Top 10 Rum Bacon Bits

In this the meat of a three-part crumpwich series documenting the Cajun Migration, The Crumpets pilgrimage to the Queen’s landholdings to trace the embarkation of the Acadians in Nova Scotia.


Rum Bacon Bit #1: Canadian bacon, marked by its signature ham-like, juicy, lean, departures from regular bacon, does not compare to the product that emerges from ravenous swimmers, a propane stove, and a bottle of Cuban rum under a looming U.S. embargo on Cuban goods. With 14 hours before a border-crossing, the Cuban rum must be consumed, and what better way to do so than use it for culinary purposes in a provincial campground under liquor ban. Voila! The inflammatory taste of rum bacon—the new Canadian bacon standard.

Rum Bacon Bit #2: For the adventure-seeking enthusiasts, soaking up a host of “Highway 1s” on craggy coastlines on quests for sea-faring villages of ballad-worthy renown [read: Sherbrooke] is quite the wall-of-fog driving experience. Most rewarding is when the fog breaks to reveal groups of village children waving and chasing one’s vehicle amid joyous whooping and yawping—presumably at the sight of another human being.

Rum Bacon Bit #3: The bustling metropolis of Halifax seems to be the only urban center of significance in Nova Scotia, and despite the apparent lapse of rigid enforcement from what may be assumed of the British-esque guards who man the city’s central fort whilst iPhoning on duty, purchasing alcohol at Halifax establishments surprisingly requires two forms of government-issued identification including but not limited to: passport, driver’s license, social security card, birth certificate.


Rum Bacon Bit #4: Fast food chains in Canada, simply put, have odd variants. To order a burger from the A&W one must choose from a “burger family”: the papa burger, mama burger, and the special—“grandma burger.” McDonald’s also has its oddities in the double Big Mac and what must be a regional favorite—the McLobster.

Rum Bacon #5: Canada is quite fond of calling its educational/museum/historical sites “interpretive centers.” Example: Fort Bickerton Lighthouse Interpretive Centre. It could mean full sensory experience of place. Or it could refer to the confusion of visiting the Acadian National Historic Site, where the natural greeting is “Bonjour” and if one member of the party proceeds to converse in French, it is assumed the rest will do so as well. Interpretive.

Rum Bacon #6: Agriculture (along with fishing) in Nova Scotia appears to be the economic mainstay. Though the fields of fallow land during what seems to be a short-window optimum growing season would negate this observation, the stretches of wide open land—fallow or not—are quite astonishing. Alternatively, lawn care could be a close second for occupation choice. Any day, all day, somewhere lawn-mowers hum.


Rum Bacon Bit #7: Unlike many American state signs, Nova Scotia has its signage down to a gargantuan science for optimal tourist cam photography. Not only does every province seem to have larger than life decorative, engraved lighthouse carvings, but every exit has its own picture-book landscape road sign of what culture awaits in just half a kilometer.

Rum Bacon Bit #8: Do not try to be local and cultural and experimental by ordering a Canadian. Beer, that is. It may sound exotic: “I’ll have a pint of Canadian.” But ye b warned, if Bud-Light is lowest on the shelf, Canadian is rolling around underneath the rack. A much finer alternative is Rickard’s, which comes in Red, White, and Dark varieties.

Rum Bacon Bit #9: The temperature of the North Atlantic around Nova Scotia is between approximately 25-35 degrees during winter, and 50-60 in summer. Given that summer does not really begin until late June (if the abandoned tourist towns are any indication), one really appreciates Suburban seat warmers after a dip in the ocean and subsequent frantic dash to the heat-cranked vehicle on a dreary/foggy/windy/wallofogged day.

Rum Bacon Bit #10: Thankfully the U.S.-Canadian border patrol agents at Calais do not find it necessary to detain four whippersnappers bedecked in American flags waving Acadian ones bellowing “Viva L’Acadie!” and “Rule Britannia” in a Suburban full of wet tents, wet towels, wet clothes, unwashed camping utensils, half-eaten pots of jambalaya, and a backseat stuffed with sleeping bags and potentially-embedded Cuban cigars. The border patrol agents are much more interested in posing existential questions to the motley crew of Louisianans, Cajuns, quasi-Cajuns, Las Vegans, Knoxvillians, Americans with questionable allegiances, finance students-turned-lit, lit-students-turned-grad-students: “What ARE you?” and “Driving from Louisiana. To Canada. Camping. In four days of rain. And no one’s killed anyone yet?”

Such is “leave no trace” camping.

[Bonus Bacon (because it’s Canada): Nova Scotia, Canada’s playground of the Maritimes or some such thing, is actually on a different time zone in parts. It is in fact possible to drive around the island for days unawares of the time change and what time it actually is, but only because Canada’s signature aviary--the loon--signals when dawn has arrived. The loon, not to be confused with Canada’s monetary increment the looney, heralds the dawn with punctuated squawking yawp screams sounding like a bird with short term memory loss surprised every five minutes to discover that, “WHAAHH!,” it is indeed a bird.]

Most Wanted List: Sunrises from easternmost continental points (thanks, wall o’ fog)

Crump It Up List:

(Editor’s note: This list is by no stretch of the imagination exhaustive. With more than 72 hours of driving time and expert DJs and Library-of-Congress-size iTunes, what gets listed here is simply one perspective of “memorable.”)
“Go Do”—Jonsi, “Barrett’s Privateers”—Stan Rogers, “June Hymn”—The Decemberists, “Rule Britannia,” “Thundercats”—Reliant K, “Woods”—Bon Iver, “Galway Girl”—Steve Earle, “Paper Planes”—M.I.A., “Ignition”—R. Kelly, “The Sorcerer’s Apprentice”—Paul Dukas, “All of the Lights”—Kanye, “Albuquerque”—Weird Al, “Into the West”—Annie Lennox, “Scott Dowdin’” (to “Free Fallin’”)—T-Matt & G-Matt

Acknowledgments: Gratitude for The Cajun Migration exploration leg of the great roadtrip is owed to Pat—the empty nester Mountie dad who offered us lanterns, propane, light, hot tea, and showers from his campsite across the way, to the camp manager at Nimrod’s Campground (Ms. Nimrod?) who changed out of her pjs and opened her trailer to us for a campsite in the dead of night in desolate Sherbrooke, to the Halifax security officer who cared enough to ponder where we could find Guinness stew and in so doing offered the history of Halifax and gave suggestions for stellar interpretive centres, to the Border Patrol officers who, despite their best judgment, allowed us safe and unencumbered passage to and fro our various homelands, to Megan the cranky pub server who did in fact manage to bring three of the same orders to the table despite an initial bleak outlook, to the bullet-proof-vested liquor police who did not search our campsite, to the Book of Nova Scotian folklore for providing many a head-scratching riddle, to T-Matt for educating us all in the ways of the Acadians, to G-Matt for saving Bertha from being stuck-in-the-gravel/mud, to Mario for expertly handling the inquisition at the border patrol both times, to the Great Lob, god of the sea to whom sacrifice was paid but from whom our lives were spared, and finally to Longfellow—who made the quest for Evangeline so poetic.



Prequel (New England adventures) and Sequel (the majesty that is Buffalo) to follow soon.

Peace out Brussels sprouts, yo.

Top 10 Moonkey Calls

Prequel to the adventures of Canadian rum bacon, The Crumpets go vocal with monkey calls documenting the road-weary journey up the Eastern Seaboard to Canada.

Moonkey Call #1: The moonkey—a cross between a donkey and a moose—was invented over the delirious course of several 10+ hour driving days eventually resulting in the call of the moonkey, characterized by bellowing braying: Mooooon-key, moooon-key (to the inflection of the traditional donkey bray “heee hawww”).

Moonkey Call #2: The first natural stop for any good roadtrip is Lynchburg, Tennessee for a tour of Jack Daniels. While the distillery is in a dry county without enough voters to reverse the liquor ban, thankfully Jack’s newest product line Tennessee Honey Whiskey can in fact be purchased (and was purchased) in Knoxville.

Moonkey Call #3: New England is a smorgasbord for the discerning munchkin connoisseur as Dunkin’ Donuts are in ample supply. Though one begins to realize that perhaps it is not donuts that are necessarily more popular but coffee.

Moonkey Call #4: Along with an increase in Dunkin’ Donuts, vanity plates suddenly multiply in droves once one hits Maryland and D.C. They certainlyl do make sitting in morning traffic more entertaining.

Moonkey Call #5: There is little else in the world so detestable as driving through New Jersey—Newark/Hoboken—on a Monday morning. Not only does New Jersey seem rather fake at times with its “planted” agricultural fields to make itself appear to have green spaces near its urban megalopoli, but its horrendous signage for tunnelage near New York is a heinous travesty. Road signs looking like coiled snakes with poking arrows misaligning every which way cost poor Bertha a good hour of disorientation, though to the crew’s credit, most toll roads/bridges/tunnels were avoided.

Moonkey Call #6: Free from the trappings of smog and confusion that is infernal New Jersey, pristinely coiffed Connecticut is a refreshing Paradiso—or at least Purgatory. For the weary and hungry travelers, the small (deserted) town of Wallingford seems a likely choice for a rejuvenating lunch stop. Though the centerpiece of the town is a decrepit cemetery surrounded by abandoned businesses and empty streets save for a young mother and a stroller who darted away down an alley upon our approach, the Wallingford Pizza House is a beacon of repute by comparison. That is of course until the employees asked if cheese was needed. For a cheese pizza.

Moonkey Call #7: Apparently the wrath of New Jersey is vast as it can detect when a group of dissenters burn the hallowed New Jersey map for marshmallow-roasting fuel even all the way in New Hampshire. Jersey exacts her revenge by sending a raging storm with low lightning and thunder that shakes the ribcage to torment all dwellers of the open field.

Moonkey Call #8: Driving Maine’s interstates is a generally barren experience. Driving Maine’s coastal highways at dusk into nightfall is a generally foggy experience made more exciting by playing games with the rain spritz on the windshield. How long can you take it with the mist coagulating before you succumb to the windshield wiper? Exhilarating game. Try to top 45 minutes.

Moonkey Call #9: One of the most iconic lighthouses in Maine—the Bass Head Lighthouse—is in truth rather run-of-the-mill as far as lighthouse collecting goes. However, just north of the lighthouse is a trail that winds its way along the coast eventually to a secluded beach that rolls in the smoothest of rock pebbles. It is a beach full of dinosaur egg-like wallowing rocks, perfect for rock petting whilst listening to the incomparable sound of the sea pulling and culling the clocking rocks. Bliss.

Moonkey Call #10: If one is ever entering Acadia National Park in Maine after dark, be advised navigation will be an issue. The town of Bar Harbor is situated in such a way as to be accessible from the park via loop roads that cuts in and out of the park at various points that all look strangely similar. The National Park is itself on an island, making everything quite circuitous as it is. All of this, complicated by rain, windshield wars, starvation, a long drive, nightfall, texts from parents saying we’ll never make it and should get a hotel, general delirium, and (lovely) impromptu ukulele recitals from the backseat makes winding through a desolate national park pre-tourist season in the dead of night slightly surreal. But with a generous 17 minutes to spare before campground closure, we rolled up to our first night of camping at 9:43 to pouring rain in which a tent was raised (despite the initial lack of poles), the propane stove was ignited, pasta was cooked, appetites were assuaged, and the saving remedy of the night—Tennessee Honey Whiskey—was partaken of by all.

Most Wanted List: Moonkey/Moose/Moonquixote sitings

Crump It Up List: (see Rum Bacon crumpets)

Acknowledgements: Gratitude is owed to the following generous souls who made this leg of the Cajun Migration possible: to Scott Dowd, keeper of the dynamite, rounds-maker, and difference-splitter who recommended a lovely hike to Great Head and whose memory we sustained throughout the migration’s entirety, to the Girl Scout leaders who gave us kindling for our fire and who patiently aided us in getting it lit without contacting my Girl Scout council to report Girl Scout camping ineptitudes, to the Boy Scout scoutmaster who also aided us with our fire in another location, to Megan and Tom who so magnanimously provided hospitality, showers, and beds for our Philadelphia stay despite our delirious mental states, and finally to Lucia and Tomas for the fascinating psychology of your working relationship and advocacy work.

Peace out, Moonkey scouts. (Thanks for indulging the Crumpets, once again.)

Stay tuned for the ultimate sequel with tales of the last leg of the journey—Rivendell/Buffalo.

Top 10 Macaroons

The Crumpet Collection records a saloonin’ and macaroonin’ mash-up in Nashville this week.

Macaroon #1: After a few hours of scootin’ around boots with the spurs on honkey-tonkin’ Broadway, teatime with raspberry and pistachio butter cream macaroons at Provence spécialité patisserie francais in Hillsboro Village (circa Vanderbilt) is the order du jour. Fo sho.

Macaroon #2: A testament to the skills of the West End’s go-to organic eatery Fido’s: even after watching a local episode of “Hillbilly Handfishin’” (in which office-bound adventure seekers voluntarily splash about in mud pits whilst seeking catfish lairs from which to wrestle the manatee-sized bottom-feeders), Fido’s catfish tacos still taste superb.

Macaroon #3: Very few places in the South will one find solar-powered trash compactors. Which is why the one on the sidewalk in downtown Franklin (just outside of Nashville proper) is practically a tourist attraction in its own right. Yes. The solar-powered trash compactor is replacing those corny penny-squashing souvenir machines; why chip in a penny when you can throw in a few bits of rubbish from the bottom of your purse and get a similar result?

Macaroon #4: Unrelated to Nashville, but after a the better part of a midnight hour was spent attempting to blow up a British air mattress, sans pump, it should be permanently documented that: 1. All caps should be screwed in, save the stopper on the underside. 2. Using a hairdryer with cool setting, inflate the mattress from the underside opening. 3. Cap and sleep. Voila.

(There will likely be a certain seven former Europe-trekkers who probably thought they would never forget this handy trick after a certain British-Italian night of similar consternation at mattress assemblage, but rest-assured, the trick is heretofore recounted. Sleep easy).

Macaroon #5: With the plethora of used bookstores frequently rounding most corners of Nashville, one would think a prestigious university had parked itself nearby or something. A favorable causal relationship soon becomes evident. High-profile universities à used bookstores with high profile signatures, such as, eh, Lee Smith and Bill Bryson. In the same case. Not two of my favorite writers or anything.

Macaroon #6: There are in fact legal mechanisms for conjuring Puff-the-Magic-Dragon up from the mists of childhood play. A trip to the Dragon Park, for instance. It’s quality therapy to spend one’s afternoon clamoring about the Gaudi-esque dragon mosaic with all the kids at “Fannie Mae Dees Park,” affectionately known as the Dragon Park. Forget McDonald’s Playland. After such a thoroughly enriching experience at age 22, what every McDonald’s really needs is a height-limitless Dragon Park.

Macaroon #7: With its trendy shops and swanky boutiques, posh downtown Franklin shows few signs of suffering through one of the Civil War’s bloodiest battles in 1864—though the chipped hat (due to misadventured canon fire) on the little dude who is the towering monument in the centre of the square (which is most accurately a roundabout) does suggest otherwise.


We are young. For Bluegrass and Country we stand.

Just record bids and Opryland.

(But we know. . .)

Nashville’s a battlefield.

Macaroon #8: Despite the seemingly random undertaking of replicating the Greek Parthenon and housing a gargantuan Florence + the Machine lookalike rendition of Athena inside (bedecked in pure gold) the sculptor, Alan LeQuire, is coincidentally the very same sculptor of the (unassuming by Athena proportions) Women’s Suffrage Memorial in Market Square (Knoxville).

Macaroon #9: To adequately describe Nashville’s southern country roots blended with organic affluence, one must look no further than the surprising frequency with which fruit tea—a refreshing mix of fruit juice, tea, and a hint of mint—is served alongside the traditional lifeblood sweet tea. It is entirely plausible to consume more than a few gallons of fruit tea, also known as tea punch, in mere days.

Macaroon #10: For the discerning out-of-towner, particularly those acquainted in any capacity with the western half of the U.S., one of the signature draws of Nashville will inevitably be the Jack-in-the-Box fast food chain. Nashville is officially the closest franchise for fans from Atlanta to Knoxville who may be on pilgrimage for the 2 for 99-cent delicious taco deal. A ground rule for Nashville: if one sees a Jack-in-the-Box, one stops. If Jack should pop up at midnight on the way back from St. Patrick’s outings and one must order “four tacos, love” in an Irish accent through the drive-thru, so be it. The JITB code stands. Without exception.


Crump it Up List: “Save a Horse Ride a Cowboy”—Big & Rich, “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy”—Kenny Chesney, “Love Song”—Sara Bareilles, “Hiphopopotamus”—Flight of the Conchords ft. Rhymenocerus, and “E.T.”—Katy Perry ft. Kanye.

Most Wanted List: Super Pollo (an apparently infamous chicken eatery, which, we were devastated to never have found. Sadly, it is likely under new management and no longer flies the flag of. . .the Super Pollo).


Acknowledgments:

The Crumpet Collection : Nashville Edition is brought to you in part by:

Semanticz and her mad navigational, tour guiding, eatery-picking, banana-waffle-making skillz, Mr. & Mrs. Holt and their magnanimous hospitality including lavish dinners and most entertaining TV programming, Ommie for her exciting lacy thong travel stores from the 70s (and her almond brownies), the kindred spirit at the Goodlettesville Jack-in-the-Box who kindly took our photo with Jack, the quizzical Jack-in-the-Box drive-thru worker who deciphered our Irish-accented taco order, the patient wine store attendant who humored us on our Louisiana-inspired (though unsuccessful) quest for Shaide, Brandon from EyeMaster’s whose jovial over-the-counter flattery will live in infamy, “Carlton” the Demos server who delivered when it came to the soup coming with the salad, St. Patrick for a good excuse to down a Guinness, the Mercantile of Franklin for an idyllic St. Pat’s evening, and Maggie & Ringo for weenie-lickin’ snugglin’.



Thank you all for your contributions to cultural edification.



Peace out Brussels sprouts. Yo.

Top 10 Beignets

The Crumpet Collection goes carnivalesque with a visit to New Orleans for Mardi Gras; it’s no contest as to what delicacy is on par with the crumpet for communicating signature tidbits of local lore—the beignet.

Beignet #1: A hint the wait staff at historic 24/7 Café Du Monde Coffee Stand withhold upon serving one’s powdered sugar with a side of fried dough, known as the ‘beignet’—do not exhale whilst consuming.

Beignet #2: McDonald’s establishments near parade routes should offer a combo #1 meal around Mardi Gras time to include chicken nuggets, fries, and substitute toilet use for the fountain drink. Although, it’s hard to compete with daiquiri vendors offering similar combo deals near the Portas.

Beignet #3: It’s about time someone demystified the bead-earning experience and point out that there is, in fact, a perfectly classy method for beadin’ up. The secrets: game face, visibility, direct eye contact with a thrower, verbal cajoling and flattery helps, but spastically waving and jumpin’ on it generally are just as effective. However, be advised that one could be breakin’ it down to one of the marching bands doin’ the epileptic Mardi Gras innocently unawares to the passing double decker float, and such inattention may result in beads projectiled at high velocities, potentially causing cerebral damage. Another caution, old ladies can and will try to steal the beads off yo back.

Beignet #4: In Louisiana, medians—yes, between roadways—are known as “neutra-grounds.” Not to be confused with “no man’s lands,” “underground Neutria-rats,” nor “Neutri-grain rats.” A nutria-rat is, from what I ascertain, a wetland woodchuck, beaver, squirrel, amphibious mammal, groundhog substitute, though the nutria rat has no affiliation with the best parade vantage point—the neutra-ground. Despite my best efforts, no doubt I will still stand to be corrected.

Beignet #5: Levy. Is NOT a concrete interstate median blockade. Quite green, actually. Surprisingly natural and organic, if you will. Kind of like (or, unlike) advertisements for “organic window tinting.”

Beignet #6: When ordering a “muffaleta,” despite what one imagines to be a grand muffin stuffed with bruschetta, the resulting “sandwich” stuffed with pastrami, salami, and ham deftly puts imagination to shame.

Beignet #7: It may be Mardi Gras on the streetz, but the St. Louis Cathedral of New Orleans, boasting ‘oldest cathedral in the nation status’ dating back to 1793, is zero tolerance for beverages during Mass. Exposing that water bottle will get you an emphatic reverberating “NOoOOooOOOoooOOOoooO,” and you WILL be escorted out.

Beignet #8: The Two Cardinal Rules of Mardi Gras: 1) Use plastic cups. 2) Don’t talk back to the law enforcement. Though I’m not sure the latter applies so seamlessly for the hulking Ringwraith-like equine steeds the law enforcement rides upon.

Beignet #9: New Orleans. Pronounced New Orl-ens. Not leeeeans. And, heavens no, not the ghastly N’awlins.

Beignet #10: For the undiscerning and musically illiterate (I am brave enough to own this), ska music—a mixture of calypso, jazz, and R&B—goes shamefully unappreciated as dance music. Or at least, it goes unappreciated as dance music in the way it is intended to be appreciated. Reader, in your travels, if you should stumble upon a circumspect “dance” loosely known as “The Cassie” characterized by a bizarre amalgamation of window polishing, sandwich-making, tray-handling, nebulizing, and T-rexing, know that comes fresh from NOLA right out of a new dance genre known as ska-dapted.

Crump-It-Up List : “Tipitina,” “Mardi Gras”—Professor Longhair, “Annie (Don’t Wear No Panties)”—Erykah Badu, “No Hands”—Waka Flocka, “F---- You”—Cee Lo Green, “Right Above It”—Lil Wayne & Drake, to name only a few.

Most Wanted List: Rubber Ducky beads. But no sweat. The game’s afoot next time.

AckNOLAdgements:
The Crumpet Collection Krewe de Knox Edition brought to you by:
Mr. and Mrs. Smith who fueled the transport, T-Matt—master of the Taurus—who maneuvered a ballin’ 10-hour roadtrip there and back again, the monsooning rain which resulted in a historic double-feature-parade and historic Mardi Gras experience, Mr. Gassan whose gumbo culinary skillz belie comparison, Ms. V. Gassan and her spacious room, Ms. Bertha Gassan and her wheelin’ rollouts, a certain Aunt Sally who made parking expertly feasible, Mr. Gaston—driver, beat-dropper, navigator, tour guide, and cosmopolitan-maker extraordinaire, the enchanted Bird Mask and the vendor who sold it at a reasonable price, the owner of Jazz Daiquiri and Lounge who may have opened three hours ahead of schedule to accommodate our morning daiquiri run, Cassie—inspiration for many a dance routine, Ms. Chole—fearless naviGator of the 11-person hand grenade pilgrimage through swamped Bourbon Street, the masked floatsman and his bestowal of prized Fleur-de-Lis beads, and finally, Mr. and Mrs. Simmons for refreshing Co-Colas circa Kewanee, Mississippi. Thank you all for contributions to supporting cultural edification.



Peace out, Brussels sprouts.

Currently pre-heating the oven for Crumpets from the Nash. Stay steepin.'

Top 10 Yards of Flannel

The Crumpet Collection rings in its third year this 2011 with double dosage weekends to liminally-spaced Asheville, Carolina Northside.


Yard of Flannel #1: To succeed in fitting in wardrobe-wise on what is arguably universally the classiest occasion of the year most everywhere—New Year’s Eve—Asheville implicitly requires puffy vests, facial hair, cigs, dreads, and, most critically, flannel.

Flannel #2: Mecca of health foods and vegetarianism, Asheville’s dining cuisine is peculiarly tasty. . .one “wheat meat” burrito at a time. Even carnivores probably will have tastier luck at vegetarian establishments than, say, restaurants advertising the “BEST” Mexican cuisine, yet who, befuddlingly, seem to experience severe angst at fulfilling an order of queso and margaritas. Also, as a general public service announcement, if a flannelite native should ask for a “bowl,” s/he does not mean the piece of pottery one just purchased as a desk-deco paperclip holder.

Flannel #3: A rhetorically-significant tunnel—landmark for most anything immediately outside of downtown: past The Tunnel, just before The Tunnel, right after The Tunnel, 10 miles past The Tunnel—seems to separate the environmentally artsy vegan downtown core from the suburban Waffle House, Longhorn, Super 8, Wal-Mart culture. Such is life beyond and before The Tunnel.

Flannel #4: The Biltmore Super 8 (past The Tunnel), for all its wobbly toilets, towel shortages, frozen biscuits, and the occasional scent of illegal substances, actually has quite friendly customer service. Having stayed there twice in successive weekends, the clerk will kindly grant one’s request for the same room and, upon checkout recalls, “Oh yes. Ms. Hoover. I spoke to you on the phone about your room request. I’m so glad we made such a good impression on you!”
AKA: Should you need assistance in society, drop my name at the Biltmore Super 8, and you will be well-attended. (Though I highly recommend Sweet Peas Hostel, walkable in the heart of downtown—the crème-de-la-crème of hostel accommodation and reasonably-priced at $30/night/person.)


Flannel #5: Asheville’s River Arts District is a fascinating slice of warehouses-turned-art-studios with eclectic art and fortuitous conversation. One such artisan, Joey the Potter, self-proclaimed maker of “pots and empty beer cans,” helpfully recommended his friend’s Sirius.B band as New Year’s Eve entertainment. With hits such as “Monkey Robot Soldier,” it shouldn’t be a surprise we found ourselves raucously heralding the new year to a vamped version of “Auld Lang Syne,” followed by amoeba absorption in a flannel mosh pit cheering the new decade.

Flannel #6: Perhaps as is the case for most cities, Asheville is wholly ill-equipped for the barrages of taxi requests supplying the hoards of pilgrims gravitating to the city from far-reaching mountain hamlets in search of grog on New Year’s Eve. After 40-some-odd calls to taxi busy signals between 3 and 4 a.m. and much wandering of the perilously icy streets, we caught a ride with sober Anne—a kind soul whose grandparents, coincidentally, met and married at our alma mater.

Flannel #7: Even a cursory perusal through the many art vendors’ shops, particularly the famed Woolworth Walk (venue for selling local crafts and art), yields speculation as to the cosmic leanings of the greater Ashevillain populous. Recurring themes in the artistic renderings of this city include, but are not limited to: robots, flying saucers, alien renderings, spaceships, and general other-worldliness.

Flannel #8: The surrounding mountain beauty hugging the city is truly moving; however, the seductively accessible tendrils of roads creeping up steep mountain slopes are rather deceptive in their propensity to cause motion sickness, especially on gloomy, rainy days where the visibility from “scenic” overlooks is…zero. If such a scenic drive is attempted, it would be of considerable worth to all passengers involved to check to see of the Blue Ridge Parkway is indeed open and accessible BEFORE winding upward, up, and up to reach a only a roadblock…and an adequate space for passengers to be ill if (likely) necessary.

Flannel #9: After rainy climbs up random mountain peaks in the driving rain, there is nothing more rewarding than snagging some world-famous truffles from the Chocolate Fetish (official chocolatier to the Biltmore family) and moseying over to Double D’s for afternoon tea. The (stationary) London-style double-decker bus turned Atlanta party bus turned Asheville landmark is a two-story coffee shop: sipping coffee from the second floor watching the always-interesting Asheville clientele go by is a memorable afternoon, guaranteed.

Flannel #10: Asheville is certainly the eyeball’s playcourt with vibrant and striking stimulation converging from all sides—so much so that it’s rare to ever look down at one’s feet. And so it may not be until the end of an unnoticeably long day or perhaps upon returning home and unpacking that the foot-traveler notices a dusty, shimmering sheen coating her shoes. The glittery flakes of mica rock so common to Asheville are welcome complimentary souvenirs to take home and disperse. The aliens most likely had this in mind when they left it behind.

Most Wanted List: Meat?

Crump it Up List: “OK It’s Alright With Me”—Eric Hutchinson, “Little Lion Man”—Mumford and Sons, “Auld Lang Syne”—Robert Burns (feat. Sirius.B), “Monkey Robot Soldier”—Sirius.B, “Sick Tonight (Dr. P remix)”—dan le sac Vs scroobius Pip

Peace out Brussels Sprouts.

(This issue of “The Crumpet Collection” is brought to you in part by: Melissa, Nicole, Danae, Kimmy, Kelli, Joey the Potter, Alex the Dread, “Put Your Pants On” Reid, Sirius.B, Anne, Sweet Peas Hostel, Martha—reservations specialist at the Biltmore Super 8, the Mellow Mushroom TV coordinator, the hazelnut latte maker at Double D’s, the yarn shop alpacas, and the dapper mystery gentleman who smoothly bequeathed his parking stub. Until we meet again, Happy Trails!)

Keep it flashy, Ashy.

Top 10 Trips to Walgreens

In this non-traditional format, the Crumpet Collection soaks up a rare look inward to the dialogic ingredients of genius Christmas card-making.

Yes, Christmas card-making.

This you must remember, or nothing that follows will seem wondrous.

Trip to Walgreens #1. On Christmas Eve’s eve, the Hoover parentals, on account of helping Santa scour East Tennessee for a highly rare sonorous gift, commissioned their daughters to design the family Christmas card—thought to be most expediently achieved at the neighborhood Walgreens. The guidelines: folding photo card (with blank writing space on the inside!), just generic “happy holidays” (NO references to “Christmas” or “New Year!”—seeing as how the greeting will likely be late for both), NO snowflakes (it will clash with the beach in the photo!), NO designs you wouldn’t send to a 90-year –old (nothing too “modern!”), and for goodness sake NO corny REINDEER (Tara!).

Trip to Walgreens #2. NO problem. Enter Walgreens Online greeting card design and begin customizing for all the above criteria. Endless, customizable options? Oh, joy:

“FINE. You’re taking over this entire thing. Why don’t you just crop yourself a little photo of you, by YOURself, with a lone palm tree and make your own card. And write ‘have a warm, spicy Christmas’ inside.’”

“I’m NOT ‘taking over.’ I’m just editing. Over my dead body will there be a typo in OUR Christmas card. And it wasn’t ‘spicy Christmas.’ It was ‘warm wishes and spiced seasonings.’”

“We’re NOT writing that! Whatever. Just make your own. Here. Here’s your crop.”

Trip to WG #3. After hours of heated deliberation as to how “happy holidays” should/could be expressed most eloquently and in which font style, the in-store photo kiosk defaults begin looking more peaceful. There, whilst waiting in the eternal line, one might ruminate upon the Evolution of the Bow: 1) Handmade ribbon bows, 2) pre-made tape-on bows, and finally 3) the 2010 model—the 1-dimensional adhesive sticker bow. And still, after all that, shockingly, the line remains.

Trip to WG #4. The line, coupled with the out-of-stock status on York Peppermint Patties suspends the mission to a later hour. How any institution worth their pepper can afford to be out of stock on peppermint patties at Christmas is beyond comprehension.

Trip to WG #5. And so, back to the online drawing board to the unfortunate strains of “Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters,” which apparently got erroneously dragged into the Christmas playlist, much to widespread consternation and mounting frustration.
“Shut UP E-J!”
[Gasp] “You CANNOT call him B-J!! It’s WRONG.”
“I didn’t say B-J. I said Eeeee-J. This is Elton John. Not Billy Joel. Why can you never keep them straight?!”
“I can. Only one of them is straight, actually. But it doesn’t help that they each have two first names. We need some Kenny G.”

Trip to WG #6: And since one is wondering and online anyway, it may be discovered that G stands for “Gorelick.”

Trip to WG #7. Final product still elusive, and again, hours later, Walgreens beckons in the night. On the way out the back door, navigating through some sort of routine home-maintenance project worthy of power tools, Dad warns:
“Tools by the backdoor. Don’t kill yourself on the way out.”
“Bite me.”
[Gasp!] “You can’t SAY that!”
“It was a PUN! We just stepped in a pile of drill bits. It was a PUN!”
“Your puns AREN’T funny.”

Trip to WG #8. While in line—again—one might this time ruminate upon members of the NRA as the new pagans of the millennium. They are, after all, perhaps the most seasonally-inclined of humanity today (farmers excepted). Happy Festivus.

Trip to WG #9: Miraculously, a card is born—approximately 40, in fact—matching nearly all specified criteria. Sisters confide in Christmas wishes of yore over two bags of York Peppermint Patties (miraculously now re-stocked):
“I used to want to be a member of the E.L.F.S. emergency rescue squad, you know, with the elfish jetpack and jail-breakin’ tinsel (see Tim Allen’s “The Santa Clause”). [Who knew?]
“That reminds me, I used to want to date Rory Buck.”
“Rory Buck?”
“Yeah, you know. The fatherless, bad-boy snowboarding kid from “Jack Frost.”

Trip to Walgreens #10. In the end, Santa sure knows how to keep this family occupied while calling every Walgreens, Target, and Wal-Mart from Knoxville to Chattanooga to Asheville to track down the last remaining boxed set of the 45th Anniversary Edition of “The Sound of Music” complete with Blu-Ray, 2-disc special features (including karaoke sing-along setting), a “Meet the Cast” book, an Edelweiss music box, and my treasured favorite, a glossy letter addressed to “Film Enthusiast.” Not to mention, Alps that really pop. Digital remastery at its finest this Christmas.

Oh, and warm wishes and spiced seasonings from The Crumpet Collection. :)

Top 10 Crimson Letter A's

The Crumpet Collection tides itself over with a visit to Pamela in Tuscaloosa.

Crimson Letter A #1: One wonders how Hester Prynne lost to an elephant for Alabama’s mascot; Hess comes complete with a crimson enough A.

Crimson Letter A #2: The checkered Houndstooth blazer is a must-have for masquerading as a local Tuscaloosan. And, they’re versatile for church, a stroll in the park, in 30-degree weather, in 70-degree weather, and they’re even sold at sporting goods stores.

Crimson Letter A #3: If a Tide fan is faced with the game on TV next to a giant hotdog in a hula skirt, she will see have no problem seeing the forest for the tree; even an entire forest of hula-ing hotdogs probably wouldn’t deter attention from the game.

Crimson Letter A #4: Jack’s, a fast food chain apparently indigenous only to Alabama, should not be confused with Jack-in-the-Box—a southern rarity with the best fast food tacos.

Crimson Letter A #5: After a series of restaurant mishaps in which one orderer repeatedly gets forgotten, brought the wrong order, and given the wrong change all at different establishments in the span of two weeks, maybe there’s some sort of breakdown happening on the part of the orderer and not the service. Enlightenment courtesy of Jason’s Deli in Tuscaloosa.

Crimson Letter A #6: When one sees auspiciously-pillared mansions complete with gated front lawns and “brothers” sipping what is likely mint juleps as they lazily rock on front porch chairs passing the Saturday afternoon, fraternity housing isn’t exactly the first assumption that comes to mind. All that’s missing for an Antebellum South re-enactment are waves of cotton.

Crimson Letter A #7: What surpasses TCBY self-serve ice cream are walnuts in honey self-served and oozing atop said ice cream.

Crimson Letter A #8: Catholics visiting other Christian denominations should remember to tote a Bible to service (Catholics are used to finding each Sunday’s readings printed in the missal) to get full prepared-for-class credit. :)

Crimson Letter A #9: If one hears “Les Miles” on ESPN, no, football yardage has not been converted to mileage, this is merely the name of LSU head coach.

Crimson Letter A #10: For those drivers who are too preoccupied trying to figure out the math of crossing the central/eastern time zone line on a daylight savings time change weekend, therefore losing track of how low the fuel tank is, never fear. Despite the sparse exits around said time boundary, Exit Rising Fawn rises out of the mists as a truck stop oasis just across the Georgia line, equipped with high-speed fuel pumps and the accurate time.

Most Wanted List: “High School Musical 2”—that first one, I tell ya, Cliff. Hanger.

Up Next: Crumpets from Nash & Grad-School Crumpets

Much thanks to Pamela Harris for her local expertise and cultural adventure-seeking in Tuscaloosa! Love and best wishes to her and Alex!

Top 10 Iced Vanilla Lattes

It's about time the Crumpet Collection sticks around to chill in Knoxville.

Iced Vanilla Latte #1: Fountain City McDonald’s baristas at windows one and two know to start up that iced vanilla latte when the Corolla rolls up at least three times a week. As shameful as it is to admit, this is actually more cost/time efficient than a) getting up 10 minutes earlier to make one’s own and/or b) standing in the Great Wall of China-length queue at the neighborhood library Starbucks.

IVL #2: One of the surprising “comforts” of moving back home is that, somehow after four years of one’s room lying dormant as the beastly West Wing of the house, the urge to convene family pow-wows increases when the resident moves back in.
Most often said pow-wows involve the resident minding her own business being generally studious whilst a raging conversation ensues regarding college applications, the latest high school sports drama, chemistry grades, and kitchen renovations.

IVL #3: The 1-month kitchen renovation project is now nearing its fourth month, though the enterprising do-it-them-selfers said they hope to finish the overhaul by Thanksgiving. The recent addition of a new stove and sink in an otherwise gutted kitchen has certainly aided the family dining experience by enabling “family dinner” to occur in the family’s own home as opposed to cooking and eating in the vacant (but furnished) house next door.

IVL #4: To be kicked off the university tennis courts, commute to the nearby Tyson Park courts, shove a bike half way in the car trunk on account of a court fee, and commute to the Sequoyah Hills court, which by this time is now dominated by senior citizens, would be a demoralizing experience to undergraduates. But to grad students, it is an opportunity to practice convincing bullying techniques in staking court claims.

IVL #5: If one is lucky enough to get DJ Rain for her pedicurist, she gets VIP invites to the Valarium Halloween Party. Pedicurist by day, DJ by night. Why isn’t that more widely considered as a career choice?

IVL #6: It is possible to live 18 years in Knox-Vegas without ever spending quality time in “The Fort” just off “The Strip,” but as a student at the grand University of Tennessee a visit to The Fort is an unavoidable cultural experience. Don’t miss out on the swingin’ porch life: hammocks strung across creaky railings, faulty porches, body shots, hookah gone awry, 1,629 guests-confirmed-house-parties, pumpkin carving with the pitbulls, stolen stereos, unlocked cars, “wait, this isn’t my car,” dark streets, paradise.

IVL #7: For all the horrors of commuting (gasp 25 minutes), it’s hard to top the spectacular October view of the mountains on I-275 whilst listening to the soothing nerdiness of NPR (nerds public radio).

IVL #8: Blessed be the 3 a.m. Krystal’s workers on The Strip, who multitask the drive-thru AND the rowdy walk-up window. Whilst in the 35-minute drive-thru line, one has a proffered vantage point for the costumed comings and goings and roof-climbers. Late night snack and a show.

IVL #9: As a native Knoxvillain, one finds it amusing to observe non-natives acclimate to East Tennessee quirks, such as stinkbug infestations and “that chili-in-a-cup stuff” (aka, the one and only Petro, courtesy of the World’s Fair).

IVL #10: Paying a first-time visit to local hangout Sassy Ann’s is probably not wise the Saturday of fall break weekend. But perhaps worse is implementing the “talk to three people you don’t know” rule on that Saturday of fall break weekend. Amid breaks of surreal techno dance moves, expect to enforce the challenge on upstanding gentlemen who introduce themselves as “I’m an Indian—last of the Mohicans,” “I’m an architect . . . from India,” and the nameless third who buys shots of expectorant “your grandma drank yesterday.” Grand additions to one’s soiree. Indeed.

Most Wanted List: late-night lattes with the roomies

Crump it Up List: “Cooler than Me”—Mike Posner; “Heartless”—Kanye; “Mine”(this is listed for deep analysis of a very disturbing music video)—T-Swift; whatever opus NPR happens to be playing

Top 10 Vodka Sonics

The Crumpet Collection kicks off from Athens and Knoxville with faithful anecdotes of the gluttonous football traditions I have witnessed in this the most active footballin’ season of my life (by active, I mean attending 2 games).

Vodka Sonic #1: When visiting a dry campus (as an alumna of one, who are we kidding?), hit 2-4 “happy hour” cherry slushies at Sonic, liquor store, voila. You’ve got yourself a Vodka Sonic complete with discreet thermal cup.

Vodka Sonic #2: Bargaining a football ticket on the street must be the closest equivalent to participating in the drug trade. I shall put this skill on my vitae.

Vodka Sonic #3: The charm of Athens, Ga., lies in toting a bottle of wine around in one’s purse during a shopping expedition and being allowed to bust it open in a restaurant at dinner. With the full consent of the manager. And free birthday cake to boot.

Vodka Sonic #4: Playing “I Spy” with the moveable camera-on-a-cable suspended from the tops of football stadiums whizzing over the fields is a sporting way to keep entertained. In the rare event this should fail, people-watching is also a fascinating study (mostly fascinating, sometimes just disturbing).

Vodka Sonic #5: One is contentedly occupied watching the field cam zoom about the stadium on its invisible cables when shouts of “Helllllll yeeeeah, I’m just masqueradin’” get progressively louder. And louder. And loud enough that a heavy-set gentleman feels he has attracted enough attention to take off his orange shirt to reveal a heinous Alabama “A” and beam, “Hellll yeeeeah, I’m just masqueradin’. Lost a bet!” If this be the modern Hester Prynne, save us.

Vodka Sonic #6: When choosing between a fried coney or a fried funnel cake at concession stands, be sure to align yourself in the appropriate line: “FOOD” or “DESSERTS.” Should the dessert line be shorter, do not assume to be allowed to order “food” in the “dessert” line. Take note, this rule is enforced; if you break line, the queue of ravenous fans behind you will become unruly.

Vodka Sonic #7: When reading bus timetables, it is vital to note the a.m. / p.m. time distinctions. In some cases, as in the Athens bus stop a few blocks from the shady part of town, p.m. does not exist on the timetable.

Vodka Sonic #8: Whilst waiting on a p.m. bus that will never arrive, it is always comforting for the neighborhood police cruiser to stop and ensure one is “ok.” After explaining it is not within their jurisdiction to offer a ride downtown, the helpful officers said they would be happy to arrange for boys on scooters as alternative means of transport.

Vodka Sonic #9: One may have crawled into sweet slumber at 3 a.m., but OF COURSE it is positively reasonable to awaken at 6:30 a.m. for the thrill of pepping up for a rousing four hours frying in the sun watching America channel its aggression in a spectacle of confusing yardage and rules no one likely fully understands. And despite one’s moral opposition to drinking at such an ungodly hour, it is the cultural thing to do in such situations. Who needs Wheaties for breakfast when Strongbow and Chex Mix are on hand? At least the cider consistency of Strongbow is close enough to apple juice. When in Athens, apples to apples.

Vodka Sonic #10: The drive from Athens, Ga., to Knoxville is a stunning one through a slice of North Carolina mountains, but at 10 p.m. on a hungry stomach, the drive is rather starved of inspiration until one happens upon an oasis consisting of a lone eatery (KFC) and a Wal-Mart. Unfamiliar with the menu, one orders a chicken sandwich only to drive up and see a tottering Col.-Sanders-smiling bucket maneuvering its way through the tiny window into one’s low-rider vehicle.

One sputters around the chicken bucket to the faceless attendant, “Oh, d-d-dear, is, is, this a chicken sandwich?”

But the attendant cannot hear on account of the significant sound barrier. Despite the echoing, feeble attempts to deny the weighty bucket, one rolls her car window down further to accommodate the inevitability of the monstrosity.

“I think I just ordered a sandwich,” one says to a Kentucky Fried Chicken visor.
“That’s the 8-piece Saturday Special. Did you not want the Saturday Special?”
“Um, no, just a sandwich” [pushing the bucket back through the car window].
“Oh hun, just keep it” [disappears and returns with a bagged sandwich.]

And for the remainder of the drive through the mountains, one feasts one-handed on drumsticks and biscuits out of the sustaining chicken bucket. Truly, gross.

Most Wanted List: Agua

Crump it Up List: “Fly like a G6,”—Far East Movement; “Lollipop”—Lil’ Wayne; “Banana Pancakes”—Jack Johnson; “Only the Good Die Young”—Billy Joel

(footnote: No worries, I’m NOT an alcoholic. It’s simply that some cultural situations [read: football games] need something a wee bit stronger than a slushy for one to survive in an amiable manner.)

Top 10 De Klomps

The Crumpets try on some De Klomps for size in Holland . . . Michigan.

De Klomp #1: De Klomps. Ornate wooden craft clogs designed and worn by the Dutch. The largest De Klomp factory in the U.S. is in Holland, Michigan. Right next door to the tulip farm and, fittingly of course, the bison farm. Holland, Mich: De Klomps, tulips, and bison meat—and no, that’s not Amsterdam code for “coffee shop.”

De Klomp #2: Lake Michigan, or Lake Mich, does in fact have rip currents. Apparently, rip currents are not only restricted to saltwater; though why anyone would reasonably think that I certainly couldn’t say. When the Great Lake isn’t frozen, it happens to be just like the beach with the added bonus of NO SEAWEED. Nor lakeweed for that matter.

De Klomp #3: Gotta love road trippin’ with little sis.
“Hey, I don’t appreciate you slapping me and then telling me to ‘get my head on straight. Give me the map.’”

De Klomp #4: The wind on Lake Michigan is so powerful that it creates waves gargantuan enough to warrant such posted signs everywhere: “Beware of rough seas.” I suppose we are to assume “sea” then refers to freshwater bodies of water. Though in the event of “rough seas,” water recreants have the quaintness of Lake Macatawa, connected by canal to Lake Michigan. The canal was dug by hand by Dutch settlers in the 1700s and is now used as a safe little haven for sailboats rushing out “to sea,” nearly capsizing in the wind, and then retreating back to the calm canal.

De Klomp #5: “Smells like mustard.”
“And lettuce.”
“Smells like a sandwiches!”
Thank you, Heinz factory of Holland.

De Klomp #6: “Indiana Port Authority” seems at first glance to be an oxymoron. Yet surprisingly, Indiana’s Burns Harbor is actually one of the most bustling ports in the U.S. for steel and grain export from the Midwest.

De Klomp #7: You know a hole-in-the-wall shoe, er De Klomp, factory is worth visiting if Mr. Rogers (Mr. McFeely in tow) and the Queen of Holland have also paid a visit.

De Klomp #8: Cities that bear the brunt of harsh winters and icy sidewalks often heat the city sidewalks with underground gas pipes to keep the sidewalks ice/snow/injury-free.

De Klomp #9: Climb 200+ steps to the top of “Mount Pisgah” in Holland and just let people think you mean the Appalachian Trail Pisgah. The Mount Pisgah of Holland is not exactly a “mount,” but more a glorified sand dune.

De Klomp #10: In the nigh-on-1 a.m. lull down a cruise-controlled stretch of eerie prairie highway, the kind where you catch a glimpse of haunting cornstalks every now and again taking you back to “Children of the Corn” or chainsaw-haunted church group corn mazes, light of any sort is a rare comfort. Listlessly staring into the wine-dark sea of sky [sic], all is quiet to the eye on the western/northern/whatever-n front . . . when suddenly science fictive giants descend with red blinking eyes towering and surrounding for miles. And miles. And miles. Hundreds of red beams blinking in finely regulated syncopation. You run through a quick list of plausible hypotheses: airfield, second coming, Transformers, WWIII air raid, landmine markers . . .windmills? Windmills. And suddenly you are the Don Quixote of the post-modern age. Such is the USA’s appropriation of Holland’s Red Light District.

Crump it Up List: Half of My Heart—9/10ths John Mayer, 1/10th Taylor Swift; Bye Bye Baby—Bay City Rollers; Cracklin’ Rosie—Neil Diamond; Right Round—Flo Rida

Most Wanted List: Leggings

Top 10 Rhetorical Situations

The Crumpets go to grad school...
Rhetorical Situation #1: Graduate teaching assistant orientation week is essentially English boot camp, characterized mostly by hundreds of introductions and awkward juggling acts balancing pizza on knee-caps, keeping drink cups level, craning to decipher chest-emblazoned name tags, all while carrying on stimulating conversation with people lightyears more brilliant than the average juggler, and of course, always commenting on the “rhetorical situation” of the moment.

Rhetorical Situation #2: A new speaker takes the podium and addresses the auditorium of new grad students and slowly, impressionably, begins her dictum: “Now . . . we’re all human beings. And human beings change. From hour to hour. Day to day. Week to week. We all make mistakes. Therefore engaging in intimate relationships with students is strongly discouraged. As is being Facebook friends.” You just thought the sex talks were over. And this is only the opening line.

Rhetorical Situation #3: The hunt for the perfect study carrel is a strenuous process with numerous important factors to consider. Avoiding a horrendous Neyland Stadium monstrosity. Testing draft/air flow and AC alignment. Avoiding proximity to high traffic noise-centers, such as the mockingly cheery dinging elevators. The list goes on. Which is why carrel selection takes nearly a solid hour if done properly with an unflinching checklist.

Rhetorical Situation #4: Why one studies literature . . . to hear one’s graduate studies director say thing such as this: “Always be drunk. If you wake up in the morning and aren’t feeling sufficiently “drunk,” perhaps we should be having a chat. I believe this quote was crafted under the influence of the quotable Charles Baudelaire.

Rhetorical Situation #5: Balancing alcohol intake with coherent academic conversation with superiors was never an issue at dry-campus Berry, which makes these quasi house parties at professors’ homes (with coolers upon coolers of alcohol) an exercise in stoic drunkenness and/or temperance.

Rhetorical Situation: #6: Even leaving an hour before the first class on the first day will not likely allow one a spot in the commuter lots at UT. What’s worse is, once in a parking garage, there is not choice but to keep circling and circling to get out. Twenty minutes later, suspicion confirmed. No spaces available.

Rhetorical Situation #7: This is what happens in workshop tutorials on teaching English 101 after the overview of the grand rhetorical triangle. “Is every situation a rhetorical situation?” “What about living organisms? The rhetoric of trees, for instance.” “Well, trees, if for instance, planted for a certain purpose to create a landscaping effect to communicate a certain ethos, yes. There is a designer with an agenda behind planting trees.” “But trees of themselves. Do trees have rhetoric?”

Rhetorical Situation #8: Scaling back from twenty hours a week to five a week in a writing center with no session reports feels like writing center retirement . . . for now, at least. Unfortunately, I didn’t get dual benefits on my reading load for class.

Rhetorical Situation #9: Another great pearl of admonition. “Don’t hold office hours at night in secluded places, where students may feel uncomfortable meeting with you.” There was general question in our row of critical thinkers if IHOP falls under this description.

Rhetorical Situation #10: I, Jessica Hoover, have an office. Yes. Where I can hold office hours if I so choose. Follow the formaldehyde scent, wade through the rubble of Neyland Stadium under construction, wind down a creepy hallway designated somewhere in the 1940s as “South Stadium Hall,” and there you will find me. So, office hours anyone?

Most Wanted List: Second floor Evans Hall, Berry College

Crump It Up List: “Rock & Roll” and “All Over Now”—Eric Hutchinson, “Break Even”—The Script to my parking garage labyrinths, “The Lady of Shalott" —Loreena McKennitt boost of scholarly lyric, and “I Have Confidence”—Julie Andrews/Maria

(“Crumpets Continued” is a collection that seeks cultural anomaly in the domestic in lieu of the currently unattainable “abroad,” recognizing that every microcosmic drop of the world creates echoes.)

Top 10 Boxes o' Band-Aids

Many a Band-Aid for the NYC pedestrian—34, to be exact.

Box o’ Band-Aids #1: When fellow cross-walkers in Midtown tap one on the shoulder and say, “Miss, um, you’re bleeding,” then point to two gaping heel wounds, it’s time to pop into the local Walgreen equivalent Duane Reed’s, where one will spend most of her time whilst in New York if foolishly having chosen to wear new flats for extensive walking excursions.

Box o’ Band-Aids #2: Bartenders really should get more respect for the genuine skill it takes to know multiple names for every drink ever conceived, be able to make every drink ever conceived, AND simultaneously remember all their customers by name. But if one really wants to stump the bartender, find three friends with the same name and open tabs at the same time. Then observe the inner genius of bartending mnemonics when her tab reads one of the following: Jessie. Other Jessie. Amaretto Jessie.

Box o’ Band-Aids #3: On a quest for A.A. Milne’s original Winnie-the-Pooh stuffed animals in the “Humanities and Social Sciences Library,” be prepared for the following embarrassment with the information desk clerks.

“Is the ‘Human Social Sciences Library’ the same as. . . this? [Inside the foyer of the New York Public Library. By the lions]
“This is all the Schwarzman Building.”
“Oh, well I’m looking for the Human Social Sciences Building. Where is that?”
(Flabbergasted, sputtering effervescence) “You’re IN it!”
(Still confused) “Oh. Ohhhh. Well, you see, I’m looking for the original Pooh animals.”
“To the right, downstairs all the way, left, and they’re in the Children’s Section.”

Therefore: New York Public Library = Humanities and Social Sciences Library = Schwarzman Building

Box o’ Band-Aids #4: NYC has not quite jumped on the recycle wagon given that every night the streets are lined with full trash bags waiting for trash pick-up in the morning. Walking home late at night amongst moving trash bags is a tad disconcerting.

Box o’ Band-Aids #5: The term “bridge and tunneler” is a disdainful term used to refer to the commuters living in Queens, Brooklyn, or anywhere that is not the smallest of small New York islands, Manhattan.

Box o’ Band-Aids #6: Separating the posh from the plebian is a well-honed skill for the NYC hotel doorman. Cutthroat, too. How do they sleep at night knowing they kicked out book-lovers on a pilgrimage to the Library Hotel, home to rooms with themes coordinating with the Dewey Decimal System?

Box o’ Band-Aids #7: Even after five days, one can never really figure out the mysteries of what has to be the most complicated metro system in the world. When you ask for a free subway map from an always-busy attendant, be prepared to be handed a map the size of a small area rug. Not to mention, the lines are all numbers—as are most of the stops. And for added jollies, one has the choice of taking a “local” vs. “express” train—the local train has more frequent stops. But you wouldn’t exactly know this looking at your area rug, unless you know the secret code of filled-in circles vs. open circles. And may godspeed and force be with you from the transport gods on a weekend with service changes.

Box o’ Band-Aids #8: Apparently Sunday nights around midnight is a popular time to ride the subway. The confusion and excitement about getting a train may or may not cause one to drop a cell phone running to catch a train, look feverishly for all the missing parts amid doors closing, people pointing, and general franticness. As the train speeds away, sure enough, there lays a cell phone battery mingled in the garbage and rodentcide between the tracks. Fortuantely for you, this is New York, where cell phone stores abound, and upon requesting a new compatible battery, the sales clerk acts as if the year-old phone is a lost-to the-ages Egyptian artifact.

Box o’ Band-Aids #9: For whatever reason, every city seems to have one patch of metropolis obstructed with every crane in the city’s construction fleet. These crane swarms are rather frustrating for their general unsightliness. I stand by my assertion that a family of cranes giraffe-ing around a city skyline is . . . an eyesore. Though perhaps exclaiming that sentiment should be used rather sparingly in NYC, as it is highly likely you could be gazing upon the construction site that is the gaping wound of the World Trade Center—a wound that no amount of Band-Aid boxes can heal.

Box o’ Band-Aids #10: New Yorkers have a peculiar method for cross-walking. They walk determinedly in their course, stare down the red “Don’t Walk” hand, and stride out into the white paint a good two feet or so before planting themselves rather decisively nearly a third of the way into the crosswalk to wait for the walk signal. This is a city in which a few steps ahead make all the difference.


Most Wanted List: Flip-flops

New! Crump-It-Up List: (inspired by those inevitable bar sing-alongs) “New York”—Alicia Keys, “Bad Romance”—Gaga, “Livin’ on a Prayer”—Bon Jovi, “Can’t Fight the Moonlight”—LeeAnn Rimes, “Mona Lisas and Mad Hatters”—Elton John, and “Imagine”—John Lennon.

Newest cocktails concocted by Jessie Edwards and Jessica Hoover; request them today at your bars and stump your bartender whilst spreading the new cocktail revolution.

Mulberry Beatle: Cranberry juice, melon liqueur, and amaretto
Gotham Martini: Vodka, Curacao, amaretto, cranberry juice, and a dash of lime juice
Black Hole (prepare in shot glass): Vodka, Curacao, and the tiniest splash of cranberry juice

Many thanks to expert subway navigator local Uppah East Side (yo) tour guide, and HarperCollins’ newest publicist Jessie Edwards for touring me around the concrete jungle!

Top 10 Jack-In-The-Box Tacos

Top 10 Jack-In-The-Box Tacos
The traveling Crumpet Collection goes golden brown in San Diego.

Jack-In-The-Box taco #1: Order tacos in even increments for the two-for-99-cents deal at Jack-In-The-Box—16 should do—for loved ones suffering a three-year hiatus from the Westwardly-prevalent fast-food chain out of reach for most residents of the South. The aunt or uncle who willingly and shamelessly orders 16 tacos at the drive through, while also producing a wallet-full of free taco vouchers distributed at Padres games, is definitely deserving of a taco . . . or two.

JITB taco #2: Upon bodysurfing amid a swarm of young professionals deceivingly resembling lifeguards with their “official” red foam “LIFEGUARD” tubes, one should not be lulled into a false sense of rip tide security. These apparent lifeguards bobbing around aimlessly are merely “junior lifeguards” getting their elementary school feet wet in the life-saving industry.

JITB taco #3: The alcohol beach ban, which prohibits drinking ON the beach, may be circumvented by engaging in “Float-opia” parties at sea. BYOBAR al mar: bring your own booze and raft whilst boozing it up at sea.

JITB taco #4: One may read every informative storyboard about San Diego history in the museum-haven of Balboa Park (if one does this, visit the art museum first, not last, to avoid nodding off in the sterile, immaculate quiet of an art forum) and still remain at a loss for why the international border barely sneaks San Diego in as part of the U.S. There is no geographic difference to suggest a natural topographic border; on a clear day, one can stand atop any high point and see Tijuana, and on a light traffic day for the “5,” the border is a mere 17 minutes away, the traffic alerts report.

JITB taco #5: Seaweed. That horrid marine vegetation of the deep that slinks between toes and snakes around the legs resulting in the bunny hop bodysurf technique, I am happy to say, has been reigned in to an extent thanks to the prodigious advent of the public works occupation of the seaweed-bulldozer. How positively cheery it must be spending one’s entire day at the helm of a beachcombing monster vehicle weaving in between sandcastles and beach towels shoveling vegetative clumps into monstrous heaps left to bake and fester in concentrated gnat-swarms.

JITB taco #6: Sea World, formerly a welcome alternative to the scarring amusement park neighbor Disneyland, home to Space Mountain, has since developed competing amusements of its own with a deceivingly-timed climactic roller coaster and a jolting airlift to the “Arctic.” However, the Busch-run enterprise’s ability to brainwash impressionable minds to seek the marine biologist career whilst revealing the positive environmental impact of beer sales, is, for better or for worse, unchanged.

JITB taco #7: Assembling the entire Swikard family , give or take a photo-shopped absentee or two, in coordinating white shirts and jeans for one photo on the beach is a production rivaling a Broadway production of “The Sound of Music” (complete with exponential generations of von Trapps); however, this particular performance was not near as mono-nationalistic given the range of representative Irish, German, Romanian, and Latino nationalities present and perhaps not near as harmonious given the rolling eyes, the inadvertent inappropriate pelvic placements, the Grim Reaper grins, the far-off gaze toward the enrapturing hotel architecture, if indeed the appearance of rapture at all, captured ever-so-candidly by a photographer whose rumored specialty was photographing wild animals and dogs.

JITB taco #8: A visit to southern California is incomplete without experiencing the sound of an approaching semi-truck dieseling through one’s basement door whilst the computer monitor renders electronic text unstable, reducing it to undulating hieroglyphic squiggles as Grandmother’s 217-plus bell collection rattles and rings, heralding the passing of a 5.7 trifle of an earthquake.

JITB #9: Even after 22 years of sitting in the passenger seat watching San Diego’s ostentatious freeway mileage (being so far at the end of the road, so to speak, border town that it is, to have so much excess freeway) overlap in both tangled and unraveling coils that suddenly terminate in rattlesnake-tailed east counties, one should never trust such passenger “experience” to actually reliably arrive at a destination when that passenger finds herself behind the wheel.

JITB #10: While my dear grandmother has always warned us of the perils of entering her “shrine room,” her own forbidden West Wing of sorts, dutiful granddaughter that I am, I never thought to question what exactly was in the shrine room until this recent visit, when she gravely requested, “Now, I’m going into my shrine room. If I don’t resurface in, oh, about ten minutes, send someone in after me!” During those ten minutes I tried to imagine why my Catholic grandmother would have a room dedicated to a little gold Buddha with Tibetan gongs and such. However the mystique of the shrine room still remains, as in the brief glimpse I got I could not confirm the existence of a little Buddha but for the piles of Christmas wrapping and bows, similar to what Santa’s workshop must look like, minus the elves. Or perhaps instead of elves, there may be Buddhas.


Most Wanted List: sweet (sweeeeeet) tea

To save time in our race against the clock to complete San Diego Nostalgic Must-Eats Bingo, I am appending the checklist here for future expediency and efficiency: Jack-In-The-Box tacos, Lido’s spaghetti and meatballs, Gaetano’s pizza, Rubio’s baja chicken burrito, Santana’s enchilada combo #5, Aunt Sayde’s chilaquiles, Welldeck sandwiches, the entire El Indio smorgasbord, Bon-Bons, Miss Donut’s chocolate covered old fashions, breakfast at Coco’s, frosted animal circus cookies, and the chocolate Shamu cookie indigenous only to Sea World.

Crumpets Continued: Top 10 Black Mercedes

L.A. through the rear view

Mercedes #1: When driving in L.A. one is ever harrowed by the relentless tailgating black Mercedes hovering like a tow car in one’s rear view. Such tailgaters are especially menacing when careening down hills of a certain Beverly persuasion, exceeding 55 mph on oily roads after rain, high on the thrill (assumedly) of chasing a lunchbox-packed economy car with cranking windows and no power locks out of posh neighborhoods, where such plebian automotives apparently don’t belong.

Mercedes #2: One must ignore ominous admonitions such as “NO ACCESS to Hollywood sign” and “NOT A THROUGH STREET” whilst winding up and around the perilously narrow, designed-for-mules-only inches of “road” in the residential areas just beneath the Hollywood sign. Keeping the foot on the gas, deftly dodging monstrous rubbish bins, and whipping around uphill hairpin turns like a resident Mercedes will get one there in one piece for a stellar photo, albeit with shattered nerves.

Mercedes #3: As local angels of the Los are quick to point out, freeways are called “THE 10,” “THE 5,” “THE 110,” never I-10. The “THE” craze even extends to streets, such as Figueroa Street is known as “THE Fig.” However, this system is rather problematic. If one walked up to a handful of people on the street asking, “Where can I find THE One?,” oh the variety of responses one is bound to receive.

Mercedes #4: In light of the United Nations-like ethnic territorial delineation in L.A., which even includes such obscurities as “Little Armenia” and “Little Ethiopia,” the sizeable Jewish population seems to lack a designated neighborhood, resulting in having to trudge past world-famous Pink’s hot dog stand, where a scruffy gentleman holding a baby bunny condemns the 50-deep queue for eating hot dogs stuffed with mixed meats. Bon appetit.

Mercedes #5: After a night out in Hollywood and packing away those olfactory clothes, try explaining to one’s grandmother upon return home why the laundry reeks of a scent none too medicinal.

Mercedes #6: Due to the recent alcohol ban on California beaches, enforcement officers have upgraded the proverbial red Baywatch beach jeep to an entire fleet of patrolling vehicles, leaving Malibu beachgoers sunbathing on lockdown as four-wheelers, tugboats, helicopters, patrol cars, and barges patrol for alcohol, oneth by land, twoeth by sea, and three-eth by sky, in the highly suspect code red terror of the unassuming beach cooler.

Mercedes #7: However, the beach fleet has yet to adequately police public nudity, as some men feel it is acceptable to drop their trousers and slip into swim trunks not quite fast enough to ruin more than one beachgoer’s luncheon respite.

Mercedes #8: Motorbikes should be A-listed in “Lonely Planet’s” ‘Dangers and Annoyances’ section for L.A. travel. However, their deafening arrogance may be eliminated by an opportunistically-timed, accidental fist pump out the car window as they try to slide by in between lanes of traffic, thereby preventing hearing loss and heart attack for everyone within a 10-mile radius.

Mercedes #9: Blaring Alabama’s “Southern Star” with the windows down at midnight on Hollywood Blvd is in every way mortifying and inappropriate. Even “Angels Among Us” would have at least been remotely topical.

Mercedes #10: Driving the segment of “THE One,” stretching from Santa Monica through Malibu lives up to every iota of “scenic” as parked cars line both sides of the coastal highway, giving passersby a fascinating study into the people that make this little slice of Monte Carlo a California beach scene. The contemplative surfers lean against their hoods surveying the sea, paying homage to Helios and Poseidon. The narcissistic Ray-Bans teen snaps a photo of himself against a backdrop of parking lot. A naked child, well exceeding the diaper age appropriate for public nudity, bares all to the highway of passing cars. The clunker mini-van spills out a doublewide’s contents of rusty beach chairs, coolers, (TVs?!), tents, buckets, surf boards, and mayonnaise-based potato salad. And many a black Mercedes lurks menacingly, nightmarishly, waiting for sweating, jay-sprinter valets to return them to the twitching toes of the accelerating fiends.

Most Wanted List: Egg-based brownie mix

Peace out, Brussels sprouts. And may it be known that this adventure was made possible in part by Kyler Post and Kelli Stansell of the Academy of Parallel Parking and Offensive Driving Instruction, of which I am a recent graduate.

Golden Saucers: whisking silence

Golden Saucers: whisking silence

On the fuzzy periphery of a weekday afternoon, a phone rings but once a day. It’s mom calling from the driveway who “could use some help” with the groceries. Occasionally a text will jolt the stillness with a zap back to where good friends are studying, interning, teaching, traveling, wedding, birthing, drinking, laughing, fighting, earning, living for . . .

the crystal-tinkling clarity of some unadulterated sound.

Save for the seldom awakening of the grad-gift phone, my sounds these days are frequently cupped silence, filled with the memory of amniotic fluidity. When the sun rays reach into my childhood window and are particularly beckoning with their gentle invitation to join the world, I drive to a cabin once filled with second cousins and aunts and toddlers spilling out every straining window screen to the patio undergrowth of frog racing, fireflying, citronella wafting, and boat motors whining for just 10 more minutes, please, in the water.

The water is calm. My phone has no bars, and I, this time, am silently alone. Floating. Rocking. Irrevocably lulled.

My brain, too, is silent, the disquiet of the neuron map for now stowed away, washed ashore to make way for the expansive emptiness of the 3:00 sky.

Allow a cloud-flood through the retinas, through to the brain. In the sun-washed silence, absence, four tablespoons of softened butter must be what a baby feels when it first surmises the sky.

Let the brain stem keep inching back till the chin passes above the horizon line of trees, toes disappear, no cheating, feel the heavy cranium stretch back, ahh, all the way.

Clouds, the silent movie that speaks with a breath of originality, of change, whisk and scramble with each blink.

In a lull of blinking silence, I rediscovered clouds.

Top 10 OxyContin Pills

This week, I traded my wisdom teeth for OxyContin pills of wisdom.

OxyContin #1: Now maybe oral surgery is on the lower end of “grave” as far as surgeries go, but it seems there really should be some sort of code against anesthetizing people in a tiny fourth-floor business suite.

OxyContin #2: The last thing cringers to all things vein-related want to hear is their surgeon comparing the quest for the perfect IV vein to a fishing expedition. “Hmm. We might have to move upstream to find a good one, but let’s see if we can’t find us a big one here first.”

OxyContin #3: More wise words from the Dr. Wisdom Fisher: “If after the surgery you find when you try to drink water it comes straight through your nose, well, then we’ll know we’ve got something to fix.”

Thanks for testing bodily hydraulics before the patient leaves the building.

OxyContin #4: With oral surgery there is also the risk of damaging a delicate nerve, barely a blip on the X-ray, that runs below the gums through the lower lip. Numbness usually goes away after three hours, but to a patient on emotion-inducing pain meds, those three hours with a numb hippo lip is life-devastating, filled with premonitions of wearing bibs in restaurants and slurping gruel like the Beast.

Be thankful for that little nerve.

OxyContin #5: Nerve damage or no, wisdom tooth extraction requires the surgeon to crank the jaw open so much so that even opening it to fit a spoon in and out requires effort equal to removing the Sword from the Stone. Unfortunately the only way around this utensil challenge is licking applesauce straight from the jar. You can imagine the mess with the added handicap of a numb lip.

OxyContin #6: You know you have some high commodity pain prescriptions after the pharmacist tries to give you “Marissa Hoover’s” measly antibiotics and your demand for your identity and its rightful narcotics creates a Spanish Inquisition into who the true Jessica Hoover is and why she needs five narcotics prescriptions from the neighborhood Walgreen’s. Foul play afoot, Marissa Hoover. I’m on to you.

OxyContin #7: And you can’t trust anybody. Your mother, for your safety and addiction prevention, will purposely “hide” the pill bottles while she is gone for the day, leaving you high and, well, not high, but dry, and in pain.

OxyContin #8: When a mid-day storm blows through causing a tree to fall in one’s backyard, thereby uprooting two smaller trees, which smash the dog fence and a good portion of the roof, all just one branch shy of an OxyContin-induced slumberer, good luck (one) waking up and (two) convincing your family you really aren’t hallucinating . . . this time.

OxyContin #9: Don’t social network while under the influence. While you may not have the strength to sit at a desk and use a computer, here’s when the “convenience” of the mobile web on your phone betrays you.

OxyContin #10: Bed-ridden and comatose on pain meds is hardly an excuse for lack of cardiac exercise. The old ticker gets plenty of cardio pumping from heart-racing recurring nightmares of being trapped in a mahogany mansion hiding for your life from Cyclops sea creatures in basement wardrobes while, with the strike of each hour, a new army of villains, in progressive historical time periods, flood the spiraling staircases raging war curses while they hunt you. It’s like playing “Jumanji” amid clash of “Narnia” (all 7) and “Night at the Museum” (1 & 2) in every battle for Middle Earth.

Missed item this week: A right mind?

Peace out Brussels sprouts.

Top 10 Bird Droppings

Bird Dropping #1: You know the fates and birds are aligned together to malign suburban walking attempts when one is pooped upon whilst strolling to the ballpark.

Bird Dropping #2: Always, always, always greet people you know, regardless of the likelihood of them remembering you from six years ago. The minute you don't, you will see them haunting the grocery store crosswalk the next day, and you are faced with the exact same previous day’s awkward (lack of) interaction precedent.

Bird Dropping #3: Upon returning home, get used to "Hey [insert name of younger high school sibling here]." Or, "So you're the younger one, right?" Or, "Have you thought about colleges yet?"

Bird Dropping #4: How long does it take a college student to shake off the 3 a.m. bed time? At least a month and still counting.

Bird Dropping #5: From the other end of the clock, how long is it permissible for a college graduate to repeatedly sleep in until noon? Two weeks ago, wasting an entire half of a day was detestable, so I enacted a calibration plan, shaving off 30 minutes of sleep each week. We’re to 10:30 a.m. at Week 4.

Bird Dropping #6: Buildings change. Businesses go in and out of existence. Yes. But when is it ever OK for a private warehouse aquarium to morph into a pool and spa?

Bird Dropping #7: If anyone is ever in doubt of Knoxville’s literacy rate, go to McKay’s Used Books any hour of any day and ponder literacy whilst circling the parking lot for eons waiting for a spot. Then go inside to meet Knoxville’s finest local literates.

Bird Dropping #8: Thanks to thunderstorms that pop up out of literally nowhere, one’s afternoon walks quite frequently turn into afternoon sprints with the added inconvenience of emitting convincing “oh my house is just around the corner” pants to strangers who offer rides home.

Bird Dropping #9: When one is lucky enough to get through an entire walk thunder-free, lo and behold pick up the pace when the ice cream truck and its freaky clown music creeps along behind you or heads you off at the crossroads. So this is what it feels like being on the run from the child snatcher in “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”

Bird Dropping #10: After finally having re-arranged one's room in every geometric configuration possible, the realization sets in that a) social life has significantly declined, and b) furthering individual exploration and independence has also declined. Both of which exist because of c) lack of travel and general adventure. Therefore, d) The Stagnated Self Crisis Cycle (Theorem S^2 = C^2):
--Frustration: A quick facebook perusal reveals there are more people than fingers on your hand who are doing way more interesting things with their summers than you are.
--Aggression: Rant to the dog in self pity and bitterness about a boring existence.
--Frenetic Angst: Feverishly map out possible excursions for every continent, including Antarctica.
--Repression: Cool down with sorting four years’ worth of computer files.

We haven’t quite achieved the “Acceptance” phase yet.


‘Most Missed’ this week: Rome Wal-Mart entertainment

Peace out Brussels sprouts.

Crumpets Continued: Top 10 Garage Battles

Crumpets Continued: Top 10 Garage Battles

Whilst so many are off on adventures drinking life to the lees, I am at home re-learning that we eat as a family and dinner is dependent on the daily family schedule.

Garage Battle #1: Despite the hierarchy of birth order, upon absence from the garage for four years, said benefit is withdrawn and proffered to the younger sibling, kicking the eldest to the curb. ‘Tis only the natural order.

Garage Battle #2: In addition to the cardinal rule that family that lives together eats together, removing one’s self from the table is only acceptable after one has been properly “excused.”

Garage Battle #3:
Jessica: “May I be excused please?”
Mom: “Yes you may.”
Dad: “So, Jessica, tell us about your day.”

Garage Battle #4: The one, perhaps only, comforting fact to return home and find one’s childhood dog senile, deaf, and nearly blind from old age is that one no longer must administer Valium during thunderstorms.

Garage Battle #5: In avoidance of having to give the four-year-update to all and sundry house phone caller, one begins to take the model of simply not answering the phone. However, this involves a creepy tip-toeing down the stairs (I’m sure latent from some childhood phobia that people on the answering machine can “hear” you creaking around) and awkward neck crane to hear the answering machine to make sure it is not an emergency call.

Garage Battle #6: Making my dad’s lunch bag for work on his nightshift is like leaving out cookies, milk, and carrots for Santa. I fill the lunchbox, the lunchbox re-appears in the morning, most contents are eaten, some are not. Eerily just like Santa.

Garage Battle #7: Apparently, to some high school Soffee-short-wearing types, “going to the gym” means sitting on a leg extension machine reading a magazine for 10 minutes, most decidedly not doing leg extensions. The one hands-free machine is nothing more than a hot commodity resting chair that just happens to have a weight pulley system attached.

Garage Battle #8: Nothing like getting ready to pull out of a parking lot across town 30 minutes from home and suddenly someone is banging on your trunk and filling your driver side window with the endearing face of . . . your little sister. Knoxville is, surprisingly, a small world, where missing your sister and her friends having lunch at the exact same restaurant you did is a narrow escape.

Garage Battle #9: Stamped mail sitting by the countertop on the way out the door is ready to be mailed. Notice it, whether it is yours or not.

Garage Battle #10: Walking to the post office is, on the whole, an uneventful jaunt quite conducive to contemplation, neighborhood garden perusal, and substantial 40-minute exercise there and back. Except for Jacksboro Pike. . .the only “major” road separating my neighborhood from the rest of Fountain City civilization that has a sidewalk. What is so strange about someone walking on the side of the road, I cannot comprehend. But I am tired of the jeerings, revving engines, and speeding cars ruining my sidewalk postal contemplation. Especially ones that notice I’m wearing a red T-shirt and spontaneous blare “Lady in Red.” Yet I remain un-deterred. I am determined to make Jacksboro Pike sidewalk as busy with pedestrians as the Tube juncture of Oxford Circus, London. Such is my quest and community contribution to Knoxville to which I remain dedicated in active community and family membership for the next two years at least.

Missed Item this week: My 2 a.m. fourth meal.

DISCLAIMER: I love my family. We are very close, and I greatly appreciate their accommodation free of charge, my three square meals a day, the stocked pantry and all other amenities thereunto.

The Crumpet Collection: Failed Quizzes, Four Years in Review

Top 10 Failed Quizzes: Four Years in Review

Only in college is it acceptable to make use of studious time to fail a quiz or two for the sake of extra-textual “learning.” For in learning to “fail,” well, there is a memorable lesson in itself.

Failed Quiz #1: When one agrees to being uprooted in the middle of the night for a drive to Wild Bill’s under the pretense of it being a “country bar” only to be thrown into one’s first encounter with hip hop and the rapper scene, that 8 a.m. exam arrives all too soon.

Failed Quiz #2: Attempting to uphold the ethics of underage-non-drinking is not always rewarded when one attempts to shoot Sprite from miniature bathroom cups only to nearly drown on carbonation overload.

Failed Quiz #3: Police speed-watcher officers often lie in wait on the onramps lining I-75 in south Georgia during Spring Break season to nab speeding spring speed breakers. As a driver it helps to be watching for them rather than craned away from the wheel for a photo op from a camera in the backseat. However, if timed appropriately, such a photo can also be evidence of actual speed if the speedometer gets clipped in the photo.

Failed Quiz #4: When sabotaging a car in the middle of the night for a birthday, bring a towel to wipe off the dew to lengthen the lifespan of stewed-upon-for-weeks witticisms such as “Will you light my (birthday) candle?”

Failed Quiz #5: After deliberating among six people, three computers, two Skype connections, and a few speaker phone calls over which country is cheapest and safest to get to for a week, one should, at 3 a.m., always be sure to purchase airline tickets only once. Two confirmation e-mails (and a failed reading quiz) later is a heart-stopping way to greet the light of day.

Failed Quiz #6: Enter a sketch basement bar with a $20 cover for “all you can drink” is a bad, bad mindset for the brain. “Getting one’s money’s worth” keeps paying for itself 16 hours later after horribly bumpy airplane landings and a seven hour drive home.

Failed Quiz #7: Grace Kelley night sounds superb in theory as a way to celebrate momentous achievements, but after everyone has Googled to see exactly what “Grace Kelley” attire means, acquires it, and then goes out for cheap drinks (in Rome), “overdressed” is the word of the evening.

Failed Quiz #8: What the pretty frat boys with pastel pants and bowties don’t tell you about Steeplechase on rainy, tornado-watch days is to drive a vehicle with hardcore 4-wheel drive. Toyota Corollas aren’t exactly “mudding” material, though, for that matter, neither are pearls and white dresses and pastel pants.

Failed Quiz #9: The best stroke of brilliance for a headline often comes at 3 or 4 a.m. post-Carrier dance party in a mostly-desolate office to the tune of “Zombie,” “My spoon’s too big,” “Big Pimpin,’” “Banana Phone” or other various YouTube background streamings. Many a quiz has been failed in pursuit of getting the campus newspaper on the racks at a reasonable hour Thursday morning.

Failed Quiz #10: Friends have to look out for each other when gentleman callers request an audience with a roommate outside at 2 a.m., which is how the covert non-smoker smokescreen was developed as a way for concerned friends to chaperone such meetings under the ruse of “smoking” study utensils. From afar, those white BIC pens could pass for cigs, surely.

Most missed failing that, unfortunately I deem only appropriate for college, is rapping like a gangsta with some shades and da bling to “Pop Lock and Drop It.” Those are the best kind of “study breaks”-turned-failed-quiz.

While reading quizzes are important, may the college student in us all slip on those rapper shades every so often in the big bad adult world.



As a bonus track, below I have listed the top soundtracks to accompany the various “failings” and orchestrations over the past few years for JHo and friends:

“Boots with the Fur” (also known as Low) Flo-Rida
“It’s Tricky” – Run-D.M.C.
“Don’t Stop Believin’” --Journey
“You’re So Vain” –Carly Simon
“Total Eclipse of the Heart” –Bonnie Tyler
“Touch You Once” (also known as “If You Leave” –Orchestral Maneuvers in the Dark
“I’ll Make a Man out of You” –Mulan

Stay tuned for the Crumpet Collection’s continuation into life back at the homestead. This will be an interesting year.

Peace out Brussels sprouts, yo.

Golden Saucers: Reverberating Actions

The Bitter Barn. A phrase that my dear family has tossed around on more than several occasions this month-long break at home. And rightly so. Of course no one wants to keep hearing about how things are so different in England, how I miss hostel accommodation prices, safer travel, healthier food, and the constant surroundings of classic literary genius.

It's a lot easier to succumb to the illusion that the experience of living completely on one's own and successfully planning and executing backpacking excursions all over Europe was simply a dream. A dream because, when people start looking over your shoulder, making you aware of your own inadequacies in decision-making, you lose confidence and start questioning yourself. The mantra for this last semester to myself and others has been: "I survived six months in Europe utterly and completely on my own. I can handle _______. "

And everyone is tired of hearing that. Honestly, no one really cares about this kind of life-changing event. So, I ask myself, what did I really learn in Europe that goes beyond the everyday things I miss? Here's a few golden saucers, universal truths, I've compiled.

--Love and be fiercely loyal to your friends. They are the links to your inner-child and allow you to find the true ore of any experience, especially in travel. Spontaneously remind them of how thankful you are that they are there for you.

--In the event of awkward handshake/moving in for hugs/flailing hand gestures, just give a HUG! Hug your family often. Hugs are the essence of compassion, love, encouragement, safety, and reassurance.

--Explore. Make the most of breaks, time off, and weekends.

--Relationships are rarely a matter of one's appearance but are much more dependent upon encouragement and communication from both parties. Girls: do not expect for anything to happen simply by being noticed. More than likely, a guy won't talk to you because it takes a lot of guts to make the first move. Help him out. Communicate. Dare to get turned down. Guys: Don't want to go so far as to enter the "date" territory on first meeting? Ask a girl out to coffee. Tea. It's not really a date, but if it goes really well, you can make it one.

--Be a listener and offer selfless conversation; listen to every person like they are giving a one-time-only boarding call for your flight number. Always try to ask more questions about the person you're talking to than they can ask about you.

--Walk as often as possible. Walking allows for vital personal time to think, absorb, and evaluate.

--When walking into a room of complete strangers in which you don't know a soul,walk around and introduce yourself (the food table or bar is a good place for this). As excruciatingly painful as it is, honestly people probably won't think much about the fact that you're there alone.

--Regardless of your tastes or morals, alcohol is a necessary part of social behavior and business. Find a few drinks you like. You can always drink and never get drunk. Sipping is the key. If there's an option for cider or Strongbow, take it. It's like apple juice.

--If a guy starts buying you drinks, repeatedly, thank him politely for the drinks, try to sip them as long as possible, keep your head, and NEVER feel rude about leaving with no explanation if he is beginning to be more adamant that there be "payment" for his benevolence.

--Always deposit part of your pay check into a savings account.

--At some point in her life, every girl should try to go a month with little or no make-up or extra hair appliances. Mascara, chap stick, hairdryer, shampoo, soap. Confront yourself honestly.

--Make it a daily goal to acknowledge someone who has a seemingly menial task, even if he or she is rude to you. Imagine spending eight hours a day picking gum off London sidewalks in the rain. Show that person that they are a person--a beautiful person.

Such are the golden saucers of my Europe experience. As I try to step out of the bitter barn, I realize these universals are trans-atlantic. They are realizations that, thanks to my solitary European travels, I have incorporated into daily American life. It's important to step back and fairly evaluate life-changing experiences. As I use the next few months to truly evaluate , I see how my evaluations take on a more global picture, a macro-crumpet view, and I can use my actions to reverberate off others so as to impart these "golden saucer" truths that bitter barn words fail to communicate.