my youthful days and treasure these moments which comprise the joys of my high school life.

Did you know that in what is now Afghanistan, there was a university so old it makes Oxford and Cambridge look like toddlers? Yep, it was called the University of Balkh (or the “Madrasah of Balkh”), flourishing around the 9th century in the city once known to the Greeks as Bactra. This scholarly hotspot was a melting pot where Buddhists, Muslims, Christians, and Persian sages gathered to debate the stars and human nature. Imagine a place where everyone swapped ideas over steaming mugs of cardamom tea! 🤓✨

Picture this: luminaries like Al-Jahiz and the mathematician Abu-Mansur of Garras roamed those halls. They were so prolific, churning out scrolls on philosophy, astronomy, and medicine by the dozen, that they often needed extra hands just to carry all the manuscripts. Meanwhile, tea brewed constantly and debates raged hot—sometimes literally, since there wasn’t a central heating system back then. ☕️😄

After the Mongol invasion in the 13th century, the Madrasah of Balkh was largely destroyed, but its manuscripts scattered far and wide: some ended up in Baghdad’s libraries, others made their way to India. Without those preserved scrolls, many Greek and Persian texts might have vanished forever. So here’s to Balkh for saving a chunk of world knowledge—like a medieval backup drive for civilization! 📚🌍

Today, all that remains are a few weathered ruins and a handful of stone carvings, but the spirit of that university lives on in Balkh’s narrow streets, the stories of its elders, and the dusty libraries where medieval manuscripts still rest. If you want to impress your friends on Zoom, just mention you’re studying at “Afghanistan’s first Harvard,” and watch their jaws drop in scholarly envy. 😏🎓

Hold on to your hiking boots, because if you thought Afghanistan was all endless desert, prepare to be blown away by Band-e Amir. Located deep in the Hindu Kush range, this national park—established in 2009—boasts six lakes so wildly turquoise they look like someone spilled a vat of Gatorade. Each lake has its own hue: deep sapphire, emerald green… even a hint of violet when spring melts the snow. It’s like nature decided to show off. 🌈🏞️

Local legend claims these lakes were formed when a mountain dragon dug out a giant bathtub to cool off, and its magical breath tinted the waters those impossible colors. Geologists, of course, credit the limestone bedrock, which releases minerals that reflect sunlight in dazzling ways. Dragon or science, the result is undeniably breathtaking. 🐉🔬

From April to June, Band-e Amir attracts city slickers from around the world, armed with DSLR cameras and serious zen intentions. Afghan families pack picnics of aushak (dumplings stuffed with onions and mint) and set up food stalls along the shore while kids chase ducks and locals fish for Schizothorax—a native trout species. It’s a vibrant mix of photography buffs, foodies, and nature lovers all in one place. 🐟🍲

If you’re up for a moderate trek, you can climb to viewpoints that look like Renaissance paintings—snow-capped peaks framing vibrant blue lakes that seem almost too beautiful to exist. Local tales claim that back in 1979, during the Soviet–Afghan War, a group of soldiers stumbled upon Band-e Haibat and, in a moment of surreal contrast to the conflict, jammed on makeshift drums with their AK-47s laid aside. Whether fact or legend, it captures the lakes’ magical aura. 🎶🏔️

Close your eyes and picture a confetti-storm of color below the Indian Ocean’s surface—orange sea fans, violet brain coral, and neon-green anemones swaying like party streamers. Now open them to reality: Somalia’s reefs really do look like that, tucked along a coastline that runs about 3,333 km—the longest stretch on mainland Africa.

Most outsiders assume decades of civil war plus illegal fishing must have obliterated the reefs. Surprise: limited heavy industry and very little bombing at sea left large swaths of coral almost pristine. Regional surveys list at least 63 coral species across 27 genera, a respectable tally for the western Indian Ocean.

One headline find is an as-yet-unnamed pillar-coral relative—informally dubbed the “Somali pillar coral” by the research team that first photographed it near Marka in 2019. Genetic bar-coding suggests it’s a sister to Dendrogyra cylindrus of the Caribbean, but until scientists publish a formal description, it remains the marine equivalent of Prince’s “Love Symbol”—famous but technically nameless.

Local fishers have known these coral “gardens” forever and still use the ancestral nicknames their grandfathers coined: Garden of the Ancestors, Dragon’s Breath, Miracle Reef. That oral map has been priceless for biologists trying to GPS-pin hotspots.

Since 2015, Somali marine-science grads, coastal youth groups, and visiting GCRMN coaches have run community reef-patrols: paddling out in dugout canoes, free-diving to log bleaching or blast-fishing scars, then uploading data once they paddle back to a café with cell service.  Between dives, elders on the beach recite sea-lore poetry while the kids type coordinates into tablets—arguably the coolest bilingual science slam on the planet.

Down south in the Bajuni Archipelago, villagers are experimenting with a “living-fence” trick. Instead of pouring concrete seawalls, they cable broken branches of Acropora onto shallow slopes. The fragments fuse, grow, and within three monsoon seasons form a bumpy, wave-breaking rampart that doubles as a fish nursery. Western NGOs now fly in to copy the idea—proof that sometimes the low-tech hack beats the million-dollar solution.

So, when someone moans that all coral is doomed or that the only good reef left is the one on Instagram, lean in and whisper: “Try Somalia first.” You’ll be tipping them off to one of the Indian Ocean’s best-kept secrets—an underwater festival that kept right on dancing while the rest of the world wasn’t watching. 🌊🐟

Along the wind-sculpted shores of Puntland—our semi-autonomous northeast—I still watch hand-painted dhows glide out at dawn. The deckhands laugh that our loose-weave “maraq” nets have two jobs: catching dinner and letting the smallest fish wriggle free so tomorrow’s stew will be fatter. (In Somali, maraq means “soup”—perfect irony, right?) Because the nets float just above the coral heads, they spare juvenile fish and the living reef below. Every visiting consultant expects coastal Somalia to behave like a war-torn wasteland; instead they find centuries-old gear that modern trawlers could learn from.

Elders as Eco-Referees

We don’t have one grand “reef council” crowned in paperwork. What we have are the wise oday-ga kalluunka—fish elders—who meet whenever the moon rolls into spawning phase. Under a palm lean-to they share tea, trade Maay-dialect verses about octopus courtship (honestly more romantic than Tinder), then announce a no-take period. Break that taboo and you’ll fetch water from the far well—or eat alone at weddings. I tag along with my clipboard, but social pressure keeps order far better than any fine.

Scientists who’ve swum our octopus beds say densities here rival managed Pacific fisheries. Hearing that, one elder grinned: Warabeeygu wuxuu leeyahay badda waa nolosheena—our heritage says the sea is our life. Simple math, really.

From Custom to Community MPA

In 2018 our Ministry of Fisheries partnered with Secure Fisheries and local committees to turn custom into policy: the Eyl Community Marine Protected Area (CMPA). Motorboats stay out of the core zone; carved wooden stakes mark daily catch limits; elders now patrol with smartphones clipped to bamboo poles. After two full seasons, our dive surveys show red-snapper yields up roughly 25–30 percent. A global headline? Maybe not. A village supper you can taste? Absolutely.

Culture That Feeds

Dusk on the jetty feels like a block party. Baskets of crimson kaluno swap for sorghum flour; women whip sweet malaay porridge while goatskin drums keep tempo. I once tried to navigate home by stars like Uncle Yusuf—missed Orion, stepped off the planks, and baptised my field notes. Lesson logged: trust the elders before the GPS.

Bigger-Picture Payoff

A recent FSNAU bulletin hints that children in our coastal fishing districts show slightly lower wasting rates than inland peers—likely thanks to the extra protein we haul ashore. Critics argue our rules are “too informal to scale.” I invite them to share a meal here, then tell me if informality tastes this good.

The sea is our story—and every tide has a lesson. May the next wave carry these lessons far beyond Puntland’s headlands. 🌊✨

Dicen que el larimar nació cuando el Caribe se guardó un pedacito de cielo en la palma de la tierra. 💎

1. De volcán a joya

• Hace unos 26 millones de años, un río de lava cargó silicio y cobre hasta las montañas de Barahona.
• El cobre se enamoró del calcio y, juntos, formaron pectolita azul. Solo aquí esa reacción química logró el tono turquesa: por eso se le llama larimar y no existe en ningún otro rincón del planeta.

2. Martillo, lima y paciencia En el taller de Don Rigo todo empieza con un golpe tímido. Yo sostengo la roca, él escucha el “plin” agudo que indica la veta pura. Entre cada limazo canturreamos boleros viejos: la piedra se pule al compás de la voz.

3. Creencias y curiosidades

• Las parteras de la sierra colocan un trocito bajo la almohada de los bebés para “ahuyentar pesadillas saladas”.
• En los 70, un minero la bautizó combinando el nombre de su hija —Larissa— con la palabra mar.

4. Confesión final Cuando termino un colgante, lo sumerjo un instante en agua de coco; dicen que así guarda la frescura del mar. Tal vez sea mito, pero cada vez que lo hago juro oír risas de gaviota.

Prólogo rumbero A las nueve suena el primer cuero; la luna todavía no ha decidido si ponerse seria o seguir bromeando.

La raíz africana

• Los palos son tambores tradicionales y a la vez un género musical/ritual que llegaron con los cimarrones del siglo XVI.
• La “maná” es una manifestación espiritual celebrada en Villa Mella, parte de las prácticas afrodominicanas, que fue reconocida por la UNESCO como Patrimonio Oral e Inmaterial de la Humanidad en 2001.

Ritual y chocolate Entre toque y toque, doña Mercedes reparte tazas de cacao espeso. Cuenta que el grano dominicano fue tan codiciado en el siglo XVIII que los piratas lo usaban de moneda.

Sudor, fe y carcajadas Cuando el canto de salve invoca a San Benito, los niños se esconden detrás de los tambores para imitar su eco. Yo me uno con mi güira; es imposible llevar la cuenta de cuántas sonrisas nacerán antes del amanecer.

Epílogo El cuero se enfría, pero el barrio no. Al final todos firmamos la noche con un “¡que repita!” que retumba hasta el amanecer. Porque, si algo enseña la percusión, es que descansar también se baila.

My last dawn in Baghdad smelled like diesel and jasmine. The generator across the alley coughed to life, competing with a night-blooming vine climbing our balcony. It was 2010, and I’d spent the previous week shuffling through visa papers while packing cocktail shakers between my clothes—because even fugitives of circumstance deserve stainless-steel style.

We’d survived the worst spikes of sectarian violence (2006-2008) by mapping alternate routes to school and rehearsing which uncle’s name to drop at each checkpoint. My kid brother turned it into a game: “Checkpoint Bingo—collect all five factions and win.” Humor is a last-ditch lifejacket; you cling to it when mortar whines replace lullabies.

People ask why I left. Officially: scholarship in Istanbul. Unofficially: I couldn’t stand seeing my favorite date-palm grove shrink behind blast walls. Creativity wilts when daily life is triage. I wanted fresh air for my ideas—and a bar scene that didn’t close at 9 p.m. because sirens said so. But I never stopped folding Iraq into every recipe.

In Istanbul I met Syrian, Yemeni, and Palestinian bartenders—each with their own exit-wound stories. We formed a chosen family called The Spice Route Syndicate and traded refugee hacks: how to stretch a paycheck, how to navigate embassy phone mazes, how to smuggle saffron in luggage without TSA confetti. Those hacks taught me agility—perfect practice for flipping drinks mid-air.

Yet Baghdad never left me. I carry its dialect in the way I elongate habibi, its architecture in how I stack glassware like mini-ziggurats, its history in my tattoos: three reeds of the Euphrates bending but unbroken. Whenever I present my “Suitcase of Saffron” workshop, I tell newcomers that exile is a verb—ongoing—yet so is return. Return happens every time we cook masgouf or argue about who invented the first battery (hint: ancient Iraqis, Babylon, 250 BCE).

If you’ve only known Iraq through headlines, let me remix the song. Think of the oud strings echoing through Mutanabbi Street book stalls, the scent of cardamom coffee dripping at sunrise, and the comeback spirit of a city that keeps reinventing itself like a DJ looping a classic track. I left to survive, yes, but I write so you’ll stay—mentally—long enough to fall in love. Pack light, bring curiosity; Baghdad supplies the rest.

I used to think myths were just bedtime stories—until I read the tablets from Lagash, where Inanna rides a pair of lions like she’s late for a glam-rock sound-check. Turns out, the goddess of love and war never traveled light; she carried passion and danger in equal measure, same way a bartender carries bitters and sugar.

When I host my Alchemy After Dark pop-ups, I tell guests that lions still roam Baghdad’s collective memory. We may not hear their paws on the marble of Al-Mustansiriya University, but the roar lingers in street poetry and the way oud players strike that low, growling C-string. My cocktails? They shimmer ultraviolet—pomegranate, date molasses, a hint of dried lime—because a lioness deserves a drink that glows under blacklight.

Fun fact: in Akkadian, one of the words for lion is labbu, which also meant a fierce protector. My grandma called me binti labbu (daughter of the lion) whenever I got sassy about curfew. She said Baghdad needed more protectors who sparkle, not just soldiers with rifles. I took the hint: I protect flavor, memory, and the right to dance even when the power cuts out.

Inanna’s temple priests brewed sacred beer laced with honey and coriander. I can’t legally slip honey-beer to every guest, but I lace conversation with the same ingredients—sweet reminiscence, peppery jokes, coriander-fresh curiosity. People drink stories faster than booze, trust me. By paragraph four, you’ve downed two imaginary goblets already.

The lioness myth also reminds me to flip gender scripts. Inanna wasn’t waiting for permission; she flipped the cosmic barstool and said, “My throne now.” Modern Baghdad women still do that, whether coding apps in Karrada or mashing zaatar in a Karbala kitchen. My arm cuff—bronze with cuneiform swirls—is my small tribute: part accessory, part manifesto.

So next time you picture Iraq, don’t only picture sand and news headlines. Picture ultraviolet pomegranate gleaming in a cut-crystal glass while a DJ blends maqam scales with lo-fi beats. Picture Inanna high-fiving you across 5,500 years. And if you taste fig-leaf smoke in the after-sip, that’s just the lioness purring, asking what kind of legend you’ll write tonight.

A dog doesn’t understand death. Not the way we do. He understands silence. He understands that someone who was always there is now not.

He waits by doors that won’t open. He listens for footsteps that only memory still makes. He sniffs at the air for a scent that’s already fading.

But he never hears the words: “She’s gone.” “He passed.” “Never again.”

So in his heart, you’re still alive— just elsewhere. Delayed. Caught in some long errand beyond comprehension.

And isn’t that what we humans do too? We know the facts, we say the words— but inside, we keep waiting. For a call. A knock. A laugh in the next room. As if love had no burial rights. As if memory was a leash tied to a ghost.

Perhaps the dog suffers less because he doesn’t know it’s forever. But perhaps he suffers more, because he never stops hoping.

And maybe that’s what grief really is: the stubborn part of us that waits, ears perked, at a door that will never open again.

No, seriously. The Consell General (our parliament) is inside a building smaller than most banks.

It’s wedged right into a bend in the road in Andorra la Vella. It has a parking garage underneath.

In theory, you could run for office, park your car, and walk into the chamber in under three minutes.

I once tried to explain this to a coworker from Berlin. He laughed for five straight minutes.

And yet, it works.

Our political system is one of the oldest in Europe — we’ve had co-princes since the 1200s. One is the Bishop of Urgell (Catalonia), and the other is the President of France.

It’s weird. But stable. And very us.

Maybe you don’t need a palace if you’ve got snow, fiber internet, and municipal hot springs.

New Parliament of Andorra, headquarters of the General Council of Andorra since 2011.

When I was a child, I thought every country had ski lockers at the supermarket.

That’s Andorra. Small, yes. But we live vertically — and very much on our own terms.

I was once asked by an American tourist if we use euros “like France does.” I told him we do. Then I told him we’re not France. Or Spain.

We’re both. And neither.

Catalan is our official language. We learn Spanish and French from childhood. Some of us speak Portuguese at home. Our newsstands carry newspapers from Madrid, Toulouse, and sometimes Lisbon.

And yet, we are something else entirely.

When I travel, people ask if I’m Spanish or French. I always hesitate. “I’m Andorran,” I say. Most smile politely. A few ask if that’s in Africa.

It’s okay. We’re used to being overlooked. But the snow knows who we are.

We belong to mountains. And to each other.

I am stuck in a narrow, crowded road. I can see the beginnings of a traffic jam. This part of the city was, after all known, for its nightmarish traffic situation. One could get stuck among honking cars and two-wheelers, for hours on end. I throw up a silent prayer to the gods, to spare me from a traffic jam. I just dont have the energy to navigate cursing drivers, and pedestrians who didnt have a lick of road sense. "Why couldnt people in this blasted country just follow the damn traffic rules?" "Why did I choose to come here for school?" I can feel my thoughts spiraling as I quietly resign myself to being stuck here for hours. A sudden cool breeze, breaks my reverie. This wasnt just any kind of breeze, it was the sort that brought the sweet promise of rain with it. I feel a new sort of awareness, as I sit up a little straighter. I take in my surroundings as if for the first time. A broad smile, splits my face, as I breathe in the wind carrying the scent of the earth. It reminds me of home, of the many many evenings I spent dancing and laughing in the rain with my siblings. I tilt my face up to the sky as if to greet a long lost friend. I relax, as the first drops, of rain hit me, causing delicious shivers to race up my body......

From the moment a new immigrant steps onto Ellis Island, America sells itself as the land of limitless possibility—an intellectual blank slate where beliefs are meant to be forged in the fires of reason rather than inherited bloodlines. Yet beneath that aspirational veneer lies a potent creed, one that demands its own form of ideological conformity.

In theory, the United States should be a paradise for freethinkers: a nation whose founding documents exalt individual liberty, skepticism of authority, and the Enlightenment’s valorization of reason. The First Amendment’s protection of speech and religion seems tailor-made to shelter those who question dogma, tradition, and entrenched power.

But ideals are one thing, lived reality another. Americans often find that straying too far from the “official” creed—whether by challenging unfettered markets or criticizing founding myths—invites swift social sanctions. In practice, deviance from accepted narratives can brand you as unpatriotic or even subversive.

This tension stems from America’s identity as a creedal nation rather than an ethnic one. Where many countries lean on shared ancestry or cultural homogeneity to forge national unity, the U.S. leans on a shared set of principles. And principles, as it turns out, can be policed just as rigorously as lineage.

So does America really want freethinkers? The short answer: it wants them up to a point. Freethinking that reinforces prosperity, innovation, and technological progress is celebrated—think Silicon Valley iconoclasts or academic mavericks. But freethinking that threatens political stability, economic orthodoxy, or the consumerist consensus is often met with suspicion or outright hostility.

Contrast this with countries that couple strong social safety nets and broad social equality with robust protections for dissent. In Scandinavian democracies—Norway, Sweden, Denmark—high levels of trust in public institutions and minimal fear of economic ruin create a much lower cost for intellectual risk-taking. You’re free to challenge the consensus without fearing that you or your family will lose health care or education.

Even within Europe, places like the Netherlands and Germany carve out distinctive space for the freethinker. A German public sphere that still wrestles with its authoritarian past often treats rigorous debate as a civic duty, while Dutch “pillarization” historically allowed multiple ideologically distinct communities to coexist under one national roof.

Yet social equality does not guarantee economic equality. Scandinavia’s cradle-to-grave welfare systems come with high taxes, and Germany’s regulated capitalism can feel stifling to entrepreneurs. But freethinking thrives when your basic security—health, housing, education—isn’t at the mercy of market whims. In America, by contrast, economic precarity forces many minds into survival mode rather than exploration mode.

Moreover, true freethinking requires not only legal protections but cultural encouragement: parents who model questioning, schools that reward curiosity over rote learning, media that tolerate nuance instead of peddling outrage. Here, too, countries with strong public broadcasting and civic education programs often outperform the U.S., where sensationalism can drown out subtle analysis.

That said, America remains fertile soil for certain kinds of intellectual rebellion. From the Beats of the 1950s to the cyber-utopians of today, freethinkers have found in the U.S. both their mission field and their megaphone. The challenge is to expand that rarefied pocket of tolerance into the broader culture—so that freethinking isn’t just the province of elites or countercultural enclaves.

In the end, the question isn’t merely whether America can nurture freethinkers—it’s whether Americans will embrace the discomfort of radical doubt. Other nations may offer greater structural support, but the spark of freethought still needs fuel: personal courage, community backing, and a national willingness to dwell in uncertainty. Until we enlarge our definition of loyalty to include honest dissent, we’ll remain a country that preaches freedom of mind but polices freedom of belief.

I hadn’t listened to ZZ Top since I was a kid, but the other day, out of sheer curiosity, I dove into their This Is ZZ Top playlist on Spotify. My mission? To find out whether the band’s hit songs—you know, those catchy tunes constantly playing on the radio in the ‘80s—are genuinely their best, or simply the ones I’ve learned to love.

As I listened, something immediately became clear: the hits still slapped. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting that. I thought I might discover hidden gems, deep cuts clearly superior to their radio singles. But, surprisingly, “Sharp Dressed Man” still dominated with its relentless groove. “La Grange” still had that magical ability to transport me back to carefree days, cruising in a hot car without air conditioning, enjoying a greasy burger under the summer sun.

This led me to a deeper question: Is a song “better” because it’s masterfully crafted, or because I’ve grown accustomed to hearing it associated with good memories? Am I objectively responding to the musical structure and artistry, or simply reacting to the memories and emotions woven into the song?

Things become even trickier when considering that popular songs might become hits precisely because of this positive familiarity. It’s like classical conditioning—we hear a song during happy moments, and our brain registers it as a masterpiece. But does this make the song objectively superior? Or does it simply confirm that our love for certain songs is an endless loop of nostalgia and emotional association?

Fun fact on the side: ZZ Top’s “Tush” was written in just ten minutes but became one of their most enduring hits. Sometimes hits strike like lightning—or perhaps they simply fit perfectly into radio rotations of their time.

In the end, maybe the answer to what makes a song good isn’t tied strictly to sophisticated musical structures or universal objective value. Instead, perhaps the better question is: what song helps me feel most like myself right now? Maybe that’s enough. Because after all, music doesn’t have to be good for everyone—it just needs to be good for you.

A un costado del sendero Neuse River Greenway, junto a Horseshoe Farm Park en Wake Forest, Carolina del Norte, hay un talud—recientemente cubierto con mantas de paja, su superficie cosida por las largas sombras de los cables que lo atraviesan. Una escena pensada para el control de erosión, no para la contemplación. Y sin embargo… evoca algo completamente distinto.

Como el patio de un palacio olvidado. Un lugar en espera. Un mundo en pausa.

Me recordó a Ico, ese juego callado y luminoso donde la luz se filtra entre piedras rotas y el tiempo parece suspendido. Su estética parece nacida de las plazas metafísicas de Giorgio de Chirico—vacías, infinitas, silenciosas—y del cuadro Trópico de Cáncer (1945) del surrealista egipcio Ramsès Younan, cuya quietud pictórica transmite la misma tensión contenida y sin aliento.

Fumito Ueda, director de Ico, dijo alguna vez que buscaba crear un mundo “olvidado por el tiempo.” Se siente en la arquitectura. En el aire.

Tal vez esta imagen sea solo una escena al borde del camino. O tal vez… el primer fotograma de un sueño que casi logras recordar.

G. de Chirico, Arrivo del trasloco, circa 1965. Fuente: Fondazione Giorgio e Isa de Chirico

Overheard Haiku “My hamster is mad— I'm sure he's plotting revenge," pink-haired lady sighs.

Bus driver nodding, sage-like, world-weary, agrees: "Hamsters, man. Who knows."

The silence returns. Wheels rumble philosophical beneath tired feet.

I wonder briefly: Do hamsters lie awake, whispering conspiracies under cedar-chip blankets? Or is it just Monday getting the best of us again?

Wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget… but I still might.

Jogging along with the gentle melodies of the Minecraft soundtrack filling my ears, the world subtly transformed around me. Sidewalks gently aligned into grids, and the air took on a faint, shimmering quality. Each footfall felt deliberate, meaningful—as if I’d spawned into a beloved biome, seeing it again for the first time.

This wasn’t about escaping reality; it was about blending realities. A soft epiphany emerged: maybe our world isn’t distinct from the virtual spaces we cherish. Maybe it’s the overworld—a communal realm we revisit between adventures, abundant with hidden lore, side quests, and atmospheric mysteries waiting to unfold.

Those of us deeply immersed in games or perpetually online often live inside our heads, creating a sense of detachment from physical reality. But what if we used gaming logic not as a way to disconnect, but to deepen our connection with the tangible world?

Pain, whether physical or emotional, is universal—just signals traversing the same neural pathways. Damage is damage, but by the same token, healing is universal too.

Imagine your errands as quests, your hobbies as branches in a skill tree, and challenging days as bosses guarding valuable rewards. The world becomes vividly playable again—not because it’s artificial, but precisely because you’re truly present within it.

Yet, remember the essential rules: kindness always scores highest, empathy is forever part of the storyline, and true leveling-up means uplifting those around you.

Un perro no entiende la muerte. No como la entendemos nosotros. Él entiende el silencio. Entiende que alguien que siempre estuvo ahí ya no está.

Espera junto a puertas que no se abren. Escucha pasos que solo existen en la memoria. Olfatea el aire buscando un aroma que ya se desvanece.

Pero nunca escucha las palabras: “Ella se fue.” “Él falleció.” “Nunca más.”

Así que en su corazón, tú sigues vivo— solo estás en otra parte. Retrasado. Atrapado en algún mandado demasiado extraño para comprender.

¿Y acaso no hacemos lo mismo los humanos? Sabemos los hechos, decimos las palabras— pero por dentro, seguimos esperando. Una llamada. Un golpe en la puerta. Una risa en la habitación de al lado. Como si el amor no tuviera derecho a entierro. Como si la memoria fuera una correa atada a un fantasma.

Quizás el perro sufre menos porque no sabe que es para siempre. Pero quizás sufre más, porque nunca deja de esperar.

Y tal vez eso es lo que realmente es el duelo: la parte terca de nosotros que espera, con las orejas en alerta, junto a una puerta que nunca volverá a abrirse.

I sat down at the corner café, ready to battle my notebook again, but my coffee betrayed me, turning from fresh espresso to tepid sadness faster than I could open my pen.

Last night’s dreams lingered, absurd: A spiral staircase leading nowhere, and a goldfish gently asking me for career advice.

I offered some tips— (“Swim against the current,” I said, sounding wiser than a half-asleep human has any right to be.)

Today, caffeine is failing at its only job: Coffee hits like tap water, and tap water, well, it feels more like a tranquilizer dart.

Maybe my goldfish client has it easier after all.

Wrote it down so I wouldn’t forget… but I still might.

You don’t walk in Mesa. You squint, you scurry, you shimmer — mirage-style — from air-conditioned shade to air-conditioned shade.

But one morning, I did walk. Not just across parking lots, but through neighborhoods where the houses crouch low to the ground, like they’re bracing for something. Heat? Time? Memory?

The stucco here is the color of toasted almonds. The streets are wide — wide like they were built for tanks, not people. Yet on the margins: turquoise fences, blooming bougainvillea, and murals whispering we’ve been here a long time.

There’s adobe influence everywhere, even in new builds — though sometimes it feels more like a costume than a conviction. I stood in front of one apartment complex with faux-wooden vigas jutting out like stage props. A cactus had grown up beside them. It looked more authentic than the building.

I stopped for a raspa at a roadside stand. The owner had lived in the area since 1962. He said, “Mesa used to be sleepy. Now it just sweats louder.”

He wasn’t wrong. But there’s music in it.

You just have to slow down enough to hear it.

And if you listen closely, you’ll hear the dissonance too — a city shaped by indigenous forms and Latin rhythm, but one that once voted for a sheriff known for racial profiling and making inmates wear pink underwear. I sketched a mural of Quetzalcoatl across the street from a campaign billboard, sun-bleached and flaking. It made me wonder: can a place sing two songs at once?

Just off the Neuse River Greenway, beside Horseshoe Farm Park in Wake Forest, NC, there’s a slope—recently draped in straw matting, its surface stitched by the long shadows of overhead wires. A scene meant for erosion control, not contemplation. And yet… it feels like something else entirely.

Like the courtyard of a forgotten palace. A waiting place. A world paused.

It reminded me of Ico, that quiet, luminous game where light leaks through broken stone and time feels suspended. Its visual mood seems born from Giorgio de Chirico’s metaphysical plazas—empty, endless, hushed—and from Tropic of Cancer (1945) by Ramsès Younan, whose painted stillness carries the same breathless tension.

Fumito Ueda, the game’s director, once said he aimed to build a world “forgotten by time.” You can feel it, in the architecture. In the air.

And maybe that’s what this image is too: just a roadside scene. Or maybe, the opening frame of a dream you almost remember.

G. de Chirico, Arrivo del trasloco, circa 1965. Source: Fondazione Giorgio e Isa de Chirico

I’ve never taken the LSAT, but I have taken a lot of breaks in diners. Waffle House, Huddle House, Joe’s Diner, Lena’s Diner, Friendly’s when they still had the booths with jukebox buttons. Once, I watched a man in Alabama write his resignation letter on a napkin while drinking five cups of coffee and eating a slice of lemon meringue pie he didn’t seem to enjoy. He looked calm. Maybe calmer than I’ll ever be.

(For context: tech entrepreneur Alexis Ohanian famously decided to abandon law school plans after walking out of the LSAT and heading straight to a Waffle House. Reddit was born soon after. I’m just saying.)

There’s something about diners. They’re less judgmental than cafés, less chaotic than Sheetz, and more permanent than fast food. They sit still while the world spins around them—open late, open early, and open to everyone. And if you sit long enough, maybe over hash browns and an existential crisis, you start to realize that diner menus aren’t just food lists.

They’re records.

Notebooks of regional identity, economic history, culinary defiance. Why does this place serve grits with everything? Because it’s the South. Why is there still liver and onions on the menu? Because someone out there still wants it. Why are the prices in Comic Sans? Because nobody told them not to. And why do so many menus feel like a mash-up of grandma’s handwriting, local tradition, and a mid-’90s Photoshop experiment? Because that’s exactly what they are.

In a world that often erases itself and rebrands every two years, diner menus are holdouts of American self-definition. They’re imperfect, sincere, and strangely trustworthy.

And maybe that’s why tech founders have epiphanies at Waffle House. Not just because of the hash brown bar (although, bless it), but because diners make space for ideas. For overheard conversations. For being alone in public. They’re like coffeehouses, minus the pretense, plus biscuits.

And here’s something else: diners don’t try to manipulate you. You can sit there for hours with a black coffee and a side of scrambled eggs, and no one’s pushing neon ads for triple-bacon stacks or discount cigarettes in your face. You’re a guest, not a target. That matters.

Philosophy majors should hang out in them more often.

Until next time, keep braking for historical markers—and laminated menus.

Just something I needed to write down. Maybe it’s silly, but… I don’t think so. Last night, while gliding through Ashenvale in owlform, I stopped moving.   Not because I lagged. Just... stopped.

I hovered above the trees, thinking about Teldrassil.   About how something can be alive and vibrant one day, then smoke the next.   In-game, yes. Just code and pixels.   But grief leaks through — from fiction into skin.

The world lost our home. And Blizzard moved on.

My guild makes jokes. We dance in Darnassus’ ruins sometimes, like ghosts.   We cast healing spells on burned ground.   It doesn’t fix anything. But it feels like something.

I main a druid. I am a druid.   I wear leaves and claws and healing dots like armor.

Sometimes I think that’s what all druids do — try to heal what can’t be healed.

Anyway. I should log off and do my real-life homework.   But this matters too.

May Elune guide you, even if you don’t believe in her.

Blumenau doesn’t feel real at first. I stepped off the bus and thought I’d sleepwalked into the Black Forest — but with palm trees. Half-timbered houses lined the avenue, their dark beams crisscrossing white walls like a gingerbread diagram. The signs were in Portuguese, the beer was cold, and the air smelled like yeast, eucalyptus, and some distant churrasco smoke riding the breeze.

Someone played a polka on an accordion across from a pastelaria.

This wasn’t Europe — it was something stranger. A memory of Europe, rewritten by the tropics and stretched across a new world.

They call this place little Germany, but that doesn’t quite capture it. It’s not Germany-lite. It’s Germany translated — through exile, through empire, through festa. Brazil does this a lot: folds things in. German, Japanese, Italian, Indigenous. Not melted, not erased. Just folded.

The buildings here feel like props, but they’re loved. I saw a local teenager take a selfie with a faux-Bavarian clocktower like it was Christ the Redeemer. The city owns its costume. And after a few hours, I started sketching the steep rooftops like they were old friends.

Architecture does that. It tells you where you are — or it lies to you, sweetly. In Blumenau, it hums a tune in German, even while the people around it speak Portuguese and dance samba.

And you know what? It still works. You just have to listen closely — the bricks are still speaking, even if they’ve learned a new language.

Bees buzz upon my hands. I handled over 500000 living honeybees today and only 1 felt the need to sting me on my third eye. Right between the eyes on my forehead! It gave its life for my awakening.

On the Banks of the Ganges

The last rays of the setting sun, hit the shimmering waters of the Ganges. The boat men are bringing their tourists back to the shores. In the descending darkness, one can only make out silhouettes. People are starting to gather around the banks, some sit on the steps, others crane their necks from the terraces of their houses nearby. Soon there is a teeming crowd, filled with people from all walks of life-tourists, locals, children, an old crone missing multiple teeth. Suddenly, a hush descends on the crowd. People wait silently, reverently, as 7 robed men- priests make their way to the waiting pedestals that face the gently flowing river. The priests are young men, sporting vermilion and sandalwood on their foreheads. Their long hair is tied in a knot at the top of their heads.

The crowd watches expectantly as the priests light their massive lamps. Even the children have quietened down, watching the priests with rapt attention as all 7 of them begin moving together on the pedestal. They sway the lamps in their hands in graceful arcs above their head. The light from the lamps, illuminate their faces, making them look ethereal. They are absorbed in their movements - at peace- as if their very souls were responding to a symphony only they could hear.......

IRL bag today:

• 2 energy drink cans
• 1 broken zipper pouch
• 1 chicken nugget (???)
• 3 unread texts from my mom
• 1 sticky note that says “hydration is a spell”

In-game bag:

• 47 ancient runecloths
• 5 heirlooms I refuse to delete
• 2 murloc costumes
• 121 quest items I “might need later”
• 1 blackened defias mask I wear when feeling spicy

I’m not okay in either realm.   But at least my boots have +15 agility in Azeroth.

If you know, you know.   If you don’t… roll a toon and find out.

I stopped for pancakes at a diner just off Route 9 in Plattsburgh, NY (ZIP: 12901, for my fellow map nerds). It’s one of those places where the menu hasn’t budged since about 1983—and neither have the prices, bless their hearts. As I drowned my short stack in syrup, I overheard the table next to me stumbling through their breakfast order in hesitant French, earning bemused smiles and gentle confusion from their very-much-English-speaking server.

Here’s the kicker: Lacolle, Quebec, is a breezy 40-minute drive north. Cross that line, and French flows effortlessly—c’est naturel. But in Plattsburgh, French feels oddly out of place, like cowboy boots at a vegan potluck.

Contrast that with Texas, where you can be miles and miles from the Rio Grande and Spanish is as comfy as old denim. Of course, Texas spent a significant chunk of its formative years as part of Mexico—history has deep roots, deeper even than pecan trees. In fact, there's still a quiet undercurrent among some Texans who feel the border never quite landed right, culturally speaking. Texas is practically its own country—Tex-Mex traditions, bilingual street signs, and communities where crossing linguistic boundaries happens every day without a blink.

Why the stark difference in Plattsburgh, then? Historically, the border between the U.S. and Canada was largely shaped by treaties between distant governments rather than by cultural or economic tides. The northeastern U.S. border, once delineated, hardened into an identity line. Economics played its role too: trade, jobs, and daily life largely stayed separate, preventing cultural blending.

Meanwhile, the U.S.-Mexico border region remains fluid, economically intertwined, and culturally overlapping. Families and businesses sprawl comfortably on both sides. The flow of goods, people, and especially language has softened that border into something more porous, more natural—more human.

America’s borders are funny like that. Sometimes they split cultures cleanly; other times, the lines blur beautifully. And as I wiped up the last sticky bits of syrup, I thought about how borders are drawn in ink—but lived in pancakes, language, and the raised eyebrows of a diner waitress.

Until next time, keep braking for historical markers.

A dog doesn’t understand death. Not the way we do. He understands silence. He understands that someone who was always there is now not.

He waits by doors that won’t open. He listens for footsteps that only memory still makes. He sniffs at the air for a scent that’s already fading.

But he never hears the words: “She’s gone.” “He passed.” “Never again.”

So in his heart, you’re still alive— just elsewhere. Delayed. Caught in some long errand beyond comprehension.

And isn’t that what we humans do too? We know the facts, we say the words— but inside, we keep waiting. For a call. A knock. A laugh in the next room. As if love had no burial rights. As if memory was a leash tied to a ghost.

Perhaps the dog suffers less because he doesn’t know it’s forever. But perhaps he suffers more, because he never stops hoping.

And maybe that’s what grief really is: the stubborn part of us that waits, ears perked, at a door that will never open again.

First Experience... apa yang sebenarnya kita pikirkan atau ingat saat mendengar hal itu, tentunya banyak ya. Contohnya saat ini, first experience menulis dalam sebuah blog di sebuah web yang direkomendasikan oleh AI (chat gpt). Umurku saat ini baru saja menginjak 18 tahun dan banyak hal yang belum aku alami dan hal hal tersebut yang mendorong diriku untuk berkembang lebih jauh lagi. Namun, aku juga mengalami ketakutan tentang masa depan, bagai bebek berenang dalam danau yang tenang, Apa yang sebenarnya ingin aku lakukan, hal apa yang harus aku selesaikan. Semua hal itu akan menjadi First Experience berhargaku nantinya. goodbye guys

No, seriously. The Consell General (our parliament) is inside a building smaller than most banks.

It’s wedged right into a bend in the road in Andorra la Vella. It has a parking garage underneath.

In theory, you could run for office, park your car, and walk into the chamber in under three minutes.

I once tried to explain this to a coworker from Berlin. He laughed for five straight minutes.

And yet, it works.

Our political system is one of the oldest in Europe — we’ve had co-princes since the 1200s. One is the Bishop of Urgell (Catalonia), and the other is the President of France.

It’s weird. But stable. And very us.

Maybe you don’t need a palace if you’ve got snow, fiber internet, and municipal hot springs.

New Parliament of Andorra, headquarters of the General Council of Andorra since 2011.

I am stuck in a narrow, crowded road. I can see the beginnings of a traffic jam. This part of the city was, after all known, for its nightmarish traffic situation. One could get stuck among honking cars and two-wheelers, for hours on end. I throw up a silent prayer to the gods, to spare me from a traffic jam. I just dont have the energy to navigate cursing drivers, and pedestrians who didnt have a lick of road sense. "Why couldnt people in this blasted country just follow the damn traffic rules?" "Why did I choose to come here for school?" I can feel my thoughts spiraling as I quietly resign myself to being stuck here for hours. A sudden cool breeze, breaks my reverie. This wasnt just any kind of breeze, it was the sort that brought the sweet promise of rain with it. I feel a new sort of awareness, as I sit up a little straighter. I take in my surroundings as if for the first time. A broad smile, splits my face, as I breathe in the wind carrying the scent of the earth. It reminds me of home, of the many many evenings I spent dancing and laughing in the rain with my siblings. I tilt my face up to the sky as if to greet a long lost friend. I relax, as the first drops, of rain hit me, causing delicious shivers to race up my body......

When I was a child, I thought every country had ski lockers at the supermarket.

That’s Andorra. Small, yes. But we live vertically — and very much on our own terms.

I was once asked by an American tourist if we use euros “like France does.” I told him we do. Then I told him we’re not France. Or Spain.

We’re both. And neither.

Catalan is our official language. We learn Spanish and French from childhood. Some of us speak Portuguese at home. Our newsstands carry newspapers from Madrid, Toulouse, and sometimes Lisbon.

And yet, we are something else entirely.

When I travel, people ask if I’m Spanish or French. I always hesitate. “I’m Andorran,” I say. Most smile politely. A few ask if that’s in Africa.

It’s okay. We’re used to being overlooked. But the snow knows who we are.

We belong to mountains. And to each other.

From the moment a new immigrant steps onto Ellis Island, America sells itself as the land of limitless possibility—an intellectual blank slate where beliefs are meant to be forged in the fires of reason rather than inherited bloodlines. Yet beneath that aspirational veneer lies a potent creed, one that demands its own form of ideological conformity.

In theory, the United States should be a paradise for freethinkers: a nation whose founding documents exalt individual liberty, skepticism of authority, and the Enlightenment’s valorization of reason. The First Amendment’s protection of speech and religion seems tailor-made to shelter those who question dogma, tradition, and entrenched power.

But ideals are one thing, lived reality another. Americans often find that straying too far from the “official” creed—whether by challenging unfettered markets or criticizing founding myths—invites swift social sanctions. In practice, deviance from accepted narratives can brand you as unpatriotic or even subversive.

This tension stems from America’s identity as a creedal nation rather than an ethnic one. Where many countries lean on shared ancestry or cultural homogeneity to forge national unity, the U.S. leans on a shared set of principles. And principles, as it turns out, can be policed just as rigorously as lineage.

So does America really want freethinkers? The short answer: it wants them up to a point. Freethinking that reinforces prosperity, innovation, and technological progress is celebrated—think Silicon Valley iconoclasts or academic mavericks. But freethinking that threatens political stability, economic orthodoxy, or the consumerist consensus is often met with suspicion or outright hostility.

Contrast this with countries that couple strong social safety nets and broad social equality with robust protections for dissent. In Scandinavian democracies—Norway, Sweden, Denmark—high levels of trust in public institutions and minimal fear of economic ruin create a much lower cost for intellectual risk-taking. You’re free to challenge the consensus without fearing that you or your family will lose health care or education.

Even within Europe, places like the Netherlands and Germany carve out distinctive space for the freethinker. A German public sphere that still wrestles with its authoritarian past often treats rigorous debate as a civic duty, while Dutch “pillarization” historically allowed multiple ideologically distinct communities to coexist under one national roof.

Yet social equality does not guarantee economic equality. Scandinavia’s cradle-to-grave welfare systems come with high taxes, and Germany’s regulated capitalism can feel stifling to entrepreneurs. But freethinking thrives when your basic security—health, housing, education—isn’t at the mercy of market whims. In America, by contrast, economic precarity forces many minds into survival mode rather than exploration mode.

Moreover, true freethinking requires not only legal protections but cultural encouragement: parents who model questioning, schools that reward curiosity over rote learning, media that tolerate nuance instead of peddling outrage. Here, too, countries with strong public broadcasting and civic education programs often outperform the U.S., where sensationalism can drown out subtle analysis.

That said, America remains fertile soil for certain kinds of intellectual rebellion. From the Beats of the 1950s to the cyber-utopians of today, freethinkers have found in the U.S. both their mission field and their megaphone. The challenge is to expand that rarefied pocket of tolerance into the broader culture—so that freethinking isn’t just the province of elites or countercultural enclaves.

In the end, the question isn’t merely whether America can nurture freethinkers—it’s whether Americans will embrace the discomfort of radical doubt. Other nations may offer greater structural support, but the spark of freethought still needs fuel: personal courage, community backing, and a national willingness to dwell in uncertainty. Until we enlarge our definition of loyalty to include honest dissent, we’ll remain a country that preaches freedom of mind but polices freedom of belief.

Гроза гремела над морем. Приближался шторм. Позади лес...и чудовище. Дальше бежать некуда. Анна подошла к краю скалы, внизу бушевали волны, и с шумом били о скалы. Острые как лезвие. На мгновение, в сознании Анны промелькнула мысль, и картинки ее падения...а затем пустота. Я Анна Амредж. Хватит ждать! Я не боюсь тебя! Выходи. Я знаю что ты там! Анна сделала решительный шаг. И посмотрела в чашу леса. Где-то в этой тьме, смотрит голодным взглядом чудовище. Которого она так сейчас боится. Из леса вышел Ричард, он упал на колени. Анна помоги мне! Господи Ричард, что с тобой? Этот чудовище напало на тебя? Ты ранен? С этими словами, она бросилась без раздумий к Ричарду, обнимая, и осматривая нет ли у него серьезных ранений. Анна... послушай меня! Не жди... Беги...на его лице была тревога и желание что-то сказать. Анна взяла ладонями лицо Ричарда. Я не брошу тебя, Ричард. Не сейчас ни когда либо. Я люблю тебя. Он почувствовал прикосновение к губам. И дикое желание, попробовать ее на вкус....вкус крови. Нет, ты не знаешь кто я! Анна, я прошу тебя, сейчас же, бежать. Что ты такое говоришь? Почему ты гонишь меня? Ричард...я не понимаю что происходит. Я...я люблю тебя Анна. Просто знай. Такие как я. Не выбирают кем им быть. Ты должна меня понять. Пожалуйста. Его взгляд, поднялся в небо, рука поднялась, указывая на луну. Которая озарила тьму. И освятила их, полнолуние было ярким как солнце. Анна обернулась чтобы посмотреть на лунный свет. До нее донеслись звуки.... подобные тем что она слышала, когда убегала от чудовища, похожее на волка. Она обернулась, перед ней стоял, то самое существо с волчьей головой. Она сделала шаг, затем ещё шаг назад. Подойдя к краю. Всё это время, не переставая смотреть на рычащего зверя.Она почувствовала что, земля под ногой обвалилась. В этот момент чудовище сделало прыжок, так жадно хотелось ему плоти. И совсем не хотелось упустить добычу. Свет озарился, вокруг нее. Он освещал все ее тело. Между ними образовался барьер, невидимый. Так близко его видеть. И понимать что это тот кого она любит. Она вспомнила лес, и мертвую Деби. Как искали тело. А нашли только одежду, разорванную и в крови. И все те кто пропал, в этом проклятом лесу. Это был отец Ричарда, мистер Джон. Волна приняла ее мягко. Падение и тот момент когда вода ее накрыла, она увидела юную девушку, с красивым лицом. Она взяла Анна за руку. И они понеслись к берегу. Меня зовут Нали, я живу в океане. Я и мой народ. Она обратилась к Анне, поклонившись. Твоя мама была мне как сестра. Раньше мы с ней виделись часто. Но позже ее убила сестра близнец, твоя тётя. Впитав ее силу, и силой завладела миром ведьм. Для Анны это было как сон. Ее тело сияло. Падение с обрыва, в бушующее море. Чудесное спасение. Вокруг плавали женщины с хвостом. А где то, либо живой либо мертвый, рыщет волк. Она прервала разговор. Я не могу в это поверить, моя мама погибла сегодня утром. От рук чародея. Наши посмотрела на Анну, взглядом полным понимания и сострадания. Анна, твой народ находится в рабстве. Самый сильный и жестокий предводитель, завладел душой твоей тети. Чтобы править миром ведьм, и этим миром миром людей. Ещё не много и начнется война, скоро печать может расколоться. Если они соберут все камни вместе. Анна. Мне жаль что на твои плечи выпало бремя, когда никого нет. И ты одна. Но у тебя есть я и мой народ. Анна послушай меня пожалуйста. Я открою тайну, твоего рождения. И многое расскажу. Только сейчас надо чтобы ты смирилась с тем что произошло. Сегодня полнолуние, и день твоего совершеннолетия. Время когда высшие силы, откроют твое сознание. И ты сама всё поймёшь. Огонь защищает и подчиняется тебе, вода расскажет то что слышит вокруг. Земля и воздух оберегают.

today, I was searching for websites to share my anguish,

Here in the Southeast (U.S., that is), the talk of the town has recently revolved around the most mundane of topics: the unseasonably cold weather and inflated gas prices caused by an apparent cyber attack on the Colonial Pipeline. On Blackwell Street in Durham, there were so many cars in the parking lot of a gas station that it appeared impossible for all but the outermost cars to drive out—a canonically tangled jam.

I have been reflecting on the cool sound of that one consonant that seems only to occur in Portuguese, the one that appears in the name João.

Some drawings I made about three years ago: https://imgur.com/a/yXllGXd Could say a lot more about these drawings, but not right now...

On a side note, the tool used to create them, artpad.art.com, doesn't exist anymore.

Testing, testing. Dead air on the site.

today, i replaced the hard drive of one of my computers with a solid-state drive, which made it go as fast as it has ever run before, and perhaps even faster. to help with the task, one of my co-workers lent me an SATA-to-USB cable, which was the first one I had ever seen or used. for the first time since my long-used laptop died two years ago, I was able to go inside the old hard drive, which contained not only photos and videos from the past ten years or so, but also files going as far back as the first personal computer I ever owned in my life. this nostalgic experience got me thinking about the role of the cloud in one's digital existence.

no longer is a file, a memory, a creation, linked to any one physical location, as previously when even digital media had to reside SOMEWHERE, such as a small shell of cold metal that fits in your pocket. when we depend on the cloud instead, does it change the way we create and store our memories? personally, my experience has been to err toward conservative storage when using the cloud because of how they charge using subscription models and using tiered pricing based on the size of the files. when the storage medium is my own, these worries don't appear on the horizon, because I already own the drive. the shift in paradigm reminds me of renting versus buying: each hard drive you might buy is like a little house, which you furnish as your own. using the cloud is like renting: if you forget to pay, or cannot do so any more, you'll get an eviction notice and all your memories will be wiped with the cold-heartedness and immediacy of a cron job (or a wrecking ball, to use an analogy from the physical world).

One quick question about music: do constraints of genre enhance creativity, or stifle it? I think the correct answer may be "neither," and that the creativity of a work of music depends almost entirely on the creator. There are swaths of genre-bending music that fail to inspire the listener, and likewise swaths of music created almost exclusively according to the conventions of a given genre, equally uninspiring. A good musician can inspire within or without genre.

Some special videos

• The only known film footage of Anne Frank: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4hvtXuO5GzU
• Full footage of Nirvana, 1992 VMA's: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=q9cxMsGFgQ8
• The Big Snit (Richard Condie, National Film Board of Canada): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p1S5pAF1YYA
• Krusty Krab Pizza song (with lyrics): https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=j9zbd6-Bwhs

Hello there.

Greetings.

Break the Bank by ScHoolboy Q: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rc-Vqcud32I

what you talkin bout if it ain't bout the money neck full of gold, i'm attracted to the honey

The white coating on the outside of Brie cheese is mold (but you probably already knew this).

Hello, here we are at the studio middle school 2019. I have blisters on my fingers and needles in my film canister. Mississippi Heavy Water Blues, Barbeque Bob, 1924. Peace & Love. Yeah!

Tune of the day

"No Boom Boom" by Chuck D and the Fine Arts Militia https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-WUxa6aXeNU

This is an adaptation of John Lee Hooker's song "Boom Boom" in the form of a protest against the invasion of Iraq that was impending at the time of this performance in February 2003.

Thought of the day Take a moment to note the demise of Cheese Nips, which filled American grocery store shelves from 1955 to 2020. Yet another change in our world wrought by the pandemic? (https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cheese_Nips)

Quote of the day A bargain with insomnia: if I lie in bed pretending to be asleep, is that good enough for you so that I won't have to fall asleep standing up?

My brain is oddly empty today, despite there being so many things I would like to do. Or maybe "because of" instead of "despite of." The main idea is that I'm having trouble thinking of something creative or enriching to write, so instead will summarize some hopes and dreams I have for this site, improvements which might eventually make it a place where people can share creative ideas:

Realistic plans

• Automated sitemapping which will link up with Google Webmaster Console
• Support for embedded images
• "Live preview" mode: observe the rendered version of the page updating itself in real time (as opposed to the current editing pane, which is the "source" mode)
• Drawing tool: you can create a drawing, which will then get uploaded to an image hosting server and become an embedded image on the page.
• Complete the first full draft of the "Baseball Journal" section of the site, which means writing up the rest of the rules of the game, team summaries, and lexicon, at a minimum.
• Turn the "Baseball Journal" section of the site into a larger encyclopedia and infotainment article hub. Using resources from books and old news articles, write up interesting but little-known historical summaries (if there are any left), or compile local knowledge (for example, anecdotes about fun places to go swimming outdoors in Durham).

This site has been up for over two years and remains practically a ghost town, and that's because there's nothing interesting to read on here, and no people to interact with. For this site to be fun, either it needs people to visit it, or else I just have to up my game as an amateur writer-comedian(?)-webmaster.

Weird jokes from a chat with my friends earlier My friend shared a link to this meme (https://i.chzbgr.com/full/9609606400/h36CFECDA/person-adam-creator-o-vaccinated-single-women-my-area) So then I wrote "It looks like getting vaccinated turns your arm into a WiFi hotspot. It didn’t work for me, though. Instead, my vaccination spot on my arm turned into a dialup modem..."

For the general election in the U.S. today, on 3 November 2020, I volunteered as a canvasser, someone who knocks on doors to encourage registered voters to cast their ballots. However, something unrelated happened that is significant enough for me to need to write it down before I forget the details. It's that I had the biggest crush in a single day that I have ever had in my life with the person who was my canvassing partner. It felt almost like we had a shared mind or something, that is the best way to put it, like our thoughts functioned in the same way. This was the only time I’ve asked a girl out face to face, although she politely said no, and since I only know her first name, it is fairly doubtful I would see her again. I do not know how different her perceptions might be of that time, but I think those two and a half hours or so that we spent together having fun and talking will be permanently engrained in my brain. The toughest part for me is wondering if I will ever experience something like that again, because I don’t have anything really to compare it with. I feel like I fell in love at first sight, one of the few times I have ever felt so strongly about another person.

I am not going to be able to sum up this person succinctly with the amount of time I have available, so let me instead just share a list of why I liked her so much. She had a beautiful voice that sounded like she was singing each time she spoke. She had an inimitable fashion sense, entirely her own. Namely, she wore a blue suede baseball cap, a khaki trench coat, a yellow scarf, light blue jeans, and pink sneakers. She carried herself with a gentle dignity, and had a slightly formal way of speaking, kind of like me, and a cute laugh. It was less anything physical that struck me about her, though. Instead, it was a feeling of completeness being around her. I felt an instant connection to her, like she knew what I was thinking, and how I thought, right away. I liked the calming sense of her presence, and there were so many things I wanted to ask her but wasn't sure if it was the right time to do it. We talked for about half the time while walking around to the different sites, and I kept on wanting to make her laugh, and succeeded more times than I was expecting. These words don't capture the feelings at the time, though. I liked all her little quirks, like the way she pronounced "Guthrie" as "GOO three" or "cordoned" as "core DONNED." Why is it that in retrospect, it feels so silly? The truth is there was something different in me being with her, a positivity that lies dormant in me too often. I had a sense that her mind functioned similarly to mine, some type of eccentricity that is hard to sum up in general terms, but more comes from examples, like the way she talked about her enjoyment of maps of navigation, and the way she noticed small details on the houses we were passing. Most people don't notice these things, and being able to share them with another person was rare and special for me.

When we finished the session, about one minute before we parted ways, I accidentally touched her hand for a split second, and it was kind of scary. Then as we were getting ready to head off in our cars, I asked if she would ever like to get together, and she said no. I was surprised because of how well we had clicked, at least from my perspective, and it definitely has left me feeling crushed and disoriented since. I wonder why my brain puts me through these rollercoasters, and if the feeling that struck me was actually love. I hope one day to see you again, though it seems almost completely unlikely. Her first name was Kathleen, and that is all I ever learned of her. She will probably never read this, and maybe she won't think about me again as I do of her.