Day 5: Yes, I Sunday nap in Africa…

 

I met Aquinas last night. Aquinas is the pastor of the Church I went to today. I think I’m going to save this story for later. It is too complicated.

I spent today at rest. I realized that I’ve been doing about 470% more social activity than I am comfortable with and that I needed a few hours to chill. I ate a protein bar for lunch and came back to my room after Church to nap and read. I’m sawing my way through “Sound and the Fury.” I’m close, but I have struggled much of the way. For those who have read it, I’m on Dilsey’s section and so glad to be away from that jerk-off Jason. I am thinking about rereading the first part now that I have some idea of what in the world is going on.

Observation: The last two mission’s classes I’ve taken required spending a collection of hours with non-western ethnic groups. I think those projects may have been what made this week doable. I’ve noticed that I am able to connect easily with the people I’m meeting, but I don’t have a good category for what to do with the emotions that the connection stirs. I thought I had it figured out when I was falling asleep at nap today, but that was sleep induced delirium.

Basic Report:
I’m eating. Everything has bones or some other abnormality, but I’m not visibly losing weight any more. I still take tylenol PM before I fall asleep to stay asleep all night. (If anyone knows of the active ingredient that makes you sleepy in tylenol PM, please comment it. I’m almost out and they have never heard of it here.)

The weather has been perfect. Today was the first day I sweated. 50-70 degrees. The Kenyans are freezing. It is such a hoot to see them wearing Northeast looking puffy jackets and complain of the chill. I tell them that this weather is perfect. You don’t sweat or shiver. It makes being outside almost nice. I hear that Mombassa is a tropical, hot and humid place. I have ten days there. I don’t think it will be as comfortable AND they have sand.

Irony:
I met two American graduates from James Madison University in Virginia. They got a small grant to build their “stairmaster” water pump project for a village in Western Kenya. They were late to dinner tonight. Mama Bear (housekeeper) said it best, “Boys and a ball. You know?” Coincidentally, there is a European Soccer tournament that has everyone excited tonight. I am just as useless in African sports conversations as American ones.

Tomorrow I go back to Kibera to visit a different school. 

Day Four: Dinner with REAL Africans… This should be “interesting”

Okay. It happened. I knew it would, but I didn’t think it would come so soon. I  mentioned earlier that Peter invited me to his student apartment for dinner. (For mental imagery sake, imagine any low-rent furnished university housing) Tonight was the night. I think you should have to do this with me, so let me tell you how it goes down in Africa. 

First thing: Hospitality. I’ve told you that Kenyans are nice, but I haven’t mentioned what a big deal it is to have a guest. They truly believe that guests are a gift from God. So they treat them like they were. Even when they can’t afford it.

I’ve been coached that I should bring a small gift. I brought a pineapple and  two packs of M&M’s for Peter and Marble (yes, “Marble” is her name and not a typo). I brought a pocket full of school supplies for their children. They looked at me like I had two heads. Obviously they had better gear in their backpack than the spare pencil and pen from the dollar store. They were almost impressed by the candy suckers. I gave his daughter a bracelet that my eldest asked me to give to a little girl in Kenya. That went over a little better. So I cleared the gift exchange hurtle.

Then comes the sit down here alone in the living room while we prepare the meal phase. I watched gospel television. Did you know that Joel Osteen is on in Africa? Later Peter came out and joined me for conversation and it was really great. His son, Bernard, stared at me like I just disembarked from the UFO. We did this for thirty minutes. 

Marble appeared from the kitchen with a basin and a pitcher. Time to wash hands. Yes, they have indoor plumbing. The water was even warm. They do this in the village and it makes sense. “Why do we want our guests get up and go to the toilet or the kitchen to wash when we can serve them where they are.” I’m telling you, REAL hospitality is intense. She poured water over my hands and Bernard gave me a squirt of liquid soap. Marble poured again and I rinsed. They repeated the ritual for Peter. 

Then comes the dilemma. My hands are dripping, so I stand in the living room looking like a surgeon about to scrub in wondering if I’m supposed to wipe my hands on my adventure pants (“adventure pants” = cargo pants seasoned with more than one day’s wear) when Peter hands me a napkin and directs me to my seat.

I sit at the head of the table opposite Bernard. Peter and Marble are on my right; Peter’s daughter and teenage sister sit on my left. We have plates with no silverware. There are three serving dishes, two were covered. The third resembled a plate of “Close Encounters of the Third Kind” mashed potatoes. But those aren’t potatoes…oh no. We pray and they reveal to me the food challenge. (errr…menu)

“This (pointing to the mashed potatoes) is ‘ugali.’ It is corn meal.” She cuts, yes cuts, it with a knife and takes a slab and serves the kids. Turns out the “mashed potatoes” have the molecular density of velveeta. This stuff is like spongy white lead. 

“This is ‘ukuma-wiki.’” Greens. I can do greens. Think wet boiled spinach with spices.

“And this is chicken prepared in the Luhya way. Well…half-way.” She pulled back the foil revealing a plate of chicken pieces. I’m going to pause here for a comment. When I say “pieces” you think KFC and picking out what “piece” you will sample or some other form of poultry pleasantness. When I see a plate of chicken bones with the meat still attached, I see TIME magazine’s goriest war photos ever edition, with a special pullout feature on the holocaust. This grosses me OUT. Peter motions for me to “choose.” So I reach my hand into the foil trying not to look like I’m petting a black cobra and take the drumstick. Thankfully, this chicken was more like a place-kicker/punter than an offensive lineman. It was a small leg.

Peter then tells me that I chose the wrong piece. Turns out there is a hierarchy of chicken carnage. The elder male is only permitted to take the “stick.” Thankfully, there were two so he let me keep mine. But then after telling me, “the way you know you are honored in my tribe is if they serve you chicken.” He then tells me that I must also take the most honored part of the chicken. Wait for it…yes, the gizzard. I clench my jaw and reach back into the abomination for the dark brown fleshy thing. At least it doesn’t have bones.

After my plate of intestinal/psychological destruction was set and I recited the mantra, “I will not hurk” a dozen times, Peter asked if I wanted silverware  AKA “mzungu hands” (white-man hands). I declined and followed his tutelage on making a ball with the cornmeal play-dough and scooping up a gob of greens. Surprisingly that was the best spinach I have ever eaten. I complimented Marble and she told me that it was cut fresh today. She grew in their village garden. 

“Village Garden?” I asked.
“Yes. This is our city village here.” She said. 

Marble and Peter explained how life worked in their village and the similarities to their “home village.” This wasn’t their ‘heart’ village. Their real village is where their parents live. This is just a house, but they try to make it as much like home as possible.

You haven’t forgotten the chicken yet have you? Yeah. Me either. Peter took a bite of gizzard. My turn. I scan my plate. Unfortunately, the gizzard lays there waiting and inexplicably resembles a small pig’s ear dog toy. 

“I will not hurk. I will not hurk.”

I hate that guy on Fear Factor, but man I wished I had him on a headset to encourage me.
“Two bites left man! You can do it!”

Then I had to clean the bone of that chicken. Robot chew. Just robot chew. I intentionally bit into gristle and fat. 

I chewed things. Unnatural things.

“I will not hurk.” 

I was sweating, but I did it. We washed hands again. Then there was orange wedges. I ate 3. For the record, I don’t like touching oranges either, (for different neurotic reasons. I hate citrus fingers) but after I ate gizzard, orange juice on my cuticles was like driving 7 over the speed limit after escaping from a double murder, bank robbery with a trunk full of drugs. Whatever. Bring on the oranges. We talked and prayed to close the evening. 

The Saliky family showed me a wonderful dinner and I was so grateful, that I almost cried. They were so appreciative of my visit. Before I left they complimented me. 

“Most mzungus don’t make it. You did good.”

In other news: I spent the day driving around the city in the back of an eight person van. Michael, the catering company boss, took his employees on a tour of every coffee shop and hotel/guest house in the suburb. My job was to give “western feedback.” I sat in the back row and talked about Africa with the waiter and the cook. The best part of the day was eating Africa fast food and getting to serve the Africans. They were totally weirded out by me placing a servlet (napkin) and plastic forks next to their trays of fried food. 

I also got to see Karen’s house from the novel “Out of Africa.” I don’t think I mentioned this, but the suburb here is named in her honor. Her coffee farm covered this part of Nairobi in early 1900’s. Yes. If you’ve seen the movie, Meryl Streep played Karen. Her book was recommended to me by my genius, atheist friend like this:

“Read this. It is the best prose you will ever read.”
“Out of Africa? Like the movie, ‘Out of Africa?’” I asked.
“No. The movie was crap, but she writes some of the best prose ever printed. Shut up and read the book.”

Tomorrow I’m going to Church with a new church plant in the city. They have 15 members and meet outside.

Awkward.

Day Three: Black Apple.

Okay…Today was TOTALLY different than yesterday. I can’t even begin to describe the night/day factor. I was up until 3:45 fighting jetlag and the memory of Kibera. It was an awful night of no resolution.

Today was a distraction/errands sort of day. I went to the Kenyan version of Wal-Mart-Mall.

The reason: My laptop battery died. 

Full health, 100%, then BOOM! Empty. (They say “your battery went flat” here) This will be bad here as electricity can be hard to come by. I lamented my crisis to George, “Yeah, like I’m going to find an Apple Store in Africa.” 

“Actually there are two across town.” He laughed.

I took a taxi to this modern mall, that is cooler than many I’ve seen in America. Think Galleria level, but smaller and Euro/Indian/African. You won’t believe me, but the Cure’s “Close to Me” was playing on the sound system when I entered the mall. The only American-only stores I saw was the Converse Chucks store and the movie theater. I was tempted to watch a movie, but my plans went south when I found the apple corner. Not store. Corner.

They sold Apple gear, but no warranty work. I doubted they could help, but I hoped. When I approached the two guys about the battery replacement, they showed me the glass case with 9 items. I doubted, but one of the mystery apple items was my battery. YES! But the price: over double of the US. NO!!!

I couldn’t justify that much. It was the 1/3 the price of a new machine. So I complained and left. I browsed the mall which made me feel very normal. (I’m a consumerist whether I like it or not.) I ate pizza and drank a diet Coke. (Coca-Cola Light) Then I went back to browse the bookstore that the Apple corner was in. The one guy remaining at the corner called me over. 

It turns out that the dude who left has a battery like I need. He will only charge me half of the price, but I can’t do the transaction through the store. I said I was interested and after 2 hours of phone calls reminiscent of drug trafficking scenes from movies and a meeting location set in the coffee shop I met with “battery man” to buy my off the grid part. He gave me a cool story with it about an American with a broken machine, blah, blah, blah. I tested the gear it worked. I paid him under the table and we were gone. 

Three days in Africa and I’m into the black market. I’m so out of my league.

That is the only obscure story, but here’s what else “happened” today. D and I figured out a chat schedule. I was “shining” one lady said after our chat. I just got back from  dinner with 4 missionary families and their stories were too good to broadcast. I’m saving them for the private reserve. The chicken was on the bone. Everyone picked their bones clean. I left the knuckles and skin alone, but ate all of the meat. Be proud for me.

While I have a moment, let me tell you about Kenyans. You know how people say southerners are nice? Or so-and-so people are friendly? I might put money that people all over the world are RUDE compared to Kenyans. The warmth and smiles you receive from eye contact and conversation is like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

Hardest thing that happened today: My driver. I told him I went to Kibera yesterday. He told me he LIVED in Kibera and had for 10 years. Started a family there and now had a  wife and three daughters. This totally really broke me. He didn’t look like the people I saw yesterday. I may have passed his house. One of his girls could be in my photo album. I may have seen his wife and baby. I had to confront there in passenger seat the thing I/we do. We dehumanize the people. We try to make them “other” or scenery; somehow bound to the place. His name is Ignateous (Most Kenyans have a tribal name and a Christian name. Ignateous was the name of Pope from way back. His tribal name meant “morning,” because he was born in the morning). We had a wonderful conversation. He wasn’t dirty or smelly like that place was. Actually his shirt was better pressed than mine and I think his outfit was more stylish. He lives there because it is affordable. He told me how they share an open hole latrine with their neighbors. They buy water for 2 shillings a liter. They use 60 liters a day. (That’s 50 cents of water per day). I felt shameful buying a battery for a computer that probably cost more than he makes in a month.

I was thankful for a western diversion day. Kibera really messed me up. I’m still trying figure out God, me, and that place. (See I did it again: “that place,” not people). 

I have no good answers.

Day 2: The Ghost of Kibera

I left out a section from yesterday. I made a key friend here. His name is Michael. Michael and his mother, Lucy, run the catering company for the guest house I’m staying in and the World Vision HQ. (You know the one I hurked in yesterday? Yeah. That one.) Michael seems to know everything and everyone in the city. Late yesterday, Michael took me to his mentor from his time YWAM (Youth With A Mission, they are huge in Kenya. Who knew?) 

He drove me to Paul’s place. This is where I realized how amazingly foolish/faithful/stupid I am. We drove 25 minutes into a city I don’t know to the part of town you don’t go. It was unsettling. I started to feel really uneasy, but I was there, so I went with it. Paul’s high rise looks like the kind of building they model first person shooter levels from. Dark, exposed wires, weird (and I mean weird) non-businesses/shops. All the windows were broken and the view overlooked the parking lot which the building shared with what I THOUGHT was the Nairobi slum. (It wasn’t. More on that later.)

Fifth floor. We go to this gated hallway. Heavy iron bars with chipped yellow paint and locks lead into a claustrophobic hallway. This looks like where you buy drugs, not hook up for ministry opportunities. Then we go into Paul’s office. The room was shining. Not because of the windows or lights, but this man. He was energy, passion, and Holy Spirit in a smile. For the next hour, I don’t think I said 2 sentences. He told me about his mission in Kibera, the Nairobi slum. He oversees two schools inside the slum. (I say inside because you go into a different world. This is the darkest, weirdest, saddest, scariest, thing I may have ever seen. That scary place I saw from the window…that was a flea market. I knew nothing about scary. I learned.)

By the end of my time with Paul, I had agreed to go to see his school at 9:00 in the morning and visit the other on Monday. I awoke today to go in.

We were late getting to Paul’s. He went to a meeting. He left me a guide, Protoss. (Yes, Starcraft fans, Protoss.) Protoss was a former YWAM DTS leader and was going to take me to the school inside Kibera. 

Yes. For clarification sake, Paul was not coming and neither was Michael. I’m going into the Nairobi slum with someone I don’t know coincidentally named after an alien race in a famous computer game. 

We walked for a mile on the orange dusty shoulder of the highway and then came to a place with dozens of bus taxis, a few shop stalls, and a hundred idle men. Protoss walked into the maelstrom. I followed two steps behind. Let me paint this for you:

Have you ever been hiking? Like in the mountains? You know how if the trail isn’t smooth, you look at your feet? You find good footholds. A strong root. A half-buried rock. A packed trail. You HIKE into Kibera. Nairobi is flat. Kibera isn’t. The terrain is never flat. It is years of garbage piled into a landscape. You hike a mud trail through a populated land fill. Every step looking for a dry stone. A wood plank. Dry trash. Because the “road” is a two lane path with a creek of liquid sewage running down the middle with crossdrains you have to jump/step over every 50 yards. Finally, uphill, downhill, you pass through the valley of two 20’ hills of garbage only to reach the “real entrance” a bridge over the trash river.

And then it was worse.

I haven’t mentioned any people. Nor the flea market style booths selling everything from shoes and surplus american clothes, to raw meat. (The flies are free). I didn’t mention them because only because I was so focused on my footing. Now we need to add them to the picture. People are everywhere. Imagine a busy mall at Christmastime. Some standing. Some talking. Some walking like us. Others carrying loads or bundles of every imaginable burden. Everywhere. Crowded into the claustrophobic paths all going everywhere and nowhere. And every eye looked at me. “MZUNGU” = white guy in Swahili. I heard that word over one hundred times today. Every eye looked at me, the white man. I said it got worse because I realized this is where they live.

 

The deeper we trekked the more children and animals I saw. The children chanted, “HOW ARE YOU?” when they saw me. It is the only english they know. They say it to the white people and smile. I brought a cargo pocket full of suckers. I didn’t give away a single one. There were too many children. They were everywhere in the “streets.” 

“How are you?”

I asked if the people lived in the shops.

“No” Protoss said, “Dis is main street. Day live behind Da shops.” He pointed down a dark gap/alley and you could see “houses.” Imagine that dark alley in Diagon Alley from Harry Potter. Now take away the all the magic replace it with mud and sewage and 6’ roofs. Ding. We crested a hill and I looked out for miles on the roofs of the “houses.” It seemed to go on forever. Dear God it goes on forever.

“How are you?”

After four untraceable turns and 30 minutes walk into the bowels of Kibera, I knew that if I lost Protoss, I had to make peace that I would never get out of this maze. Then we arrived at the school. We passed through a green metal gate into an open courtyard and there was light. It felt like Paul’s office again. Several dirty children played in the sun, but there was no trash. It was “clean” here. They stopped and looked at me. One older one said, “Your hair is bright!” 

There were 4 classrooms and a church that had a sanctuary the same size as mine at home. Protoss showed me the kitchen: a closet with the biggest pot I have ever seen. (Think Bugs Bunny cartoons where they throw him in the pot big.) He showed me the gigantic construction size bags of maize and beans. 

“Come. Let’s sort tomorrow’s beans.”

So we did. You have to pick the rocks, dirt, bugs, and wood out. We talked for an hour comparing our home churches. We finished and it was devotional time. I was mobbed in the courtyard by dozens of small children. Little hands dragged me into church to sit on the front row. They petted my hair, my nose, and pulled my arm hair for 10 minutes while Protoss organized the room. He asked me to tell the story. I did. It was one of the best preaching experiences I’ve ever had. Then it was food. They quit playing with me for food. They were that hungry. Every child got a giant plate of beans and maize (corn). The littlest ones ate half and came back for seconds. I don’t think I will ever think about the “what are we going to have for dinner?-I don’t know?-What do you want?-I don’t know?”debate the same way again. They eat the same lunch every day for their entire childhood. We complained about soy burgers and square pizza. They don’t complain.

For the next hour they crawled all over me. I’ve never been touched that much in my life. You know the web site that tells you “How many kindergartners could you take in a fight?” I know. The answer is nine. If you get 4 on each arm and one pulling your hair while hanging from your back, you should just tap out. You’re not going to make it. I know this now.

I took pictures. I patted heads. I gave a high five. I left.

We hiked out.

“How are you?”

“I don’t know.”

Day One: Look for the red. You won’t believe it…Yes, actually, you will.

*If you are short on time skip down until you see the red word and read to the end*

I met my contact, George, over breakfast. I had toast with scrambled eggs on top of them. The eggs were white and small. I think they were powdered. It was a nice plain meal. The coffee was mediocre, but necessary. Turns out you only need to take one Tylenol PM for your first night in Africa. Two makes you feel like an unseen force is pushing a transparent pillow over your head, pinning you to the bed

George took me to get wireless access for the laptop from the seminary’s tech dept. Looks Tech departments all over the world hate to share their internets. They always look like you’ve asked them for the last cookie off the plate when everyone clearly knows that their are hundreds of cookies in the cupboard. It worked, but the range of the wireless doesn’t reach the guesthouse, so I’m in a blackout during the evening. 

While getting wireless, I met Peter. Peter is a mission’s student who will graduate in two weeks. He showed me around campus and hooked me up with a class to audit. He was crazy friendly. He said,  “You never know what God will show you when you meet someone.” Of course, now I feel all guilty not living up to expectations. I had tea at his apartment with his wife and children later. It was really nice. Thankfully, our missionary friends who lived in Nairobi gave me a crash course on African hospitality. They were spot on.

Here’s the only part of today you will remember or care about. You know World Vision? The sponsor a child for $30 a day folks? Today, I had lunch at their African/East African/Kenya/Nairobi head office. Yes Clayre, THE World Vision office for Africa. I didn’t even know they had an office here let alone the HOME OFFICE for Africa. But that isn’t the part you will remember; neither is this: I got the invitation by making friends with the catering company. So they invited me to WV. (this may sound like I’m “making things happen.” I’m not. I’m just saying “yes” whenever anyone asks me to do anything.)

THIS is the only part of this blog you will remember. You know how weird I am about food right? (If you don’t know here’s rules: I don’t eat anything on the bone OR anything that looks like it did when it was alive AND I hate fish/seafood)

LUNCH MENU: Tilapia. f i s h.

Not pecan encrusted, blackened, or filet…no. The whole fish, big as my hand, black and grey with spines, shriveled on a grill with scales, head on with burned out eye sockets. Because I was a “special guest” they even brought me specially made CHICKEN LEGS.
Freaking out? Yes, I was.

I sawed and clawed off a hunk of chicken wing and waited watching to see how you eat a fish. Some lady was working one across from me so I mimicked her technique. It went poorly. I made a mess and only cleared a few bites. I chewed. I hated it, but I chewed. Think “robot.” chew machine chew. chew. Then I looked down to scavenge another bite from the rancid carcass with the bones, scales, gaping gill and leathery skin. I gagged. It was little, but I did. The conversation at the table was going nicely. So I drank some juice.

“So why are you here in Africa?” some dude asked causing everyone turn to look at me.

I gagged again, not a little…oh no. Not a little.

“I need a bottle of water. Now.” I used a voice I reserved for this sort of crisis situation. I like to imagine that it is a forceful yet calm voice. Like an actor, Harrison Ford maybe. “I need a bottle of water. Now.“ 

I excused myself, went down the hall and hurked.

So there you have it. I’ve barfed at the World Vision Headquarters on my first full day in Africa. How many people can say that?
I think I’m special.

Epilogue:
I arrived back at the table encouraging the misbelief I had caught a fish bone in my throat and needed to flush it out. They all bought it. Yes, I’m that good. Even in Africa.

Day 1: Travel and the whole arriving thing…

I’m writing this from a twin bed under a mosquito net. It feels like those fake tents I made when I was kid out of blankets and sofa cushions. So yeah, I made it. It’s 10:00 Tuesday night Kenya (which is 2:00 Central). I spent the last 24 hours in airports, airplanes and taxis. 

The flights were great. The seat next to me was vacant on both flights. I slept through the wrong one and stayed awake on the sleeping one. I watched four movies ( “The Other Boleyn Girl, “Golden Compass,” “Atonement,” “Dan in Real Life”) plus 4 sitcoms and 2 cartoons. The inflight entertainment was more robust than my living room and I have to confess that I WANTED to watch Hanna Montana, but couldn’t justify it without the girls.  The food was bland, but pleasant and time consuming.

Things I learned in Amsterdam:

-Airport prices + unfavorable dollar vs. Euro + conversion plus commission = $20 coffee, donut and evian. 

-The “take-a-penny-leave-a-penny” is an American thing. At the airport barista, it is called the “tip jar.” No-touchy.

-Some local newscaster was on my plane. I big-timed him. 

 

After two hours in Kenya I know:

-Bug spray is a big deal.

-They have sprawl.

-They don’t convert “old” $100 bills.

-Being bad at math can lead to overtipping. (My taxi driver, Richard, REALLY likes me.)

-Mama Bear (not how you spell it) gave me the key to my room, it has orange tile floors, 70’s sheets and built in an unknown geometric shape. It has a shower, toilet paper and a power outlet.

Good times. Good night.

Plane leaves today at 3:00 pm for Amsterdam: 9+ hours.

Layover: 3 hours.

Fly south to Kenya: 8+ hours.

Supposedly, there will be a man waiting in Nairobi with my name on a card to drive me to the guest house.
Which sounds so cool.

One of the common questions I get is, “What stuff (small gifts/supplies) are you going to take and give to the people you meet?”

I’m so afraid of how this will work out.

What if I get there after several trips to Wal-Mart and Dollar Store only to stock a suitcase full of stuff that neither Africans nor Americans want. Then all I’ve done is transition objects destined for our landfill into their waste management system. I have no idea what they have there. My hosts were unable to provide good suggestions. 

The only request they made was for a few small run seminary books. I think the reason they didn’t have anything is not humility. It seemed like they don’t care about my stuff. As a consumerist, my initial view of everything, even Africa, is a commercial one. What do I have that you don’t? Or what can I buy that you can’t? Which implies the cool stuff is here and I don’t know how you live there. I think maybe it even implies how do you live without cool stuff?

I guess I’ll know soon enough. 

Up and coming…

In 5 days, I launch from my home continent to Africa.

I’m amazed that words like “country,” “continent” and “hemisphere” are all variable. According to my plane ticket, the world really is that big. Soon, my airplane will race the sun for almost a day to a place that I never imagined I would see off screen, to meet people I don’t know, and learn things I don’t know.

So where am I going?
Kenya. Nairobi and Mombassa.

Why?
To see lifestyle and culture that is as different from my own as I can imagine, which may offer a grounding for my “regular” life.
To fulfill an internship mission requirement for my degree.

I’ll be gone for 3 weeks. I’ll post in two sections: a quick overview intro followed by a depthy neurotic observation. If the internets cooperate, my goal is to post something every day. (Don’t laugh, I’ve been warned that water inside is not a guarantee).