The Dinner Party Question

I was once looking up questions on the internet to contribute to a long-winded game of 20 Questions.
I was tired of "what is your favorite color?" and "where do you want to travel?"
I wanted something original. Finally, I stumbled upon the perfect question: 

You are hosting a dinner party. You have ten seats at your dinner table, and you must have the same amount of men and women. You can invite anyone who has ever existed, as long as they were not fictional characters. Who do you invite?

I never asked this question. I was too busy reflecting on who I would invite to my dinner party. 10 is an intimate group; who would I want to spend an evening in close company with? Attractive celebrities? Great philosophers? Tyrannical dictators? The possibilities were endless. After vexing my brain for some time, I came up with a definitive answer.

Here is my hypothetical dinner table.

I decided that if I were to have a dinner party, I would want to gather the wittiest voices I could think of and put them at one table. I would then sit back and enjoy the wisecracks. Yes, I can see it now. "We shall party and repartee and do the same next Tuesday!" If you do not know who any of these people are, I highly recommend looking them up, or at least a few of their quotes. These people inspire me; I have framed Oscar Wilde quotes on my writing desk and Mark Twain has commandeered my bookshelf.

I wish this hypothetical scenario could actually happen. Alas, I fear it never shall. However, Mark Twain gives me hope. He once said, "go to Heaven for the climate and Hell for the company." 

Mark Twain and company, I shall see you all when I get to Hell. Please keep the table set; I am ready for some fiery conversations. 

I Love You, Eric Hutchinson

Eric Hutchinson is one of my favorite people. The fact that we've never met in real life is merely a nuance.

I first discovered Eric Hutchinson via Pandora, sometime in the hazy year of 2011. "Hey, this is pretty cool," I thought, as "Oh!" and "Rock and Roll" played on my Mat Kearney station. I proceeded to listen to those two songs on repeat for eons and eventually downloaded the rest of the album. I was a fan.

Fast forward a year to May 2012. It was Tuesday, May 8, and I was in Charlotte with my father and best friend. We were leaving a college fair when I brought up the fact that Eric Hutchinson happened to be performing that evening. We decided that we were so close, we might as well stop by. We waltzed in near the end of the set, and paid half the regular admission price. Only being present for 5 songs was saddening because Eric Hutchinson is one of those performers who is better live, but worked out because I could only sing along with the classics at the end of the set. I even took some stunning photographs. 

Envious of my skills? You know you are.

I may not have gotten home until one in the morning, but I didn't care. I saw Eric Hutchinson in concert and I didn't care how many people had never heard of him.

I have continued following Eric Hutchinson for the last two years. This is odd, because I cannot stand listening to many of the artists I enjoyed in 2011. Eric Hutchinson is special. How could you not love someone with the "lamest drug story of all time"?

       

I was very excited to learn that Eric Hutchinson is coming back to Charlotte. He will be at the Visulite on April 17, and so will I. I will not scream, or wave hideous posters, or be an obnoxious "fangirl", but I will sing out every song I know and pretend to sing all the ones I don't. I will applaud and laugh and smile and thoroughly enjoy myself. In the event that spring break takes me away from Charlotte on this momentous occasion, I will be there in spirit. I will solemnly promise to blast the new album as I burn on the beach. 

Eric Hutchinson, if you ever find this in the annals of the internet, know that you are appreciated. Your music makes me dance with the gracefulness of a newborn giraffe. We should totally hang out. Also - my mother was a Hutchinson - who knows, we might be distantly related! 

The Time I Was Deferred...

"What? HOW DID I GET DEFERRED FROM MY OWN STATE SCHOOL?!?" I demanded.

Yes, it was true, I had been deferred from UNC - Chapel Hill early action.

"I was supposed to be a shoe-in!!"

I entered a state of existential crisis. I had good grades, I had excellent test scores, I had a reasonable amount of extracurricular activities and an excellent excuse as to why I did not have more. I was an instate student as well, why was I deferred? What if I was rejected from the other five colleges I had applied to and had yet to hear from? They are all private schools with more prestige and a lower acceptance rate than Chapel Hill.

"I'M GOING TO END UP AT COMMUNITY COLLEGE!" I wailed.

My parents were condescendingly helpful.

"Michelle, you know you only applied because I insisted. Of the eight schools you applied to, Chapel Hill is your eighth choice school." My dad reminded me.

"... Yes, but I wanted the pleasure of rejecting them! What, am I not good enough for my own state school??" I responded.

"I don't understand the problem; you don't want to go there anyway! They could probably tell from your application that you weren't interested in the school; it isn't like you put a lot of effort into it." My mom rationalized.

"Mom, I wrote a lovely essay." I replied.

I did write a lovely essay. However, my mother had a valid point. I decided that UNC-CH should be exposed to the real me. Every silly, satirical facet of me. Of the five essay prompts, I chose one that ran along the lines of: "If you could go anywhere in space or time, real or imagined, where would you go and why?"

Did I write something touching, like how I was going to go back in time to see my great grandmother one more time? No. Did I write about changing the world with my time traveling abilities? Don't be ridiculous.

Here is my essay in full. Oh yes, this masterpiece is entitled "The Legend of the Queen of Procrasti - Nation."

“Mon Capitaine, je vois la terre!” cried a gabardine-clad sailor.  

I leapt to attention, sweeping scattered maps and papers from the table as I reached for a telescope. The call of the enthusiastic sailor propelled me across the deck.

“Land!” was my profound utterance, “At last!”

The year is 1491. Chris, Genoese sailor extraordinaire, has yet to convince anyone that sailing due west will be profitable. I never suffered such ignominy. As queen of the nation of Procrasti, I did not have to petition for funds. When I grew tired of ruling the Procrasti nation, I devoted the treasury funds to a sea-faring adventure complete with excitement and sea monsters. The peasants thought it would be entertaining to revolt, so I abdicated in favor of my Chief Minister, who promptly renamed the nation Indoctri and placated the populace. I was free. I bartered with a French merchant for a first-rate ship and crew, and my grand adventure was underway.

“We must launch a landing crew immediately! Marin, un bateau!” I ordered.

The sailors fluttered about like dragonflies, equipping the landing party to face any terror that might await on shore. A dinghy was lowered into the sea, the party boarded, and we set off toward land.

“Regarde! La plage!” I remarked, in a brilliant display of perception. We waded through the shallow water to the shore. The shoreline was magnificent and virginal. No friendly footsteps hinted of civilization.

“We must explore the interior. Va!” I shouted, as I gesticulated toward the verdure ahead.

The forest was dark and mysterious. I led my crew into the thicket, swords drawn and gleaming. Our awe-inspiring posse struck terror into the phloem of every vine that watched us. We forced our way into a shining clearing.

“Mes yeux!” shouted a sailor.

We quickly averted our eyes. The glade was filled with glistening crystals, heaped carelessly into piles.

“Who would be hording crystals?” I contemplated.

My query was immediately answered. A dark shadow swooped over our cowering heads and –

Beep Beep Beep

I groggily force one eye open. My menacing alarm clock glares at me, announcing to the entire universe that it is 6:45 in the morning. I groan and force myself to leave my bed’s embrace.

“Alright, Queen of Procrasti Nation, you have a lot on your plate today; time to earn your crown.” I mutter as I lumber toward the bathroom.

I dream of many things. I dream of shoes, and ships (never sealing wax), grand adventures and queens. I enjoy my dreams. They are surreal realities filled with shadows of people and enough physics anomalies to make Einstein blush. I am liberated from the constraints of Earth, including such trivialities as gravity. My dreams are obscure, creative, and imbued with my essence. If I could go anywhere in space and time, real or imagined, I would go to the land where dreams are made, because only in my dreams can I be truly free.

I immensely enjoyed writing this piece. Did I write something utterly silly? Maybe. If the reader managed to reach the end, would they appreciate the essay as having a slightly deeper meaning? Perhaps. Did I make lame puns and use probably improper French and call the discoverer of the New World "Chris?" I plead the fifth.

"Alright, Mom, I guess you have a point..." I concede, after reflecting on my application. "After all, I did respond to 'what is the best thing since sliced bread?' with 'sliced cheese.' Where would the world be without sandwiches?"

I may have ruined my chance of getting into Chapel Hill, but hopefully my contributions gave the readers a break from the banal. With thousands of essays to read about personal accomplishments and Utopian dreams, I'm sure this vignette stood out. And who knows, I may be admitted later in March and still have the pleasure of rejecting the university. At the very least, I can say for a fact that I can henceforth be used as a bad example. "Now, my children, here is what NOT to do in a college admission essay. DO NOT under ANY circumstance write a facetious essay and expect to be admitted - readers have a terrible sense of humor!"

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Heaven help us, my application to Wake Forest may have been even more flippant than this one... Ah well, c'est la vie, I may as well enjoy it!

Find Something Worth Dying For...

I once saw a quote that said "find something worth dying for, then live for it."

After deeply considering this gem of wisdom, I proceeded to radically change my life I promptly forgot about it.

Recent events reminded me of the saying. 

For anyone who does not follow the news, the Ukraine is in the midst of a massive protest. Though the protests have been going on for three months, conditions in Kiev have deteriorated rapidly over the past three days. An estimated 100 people are dead, with over 500 more injured, and the conflict is only escalating. Most news sources are showing violent images, like these: 

 

 

And yet, despite these atrocities, people have retained their humanity. Lovely moments have been captured as well:

 

 

There is something so tragically romantic, so appealing about revolution. Authors and playwrights and cinematographers have exploited this for years. The French Revolution is iconic; "Tank Man" from the Tiananmen Square Massacre is legendary. The often bloody, violent, and painful act of revolution is perpetually glorified. I think I know why. These people have found something they are willing to die for, and they are living for it. They have a voice, and they will use it. They do not fear riot control; they do not fear the army. They have banded together, 350,000 strong, to ensure that they can no longer go unnoticed. Differences and personal beliefs are overcome, as they live their cause. Students, grandparents, families, people of all classes and colors, fighting and dying for a cause worth living for. I think that is beautiful.

A Brief Introduction

Salutations, my friends.

After months of deliberation, I am finally beginning a blog. I perpetually carry a notebook to write down my thoughts, but thinking is sometimes better on the internet where it can haunt you forever. 

I have a fascination with puns regarding my last name, an unprepossessing German bit (Rash), so it seemed reasonable to entitle this blog "The Daily Plague." If you fail to see how rashes and plagues are connected, I don't think I can help you.

I intend to use this piece of cyberspace to share my thoughts. Creative writing? Perhaps. Fashion posts? Maybe. Commentary on current events? Probably. Funny pictures I find on the internet? Yes. Vladimir Putin singing Blueberry Hill? You got it. 

I hope you enjoy.