hanson4prez says.... (Desk Sitting Entertainment Continued)

Okay there is no getting around it, I was watching the Hanson – “Weird” music video tonight, which led to watching their “If Only” music video. Granted we all know that “If Only” pails in comparison to “Weird” both in song and video quality but in terms of youtube user comments, “If Only” packs some SERIOUS heat. I didn’t venture into the pages of comments because I knew I would never leave and homework would suffer, but I really didn’t need to because the first page far exceeded expectations. What follows is an intense Jonas Brothers vs. Hanson debate that was continuing as I copied the text, which meant, hanson4prez and kimthegreatest were also watching this video today, as well as others. The internet continues to baffle me but frequently with beyond amusing results.

Ps. A real blog post will hopefully happen soon.




kimthegreatest (15 minutes ago)
Oh please.
Hanson is the greatest, and the Jo Bros can never even be compared to them!

..It's like trying to compare Miley Cyrus to Brittany Spears (pre K-Fed days). (:

Hanson lives on! <3 style="font-weight: bold;">

AceEliot (3 hours ago)
ooo. Burn!

socorevsfan2 (3 hours ago)
you were obviously a pitifully small child when Hanson was huge. does the song MMMBop mean anything? honestly. they still have a huge fanbase, but ignorant imbeciles like you are just to slow to actually consider things like that before you flame an excellent band

coldpinkflame (7 hours ago)
Haha. Are they gay.? Omg they can't even be compared with the Jonas Brothers. Not them or their fame. Hanson was never as famouse and JB is a fairly new band.

If anyone responds to this im nt replying. I dont care what you say most of the population agrees with me. HANSON ARE FAGSSSSSS.... and at that ugly fags.!!!

jaxtrent (9 hours ago)
exactly, as far as I am concerned the Jonas Brothers are Hanson wannabes, sorry but they will NEVER be what Hanson is and that is ONE OF THE GREATEST BANDS GODS HAS EVER CREATED!

hanson4prez (1 day ago)
NO DONT EVER COMPARE THE JONAS BROTHERS TO THIS GREATNESS OF HANSON!! And plus you can clearly tell they and men/boys!!
♥Hanson♥Ifonly♥Hanson♥

daughterxxnature (1 day ago)
true dat

XxcherrypoprocksxX (1 day ago)
I love Zac!





Sigh. you said it XxcherrypoprocksxX, you said it.

Desk Sitting Entertainment: Yelp.com

The job of desk sitting is so boring the entire job description is encapsulated in the two-word title. The fact that I am even taking the time to describe it is like labling sleeping as an extreme sport. Babysitting an inanimate object is as exciting as it sounds, with the absence of my computer it would be akin to torture. Such statements don’t even fall under the category of exaggerations, boredom induced suicide attempts have been sweeping desk sitters in University Campuses across the nation. While I’m clearly not claiming one can have a load of fun during these periods of imprisonment I will admit that it opens up one’s opportunity to explore creative entertainment via the Internet.

User reviews and comments on websites travel, city, fashion and gossip websites have become my new poetry. People can get seriously creative with these, much to my amusement. It has proved to be a most glorious of desk sitting hobbies and I thank those faceless Yelp users for providing me with the latest batch of linked literature…

Here is what I consider the “Best of”… and categorized to meticulous and scientific degree…
(Store in question is the thrift store Urban Renewals in Allston, MA)



File Under: Second Hand Egos.
- “I am pretty much the Queen of Thrift in my hometown (Houston, TX), so I feel like I have a huge bank of various thrift store to compare Urban Renewals to.”

-“Everyone who knows me knows I love thrift stores, records, being thrifty. I am Scottish after all.”

-“Too many hipsters writing reviews, not enough serious thrifters.”


File Under: Sensory Explorations
-“I have a lot of qualms about U.R as much as favor.
-I found a centipede while rummaging through records
-It smells bad often”

-“Expecting an awful rushed squack, instead, over the loudspeaker comes "Our specials today are (a laundry list of items)" announced by a man with the most soothing, lovely, accented, almost resigned voice."

File Under: Masochistic Purchases.
-“ROSIE O'DONNELL DOLL?!

I seriously almost bought this for...whatever reason. It repulsed me and seemed like a good enough gift for a friend to destroy.”

-“bought the UGLIEST winter coat. Seriously, it looks like a shag carpet but it was so cheap (5 bucks) and is warm. I can manage looking like a complete fool.”

File Under: Novella
“THIS REVIEW IS FOR 3.5 STARS:
(what follows is seriously 4 full paragraphs)
So you're probably still wondering why it's a half star and not a whole star, well it's 'cause they're not bad and kind of fall into the mediocre territory meaning 3 stars, but they get an extra half star for being so damn organized, having such great prices, and having some of those new stuff with tags still on it.”

We actually weren’t wondering but thanks for the grading system explaination…

File Under: T.M.I.
“Officially my happy place.

It's a great place to go after eating or before eating.
No bathroom however.. had to run over to Hess. I asked a worker if there was a bathroom and she simple said "huhhhuhhblehbleh". Seriously she mubbled something no human can hear or interpret.

So I thanked her and off I went to Hess.

Shopping there is super fun.”

File Under: In need of post retail therapy
“Please, tell me if I missed something, otherwise gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon and label me permanently blind. I wouldn't trust my dog to find a good place to take a crap here, he'd be too confused on where to start.”

File Under: Thrifting OD
“You can find me in Urban Renewals almost every single day, checking the newest items.”


There exists this whole subculture of people who rate and review these places with astonishing fervor. On Yelp (and I’m sure other sites as well) the reviews are…reviewed. Not only are they reviewed but it’s on a superlative level (I found this funny/informative/expressive/etc.) Needless to say I think I’ll be going to Urban Renewals somtime during spring break…if I happen to find a centipede among my loot so be it; I’m sure a soothing announcer will ease my anxiety.

Musical Interlude

Most people who know me or are subjected to my music recommendations know that I have very intense, but very brief love affairs with songs/artists/albums. I’ll hear something once and then watch the itunes play count rise with no end in sight…until I hear something else. I half expect my .mp3 to start skipping from overuse, which of course sometimes it does but only because my computer is now prehistoric in technological terms. First I hate when engaging in small talk people ask “what kind of music do you listen to?” which is a somewhat unjustified hatred because it’s a perfectly appropriate question I just feel it always comes with some sort of judgment and need to agree. And while the answer “oh I like almost everything really…except country!!!!” seems like such a cop-out, it is my answer and I feel lame saying it but I also feel truthful because my taste in music is erratic and eclectic to say the least. This is not to say it’s good at all, far from it. I’ve stopped using the term “guilty pleasure” because it was getting tired and slowly the guilty part left the phrase. To illustrate the points I’ve just made and to illuminate you further onto my musical taste (which I just bashed) I will post the youtube videos of three songs I’ve been obsessed with (since sat.)…ask me again in a week and I’ll probably have forgotten I had these songs but the play count will still be in the high double digits.


The Crystals – “He’s A Rebel”

I would give a lot to go back in time and attend a dance during the 50’s (albeit segregation) because the music was just so fun and danceable. *granted this isn’t the music video but can you really complain??



MGMT – “Electric Feel”

This band sometimes channels the New Radicals which I’m totally okay with, but with more edge, more danceability, and more fluorescent short shorts. My mirror was subjected to a lot of me dancing in front of it thanks to this song.



Dusty Springfield – “You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me”

Despite talent shows and reality shows ruining the song, I still love this song. The Caucasian race has few in the true “soul singers” category but I feel like Dusty fits this pretty well. Not only that but I on my itunes it always follows up with “Son of a Preacher Man” which is also, always great.



Kanye West – “Flashing Lights”

Okay I despise Kanye West for reasons so obvious they don’t need to be explained. But I can’t help liking this song, and I do like a lot of his songs, which I justify to myself by realizing that he samples so much he barely has a part in them. Also this video helps a lot because it features the fiercest creature that channels Naomi Cambell mixed with Beyonce and Tyra. Also it was directed by Spike Jonze and is simple yet original, I would use a better description but I don’t want to ruin it.

://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mEccxPPwXmI


Okay so I do like my taste in music, obviously, but I will admit I’m always behind on musical trends or the “new song” so if this everyone has already seen this video for Flashing Lights pardon my tardiness and, yes, I know most everyone has been into MGMT enough to now consider them passé. This post just got strangely aggressive!

YOUTUBE > HOMEWORK. = my thesis for the semester. I can prove it too.

RERUNS: The Capriciously Career Minded

*(special future freak out edition!)

hello hello,

so I've decided to post an essay I wrote almost exactly one year ago about my life-long obsession with figuring out what I want to do; it was my first official creative writing essay. I've decided to post it not only because I want you guys to benefit from fantastic literature and a glimpse into my neurosis but because it is now approaching the "freaking out about my future" time in regards to this summer and everything beyond. I've come to realize my very specific and detail orriented plan for the future may not work out as possible, that my bank account maybe a major determining factor (the closest bourrogh of nyc i can afford is Allentown, PA) and that with an amazing time abroad I realized I don't want to end my experience in europe just yet....sigh, first-world problems.


--------------------------


The Capriciously Career Minded
feb. 2007.


I now view novelty ties with a distaste usually reserved for corrupt foreign dictators. I once, very briefly, wanted to be a teacher solely based on the fact that I would have a reason to form an impressive collection of novelty and seasonal ties. I figured my garishly decorated, or cartooned themed ties would win the hearts of the small children I taught. Thankfully neckwear factors little into my current career plans. Although ties may not currently be in my career planning, just about every other factor and detail is. I have more than once found myself internally debating the New York versus Los Angeles industries when I should be sleeping. I’ve mulled over transportation, real estate, and proximity to family and still haven’t come to a decision on where I will locate after college, often turning in a desperate move to Nyquil to silence my career crazed mind. True the decision of where one will start the job hunt is very important but when I often describe last night’s bedroom brain frenzy to my friends, they tell me to cool it and worry about finishing my intro level courses first. While their advice makes me push aside the Nyquil for a little bit I can’t help but foresee sharing my bed with another internal career planning session. How I long for the days of elementary school when I knew exactly what I wanted to do.
Kindergarten and first grade were some of the most cherished times of my life, not because they marked the start of about two decades of formal education or the roots of social interaction, but because it was the only time in my life where I could be labeled as a badass. I was a kindergarten cocktail of class clown and resident smartass served in a glass of primary colored clothing. I would make jokes in the middle of class, have reign over the playground and open all the windows in the hallway and class whenever the teacher wasn’t looking. The kids ate it up.
During one first grade class the teacher asked us if we could be anyone in the world who would we be? One heavenly suck-up said Jesus. Although typical answers like astronaut, president, and dad/mom came up, one classmate said, “Rodney”; prompting the entire class, and teacher, to look at me. Before I could react another student blurted out “yeah, I want to be Rodney too.” I should have pointed out to the second child the obvious impossibility of two people being me, instead I grinned and gave a shrug and short flick of the wrist; part beloved yet humble peer, part budding homosexual. Although having a handful of seven-year-olds put you in the same realm as the leader of the free world and those that gave them life is pretty substantial the real importance of that day was that it marked the start of my fascination with picking out a career and life plan for myself.
While my mom claims my first aspiration was to be a tree, namely the one in my backyard, the first career I remember picking out for myself was children’s book illustrator. My future and career often changed daily, but the idea of being an illustrator was always somewhere in my mind. My favorite illustrator, not surprisingly, often illustrated my favorite author’s (Roald Dahl) books. Quinten Blake’s illustrations were childlike yet skilled; a combination that I dreamed of emulating. I sent Mr. Blake a thick envelope containing a poorly written, yet heartfelt fan letter and a select few of my finest drawings. I might have even included my home phone number as to give him the speediest method of contacting me to credit my talent and invite me overseas to England to work as his apprentice. Although a phone call never came, a letter arrived and while clearly mass-produced and sent to all his fans, the “Dear Rodney” and his signature were in contrasting blue ink, clearly indicating that he spent at least 10 seconds acknowledging he had received a letter from some boy named Rodney in the United States. This was all I needed to verify my current career goal.
I soon realized that if was serious about this I should pick out a college; this was right before entering middle school. During dinner, I casually brought up the fact that I gave it a lot of thought and proclaimed, “I’m fairly certain that I will attend Carnegie Mellon University after high school, studying Illustration.” As if I had just informed them that after dinner I planned on eating ice cream while watching “Home Improvement.” My parents responded with little surprise or bewilderment; although I remember having a conversation with my Mom as to the merits of Carnegie Mellon later. I was completely satisfied with my choice, and why not? I had seen a few pictures of the school, knew it was somewhere in Pennsylvania and quite thoroughly enjoyed saying the name “Carnegie Mellon:” it combined the respect and prestige that goes along with Andrew Carnegie with the fun and deliciousness of one of my favorite summer treats. While basing your choice of college based on looks and name proved rather unwise (Carnegie Mellon has no illustration major), it has ironically become a personally acceptable form of judging a prospective date.
Much to my surprise, friends and classmates in middle school rarely seemed interested in discussing their prospective undergrad schools and had absolutely no desire to help me decide if it was wiser to start my career as freelance or work with a larger company. It was easy for me to dismiss their lack of interest as a sign of their inevitable slacker status in life. If made fun of, a particularly favorite retort was often glaring at them and snapping, “yeah well see how big of a tip I leave you when you’re pumping my gas in twenty years!” While this rarely had the desired affect (a tearful apology) I was usually quite satisfied, and if not I could spend a few meditative hours filling out online career or personality assessment surveys.
An often captive, yet sometimes unwelcome, audience came in the form of distant or elderly relatives. Almost as standard as the cheek pinching greeting was the “What do you want to be when you grow up?” While I relished the opportunity to discuss my career plans du jour, often with a pace and tone reserved for speed junkies, the response was often an uncomfortable smile usually followed by the relative retreating to my parents. I imagine they would engage in conversation with my parents, silently trying to decide if they were some how responsible for instilling in me such fanatical fervor. Once my adolescence took a turn towards the bitter, sarcastic side, I would often picture these awkward family scenes differently. I now pictured a distant relative fishing for some way to start small talk by asking for the third time, “So what are your plans for the future?”
“I’m looking into cannibalism.” I would say gazing just beyond them, as if peering into a wonderful future, then refocusing to see their repulsed face.
“I’m only kidding!” I would reassure them, “I could never eat anything as fatty as human flesh. I’m actually looking into becoming a lawyer, although I’m worried that’s too similar to cannibalism.” Of course in reality this conversation never took place, but it was in frequent rotation in my head.
In school I took comfort in days when adults would come in and discuss their careers. Although these speakers often had careers that didn’t interest me in the slightest-car salesmen, army commander, nurse, state policeman- I found myself enthralled with the stories of how they professionally progressed to where they were. When the car salesmen discussed how some of the people who work as salesmen on the lot may come to own the dealership and potentially many dealerships, I gasped, unable to contain my excitement. I leaned forward and looked down the rows to see if others were as visibly excited as I. They weren’t. The representative from the army, the nurse and the state policemen, while perfectly interesting, didn’t make a dramatic impact on me because I knew that unlike them I wanted a truly rewarding and respectable career…like one in advertising.
The newfound interest in the world of advertising seems to have begun around the time when, coincidentally, the movie and books I was exposed to seemed to have main characters who were all part of a dynamic, fast paced, creative advertising agency. Usually the advertising executive would have slightly funky glasses and work in a Manhattan office building that had rich hardwood floors and dramatic windows. Mel Gibson’s character in “What Women Want” may have been the polar opposite of me but his job as an advertising executive seemed so understatedly glamorous that I found myself picturing my future employment to be a near replica of his. I might have been identifying with the other lead character, played by Helen Hunt. Despite the cattiness, superficiality and general abhorrence for his job, Augusten Burroughs some how still made the advertising world seem appealing to me. Perhaps his small references to the six digit salary and the designer furniture made me overlook the countless negatives. Although the realization of the media’s sway on my professional influence is a bit off-putting, I’m just thankful I didn’t watch an excessive amount of serial killer movies.
When I arrived at high school my desire to map out my future was now met with admiration and applause rather than the surprised eyebrow-raise and inquisitive head tilt. Although complaining about traveling into the depths of the south for my older sister’s college tour vacation, I secretly adored each tour and would often pretend as if I was at the stage of applying to colleges; keenly observing and listening so that when it actually was my turn I wouldn’t subject the tour guide to the inane questions that only a novice would think to bring up.
The gods issued out an unfortunate punishment for me when it actually was my turn, for after my first college tour I knew I wanted to go to that school and only that school. While I should have instantly hated the city of Boston for it’s mind-boggling roadways making me late to the tour for Emerson College--throwing all that college tour professionalism out the window—I ended up loving it for how un-Pennsylvania it was. There was no ever-expanding construction to create new and bland suburban developments, only ever-expanding construction to preserve old and endearing buildings. There was no junior driver’s curfew of midnight; there was the freedom of public transportation—which shuts down around half past midnight. I loved the exotic erratic-ness. When we finally reached Emerson, I had already done extensive research on the college and knew that personality wise we got along perfectly; we both shared a love of the arts and distaste for math, we both considered ourselves creative yet a little scattered, and we’d both rather spend the afternoon in the shopping mall than the basketball court. Once I saw there was a physical attraction I had the application overnight-ed two weeks before the early acceptance date. Once I found out I could double minor in addition to my major I had the admissions office on speed dial. My friends and teachers advised me to apply to other schools and take other tours but while I perused the website and campus of Boston, New York and Syracuse Universities I couldn’t help but feel as if I was cheating on Emerson. It’s a shame because I had so many more tours in me. I might have kids just so I have a legitimate reason to tour colleges, and I’ll start them off right; if they attend AM kindergarten it will leave us with the entire afternoon to tour prospective schools.
The fate of my obsessive outlook on my future seems to be laced with irony for the closer I get to having to actually make decisions on my career, the less and less I know exactly what I want to do. Although I still have intricate plans and hopeful wishes for what I would enjoy doing, there seem to be too many to focus on. Instead of a career du jour, I’m in line at a career buffet; which makes me nervous because all the buffets I’ve been to before have been populated by loud, overweight families who tend to be oblivious to how much food they’ve taken and how much of it has artfully ended up on the loud floral bed spread they have seemingly passed off as clothing. While there may be nothing scarier than comparing your own future to a strip-mall buffet, I have faith in my somewhat hazy future because my first grade classmates snubbed the president and their own mothers because they believed in me. Even if I don’t end up obtaining my dream job or career, I was more popular than Jesus in first grade, and the Beatles couldn’t even pull that off.

Films Never-made and Soon-to-be-Made

Thanks to a certain sibling, this will be making it’s way into my book collection; a collection which should just be called “I’m 20 going on 12” and thus this will fit in nicely. Don’t let the trendy retro cover fool you, this isn’t an original but the cover is made to replica the 1940’s original. I feel like this is one of those things that can change a simple over abundance of Roald Dahl books into the start of a “collection”. While die hard Dahl fans might turn there eleven year old noses up at me, I did find out a bit about this lost literature. It was Road Dahl’s first published book, written while he was still a pilot in the RAF (notice the strangely accurate title they give him on the cover). The book was in print for very short period of time and out of print for a long period of time. Walt Disney almost made the Gremlins into a film about creatures who lived in the clouds…but when Walt’s Percocet wore off and he came down from the clouds they realized an animated film centered on WWII was trendy and tired. Well, I’m actually dying for some good old war stories for the 1940s kid so I plan to cherish it like the bastard book it is.

In other news, my Intermediate Film Production class picked my screenplay as its favorite, in an oddly game-show-like manner. A good portion of the class pitched screenplays the first day of class and despite an email a few days before prepping us for such an event I had forgotten and thus had to think of a 5-7 minute film on the spot. That pitched turned into a 1st draft presented at the next class which went over incredibly well, well enough that I barely had to do a re-write. I say this not out of any sort of arrogance or gloating, actually I say it out of shock and surprise. Somehow I feel guilty, the same sort of unwarranted guilt I feel every time I successfully pass through an airport metal detector; as if somehow I cheated or plagiarized without myself knowing. Regardless I made it through the metal detector of my class on top and thus my little elevator story will be made into a short 16mm film. For this I’m extremely excited and grateful for. I will attempt to utilize technology and attach it to this blog entry somehow.

*edit: if someone can tell me how to attached a PDF film to this blog I could accomplish said task.

Babushka Blues

Like the sad, drunk girls outside of Gypsy Bar, the sky was bawling erratically. As I'd take down my hood, which limits my hearing and peripheral vision to dangerous degrees, I’d be bitch-slapped by an onslaught of horizontal rain. Okay, I get it, maybe there is a God and he takes things VERY personally. I decided to fully commit myself to a sad single girl’s night in by going to the convenience store and picking up a frozen lasagna and Snapple Lemon Ice-Tea. Normally for ease of words I wouldn’t type out the full name of my beverage but I feel as if the Snapple Lemon Ice-Tea carries with it a certain “Bridget Jones” type quality that I fully embodied at that moment.

While the walk to the convenience store in the Little Building is a mere six buildings past my building it requires I traverse the area outside the Gypsy Bar, which exists solely to put on display the worst in mankind, but I’m sugarcoating it. Looking ahead I grew slightly optimistic at the sign of a clear sidewalk up ahead. Getting closer still I began to hear the shrill voice of a woman deep in an extended shriek. The sidewalk seemed empty because everyone was pushed to the side as to get a clearer view of the three to four person deep entanglement that was growing on the street. I felt as if I was walking across a stage during a play, the only visual recognition I got from the mass crowd was from those whose views I blocked. “Sorry folks, just getting some refreshments, couldn’t wait till intermission.” I gave a brief glance to the fight but couldn’t make one limb from another, the soaking rain made it seem even more primeval.

With lasagna and Bridget Jones approved beverage in tow I exited the Little Building and prepared to make my way past the primate spectacular but with a soaked rabbit-fur hood I wrapped my five foot long scarf around the top of my head and then around my neck, my cold and wet self suppressed any sort of even latent attempt at attractiveness. I was cold, wet, and I was crawling into bed with Stouffers in my stomach, trying to any extent to appear good looking would just be sad. The fight seemed to be exactly how I left it except now the lack of anyone official even attempting to break it up was a bit more alarming. The doorman to the club was standing guard over the still sadly long line. As I just crossed the spectators area a homeless man that is a fixture of the “outside-Gypsy-bar-weekends” scene turned his attention from entertaining the line of Guess clad thritysomethings to address me. Usually the remarks I overhear passing through this part of the sidewalk at these particular times range from “He look gay,” to just a succinct, “Fag,” but I figured the jester like homeless man would say something a little more creative in hopes of some coin. I should never “figure” on anything from homeless men who dress in Skittles colored clothing anymore.
“Watch out for the puddles there ma’am! Don’t slip now.”
One might be prepared to be mistaken for a woman; one MIGHT even be prepared to be mistaken for an old woman, but being mistaken for a klutzy old woman is just shocking. So mark the calendars folks, February 1st, 2008…Rodney Uhler’s life hits a peak. It’s all downhill from here. Watch out for the puddles, it could be a slippery year.

The Adventures of Uhler and Clark: Part 2

What has become of our heros since we last left them?!
(hastly finished i think but finished.)

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Hannah and I opted not to verbally respond, instead slowly turn towards each other and watch the color drain from our faces; resigning our fate to being stuck atop this mountain and living as human Appalachian Trail markers. Sure I enjoyed organic grocery shopping and the occasional bonfire but I wasn’t ready to fashion a natural diaper out of oak leaves and saplings. Soon I’d be communicating to Hannah is our own strange mountain language, wearing homemade animal pelts and forgetting a time when I would spend five minutes in the grocery store analyzing each individual shaving cream to see which one fit my needs and personality best.

My all too natural nightmares were interrupted by another one of Flannel’s boisterous laughs, “You really don’t have a clue as to where you are do you?” We sort of responded with another nervous rounds of laughter, already possibly slipping into non-verbal mountain communication, but trying to redeem ourselves Hannah half said, half asked, “We were just following the Appalachian Trail. We’re on the Appalachian Trail?” He laughed again while simultaneously shaking his head in soft disbelief. We might as well have approached him with a map of Manhattan asking, “I’m sorry sir, could you help us, we can’t seem to find where we are on this map? Are we near Chelsea?” He gave us two potential paths, one following the electrical line through the mountain (the shortcut), the other taking this trail to a gravel road and then following that to a paved road. Before we thanked him and his crotch-loving dog, he asked hopefully, “Say that green truck with all the Steelers stickers on it isn’t yours is it?” Finally I could respond with some conviction, “No sir, it most definitely is not.”

I opted for us to take the path that lead to the paved road. I was now viewing the wilderness as a plastic bag over my head; as long as I could get out of it I might not die. We reached a gravel road that snaked down the least romantic part of the mountain. Sure enough we passed by an old green pickup truck with Steelers football decals on the windows and a n1STEELERS vanity license plate. We contemplated hotwiring the truck but considered the death of our reputation and dignity not worth the quick escape. The decline we had so hoped for while just a few minutes ago came in a fairly steep, steady rate that made our knees question why they were being punished. I’d turn around every so often somewhat expecting to see an old pickup truck slowly driving towards us, the man in the flannel leaning out the window, his dog leaning out the other. “You kids won’t last another hour, hop in” He’d say and Hannah and I would give each other looks of hesitation but ultimately throw out grade school warnings and hop in. Except flannel man was nowhere to be seen; in fact, no one was around. The end of “Tot’s Lane,” came to a paved road, which we turned right onto, following Flannel’s directions. I was finally walking on the outside perimeter of the forest and mountain but then the signs on the trees made me wonder just what perimeter I was on. White marks were replaced with “US TERRITORY LIMITS.” While I was positive we hadn’t ventured into the excitement graveyard known as Canada, spirits were not lifted with the stern notification.

When at first I assumed the directions he gave us were just vague, upon walking down the paved street I realized the directions weren’t vague, the area was. Unless “unkept house number three” was seen as a monument, nothing stood out among this stretch of Grade-D Americana. The monotony of the landscape only made our trek down the macadam decline more tiresome. The houses we’d pass all contained porches littered with disregarded items and broken down appliances, a wrap-around garbage can. While it seemed to me that the Krelians’ might want to dispose of their jumbo diaper boxes somewhere else it occurred to me that maybe the Krelian’s weren’t so concerned about public displays of paper underwear seeing as the road seemed about as traveled as Mount Deserted we just left. The strangeness of our presence was even more apparent when we’d pass a house who’s standard too long driveway had someone taking out the trash, watering plants or preparing a cat for dinner. Regardless of what they were doing, the person would slow down their activity and gaze at us--a two-person parade of foreignness. Directly proportional to the house’s state of dereliction was the number of mediocre cars. It seemed in this area stashing your extra tires and electrical parts outside meant you deserved an extra car. Thought exterior paint as a thing exclusive to the 70s? Add another used car. As an open-minded accidental traveler I try not to judge what appears to be cultural norms but I couldn’t help but question the need for so many similar cars, and if no one was home (which was the apparent state of the...area) than were they all driving around somewhere else in more cars? The thoughts provided me with a mental soundtrack to accompany the metronome of my feet.

Our energy and Naglene bottle slowly draining we came upon an unexpected T in the road. Flannel had given us directions up until the road we were currently on so anything from here on out was left to our natural intuition or the gods of the Delaware Water Gap area.
“Let me check the name of the street,” I said confidently to Hannah, who was now nervously clutching the Nalgene bottle, testing its shatter-resistant claim. The T in the road featured only a street name for the street we were just on and it was…”Tot’s Lane”.
“Wait, this says we were just on Tot’s Lane but that was the gravel street that we turned off of to get onto this street miles back.” I was stupefied. Had all directional logic been thrown out the window since we embarked on this adventure hours prior? Was it this hard for Louis and Clark? Where was our Sacagawea? Before the thought could escape my mind we glanced over to the field next to us; a small part of it was the back and front yard of a medium sized home. An elderly man was playing with, presumably, his grandchildren on a plastic swing set. Exhausted we plopped down on the grassy slop next to the street corner. We were probably about ready to accept defeat except defeat was not an option, we hadn’t the slightest clue where we were or how to get back; defeat would mean using the Fisher-Price plastic slide as shelter and roaming the neighborhood for scrapes and squirrel meat. Much like our approach to the man in the flannel, we had a brief, frantic debate over asking the elderly gentleman the name of the street we were about to turn onto. Contemplating the carb and calorie count of squirrel meat and realizing I had a bag of organic Tostidos waiting for me in the car I wasn’t ready to give up. Thankfully Hannah agreed and mustered the energy to stand up and politely shout to the now dazed man, “Excuse me sir?! Excuse me? Hi, yes I’m sorry could you possibly tell us what street this is?”
The elderly fellow began to shake his head no—a response I was not prepared for—but then managed to squeak out in a gender confusing, feminine squeak, “Cherry Orchard Road, I think”.

Hannah thanked the androgynous elder and we made a hasty left onto what may or may not be Cherry Orchard Road. As we scurried away from the scene I, in poor taste, recounted the strangeness of the area: automobiles that grow from poorly managed properties, streets that begin and end in no logical order, gender-bending grannies, it was all too much to take. The sheer lunacy of the situation shut down the sector of our brains that registered stress. Where hopeless crying should have been we laughed uncontrollably. Were we regressing from some sort of back-woods America toxin? Our brains were seemingly malfunctioning, were our motor skills next? Would that he/she senior citizen be pushing me down that Fisher-Price slide? During our inappropriate laughter we somehow managed to conclude that calling Hannah’s mom and getting online directions from Cherry Orchard Road to the Deerhead Inn just off of Mountain Road was the best option, except the laughing didn’t stop before or during the phone call. As I walked around in a small circle, arms in the air signaling defeat to Mother Nature, Hannah was trying to explain our situation to her Mom in between laughter. Much like when you accidentally hurt your friend during a childhood roughhousing session Hannah’s mom wasn’t sure if Hannah as in fact laughing or crying. Before she could deduce an answer, I signaled to Hannah that there were people ahead we could ask further directions and she snapped the cell phone shut.

Were those two moms waiting for their child’s school bus or were they waiting for us to approach them in near hysterics asking for directions? It was hard to judge especially since our brains might be functioning on a third grade level soon; after that communication will be on a strictly giggles and grunts level.
“Hi, I’m sorry but we are sort of lost we were wondering if you could help us,” Hannah again apologetically asks.
“Okay,” one woman cautiously answers.
“You see we were just hiking the Appalachian Trail and then we…”
I cut Hannah off before she can give the full back-story to our misadventure.
“Yeah we just need to get back to the Deerhead Inn actually, if that’s at all close”
“Ah yeah you want to just turn around and take this road down till it hits Main Street, then turn right and it’s right past the post office, you can’t miss it. It is a bit over a mile away I think.”

We thank them and I turn us around in the opposite direction, with—for the first time—a sense of direction. Dreading passing the androgynous grandparent again, we try to walk as fast as our aching legs can move. Still acknowledging elementary rules we walk against traffic, moving into the possibly poison filled brush every so often as we lazily warn each other, “Car”. It’s nearing the four-hour mark and everything on our bodies is tired: ankles, knees, head, even my hand is tired from carrying the Nalgene bottle. Brains and mouth fatigued as well, we barely speak except for the occasional optimistic outburst of what we plan on doing as soon as we are within visual range of freedom. Freedom meant hot showers; freedom meant junk food…freedom meant Dairy Queen.
“I would love to get Dairy Queen right now,” Hannah says, teasing my taste-buds.
“I don’t want to be in the presence of food that contains any colors found in nature. I want a pastel, rainbow plate of sugar, carbs and various fatty-based foods,” I respond, half sternly directed towards nature.
“No…my Mom’s friend said there’s a good vegetarian café in this area that we should check out.” Hannah suggests with feigned enthusiasm.

We take a moment and stand in knee length weeds as a pick-up truck barrels down the street. I try to jump-start my legs by kicking a small, run over branch into our sidewalk of wilderness. Again we stroll in tired silence.

“I know there’s a Dairy Queen around here, I just know it,” Hannah blurts out.

Before we can imagine the extra pounds on our tired thighs we come to the literal and figurative end in the road. Main Street at last. We turn right and for the first time in four hours we recognize where we are. We are getting irrationally nostalgic:

“The Italian Restaurant! I recognize that!”
“Oh, remember this dip in the road?!”
“Look up ahead—the post office!”

Every familiar sight reminds us that we are in fact headed in the right direction, and with each reaffirmation our pace begins to quicken with some unexplained energy that I imagined would only show itself when I needed to rescue a baby from under a car. Like an old friend we had been separated with, there was the Deerhead Inn; while we had no clue as to what the Deerhead Inn was, we referenced it to almost every one of our unexpected guides. It was only fitting that the final leg in our journey was a short but remarkably steep hill that passed the Deerhead Inn and reached the parking lot, one final “fuck you” from Nature, she might have been a bitch but she certainly had a sense of humor.

It may not have been washed in a few months but on that late afternoon Hannah’s Scion shined as if waxed with angels’ wings. It still might be the most religious experience I’ve had to date. Once inside the car, in unison, we took a deep victorious breath. Immediately we could smell our musky natural scent, clashing with the synthetic smells of the car. It was horrible. I smelled like pine trees, dirt, and fresh air. My lack of energy was the only thing keeping me from rubbing my face against the man-made fabric of the seat, dousing myself in the artificially flavored drink and being able to breath again. No as we pulled out of the gravel parking lot I realized I would only ever be comfortable entering a mountain when I know I have a way out. And as we merged onto the highway and were greeted with a sign proclaiming, “FOOD NEXT EXIT – DAIRY QUEEN,” Hannah and I looked at each other, smiled, and realized we were finally headed in the right direction.