props to my benefactors

I stole this picture from Steve. But let's be honest, you already guessed that. When have I ever not stolen my pictures from Steve? When I steal them from Sara. Fine. The point is, I owe Steve and others so much back-payment in royalty fees that tacking on a bit more won't hurt will it? In fact, let's drop the pretense all together. Can I really do a better job than Sara and Steve at montage-ing our Ohio/Niagara adventure? Can I really out-do the thrill they've already captured? Can I really make the trip live inside you better than Sara already has? No. So let's simply provide you the link to Sara's authentic display and skip whatever regurgitation I might conjure. Enjoy: http://saraintaiwan.blogspot.com/

college-level

OSU has a wrestling team. A really good wrestling team. They're ranked 5th in the country. I know what you're thinking: "How many more wrestling teams can there be? 5th in the country could mean last in the country. How, Joseph, can we be confident you haven't simply succumbed to the doctrine of 'Crimson and Gray,' that thick mist of Ohio State school spirit that sends even the youngest freshman streaking down High Street in nothing but silver and red paint yelling out oaths of terrific hostility towards anything Michigan? On top of that, Joseph, you're guilty of sport favoritism, a parasite that always seeks a convenient host--OSU's wrestling team in your case. You can't possibly know what real competition is on a massive scale because you forewent indoctrination by the 'real American' sport when you turned down the grid for a wrestling mat in high school. You watch college football, but you've never really given up your loyalties have you?" A good point. But one that you would not be asking if you were one of my brothers. Therefore, if you are not one of said brothers, you can stop reading; you're embarrassing me.

To my brothers: OSU has a freaking awesome wrestling team. They're all thugs, the whole lot of 'em. With arms the width of Seth's head when he has his afro, and six-packs the size of real six-packs. None of them can hear a thing out of the cauliflower on both sides of their head and they don't breathe from the moment the whistle blows. These guys sprint for all six. And the technique? Ah, it's beautiful. I saw the sweetest barrel-roll, the fasted single-leg, the slickest back-door, the meanest 5-point combo, and something I can only describe as an inside-out standing Peterson that went airborne into a Syracuse spin and landed with a leg-ride of sorts--all that to escape a double-leg. I stood up and roared after that one. I couldn't help it. I used to paint--these guys are artists. I'm telling you, you would have loved it. Every time a new match would start, the announcer would rattle off each wrestler's credentials. I don't think I ever heard less than at least a two-time state champion from either team. Some were four-timers. And that was just the teaser. Their NCAA records sounded like as good a license to kill as any I would need to get out of their way. Here's something interesting I found out about college rules: a tie goes to the man with the most riding time. No overtime. I thought that was kind of weird, but it makes sense. Don't expect to finish the sweet comeback you're on during overtime if you can't shake the guy's hips during regulation. You better do it now or never. Anyway, I felt myself back in an element I used to live on, but forgot about. Like living in a world without fire and then seeing it again. Then feeling it again. The blaze was amazing; the heat, exhilarating.

The Russian Child

My sister Rachel had a kid yesterday. Her second. Elena Rachel Delap. Very cool. Very Russian. Very Rachel. And very much already my favorite. Not because I've seen the little Russian child, but because she's a little Russian child. Me and little Lenichka are going to get along swimmingly. How could we not? We're both Russian.

Borsch

Borsch is the remedy to whatever ails me . . . when it's done right. And my mom--she done it right. I haven't tasted this fulfillment of man's desire since last I tasted Borsch in Russia six years ago. Many an artist has tried her hand at recreating the love I lost in leaving, heaven knows I couldn't do it, but tonight it has returned. My genius mother in all her culinary glory reinvented the wheel so long confined to Russian kitchens, and I partook of moments lived by a 19 and 20 year-old Joseph--my other childhood. For childhood it is when suddenly new senses replace the five you knew before. If a man is to all at once see and smell and feel and hear and taste new matter as I did in Russia, he abandons the former and is again a child, or else he loses his senses. I chose to acquire the new. Yet lose my senses is what I almost did upon returning home, I loved the new set so intensely. And every time I managed to inspire efforts at awakening the new set sleeping, I only roused the dead, irritated a man in slumber. Each bowl of Borsch stung worse than if I'd left it untouched. It was soup--just soup, no matter what they called it. And then tonight! My mother made it live! The unused flavors meshed with unused taste awoke the unused senses lost to memory. I was in Russia again. I couldn't even be tempted with dessert until my taste buds cooled. It was that real. My mother is a genius, she really is.

Christmas Cards

Since I know you'd be confused with a Christmas card that had a picture of a Nativity scene on it instead of a picture of the person or family who sent you the card, I've kept to these same social stipulations: Merry Christmas--here's a picture of me.

Nothing against people who go to all the work and expense of sending out self-portrait Christmas cards--I recognize the effort and the opportunity to tell people how you're doing, and I've received several already this season from family and friends I value highly--but the guys who grew up with the ambition of recreating the scene of Christ's birth on a Christmas card are out of work. So all those cards I bought back in the 90's and never used?--they're good for Christmas decorations around the house, but that's it. You think you can still use them, save some money by simply inserting a family pic, and be considered just as hip as your neighbor? You're wrong. No longer can you add yourself to the card; you have to be the card. So anyway, here's an e-Christmas card. The printers and tree-cutters aren't making a dime on this either. Merry Christmas.

Relationship Status

More of this:

Less of this:

More ladies swooning over my creative genius;
less guys standing in front of BFF posters with me.
More artistic finesse; less awkward-ness.
More proportionate arm length; less disproportionate arm length.
(I mean, check out those arms? Have another look. It looks even weirder the second time).

Nothing against Steve, but he found a better BFF than long arms over there. So is it really too much to ask for the same? I'm talking ladies lined up at my front door and outside every class waiting to offer me their name, number, and favorite color. I can deal with that. But until then, I tell my dad, my hands are tied concerning the advancement of my relationship status. Pops isn't hearing it. You have to go looking, he says. What? Go looking? I don't have time for that. Plus, I liked the good old days in seventh grade when they came to me. And anyway, who said they could stop? Is my hair less attractive now? I used to have a bowl-cut. Maybe I should get one of those again--bring back a movement lost to the toddlers. What about a mullet--those are time-less? No? Well, come on Dad, what could it be then? I don't look 27. I'm as hot as I was at 21. And I didn't have to do much looking then. So when did the screening process turn into a hunt? What? Of course I brush my teeth, Dad. I'm telling you, it's got to be the hair or something. Personality? Well, I don't know. You may have something there, but again, that didn't used to matter. Girls dug my bowl-cut and personality was incidental. Maybe I should work on a few jokes or something--let them know I'm funny so they don't think I'm so into my hair, even though I can't stop thinking about it and how I'm going to lose this one if the wind doesn't stop fro-ing my curls out. If I'm funny, I'll have a personality right? Sort of? What do you mean 'sort of?' Long walks on the beach? Dad, you're killing me. How's that personality? No one does that up here. It's Ohio. And it's freezing anyway. Ok, so you think I should at least try to talk to girls somewhere, in some venue, somehow, about something. Nice. Well that just kills it doesn't it. Dad, you know I can't talk to girls. They're weird. And their brains work in a way I can't get. I never know if I'm speaking their language or not. They have this weird text language that gets into all forms of communication and I'm left squinting at them, something they don't always like. LOL, :), U R (a picture of a sun), all sorts of variations on a smiley face theme, about a billion of these !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! and another lol. What are you saying (squint)? I'm no good at this pops. I don't know what it's going to take to match me up with a representative of the other gender, but if it ever happens, it will be a miracle. But I'm a big fan of miracles, so I'll bank on that.

Until then, "Table for one!"

Win a Cruise! (please excuse model #4)

This is not now. This is months ago. This is not here. It's Taiwan. But you will pardon me, Steve took so many pictures I keep coming upon ones I've never seen. It feels new to me. My apologies to those of you who do not share this feeling. Congratulations on paying better attention than me. But indulge me. This shot reminds me of a Sears clothing ad of mixed decades and genres. Steve represents casual youth with his "Who Says" T-shirt and jean shorts. Mary goes back nearly six decades--the baby bottle, loud shades and a sun umbrella proving moms can still be fashionable. I'm obviously catering to the "wealthy business man on a cruise" group. And Sara? Sara kind of throws the whole thing into a satire. She fits in by undoing the accomplishments of models #1, 2,and 3. Nothing will sell now that suddenly we have a model looking at the camera, suddenly a model with a broken arm and a white cast in stark contrast to a black shirt, a model holding an umbrella blown inside out by an apparently angry wind. But stranger still, a model who is smiling despite frailty, a model that shows signs of being human. Models represent perfection and the non-existent world of human fancy. Ironically, that's how they sell. Steve, Mary, and I could be made of plastic for all anyone could care and they'd still bet on us, pay down the big money on a gamble for happiness. Model #4 isn't a model. She's obviously real. She'll make Sears no money . . . though she might make Hallmark some money if this picture included the caption: On your birthday we wish you all the love and joy money can buy! (Please ignore model #4).

. . . AFTER I go to Russia

Lena's right. What was I thinking? I won't go to Taiwan, I'll go to Russia.

Maybe I can go to Russia and then Taiwan, and then Russia again, and then Taiwan again to earn money, and then Russia again to spend it. Taiwan can fund my trips to Russia. Hurray.

This year

If every night turns out to be an all-nighter,
If that guy in class doesn't stop spitting on me from trying too hard to make his point,
If I still haven't found enough time to get my bike fixed,
If Obama's grassroots blitz doesn't ease up once he's in the House,
If I haven't managed to get past High Street unmolested,
If I still can't feel comfortable with the other gender,
If none of my internships for this summer work out,
If I can't get funding for next year . . .

I'm going back to Taiwan.

Who's in?

Dear Maren

I don't have a kid, so I don't have a camera, so I don't take pictures, so my graduate school experience is not documented in photos, and I don't have Steve here to take them for me, which is the only reason I have any pictures from Taiwan, which is old news, which is why I don't have new news, which is why I haven't updated my blog, which is why no one likes me, which is why I don't have a girl friend, which is why I'm not married, which is why I don't have a kid.

But I went to a wedding in D.C. last weekend and Becky was there and Becky has a camera (but not a kid--go figure) and Becky has friends and Becky wanted me to take pictures of her with her friends and Becky gave me her camera and I took a picture of me.

So here is a new picture of me so you don't have to look at old pictures of me so you can think I'm "an OK guy" so you can hook me up with your friends so I can get a girl friend so I can get married so I can have a kid so I can finally get a camera.

THE END

What's on your refrigerator?

BexLiz Creations (posted first on Becky's blog. re-posted here for purposes of necessary redundancy . . . then again, is my face ever redundant? apparently not.)

Bex and Liz sent me a care package for my first week of grad school. This was inside, accompanied by other goodies. Still struggling to acculturate myself to a new town, new house, new people, new life, new me? Not anymore; not with this thing staring back at me every morning from my refrigerator.

The CHronicles of Riddick

Have you seen this thing? This gem of all cinematic gems?

Reasons you should compromise your intelligence by viewing:

1) Vin Diesel
2) "There'll be one speed--mine. If you can't keep up, don't step up. You'll just die."

3) "What was that? You don't care if you live or die? ... Well, maybe I do. KEEP MOVING!"

4) Vin Diesel

5) "Me? I'm just passing through."

6) "I'll kill you with my tea cup."

7) Vin Diesel

8) When Vin dumps a canteen of water on his head to protect himself from scorching flames.

9) The steam coming off his head after coming out of the flames.

10) Vin Diesel

*

To Jared, to every bad-movie-night we had, to every dose of this mind-altering narcotic, to all the brain cells I lost in the process, and to our sponsors Vin Diesel and Ice Cube (xXx), thank you.