Oscar Wilde knew better

with little old barrios and Dominican babies and streets all adorned,
with love and loss,
it’s more than your typical suburb could ever afford.
The hum of the air conditioner in the summer rain,
out in the distance you heard freight aboard a train.
If you could hop it, and escape this place.
Bubbles floating down a subway grate,
while the Circle Line trudges through the East River. Oh my..

Luna Moon

I don’t want to deal with this cold anymore.
These rains are not snowfall, they are only cold bullets.
I don’t want to deal with this broken heart anymore.
This flesh is getting sometimes a bit too hard to carry.
I don’t want to deal with twisted arteries and highways.
If only I could see you soon.
I’m sick of tickets and train fares.
I don’t want to want for the sake of want.
I don’t need material or fabric.
I am not vanity, nor am I pride.
I am perfect, perfect as the moon pushes out the tide.
The neon of Wildwoods is alive, but nobody is at the beach,
nobody is alive.
And this world will go back out with the tides,
crash upon those rocks and bring me some sunshine.
Untainted by the gas and hum of the motorist.
Untainted by the people, the process.
If only I could see you soon.
Oh little moon.

South Houston Blues

Between the cobblestones,
and cast iron rowhomes
is the sounds of Prince and Mott.
Back alleys and parking lots,
the tint of the neon.
The spark leading me on.
Little tacqueria,
and tired kids inside saying “See ya”
South Houston is ruby red tonight,
brick and cement, solidify the late night lament.
Lafayette and Bleecker,
the black ice chipping away at my sneakers.
The sunrise is way too far away.
The wind is burning everything now.
Oh the vessels in my face,
are simply veins interlaced,
trying to warm this mental fireplace.
On the rooftops, nearby there are cops.
All doing nothing, the warmth they are trying to keep.
I hope I do find sleep.

The McMansion

Here’s one of my favorite topics, items that are destroying our economy. The number one enemy on that list, the dreadful McMansion. Architecture’s Devilspawn.

History has taught us that a bigger house is not the most desirable. The Victorian manor is the best example of this, and these babies were built nonstop during the late 19th century and into the early 20th. The reason people stopped building them is quite simple, housewives will sick of cleaning them! They were too big, too spacious for little families, and awfully expensive. People wanted smaller, more practical homes. Although Victorian houses are architecturally impressive structures, beautiful though they may be, they outlasted their purpose. The modern day suburbs would take on smaller forms over their older Victorian cousins. The new children would be the quaint rancher, the bungalow, and the cape cod.

Of course, the modern suburb itself is a demonic creation started by the nefarious Robert Moses and his lustful want to construct highways threw New York’s most historic neighborhoods, displacing the poverty stricken, the minorities and so on. A post war generation had no option but to move into the newly constructed ‘burbs’, as the city was classified as an awful place to live. Racial overtones abound indeed. Thus the happy go lucky driving public could live in the distant suburbs and commute to work! How delightful! The only downsides were the influx of cars gobbling up oil and essentially making it a half hour trek to get anywhere. New Jersey is the perfect example of poorly built suburbs and the worst in drivers and driving to boot. The advent of the car heralded the end of the railroad, trolley systems, and public transport in general. Those were reserved for the poor or just terminated as a whole. Curse you Robert Moses!

Surprisingly, the ‘white flight’ of the post war generation is being reversed entirely with primarily white up and coming families scrambling for real estate in Manhattan and the other boroughs. Funny isn’t it? Maybe we’ll just stay in the city next time and spare ourselves the time and energy of commuting from our drab suburbs. But that’s a whole other story, one rife with the desecration and destruction of brownstones in favor of condos that could make NYU’s buildings look like St. Peter’s Basilica.

New Jersey though was one of many staging grounds for the McMansion during the 1980’s. These ugly and characterless creations spread like the plague, soon every up and coming family had to have one. A status symbol indeed but at what cost? Almost every classmate I knew was one of a few lone occupants in these massive dwellings. So many rooms unused that even the family dog could have nearly half the place to himself. The yards are merely boxed in plots of grass and maybe a tree if the owners were lucky. The great porches of old vanished, only to morph into a meager stoop at best. The idea of the neighborhood faded too, people kept to their castles, which of course, all looked identical for the most part. And in general, your typical McMansion is built of shoddy material, lathered with stucco and other ugly aesthetic details to hide its interior flaws. They usually sit off the sides of highways and busy roads, where the endless hum of traffic rolls into the night. A large sign with the name of the faux neighborhood is usually lit up, the name itself recalling some far gone natural feature of the area before it was torn up by the demon houses. Names like “Mallard Creek” or “Oak Grove”. They are the worst incarnation of suburbs.

I actually like the little Levittowns of yesteryear. Sure, they are cultureless and fairly boring, but historic in their own right. They are neighborhoods with their own heart and soul. The McMansion has nothing, and why so many moronic families squander thousands upon thousands on these economic travesties, these Soprano Specials, is ridiculous. I despise them more than Sarah Palin, and thankfully have never had the so called luxury of living in one. Despite the monsters creeping into my old neighborhood, they have kept their distance. It is a working class neighborhood comprised of cape cods built during the 50’s and 60’s. Relatively untouched but the McMansions are happily intruding its borders. In time, I can imagine them devouring the cods and emerging in all their horrid glory. However, the recent downturn in the economy has made the McMansion a rare commodity now. People can’t afford them and they top foreclosure lists. Whole streets of McMansions are becoming semi-ghost towns throughout America.

Oh who will save the McMansion? Will they too one day be historic monuments of a bygone era of unchecked wealth and frivolous spending? Will the Wall Street fat cats of the future be happily boasting about the purchase of a 2005 McMansion in 2090? “Oh yes, so much history and charm.” Yeah, just like the thirty other ones surrounding it.

Instead of drill baby, drill, knock em’ down baby, knock em’ down!

Vote Obama.

Fordham Road

 

            Underneath the asphalt and cement, I wait for a lone downtown train to hurry it’s way through the tunnels. Outside and above the marked up stairs and rickety entrance sleeps a quiet Fordham Road in the Bronx. Below in the subway underbelly however, in the tiled oven that is this platform, I sit awake. My eyes are strained, the white hot lights burn on into the subterranean night providing no quiet darkness to lull the misfortunate bum here to sleep. The incessant hum and groan of a city attempting to rest, the clank and rattle of pipes, and the sweat adorning my forehead are the only company to welcome me. All the gloomy dirty tiles, scuffed up and chipped away. Losing their original bathroom whiteness, their shiny heavenly sheen. Decades ago this place could have welcomed both aristocrat and vagabond alike. A former hot spot to Ginsbergs and Kerouacs. Now the tiles decay each day amongst the old blue pillars, the individual Atlases that hold up the station ceiling and the world. A purple mosaic reads the address in white lettering, Fordham Road, a grotesque funerary purple it is, the brash banner to this dim hall that never truly finds sleep. It is just a stop for ramshackle trains, electric metallic snakes though they are, weaving and darting through the underground mazes. Shrieking as their wheels wail on the pained tracks. I await their signals in the vast corridors and caverns of the subway but they are yet here. Still far off, lurching and twisting in the underground labyrinth or perhaps not even moving, still peacefully sitting at a terminal somewhere under the stars, anticipating orders to shoot into the tunnels again to awaken the vagrants and sleepless travelers such as myself.

Legs outstretched onto the worn platform, an aged wooden bench becomes my unpleasant seat. It too has felt the lost and empty hours of a subway station, and I can imagine hundreds more like it scattered about the city, empty at this forsaken hour with pitiful souls hunkered down about them awkwardly, searching for comfort on these blockish fixtures. A black youth is slumbering on this bench too, dozing happily away. Head titled back, nose wheezing, arms strewn about on his chest. He has found some semblance of peace in his own quiescent dream world.

As sleep pervades me, I glance down the western uptown tunnel, thinking of quiet suburbs in a distant Connecticut and New York mainland, lush green trees and rows of tiny homes lined up with picket fences and mailboxes. Far away from the ancient Columbias, the crowded Times Squares, and skyscraper canyons, children are nestled in beds, dogs curled up on pillows, and a yellow moon traversing in the skies. But I can’t see that. It’s just a grim endless maw that greets my gaze. Outfitted with sharp orange lights leading into the railroad catacombs. The tracks stem out from it, submerged in filth and puddles of water stagnating in the heat, but a little mouse scurries into sight. Nose wiggling, tail dragging behind, and little pink feet wandering on the black rails. Angelic mouse, alive and awake with me in the subway caverns, he nods to me in his own peculiar way and continues on his trek. Our home, for now in the New York night is here under Fordham Road.

                                                 Subway Mouse

                                              Nibbling and Running

                                       Dodging midtown bound night trains

                                                Refuge amongst rails

The Callous East

A train darted by, bearing little notice to us, wayward kids, and far more intent on it’s destination of the capital, Trenton. So me and Dominic sat and waited at the edge of the station, poking fun, occasionally glancing southward for our rolling mechanical steel horse to arrive. Those run down trains. Bumbling and rickety, real fine pieces of washed up metal that could easily kill you if you had the misfortune of falling underneath them. One rushed by on our side of the tracks, pumping furiously into the North with no second thoughts of stopping for us or the few other souls waiting about on this humid August day. The afternoon was still young, but the sun hanged lazily in the hazy blue sky. “Ah, here it comes.” I said. Our train creaked and halted, and we boarded. We sat in a generally empty car but a small black family sat in the front. They had a baby which roared nightmarish screams, downright sad. We opted to move a car back after passing Princeton Junction, reducing a few decibels of sound noted Dominic.

The train chugged pitifully, it’s Amtrak counterparts would every so often rush by with lightening speed. This lowly bucket of bolts and metal we sat on didn’t move as fast. “Trains in Europe don’t have to deal with this. They have magnetic tracks, and all sorts of advanced technology. Japan is light years ahead in making commuter trains faster.” Said Dominic. I agreed, for a country so impressed by our glitzy ipods and designer handbags, you’d think a far better mode of transport would have been developed by now. I guess not, and so our old train chugged sadly into the north. Occasionally we’d mock the towns we’d pass by, noting the poverty stricken streets and the aching buildings, aged cement. Giant brick ovens they were, cooking these poor cities in the blazing sun. I felt kind of bad, they rotted. The rich lived not too far away, in the comfort of their suburbia. The beautiful gem of the Ivy League, triumphant Princeton, sat not too far from all this decay and ruin of the north. These battered New Brunswick avenues, these cracked Linden streets, these empty Edison lanes, these tragic Newark structures.

“You get way too down sometimes. I wish this train would hurry up. We’re gonna miss the show if we don’t get there in time.” Said Dom. Me and Dom were heading into Greenwich Village to see an off off Broadway production that his professor had written. Literally gay in every sense of the word, but I always wanted to see experimental theatre like this. Real beat, real run down, real unique and odd. It’s got to be worth something. I had walked to Greenwich Village two weeks previously to explore the great arch of Washington Square Park. What a foolish venture that was. Riddled with sweat in the New York sun, I had managed to walk to the park and stood in awe of the magnificent structure and the nearby fountain which shot great bursts of mist into the air. Refreshing but a great pain ached in my legs for walking so many blocks of pure old New York cement sidewalks. I wasn’t going to do that again, so we both opted for the tried and true subway. We left our old NJ-Transit claptrap of a train and proceeded into the unhappily modernized Penn Station. I’m no expert when it comes to subways though, but it couldn’t be that hard to get downtown.

I was wrong, me and Dom foolishly walked around Penn Station numerous times, taking the same flight of stairs twice, and getting nowhere. We walked around the massive post office that takes up it’s own block, and started right back where we were. We finally managed to find an entrance into the bowels of the subway. Dark, dank, and downtrodden. The gloomy passengers of the subways aren’t the happiest people in the world. They’re intent on getting somewhere, and if not, just getting away from these pipe-laden underground labyrinths of railways, and back onto the street. Dom meticulously looked over a giant map of the subway system on the wall. “Well, looks like Washington Square is a mandatory stop, so we should be fine.” I nodded. “I hope so, the Lafayette Street theatre shouldn’t be too hard to find. I bet NYU probably owns it.” We were a little too confident in getting to our destination. Our joking and loud talking between each other drowned out any other sound aside the distant hum and rattling of the trains. That whole platform of people seemed pretty sad. Perhaps they knew of the chaos Dom and I would soon be experiencing. We boarded, we seemed happy. Plenty of time till 3:45, I wanted to show Dom NYU in all it’s glory. Those big purple banners emblazoned with the name, NYU. Hanging in the air, they claimed their scholarly grounds in the city. Dom was considering attending there after community college. I told him all about my previous walk there to the central campus but mentioned how I preferred Fordham University in the Bronx for it’s gothic architecture. We talked, we thought all was well and we’d be in Greenwich Village in mere minutes. An elderly black man across from me dozed happily, he seemed content. Smooth easy trails on the subway or so I thought. I glanced outside the subway window as it eased into the next station. “Oh damn it.” The tiled and mosaic walls of the station we just passed read “42”. No, we couldn’t have made such a dim witted error. We were in Midtown going uptown, the exact opposite of the downtown Village. Complete fools. We had taken the wrong train. We scurried off at the next stop, 50. 50th street, a horrid number. Halfway between oblivion and paradise we stood, destination and disaster. “Don’t worry, there’s plenty of time but we’re going to have to run if we’re gonna make it.” Said Dom, knowing the grim stretch of bustling Manhattan ahead. A mad dash, a mad epic dash. The big lights of Times Square, the taxis honking, the tourists crowding the streets. Two kids, scrambling as though we were evading heavy gunfire in some forsaken urban battlefield. A barrage of “Gap”, “Victoria’s Secret”, “Nike”, “Starbucks” blurred the edges of my vision. Advertisements were whirling by. We ran, we dashed past cops and food vendors, wildly intent on making it on time to see this play. Over freshly laid cement we leapt, into the throngs of passersby. 45th street, okay, a couple more blocks till we get to another subway station, there’s one near the police station. Hopping, jumping, sprinting for dear life. One of those giant tourist buses nearly ran me over, “Haha, fuck you bus,” I shouted with a stupid sense of glee and pride in my voice. Dom and I could make this sprint easily, just as long as our lungs didn’t burn out or our legs give way to fatigue.  We kept our insane run up, madmen trouncing through the streets of old Manhattan till we reached it, this hidden station. “Where is it? There’s gotta be a subway entrance around here!” Dom muttered. His anger was beginning to show as we stood on 42nd street, center of the world. “There,” I coughed, out of breath. In grand shiny sparkly lights, aged and weathered, it read “Subway” Glorious, we found it, now to continue our great rush in the underground rails yet again.

City living is so hectic, I don’t know how old men in suits and ties do it everyday. I love it though, gives you a sense of being alive. It’s living like you’re near death, a pounding pain bellows in your brain. There’s no stopping now kid, you have to run. Your legs demand rest, your tongue is dry. You’d love to stop and look at the sights, those doll faced girls walking by in their big bug-eye sunglasses, their midriffs exposed, sultry grins on their faces as they giggle into their cell-phones. But no, it’s a race. The clock is the enemy, these tired down streets are the obstacle, and Dom hates to be defeated. The surrounding tourists looked at us with odd stares. These fools, where are they rushing to? For truly nothing and nowhere, but it’s all about the process of getting there. Transient devils we are.

We caught our breath as we descended the stairs onto the next platform. A train, B train, 1 train, 3 train? Just get me downtown. Along with our confusion, the heat bakes you down in those railway tombs and you feel it. Dom and I asked a guy of perhaps Arabian descent in a pink shirt which way to go. He replied that both trains on each side of the platform headed downtown. Perfect. We’d succeed somehow or die from our impromptu marathon. The train took it’s time though, and I jokingly lamented by picking up a payphone and saying ‘I’m not really thrilled with you New York.” into the receiver. Dom chuckled. A girl nearby read Harry Potter, that thick zeitgeist hardback, she glanced up every so often to see us fools panting for air. Whoosh, the train arrived and we boarded again. It hurled itself forward and I lurched idiotically, had I more weight on my skinny bones I wouldn’t be at the mercy of these rollicking rails. But we zipped past several platforms. “Great, we’ve covered several blocks in less than 3 minutes.” Exclaimed Dom. ‘14th Street’ in it’s mosaic lettering flashed by, and I felt a bit more at ease. That tranquil second of contentment shattered. The train picked up speed, there goes Canal Street. “Chinatown. We’re below NYU.” We had messed up a second time and these cursed rails of the underworld had made victims of us again. The clock was winning and we had to get off now. We arrived at the last stop, Franklin street, time to depart and find another train going uptown again.

Wandering aimlessly but in a hurried rush as usual, we arrived at another platform going north. We asked yet another gentleman for some assistance, this guy was wearing sunglasses, bald. He seemed somewhat professional and directed us on the right path. We boarded yet again, keeping our eyes glued on the windows for our next destination. A saggy eyed black fellow standing not too far from us said which stop to exit on, Houston was his preferred choice for us. We listened and jumped off on the woeful platforms of Houston Street and emerged into the harsh sun again. “Where the hell are we?” I questioned. Bewildered, lost. We were in some offbeat section of SoHo, lower Manhattan’s No Man’s Land. But if you’re a trendy boutique shopping darling, welcome to your steel laced paradise. But still far from Washington Square Park and wherever our mystery theatre was. Old brick buildings, giant billboards for liquor, and oddball New Yorkers walking about. Time to start our forsaken run again. My legs groaned, Dom kept a steady pace ahead of me, his camera bag slung over his shoulder hitting his back as he ran. Those big purple NYU banners hung in the distance, we kept our maniac marathon going. Panting, sweating, our chests swelling with the heat of a beat August afternoon. Profanity, anguish, angst, and loss took over our voices. The clock was going to beat us and we’d miss this stupid play. We had little idea where the theatre was. The great old structures of this former bohemia looked down at us. Surely, Dom asked everybody for directions. A punky Asian kid, a worn out black cop overlooking some construction area, a Latino cabbie, some old men in ties. Nobody was very helpful, and many of them kept sending us in the wrong direction. “Hey, what’s that over there.” I asked Dom. Could we have possibly found that damn theatre? The clock had nearly won. Run, don’t pant and cough, just run. Don’t let the streets get to you. My insides burned. Large, red, vertical banners hung before it, one of them read ‘Shakespeare’ in yellowing lettering. “Well obviously it’s a theatre.” I spat out. By now we were both stumbling to reach it, so out of breath. Lafayette Street Theatre stood there, the blue sky whipped clouds looming over it. We hurried inside.

A pleasant lobby greeted us but something seemed amiss. This place is far too nice to be deemed off off Broadway. A narrow opening in the wall led to the ticket booths. Dom walked up and asked that two tickets were reserved for us. The lady behind the counter looked perplexed, more so annoyed. We were at the wrong theatre.

The clock had won and Dom was more than aggravated. We were lost somewhere in SoHo, and we still had yet to find this theatre. It was past 3:45, but Dom was intent on finding it before calling this day a complete and utter defeat. We dashed across the street into another building, which also housed theatrical performances. It wasn’t really a theatre though, but more of a converted apartment building with performance spaces. Cramped, small, and beat. We took an elevator up and ended up in a hallway with flyers and programs tacked on and laid about the walls of the room. Still this wasn’t it either, and so we exited.

 We trotted through the lonesome SoHo, claiming we had gotten a great workout, courtesy of us being uninformed and our own lack of being prepared. My stomach ached, I hadn’t eaten much on this sun blasted day and the hard asphalt on my blistered soles wasn’t making things any better. I noticed a grim looking chain link fence, in-between some buildings adorned with gruesome barbed wire atop it. Dom asked yet another person for information, this guy was kind of fruity and a small jittery dog fidgeted in his hands. We turned back the way we were going. “Andrew?” “Dom.”

Apparently, the building right before that grim section of fence was the theatre. A plastic ‘FringeNYC’ sign was poorly taped to it, so easy to miss considering we had walked right by it. This was it though, and Dom lamented and apologized to Andrew, the writer of this play, on why we were late. Andrew was about our height, scraggly hair, a striped polo, jean shorts, and some sandals. A bit chubby but young, he was probably only a few years older than us, we ragged nineteen year olds. Andrew was gay, but not over the top. He was a professor at our local community college, but he didn’t seem like it. Dom had done some recording work for this production and promised he’d see it out of kindness here in this Manhattan badlands theatre, but that kindness was nearly gone. Dom was hoping his name would be in the playbill, which he thought would be made by the ‘PlayBill’ company. I kind of chuckled when Andrew gave us two flimsy paper programs, I expected that, Dom unhappily didn’t. To his greater displeasure, his name wasn’t in it. “So much for using that on your résumé.” I quipped.

Andrew said we could stay for the second act, and what did we have to lose. It only cost us five dollars and so we went inside. The place looked like some aborted apartment building that was turned later into some beatnik theatre last minute. The lobby was painted in oddly light, cheery colors. To the left were Andrew’s associates, they sat at a little folding table set up with programs, tickets, and other paperwork. Two females, one who was Asian, her eyes flickered unnaturally, the other was a slightly odd looking girl who appeared just as displeased to be sitting there. In-between was a concessions area, a little Italian man who talked happily on his cell-phone kept watch over a box of animal crackers, snickers, sodas and whatnot. To the other side stood another acting group behind a folding table, advertising their own play which performed later. A beautiful Hispanic girl, who apparently was with that other acting group talked quietly on her cell phone. She giggled occasionally, I tried not to stare at her, her tanned and pretty body, her charming face. “Not in your wildest dreams.” I thought to myself.

Exact change for a bottle of water, $1.50 and Dom got a Coke for the same price. The little Italian man seemed content to be making business, even though I still thought it was grossly overpriced. But I was dehydrated and the sweat of death begged me for water, so be it.  I gulped down my icy Poland Spring, and sat down. The lobby was our rest stop for awhile, and although Dom and I both needed to use a bathroom, the only one available was through the actual theatre itself and we couldn’t disturb the performance. I thumbed through the playbill. The play was entitled “To Be Loved” and was based on a Japanese Kabuki play but Andrew had customized it. The main character, a monk, was gay and his lover, a hustler kid, kills himself, but reincarnates into a girl later, causing the main character to make things right. I put the program down; I’d worry about the intricacies of reincarnated gay boys during the second act. Dom and I joked in the meantime, we observed the fresh blotches of cement on our shoes during the frantic dash we had in Times Square. “Hope that comes off.” Said Dom.

 

Another Day at the Office

Philadelphia sunrise,

New York commute, drive.

Asphalt rivers and train track streams crisscross.

All the people on the interstate divine,

Exit to salvation says the next sign.

Rubber circles flowing into that grand metropolis lake.

My radio is still blaring and reporters are talking.

Campaigns for war and public office.

News for little nowhere towns and big city blues.

On the streets, they’re bumping elbows and scuffing up shoes.

The mad dash to coffee shop, malt shop, and liquor shop.

All sit side by side with the day care center in the middle.  

Teenage hip hop with business man and traffic cop.

Infant cries, wives waving goodbye, and husbands looking up at

skyscraper skies.

Now the lions roar in suit and tie atop their steel and glass throne.

Say how do you do there stranger?

I’m lost up in the rat race too and

oh, that little baby in a manger.

Doubt he ever looked out in the dark with the glow

of a cell phone. Stars cost too much these days.

It’s the scent of ancient pavement and moss keeps up a steady

race with a rolling stone.

The clock is ticking and I need to be somewhere.

Back to work, back home, back to the agenda.

Bohemian dreams drift in the surf of the Northeast,

Filtered down to Miami and Mexico.

Palm tree desperados are napping their days away

while little lambs are playing in some scorched schoolyard.

No, that’s not for me my friend.

The bright electronic pixels and lines, digital and viral.

Screensavers of my paradise are taunting me.

Every office lament and florescent bulbs are flickering.

Click and snap, keyboard and printer jam.

Online pyramid scheme and somewhere a radio gently croons.

Clenching a crumpled up dollar, but please brush the sweat off your collar.

My feet hurt and a clock strikes again.

Saxophone and piano in the elevator shaft.

Taxis honking and pedestrians barking.

All the music of civilization, society, and social network insanity.

Pulsing and never taking a breath anymore.

I’m not a fool, just caught up between lions and lambs.

Looking for my purpose and meaning, not lower calories in my beer.

I’m just dreaming. My memories and my desires are mixed.

Scholars hunkered down in their battlefield of books,

Doctors in a hospitalized madhouse of people with sad and sorry looks.

Lawyers trotting down the street with the so-called elite.

A farmer is rocking back and forth and gazing out on tiny prairies.

Every profession is not for me so I’ll make my own.

Kisses and love, alcohol and television, gas prices and expensive clothing.

Oh what’s it all worth anyway?

Take my chance and find out later. I’m the lion and lamb.

I’ll pass on the office scam and opt for my alternative plan.

Why wait and kill time, I found my message.

New York sunset. Philadelphia night.

 

 

 

There is no God, just Hannah Montana

 Now I consider myself an intelligent, reasonable, and charming
individual. I’ve shaken hands with Bill Clinton and walked around the
campus of Princeton University, so yes, I’m pretty well cultured. Thus
given my intellectual and cultural prowess, I can make the above
statement that Miley Cyrus, better known as the bubbly teen starlet
sensation Hannah Montana, is indeed God or a proper replacement for
your current deity of choice. Of course, I am basing my idea of “God”
on what is popular to female teenage youths at the moment. If you have
any qualms with my views or are a Buddhist, please ignore the rest of
this piece.

Now that we’ve gotten rid of those pesky Buddhists, let’s consider the
real issue at hand. As you’re probably aware, you being a user of the
internet and capable of accessing news sources, you’ve possibly seen
the fiasco that Miley Cyrus has caused. Adored by millions of preteen
girls throughout the world, along with their parents, Ms. Cyrus
created a bit of a stir in the past weeks, much to the discontent of
her parent company, almighty Disney. Some raunchy photographs have
surfaced, a few of which might make even the most laid back of
polygamist fundamentalist Christians cringe just a bit. In said
photographs Miley is sprawled across the legs of a male friend,
teasing the camera with a glimpse of her cleavage, and in another,
kissing a boy! Relations with the opposite sex are a cause for moral
outrage at this age but Miley knows how to play the media to her
benefit. The photographs themselves aren’t even all that bad, nothing
worse than what you’d find on a fourteen year old’s myspace profile.
By those standards, Miley’s exposed bellybutton and cleavage are quite
tame.

However, the mere fact that Miley took these photos is unsettling and
the good folks at Disney surely wouldn’t agree to such reckless
photography. Although Miley apologized and regrets taking these
photographs, that didn’t stop her from doing a risqué photo shoot with
an apparently famous photographer by the name of Annie Leibovitz. In
reality, Annie was never famous and has only become famous because of
this incident. Nonetheless, the new photos that are appearing in
Vanity Fair magazine, (soon to be in the waiting room of your local
dentist or salon) show Miley in even more controversial poses. Clothed
in only a sheet, baring her back, and looking like something out of
“The Exorcist”, Miley has yet again shunned her whimsy preteen
ideologies for a more mature and perhaps paler look. But to save face
and remain squeaky clean under the Disney banner, Miley apologized for
these photographs too.

Miley’s fans still won’t turn their backs on her, and why should they?
She has provided them with a cute television show about an average
girl just trying to get by while struggling with the difficulties of
being a famous pop singer. Yes I know, it makes no sense whatsoever
but obviously, most girls can relate to those situations. Furthermore,
she’s made us realize that Montana is actually a state again, and not
just a clever rhyming last name.

As such, she’s become Disney’s shining star, dominating over previous
Disney girls like Hillary Duff and Raven-Symoné. When’s the last time
you read anything about them? Duff has made a handful of box office
failures and Raven has stepped back from the limelight entirely. But I
bet you did hear about that one skank from Disney’s other cash cow,
High School Musical. A few nude photos of Vanessa Hudgens does indeed,
rake in the money and grabs the attention of teenagers who thought
Disney was lame and just for runny nosed toddlers. However, it can
isolate those who feel that being so overly scandalous can demean
today’s typical preteen girls. Miley blends the best of both worlds
together.

Yes, little starlet Cyrus has harnessed the power of being both trashy
and classy at the same time. To influence hordes of our nation’s most
impressionable individuals, preteen girls, is the gateway to eternal
power and possible godhood. She has tapped into the most lucrative
market, and she’s yet to show a nipple. Given her young age of
fifteen, she’ll be able to buy Norway and possibly Arizona by the time
she is eighteen. By the time she’s thirty, she shall rule the globe
with a glittery iron fist. Disney has indeed found the best girl for
the job. A real girl with real issues but still willing to do the
wacky photoshoot and apologize for it later. That’s a girl you’d want
to bring home to the family and control the cultural landscape of
Western civilization with.

All praise Hannah Montana.

Ramon

The sun rose quietly over La Bendita, the clouds whipped up in scoops of fluffy white, shrouding the sun’s glare. On the beaches, the quirky gulls made their usual search for food in the surf. La Bendita was a small village, nestled away next to a sandy cove with sprawling fields, and little individual cays scattered about in the ocean distance. Remotely untouched and left to the people who had inhabited it for centuries, it operated peacefully as though modern time had barely left a fingerprint here. The village was not too far from the town of Pedernales either, where guards kept their daily watch over the Haitian border, but for La Bendita, tranquility remained a constant aspect of village life. The villagers here, as they’ve always done, rose gently and gracefully for the new day but not for little Ramon who lived in a small quaint home with his family. Hopping out of bed, he quickly dressed himself in tattered blue soccer shorts and a dirty tight shirt that read ‘Republica Dominicana’, adorned with the flag’s colors, a mix of blue, red, and white. It was his favorite shirt. He scampered into the kitchen where his mother was already awake and cooking his breakfast. She was dressed in a loose red blouse and skirt that draped her thighs and knees. Her dark skin tanned by the Caribbean sun, and her stomach round with child within. Age had not tempered her natural beauty, but in fact gave her a youthful appearance and vigor, perhaps she needed that if she wanted to keep up with little Ramon’s antics.

“Ay Ramon, look at you. So noisy at the most quiet hours of the morning. You’ll wake the baby.’

“Mama, the baby is still in your tummy!” Ramon walked over and happily placed his hand on her stomach. “I think I can feel the baby kicking. The baby is probably hungry Mama. Or a great soccer player!”

“I think you’re right Ramon.” She placed a plate of toast and papaya on the table for him. “Here, if you plan to play soccer with Miguel today, you’ll need to eat too.”

“Gracias Mama.” He said as he hurried to shove as much food into his mouth as possible. The papaya fruit was slipping through his fingers and juice dripped onto his shirt.

“When will you ever let me wash that shirt for you Ramon? I’m going to the cay later today to do some washing, you should let me wash it for you.”

“But Mama! It is my lucky shirt! I need it if me and Miguel are going to beat Julio and Raul! This is gonna be the day we win, once and for all!” Ramon touted triumphantly, cramming the last bit of toast into his mouth while his mother reluctantly sipped some coffee. She smiled, twirled the intricate pink garment with a ‘G’ stitched on it around her wrist, and agreed.

“Alright, but be home soon for dinner. The weather may not be so good later. If you’re near the market, tell your father to come home early too.”

“Okay Mama.” Ramon wiped the messy crumbs and traces of fruit from his face and strapped his shoes on. She walked over and kissed him on the forehead as He forced a cheery little grin and managed to quickly spout “Love you too Mama.” before he bolted out the door. The flimsy wire screen door nearly shattered as it latched back onto the threshold as he leapt outside.

Miguel was walking up the path to Ramon’s house, kicking a soccer ball in front of him and rustling up the dust in the process. The sun cast its gaze down on the two boys as the old ancient palms around Ramon’s house stretched out their shadows to greet them.

“Hola Ramon, you ready?” said Miguel. Miguel was a little taller than Ramon, dressed in a red shirt and white soccer shorts, he was a little stocky but he could easily handle a soccer ball. He was Ramon’s oldest and best friend in La Bendita.

“More than ever! Come on, I bet those rats are already at the fields!” And so Ramon and Miguel took off into the interior of the island. Bouncing and jostling each other while walking to the fields, kicking the ball off the sides of craggy cliff walls and across white sands. Although, Ramon seemed preoccupied with something else on his mind.

“What’s the matter Ramon? Is something bothering you?” asked Miguel.

“I’m not sure if I’m ready to be a brother yet Miguel. I’ve seen all the other kids in town with little brothers or sisters, and I don’t know. It seems like a big responsibility.”

“Don’t worry Ramon, you’ll make a fine big brother.” Miguel contemplated his next kick back to Ramon. The wind began to pick up a little and the clouds shifted overhead.

The boys reached the soccer fields which overlooked the ocean and all the distant cays. Two large sun burnt rocks represented each team’s goal line, and Ramon happily surveyed his end of the field with Miguel. The clear Caribbean blues and teals of the sea provided a fine audience for the game. The old palm leaves drifted in unison with the blades of grass on the field as Ramon approached their goal line, still keeping a fairly competitive passing game with Miguel. However, at the other end of the field stood Julio and Raul, dressed in contrasting shades of purple and attempting to bounce their soccer ball off each other head’s. They were far taller and somewhat older than Miguel and Ramon.

“Look, the babies have showed up to play again. This is just good exercise now. Not even a challenge.” cackled Julio, his slick and greasy black hair dancing in the new wind.

“Not today Julio! We’re going to win here.” shouted Ramon, clenching his little fists. Miguel gulped, somewhat nervous and afraid of getting pummeled again by Julio.

“We’ll see about that!” barked Julio by responding with bouncing the ball off his head and instantly launching the ball at Ramon, casting it down the field at high speed. Ramon leapt into the air and responded, driving his right foot into the ball and sending it back to Julio. “That’s the best you got short stuff?” laughed Julio as he danced with the ball again, gleefully passing it between himself and Raul who kept up with him. “Cover Raul for me Miguel. I’ll get Julio.” commanded a hasty Ramon who darted towards Julio who seemed more intent on cracking jokes than soccer. Still, Julio easily bypassed Ramon and made his way to the goal but suddenly, Miguel snatched the ball. “You idiot Raul! Pay attention!” screamed Julio. Miguel boomed up the field, putting all his might into his final kick before Julio could intercept it. The ball zipped by the two rocks and into the tall overgrown grass where it perched. “Goal Miguel!” yelled Ramon from center field. The game continued, and each team fought ferociously to win. Knees were scuffed, shoes were caked with a mix of dirt, grass, and pebbles. Miguel breathed heavily, sweat pouring from his pores and again, another goal. He seemed unstoppable and Ramon kept up the defensive against Julio, twisting in and out of Julio’s cocky passing, greatly annoying him. Raul was growing tired and couldn’t keep up with Julio’s manic running as much as he wanted to, much to Julio’s disadvantage. Ramon forced Julio to keep up the insane sprint and turning of the ball. The kicks of both boys lifting more dirt and grass skyward as the ball flew back and forth.

“Not so easy today Julio! It’s my lucky shirt doing the work.” Grinned Ramon as he worked his way to the opposing goal.

“Stupid kid.” murmured Julio, trying to catch his breath as the ancient sun beamed down on the field. The winds continued to quicken their gusts and Ramon enjoyed the breeze, dashing the sweat from his brow, trotting up field to secure another goal.

“And you said this was just exercise.” Ramon smiled as he circled around a tired Julio, panting and coughing, but that was enough to review Julio’s incentive to defeat Ramon. Raul was struggling to make his way up to defend their goal with Miguel chasing him but the disturbed glare sparked in Julio’s eyes set him off on a warpath. His dash propelled dirt into the air and his lungs burned, sucking as much oxygen as possible so he could plow ahead. Ramon, glanced over his shoulder and saw the crazed boy racing towards him. He picked up his step and gave one last final jolt that his body could muster. Feeling the muscles in his legs tense up, letting loose all his energy out for the kick. The ball went into the heavens, and glided past the goal rocks.

The sky cracked, a whiplash string of light shot down and a nearby palm was set ablaze. The sparks ignited the adjacent plants with flames engulfing everything that was once green, now a charring mixture of red and oranges. The skies had turned gray and dark, the clouds becoming a monstrous overhead valley of rough upside down hills. Ramon was on his back, his eyes closed. He could feel slight pellets of water on his skin, the cool release of excess heat leaving his body, but the awful smell of smoke and singed palm leaves entered his nose. His eyelids opened and he looked into the unhappy sky, the rain and winds were beginning to drastically change. “Come on Ramon! We gotta get out of here!” Miguel grabbed Ramon and helped him to his feet. Julio and Raul were already gone.

“What happened? Why is the tree burning?” Ramon was puzzled, how could such a pleasant little palm burst into random flame and destruction? The fire licked at the grass and everything was a smoldering wreckage of foliage.

“Lightening Ramon! This has got to be a hurricane. We have to get down to the cliffside!” Miguel prodded Ramon to ignore the fire and to escape before another spark of light could crash down again. The rains became harder, strengthening as the clouds bellowed another round of thunder in the distance. The crystal seas roared and splashed against the rocks and sands, the cays stood defenseless in the torrent of winds, their palms nearly overturned and water drowning them back into the sea.

“This way Ramon! Faster!” as Miguel navigated a tricky pathway of rocks that lead into a small caved area. The rain made the cliffside wet and Ramon tripped. Miguel grabbed his hand and moved him forward. Soon enough, they crawled into a cramped and dark hole in the cliffside that barely could fit them.

“Why can’t we go back to town! We can make it!” Ramon was scared, he didn’t feel entirely safe in this dinky cave. His knees were bloodied and scratched from the game, Miguel too had a few bruises on his legs. Another shot of lightening smashed into the distance, possibly striking one of the many cays. Ramon reconsidered and knew that it was far too dangerous to make it back to La Bendita but he didn’t want to admit it.

“Where did Raul and that idiot go?” Ramon asked, inspecting a cut on his kneecap. “They ran off the second they heard the thunder. You fell on your head after that kick. You were flying.”

“Yeah, I guess I was… I hope my family is okay Miguel. I wish this storm was over.”

“Don’t worry, I’m sure they are.” said Miguel, who seemed somewhat unsure of his own family’s safety. The rains outside the little cave opening created a thick cloudy screen, peppered by a frenzy of light and thunderous sounds. Everything in the distance was covered by the rain and wind, with a barely visible palm leaf or branch flying off in the gusts. Ramon closed his eyes and leaned against the curved rock wall as best he could, trying to find some semblance of peace and solace. Sleep overtook his thoughts.

“Wake up Ramon! The hurricane is over! It’s morning!” yelled Miguel from outside the cave. Ramon opened his dreary brown eyes, and looked around. The sun illuminated the sky with light, and Ramon took to his feet and exited the little cave. Noticing Miguel was already further by the beach, he rubbed his eyes and peered out into the distance. The world was at peace again. “Hurry up! Let’s get back to town!” boomed an eager Miguel. Ramon dashed back, climbing away from the cliffs and onto the main path.

The two ran back to town as fast as their little feet could take them, but Ramon stopped.

“I hear something.” He said.

“Come on Ramon, we’re so close to town! Don’t you want to see your family!”

“I’ll catch up in a bit.” Ramon proceeded away from the path and out onto the beach. Miguel didn’t wait and kept up his run back to La Bendita. As Ramon trudged in the sand now, the sound became nearer. It was a small sound, a faint voice. A whimpering cry. A large tropical tree with its roots planted firmly in the sand towered over Ramon, the leaves all vibrant and green, a fitting crown for such a majestic tree. It was nigh untouched from the storm. The sound was emitting from it though, but this did not make sense to Ramon. How could a tree weep? He cautiously approached the underbelly of the large trunk, and outside one of the massive roots that dug into the earth, he saw something. Covered in a pink garment, he saw it move slightly. The cries increased and he walked into the great chamber of the old tree, a natural ballroom it was with vines and flowers that reached its ceiling, and nestled in the center was a baby girl.

Ramon quickly hurried and carefully picked up the child. “Hush baby, its okay.” Suddenly but surely, the child quieted and gazed back at Ramon with wide brown eyes that mirrored his. He wrapped the old pink garment around her. “Who could have left you here?” The baby giggled and hiccupped, waving her hand at Ramon. “We have to find your parents little baby. Let’s get you back to town.”

The sun was at its peak in the sky, the glittering reflections sined onto the turquoise sea. Old Dominican sailors paddled by in fishing boats and a few people were walking across the beach to survey the storm damage. Ramon approached a young couple glancing at the distant cays which had been hit the worst. “Excuse me, but is this your baby?” The two looked bewildered at the small child. “No, that isn’t ours. You should head back into La Bendita and ask around there boy.” said the man.

Discouraged, he firmly held onto the baby and marched back up the beach and into town. Ramon truly did not know what to think of the little child in his arms. He thought about his own family and how a new baby would be born. He feared he would lose the attention of his mother and father. But as his thoughts engulfed him, the little baby grasped his thumb and smiled. “Little baby girl.” Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to have a sibling, reassuring himself and possibly considering the thought of it being fun. As Ramon entered the main street of town, he noticed the significant storm damage in La Bendita. Although a few houses had been spared, many of the older ones had incurred a stray palm tree landing on them. Cement had been cut and ripped open, metal beams torn down, and wooden homes dressed in a myriad of leaves and broken windows. Nonetheless, La Bendita was still functioning and the townsfolk were managing to clean up. Ramon figured he should just ask whoever he came across first, and apparently, that was the local shop owner, Senor Kanig. Ramon noticed he was addressing the broken door to his home but realized his wife was pregnant. It could be his child or so he thought.

“Senor Kanig, I found this baby down by the beach. Is she yours?”

“Ay Ramon, a beautiful child she is, but alas. She is not mine. You should go find your father. He looked quite upset when I last saw him.”

“Yes sir.” Ramon didn’t want to bring a baby back to his father and mother just yet, he could imagine the bizarre look his father might give him for bringing in a lost child. He kept walking up the street, asking more people and getting similar responses. Ramon passed his house, it looked relatively unharmed and figured he could spare a few more minutes before revealing that he had picked up a lost baby to his parents.

“Your parents have to be somewhere little baby.”

The baby continued to grab Ramon’s thumb, laughing, and playfully squirming within the little pink fabric she was wrapped in. Ramon enjoyed her little laughs, but his body ached. He had eaten nothing for several hours and his poor sleep had left him groggy. Thankfully, he spotted Miguel sitting near his home munching away on a sandwich.

“Miguel! Chico!” Ramon ran as fast as he could with the little baby, nearly tripping over storm debris. Miguel waved back to him. He lifted up a small slice of bread with some ham in it for Ramon.

“Its all I have to offer Ramon, along with some fruit. Most of our food was destroyed in the storm.”

“Gracias Miguel.” and Ramon somehow managed to maneuver the baby and his left arm to eat the sandwich. He carefully sat down, and attempted to not get any crumbs on the little child.

“Ramon, you might want to head back home. Your dad was very sad when I saw him walk by here. I tried to tell him where you were but he did not want to listen.” Ramon gazed back down at the baby, quirky and cute. She smiled again. “Who’s the kid Ramon? Was that what you heard back at the beach. This baby?”

“Yes, she was left alone in that big old tree. All alone. I couldn’t just leave her there. She’s just a baby.” Ramon swallowed the rest of his food and stood up.

“I guess I gotta get home then. I’ll see you around Miguel And thank you.”

“Your’e welcome, and good luck Ramon.” as Miguel went back inside his house.

Ramon trotted back to his house, gloomy and unsuccessful, he had ended up with a baby that he did not know what to do with, and felt even worse for the parents who lost it. Finding them seemed a far greater problem, could they have been sailors who’s boat was washed away in the storm? Could they have just abandoned her? He didn’t want to think about it. The baby girl’s eyes became teary, she was poised to weep but Ramon gently pressed the little baby closer to his chest. His heartbeat providing a rhythmic song for her, and the baby relaxed. He carefully wiped the tears away with the pink garment.

“I’ll take care of you little baby. Don’t cry.”

Ramon opened the screen door as quietly as he could. He heard his father weeping from outside and saw him inside mopping the floor up from all the rainwater. Ramon braced himself.

“Papa.. I” but before Ramon could finish, his father cast the mop down and darted to him the second he heard his voice.

“Ramon! Thank God! You’re alive!” he sobbed. He embraced Ramon, throwing his arms around him and almost hurting the little baby. Ramon clutched firmly, trying to protect her but he obscured the view with the garment she was covered in. “Papa calm down!”

“Ramon, I can’t believe it. I thought you had died too in the storm!”

“Died? What? Who died?”

His father looked down at the yellowed floor rolling with puddles of water.

“Your mother died last night in the storm Ramon. And your sister…” Those words sparked a cry from the baby but Ramon stood silent.

“Ramon, what do you have there?” his father, distraught but now newly alive with hope unfolded the pink garment and saw the baby girl. Ramon’s eyes filled, he could not hold back his tears.

“Ramon, you saved your sister!”

“But how, who?” Ramon couldn’t utter any words. His tongue was dry and his voice hesitant. His father knelt beside him and looked up.

“Your mother and I went down to the beach, to the cay near that old tree yesterday after you went to go play soccer to wash our clothing. She… “ His voice began to stifle. “She went into labor and your sister was born! Right there but the storm came… and the rest. I can’t remember. The waves rushed over me. The rains became so sudden and fast. All I could do was wrap the baby in a small piece of clothing, a pink garment your mother had. But after that, couldn’t see anything, I lost grasp of her and your mother, and before I could make it back to where your mother was, she was gone and the baby too.”

“I found the baby by the old tree. The waves must have carried her there. But how could this be her?” His father pointed to the pink fabric the baby was wrapped in. “Look Ramon, there is the ‘G’ stitched onto it. This was your mother’s. Remember! You found your sister Ramon! I cannot thank you enough for this blessing.” He stood up and hugged Ramon again.

Ramon looked at the pink garment, seeing the elaborate ‘G’ imprinted on it and the baby glanced back up and smiled.

“It was Giselle’s. Your mother. Her final blessing for us.”

“I want to name her Giselle, for Mama.”

What the Hell is Byzantium?

Byzantine, Byzantium, Biz-zan-tee-um. It sounds like a new overpriced coffee at the local java house, right? Well, you’re close. However, this magically made up Greek term describes an enchanting time and place in Eastern Europe, known only as the Byzantine Empire. Now maybe your high school world history teacher gave a brief passing mention to these crazy people, but you probably don’t remember much aside the words ‘Iconoclasm’ and ‘Constantine’, and even there, you’re probably thinking about that weird Keanu Reeves movie of the same name.

The problem is nobody knows what the hell happened during the thousand years in which the Byzantines meandered around, copulated, and prayed to their sky god. Only a handful of university professors, theology scholars, and PBS can make a clear guess as to what happened. But we do know it happened sometime and somewhere in history, probably during the American Revolution or whenever the United States annexed Canada as ‘America Jr.’ This overshadowing is due in part by a more popular history, that of Rome. Byzantium then, is the divorced husband of Rome, who sort of felt that the relationship had lost that initial spark. So, they grew apart, Byzantium went and joined his buddies in the eastern Mediterranean while that promiscuous Rome kept up several abusive relationships with North Africa, Gaul, and basically, she kind of burned down or got gonorrhea. That’ll teach her to associate with Vandals and Visigoths. Byzantine would try and later make amends with Rome but he sort of got into a drunken fight with his enemy Turkey and died.

The Byzantine world then must be looked at then, from a separate perspective. One that doesn’t include all those cool emperors in Rome with all their crazy orgies. That doesn’t mean that Byzantine emperors didn’t know how to party mind you. Many of them were really happening guys. They also loved to blind people and slit their noses. Why did they do this, we’re not entirely sure. Perhaps they were amateur plastic surgeons and needed the practice. Byzantines also liked to start lots of wars, especially with Persia. Again, we’re not sure why they did this either. More importantly, Byzantines had a thing for Jesus, unlike Rome who sort of did the whole ‘Zeus’ thing. As you might recall, there was this guy named Constantine and he was probably tripping on some type of medieval acid or hopped up on speed. Nonetheless, he had this crazy dream that if he painted a cross on his shield, and forced his soldiers to do the same, then they would win a bridge. A Milvian Bridge. What is a Milvian Bridge, I don’t know but apparently Jesus demanded some impromptu arts and crafts to be done if it was to be won. So, after a long day of painting crosses on their shields, Constantine fought his enemies (which apparently were Roman also) and they won that bridge. Juice and cookies were distributed in victory. A resort casino was later built nearby it to commemorate the battle.

So Constantine fell in love with Jesus and the whole ‘God’ crew, and established a new city by the name of Constantinople. Mainly because ‘Jesus Town’ didn’t suit him or sound very attractive. It would be a glorious center for trade, commerce, slavery, prostitution, those neat little mosaics, and more prostitution. It would also have a ridiculously large church and a raceway for Nascar events. I believe it was called the Hippodrome, but sadly, it had nothing to do with hippos.

But that’s how things got started in C-Town and they did pretty well for awhile. Most of the succeeding emperors were okay like Justinian the Great. He too had a stripper/prostitute for a wife, as was common for most emperors. Sure enough though, they had to kill a few thousand people here and there, but this was needed. Emperors were being assassinated left and right. You pretty much had three years to live if you didn’t burn down Constantinople at least once a year to suppress rebel opposition. They also had to deal with the plague and nobody knows how that one started. And then they had to worry about the Turks and Persia, and those Armenians who always try to set up fake Italian restaurants in your neighborhood, and you know it never works out because its just not authentically Italian. And iconoclasm.

Iconoclasm is the most talked about issue in Byzantine studies, why? I would much rather talk about their use of primitive napalm or that aforementioned big church. Instead, people love iconoclasm because it sounds really intellectual and important. It is the pinnacle of late antiquity and early medieval studies. Just the mere mention of ‘iconoclasm’ at a trendy party will immediately place you as a high authority in Byzantine history. In reality, it is the stupidest element of Byzantine history. Let me break it down simply. There was a couple of emperors, who probably had names like ‘Leo’ or ‘Basil’ or ‘Tommy’ or ‘Jimmy’ or ‘Bloomberg’, and essentially they didn’t like statues and pictures of Jesus, Mary, Moses, and all those other adorable saints. Apparently, your average Byzantine man had a secret love or wacky fetish for these Christian ‘icons’ and the emperors didn’t like that. Now, I respect what a man and his family does in the privacy of their own home when it comes to icon worship. However, these backward emperors got way too high and outlawed all the pretty Jesus pictures and statues. That includes those neat mosaics and the St. Christopher medal your mom gave you so you could have ‘Safe travels’ on your ride back from the frat party. Anyway, this obviously brought a lot of ensuing death and destruction until future emperors made the ‘icons’ legal again. A party was held to celebrate this and in traditional Byzantine fashion, copious amounts of juice and cookies were served.

The Byzantine Empire sort of just hung out for awhile then. Sure, it had some tensions with the Huns and some other barbarians but it maintained itself well enough. And really, that’s all an empire needs to do. Especially if it is full of crazed, alcoholic, sex addicts parading around some religious notion to entertain themselves. Quite similar to how guns, ipods, and YouTube entertain us today. Yeah, Byzantium had a good run, but they got destroyed by Turkey because Turkey just wasn’t cool with Byzantine sleeping on his couch anymore or something like that. Now whatever remains of Constantinople is currently someplace called Istanbul. I hear it has nice beaches but I’m not sure if I want to visit.