A Tale of Two Calamities

I've been meaning to write about my adventures on the Cape, but nothing had specifically motivated me until last night. I was on my way to my monthly book club meeting at the library, and I needed to grab a quick dinner. Steve was at a post-doc conference so I was flying solo. I had driven by Friendly's restaurant many times, but Steve doesn't really like fast food, so we never stopped. I assumed it was a counter-order kind of chain that served mostly ice cream, like a Dairy Queen. I saw an ad on television for a hamburger they were selling with two grilled cheese sandwiches serving as the bun. I admit I was intrigued, though I would rather skip the burger and have two grilled cheese sandwiches.

I stepped in and was surprised to find that Friendly's is a sit-down restaurant. "For one?" the host inquired as came through the door. "Uh, sure." I replied. I was immediately glad that I had my book. I always find eating alone at a sit-down restaurant to be awkward without something to focus on. Otherwise, I find myself people watching and that makes people uncomfortable when they are eating. I was seated in a booth near 2 other women eating alone. Apparently, I had been relegated to Cootie Town with the other rejects eating by themselves. I had no idea what to order, but the waitress came almost immediately and asked what I wanted. I asked her what she likes and she recommended a chicken sandwich, so I ordered it. I read until my food came, and then happily enjoyed my calorie-rich saucy meal.

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw something come splashing toward me. The sight I beheld when I looked up was surprising and comical. A waitress stood wide-eyed, her right arm covered in milkshake and her left hand holding an empty serving tray. The floor was a ruins of chicken nugget tombstones covered in barbecued gore. There was a rainbow of sauces surrounding the booth. Ketchup covered the woman sitting at the booth and her two spattered children gleefully giggled. The milkshake had splashed onto the adjacent booth and into the hair of a customer there. I couldn't see the table, but I imagined that it was a chunky soup of drink glasses, burgers and ice cream. The waitress had leaned over to hand the girl at the table her dinner and lost her balance. The full tray had fallen onto the table and comedy ensued.

The silence immediately following the event was palpable. All heads turned toward the ketchup-dipped mother and the milkshake showered neighbor to see if they would shrug,...or explode. Their reactions were the most impressive display of tolerance and humanity that I've seen in a long time. They both started to laugh. Not a derisive, ugly laugh. But, a warm, forgiving laugh. One joked, "That is what washing machines are for!" as she dabbed her shirt with a paper napkin. The other snickered and made some goodhearted comment about hair products while she wiped milkshake off of her head. The waitress had run into the kitchen, tears of shame and fear starting to appear in her eyes. The manager arrived with cleaning supplies and apologized profusely, promising free meals and stern repercussions for the waitress. The mother said thank you but reassured that it was only an accident and to tell the waitress that it is ok, and no big deal. When the embarrassed waitress returned, the boy at the table thanked her for the awesome display of jettisoned milkshake. His mother quietly chided him for embarrassing the girl, but his intention was pure. He was trying to make her feel better.

I was so surprised to see such kindness in response to a very inconvenient and frustrating situation. I almost got a little choked up. Then, I wondered why I was so surprised. Had I become so jaded by incessant displays of selfishness that any show of compassion could move me to tears? Then, I recalled another recent time when I had seen that shell-shocked expression that the waitress held.

I had ordered a Philly Cheese Steak sandwich from my favorite Costa Mesa sandwich shop, and I popped in next door to buy a drink at the 7-11. I was standing before the collection of flavored nozzles at the soda dispenser trying to decide what to choose. Then, I heard an explosive burst of turbulent liquid coming from my right. When I turned, there was a very surprised child (about 11) standing frozen with his hand still on the handle, covered from head to toe in red slurpee. He carried a memorable expression of shock and fear. The slurpee had not just soaked him, but had splashed the man standing behind him and even spattered me from about 6 feet away. The major difference between these scenarios was the reactions of the participants. The man was wearing an expensive looking white polo shirt and white shorts. He had dyed spikey hair and was wearing Oakleys on his forehead. I could tell instantly that he had money.

"Oh my god!" the man shouted. "Are you kidding me???" he bellowed. "I just got these dry-cleaned! We have to be somewhere in 5 minutes!" Soon, his face was as red as the slurpee stains on his clothes. He stamped and screamed about refunds and payment for damages. Meanwhile, the kid stood very still and stared at him, like a puppy expecting to be hit. I couldn't help myself. I walked up to the kid, ignoring the tantrum that was probably his father. I said, "Hey, this was not your fault. It was the machine. Don't worry about it." What surprised me was that the dad didn't seem upset with the kid. He was ready to sue the 7-11 to pay for his dry-cleaning for the next 3 years, but he didn't throw any of the anger at the boy. That was at least something. He was still carrying on after I had paid and left.

These two scenarios left me reflecting on what the kids involved were learning. The poor kid at 7-11 learned that accidents should make us angry and eager to throw blame. That we should threaten to sue, yell and scream like a toddler, and ruin our Sunday out with our family. That a dry-cleaning bill is worth rising your blood pressure over, and frightening the hell out of a child who just wanted a slurpee. On the other hand, the children at the restaurant learned compassion and tolerance. They learned to forgive the person who made a mistake and genuinely felt sad and upset about it. They learned that kindness is the first reaction, and finding humor in life's unexpected puddles makes for an enjoyable and entertaining evening out with the family. Maybe that is what made me feel sentimental. Not the lucky waitress and her forgiven error, but the pitiful slurpee kid, and what he will take away from his unfortunate scenario. What are the chances that both parties at the restaurant would respond so graciously and not be like that asshole at the 7-11? I hope they are pretty good, and I left with a heightened hope for humanity. The irony is that I found this renewal of the human spirit at a "Friendly's".

My date with a crunchy mister

Dear Readers,
If any of you are still subscribed to my blog after two years of silence, I am touched, and more than a little surprised. What better way to welcome you back than with an evocative tale of my date with a crunchy mister. Even better, there was a pre-date voyeuristic rendezvous involving a young vampire and a shirtless werewolf.

Now that I have your attention, I can spill the less exciting factual beans about my Saturday. I have seriously mixed feelings about the Twilight movies. I enjoy the books, though I find many faults in them. And, I adore the atmosphere of the films, which feel like home to me with their overcast skies, drippy drives to school, and overgrown greenery. I also find the song choices of the films to adequately push all of my teenage buttons which are creaky from neglect, but still wired properly. I could now list my objections with the films, but why dwell on such trivialities as awkward hairdos and horrid acting?

Mixed feelings aside, I found myself excited to see that Eclipse was playing at the dollar theater (whose name is now void as a movie there costs 2 dollars). After a brief, and admittedly incomplete, survey of local Twi-hards, I could find no one wiling and able to attend with me. So, I ventured off to "Captain Smelly's" which is what we called it before it became "the dollar theater" to see a movie by myself. To be fair, I wasn't really by myself. There was a pre-teen pair of siblings speaking Chinese, an old couple speaking Spanish, and a middle-aged woman, who seemed speechless at the end, enrapt and overcome by the multitude of long-forgotten secret desires that these films arouse within her. I nodded my head at her awkwardly as I passed her seat on my way out of the theater, feeling like we were acting out a scene of a man emerging from a dark viewing room at a sex shop who accidentally encounters the janitor in the hallway. For a second, I wasn't sure if I was the man or the janitor.

As I blinked away the painful rays of sunlight outside the theater, my mind swirled with musings about the types of people that adore the Twilight movies (i.e. mostly 13 and 49 year old females) and what that all really means, but that may be a blog for another day. I was headed back to the car when my stomach grumbled. I checked the clock on my phone; no wonder, it was after 1pm. A quick glance found a french-style bakery chain that I've never patronized because french food typically means cheese and cream, two of Steve's least favorite ingredients.

I wandered in and scanned the menu to find the very first item was non other than an old friend I met in France over 15 years ago (omg, has it been that long???), the Croque-Monsieur. This french fast food sandwich that is thought to have turned 100 this year is a little handful of melty, buttery goodness that was a great comfort food to ease the pain of culture shock in my travels. It is essentially a grilled ham and cheese sandwich topped with Béchamel sauce and another slice of cheese, then broiled to perfection. Its name means "Crunch-Mister"(...blink...blink...). Yeah. One bite sent me thousands of miles away and thousands of days back in time to my first crunchy mister in Paris when I was 15, almost 16. It is very stereotypically American for me to like this snack. It has the reputation in France of being street food, fattening and bourgeois. Probably similar to our whopper or big mac. But, nothing washes away the cares of seeming average like melted cheese on toasted bread.

One unfortunate difference that I noted was the size of the American version of the Croque-monsieur. It had three layers of cheese and ham inside instead of one. It was a sad reminder of a couple of patterns that are obvious in American restaurant cuisine: 1) Authenticity falls second to local marketability 2) Bigger is always better. So, I removed the excess layers, and enjoyed my mind's journey back to that street cafe on the cobblestone rue in Paris where I sat on the edge of a fountain and ate my first Croque-Monsieur. With the Eclipse soundtrack still echoing in my mind and a long forgotten, yet familiar, taste in my mouth, I may as well have been back in my torn-knee jeans, painted converse low-tops and a plaid flannel shirt. Just long enough to remember the good things about those days and brief enough to appreciate all the ways things are different now. It was wonderful.

(photo credit: Michael Brewer, taken from Wikimedia Commons)

No cats were harmed during the making of this blog...

...but one man got stitches and one bowl was destroyed.

It started out as a normal enough evening. I was washing the dishes while Steve spoke with his parents on the phone. Then, he handed the phone to me to say "hello" while he started putting the dishes away.

Grandma Mo always said it was better to "let God dry the dishes." I always assumed it was laziness on Grandma's part, but last night, I learned the real reason why. Wet ceramic dishes are slippery and (when broken) quite pointy. I had just hung up the phone when I heard a crash, a gasp, and an expletive coming from the sink. I looked up and the first thing that caught my eye was all of the blood. Blood in the sink, on the refrigerator, spattered on the floor (a nearly 7 foot spray), on Steve's pants, and especially all over the hand he held clutched in his other. I couldn't believe that in the split second it took me to look up that much blood could escape any wound made by a shard of a cereal bowl. I immediately jumped up to grab a roll of paper towels. Steve had made it to the sink but the flow was such that I knew that water was a bad idea. I grabbed 4 or 5 towels and told him to keep the pressure on. I then told him to sit down, while I grabbed my stuff in case we had to go to the hospital. After a few seconds he lifted off the already soaking towels and immediately the gush obstructed our view of the wound. It was about 1 to 1-1/2 inches across the first joint of the inside of his thumb. "I think I'd better sit down," he said. "We're going to the hospital, and don't remove that towel again," I said. Man, I can get bossy when it comes to emergencies. I guess I've just spent too much time in hospitals in recent years. Plus, last week was the anniversary of my dad's final hospital visit, so I'm a little touchy about those places.

As the front door was closing behind us, we saw Mesquite inspecting the mess of glass and blood. Steve was worried for her safety, but I figured she'd probably be fine (which she was). The nearest hospital is not the preferred one for our insurance, but the preferred one was 20 minutes away with no traffic and it was 6:30 on a week day. People call it the fancy hospital, but I'd never been. As we pulled into the emergency parking lot, the valet approached the car. That's right. The emergency room valet. By now, Steve was very pale and feeling like he was going to pass out, so I didn't question it. He couldn't stand for a long walk, and I knew I couldn't catch him very easily if he fell, having practiced on my mom a couple of years ago, resulting in a bloody lip. The valet took my keys and gave me a ticket, then we walked in the door.

Immediately, the triage nurse ushered us back to the screening room. Anyone who remembers my emergency room experience from several years back would have been blown away by the expedited service. "Oh shit," I thought, "this place is going to be expensive." They let him lie down on the chairs because his blood pressure was low and they bandaged him temporarily for the wait. We couldn't have been waiting for more than 5 minutes when they brought a wheelchair to take him back to a room. There were 3 beds; two empty, and one with a woman who had broken an arm while on a company sailing retreat from North Carolina. We got an empty one, and Steve lay their for only about 30 minutes before being helped. The entire process took a while because a cut finger doesn't fall high on the list of priorities (as it shouldn't) , but we were very impressed with the service.

The PA, whose name I won't include for her privacy but was very similar to Jane Goodall, was very nice. She numbed and cleaned the thumb and stitched it up. Then, she sent in a nurse to put on a splint, because the wound was on a joint. This splint is gigantic. It stretches halfway up the arm, and is fatter than a cast. It was a long process getting that thing on, and during that time the woman with the broken arm left and two new people joined us in the room. We were behind a curtain but I could hear what was happening with the other patients. One had stepped on some nails. The other had a serious insect or spider bite. The one with the nails in his foot was asked to confirm his name. "Jeffrey," he said, then mumbled his last name. "What was that?" the nurse asked. "Dahmer," the man said then sighed with resignation. Steve, our nurse, and me all looked at each other with big eyes and stretching grins. The poor guy. The exhaustion in his voice when he answered that simple question told volumes. What a name to be stuck with. And, what a strange coincidence that our PA was Jane Goodall (almost).

After we were patched and ready to go, the valet showed me to my car. We had to find a 24-hour pharmacy in the neighborhood because we hadn't had an emergency visit since we had moved last year (surprisingly!). We picked up a pizza and Vicodin, and headed home to clean up the mess. As we sat to eat, pretty tired now because it was 10pm, and watch tv, we both glanced over to the kitchen at about the same time, to find Mesquite lounging in the pile of glass and blood (see pic). "WHY?!?!" Steve and I exclaimed simultaneously. And, we couldn't help but laugh. Why of all places in the house would she lie down there? In the picture, you can see the edge of the spatter that stretched to the other end of the kitchen, the bloody dishtowel, and a piece of the ceramic bowl. Thankfully, she was and is just fine. Although Steve and I are that much closer to heart attacks.

If you care to see the full pics, e-mail me and I'll send them to you. As I was cleaning up the blood, a question occurred to me: who cleans up after really big accidents or crimes? Is there a service that the police provide, or companies that specialize in that sort of thing? It's a morbid thought but if the accident had been more serious and had a worse outcome, who is going to want to come home and clean that up? There are so many things in life that you just don't think about until you need them. I hope I never have a need for that particular one.

We've learned one thing from this whole experience: From now on, we're going to let God dry the dishes.

No one blogs anymore

The public has called, and I'm here to answer...

After much begging, a fair bit of cajoling, and a dash of threatening, I have returned dear readers!

Unfortunately, I've nothing more to say than I ever did, but at least I can continue to say it here for you.

The trouble is: what to say? It's dangerous to talk about work, inadvisable to talk about friends and family, inappropriate to talk about lovers, and trite to talk about oneself. So, where does that leave me? I guess it leaves me to talk about total strangers.

I have been going on regular evening runs with a friend along an OC beach boardwalk. It is amazing to me how many people leave their blinds facing the ocean wide open. The boardwalk is totally public and easily accessible. It has become a guilty pleasure to sneak a slightly blurred peek as I whiz by each sliding glass door. OK, swish by. Ok, slog by.

A few things I've seen surprise me not at all. Lavishly furnished multi-floor townhouses. Tiny, run-down summer rentals. Condos packed with surfer kids sharing overstuffed bedrooms.

However, I see some things that are very interesting to me. First, that almost every place has a TV on, and most of them are flat screen plasma-style. Second, when American Idol is on, EVERY TV is watching it. One can watch the muted show through windows in a bizarre sort of flipbook fashion as you run past. The Nielsen folks don't need to do mail-in surveys or surreptitiously log TiVo selections. All they need to do is send someone on a Segway down the boardwalk during primetime.

In fact, I may have seen just that last week, when I passed a Segway in transit along the boardwalk. Of course, that may also have been someone working on the movie they were filming that night. Only in so Cal can a person have to dodge a film crew and lights as bright as the sun when going for an evening run. We didn't even get a celebrity sighting out of the deal.

Well, I managed to fill up an entry talking about absolutely nothing. Hopefully, I'll come up with something more fun for next time, if I can manage another next time before 6 more months have passed by.

Best...Day...Evar

No party peeps, I'm not talking about the day that Paris Hilton finally went to jail, although that day DOES come in a close second.

I am of course talking about July 21, 2007. My birthday, oh yes, but I'm not so self-centered as to praise the day for that reason alone. In fact, I've been feeling unsettled by the quickening pace of my birthday's return each year, and so do not especially like to recognize, much less celebrate, it's inevitable arrival. (Oops! That should be "its", sorry Mrs. Terry).

I'm still feeling the effects of that glorious weekend, literally, because I bought the gallon o' mudslide for the party from Costco. One friend had a drink from it, not too surprising that it was the very friend who talked me into buying the cask. But that was all. So, I've been (painfully I'm sure) skimming away at the bottle each evening since then. So, I'm drunk enough to want to blog, but not so drunk that I posted the "best" photo from that weekend. ;)

Anyway (clear throat - sip of mudslide), my excitement for July 21st this year was initially dulled by the realization that I am no longer in my mid-20s. Graduate school has swallowed my youth (with a soul chaser) and now I must face the world as a very well educated (and very poor) adult. Sigh. However, back in February, the universe decided to throw me a bone by aligning the stars such that the very birthday I was so dreading would also be the day that I had been waiting for for many, many months. Actually years, but who wants to seem that inexcusably nerdy? The release of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. On my very birthday. Actually, midnight on the eve of my birthday, but who's counting?

Immediately, I called my partner in ultimate Harry Potter nerditude, Lyndsay, and invited her to come visit me for the affair. We had been reading, re-reading, wondering, plotting, chewing, considering, speculating, supporting, discarding, reclaiming, unearthing, sorting, convincing, escorting and debunking every Potter theory that we could get our hands on. We had spent many a cell minute talking about Potterology. Going over and over the different ideas, the same books, the same characters, the different perspectives until it all bubbled into our own delicious soup of theory. Over time our favorite theory surfaced as the (SPOILER ALERT) *Snape is actually good and will try to help Harry in the end* idea. Once this was coupled with the motive that Snape was in love with Harry's mother Lily, we were hooked. We went back over all the books scanning for evidence to support this theory. I have to admit that initially we were skeptical when we first heard it. But, over time, we became staunch Snape supporters. So much so that we actually bought t-shirts trumpetting his redemption in the final book.

So, the date was on, and we couldn't wait... But of course we had to and did, along with the rest of the literati. Over the following months, we did our best to ignore rumors and spoilers with fairly excellent success. We became so obsessed with NOT finding out the truth that we covered our ears and hummed in our seats waiting for the showing of the IMAX version of the 5th movie that we attended before heading over to the bookstore on July 20th. Of course, EVERYONE at the theater was talking about the book, which were already being read in Europe and other time zones.

Finally, the big moment arrived, and we headed over to the bookstore, still with fingers poised to poke in ears at the mere whisper of a spoiler. We managed to enjoy the festivities with the other Potterphiles, and get a good place in line such that we were out of the store by 12:05, book in hand. We read aloud (to compensate for in-head reading speed differences) unti 3:45am. The following day was my actual birthday and we spent it in San Diego with more friends and family. We got back home at 11:30pm. We tried so hard to stay up, but we were exhausted. So, we resumed reading on Sunday. We had to stop and sleep a little midday, and we still were unable to stay up too late on Sunday night again for exhaustion. This must be how Lindsey Lohan feels all of the time, I thought. Monday morning, we read right up until Lyndsay had to catch her plane, almost finishing the book by a mere 140 pages. So close, damn sleep deprivation! We each finished that night and called each other to talk about it.

Everything we had thought was right. Well, MOST things. :) It was such a fun and satisfiying way to end the series. Ironically, it was sad, in a way. It's finally over. But the best part is, nothing can stop us from going back to the beginning and starting all over again, which we will after an amount of time appropriate to pay respect to the end of an era (remove hat).

My journey with Harry Potter into my 28th year was (like all my other journeys with Harry) bittersweet. For one thing, all the fun and friendship that surrounded me that weekend made me feel like the luckiest person alive. On the other hand, he made me realize that no amount of tea and cake can keep a 28 year-old up all night 3 nights in a row. Ah, touchee Harry, touchee...but I can't imagine a better way to learn that lesson than surrounded by people I love with a good book in hand.

Could this be Mesquite?

Dear Readers,
I'd like to invite you on a journey with me; a journey into the toilet. No, it's not as it sounds. Steve and I have decided to embark on a perilous quest. We are going in search of a litter-free lifestyle. The simple path would be to get rid of our cat. But, we have chosen the path less travelled. I want to have my cake and eat it to. Except instead of a cake it's a cat, and instead of eating it, it's not having to deal with litter bombs every evening and the smell of urine mixed with wheat every morning.

I'm going to train my cat...(drumroll)...to use the toilet!

Ok, stop laughing. It's actually more common than you might think. Many cats can be trained to use the toilet (see pic). I came upon this idea about 6 years ago when I saw a website called "How to toilet train your cat": http://www.karawynn.net/mishacat/toilet.html. It showcases a cat named Misha who was trained by her owner to use the toilet. Sadly, Misha has since perished from old age. But, her spirit lives on in countless cats who have since learned to use the toilet.

At that time, I had a cat named Buster. He was a "special" cat. By that I mean "special needs". He had problems. He was born with defective kidneys and anxiety, which leads to a lot of bathroom trouble. Plus, I was living in a small studio apartment with one toilet. So, I decided to wait. I'm not sure what exactly I was waiting for. I guess some sort of apparatus that would make the process easier (than using a kitchen bowl, as suggested by the website). Then, one came about. It was a flimsy plastic tray that fit on the toilet. It was designed for cats under 10 pounds only. Buster weighed in at 13+, so no luck. Buster and I moved a few times and then had roommates who were great, but would not like to mess with the process.

Then, Buster passed on, and thoughts of toilet training went with him. As you remember, about a year ago, Mesquite arrived in my life. She has been my fluffy little security blanket, complete with toe-stretch action and "prrooww!" noises. Right away, Mesquite started showing signs of litter trouble. Within a month of adopting her we ended up at the vet getting tummy x-rays to discover she was eating her litter. So, I switched to wheat-based litter, which doesn't hide smells very well. Steve moved in with Mesquite and me early this year. He, like so many cat owners before him, loves the cat, hates the box. Sending Mesquite outside wasn't an option. We live in a coyote-ridden neighborhood that serves as a "cat-sink" in ecological terms. Meaning, cats come in, but don't go out. So, Mesquite doesn't leave the apartment, for toilet business or any other reason.

One day, for fun, I suggested that we toilet train her. I was kidding, but Steve took the thought seriously, and started asking how this could be accomplished. I explained that you need to use an extra bowl, and it's messy. Steve doesn't like messy things. So, we joked about it, but still were not pursuing it. Then, one day, I was at the pet store, when I saw it...the litter kwitter http://www.litterkwitter.com. It's a 3-tray system that gives your cat less litter and more toilet over time (see pic). Plus, it's sturdy and fits snuggly on the toilet. The clouds parted and I felt that this was our answer. I bought it immediately. When I presented it to Steve at home, he laughed and said "wow, ok." So, we watched the accompanying video (hilarious, by the way), and we were ready to start.

But then, we remembered that we were having visitors for the next few weeks. Not a good time to embark on this experiment. Plus, we will be away for a week soon, and would be embarrassed to have the neighbors see the device. So, we waited. But soon, we will begin. I will try to chronicle the journey here, if I remember... 'Till then, best wishes, and I will see you in the toilet.

What do you get...?

when you combine a memorial dedicated to canine astronauts, a series of floral radiographs, and an interactive display of the mechanical details of the metaphysical practice of string manipulation?

You get the Museum of Jurassic Technology.

If you don't believe me, see it for yourself: http://www.mjt.org/

Is it a joke? Is it the result of the machinations (or whimsical fancies) of an insane mind? Is it a complex metaphorical diorama, explicating the various ways in which curious humans have had a brush with greatness because they discovered an alternative way to describe their own surroundings, but failed because they happened to be wrong? --> I can't take credit for this theory, as it was originally put forth by my sister, Marcie.

Half the fun is guessing!

We originally found the museum of jurassic techology in a tour book of the Los Angeles area. Steve mentioned that a friend had been there and thought it was strange, but worth the trip. I knew immediately that the best person to take was the folklore guru and roadside attraction aficionado, Marcie.

As luck would have it, she would be visiting in a few weeks from that day, so we made the plan official. When Marcie arrived, she continued to be the amazing shrinking woman, as she had lost substantially more weight. Somehow her body has mananged to drop some pounds in a normal fashion and shuttle others to her chestal region, making her front bigger as the rest becomes smaller. This is in sharp contrast to my recent attempt to lose fat by gaining muscle, which resulted in fat lost specifically from my breasts and muscle adding specifically to my shoulders and neck...sexy. Seriously, though, she looks great! By the way, our hair-telepathy has not been clouded by the addition of extra breasts between us.

When we arrived in Culver City, we found a strange mosaic of fancy new strip mall style shops, old neighborhood beatnik restaurants, and run-down older buildings that looked a little shady. The museum initially appeared to belong to the latter category. It was a two-story building that looked like an old house that had been turned into a business, and had since been boarded up and allowed to decay. As we approached it with minor trepidation, we agreed that if the place was too strange, or the day threatened to turn into an adventure a la the film House of Wax, http://houseofwaxmovie.warnerbros.com/, we would run away and meet back at the car.

The wooden door with ironworking looked like it hadn't been opened in years. I immediately wondered if the tour book was outdated. Then, we noticed a small sign on the door welcoming us to ring a bell for entry. I gave the door handle an experimental tug and it opened.

When our eyes adjusted, we saw a dimly lit foyer, with a pleasant and clean musuem shop, a resting tourist on a bench, and a nice looking man sitting behind a desk welcoming us with a large smile. He asked if we had been to the museum before, and pointed to the guest book. He suggested we watch the movie first. The place was quite popular and we saw many other guests, varying in their reactions from bewilderment, amusement, trepidation, and eventual acceptance. I wondered if it was a psychological experiment in how people will react to strange surroundings. This thought seemed confirmed as we made our way to the tea room, where I noticed that no one felt comfortable to accept a free drink in these unusual premises. However, people seemed more than happy to partake in the tray of cookies. As we explored the building, it soon became evident that the place was much larger inside than it appeared. Rooms snaked back and forth beyond the boundaries of the outside structure. This fact combined with the dim lighting and uneven flooring left an unsettled feeling.

I cannot say anything more because you must see it to believe it. And, I recommend it to any philosopher, adult or child. I mean that in the most basic sense: "a person who seeks wisdom or enlightenment." Although you may find neither within the walls of mjt, you will certainly enjoy looking for them.