school

Honduras Blog #6: Revolución Yip


Donna, her son Stephen, and Michael flew back to the States today. It was sad to see them go, but there’s something exciting about it too, you know? Like– here you go on the next leg of your own personal adventure, and it’ll be that much more interesting and informed having just completed the work you’ve been involved in here. (I’ll blog some other time about all the stuff they were up to; now I’m trying to get this post up before the rain cuts off the internet.)

Lunch at Church’s Chicken. L to R: Me, Krystelle, Mimi, Blanca, Brenda

Mimi and I went along to say our goodbyes at the airport (nearly missing our chance to do so when they ended up past security earlier than we’d expected – oops), and to enjoy another sweet treat from Espresso Americano. Yum yum $1.43 mocachino!

From there we headed to Church’s Chicken across the street for lunch with Mimi’s friend Blanca. Brenda and Krystelle joined us, which made it all the better. It’s the company that makes the occasion, you know? The whole thing was a little surreal. There we are in the middle of Tegucigalpa eating fried chicken, biscuits, and mashed potatoes with gravy, washing it down with Cokes, while an American football game was being aired on the two flat screen TVs hanging on opposite sides of our sparkling fast food restaurant in the heart of Central America. Or maybe it’s not that strange at all and I’m still just getting used to the fact that other places might actually want the things that other nations, and we ourselves, ridicule ourselves in the States for having (ie. unhealthy fast food restaurants everywhere, super hyped up sports teams full of overpaid players, etc.).

Deserted MAJOR thoroughfare, barricaded airport entrance, riot police with shields and clubs, and yours truly to prove we were there.

After lunch we walked outside to get a taxi to take Blanca home, and to take Mimi, Krystelle, and me over to Supermercado Yip where I could buy some school supplies for the public school we visited last week in San Lorenzo.

But there were no taxis. In fact- there were no cars of any kind. This is unheard of at that intersection; Church’s is directly across from the entrance to the airport. There’s ALWAYS traffic there, complete with enough diesel fumes to choke a herd of bison.

But today? Dead. And across the street blocking the entrance to the airport? A squad of military riot police with riot shields and batons. In front of them in the intersection proper? More police, dripping sweat in layers of black and bulletproof vests, loaded down with rifles.

A young man standing near us heard us talking about what was going on and he joined us in English. He said his name is Fernando and he lives in Miami but has family here. He said just a few blocks down (he pointed in the direction we needed to go) the teachers had the streets blocked off as part of the strike that has caused kids to miss school all this week, plus weeks- months- already this year at other times. You couldn’t take a taxi that way even if you wanted to, he told us. And he advised against walking that road in lieu of driving it. He said if anyone around us were to even touch one of the soldiers it would be sufficient to turn things violent. I thought of the police station we’d have to pass, no doubt packed with soldiers by this point, and just said “Yup.”

Power lines across from the airport. This is actually one of the cleaner telephone poles in town.

Fernando’s Civic-History-Lesson Time: He said when the people here want to demand their constitutional rights be upheld, the first thing they often do is go to the streets and stop traffic to make their voices heard. In a hub like Tegucigalpa, interference with traffic is a big deal. The whole city grinds to a halt if enough major intersections are cut off. And in the meantime every building within spitting distance of the blockages end up covered in graffiti. He said these gatherings shouldn’t have to happen, that the government should always do for the people what their constitution dictates. (Can’t argue with that.) However, he went on to say, in this case the teacher’s union is interpreting the constitution incorrectly for their own gain and asking for things that aren’t really constitutionally protected or guaranteed. It’s hurting the entire country’s children, he said, and higher pay isn’t a constitutional issue in this case so shouldn’t they stop?

I don’t know enough about the whole thing so what else could I do but nod yes? (And I later learned the blocking of the airport was done in an attempt to keep the president from flying out of the country for a few days. The attempt failed, incidentally.)

So back to Church’s we went to wait out the day’s “revolución” in the air conditioning. Ten minutes later cars were back on the road and we could continue on our way. As we passed the police station I saw that– sure enough!– it was crawling with armored vehicles and heavily armed men in uniform. That’s Friday for you, I guess.

After dropping Blanca off, Mimi, Krystelle and I taxi’d on toward Supermercado Yip, a two level store that sells groceries on the lower level and all manner of household goods and school supplies on the top. Noé recommended I go there for school posters when I told him how long it had taken me to complete my multiplication table poster by hand (4 hours!!). He said I’d love it, and wow was he right.

Supermercado Yip: School Supply Heaven!!

As soon as we got upstairs I was in absolute heaven. Aisle after aisle of school supplies, and all for cheap cheap cheap. In the end I bought 18 little notebooks (one for each student, plus an extra), 2 small abacuses (abaci?), a 12-pack box of chalkboard chalk, a chalkboard eraser, 3 pairs of scissors, alphabet posters in English and Spanish, a poster of geometric shapes, a clown poster that teaches colors, alphabet flash cards, two kinds of wall tape, an English/Spanish dictionary, a basic Spanish dictionary for kids, a 12-pack of manila folders, and two 24 count boxes of colored pencils. That’s 37 separate items. Grand Total: $30.31!!!!! Best store ever. If I lived here I would shop there all the time. Great great great.

Now to de-pricetag everything in the luxuriously cool 85+ degrees of our bedroom to the hum of two fans on full power. Ahh. This is the life!

Honduras Blog #5: All About the Benjamínes


A statue in a garden we pass between home and the airport. The graffiti says "Fuera Golpistas," essentially telling those involved in the recent coup to "Get out!"

Wednesday 8/10/10

Yesterday was a bit of a free day. Two new fellas flew in from the States so Mimi, her friend Brenda, and I hitched a ride to the airport in the mission’s van. Across the street is a little strip mall where Brenda needed to get some copies made for a class she’s teaching, and then the three of us planned on heading over to Pizza Hut for lunch.

Ahh Pizza Hut and your delicious stomach-response-predictability.

While Brenda made her copies Mimi and I hit up a couple stores to pass the time. First we stopped into a book store where half the books were in English but they were all pretty expensive so we just looked. When we went to leave we noticed the door opened into the store instead of outward toward the outside of the building. You couldn’t have that in the States– it’s a fire hazard. We checked as we continued our walk and most of the other doors in that strip mall opened the exact same way.

It’s the little differences…

We walked a little farther and stopped in at a bakery where we bought some cookies and a giant brownie. Everything looked delicious but dry. Don’t know if that was true of everything there, but it sure was about that brownie. Manohmanohman. If that brownie had been a joke even Stephen Fry wouldn’t get it.

Pizza Hut was, y’know, Pizza Hut.

The police station a few blocks from the mission house.

Mim and I walked the rest of the way back to the mission house. It’s only a little over half a mile, but in that heat and sun- phew! I was practically dripping sweat to the rhythm of each step. While sweating our way through town back to the house we passed a book store we kept seeing and saying we should go into. So by golly we did.

The store is called Book Master (we went to the one at the top of the page) and it’s a supply store for teachers at the bilingual schools in the area. Everything inside the store is in English. Very little is even in both English and Spanish. Even the stickers! I’d wanted to find some wall posters to give to the school in San Lorenzo when we go there next Tuesday for our third medical brigade, but those kids won’t likely speak any English at all, let alone enough to make any of these posters mean anything to them. The ability to speak English is an increasingly valuable skill here, but access to that type of education simply doesn’t exist in a lot of these mountain schools because teachers who can teach it are all at better paying schools in the city.

Not to be totally undone I instead bought three large pieces of poster board so I could make my own posters to hang on the walls there. I also picked up some rulers for the classroom, and some cute stickers of small, smiling pencils. I know I’m going to make one poster with a multiplication grid and multiplication tables up to the 12’s for sure. Depending on whether or not my writing implements bleed through the paper I can either make 2 more posters or 5 more by using the back of each sheet. Still gotta decide on content for those last few. It’s hard to narrow it down when the classroom currently has nothing in it whatsoever and caters to 1st through 6th grades.

Jesús and his *hairdryer kebab* trick

After a brief cool-down at the house we all packed into the van to drive to the home of Ana and Deniss, the couple that runs the mission. They live with her parents about 7 minutes over and up (literally) from the mission building. We were joined by more friends of theirs, one of whom was given the task of grilling the meat. Unfortunately something was wrong with the grill… or the coals… or something, so he had to keep using a hair dryer to keep the fire going. Not– not quite sure how that worked, but it did. And the meat- served kebab style- was goo-ood. Dessert was brownies, courtesy of Krystelle. Gooiest, softest, yummiest brownies I’ve ever had in my ENTIRE LIFE. She said they’re from a Ghirardelli box mix. Note to self: BUY MANY BOXES OF THIS MIX.

Thursday 8/11/10

Krystelle and me with some of the kids at the feeding program at the church in Villa Franca

Today was all about the kids. We drove out to Villa Franca with an enormous pot of spaghetti and a big ol’ jug of juice to feed the kids there. They’ve got a nicely organized set-up in place. They lined the walls of the church with plastic chairs where the kids sit and wait for the food to be brought to them. This works perfectly as it keeps a crowd from forming around the food table, and it’s especially nice for the littlest ones who can’t carry their plastic plates back to their chairs without spilling. It’s quite a feat when you’re two, y’understand.

Krystelle was telling us this is her favorite place to go and that she loves the kids there. I could see why right away. The only way they ever greeted any of us was with a huge hug. The littlest ones employed the jump-hug method, ensuring they’d be picked up and swung around. And wouldn’t you know a swing-around-bear-hug is just about my favorite thing to give out?

We came back to the mission house for a quick lunch ourselves, then hopped back into the van and headed over to a grade school a few blocks away. A group from Mision Caribe visits this school every Wednesday, and another school every Thursday.

Mariela reading the kids a story while Krystelle and Oneyda lead them in the motions

The game plan for today was to go into four different classes to share a Bible story with the kids and then to head back home. We got a late start so we arrived shortly before recess. We went into the first class where Mariela, a young woman from Honduras who works at the mission, read the kids the story of Elijah from I Kings 18 where Elijah and the prophets of Baal each call upon their own gods to set fire to their altars. Every time she got to the word “Elijah” we had the kids shout “Escuchame!” which means “Listen to me!” because Elijah was a prophet. Whenever she mentioned the sacrificial bueyes (bulls) we had the kids make finger horns and moooooo. There were a few other words like that where we had things for the kids to say or do in response. It was fun. :)

Recess at the neighborhood elementary school

Recess was its own adventure. As soon as the kids came outside we were swarmed. Word got out that I speak a little Spanish, so it was instantly Q&A time for me with my particular gaggle of girls. And you know what? I think I did all right. There were a few words I just didn’t have, but the thing is: All these girls were the same age I was when I was learning Spanish, so my vocabulary level and composition is probably closer to theirs than to anybody else’s. ;)

When recess (aka 20 minutes of DRIPPING sweat even in the shade along the edges of the cancha) ended I was sitting a little ways away from the group with some 4th grade girls, laughing with them about a tiny deck of cards one of them received from her “noooooviooooo!” (boyfriend) *cue: eruption of giggles* As they ran back to class I saw a crowd gathering around a much smaller girl, who was being led around by the arm by another small girl. I couldn’t see what was happening and the only word I caught was “sangre.” Blood.

Aw geez.

The guard outside the elementary school

I ran over and the first little girl had sliced her finger open pretty badly and her friend was leading her in circles instead of straight to the nurse like she said she was trying to do. She looked a little overwhelmed by the burgeoning crowd so the circuitous route was understandable. :S

I took the hand of the girl who’d been cut and her poor little finger was gushing so much blood so quickly that immediately my own hand was dripping too. I think you’re not supposed to do that in the States… Her friend and I walked her to the nurse’s room where I used my Big Teacher Voice to order all the kids back outside so Bleedy McWeeperson could gush in peace. Turns out she had a glass lip gloss tube and when she fell with it in her hand it broke and sliced her open something fierce. Whoops.

Mini-adventure now ended I rejoined the group and we shared the Elijah story three more times before hitting the road for home and an enchilada dinner. All in all: A wonderful day!

A gift for my darling Freudians: A dream


The Gift: Wherein Ruth shares a dream she had last night which is instantly quite telling, and even more so with a brief overview of a few threads weaving themselves together in her waking life.

Keturah! Ben! Becca! Mandy! Help!

The Backstory: Work

About a month and a half ago I was asked to test up to the next level at work. If I didn’t pass: no harm no foul. Things would stay as they are, and I am happy with things as they are. I get to learn why most Medicaids deserve to be cursed into the ground, and to make friends with 20-somethings in Mumbai. What’s not to love? And if I did pass I’d get a small promotion and the work would only change ever so slightly. Ah, but there’s the rub: the changes would be ever so slight but ever so stressful given the mental requirements of some of the other things I’m working on.

So I didn’t take the test. It just wasn’t the time to run the risk of success.

The Backstory: Money

DSC02234

Joy's Broken Nose

For the past several months I’ve been going to extra lengths to save money. Not denying myself the nice shampoo from Walmart, nor the $1 novels and videos from Half Price Books, but still: I’m saving. I’m pocketing. I’m adding financial caution to the agenda. And my efforts have actually proven themselves somewhat effective, all things considered. And once my car is paid off in December (HALLELUJAH!!) I’ll be able to put even more money away every month.

But what am I saving for? I know there doesn’t need to be a specific *something* at the end of the Savings Rainbow for guarded spending to be a good idea, but it sure does help to have something to work toward. But what do people my age save for? Houses? Better cars? DJ Hero? I’unno. I’m not really looking to put down the kind of roots right now that owning a house would entail, nor do I have any desire to replace Joy, especially not now that after 5 long years of forking over buckets of cash to Toyota every month she’s almost mine outright. And DJ Hero? Please. I top out with Solitaire. This leaves me with two savings goals that actually mean something to me: Furthering my Education (which I just misspelled… twice…) and Travel.

The Backstory: Here it comes…

The education thing? That’s a topic for a different entry. Maybe one I’ll write in a few months. Or not. It’s a bit dull, so perhaps never.

The travel thing? I know where I want to go, but I don’t want to go alone. It’s just not how I operate. I know what I want to do, but I don’t think I’m useful enough to even bring it up. At least- not useful in the right ways. But I do want to go, write, take pictures, blog, help, maybe entertain a brief brush with malaria. I want to hop on a plane and enjoy lengthy layover after lengthy layover in Texas, Costa Rica, Brazil, Uruguay, and Argentina on my way to Paraguay where I will finally get to laugh when I see how short the walk really was from home to school.

But I continue to not make plans to go there because I am afraid it’s a stupid thing to make such plans. A silly thing. A silly thing to want so much to visit a place I lived so long ago and probably wouldn’t recognize, full of people I don’t know and who wouldn’t remember me. I was so young, you understand. Wider eyes have never graced a 10 year old. I feel like I haven’t earned the right to deserve a visit. Like I am only cool enough to be the one Yankee on the tour bus to know you don’t stir with the bombilla or you’ll get a mouth full of leaves.

Kids_mom_in_the_pool

In the backyard pool

And it was such a long time ago. Before Wasmosy, even. (But post-Stroessner, which with the hindsight of a 27 year old is rather fortunate I now realize.) So very, very long. Not as long ago as the white house on Linder Avenue in Midlothian, IL. Ah, but I want to see that again too. To knock on the side door by the kitchen and tell the new owners I dropped and broke a jar of spaghetti sauce right there on that very step. To show them where I sat by the heating vent watching operas and televangelists on our wood box TV set. To show them where my yellow desk used to sit in the pink bedroom. To show them where I wrote articles for the newspaper, solving all their crimes, peaceably calming all the grown-ups’ arguments. To show them the tree I climbed in the side yard; the one with dials carved into its branches; the one that was an airplane that flew me over the jungle.

One day I finally did fly over the jungle, but by that time I was no longer piloting myself in a summer of popsicles and cicadas. By that time I was being flown, listening to tapes on my very own Walkman, reading any and all chapter books having to do with horses. I hadn’t forgotten how to fly, I just didn’t need to do it for myself any more. Flight was now my reality, so my make-believe time could be spent on even wilder impossibilities, like seeing snow, or eating a pizza from Barraco’s.

Paraguay was where I learned I love to move. And somehow moving from Midlothian to Milwaukee wasn’t the same as moving from Chicago to Loma Pyta. Even Waukesha, WI to Canyon Country, CA wasn’t enough of a jump. It’s where I learned buying milk can be its own adventure. It’s where I learned heat and mosquito bites are survivable. It’s where I learned even the most passionate stubbornness cannot keep a sponge from absorbing.

Today my most passionate stubbornness cannot lead me to water. And I’m so thirsty.

The Dream:

In my dream last night I was at work when the phone rang at my desk. I put on my headset and clicked “Answer,” but before I could say anything I saw through my mind’s eye the two other people in the call: S, one of my coworkers, and D, a woman who works at the school I attended in Asuncion.

The thing you must know about S is that she’s charming. Friendly. A quick learner. Totally unpretentious, even in heels. A mother of two who, according to her Facebook “About Me”s loves all the right books, all the right movies, all the right music, and writing. She looks like she belongs on Mad Men. You wish she worked with you; she’s that cool.

The thing you must know about D is… is… Well now see: I don’t rightly know what you must know about her. She was never my teacher in grade school; we left before I ever had her. She knew my mother; my mother who also taught at that school and is so adorable in her classroom pictures you wish she was your mother; she’s that cute. I know D in that new “internet way” you know people these days as we’re now friends on Facebook. I look at her pictures, read her posts, and find myself liking the person she is, and the person she must’ve been then, and kind of wishing I could take her and my mother out for pumpkin spice frappuccinos to hear them talk about what I blindly, nostalgically, ignorantly dream of as “the good old days.”

I’m just rotten with nostalgia, kids. Absolutely over-flowing with the stuff.

But back to the dream. To the phone call. To the phone call I knew had only been intended for S, so why had my phone rung too? And why was I able to hear them and they were unable to hear me? I wanted to hang up, but it was such an odd pairing of people, of worlds, I couldn’t disconnect. I had to know what had brought them together.

And then I knew. And I didn’t know how to respond.

teachers in truck

Driving to the camp

D had called to offer S a job at the school as a teacher. S didn’t want to teach, and hadn’t applied for a job there, but she was being offered a job there just the same. A job and a chance to see things I wanted to see. A job and a chance to blog about things I wanted to blog about. A job and a chance to eat things I wanted to eat. They talked, they laughed, S turned down the position, they talked, they laughed. Listening in I laughed too. It was just such a pleasant conversation, even just to overhear.

Should I have felt jealous? I didn’t think so. I didn’t want any such job, any such contract. I didn’t even know if I wanted to be away for so long. I’d be alone, you understand, with no family or ferrets to comfort me. So I didn’t feel jealous.

Should I have felt excited? I didn’t think so. This new connection wouldn’t necessarily have any bearing on me or my activities. And I couldn’t be excited for S because she hadn’t wanted this in the first place. So I didn’t feel excited.

Should I have felt… wasteful? Maybe. Or something like it. Maybe that was it. I felt like there was some opportunity I’d misused. Some chance that had come up, perhaps once, perhaps repeatedly, which I’d ignored because it was easier.

Maybe the dream centered around work because it was there I had so recently, and so willingly, given up an opportunity for advancement in the name of ease and comfort during a stressful season. But isn’t life always stressful? Don’t you run the risk of missing out on everything if you wait for smooth sailing to make your next move?

Maybe the dream centered around my old school because it was there a switch was flipped inside me that taught me to love writing and acting, two things I have consciously built into my life ever since. Maybe it represents things I can still go after if I really want them, but which are not going to come calling me up and offering themselves to me on silver platters, and the roads to which will be neither easy to navigate nor cheap to travel.

I have this beautiful family that I love. The best, most beautiful, most lasting gift I’ve ever been given. I live in a friendly town, curiously navigable and relatively clean. I have a job that teaches me new things, pays the bills, introduces me to new people. I have ferrets that are playful, ridiculous, and soothing. I’m surrounded by more books than I’ll ever read, more CDs than I should’ve ever owned, and access to every piece of information- from grand to asinine- through my home internet connection. These things are enough, but I know the world is bigger than Waukesha and I’ve only got 60 years left to learn it. And yet I won’t explore Oconomowoc just for the heck of it on an empty Sunday afternoon.

But isn’t that always the way? Always something more you long for? Hope for? Dream about on restless Sunday nights? I dream of heat that makes me nauseated, diesel fumes that trigger my brain into thinking it’s lunch time, swimming with fish too dark to see, and empanadas.

I do not dream of Oconomowoc.

In Conclusion: Ferrets

Always… sunscreen… something something…


My sister’s high school graduation ceremony was today. Yay Bekah Rose! Mimi was in town for it so my folks and David and Mimi and I went there this afternoon to watch.

It’s only the second high school graduation I’ve ever attended, the other being my own. I think it’s pretty safe to say that after today I will do everything in my power to never attend another high school graduation ceremony unless one of the people receiving a diploma that day was birthed from mine own loins.

It wasn’t horrible or anything, it was just really long and really boring. One of the guys gave a fun speech, but the rest were just– ugh. Lamentable. Who’s the speech teacher these days and why haven’t they been fired?

A lot of “mortarboards worn on the back of the head” amongst the lady types this afternoon. If there’s one thing dippier looking than wearing a graduation cap, it’s wearing a graduation cap on the back of your head. Especially with that *receding neck* pose you have to maintain to keep the cap from sliding off in spite of your best efforts to bobby pin it in place. Two girls lost theirs while walking across the stage to receive their diplomas because of this dippierness.

*chuckles* I am so glad I don’t have to wear one of those ever again!

The stuff with the fam was fun. That Bekah’s a sweet girl. I like her. I took a bunch of video clips throughout the afternoon, but then my battery died around the time the ceremony itself ended so I missed a lot.

One of the things I missed catching– but it’s just as well because had I caught it on tape, even on accident, it would have been creepy and icky and weird and there’s no way I would have posted it anyway– was this girl who came to the ceremony who was wearing shorts that were so tight and so short that in the five feet from her car door to the side walk she had to pull her shorts out of… um… out of her… yeah… four times. Four. Times. In five feet. And of course she was in a brightly colored top and high heels so you just can’t help but notice her. She couldn’t even walk straight in those things, even after her shoes were off. It was like they’d given her a mad case of thigh-chafe or something.

Oh my gosh. Too funny.

Seriously, dear heart: You have great legs and a tight butt- which won’t last as long as you’d like but by golly you’ve got it now so enjoy it! Dress as sexily as you want, but at least have the sense to do so in clothing that doesn’t have the option of being removed via your throat. There were plenty of lovely, Cosmo Girl! examples of alternatives at the ceremony today. I’m sure with a little creativity you’ll be able to come up with something.

I’d post the video here, but what ends up happening when I do that is that no one rates them or leaves comments on the video’s page on YouTube- they just leave them all here- and that leaves the video’s YouTube page looking abandoned and lonely. So to watch the vid, click here.

I’d give you Bekah’s YouTube username so you could harass her while you’re there, but I’m not sure that she’s even on YouTube, so phooey on that plan. My mom’s got an account though (but no videos). Isn’t that cute?!

Also, I apologize for the chunk from 3:28 to 4:14 where the class treasurer talks about one of the two student gifts. I left it in for my sis (whose speech in DELIGHTFULLY short). So uh, sorry about that part. :P

Aren’t you glad we’re done with high school? Oh Lordy…

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For Nicole G.:

See?! You must go. Must. www.Polyvore.com.

Godspell and Carrie: The first sin was intercourse.


“I know not, sir, whether Bacon wrote the works of Shakespeare, but if he did not it seems to me that he missed the opportunity of his life.”
James M. Barrie

From Libraryspot.com: “The U.S. Census Bureau reported that 17.2 percent of Americans ages 25 or older had completed a bachelor’s degree as of 2005. About 30 percent had graduated from high school.”

I hope that if I ever have kids I am able to decide on a name sooner than when the kid is three weeks old. :S

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I just finished watching Godspell and when it first started up there was so much in the imagery that I just did. not. understand.

“Jesus is a crying clown,” for example.

A lot of really sweet moments, though. And GREAT staging and use of “found” items. I mean really really visually engaging. The costumes, the hair, the dancing, the songs– oh God, the songs are as great and memorable as ever!- it was truly a delight. An occasionally weird but always entertaining delight…

…which missed the point entirely.

Even from a non-religious standpoint, even just as an oft-retold cultural myth, the point of the story- the point of the whole book– is that Jesus. Comes. Back!

And in the movie you come to love him, you love the love his “followers” have for him; it’s beautiful, it’s touching, he’s betrayed, he dies, they carry him away singing… and then the credits roll!

I was sitting here near tears (believe me: I was as surprised as you that this hippie Bible story got me so good), on the edge of my seat about what cool way the director and the writers would work the resurrection into a retelling of the Jesus story that involves roller skates on rooftops, when they delivered a disappointment that far outweighed the plot points that had made it so enjoyable up until that point: Jesus didn’t come back.

So why’d they do it this way? I’m not seeing their read on it. I don’t understand why they’d tell this story- which comes with a built-in awesome ending (the ultimate good guy wins the ultimate battle!)- and then undercut the whole thing by leaving him dead. What’s up with that?

Ideas?

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Now I’m watching Carrie and… Did ANYONE’s high school locker room resemble this one? I mean– who even had time to take a shower at the end of gym class? Let alone have time to feel themselves up porno style out in the open where all the other girls can see you?

And how is it possible that every girl in Carrie’s class- without exception- is that susceptible to mob mentality that they’d attack a screaming, crying, naked girl, wailing for help, and clearly confused beyond reason about getting her period?

Anyone read the original story? How does King play this out in the book?

And were *any* of the actresses who played the main girls *anywhere* near 18? And is the ugly one the secretary from “Ferris Bueler’s Day Off”?

Also: That gym teacher is totally kicking ass right now. I would gladly go back in time, become a gym teacher, and get a girlfriend if it meant I could chew those bitches out like that. Hot diggity!

And now: Back to the crazy.