Orientation: Best of Times!

Normally, Orientation is a crazy time, though no one agrees why. Freshmen go through some pretty dramatic changes, and no matter how well Orientation is run, it's going to be stressful. That said, the stress manifests in different ways.

Over the last two years, I've found that for every emphatic opinion, there exists the equal and opposite reaction, delivered just as piercingly. Say these freshmen, Joan and Oliver, are talking about Orientation. You might get something like this:


Oliver: It's too boring.
Joan: It's too busy.

Oliver: Jeez! Is there anyone who doesn't play music?
Joan: Yay! Everyone plays music! Win, win, win!

Oliver: Where's the noise at night? I miss the city.
Joan: Why are my hallmates so loud? I can hear them playing Lady Gaga in the lounge!

Oliver: It's all talk-talk-talk; everyone is telling me what to do!
Joan: I don't know what to do! Someone tell me!

Oliver: Dude, it's freakin flat here.
Joan: It's so beautiful! The sky is so bright, the trees are so green! I'm going to go picnic in the Arb!

Oliver: Registration is so simple. Are we done now?
Joan: WTF PRESTO ATE MY CLASS. FML.

Oliver: I got everything I want! Classes should start now.
Joan: WHERE ARE MY APs? HELP PLS.

Oliver: I really miss my girlfriend. This is going to really hurt.
Joan: The cute boy in Barrows made eye contact with me! Yes!

Oliver: People are really awkward. I can't wait for things to get rolling.
Joan: Everyone is so friendly! This already feels like home.

Oliver: I left so much stuff at home. Strangely, I don't miss it. There's something great about being in a new place.
Joan: It's weird not to go to the living room and see my brother and my dog. I mean, my dormmates are cool, but they're not my family.




That said, this year feels different. Everyone is relaxed, and while there may be some absolutist Joans and Olivers... they aren't as many out there. The freshmen are mature, active and wonderful. I feel so lucky to be here.

---

For two years, I moved to campus early to be an Academic Ambassador: counseling, consoling and communicating with freshies on issues big and small. (As both Brandi and Ma'ayan are both Academic Ambassadors, they might have a different view of all this.)

Basics of the Academic Ambassadors:
1. Teach freshmen about academic requirements.
2. Serve as a Big Brother/Sister, giving mentoring and advice to make the transition easier.
3. We're the WD-40 of Orientation. We keep things rolling as ushers and guides.
4. Give mini-seminars on academic issues during the first semester.
5. Hang out with Dean Randal Doane, one of the smartest people in the whole world.



Photo Cred: Ma'ayan Plaut.

In terms of our official duties, the big thing we do is give a classroom presentation on academics to our twenty first-years. As we don't have a core curriculum, students have a lot of choice in how they make their schedules. That said, we do mandate some distribution requirements. While they aren't killers, it's a good thing to keep in mind when registering for classes. Not sexy information, but really, really helpful.

My favorite part was helping with registration. I imagine registration as a Scrubs-style daydream....

At one instant, you're sitting at a laptop with at least 3 tabs open, staring at Presto, the course catalogue and the course schedules. You can't figure out if classes are conflicting. Are the classes you signed up for over the summer at the same time as these two totally rock-freakin-tastic courses that would totally fit with your major? Is Presto frozen? Why is it taking so long? How many spots are left? Do I need consent?

... And suddenly, you're on the floor of the NY Stock Exchange! You're wearing newsies clothes that don't fit! Your suspender snapped - fix it! Sell the class! Buy the other class! No, no, get the one with dividends! Oh, the price is rising and your options are tanking! Your ambassador is trying to tell you to take the new class! But the stock is plummeting! You're really hungry because you forgot breakfast and the person next to you just finished cooking muffins for his co-op! He smells delicious! The first year seminar is your only stable stock; you're going for broke! Buy everything! Get a muffin! Take the class!

And then, you've signed up for 4 classes, planned which excos you're going to take, signed up for your library/computer help desk/dining hall/Student Union job and your portfolio is balanced. Phew.


Registering! Photo Cred: Ma'ayan Plaut.

---

The rest of being an AA is more chill, giving advice and generally helping out. As someone who totally messed up their first year, my advice was generally well-received. There's nothing like a cautionary tale to help clarify some issues.

Truth: I was not qualified to become an Academic Ambassador. I didn't get recommended by a professor. I didn't have a solid transcript to back me up. For the first time in my life, grades were not my strongest suit. And yet, though I had done most of the things you aren't supposed to do, Dean Doane to hire me.

My first semester, I assumed college was like high school, and to do well, I would just do more. In retrospect... that was a poor choice. I took a full courseload, overloaded with work, projects and extracurriculars. I failed a class my first semester and barely scraped by in the next semester. On the positive end, I made tons of friends, worked through some really painful personal problems and took some spectacular classes. I started new things that I fell in love with (radio, improv, circus, storytelling, clowning), but did it with little sleep or planning.

I love helping freshmen avoid making my mistakes.


That said, this year's freshmen don't seem in danger of that. As a class, and individually, they are some of the smartest, most relaxed, charming and friendly folks I've ever met. For the first time, I think I would feel okay if classes never started. These freshmen are just way too cool.

Yesterday, I did Day of Service at George Jones Farm, weeding veggies, moving a shed and chilling with freshmen for a full day. There's something about picking up a shed and sliding it that lets your really understand your peers. When it's hot and sunny, things are heavy and ungainly, they're on it. They're all over it. If we start throwing a peach and it explodes, they'll keep going. They understand how the game works. When our supervisor didn't come back for a while, we stood in a circle, telling stories.

When we did a circus shindig the other night, the freshmen weren't afraid to try anything. They learned fast, they wanted more. Despite moving hundreds, or thousands of miles from home, living in different rhythms with different demands, they rocked it. At the swing dance last night, the room was packed. The raw beginners were wonderful partners.



PS: Every year, around this time of the season, I listen to "This Will Be Our Year" by The Zombies (or the cover by OK Go). Sometimes it applies to relationships (blush), but mostly to school, to hope, to change. This year, it seems more fitting than ever.

The warmth of your smile
smile for me, little one
and this will be our year
took a long time to come

You don't have to worry
all your worried days are gone
this will be our year
took a long time to come.

Big Bad Voodoo Daddy!

I just saw Big Bad Voodoo Daddy. Live. Free. In Youngstown.

Obviously, I danced a lot.


The Crew:
It was all because of Brandi Ferrebee. Her car contained: me, Brandi, Matt C, Rachel B, and John A.


The Band:

Big Bad Voodoo Daddy!

Big Bad played an awesome set: over an hour of tunes. I remember "Mr. Pinstripe Suit," "Minnie the Moocher", "You And Me And The Bottle Makes 3 Tonight" and "I Want to Be Like You," though there were certainly more. It was solid. Sadly, they didn't play "Maddest Kind of Love." But they nailed out a lot of fast songs with tight playing. Though after a while, I focused less on musicianship and more on the beat.

The venue was a grassy valley, a natural amphitheater. Grass and swing dance aren't great bedfellows, which I never knew before. Brandi suggested wearing sneakers, not flats, but my sneakers looked pretty smelly, so I went with my casual flats. Ugh. The ground had very little traction, and any footwork I had... went away. I danced badly, unsure of my footing.


The swing crowd was tight. Out of the general audience of 300 - 400, there were about 25 swing dancers. They knew their stuff. There was a Greg Schram doppleganger. I wanted to dance with him, but he was really good and had a girlfriend, who he danced with for the whole show. Damn you, monogamoid couple.

John and Brandi were some of the most talented dancers there. John gets totally immersed in the musicality of the song; he scat calls as he dances and is one of the most outwardly happy dancers I've met. Most swing dancers seem to take it very, very seriously. Brandi wields an incredible style: cute, sultry and exact. She prances and pouts when she dances, her hips always moving.

I was only disappointed with the audience. While the grass was full with lawn chairs and picnic blankets, no one stood up. Clapping was minimal. Cheering was slight. Singing call-backs were quiet. The audience was mostly older folks and families; folks who gave little energy back to the band save their presence. Watching amazing performers for free is an incredible privilege. Fail, people.



--
It's something I've noted elsewhere -- normal people suck at being audience members. (The woman sitting next to me at the Tempest actually recoiled from me whenever I laughed.) If a performer does something impressive, you clap. If you don't clap, Tinkerbelle dies and the show is sad. A supportive audience makes a good show great.

I know people express joy differently. I know loud people don't feel more than quiet people. I know I can't pack each show with Liz Hibbard, Ardon Shorr, Grey Castro and Chris Gentes... but I'd like to.


--


I feel guilty when I swing dance. I apologize to my partner before and afterwards. I bumble and shift. My footwork is awful; my timing is worse. It's so frustrating. I want to do it more; I want to learn more and dance more. I want to dance to fast song. I hate being a block to my partner.

But as fraught as I feel, it's still wonderful. Swing's peculiar intimacy has grown on me considerably and the sensation of a good dance is unbeatable.

I unleashed my litany of self-defeating woes on a follow, a really good one, asking for her advice. Her name was Miriam and she moved like a tricked-out ballerina.

"Well," Miriam said, "All of us were once where you are now. We all remember how much it sucks. So when you ask a guy to dance, don't apologize, just say, "I only know the basics." That always works."

Dirty Water for Elephants

I read "Water for Elephants." Everyone told me to do it.



Water for Elephants was an okay book. Cleanly written. Digests easily. A good book for a plane, here you need something for 4 hours to take your brain away. It was solid, but not very interesting. In part because the characters weren’t very… spicy.

Warning: Lots of pictures. Tons.

Characters:


Jacob= Jimmie Stewart + Harry Potter. In college to become a vet, disaster brings him to the circus.




August= Christian Bale + Handlebar Mustache. Attractive, abusive, crazy.




Marlene: Jessica Alba. Pretty, rich, weak idiot.

---

Plot---

Jacob: I shall care for nothing.

Circus clowns: It's the circus, you ninny.

Jacob: I shall care for animals.

August: I am charming and highly competent. This boy seems like an excellent lackey. Come, lackey! I will enjoy breaking you! Would you like to wear my suit? It can be a metaphor!

Jacob: I don't... understand... I thought... but you're my boss.

Clowns: Oi, watch the show.


----A circus ensues, followed by circus, cooch, hooch and poverty----


Jacob: Gosh, that Marlene is pretty.

August: My wife is indeed attractive. _pause_ If you smile at her, I will fuck you with a hook and feed you to the clowns.

Jacob: Ah, it is time to run away now. Where were the hookers?

August: My hook is right here, boy. Whenever you want it.


--- There is mad drama because Jacob likes Marlene ---


Marlene: Jacob, don't get upset when August beats me. He can't help it.

Jacob: Angry.

August: I am bigger than you in all ways.

Jacob: You are a bad man.

August: You cannot control your manhood.

Jacob: You’re insane.

Marlene: I am going to cry!

August: I had carnal relations with your mother last night.

Jacob: My mother has been dead for months.


--- Cut scene: fight ---



Ringleader: I make poor business decisions. La la! Elephants for everyone! La la la! I love Rosie!

Poor people: I’m quite hungry.

Ringleader: But don’t you like the elephant, hobos? Don’t you identify with Rosie’s downtrodden, abused, denigrated form, wrestled from an exotic land across the sea? Doesn’t she make you feel majestic and large?

Readers: I think it might be a metaphor for the swollen American dream…

Poor people: No, not really.

Rosie, the elephant: Czesc.

Jacob: She speaks Polish, guys.

August: Listen to me, Rosie, or I will pretend you are like all women and start hitting you until you do what I want.

Rosie: Dude, that was not Polish.

August: This has angered me. It’s punishment time.

Rosie: I am going to cry enormous elephant tears. Skurwysyn.

Readers: This is so poignant!


---Marlene and Jacob make out and feel guilty.---


Marlene: Running away with an older man and joining the circus was an unexpectedly bad idea!

Jacob: Marlene, you're so pretty when you go into hysterics. Your mouth makes an oh shape.


---Circus occurs, followed by historically accurate portrayals of the national malaise.---


August: Guys, I'm not angry anymore. Remember, Marlene? Me? Lovely husband? I bought you a shiny thing! Let’s dance!

Marlene: I knew you were still wonderful and charming! Lovey!

Jacob: But… too good… to be true…

August: You’re like a son to me, kiddo.

Marlene: Let’s have a dance party and eat oysters while the people outside starve to death on poisoned moonshine!

August: We can all dance together! Yay!

Jacob: Um… Okay.

Marlene: Hurray! I will hug Jacob in a platonic manner.

August: …I lied. I am still angry. More than before.

Marlene: ... Please don't hit me with the elephant whip.

Jacob: Also, please don't hit the elephant with the whip. FYI.


---Drama. There is more.--

---

A Taste of Water

"I look up just as he flicks the cigarette. It arcs through the air and lands in Rosie's open mouth, sizzling as it hits her tongue. She roars, panicked, throwing her head and fishing inside her mouth with her trunk. August marches off. I turn back to Rosie. She stares at me, a look of unspeakable sadness on her face. Her amber eyes are filled with tears."



August is not just beating his hot wife, but he's also abusive to non-native animals. An utter cad.

CAD:







And now you know what I think.

Tall and Short of Oberlin

Hello!

Remember that video you were in? Well, here it is!

I want to thank all of you for being involved in this project. It was a lot of fun to put together.



Have a lovely summer,
Aries

Road Trip 5: The Last Night

Dearest Readers,

The backlogged road trip is now over! Still to come: Dallas, NY, Obietown!

Onwards!...


We stopped at Hope, Alabama, birthplace of President Clinton and strolled around. While walking, Yoshi and I had a heated talk on small town living. At first, I lauded them, a bit too strongly. And as we move towards the cold, steel talons of the real world… the closeness of a village is a lovely thing.

Yoshi questioned me: citing the slowness, the insularity and the backwardness. It would be hard for us to find “our people” in nearly any small town. They sold a unicycle in the Hope Bike Shop… but a single unicycle does not make a circus.


As we were talking, a man in a car stopped us, calling out, “Hey, I don’t know you – you new?”
“We’re from out of town,” we explained, “Just taking a walk.”
“We don’t get young people too often,” he said. I bet you don’t, I thought.


Balancing out my conflation of small towns was a general disdain for southern culture. After a while, my insensitivity, crudeness and tactlessness became overwhelming; Yoshi politely asked me to shut my face.

I did shut my face, keeping quiet even when we passed Arkedelphia and Okalona. I tried to be respectful of Texarkana, where we planned on staying the night. Yoshi held hopes for the place, he’d heard of it often enough in Texas. However, I kept mispronouncing the city, which made me sound even more like a Yankee snob. We came up with a few mnemonics for me:
“I am Texarkana’s cold sweat.”
“Yes we texarKAN-a.”
“I’d like to recycle my Texarkana.”

(I was saying Texarkana. Like Madonna. Or Americana. Or Llama.)


I tried very hard to be polite. But Texarkana was a sad, empty town. When I told my dad we passed through, he said, “Guess it hasn’t changed in 80 years.” Apparently it got hit during the dust bowl, sending penniless farmers to California.

From there: Shreveport, the South’s answer to Las Vegas. I was excited – I’d never been inside of the real gambling floor of a casino. When my parents went to Atlantic City for a family get-together, I’d spent my time in the arcade playing Rampage World Tour.

In my childhood, the casino floor seemed so dangerous and glorious. Skill! Chance! Loss! Gain! Bright lights and fast-talking! Cards runs deep in my family – my grandfather was an incredible poker and bridge player. As a kid, I anticipated the day when I could make dough playing cards all day. This was my destiny, to be Aries “Lucky” Indenbaum. Better pay-off than a bank robbery and safe as a CD.


But the Shreveport casinos were not glamorous. Not one bit.







After dinner at IHOP (strawberry pancakes drenched in diabetes-sweet syrup), we went to the casinos: Sam’s Town, Horseshoe and Boomtown. There were a few surface differences between them, mostly in the uniform of the waitresses. Questions were: How pretty were they? How tall were they? What was the color of the waitress costume? Did the skirt end with the thigh, or did the fabric slide away as the ass was finishing its final rotation into the pelvis? How much junk was packed into that trunk?

As we spent more time in the casinos, I felt my disgust grow and grow. Not at the players, but at the structure, which enabled addiction. Pure addiction. The casinos allowed cigarette smoking, had little lights on each machine to allow patrons to order drinks while they played the slots, chatted up high-rollers…. it’s all good business, but to a foul end. The slot machine customers resembled cows at a feedlot.

Given my own associations with addictive behavior, I felt queasy and overwhelmed. The “Requiem for a Dream” theme rang through my ears. Although these were apparently bottom-of-the-barrel places, it was nice to see what remained when the glitz washed away. Gambling in the raw.

We watched one guy play a “sexy” slot machine game for a while. Most of the symbols seemed arbitrary, hearts and diamonds, with one figure of a foxy cartoon chick. He kept playing and playing. I couldn’t even see when he won – most of the lines seemed irregular, and it was unclear which figures were wilds. The machine behind Yoshi and I made a huge noise whenever anyone did anything to it, and all loud, heart-popping jingles. The sound, coupled with the flashing lights and the smell of smoke and booze, made my head hurt.

Yoshi, who had been to Vegas, wasn’t as revolted as I. He played one slot machine based on “House of the Dead” and made $30. While I’m glad he won, and I don’t begrudge him for playing… I was fine avoiding it.

It was a smart system, Yoshi noticed. All of the slot machines were more of less the same, and as computer systems, it would only take a few adjustments in code to make a completely new game. Slap a new plastic cover on it, and it would be done. The Scream game becomes the Blair Witch game becomes the Hostel game, all on the same piece of hardware.

I was happy when we left.

Cleveland-town, everyone.

Until this summer, the majority of time I’d spent in Cleveland was in goth clubs. I’d gone to Cleveland a few other times: West Side Market! Rock and Roll Hall of Fame! Izzie getting a tattoo! Party with gorgeous alumni! But aside from these events, and my hours of dancing to remixes of The Cure… I’d never spent a full day in Cleveland.

But in summer, Oberlin slows down. There’s still a few amazing festivals, like Juneteenth and the Chalk Walk, but the fast-paced vibe of campus eases. It’s a sleepy little town. The most exciting thing happening right now is a bagpipe conference.

After a long, stressful semester, I love that.

For a day or two.

But with a full week with nothing to do? Yoshi and I looked towards Cleveland.


Great Lakes Science Center + Cleveland.




When I was in elementary school, one of the best field trips ever was to Liberty Science Center. The next year, my middle school went to DC, setting me loose in the Smithsonian for a full day. Being at the Great Lakes Science Center brought me back to that feeling of childhood joy. Though we didn’t get a chance to explore the whole museum, what we saw was awesome.

The main floor was bioengineering. There was a section on virtual reality, file compression, synthesizer music, and alternative interfaces. The exhibits on material science was excellent, with smart windows with LED sensors responding to changes in light and sound.

There were some things that confused me. When you have interactive displays about communicable diseases… why don’t you have hand sanitizer nearby? Especially as the exhibit is child-friendly and children are the cutest little disease vectors… I’d love some sanitizer. Though generally, I love hand sanitizer. My immune system is a little like the shields on Star Trek. They can take a lot of small damage but if something massive hits the Aries Enterprise, the ship goes down. When h1n1 broke, Health Services put up enormous bottles of hand sanitizer at every public hub on campus. Bliss became me.

Besides that, there was a section on addiction. Most of Yoshi’s research experience involves addiction, especially as it intersects with memory. From time to time, he would yell at the machine that supports a “hedonistic model.”


The second floor was play-land. Physics is the best. There was all sorts of lovely games that showed how sound and light can be manipulated. Each exhibit had a purpose, explaining the physics behind funhouse mirrors and giant bubbles. While I tried to be a good adult and read about the thing I was playing with, the museum closing soon. So, I played. There were lasers and musical PVC pipes, smoke holes, plasma balls, an Oscilliscope... Lots of stuff.


At a display on Salmonella, there was a space for visitors to write questions they had after viewing information. While waiting for Yoshi, I added these questions:
“Will Salmonella help me lose weight?”
“Is Salmonella sexually transmitted?”
“When was Salmonella invented?”
“Can I buy Salmonella at Target?”

The second we left the building, we were on Lake Erie, next to a maritime museum. We held hands and watched the seagulls destroy some fish.

From there, we headed to University Circle… And promptly got lost. The map indicated a park bordering the road to University Circle, but it didn’t say what that street was called, nor did it have any nearby streets labeled. So, when we left the road to find a place to park, we got really lost, driving up and down residential roads. Mercifully, the park hugging the road was lovely. It hosted a row of “culture gardens” - statues and alters with fountains.

Meanwhile, the collective blood sugar in the car was sinking, making navigating and communicating more complex. Yoshi’s voice gets flatter when he’s tired, while I start to make less and less sense. We go to our poles. I become Delerium, Yoshi becomes Squall .



vs.



Aries: Germany, Estonia, India, Ireland. The world is so big in Cleeeeeveland. The grass is just so super-green. I could wrap a tree in it and call it good.
Yoshi. Yes.
Aries: Can we stop now and walk through the cultures? I want to see Latvia. Anna’s from Latvia. I hope they have bears.
Yoshi: Parking.
Aries: What time is it? I can’t find my cell. I hope I didn’t drop it in the lake. Let’s go swimming with the duckies…
Yoshi: Food.

Given our hunger, we decided to pass on the culture gardens for a bit and try to find some food in University Circle. Despite staring at a map for a few minutes, we walked the wrong way for a bit too long. Then, we trailed up Euclid and got to Case Western Reserve. Despite having been to Case twice, I had no idea what I was looking for. There seemed to be no food despite the collection of awesome buildings, museums and hospitals. It was an odd campus – I loved the buildings, but it seemed to weird that huge streets ran through the whole thing.


Awesomely geeky garbage cans! Yeah, CASE!


We finally found a strip of restaurants. A cop was going into the pizza shop. We quibbled about whether he was busting someone or whether he was hungry. There was a Chinese restaurant, a deli, a Starbucks… out pickings were slim. We looked across the street and in the same breath said “Felafel?”

Mediterranean food is a rarity in my life and as a long-time vegetarian, hummus is a joy I cannot eat enough of. That said, I didn’t have high expectations. The place itself was not so gorgeous, filled with plenty of plastic tables. The ketchup packets stuck to each other. There were only a few people in the restaurant. The place seemed… greasy.

Yoshi got a lamb kebab; I got the cabbage stew. Both dishes were frighteningly great. The soup was flavorful without being too rich, the vegetable delicious. Yoshi’s kebab was excellent; the pitas offered were light and tangy. Later, we discovered that we stumbled into one of the best restaurants in Cleveland; Falafel Café was rated in the top five restaurants in the city for the past few years. While I went to the bathroom, Yoshi spoke with owner-chef who was from Beirut. “Of course Lebanese food is great!” he announced, “Why else would you go to Lebanon?”

Hunger eased, we walked through Case, past the museums, and to the Culture Gardens, where we wandered around for over two hours.

Highlights:

India! Gandhi looked awesome, with a quote about tolerance on the podium. There were little stones with information on Indian cultural advances.

Germany! The centerpiece was an enormous statue of Schiller and Goethe, looking like old-school fraternity brothers. I tried to read the inscription from Faust aloud, but failed. The statue was so huge that trying to see over the terrible two’s bellies was tricky. The other German who earned a statue was Bach, who did not look too happy.

Finland! Nothing could seem sad next to the Finnish. The poets and statesmen represented looked like sailors trapped within the doldrums, their wind gone, sitting in a ship of fools and eagerly anticipating starving to death. These were sad, sad men.


We didn’t realize the sun had set until the park was dark and the moon was high. Tired out, we strolled back to the car and drove back to Oberlin. A great day. High five, Cleveland.

Road Trip 3: Little Rock is Clinton-tastic!

We did not have high hopes for Arkansas. Little Rock proved us wrong.

We spent three hours at the Clinton Library & Museum. In high school, I watched “The War Room” for my AP Government class, as well as old election footage from 1992. I developed huge crushes on James Carville, George Stephanopoulos and candidate Bill Clinton. But in my fantasies, I didn’t want to kiss those guys. I wanted to BE those guys. Going to this museum was like going to Disneyland for me.

The museum was supposed to look like a bridge to the 21st Century… but actually resembled a giant trailer. Aesthetics aside, the building was eco-friendly, using local materials and energy-conscious architecture. Most of the information was conveyed through a timeline with pictures, text and video. To drive points home, there was plenty of repletion between written displays and film.

They had replicas of the Oval Office and the Cabinet, which were surprising unattractive. The Oval Office felt cluttered to me, chocked with americana. The saving grace was a moon rock. During a heated discussion, Clinton would occasionally gesture to the stone, saying, “Hold on here – that rock there on that table is 3.6 billion years old – we’re only here for an instant – let’s get some perspective on this thing.”

The museum presented a glowing review of Clinton. Back in the day, government fought for change and the betterment of all people: reducing crime, increasing prosperity, supporting technological advances…. Under Clinton’s leadership, America wasn’t just a superpower,
we were a superhero.

Given the trends of the Bush years – limitations on science and technology, inept handling of the explosive economy, two unfinished wars, few achievements made… I can’t imagine how I would conceive of my country if I were born five years later.


Sadly, the museum didn’t touch on any of Clinton’s failures. There was scant mention of the impeachment proceedings, the massive investigations, the flaws of NAFTA, DOMA, or “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell.” His innovations in finance laid the groundwork for our current economic flummox.


We didn't see any note on this lady either.


Though I understand the omission of critical information, I could have dealt with more policy and process.
- How did Hilary affect women’s rights besides uttering one of the best soundbites I have ever heard? “It is no longer acceptable to discuss women's rights as separate from human rights.”
- What did Clinton do to help usher in the internet age? Yes, he funded computers in schools, but was there more?
- How did Clinton broker a peace?
- Why not more personal information on “Candidate Clinton”?

As we got restless, we noticed the time and understood our hunger.

We spotted over to the volunteer desk and asked what they recommended for lunch. Small-world alert: One of the volunteers was from Cleveland and had lectured at Oberlin, speaking about time-management. WHAT. I flabbergasted at her. She told us about a catfish place. The other volunteer, a kid who looked like a Boy Scout, told us about “Whole Hog Café,” where Clinton apparently used to go. “Get the Pulled Pork Sandwich. Best pulled pork sandwich I’ve ever had.”

Off we went! Whole Hog, like Rendezvous, had an unsurprising lack of vegetarian options, but given my lack of running around, I wasn’t as hungry as normal. That said, my taste of Yoshi’s pulled pork platter was amazing. Flat-out amazing. The beans and potatoes were unstoppable.

From there, we went back to the Clinton Museum Store so Yoshi could get a present to Professor Dawson, inspiration/terror to thousands of Obies. Then we strolled to Arkansas River Market → a Martial arts garden → highway.

The Little Rock – Dallas leg was a longer one, about five hours. But after about 15 minutes on route, we got a call from Yoshi’s folks. Apparently, there was a giant storm in Dallas, knocking out power and flooding to a huge swath of the city. They recommended we not make the push on and go somewhere else for the night.

Looking at the map, we spotted Texarkana and Shreveport, and aimed for them.