Sacrificing my integrity so you don't have to be bothered.

One of my favorite things about the never-ending sketchfest called Craigslist is its "missed connections" section. This is where dozens of people, who are likely emotionally imblanced or sex starved, post notes to strangers they saw on the street, train, or anywhere else. In a pleasing display of romanticism, they leave these notes on the board and hope the missed connection will read the message. Then, the two will live happily ever after. Or at least go on a really creepy date. I bring you, the best of the Boston area's "missed connections" from this week, written by men to women.

I saw you today (about 4pm or so) browsing in China Fair on Mass Ave.
I tried to make eye contact and smile, but I don't think it worked :(

Okay, this person clearly doesn't understand missed connections. If she never even saw you, how would she know this message is about her? Dumbass.

I admire this second man's attention to wardrobe:

The second I got on the train at Copley and noticed your warm smile, I was smitten. I sorta smiled when I saw that you were enjoying music on your ipod touch so much you were "boppin" your head to it. Seemed like you were enjoying yourself. I was dying to ask you what you were listening to. And I saw the chance to, when that seat opened up right next to you. Instead I froze up, and watched another guy ( the one with the mowhawk )sit in that seat. The seat I should have grabbed.
You got off at Bu east. Thought I'd look out the window to wave if I saw you. But that would not be my luck. Taking your heart-warming beauty with you. Yet leaving some of your positive vibes with me. Thank you , you made my night :)
You wore your blonde hair in pigtails. Had a pair of smooth ocean/sky-blue droplet earrings. A light-cream almost sleeveless top. The shoulders were flared. Flared ,light blue jeans. With a pair of white flip flops.

I was the guy with dreadlocks who was being foolishly shy :)

At least this guy was made a better citizen by his missed connection:

To the girl who talked me into voting again I would love to sit down and chat sometime. I know a great place for fruit drinks

Fruit drinks? Okay, well if I am going to sit through a date with a guy who didn't have the balls to ask me out in real life, I am going to need something a little punchier. And finally, someone who hates Boston (there are people like that?!).

I think Boston is filled with these species and I find it hard to understand them! I just moved here and surprised at their snobbish behavior.

I bet you all wish to kick us all out of here! Right?

And this is happening to me who is no wanker! God knows how the common man is surviving here:).

Maybe next week I'll set up a sting operation to catch one of the hookers from the erotic section. There is really nothing I won't do for this blog.

Self-Inflicted and Uncalled For

For no reason, other than that I feel like it, I am going to undertake a Catherine the Greatest history-making effort: 20 posts in 30 days!

Do you think I can do it? Do you want me to even try? Do you have anything you want me to write about! Leave it in the comments section.

Brace yourselves. It could get messy.

P.S.- I am counting 30 days as Oct. 6t through Nov. 6. because I posted that lovely entry about Cotton Mather and it should count for something.

Something I don't remember from AP history

I just finished reading The Heretic's Daughter, a first effort by Kathleen Kent. It turned out to be, by far, the best historical novel I've read since Sarah Plain and Tall. And I hold that book in HIGH ESTEEM, people. Kent's book takes place during The Salem Witch Trials, a subject many of us are familiar with, and one which has the potential to grow stale quickly when revisited in fiction. But Kent makes the trails an entirely personal affair, telling the story through the imagined words of Sarah Carrier, daughter of Martha Carrier, who was hanged for being a witch. It's a searingly intimate portrayal of one of the most incredibly times in U.S. history.

But this is not a book review. Instead! I have to pass onto you a piece of information I gleaned during a tour of the Witch History Museum in Salem this weekend, which was only enriched by reading Kent's book and having all of that witchy scandal still saturating my brain.

Cotton Mather, famed Puritan minister, was partly responsible for starting and perpetuating the mass hysteria and utter craziness that culminated in the deaths of nineteen innocent people. He was, by all accounts, a full-time, first-class freak show. In fact, he routinely dug up the bodies of dead, deformed babies, convinced they were the work of Satan, and displayed them in his lab as proof of such. (If you think I'm being unfair, you can read some of Mather's side, here).

Anyway, interestingly enough, Cotton Mather's pappy, Increase Mather (Increase? Not a typo!), was the first American-born President of Harvard University! His tenure was somewhat marred by controversy, but Cotton enrolled without issue when he was 12, and graduated with an M.A. at 18. He eventually become a fellow at Harvard, and according to tour guides at the Witch History Museum, despite his greatest wishes, was never considered for President because of his loathsome reputation once the Trials were deemed ridiculous and unfair.

Bitter and scorned, Mather's next actions bring a whole new aspect of delight to the greatest Ivy League rivalry in the U.S.

Mather saw potential in a school in Connecticut, one which he hoped, unlike the increasingly liberal lost cause Harvard (*cough*theydidn'twantyou*cough*), could become a haven for the Puritan religion. He contacted wealthy businessman Elihu Yale, and convinced him to make a substantial donation, and to change an existing college's name to Yale University (it had previously been known as the College at Saybrook and various other names, until it moved to New Haven).

So. There you have it. Harvard wouldn't take crazy Cotton Mather, so he went and essentially founded Yale as we know it today. Next time you get stuck in a conversation about The Ivy League, and don't want to bring up grade inflation again, whip out these tidbits. You are welcome.

This would have been a great story for Wishbone.

Never say I didn't warn you.

Recently, while on a binge-perusal of Post Secrets, I came across one with a picture of Mr. Rogers. The writing said "You never prepared me for how cruel the world can be."

This sparked a brilliant idea. What if there was a children's show that did just that? One that prepared children for the twists and turns that are inevitable parts of life, a show where the host informed youngsters of the harsh realities of the adult world. Just imagine. I immediately began formulating a list of show topics in my brain.

Episode One: Car Accidents
Episodes Two and Three: Credit Card and Student Loan Debt
Episode Four: When your boyfriend cheats
Episode Five: Unemployment
Episode Six: Health Insurance.

The options are really limitless. We've all had those moments, where you just want to yell at your parents, your teachers, anyone. YOU NEVER TOLD ME IT WAS GOING TO BE LIKE THIS. This show, while brutal and will most likely reduce viewers to tears, will solve that problem. Children will graduate pre-school well-versed in relevant topics, such as the housing crisis, war in the Middle East, and dependence on foreign oil.

Come on PBS, what do you say? Instead of having that damned trolley lead to the land of make believe, let's give those kids a nice dose of reality.

Please leave suggested titles for the program in the comments section.

Confessions of a summer intern, part 1

If you've ever met me, I've probably kvetched senselessly to you at one point or another about the pitfalls of summer internships. The chief complaint being that this summer, I hemorrhaged money paying for transportation and other necessities to maintain an unpaid internship, which a lot of the time, wasn't worth the time and money spent. That, and they spelled my name wrong on the masthead. Yeah, my first name. The one that follows the most traditional spelling of a name that has been around for, oh, you know, centuries. But I should remember my place. I am, after all, a lowly intern, and in fact, am lucky to have a name at all.

In all seriousness though, my summer internship wasn't all that bad. I left with a couple of clips (sort of, that's still pending), and a few lines of credibility added to my resume. And most of all, I was grateful for the experience after reading this: The Story of The Pooping Intern.

And I thought it was embarrassing when I spilled salad dressing all over myself. That's mere child's play.

(Note: Details of the poop story have been called into question, but one thing is for sure: the intern pooped in areas of the office other than the bathroom, and that's all that matters, really.)

On a related note, reading this story on Gawker renewed my passion for the publishing industry. The fact that someone got to write that headline, and the lines "This poop story is truly nightmarish," or "Pooping intern: We salute your courage." If one day I can write things like that, and get paid for it, maybe I'm on the right path after all.