Christmas Traditions

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

So, we have five days left until zero hour, and maybe it's just all of History Channel's specials talking, but I've been thinking about the origins of some of our traditions at Christmastime.

I mean, think about it. Some of them are pretty bizarre. We bring a tree inside our house. We allow a strange fat man to give small children toys, but spend the rest of the year telling them that this is bad. We hang socks up and call it decoration. I mean, it's kind of strange, right?

Okay, maybe not now, but at one point, it was strange.

1. Santa Claus: So, the creep has multiple origins-- Odin, the awesome Norse god who, in some other works of Great Literature, goes by Mr. Wednesday; Sinterklaas, a traditional figure from the Low Countries who rides on a horse and has little helpers with black faces that inform on nice and naughty children; Saint Nicholas, the patron saint of children; and Saint Basil of Caesarea (whose only real similarity is that his feast day, January 1, is a traditional day of gift-giving in Greece).

Sinterklaas in particular is sort of freaky. His main helper is this devil-looking thing called Black Peter that carries a book, sort of like Santa's Naughty and Nice list. Sinterklaas and his pals arrive in Spain by steamboat every year in December (presumably from Africa...) and ride on a white horse over the rooftops, delivering candy to well-behaved children. Naughty children, on the other hand, are put into sacks and beaten with willow rods. Not exactly a story to float little Jimmy and Jenny off to dreamland...

The American version of Santa Claus, like the Yankees, showtunes, insomnia, and the world's biggest Weeping Angel, is native to New York. Clement Clarke Moore composed "A Visit From St. Nicholas" (or "The Night Before Christmas") in 1823. While the poem encourages breaking and entering, it also gives us a description of Santa Claus, as well as his reindeer. In 1863, Thomas Nast gave us an illustration of Santa Claus-- fat, bright-eyed, rosy-cheeked, dressed in warm furs, and so unquestionably American. Norman Rockwell later standardized Santa's look in the early twentieth century, and the television special Santa Claus is Coming to Town explained to kids about the North Pole, the naughty/nice gig, and the toy making (throwing in the Winter Warlock and the Bergermeister Meisterberger, two of the scariest villains in children's television, if you ask me).

But I think my favorite New York origin has to be Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus, which was actually published in the New York Sun under the title "Is There a Santa Claus?" on September 21, 1897. Eight-year-old Virginia O'Hanlon asked her father if Santa Claus was real. Her father suggested she write to the Sun. Thank God for men like Francis Church, who was the editor of the newspaper and responded so eloquently to Virginia's letter:

"No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood."

2. Christmas Tree: Why do we bring trees into our houses every year? I mean, it's not to keep them warm or anything. There are probably some hardcore environmentalists out there somewhere who heartily despise this particular tradition of destroying trees en masse for a holiday.

The Encyclopedia Britannica says, "The use of evergreen trees, wreaths, and garlands to symbolize eternal life was a custom of the ancient Egyptians, Chinese, and Hebrews. Tree worship was common among the pagan Europeans and survived their conversion to Christianity in the Scandinavian customs of decorating the house and barn with evergreens at the New Year to scare away the devil and of setting up a tree for the birds during Christmastime." Obviously, though, that's not why we put trees in our homes.

A picture was published in the Illustrated London News in 1848 of Prince Albert, his wife Victoria, and their children around a Christmas tree. The picturesque familial image was popular all over the world. After all, if you removed Albert's mustache and Victoria's fancy tiara, you got an ordinary family around a Christmas tree, which led to this image becoming widely published:

 

 

The above image was the revised family, republished in the American Godley's Lady's Book in 1850. Afterwards, Christmas trees became immensely popular. Of course, the giant tree in Rockafeller Center helps, too.

 

3. Stockings: This tradition does not orginate from Sombertown's endless list of chores. Actually, it goes back to one of the ancient Santa Claus figures. Good little Norse children, when they weren't studying to become Vikings or singing opera in funny hats, celebrated Winter Solstice, which was a big deal for Odin. Children would put their boots by the fire, and then leave out carrots and oats for Odin's horse as he road past. As a thank for feeding his horse, Odin would leave the children candy and fruit in their shoes. We changed it to stockings, probably due to the pesky Clement Clarke Moore poem again.

 

4. Christmas Carols: Obviously, Christmas Carols are written by people. DUH!

 

Here's a few of my favorites:

 

-"Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" was originally sung by Judy Garland, the little girl with the big voice, in the musical Meet Me in St. Louis in 1944. It was written by Hugh Martin and Ralph Blane, and rerecorded by literally every big artist ever since, including Frank Sinatra, John Denver and the Muppets, Michael Buble, Amy Grant, and the wrockstars Gred and Forge. I maintain that it's the best Christmas carol of them all, but that's my lowly opinion.

 



-"Silent Night" is one of the most beloved Christmas carols of all time. The song was first preformed in a small town's even smaller church in Austria on Christmas Eve, 1818. The young priest, Father Joseph Mohr, had written a poem called Stille Nacht two years before, and before the Christmas Eve service Mohr present the poem to the schoolmaster and organist Franz Gruber. He asked Gruber to compose a melody and guitar accompaniment for the song, because Mohr's church had no organ available.

-"White Christmas" was written by Irving Berlin and sung by Bing Crosby, whose baratone voice is like the sound of rich, creamy dark chocolate seeping into your ears... Anyway, it was originally written for the movie Holiday Inn. Initially, it wasn't a hit, but by the autumn of 1942, as we closed in on our one-year mark of fighting in World War II, record sales spiked. It was listed as the world's best-selling single ever in the first Guinness Book of World Records, and maintains that title today, even after fifty years.

-"Here We Come A-waissailing" is another of my favorites. It's a boisterous tune that originated in England around 1850. "Waissailing" is a term that means singing carols and wishing good health. Poor people and children would sing this song as they went from door to door, caroling, and since Christmas has always been a generous time of year, they often got a penny or a bit of food for their songs, or if they were especially lucky, a few moments inside, standing by the fire and warming their hands.

-"God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlement" is a traditional English carol that has mildly fascinated me since I was twelve years old, when my uncle explained to me that the comma is often misplaced in the title. Apparently, a common saying in England way back when was "Rest ye merry!" So, rather than "God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen" which admittedly doesn't make much sense anyway, the comma is correct as shown above. (She said smugly...)

5. Presents!!!!!!

Many people attribute this last to the Magi, who brought gifts to Jesus after his birth. It's an interesting theory, since the gifts the Magi brought were so symbolic-- gold, because He was the King; frankinsense, because He would bring peace; and myrrh, for His ultimate sacrifice. However, I tend to harbor a different idea. God loved us so much that He gave us His son. So, why wouldn't we express our own love with gifts?

Merry Christmas, guys!!

The Shooting

I was in kindergarten when we had our first lockdown drill at Skyview Elementary. My teacher, Mrs. Doenier, explained that lockdown drills were a lot like hide-and-seek, except in this case, being found resulted in getting hurt, not tagged. She showed us where to hide: under her desk, behind the cubbies, even in the closet. It wasn't long after the first lockdown drill of the year that the World Trade Center was attacked. I remember sitting on the rug, staring up at Mrs. Doenier's TV as the towers fell down again and again and again. I remember thinking it was a war movie. It wasn't.

When I got a little older and understood what happened on 9/11, I found myself wondering why somebody would purposely steer an airplane into a building with the intent of killing people. The complete senselessness of the act scared me and brought out my keen, childish sense of injustice. It was then I realized what people meant when they used the word "Terrorism"-- it is an act of violence meant to scare people. When grown-ups get scared, you should be worried.

By that fourth grade definition, what happened at Sandy Hook Elementary School in Newtown, Connecticut, was an act of terrorism. Actually, it was more than that. What the shooter did was something so profoundly, despicably, disgustingly evil that I'm not sure even Shakespeare could have invented a word for it. I can never see the point of people going into a school to shoot kids, as with Columbine High School in 1999. But there's something about the fact that it was an elementary school that makes this particularly disturbing.

Online, the names of the twenty-six people that were killed have recently been released.

Twenty of those names belonged to six and seven-year-olds.

Jack Pinto, one of the children killed, was a fan of the New York Giants. Victor Cruz wore the boy's name on his cleats and gloves for his game that weekend.

Olivia Engel, a six-year-old who was killed, was a Daisy Girl Scout.

A little boy named Daniel Barden, who was a victim of the shooting, woke up early and played foosball with his mom that morning. He won. The score was ten to eight.

Jessica Rekos was as horse crazy as my own little sister. She asked Santa for a cowgirl outfit. Her parents had promised to get her a horse when she turned ten.

Noah Pozner had a twin sister who was not killed. How are his parents supposed to explain this to her?

These kids were supposed to have a lifetime ahead of them.

The other names belong to teachers who tried to protect their students.

Victoria Soto, aged 27, used herself as a human shield to protect her students.

One of those teachers herded her students into a closet to hide. The shooter confronted her once the children were hidden. The teacher told the shooter that all of her students were in the gym. She was killed, but her students are safe.

A kindergarten teacher close to the classroom where the massacre began huddled her students into a corner. Since the gunshots frightened the children, she read to them until they were able to be evacuated.

Another teacher found some kids in the hallway. She took them to a bathroom, locked the door, and helped the children hide in the stalls.

The victims weren't shot once, but multiple times. One teacher said she heard at least a hundred rounds while she hid in an office where she had been having a meeting.

All of these kids and teachers dead, and the police haven't found a motive yet. Because what could motivate someone to do this?

Worse, the infamous Westboro Baptist Church announced its intentions to picket at the funerals of these kids and teachers. They wanted to "sing praise to God" for "executing judgement" on America and its sinful ways. Right.

A group of hackers called Anonymous (who, while they have noble intentions, seem to think they are at the center of a crappy sci-fi novel) countered Westboro by hacking into their website, tacking over a prominent church member's twitter feed, and publishing not only various church members' personal information, but also a petition from the Whitehouse to have them legally declared a hate group. Maybe it will be enough.

I think my nine-year-old self's definition of terrorism stands in this case. Look at this mess. Look at this horrible, horrible thing and draw your own conclusions.

I'm Scared

Hello, Internet.

This week has been one of the longest weeks of my life, in a very, very good way.

This week, I turned seventeen, which isn't a particularly big deal, as I can neither drive without a licensed adult in the front seat, nor seem to find any work outside of babysitting. Still, if I was a wizard, I'd be an adult, which is cool. My birthday was fun. Having been born on the same day that someone named Guy tried to blow up Parliament a hundred years ago is sort of interesting, and it makes for a good conversation starter. Incidentally, Neil Gaiman's birthday is today. People born in November are always destined to be awesome.

However, this week has also had a couple of downers- for other people, mostly, but for me too. I'm starting to get why people dread their birthdays every year. Even if I don't think I ever will, I understand why some people do. Becoming a year older makes you reflect on the things you've done in the past year, and the things you're going to do in the future. And when you're turning seventeen, the future seems a heck of a lot bigger and scarier and darker than the future did when you were six, or ten, or even thirteen.

Because when you were six, the scariest thing that was going to happen to you was getting your training wheels off your bike, and maybe starting kindergarten. When you were ten, the scariest thing was that your best friend might be moving away, or middle school was looming ahead of you in a year, or two years. When you were thirteen, the scariest things you could imagine were not being cool enough, or getting your phone taken away, or that guy never noticing you, or him actually finding out that you like him.

If you haven't noticed, we're dwelling on things that scare us this week. Because, as much as we'd like to believe it, life isn't all fricasseed frogs and eel pie. Even though it's after Halloween, a few youtubers I'm subscribed to have been talking about what they're most afraid of (links at the end), and I decided I might as well do the same thing, because what else do I have to talk about, right?

Maybe the things that scare us when we're seventeen- like, learning to drive, or ACTs and SATs, or thinking about how in a couple of years you're going to be on your own- will seem dumb in ten years. Maybe five years. Maybe even two or three. But the fact that it might not matter later doesn't make it any less scary now, does it? If you try to explain to a four-year-old that the monster in their closet won't be scary in the morning, they're not going to be relieved and go back to bed. They're going to stay glued to your leg until the sun comes up and shows them actual proof that the monster was just a pile of dirty clothes. It would probably make them even more afraid.

Why?

Because it presents the idea of a risk. What if the monster eats them before it gets to be morning? What if the morning comes, and you were wrong, and it is actually a monster? What if...?

And I think it's only the What Ifs that are scaring us, not the actual things themselves. Like, going to school, for instance. You bring in the kid, and they aren't afraid of the brick building they'll be confined in for the next eight hours, or even necessarily of the teachers and other kids. They're thinking, What if I do something wrong? What if they laugh at me if I do something wrong? What if nobody likes me? And then they make friends and realize how completely wrong they were about the What Ifs.

But just because the What Ifs usually prove to be wrong doesn't mean there isn't a teeny, tiny possibility that maybe one day, one of your What Ifs will come true.

So I'm seventeen, and I'm thinking this:

What if my grades aren't good enough?

What if I don't get into college and I'm stuck here?

What if I do get into college?

What if I screw it up and I'm stuck here?

What if even after going to college I still can't get a descent job?

What if I'm so busy worrying that I'm missing out?

What if nobody cares?

What if the president can't actually fix anything, no matter who he or she is?

What if I don't make it?

What if I end up alone?

What if I end up with someone?

What if I just... end up?

What If...

And you know, there are more. We could do it all day, listing the endless negative outcomes of our next step. But you know what? If every single stinking time we're face with these scary things and we just sit here thinking "What If," we're never actually going to get to find out what is actually going to happen. I'm scared of spiders, but I still walk my dog even though there's a chance I might see a spider when I'm outside. I'm absolutely TERRIFIED of the Joker, but that doesn't stop me from watching the Batman movies. Slenderman completely freaks me out, but I don't throw out my laptop and never get on tumblr again. Serial killers and homicidal maniacs could be wandering around, but I still go to the mall and to the movies and to Wal-Mart and the bookstore. Weeping Angels? They send me diving behind my sofa! But I would never miss an episode of Doctor Who just because of some statues that aren't even real (probably...).

There comes a point when you have to take a deep breath and just walk into Mordor. When you have to leave the safety of Hogwarts and face the evil wizard. When you have to realize that the White Witch has your brother, so you might as well fight, because it's no good going back to Finchley now. When you take the Vorpal Sword in hand, and you do some Jabberwocky slaying. When you put on your travelling cloak and take your staff and go on an adventure even though you're abnormally short and not actually a thief and don't even like adventures and there's a dragon involved.

When you just stop What If-ing and go. Because even though it looks big and dark, and even though you're scared, and even though your brain is telling you that this is the part of the horror movie when everyone in the theater is screaming, "DON'T GO IN THERE"... that's all, apparently, supposed to be part of the adventure. And eventually, when it's all over, one day you'll remember how scared you were at the time, and maybe you were right to be scared, and maybe it made you stronger, and maybe both of those things will be true. But you won't be scared anymore.

Link to Scared Video 1, 2, and 3

Happy Halloween! (and some other stuff)

So. I have been gone for over a month. Leave me punishments in my tumblr ask box. (I'm being serious. I even linked it.) I literally have no good excuses.

Here's a little bit about what's been going on during my hiatus: Mostly, I've been trying to drive so I can get a license so my thirteen-year-old sister will stop making fun of me for being the only kid my age who is unable to drive. Also, I've been studying. Algebra 2 is hard, and there's a lot of it on the ACT and the SAT, both of which I am taking (including writing sections) the first week of December. No, my mother is not making me. It is self-inflicted torture. (I am also not depressed, and very well-adjusted for someone my age, thank you.)

I saw The Perks of Being a Wallflower. Twice. In two weeks. Right after it came out.

I love it so much, and if I had enough money and somebody else who would put up with me, I'd go see it again in a heartbeat, because it's the best movie in the whole wide world and Emma Watson and Logan Lerman and Ezra Miller are perfect and why is Stephen Chbolskey so awesome and why is the music so perfect and it's brilliant. (Yes I know that was a run on sentence, but I have a lot of emotions about this movie and the book, too.)

It's the second best movie that has come out this year (with Dark Night Rises in first place and Avengers coming in at a solid third, though before Perks it was in second, I admit). It feels like a John Hughes film, and we all know how awesome John Hughes is. Correct me if you think I'm wrong, but to me the movie was like what would happen if The Breakfast Club had a baby with Ferris Bueller's Day Off. Of course, as with any movie that is based on a book, READ THE BOOK FIRST. It won't take you very long because you won't be able to put it down. Then go see the movie because it's awesome and the author directed it and produced it and wrote the screenplay, so it's basically almost exactly the same as the book.

Last weekend I went to Haunted Corn Maze with my youth group. I wasn't going to go, because I had a big test in Anatomy to study for, and my sister's birthday part was on Friday, but at church all these people kept coming up to me like, "YOU SHOULD COME YOU SHOULD COME OMG IT'S THE MOST FUN YOU WILL EVER HAVE IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE PARTICIPAAAAAATE!"

And I was like, "Um, that's what you said about retreat, and it turned out to be kinda lousy...."

And they said, "THAT'S WHY THIS IS THE MOST FUN YOU WILL EVER HAAAAVE!1!!1!"

And I said, "But-"

And they said, "HERE IS YOUR PERMISSION FORM PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE FILL IT OUT EVEN THOUGH YOU'VE HAD THE SAME ADDRESS SINCE KINDERGARTEN AND WE KNOW WHO YOUR PARENTS ARE SO WE COULD PRACTICALLY FILL IT OUT FOR YOU!"

And I said, "Oh, what the heck."

And then I went into the haunted corn maze. With a group composed of five sophomore girls and one guy from my Sunday school class. So, five minutes in, we were proclaimed leaders (I somewhat reluctantly, given the number of chainsaws), and the other girls had mostly burst into tears. So then two of the girls latch onto my arm and won't let go, as if there's anything I can do to protect them from people who have signed a contract not to touch any civilians coming through the corn maze and who are carrying chainsaws that DON'T EVEN HAVE CHAINS ON THEM SO HOW COULD THEY CUT OF OUR HEADS YOU GUYS?!?

And they're both like, "I want to get out," but they won't move, and I'm stuck to them, so I start dragging them along like, "You have to walk to get out, geniuses." And then some guy jumps out with a chainsaw, and they run in to directions, and I fall, and they fall on top of me, and the long and short of it is I sprained my knee in the haunted corn maze in Chickasaw.

And the anatomy test I had to study for, which I could have been studying for that night? Yeah, I failed it.

And trick-or-treating with my little sister? Forget about it. I have to stay off of my leg as much as possible until tomorrow, which means I get to be the person who stays home and watches the Nickelodeon's midnight special while passing out candy to an infinite string of six-year-olds who couldn't come up with more creative costume ideas than a public servant or one of Disney's vast array of female rulers over small, fictitious populaces.

On the plus side, being an invalid drove me, as it so often does, to Netflix, where I discovered the awesomeness that is Supernatural. I was going to try out Once Upon a Time, but I wasn't in the mood, and then there it was, with Jared Padelecki and Jensen Ackles in all their sarcastic glory. I would marry men with those wits, provided they also had the hair, and the ability to exorcise a demon in the back of an airplane without the other 240 passengers noticing...

I hope you have noticed the motif here:

HALLOWEEN!

One of my favorite YouTubers, Cassidy Jay Tucker, was clever enough to ponder the idea of fandom haunted houses here. She listed a lot of my favorite fandoms: Doctor Who, Sherlock, Harry Potter, even Maximum Ride. As well read as she is, I was kind of surprised she didn't get this idea...

What about a Neil Gaiman-inspired Haunted House?

Seriously! It would be about the scariest thing in the world! Like, going up to it, the house or building or whatever is in a graveyard, and there's all these Man Jacks chasing you up to the house. You get in, and slam the door shut behind you, and you're leaning against it and panting and then, out of nowhere, the Other Mother shows up, and she's challenging you to a game and trying to sew buttons in your eyes, and of course, you won't have any of it, so she grabs you and throws you behind a mirror, and there you meet not the ghost children, but Shadow! And you're sitting there in a crappy hotel room, watching TV, when Lucy comes on and shows you Wednesday getting killed. And you get up to leave and go do something about it, but oh no, no you can't, because now you're in Neverwhere.

And you have to go through EVERYTHING Richard Mayhew did, with Door and Hunter and the Marquis de Caribrais being about as helpful to you as they were to him, before you can leave.

And at the end, you feel like everyone always feels at the end of one of Neil Gaiman's books which is something along the lines of this:
WHAT IS LIFE????? *bangs head against nearest hard surface* And then you go to the bookstore the next week and get another one and do it all over again.

FUN FACTS ABOUT HALLOWEEN:

1) The name is derived from the much longer name All Hallows' Eve. The Scottish shortened it to Hallowe'en, and since people are afraid of the Scottish (I mean, look at Steven Moffat), the name stuck.

2) The Celts and Irish celebrated a holiday called Samhain, a night when the believed the door to the Otherworld was open to allow fairies and dead souls to pass through to our world and pester ordinary mortals. The people would have big parties and feast, sometimes setting a place for a departed friend, in much the same way that small children request a place set at the table for their imaginary friends. Anyway, Jack-o-lanterns may come from this early branch of the holiday; in the nineteenth century, people carried carved-out turnips with lights in them, sometimes with faces carved into them as well, to protect themselves from spirits and fairies.

3) In Britain Jack-o-lanterns represented souls in purgatory, and on the night of All Hallows' Eve, children would go into graveyards and put candy in skulls. That's all pretty weird, and so these sorts of practices were discouraged in the 1600s. Conveniently, Guy Fawkes' Night became popular around that time (it's on November 5, my birthday!), and it was easy to pull the populace away from Halloween and toward a new, less creepy tradition. (Arguably, it was still pretty violent, since they went around burning effigies of the guy like it was okay, but still. Better than sending sweet little John and Jane into the graveyard at night to put a Snickers in grandpa's skull.)

4) Orange and black are associated with Halloween because orange is a color symbolizing the harvest, while black, of course, symbolizes death.

5) The Celts, from number two, who celebrated Samhain, may have been the origin of costumes as well. They wore masks so that the fairies and spirits wouldn't recognize them as they wandered the countryside.

6) The movie Halloween, made in 1978, was filmed in 21 days on a limited budget.

7) October 31st was originally the last day of the Celtic calender. Funny, nobody ever thought the world was going to end on Halloween...

8) Halloween is the second most commercially successfully holiday. No prizes for guessing the first...

9) Halloween candy sales in the U.S. annually average about 2 billion dollars. *whistles*

10) Black cats? Not so unlucky in the U.K., where it's white cats you should be watching out for.

My Reichenbach Theories

So I wasn't going to do this, but now I feel like I have to. I mean, I've just watched Reichenbach all the way through on Netflix for the first time in months, and I just feel something must be said. I think everyone in the fandom-- tumblr fans specifically-- are totally over thinking this, looking for details, trying to be clever. The result is that they see too much, and they can't get to the important stuff.

Okay, let's take a look at what we know. And I don't want to hear any crap about Moriarty's fox pin or fairytale symbolism or whatever. Just the facts.

Okay, starting with their post-trial meeting:

Sherlock makes the tea and plays the violin. When Moriarty comes in, he comments, "Johannes Sebastian would be appalled," and takes his seat. There follows a brief discussion about Bach in his last days. (M: "Couldn't cope with an unfinished melody." S "And neither can you.") Then some chatting over the key code, which is pretty much irrelevant since we know it was never real. Then Moriarty's I.O.U. speech: "I owe you a fall Sherlock." ; "Falling's just like flying except there's a more permanent destination."

So, they both know that Sherlock's going to die. There's a two-month breach for the two of them to plan their strategies.

Moriarty's Strategy: Take advantage of Sherlock's obvious contempt for the press and really drag his name through the mud with tailor made, too-clever cases. Get inside their heads, including Sherlock's. Plant the doubt seeds. And when all of it is done, get Sherlock to kill himself.

Sherlock's Strategy: Don't die. (Note: I'm summarizing a lot of complicated, Sherlock-y thoughts for our puny little fangirl brains.)

Okay, simple enough.

John and Mycroft have talk about the press. Mycroft admits to giving Moriarty information in exchange for the code, implying he knew of the code's existence. BUT, we know the code's a fake. Moriarty admitted himself that it was just music, saying, "Thank you Johannes Sebastian Bach!" (I think he had a tiny inspiration from Sherlock's violin playing in the tea scene.) Some of the information in the articles was valid, because John recognized it, but how much? We haven't seen the article, so we don't know, but clearly there is more to Mycroft than meets the eye, and we know from the original canon that he's supposed to be even better at observing and so on than Sherlock is himself. Maybe Mycroft was feeding Moriarty half-truths. Maybe some of the information was gathered by Moriarty during his time at the Yard as "Jim from IT" and Molly's boyfriend. But that's not quite as important as the fall itself.

Cut to St. Bart's.

Sherlock goes to St. Bart's after separating himself from John. He talks to Molly and asks her for help. Presumably, they plan something. John arrives, the decide to use the code to erase Brook and bring back Moriarty. John gets the call about Mrs. Hudson being shot.

          John Watson: She's dying, Sherlock. Let's go.

Sherlock Holmes: You go. I'm busy.

John Watson: Busy?

Sherlock Holmes: Thinking. I need to think.

John Watson: You need to...? Doesn't she mean anything to you? You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her!

Sherlock Holmes: She's my landlady.

John Watson: She's dying... You machine. Sod this. Sod this. You stay here if you want, on your own.

Now, we know Sherlock is supposed to have done something out of character (see article here) and I think this is one of the clues. "You once half killed a man because he laid a finger on her!" We all love that bit in Scandal when Sherlock throws the American out of the window because he punched Mrs. Hudson.  So why hasn't anybody pointed this out? I think Sherlock knew that John would go to Mrs. Hudson's aid, even if he had just run away handcuffed to London's Most Wanted. I think the phone call was a set up. I think Sherlock wanted John to be out of harm's way. And I think that this must mean, while he anticipated his friends being targeted, I don't think he anticipated Moriarty's actual plan of three separate snipers. (We'll get to that in a moment.)

Sherlock, having previously sent a text to Moriarty to meet him up on St. Bart's ("P.S. I've got something of yours that you might want back."), now receives a text from Moriarty: "I'm waiting..." Sherlock goes up to him. And, because they're them, they talk through the whole thing.

First, the case at hand. It's almost as if Moriarty is a professor delivering a test to his favorite student, pacing around Sherlock and so on. This circling Sherlock, I believe, blows that whole "phone recording" theory. Sherlock wasn't hiding anything in his hands, and we know that because he tapped out the code for Moriarty with his fingers. We also get another lesson in German: Reichenbach = Richard Brook. (This series really makes me want to learn German...) Sherlock threatens to use the code to "destroy Richard Brook and bring back Moriarty." At this point, Moriarty explodes-- in fact, he almost seems to be crying as he says, "Too easy... There is no code!" At which point he mentions that it's only a song.

And la-dee-da, more dialogue, Sherlock nearly throws Moriarty off the roof (S: "You're insane." M: "You're just getting that now?"), and then Moriarty reveals the Incentive:

          Sherlock Holmes: "John?"
          Jim Moriarty: "Everybody."
          Sherlock Holmes: "Mrs. Hudson?"
          Jim Moriarty: "Everybody."
          Sherlock Holmes: "Lestrade?"
          Jim Moriarty: "Everybody. Three bullets. Three gunman. Three victims."

So, we can safely assume that Sherlock sent John away to check on Mrs. Hudson in the hope that John wouldn't end up in the same situation as he was at the end of Series 1, strapped to explosives, at the whims of an insane criminal mastermind. In fact, we can even assume that he anticipated that Moriarty would target these three specific people in some way, given the fact that it's been done before. But I think he wasn't expecting all three of them to have their own personal assassin. His shock was too real.

Sherlock gets up on the ledge for the first time and peers down. We see the bus, and the people, and Sherlock begins to laugh. But before he laughs, he looks. Then he jumps lightly down as Moriarty asks, "What have I missed?" and there's another spiel about angels and boring and ordinary and then Moriarty kills himself.

Now, why doesn't Sherlock jump the first time? Because he has a plan. He looks down, and there's a bus. John isn't here yet. It's not the right time. He has to stall a bit longer. Speculating that the gunmen can be called off with a word, he chats a bit longer with Moriarty:

Jim Moriarty: You think you can make me stop the order? You think you can make me do that?

Sherlock Holmes: Yes. So do you.

Jim Moriarty: Sherlock, your big brother and all the King's horses couldn't make me do a thing I didn't want to. (Relevant to above theory about Mycroft faking knowledge of the code.)

Sherlock Holmes: Yes, but I'm not my brother, remember? I am you. Prepared to do anything. Prepared to burn. Prepared to do what ordinary people won't do. You want me to shake hands with you in hell? I shall not disappoint you.

Jim Moriarty: Nah — you talk big. Nah... you're ordinary. You're ordinary — you're on the side of the angels.

Sherlock Holmes: Oh, I may be on the side of the angels... but don't think for one second that I am one of them. 

Okay, why do we need any of this? Why? This whole dialogue, it's... beautiful, it's dramatic, but necessary? Not particularly. It feels sort of meaningless, as if Sherlock's just bantering. He's restating things that have already been established in previous encounters with Moriarty. And I seriously doubt that Sherlock could have forced Moriarty to call off the gunmen. He's brilliant, but Moriarty's stubborn. He would have done something crazy, the way he always does. Last time Sherlock was in a threatening situation with Moriarty, he was only saved because of a well-timed phone call.

Then there are a couple of frames where Sherlock perches himself on the edge of the roof and begins messing about with his face. What is he doing? Not putting on make up, as some have suggested. Sherlock isn't the type for fake blood, and his features are unchanged when we see the phone call a bit later. However, Sherlock's hand passes over his mouth. You can just see him putting his hand over his mouth, although the view is a bit obscured by his shoulder. (Rewatch if you're skeptical, and pay close attention.)



Then comes the phone call. Twice, he sends John back behind that little brick building. He can see Sherlock, but not the place where Sherlock is going to hit the ground. This tells us two things: 1) Sherlock wants John to think that he is dead. 2) The garbage truck must be important. It covered the spot where Sherlock hits the ground just fine, but Sherlock wanted John well out of the way. There's something fishy about the truck.

Sherlock then goes on to tell John that he is a fake, that he wants him to tell everyone that he's a fake, the newspapers were right, and Moriarty isn't real. So terribly sad, blah-blah.

This is an excerpt from the Radio Times article, where Moffat gives us a hint:

"I’ve been online and looked at all the theories," Moffat told us, "and there’s one clue that everyone’s missed. It’s something that Sherlock did that was very out of character, but which nobody has picked up on."

Yeah, Sherlock called instead of texting, but come on. Is that really all you saw? What about the fact that Sherlock Holmes started bloody crying? Think that's a bit important, do you? No?

Remember Scandal?

Sherlock Holmes: Look at them. They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?

Mycroft Holmes: All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.

What about this bit?

          Sherlock Holmes: Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side.

And Hound?

Sherlock Holmes: Look at me. I'm afraid, John. Afraid.

John Watson: Sherlock...

Sherlock Holmes: I've always been able to keep myself distant. Divorce myself from feelings. But you see, body's betraying me. Interesting, yes? Emotions... grit on the lens, the fly in the ointment.

John Watson: All right, Spock, just take it easy

Sherlock is Spock. "This is your 36th attempt to illicit an emotional response from me," that's Sherlock Holmes. He considers them tedious. They are no benefit to him, so he tries his best to disregard them, in himself and others. He often needs John's guidance to know when he is being too insensitive, or when he might offend someone unintentionally. He's not a big fan of emotions.

SO WHY IS HE CRYING?

I think that is TREMENDOUSLY out of character, and frankly I'm shocked that nobody has brought it up. We can literally see the tears streaming down his face, dripping onto his scarf, and it's beautiful acting on the part of Cumberbatch. Why don't we stop looking at his gorgeous, symmetrical cheekbones, and start asking what's ON them?

After that, he jumps. I don't believe any of that crap about post-mortems being dropped by Molly, or magical trampolines, or whatever. I do think that Sherlock landing in the truck makes sense. But although I do believe he fell into the truck, I think the height was sufficient for him to be bloodied up, even with the padding, and then tossed onto the pavement. Why? We see Sherlock falling forward quite clearly, here:



 

But he lands on the pavement on his side, here:



Ladies and gents, either the corpse of Sherlock Holmes wants to be drawn like one of your French girls, or he landed in the truck and was pushed out. Also, while we're looking at the above picture, notice the lack of blood. I don't see any red on his face at all, even though we are at somewhat of a distance. So, how did his face get like this:



And where did all of this come from? This huge puddle:



There wasn't much time, but there was probably enough for Sherlock to arrange for some blood. And there's also the fact that the height he jumped from was sufficient for him to get rather bashed up, garbage padding or now. But the truck's padding would have allowed him to sustain (perhaps) more repairable injuries than smacking the concrete from six stories up.

Still, there's another thing. He looks pretty dead. Why?

There are drugs and chemicals that exist that can induce a death-like state. (Check out this article from HowStuffWorks for an example.) I bet you anything he either took it when he "wiped his mouth" or injected it when he landed on the truck, depending how long it needs to kick in. It's more likely he took it on top of St. Bart's. It would explain why he was so emotional (could be a side-effect) and it would explain his laughter and not jumping the first time. He was waiting for the drug to take effect. He was laughing because his friends were safe-- he would be medically dead now, quite soon, regardless of whether Moriarty called off the shooters or not.

Also, I think it's pretty obvious I don't believe in the Great Body Switch triggered by the "Slow Down" safety cone. Honestly, when you think about it, it's a somewhat ridiculous theory. Why would they switch bodies in broad daylight? Don't you think John would have noticed, even with the four human shields around the gurney? Yeah, John was concussed, but he isn't stupid, and neither are the other witnesses who watched John being wheeled in, and who I seriously doubt were all planted. (Though I'll buy the cyclist theories. Too coincidental to be a coincidence.) Several people have gone to Bart's and seen the actual cone, which means it wasn't a helpful hint from Mofftiss. Sorry, but I don't buy it. We can't romanticize this.

A Somewhat Inconclusive Conclusion:

Mycroft knows the code Moriarty has is fake. He had Moriarty in captivity pre-trial and Crime of the Century, so if he knew the code, he could have anticipated the robberies. He didn't. He may or may not have informed Sherlock of this fact, but he is somehow in on the plan to convince John that Sherlock is dead. He is feeding John facts to help him jump to conclusions when the time comes. Mycroft always, always, knows much more than we think he does.

Sherlock was playing Bach on his violin when Moriarty comes to tea. Moriarty tapped out a tune of Bach's instead of a real code to throw Sherlock off. It really is fantastically subtle.

Months pass, and the two work on their strategies. The kidnapping takes place. People become suspicious of Sherlock. The song and dance of the episode, the arrest, etc.

Sherlock goes to Molly for help the night before his jump. Presumably, she gets hold of the chemicals or drug needed to make Sherlock appear dead. With the help of Mycroft, they arrange for the truck driver and the cyclist. He will jump off of St. Bart's because then there won't be any need to call an ambulance; he can simply be wheeled into the closest hospital, Bart's itself, and straight into the morgue, where Molly will be waiting.

On top of St. Bart's, Sherlock chats with Moriarty, leading him to believe that he's beaten Sherlock, so that he can uncover for certain the safety of his friends, specifically John. He stands on the ledge, asking for privacy, and peeks at the ground. People are coming off of a bus, perhaps Molly is even going up to her post from that bus, or some other passenger gives a signal-- not yet. Sherlock takes the drug Molly has given him. He turns around and stalls some more with Moriarty. Why? Well, making good use of his time, obviously. He's trying to get ensure that Moriarty dies (roughly) with him. When Moriarty finally shoots himself, Sherlock checks again. He jumps into the garbage truck, then lands on the pavement. John gets hit by the cyclist. His head injury, combined with his shock at Sherlock's apparent suicide, is enough to make him believe that Sherlock is dead, thus causing the shooters to leave. Sherlock is wheeled safely up to Molly, and that's the end of it.

There are holes in this, I'm sure. Feel free to point them out.

Love always, Sarah xx

September First Should Be Made an International Holiday

So.

Doctor Who, guys. DOCTOR WHO!

That episode tonight WAS AWESOMESAUCE.



I was already dying to know what happened to the Ponds, since Rory left and all. But then the Doctor shows up in Scarro, and that ginger turns into a Dalek (once and for all proving that gingers do not have souls). That's a scary thought, humanoid Daleks. I mean, now anybody could be a Dalek, couldn't they? And you wouldn't know, because they can hide those para scope thingies inside their foreheads.

Now, honestly, I've never been properly afraid of the Daleks. I mean, yeah, they sicken me, but the Doctor has always managed to defeat them in the past, so I was just never scared of them. But then Moffat creates a whole bloody PLANET of cocoa-bananas Daleks, and they can actually turn you into one just with the AIR. I mean, come on. That's the scariest thing I have ever heard of.

And of course, the Doctor's priority isn't that he was attacked by a bunch of skeletal Alaskans and a dead black guy in an awesome parka, or that they're in a Dalek Mental hospital. Oh no. It's that Amy and Rory are in the process of getting a divorce. And of course, he fixes that, too. That whole scene was absolutely brilliant.

I really, really liked Oswin. She reminded me of Sally Sparrow, Rita, and Astrid, from some older episodes: clever women with big hearts who would have totally been companions if not for extenuating circumstances. (Namely, being dead. Or, if you're Sally Sparrow, married to your best friend's brother and running a shop.) I mean, she really would have been an amazing companion. She probably would have been able to fly the TARDIS- not as well as River, maybe, but she could still do it. It's amazing that she was able to maintain her own human consciousness after being turned into a Dalek, but of course that's thanks to her IQ. I can't imagine how frightening that must have been, spending a whole year in an illusion of your own creation, trying to remember and forget at the same time.

It makes the Daleks all the more scary.

I CAN'T WAIT until next week. Mr. Weasley, Filch, AND Lestrade in one episode. And I think Rory might have called Mr. Weasley "Dad" which, if I heard correctly, would totally make him related to Ronald Weasley. Also dinosaurs.

Very very exciting, yes?

 

Now, let's talk about the other big thing going on the fandoms today. Namely, the start of the Hogwarts school term.

I was kinda disappointed that the new Chamber of Secrets chapters weren't available on Pottermore today. I thought they would be, since it was September first and all, but apparently I was wrong. I think they might come out around October or November (also, the next House Cup is in November, so Slytherins, get to work already).

According to my calculations (and also some help from the HP Lexicon) Victoire Weasley should be going into her fourth year (ish) which means Dominique and Louis could also possibly be in school (though I'm pretty sure Louis is still a bit too young). Who knows about the others, since they don't exactly have birthdays or anything. James won't be going until 2015 or 2016, and we know absolutely that Scorpius, Al, and Rose go in 2017, with Lily and Hugo following in 2019.

So, yep. Big day for the fandoms, September 1st. I think it should be an international fandom holiday.

So... bye!

P.S. Spell Check, who says Awesomesauce isn't a word??

Esther Earl, Resting Forever In Awesome

Serious Post Again:

So, I just finished The Fault In Our Stars by John Green. I got it from Amazon, and I carried it around with me everywhere this summer so that, whenever I had a spare moment, I could pull it out and read it. It's really, REALLY good, and it's about a girl named Hazel who has cancer, who falls in love a with a boy named Augustus who has cancer, and it's happy and sad and beautiful and awesome.

Anyway, the book is dedicated to Esther Earl. And being a fairly new recruit in Nerdfighteria, I didn't know who Esther Earl was. And then, gradually, things began to reveal themselves.

First, there was a LeakyCon thing about the Esther Earl Charity Ball, or something. The only reason I saw it was because my mom and I had a master plan to go for two hours, which was foiled when we realized there was no way we'd be able to get to Chicago and back by car in time for school. And then there was the fabulous John Green's video made at his desk treadmill thing. He mentioned Esther, and some stuff about Esther Day being today, and then a t-shirt contest.

Now, I normally don't do stuff like this: You know, designing posters and t-shirts and stuff for contests. They used to make us do it in middle school all the time, making us do posters about saying no to drugs and alcohol and stuff. I hated it. But I clicked the link anyway, because it sounded like a big deal, and I'm curious.

Boy, was I ever in for a surprise.

The link took me the This Star Won't Go Out charity website. I clicked on Esther's Story. I read. I hummed to myself so that I wouldn't cry.

Esther had the same cancer as Hazel, without the benefit of Hazel's fictional Phalanxifor that keeps her alive. Esther was diagnosed at twelve, and then had a relapse at sixteen. She did some awesome charity work for Harry Potter Alliance and contributed to the nerdfighter community in so many ways. She hated America's Next Top Model.

But, after watching her videos, I agree with Mr. John Green. Most importantly, she was a person. Just a person, who had cancer, and tried to make the best of it. But she said herself that she was just a person. The wise, sad-eyed cancer warrior with the secret to the Meaning of Life behind her eyes may exist somewhere-- mostly in books, because books tend to favor the poetic. But that wasn't Esther. I'm not pretending I knew her very well, or knew her at all. I didn't know who she was until a few days ago.

I think I, like almost everyone else in Nerdfighteria, like her last video best. But it isn't because at the end she says, "I love you." I don't see the video as a poetic irony at all. She gave everyone a tour of the downstairs part of her house. There was one shot involving her holding the camera over the toilet while it flushed (nothing was in it, but still). There were also the customery quirky cookie monster cartoons periodically in the video.

In short, this wasn't the video of someone who knew they were about to die and tried to make it meaningful. This was the video of someone who expected that there would be future videos. Maybe not tons and tons, but still, future videos.

I mean, I know since it was her last video, we all try to read into it. How nice, her last words in her last video were "I love you." But what if things had been different? Say she knew that that was going to be her last video-- do you think it would have been more meaningful? What if her last video had just been her, sitting there, singing wizard rock with her little brother, or saying something in a French accent with only her dog on camera?

We never know. The universe doesn't put a little red dot on our foreheads a month before we die, so that we have time to count the days and set things straight. We never know what's going to happen. Some people fear that, because they want to see the bad coming. Some people long to know that their future will be better than their present.

Esther... honestly, I don't know. I don't know if she was scared, but I bet she was scared. I don't know if she saw a future for herself beyond cancer, if she ever imagined growing old post-diagnosis. I don't know, because I didn't know her. But she lived in the moment. She didn't make all of her videos as if they were going to be her last videos ever. She was just doing the same thing everyone else was doing.

I don't think I'm scared of the future. The likelihood that the future will hold something either disasterous or wonderful for me is about the same. I don't assume for a minute that I'll live any longer than Esther did, because you never know whether a bus, proverbial or otherwise, will come around a corner and hit you. But then, living a short life doesn't make it less happy or meaningful. People talk about long, full lives, but a short life can be more full than a long one.

There isn't really a point to anything in this post, except that Esther is a person we should remember, and loving everyone in the world, regardless of who they are or what they've done, is something that we should try to do, because everybody deserves to feel loved, and it always makes people feel good to know that someone loves them.

Unless you're Voldemort, and/or the Mongols.

Rest in Awesome, Esther Earl.

"Life is a disease: sexually transmitted and ultimately fatal." ~Neil Gaiman

Links: Link to TSWGO website- donate or buy a bracelet (which is also donating)
Link to Esther's YouTube Channel

Voldemort's at the Olympics, Batman's Back, and Why it Should Matter

Yes, long title. No, I'm not changing it.

So, um... I'm not the kind of person who looks at stats. Really, I'm not. But usually, when I'm offline for a few days, it's not really a big deal. So today, when I log in, I'm thinking, "Hmm, what should I tell the small band of followers about today?" And then I see that I've had something like five hundred pageviews in the last week.

Whoa.

Thank you sooo much for reading my blog and caring what I say and stuff. It means A LOT.

Anyway.

WHO SAW THE OLYMPICS OPENING CEREMONY??? Because obviously I did.

Seeing those little kids singing all those songs, and then Keneth Branagh's beautiful recitation of that passage from The Tempest was just... amazing. I literally had goosebumps. I just sat there watching them, and those villagers on all that green grass, like they were in the Shire or something, and I started thinking about what Neil Gaiman says in American Gods. He says that nobody's American, not really. Of course, the obvious exception would be Native Americans, but everybody else came from Europe, or Asia, or Africa. And I couldn't help wondering if I had great-great-great-great-great grandparents somewhere in my history that lived in England, or Ireland, or Scotland, and worked on a little Shire-esque farm.

And I had about five minutes to be sentimental before they started dragging away the Shire and replacing it with Mordor, minus the creepy tower. (They had five creepy towers, actually.) It was kind of cool to see them making those giant rings right there in the arena. At first I was thinking, "Why are there only five? Weren't there nine rings gifted to the race of men and so on?" But then I remembered, "Oh yeah. Olympics. Duh."

Okay, no more Lord of the Rings references. Sorry.

So then James Bond and the Queen in that helicopter... I mean, jeez, the English really no how to laugh at themselves if they're going to pull out all these stereotypes.

And then the adorable hospital kids, which was awesome.

Okay, I should clarify that at the beginning of this whole thing, my darling mother made fish sticks and French fries for fish and chips, you know, so we could pretend we were English and feel posh. Which is odd, since there's nothing particularly posh about fish and chips, but anyway. I had fish fingers and custard. Okay, actually it was one fish finger, and the custard was vanilla Swiss Miss pudding, but still.

And for the record, it was awesome.

Anyway. Hospital kids.

I had a nerd freak-out when J.K. Rowling read that passage from Peter Pan. And the nerd freak-out turned into me floating up to the ceiling and almost dying when a five hundred-foot-tall Voldemort-- with a functioning wand-- grew out of the ground and stared threateningly at that little girl. I mean, yeah, all he could really do was stare threateningly at her. And make a few bangs with the wand. But still.

And I suppose Cruella de Ville and Captain Hook and the Queen of Hearts were all right.

But Voldemort. VOLDEMORT, GUYS!

Who would have thought he could be taken down by Mary Poppins?

Okay, so it was a small army of Mary Poppinsesesezzzz. But I mean, come on. And there was no Dick Van Dyke, and no tap dancing penguins! Disappointment.

So then there was Mr. Bean. And then that explosion of pretty much all the best music ever.

You can't help but wonder why England pulled out all these stereotypes.

I think it's a British thing. Because, you know, they're like the Hipster Country of the world. So maybe they knew that we would laugh at them, so they pulled out all these famous British-y things to make us laugh, so that they could laugh at us for laughing at them. So then really, they have the last laugh. Or something.

CONSPIRACY!

I was gonna stick around for the torch, to see if David Tennant popped up somewhere, but I got bored around the M's of the Parade of Nations. I think they should do that part first.

And then, today... BATMAN!!!

I'm not going to spoil it for anyone, but suffice it to say that it was REALLY AWESOME.

When I got home, I thought about all this stuff. I just sat for a while, thinking about superheroes and the Olympics (which inevitably led to some side-thoughts about the Hunger Games), and how amazing it would be to be part of something like that. I mean, how amazing must it feel for all those volunteer dancers and little kids with angel voices and J.K. Rowling and that girl with the crazy hair who was in the sketch dedicating to the guy who invented the Internet to say that they were apart of the 2012 London Olympics? How cool is that they can tell their kids, and grand kids, and maybe even great-grand kids, that they were part of something that one day will only be a couple of sentences in a history book?

And what about Christian Bale (or Bruce Wayne if you prefer)? How must he feel, knowing that he is the role model of literally millions of kids? How cool is it to know that for decades, little boys have zoomed around their living rooms, pretending they were him? He probably won't even be in history books, but he still matters, because everybody knows who he is.

And then I realized something. I mean, maybe I'm naive, only thinking about this now, but here it is anyway: Things matter because we say that they do. Like, for instance, Adele? She's an incredible singer, and because a lot of people in the world have decided that being a good singer matters, she matters. And a long, long time ago, there were little g gods. They weren't exactly upstanding citizens of their communities. They weren't even particularly nice. But the people all decided that they mattered-- they came to a consensus nature being controlled by something mattered, so they decided on Zeus and Poseidon and Hades and Athena and Apollo and Artemis and all those other ones. But when the people moved on, when a different ruler captured them, Zeus and his ilk didn't matter anymore. It was Diana and Mars and Pluto and so on, they mattered when the Romans took over.

Okay, so my point is, things only matter because we say so. And things don't matter because we say so. Which, in a way, makes us powerful, and in another way is very, very scary. I mean, think about it: We decide what matters. We decided that the Olympics matters, because we decided that speaking a language that everyone can understand-- one of teamwork and friendship-- was more important than wars and politics. And we decided that superheroes matter too, because we think that good should always be a little more powerful than evil. At least, I like to think that the general public decided that.

But other things matter to individuals too. I mean, if you just look at sports and Superman, everything is coming up roses. But what about other things?

Like, for instance, the headlines these days! All you hear about is this celebrity breaking up with that one, this politician saying something dumb, and this is today's body count. Why is it that we've decided that tabloids matter? When did we decide that the private relationships and family lives of people in movies was more important than our relationships with our own families? You can argue all you want that this isn't the case, that you don't read those headlines, even that celebrities are famous and should be setting an example-- but that doesn't change the fact that we publish their divorce trials and don't even glance at the stats that say we're going through spouses like Voldemort's going through Horcruxes.

Why do pregnant teenagers and kids on drugs matter more than the kids who don't get into trouble at all? Why does four years of high school drama matter more than the rest of your life? Why does it matter so much to us that the stupid kid at McDonald's got your order wrong again, when there are kids that would be happy with anything if they got to eat that day? Why does it matter so much that that kid over there is gay? Do you know him? Do you know his story? When did all of this crap become so important? When did we decide that any of this matters?

If you think about it, all that stuff seems kind of dumb.

What if enough people decided that it matters that kids go hungry all around the world? What would happen if people chose to say that it matters that some people don't get the chance to choose their political leader? And what about war? What if everyone got tired of politicians telling them what to believe and where to point their guns, and they just... stopped?

You know. Food for thought.

Sweet Charity and Why Our Culture is Lovesick

Last night, darling Mum took me to see a musical called Sweet Charity at the Civic Center in Oklahoma City.

*SPOILER ALERT* If you intend to see Sweet Charity and don't want me to ruin it, scroll down a bit until you see the picture for the movie Sweet Charity and keep reading.

*brief/awkward pause*

Okay, for everyone who's still here: Sweet Charity is about a girl named Charity Hope Valentine (and apparently she's not in anyway associated with Audrey Hepburn or her alias, Holly Golightly) who lives in New York City in the sixties. She's a *ahem* "dance hostess"- or, as Charity's friends and coworkers Nickie and Helene put it, "the Rent-a-Body Business".

The first part of the musical is kinda raunchy because a lot of the scenes take place at the Fandango Ballroom, where Charity works, and they give a few examples of dancing-but-not-really-dancing that you might have scene in clubs and bars in the sixties. But there's a lot to be said for the way the whole dance hostess business is portrayed. They don't candy-coat it. It makes you uncomfortable because you're not supposed to like it. And every single one of the girls working there wants out, but they don't know how to get out.

Charity has lots of strange little adventures, and a very long line of crummy boyfriends under her belt. In fact, the last one, Charlie, pushed her in the lake and stole her handbag, which was naturally full of money. Then, she meets this guy (who's a lot like Adrian Monk) when they're both trapped inside an elevator at the YMCA. His name is Oscar Lindquist, and he's very claustrophobic, so she calms him down while their stuck, and when they eventually get out, Oscar asks her on a date. They go to this hippie gathering under a bridge called "The Rhythm of Life Church" which is led by this guy called Daddy, and after they are both thoroughly freaked out by all the potheads, and after the "service" is broken up by the fuzz, Charity agrees to go on another date with Oscar.

She's kept the fact that she's a dance hostess on the down low, but she intends to tell him about it when they go on a trip to Coney Island. They get stuck on a ride, (they have a knack for finding broken machinery) only this time Oscar is comforting Charity, who is terrified of heights. She still can't bring herself to tell him about her true line of work, especially since Oscar has now declared her "a virgin in the most poetical sense of the word." But eventually, she breaks down. She leaves the Fandango Ballroom for good, and meets with Oscar at a diner. There, sitting back-to-back because Charity doesn't want Oscar to look at her, she tells him everything, and Oscar passionately declares that none of it matters, because he already knew anyway, and right there he asks her to marry him.

This is the part where I got thoroughly excited. If a couple as quirky and odd as Charity Hope Valentine and Oscar Lindquist can make it in the world, there must be somebody for everybody. Right?

But the show's not over yet. The dance hostesses of the Fandango Ballroom, the owner Herman, the janitor, and the Ballroom's Three Regular Customers Since 1954 have a surprise party for Charity, and all of them pitched in and bought her a seventeen dollar cake. Oscar shows up and takes Charity on a walk through the park so they can talk. He goes on to say that he keeps thinking about all the "other men" Charity has been with, and that he can't marry her, because if he did, he would "destroy her"- a ludicrous assumption, considering everything else has gone so swimmingly. He then accidentally pushes Charity into the same lake Charlie did at the beginning of the show, and after much hesitation and wringing of hands, Oscar runs away, just like Charlie did, showing that he was no different than any of the other guys Charity has known.

Charity has to pull herself out of the lake. Remarking that at least she still has her money, she goes walking through the park and is met by some hippies who hand her flowers. And then, a voice over from "Daddy" says, "And she lived Hopefully Ever After."

At first, I just sat there, blinking. Excuse me? A musical where the protagonist has not found her true love? Are you kidding? Is that even allowed in musicals? Who cares about being hopeful?! Musicals are supposed to be the one place where everything turns out right. I mean, how many people do you know who watch a musical for a healthy whiff of Real Life?

But then I realized something... which will be revealed post-picture.

Welcome back, Unspoiled Friends!

So, story continued:

By the end of the show, I just kept thinking the same thing that Princess Pea shouts in The Tale of Desperaux: "Love! Why must everyone always speak of love?"

I like happy endings, which means I have a problem with real life. My mom said that the whole point of the show was that after everything Charity had been through, she pulled herself out of the lake and walked off with her head held high. But I mean, a girl's going to get tired of thinking, "Maybe this time it'll work out." And she's going to get tired of having to pull herself out of a lake every time she thinks she's found The One. Eventually, finding that she's back where she started, she might just stay in the lake and never come out again. I would.

I mean, it just sucks, you know? And it's not very rewarding, and there's no point in it.

So, I asked myself, why does she keep doing it? Why does she continuously allow herself to be in a situation where some rotten jerk has the option to push her the lake and run away?

For those of you who have read The Tale of Desperaux, I'm sure another line has crossed your mind about now:

"Reader, do you think it is such a terrible thing to hope when there is really no reason to hope at all? Or is it (as the soldier said about happiness) something that you might just as well do, since, in the end, it really makes no difference to anyone but you?"

I don't know the answer to that. I only know that everybody does it. Yes, even you, rolling your eyes and shaking your head- don't sit there and pretend like no one can see you. Cynics are the worst offenders.

Everybody, in my opinion, has love. But your love is a lot like a wad of cash: It's your choice what you do with it. And that's where we all get tripped up.

Some people spend their love. They go out, and they spend it all on people they don't really need. People like Charity and the Giving Tree, who gave everything she had to the boy because she loved him, until she was nothing but a stump because he hadn't nourished her in return. Some people would say that's the way you should be, but I don't think so. I mean, there comes a point when you have to stop. If all you do is spend and spend and spend, hoping for somebody to reimburse you, you'll wind up an unhappy debtor.

There's people who are pretty reckless with their love. They're a lot like Charity, thwarted romantics, but unlike her, when the love runs out they become hopeless. Then they wind up slipping through the cracks, in the slums of the world, drowning their sorrows in drugs and booze. And the thing is, they think they're out of love, but they aren't. They still have some left. It just hurts a lot, and since it hurts so much, they avoid it and drink more or smoke more or do whatever they have to do to make the hurt go away. And that's why they're all so sad.

And then there's people who hoard love. They keep it all to themselves so they don't end up like the reckless ones in the above paragraph. They love objects instead, because an object, like a stamp collection or basketball trophies, or an antique lamp worth thousands of dollars- well, it may not be able to love you, but at least it can't break up with you either.

There are also people who invest their love. They don't keep it all to themselves, but they don't go spending it with hopes of a refund later either. Instead, they're patient and they watch the stock market, and when they see something to their liking, they put in a small sum. If things go well, they get some back, and then they put in a bit more, and they get more back, and they go on like this until we see an old married couple dancing to a song that nobody else knows but them. And if things go poorly, they might need a while to recuperate, but then they move on and find a new company to invest in, because that's business, and sometimes you lose.

I think the big problem is that the three other categories are looking for someone ideal, someone flawless, someone who won't mess up. And they meet someone, and they see their flaws, and they get scared and run away. But investors know something that the others don't. They know you don't love a personality, which after all is only a vague idea. You love a person. A human being. Someone who puts their pants on one leg at a time. They've made mistakes, sure, but so have you. You don't love the mistakes, and they're not asking you to. But just because you don't love their mistakes doesn't mean that you don't love that person. You love them in spite of what they've done.

See, that was Oscar's problem with Charity. He saw a mistake, and he didn't like it. He thought that because the mistake made him uncomfortable, he didn't love Charity anymore. He misread his feelings, and Charity wound up in a lake.

So.

I have a feeling that I have a very, very wet future ahead of me...

Poverty Simulation (or, Why I Like Sleeping in a Bed)

So, I know there is no excuse for being gone so long, that all of you have been incredibly bored, that you thought I ditched you for a luxurious beach, etcetra, etcetra.

All of these things are totally untrue, and don't even try to tell me that they are.

Let me 'splain. No, there is too much. Let me sum up:

I went on a mission trip with my church on Friday. We went to First Indian Church of the Nazarene in Oklahoma City (which seems rather misleadingly like it only ministers to Native Americans) and fixed it up a little. We repaired the walls of the sanctuary and repainted them, some kids painted a swing set for the kids, we did landscaping around the church, we remodeled the youth room, repainted the youth building, and picked up lots of trash. There was sanding and spackling and sealing oh my.

I think I should also add (rather smugly) that we managed this in roughly two days. Yes. Yes, yes youth group is TOTALLY beast.

Now, as if becoming a construction worker wasn't enough, we had it sprung on us at the end of the second day that we would be participating in a poverty simulation for thirty-six hours in order to identify with poor and homeless whom we served. Bit of a nasty shock, and I would have liked to know about that minor detail beforehand, but it turned out to be okay. More than okay, actually.
First, I suppose I ought to explain the idea of a poverty simulation to the laymen among us. It basically means that for thirty-six hours (or whatever length of time has been established) you become homeless. WITH ADULT SUPERVISION AND IN GROUPS, OF COURSE. And let me tell you, it is very extremely not fun. They gave us forty dollars of fake money in an envelope, and you could pick four possessions out of the stuff you packed to keep with you for the duration of the simulation.

No, let me correct myself: if you were not one of five lucky, randomly selected guests, you were allowed this privilege. If you were me, or one of the four other poor unfortunate souls selected, your ticket was drawn and you were homeless.

That's right. I was made Lowest of the Low. Cast out where there was Weeping and Gnashing of Teeth. I had even spent a frantic five seconds trying to strategically pick my items in my mind.
But it was okay. My little sister shared sleeping bags with me, and there were other girls around who gave me some of their play money to pay for whatever meals I needed. Almost everyone slept outside, because sleeping inside cost a whopping twenty bucks. Also, we had to wear clothes salvaged from a local shelter that handed out second-hand clothes to unfortunates. (Sidenote: My sister, who is basically Primrose Everdeen, somehow wound up with matching pink clothes. How...)

Sleeping outside sucked. It really did. We were allowed to come inside the church to quickly use the restroom- no pulling a Pursuit of Happyness while we were in there- and if we were thirsty, well, there was a perfectly good hose to use. It was hot, so Mattie and I slept on top of our sleeping bag. Even though we managed NOT to die of heat exhaustion, there were still flies and mosquitoes eating us alive, and we were also on the ground, which was not comfortable at all. I think I got about five hours of sleep total, and I kept waking up and remembering where I was. It was not pleasant.

To think that there are other people who have to do that all the time.

The next day we went to church with the other homeless people at First Indian. It was pretty amazing. At the beginning, there was this guy named Patrick who was one of the people in the congregation, and he had what looked to me like a small tumor on his cheek. He was just sitting out in one of the pews, and all of a sudden, he just started playing the harmonica. And he played really well, too. I think he was playing a hymn, but I don't remember what it was called. They had a very old-fashioned service, and we sang "Sweet Hour of Prayer," "Revive Me Again," "Rock of Ages," and "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" which for some reason was listed as "Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory" in the hymnal. Then we listened to the preacher read a very long passage from Ephesians (I think) about submitting to people calmly rather than fighting them. He had the standard Deep Preacher God Voice, and it kind of reminded me of services I've attended with me grandparents at their church.

After church, things got really interesting. We broke into groups and we had to go on a "scavenger hunt." This was literal though, since we actually had to go dumpster diving and beg for food. One of the boys in my group, Jacob, went into the first dumpster we saw, and came out with a wallet and a social security card belonging to a Juan Acosta. Mr. Acosta had foreign money in his wallet, and an ID, but there was not much else. It was a nice wallet, too, from American Eagle. We saved it in case he needed it back.

Getting lunch was the tricky part. I was terrified. I didn't know what we were going to do. I mean, let's face it: we were downtown on a Sunday. Nothing was open. We would have to dumpster dive for food, I was sure, and my stomach curdled at the thought, even though it hurt because I was hungry and hadn't eaten breakfast (I couldn't pay for it, being homeless/without Fake Money).

We tried a few restaurants, and they were all closed. Then we came to a Subway, which was open, and figured we might as well try to get food.

We got much more than that.

Jacob and a girl from our group named Mallory went into the Subway while the rest of us waited at tables outside. They asked an employee if she had any leftovers for us to eat. The employee, a woman named Diane, sort of looked them up and down and said, "Y'all hungry?" Jacob and Mallory sort of nodded meekly, and Diane told them to wait while she served another customer. She came back with two sandwiches, which we later learned were part of her own lunch.

Jacob and Mallory arrived outside triumphantly with the six-inch beauties, which our group leader began to cut into pieces. However, two elderly security guards saw us and asked why on earth she was doing that. We explained that the seven of us were sharing. The two men immediately whipped out twenties without even hesitating and said, "Go on in there and buy yourselves lunch. Keep the change." I was so overwhelmed. We all were. These gentlemen didn't even know us or anything about us. They just handed over their money to six dirty teenagers and an adult without even batting an eye.

Just then, Diane stuck her head out the door said, "How many of y'all are there? Get inside!"

In the end, each of us split three five-dollar foot-longs. Diane was so concerned for our safety that in the end, our group leader explained that we were a youth group working at First Indian, information we were originally supposed to omit. Even then, she and her coworker were still very eager to know things like whether or not they fed us (not exactly) and where we were sleeping (outside). She shook her head when she heard that, saying that it wasn't safe, and looking genuinely relieved when we told her that it was a fenced in yard guarded by an off-duty police officer. When our group leader explained that we were trying to identify with the poor and their sufferings because that's was Jesus had done, she and a few other people in the store actually started to cry. Another complete stranger gave us money to give to the church.

Diane went the extra mile. She allowed us to fill up our water bottles with cold water from the soda fountain, gave us candy and cookies that were too crumbly to be sold, and warned us to keep away from a couple of certain men, providing us with sufficient descriptions so we would keep our eyes peeled. Jesus was in Subway, and I'm still not sure whether He was her or us. Either way, two more gaggles of kids from our youth group were fed on her generosity that day.

Later, we had a very different experience. We passed through the Devon Tower (also known as Isengard) on our way back to the church, to cool off if only for a few seconds and to see what time it was. There we met a man wearing a nice, crisp suit with shiny cuff links. I'm not sure what his job was, he was clearly a pretty wealthy man. When we asked him what time it was, he whipped out his iPhone and said in a not-particularly-friendly voice that it was nearly four. We thanked him and promptly left the building, knowing a bad vibe when we bumped into it. Once all of us had left, I turned around and saw him making sure that the doors had closed securely behind us.

I was surprised that I wasn't really offended. I would have boiled at his actions under normal circumstances- but then, under normal circumstances I would have been wearing nicer clothes, I would have showered recently, and I probably would probably only ever go to a place like the Devon Tower on a school field trip. Mostly, I remember feeling sorry for him. He was clearly a rich man, and he therefore had a good job, but in spite of all of that, he was so ignorant. Ignorance is a poverty that in some ways is even worse than the monetary poverty millions suffer through every day.

Back at church, I heard incredible stories of people who had also gone to Subway and eaten thanks to Diane, a group who had received hot dogs from another homeless man, a group that collected money by holding up a sign and begging, even a group that had to figure out how to eat on less than four dollars. What came next was in some ways even worse than being in downtown Oklahoma City for an afternoon.

Dinner was a surprise, but everyone would have to eat it, so we were all pretty wary of what it might be. Breakfast had been Cheetos and root beer for anyone who had bought, and we were expecting everything from a turkey dinner to road kill. When we got there, everyone drew Popsicle sticks. Mine had Europe written on it in purple marker. When I came in, I saw people that were obviously missionaries wearing clothes from different countries. A man in the sort of clothes one would wear to Hawaii on vacation led me to a high table on the stage. It had a nice table cloth, although I couldn't help but notice that another table next to mine had flowers and wine glasses. I looked around and saw everyone else being seated on the floor at various stretches of fabric.

Suddenly, it all clicked. I was Europe. I would get a good meal. But the countries on the floor were about to get a lot less food than I was. I immediately felt guilt and dread spread through me. I would have to sit up here on this stage while everyone watched me eat. It was disgusting. I was glad my stool was facing away from everyone so I, at least, wouldn't have to see their faces. Our meal was nice enough, including a delicious apple pie. I ate as much as I could, but I still felt horrible.

The table next to us, I immediately realized, was America. Two kids sat at the table. Their server was a very loud woman who spoke with the air of someone had was trying to ignore the awkwardness in the room, while at the same trying to put on a show. She served the kids steak, baked potatoes, and rolls. There was much more on the table than two grown-ups could eat, let alone kids just entering high school. Towards the end of the meal, a youth worker and our youth pastor's two kids brought in their dogs and fed them what steak the American table hadn't managed to consume. I turned my stool away from the rest of the kids on the ground as the dogs were fed, while protests could be heard from the crowd. The Americans were also served huge ice cream sundaes, heaped with whipped cream and sprinkles. I felt sorry for them. I felt awkward eating an ordinary healthy meal, but they were the stars of the show.

After everyone finished eating, it was explained that we had just participated in a World Banquet, an exercise which encompasses regions around the world and foods that an average person might have on a regular day. Latin America was served bean burritos, Africa had a tortilla and sweet potatoes, India probably didn't get much either, and China was given a scoop of rice about the size of a small child's fist.

Then we all sat on the floor and watched a video about poverty. I thought I knew roughly what to expect, since I've watched similar videos at school before. I was wrong. The video covered poverty all around the world, and told the stories of children living on the streets, people living in leprosy colonies, and families working in the Payatas in the Philippines.

The story of the Payatas struck me most. This is a literal mountain of garbage in the Philippines, around fifty feet high, where families live (for lack of a better word) and work as scavengers. For long hours every day, adults and children as young as four dig through the trash, searching for recyclable items that the put in bags and carry to trucks that come ceaselessly up and down the mountain. They also look for anything salvageable, like broken toys, that they might repair and sell or use in their own tiny shacks. Children who work in the Payatas dump site are often covered in scratches from jagged bits of metal, and diseases like typhus spread like wildfire through the people.

If that wasn't bad enough, on July 10, 2000, there was a violent storm that caused a fifty foot wall of trash to come down on the little group of shanties where the people lived. Shacks that weren't crushed caught fire, as people had been burning lamps or stoves to keep warm. Around 300 people were killed in the tragedy- many of them children- although even now, twelve years later, there is still no firm headcount of the people who were killed. Still hundreds more were left without homes.

Here are some statistics that I hope blow your mind as well:
~ In 2010, 14.5% of American households (17.2 million, by the way) were "food insecure"; this is the highest number ever recorded in the U.S.
~ In 2010, 46.9 million people lived in poverty in the U.S. The number of people in poverty had increased by 9.6 million from 2007.
~ 20.5 million Americans live in extreme poverty. A family of four lives in extreme poverty if their income is less than $10,000 a year.
~ 16.3% of Americans do not have health insurance.
~ In 2011 there were 636, 017 homeless people in America. (Sidenote: Just off the top of my head, that's more people than there are children in the foster care system. This is a number we could use to start a small city.)
~ In 2010, 6.2 million Americans spent more than half of their income on rent. (Sidenote: There were six million Jews killed in the Holocaust. Also, the population of Oklahoma is only 3,791,508 people, just a little over half.)

I'll go ahead and stop, but you get the picture.

It makes me so mad that this still exists. We live in a world where technology is commonplace, where modern medicine can cure so many diseases that had no cure even a hundred years ago. I thought that the human race had come so far, but now I see that only part of it has. Even though I knew there were homeless people in America, I didn't realize the extent of the problem. I had always thought that poverty was something that was more of a problem in foreign countries, where little children have swollen bodies from malnutrition. It was still wrong, and I still wanted to do something about it, but it wasn't something I felt was immediately in front of me.

Now, as I write, July 4th is only an hour away, but I have never felt less like celebrating. Why should I, when our country allows people to live in such misery? I thank God that I have what I have and that I am in a position to help. These numbers- numbers that come from real people in our own backyard who have names and stories- should not be so high. It's wrong. Jesus talks about the poor in the Bible constantly, and he walked with those rejects of society in order not just to minister to them, but that he might understand their pain. And to some extent, he did. Jesus was born an illegitimate child to a woman who was almost certainly a teen mom, regardless of the fact that she was about to marry, and as a Jewish carpenter and later a wandering missionary, he wasn't exactly the richest guy on the block. And if he walked among the poor and served them, then dadgumit, I'm going to do it, too.

(Here are the links for the statistics I got: www.endhomelessness.org; www.worldhunger.org)

Charlie McDonnell's Experience With Trolls

Hello, everyone!

I had a very disturbing, horrible, and ultimately stupid experience today.

I was on charlieissocoollike's YouTube channel, and discovered that some hateful people were accusing this sweet, wonderful person of being a pedophile.

Let's all stop and think for a second: Charlie McDonnell. As in, Charlie. He wrote a letter to apply for Knighthood. He painted himself purple. He sings songs about Doctor Who. He bought Matt Smith a toy badger for Christmas. He cares more about his fans than any celebrity I know of. He enjoys puns.

Obviously, this is the work of horrible trolls.

This deduction having taken up no more than a nanosecond of my time, I began to ponder things. And you all know what happens when I start to ponder things.

1. Bullying, where I live, is an offense that at best gets you fined $800, and at worst gets you in juvy. I wonder what the laws are in the UK?
2. This, however, was cyberbullying. Hmmm... why are there no laws to regulate that?
3. Why didn't Alex get on his channel and do some serious Charlie-defense?
4. What will Charlie think about all this nonsense?

Answer to Question #1: Absolutely no idea. Too lazy to look it up right now.
Answer to Question #2: Because politicians have no souls.
Answer to Question #3: Either Alex was busy secretly dating Carrie Fletcher, busy being a rock star, or busy being at VidCon. Or possibly he didn't see it. Or possibly his computer is dead.

Those are the only things I can think of that would be reasonable excuses.

Answer to Question #4: He will respond, as ever, with intelligence and the calm assurance that he has millions of supportive fans who care about him and aren't so gullible that they'll believe anything a troll says.

In closing, if this doesn't prove that the government needs to get a handle on cyberbullying, I don't know what will.

Pride and Prejudice and YouTube

So.

I started this blog entry with "Pride and Prjudice" and you know what that means.

It means... AWESOMENESS WILL HAPPEN. Duh.

So, I read ol' P&P straight through last year, and I did a cute little chapter by chapter analysis of it. Because I'm that kind of person.

And then I sort of stopped analyzing it because I got so busy reading it and enjoying it. (Which I fully thought I wouldn't. I was a hipster when I was a freshman. Ugh, that's embarassing.)

And now on YouTube, they're doing Lizzie Bennet Diaries, and it's a big deal, and I'm just like, "AHHH! Get me some tea! I miss Jane Austen!"

And then I started thinking. Which is always dangerous. And I thought of my blog. And how I can do whatever I want over here and no one has any control over it.

*insert evil laughter*

So yes, I will be rereading Pride and Prejudice for your reading pleasure.

Consider yourself warned.