Photo by lorenzolambertino

UM, SO YEAH. I got my Burning Man ticket. I’m one of, like, 20 people who did.

Yet, where is that excitement? The one I get when I know my spot on the playa has been secured, and I can move on with my life.

I’ll tell you where it is. It’s sitting in my inbox behind a slew of emails from friends who have been denied tickets. Seems more than half the people I know did not get one.

Not even those of us who did win tickets are happy. I defer to the playa-named Naughty Bits, who expresses this sentiment far more deftly than I ever could:

“Two cheap ones granted
Yet I am empty inside
Black Rock jumped the shark”

When he’s not composing rebellious haiku, Naughty creates really cool shit that allows us to communicate with space, plants, and more via multimedia. (It just bears saying because, like I said, really cool shit).

Others, while less eloquent, are just as clear in their discontent:

“This is bullshit.”

Or if you want more emphasis:

“This is BULLSHIT.”
– Roy, Jack, Noam, Mike, Alex, Brett, Britt, Sam, Frankie, Lucky, Lightbox and Playboy.

Then, there’s Hitler’s reaction.

And you know, once the Hitler Reacts meme has been invoked, things have truly hit rock bottom.

My Reaction?

I couldn’t concentrate, couldn’t work. I just sat around for two days watching my inbox to find out if I’d be one of the worthy to receive a golden ticket or would I, too, be tossed onto the ever-growing pile of ticket rejects.

They really do make everything better.

I eventually had to step away from the computer and spend some quality kitten time with our new kittens, Roco and Coco. Kittens make anything better.

But really folks. Really?

I thought Burning Man was about forging paths around the usual ways. It’s about doing things with your own ingenuity and not accepting an answer just because someone in authority gives it.

Has Burning Man forgotten its own Ten Principles?

1. Radical Inclusion: Anyone may be a part of Burning Man. We welcome and respect the stranger. No prerequisites exist for participation in our community.

“I feel bad I got a ticket when so many other veterans didn’t :-/ ”
–Candice Walsh

Does that sound like someone who feels included? I’m sure hearing Hitler shout about being a 12-time Burner and now his ticket will go to a tourist only made poor Candice feel worse.

2. Decommodification: (This is the big one. Are you watching carefully?) In order to preserve the spirit of gifting, our community seeks to create social environments that are unmediated by commercial sponsorship, transactions, or advertising. We stand ready to protect our culture from such exploitation.

Let me also remind those of you who didn’t get a ticket that they’re on sale at Stubhub.

$2800 for a ticket? My entire trip to Burning Man, which includes transportation from north-fucking-west Argentina doesn’t cost that much.

3. Radical self-reliance: Burning Man encourages the individual to discover, exercise and rely on his or her inner resources.

First, a quick overview of the 2012 Burning Man Lottery System:

When the regular ticket sales turned into lottery, I as well as many I know felt the new system played directly to the needs of scalpers. Still, we all registered for our tickets and waited patiently.

Then, days before the actual lottery drawing, Burning Man warned in their newsletter that many more registered for tickets than expected. Said the Jack Rabbit, “As a result, a significant number of people will not be awarded tickets in the Main Sale.” We mumbled a bit, but we manifested faith.

Now that we know so many didn’t get tickets, we’re asked, once again, to be patient. The Burning Man Organization — that is, BMORG — has set up the Secure Ticket Exchange Program — that is, STEP — so BMORG will buy back our unwanted tickets to then be sold back to the public through STEP.

I guess Sit-and-Trust-the-Cockamamie-System-Will-Work-For-You is the new radical version of radical self-reliance.

Three other principles to consider:

4. Immediacy: Seeking to overcome barriers that stand between us and a recognition of our inner selves.

5. Participation: Our community is committed to a radically participatory ethic. We believe that transformative change, whether in the individual or in society, can occur only through the medium of deeply personal participation. We make the world real through actions that open the heart.

6. Communal effort: Our community values creative cooperation and collaboration.

Is your heart open now? Do you feel as if you are recognizing your inner-self and overcoming barriers? Are we communicating? Collaborating? Striving to produce?

Or are we mostly sitting around bitching about this stupid system and dubbing Hitler movies while we wonder, well, if half of my camp doesn’t have a ticket, who the hell does?

This new system craps on approximately 60% of the main principles of Burning Man, which, by eyeball accounts, is roughly the same percentage of people who didn’t get tickets.

Coincidence? Yes, probably. But it’s annoying just the same.

So what are our options to fix Burning Man 2012 Ticketgate?

1. Chill the fuck out and wait.
2. Decide not to go and be pissed off.
3. Accept the inevitable — that Burning Man isn’t going to be any good this year.
4. Make it clear we’re not happy with things as they are and work toward a solution that serves the community in a real way.
5. Go play with kittens. This article offers some options.

I think the choice is clear.

Then, we can all just get our tickets and go back to the business of our lives where, hopefully, we’re doing something more worthwhile than worrying over tickets.

So please, BMORG. I beg of you. Listen to the community. Do something no one else would and take a mulligan. Burn the lottery to the ground and start all over at the beginning.

Or something.

Because we are Burners, you know, and waiting around usually isn’t our style.

A dwindling collection. Photo by the author.

I HAVEN’T BOUGHT a bar of soap in many years. No, I’m not dirty. I’m a hotel soaplifter. I like to steal hotel soap.

I come from a family of hotel soap thieves. Growing up, my dad would occasionally let me accompany him on business trips, and I enjoyed laying out all my pilfered hotel soaps on the bed after returning home just as much as I liked the trips themselves.

Most good hotels these days will give you two bars: one for the sink, and one for the shower. I will immediately stow the shower bar in my luggage, and, if it’s a hotel that has really nice soap, I might also hide the other bar that I’m using before the maid comes in the next day in hopes of getting two fresh bars.

But wait, it gets worse.

I also take soap from the housecleaners’ carts if they leave them unattended, or if my cute toddlers create enough of a diversion that I can snag some right out from under the maids’ noses. I’ve employed many different soap stealing tactics — the one I like best is to roam around the floor with an empty ice bucket, as though I’m looking for ice.

But these days, snagging extra hotel soap has become a tribulation. Some hotels give their maids these little shower caddy type things to hold their soap and toiletries, and they bring these annoying caddy things with them into the room they’re cleaning. I have only ventured into other people’s hotel rooms for soap under one very rare circumstance: the pursuit of extremely high quality, beautifully scented soaps.

Other maids might not have the caddies, but they will purposely position their cart in such a way to make it difficult to get to the soap and other toiletries. Some even go so far as to drape towels or newspapers over their goodies to discourage thieves like me.

All of these efforts to snuff out soaplifters tell me that I’m not the only one out there who likes hotel soap. I’m less fond of hotel shampoo, conditioners, and lotions because they tend to be of lower quality.

But a bar of soap, any soap at all, can be useful.

I have been caught in the act of taking soap off maids’ carts and, once, while looking for a document in my suitcase in the lobby, a whole stack of soaps fell out of my suitcase and into plain view of the front desk staff.

No one has ever said a word.

Out on Pirate Patrol in Lamu, Kenya. Photo by the author.

THERE ARE A TON OF US around, though I don’t know many personally. I’m based in Nairobi but I’m not an A-lister — like, I don’t work for a wire or a big-name Western news network — and while I’ve seen a handful of ladies at foreign correspondents’ night outs, I don’t hang out with them a lot (they intimidate me).

So I can’t speak on behalf of any foreign female journalists except myself. Nonetheless, I will likely offend both genders and all of my colleagues in writing this. Sweet.

Kenya is still a very much male-dominated country — not in the archetypal “no voting or driving” sense of the word, but women’s lib is just much less of a thing here, especially outside of wealthy and/or expat neighbourhoods. Like, it’s still widely accepted that a woman’s place is in the kitchen, and I am frequently ridiculed by Kenyan men for smoking, drinking, and being unable to cook for myself.

Then there’s the “potentially dangerous job” aspect of the situation. Add on being a noticeable foreigner, which makes you a walking ATM to lowlifes here, and my “easily victimized” triumvirate is complete!

I read the horror stories of female journalists abroad who were sexually harassed, assaulted, raped, and kidnapped — thinking of Lara Logan here — and I shudder. No one wants to be the girl who gets raped, or as one super-sensitive male colleague reflected, “damaged goods.” It’s evil and offensive and fuck that guy, but he definitely hit a nerve there. No one wants to get damaged like that. We don’t even want to talk about it.

Female foreign correspondents know that these risks are very real, in addition to the risk of getting murdered or hurt just for being a journalist without any gender-based influences. I have to seek out sketchy individuals in order to write a lot of my stories. There are always questions of: How far do I want to push it? Which risk is worth taking?

I’ve spent a lot of time in slums and shifty neighbourhoods, interviewed hustlers, victims, thieves, and killers, and travelled solo into regions and countries that people strongly advised me not to. I have taken what could be perceived as risks, and was scared shitless every time I did it.

The author doing a Maori war dance upon reaching Mt. Nyamuragira.

Just recently I spent weeks working on a story about organized crime and how gangsters played a role in Kenya’s 2007-08 post-election violence. After the first couple times out, I had to meet low-level, broke-ass gangsters alone on their home turf in Mwiki, a neighborhood miles outside of the city, which was as fucking nerve-wracking as you might imagine.

But so far, nothing horrible has happened — which I think is due more to luck, fearfulness, and oftentimes (sorry) protective male fixers/colleagues keeping an eye on me. I wish I could say it’s totally possible to do this job without any male help or support, or share some one-size-fits-all formula on how to make it work, but that’s not my reality. For me, getting the job done means a careful balance of operating within existing gender constraints, and ignoring said constraints when necessary.

Oh, ladies aren’t supposed to sit alone in sketchy downtown bars? (Well, unless you’re a hooker.) Fine, but I’m waiting on a contact who I must ply with booze. I need to be in a public place in case he is a scumbag. And no way am I taking a cab all the way to the suburbs to do it. Ignore the glares and keep moving.

Any lady in Africa knows that they will face some level of harassment when they’re out and about. Mitigate the risks if you can: I tend to dress like a hobo and wear sunglasses. But when your job involves talking/flattering/seducing (kidding!) sources into giving you what you need to know, this harassment becomes much more of a thing.

I’m sure I could get the information and interviews I need even if I was all stern and severe about dudes who hit on me — but sometimes the best way to keep the conversation alive is to be nice, bat your eyelashes, get the info, then flee the scene or lie your ass off before you’re expected to make good on the small talk. Is that horrible? It seems horrible just written out like that.

Example: In October I found myself on Lamu, an island just south of Somalia where three European tourists had just been kidnapped by pirates. I turned on the ol’ “charm” for the police force and was invited on an overnight pirate patrol as a result — score! Photo ops! Experiential journalism! But then I had to spend the night sleeping on a beach next to six bored male police officers who were my only protection against potential pirate kidnappers.

They couldn’t believe I was actually out there with them. The jokes and clever comments began around 2 a.m. At one point the corporal in charge busted out the whole “I’ve never been kissed by a white lady, can you please give me one kiss?” line, which forced me to invent an elaborate story about my fiancée, who was waiting for me back home and who would murder me if he ever found out I cheated on him. The corporal understood. “I would kill my fiancée too,” he told me. Grrrreat.

On the lookout for pirates near Lamu, Kenya.

So fear not. Guys might hit on you, but they will almost always back off after a polite (or eventually bitchy) rejection. On top of that, most still have that whole “defend the woman” mentality going on. This means my fixer, many of my sources, and my colleagues — locals and foreigners — are more likely to be protective of me.

I was out with an American colleague at a police canteen one night. We were the only two foreigners there, I was the only white girl there, and it got to the point where one bar-hopper was showing far too much gumption in trying to get me to go home with him. My colleague, who I’d known for about six hours, pulled an Incredible Hulk on the dude (perhaps due more to drunkenness than anything), scared the shit out of everyone, and we eventually escaped unscathed.

I stood by, secretly grateful, then did the “Terrified and Bewilidered Girl says please stop fighting!” thing to prevent anyone from getting stabbed in the face with a bottle. It’s not a very Grrl Power way to operate, but when some creep will not go away, or I’m too tired to carry my own backpack, or just cold and in need of a jacket, it somehow brings out the gentleman in my male companions. It’s hard to say that all gender norms are evil; some of them come in handy, and I really enjoy capitalizing on those that do.

I am definitely not saying everything has gone smoothly here. I pretty much only hang out with dudes, and I’m not a “one of the guys” girl — except that now I am.

There is a perception that female foreign correspondents are all total bad-asses who live and work exactly like the boys, no-nonsense. I wish, but man, at least half of my life is completely embroiled in female “nonsense.” I wear makeup, travel heavy due to needing lotion and conditioner at all times, worry that my rugged khakis make me look like a porkchop, cry when a story doesn’t work out, and feel absolutely sick to my stomach when I see how filthy old men treat young, jaded prostitutes around here.

I have to swallow my ladyrage a lot when I’m drinking with male journalists. I’ve been harassed and robbed, missed out on stories, and led down many a wrong road because I’m a girl (or an idiot, perhaps.) Sometimes, I like to blame my setbacks on sexism about as much as I like playing the race card: “It’s because I’m white, isn’t it?”

But you know what? — even if it is true, it’s irrelevant. At the end of the day, what matters is whether you got the story written, not what a pain in the ass it was getting there.

I could get into the shittiness of 20-hour bus rides when you have the world’s worst PMS, or the agonies of attempting a long-distance relationship when you are constantly travelling, boozing, and doing stupid things, or the tendency a lot of us ladies have to say fuck this hot, dangerous, crazy country, I am going home and getting married — but that’s old hat. The job is that much harder when you’re a girl, but waaay more interesting than a kid and a mortgage, so the tradeoff is worth it.

But I am definitely flying back home for the summer on the off chance I will run into my ex. Empowerment!

Photo: Nick J Webb

THERE’S AN UNSPOKEN RULE in Danish society about privacy and the public sphere. Danes believe that everyone has the right not to be bothered in public, and that they should be able to go about their business free of awkward exchanges, unsolicited greetings, or general inconveniences created by others.

This silent cultural norm is something I began referring to as the Privacy in Public Act (PIPA), and slowly learned that stepping out of line in public is one of the easiest ways to provoke anger in this flock of stoic Scandinavians.

Research was gathered over 18 months of daily life in the Danish capital of Copenhagen. Some of the following strategies were immediately obvious to me, while other conclusions were drawn after long periods of observation, inadvertent social faux pas, or passive-aggressive provocations.

Tactic #1: Ask “How are you?”

I learned this one within days of moving to Denmark, and was fortunate enough to be clued in by a teacher the first time I made the mistake.

The American phrase “how are you?” is a source of amusement for the Danes — it’s a big, fat joke that Americans ask this question in passing with no intention of stopping and listening to the response. If you want to make a friend, ask this question when you have 5-10 minutes to spare. Ask it merely in greeting/passing and that Dane will probably think you’re the most insincere person on the planet.

Tactic #2: Speak their language.

As far as Scandinavian languages go, Danish is considered the most difficult to learn. Only half of the written letters are pronounced in conversation, and a combination of guttural “r’s” and soft “d’s” make developing the proper accent a lifetime achievement. There’s been recent speculation that even the Danes don’t understand each other.

Only 5 million people in the world speak Danish, so their fluency in English and other languages becomes vital from a very young age. They speak English. You know they speak English. They know you know they speak English. So attempting to order your latte in Danish is perceived by your impossibly chic barista as an unnecessary awkwardness that can easily be avoided. She rarely hears her language spoken by foreigners, and it’s easier for her to switch to English than it is to try to understand your accent.

So refuse the English and order your vee-ner-brawd (danish) with confidence. Demand the right to speak the language. She’ll go tight-lipped and speechless.

Tactic #3: Fail to signal in the bike lane.

Like all other aspects of Danish society, bike etiquette is designed to operate like a well-oiled machine. All anticipated actions should be signaled: point low to the right or left if you plan to turn, hold your right hand next to your face if you’re planning to stop, and only use the left side of the lane to pass.

Fail to signal and you will trigger a chain reaction of last-minute breaking and a string of surprisingly violent hisses from passing bikers. They work 37-hour weeks for free healthcare and childcare. Minimum wage is over $20 and the government pays for their college education. Your failure to signal is probably the worst thing that’s happened to them in years.

Tactic #4: Wear your sweatpants in public.

This may seem harsh if you’re on a budget, especially hungover, or attached to the trends of American college campuses. But venturing into the cold light of day in your leggings and university sweatshirt is frowned on, at best. If you insist on wearing your comfies outdoors, invest in a black trench coat and cover that shit up.

The advantage of PIPA is that blending in is generally easy because everyone really wants to mind their own business in return for the same courtesy. But the Danes can stare like Germans if provoked, and there’s nothing worse than being watched like a hawk with your sweats on backwards and last night’s Carlsberg binge on your breath.

Feeling disgruntled that you spent $60 on four weak cocktails last night? Bitter that foreign workers are exempted from that dreamy Danish minimum wage? Feeling wounded by your expat plight? Wear your sweatpants to the 7-11 for hangover hot dogs. That’ll show ‘em.

Tactic #5: Smile at their children (or dogs).

Years of working as a nanny has ingrained in me an unbreakable habit: if a kid stares at me on the train, I smile. Or cross my eyes and make a face. I’ve found that parents in the US tend to appreciate this casual, communal act of entertainment in an environment where meltdowns are potentially imminent and especially embarrassing. Not so in Denmark.

Smiling at Danish children will elicit awkward squirms and suspicious glances from the parent. There’s something about it that’s too close for comfort and in blatant violation of their PIPA. Never mind that their child has watched you turn the last ten pages of your book like an episode of hipster Sesame Street.

Standing in soggy rain gear during your 30-minute commute? Feeling miffed that a woman is monopolizing an entire row of seats on a crowded train with multiple bags and a small dog? Reach down and pet that dog without asking. Rant and rave enthusiastically about how cute it is. In Danish. Get in her space HARD.

Tactic # 6: Act like a human at the grocery store.

The Danes are grocery store robots. Maybe it’s because shopping is one of the few public situations in which they’re forced to cooperate in close proximity, or because budget grocery stores in Copenhagen are notoriously tiny and disorganized. But there’s something about grocery shopping that elicits a deep-seated need for order in the heart of every Dane, and they expect things to go smoothly without having to speak or make eye contact with anyone.

Refuse to play their silent game of chicken as you gather your groceries. Don’t allow yourself to be shouldered out of the way. Don’t move until they’re forced to mutter undskyld (excuse me). Look them in the eye and smile before stepping aside. Acknowledge their existence, and demand to be acknowledged in return.

Approach the register. This is where the game gets serious, and you can’t falter for a second if you hope to maintain your place in line. Half a step to examine the gum rack is all it takes for the Dane behind you to elbow past and claim your spot. And don’t be deterred by the fact that the person behind you is practically on top of you, mirroring your every inch forward as though their life depended on it. Stand your ground.

An expat friend once eloquently observed that a Dane would climb inside your asshole if only to be a few inches closer to the front of the line. But he was in blatant violation of PIPA that morning, and had dared to smile at a Danish child while wearing sweatpants. Perhaps it was the resulting glares that provoked such an extreme analogy.

Photo: -stamina-.

I HAVE AT TIMES referred to myself as a “champion loneliness queen” (or in darker days a “torn-up emo f*ck”). It’s just that I’m so good at it. I thrive in times of romantic uncertainty, and in the clear, crystalline realization that something is over. In a way I’m addicted to relationship-related sadness. I find it more interesting than when something is actually, for once, going well.

Although I sometimes veer toward the indulgent, I do believe that the aptly named “sitting with it” is often the best remedy for a bad breakup. I think the next most important steps are usually body modification, new routines, and travel. Travel is a big one. And while it’s possible the only voyage you can take right now is an interior one, that’s what this whole life is, right?

So, to Matador, with love: A breakup guide to get you through this Northern Hemisphere winter, the loss of an important love, and any nostalgia for places you’ve never been. Listen to this while you burn some sage, and see if you can let go a little more.

“Me Voy” by Julieta Venegas (Mexico)

Start soft. Start with whimsy. “I’m going,” sings Venegas. “What a shame, but goodbye.”

The Tijuana-bred, accordion-toting chanteuse taught me to speak Spanish with her simple phrases, and in the process she’s imparted a lot about letting go. For the first circle of pain, start with “Me Voy.” Start by leaving.

“This Woman’s Work” by Kate Bush (UK)

Off of her 1989 album The Sensual World, this song isn’t about breakups, best friends, or comfort food.

“This Woman’s Work” is about miscarriage — a theme far more tragic. Still, the refrain, “I know you have a little life in you yet, I know you have a lot of strength left,” has worked many alchemical wonders for me through separations past.

This is a song that will coax out your tears, whether or not you want them released. I can’t think of a better musician to anchor and inspire during life-changing experiences than the fabulous Kate Bush.

“Change the Sheets” by Kathleen Edwards (Canada)

I see breakups as long trips: journeys into want, acceptance of bitter realities, and finally, a new home.

“Change the Sheets,” with its upbeat beginning and tragic lyrics, feels like a takeoff, that moment when you understand the collateral of everything you’re leaving behind and the lightness of starting anew. From the aptly named album, Voyageur, which was co-produced by Justin Vernon (Bon Iver), it has travel at its core.

Edwards’s plaintive chorus, “Change this feeling under my feet, change the sheets and then change me,” reminds me that though you can never run away from yourself, you can certainly change the ground you’re walking on.

“Ex-Factor” by Lauryn Hill (USA)

If relationships are a time to enjoy a second childhood (because all of those ancient pains and hangups come up when we finally get comfortable, right?), then perhaps breakups are their older, wiser, moodier adolescent counterparts.

Reputedly Hill’s love letter to Wyclef Jean, “Ex-Factor” leaves little room for emotional gray areas. She’s hurt, she’s frustrated, and she understands now just how destructive their romantic cycle — he runs, she beckons — has become.

Listen to this while you’re in the thick of it, the worst pain, the most definite sense of betrayal. Rejoice in having found your mid-breakup jam.

“Segundos” by Lido Pimienta (Canada by way of Colombia)

(Cover of Adriana Calcanhotto)

Lido Pimienta’s version of “Segundos” sounds like a drum circle, and I’m not talking hippies and patchouli, but rather the ancient and endless meetings of humans to tell stories, share jokes, and grieve collective tragedies over fire and animal skins.

“My heart and my footsteps will walk on in circles behind your trail,” sings the Colombian-Canadian artist over a hypnotic four-four drum pounding. Her voice is low and assured; its tone suggests an unrehearsed honesty.

In this “modern love is war” era, communities have largely been supplanted by intimate, dyadic cohabitations, also known as “getting serious.” For many of us, collective history and memory are composed largely of the rises and falls of our romantic relationships. The campfire, the cardiac beating of drums, have been largely reduced (and condensed) into the meeting of two people, rather than two hundred or even two thousand.

“Five String Serenade” by Mazzy Star (USA)

(Cover of Arthur Lee and Love)

A breakup can be a great opportunity to come into your feelings and face your own shadows.

As your process winds down (although perhaps it’s more an ebb and a flow than a linear release), chances are you’ll still be reminded of the past during your day-to-day activities. The speaker in “Five String Serenade” describes sitting at an easel, trying to draw, only to be interrupted with thoughts of an intimate “you.”

Make space for those intrusions. They mean something.

“Veo la Tele” by Capullo (Mexico)

Capullo is a mega-banda from Northern Mexico, and “Veo la Tele” was just released in January. Call them nu cumbia, art rock, or indie merengue electronica (they call themselves musicos degenerados) – it doesn’t really matter.

Capullo uses synthesizers that sound like they’re straight out of a ’90s Nintendo game. They’re part of the flourishing indie music scene in Northern Mexico, seen by many as a response to regional violence.

Capullo’s songs celebrate moments of teenage angst — like waiting for your honey to get on old school AIM and send you a message, getting dumped after a month of bedroom makeouts, and wanting to steal a popular girl away from her jock boyfriend (See “A Quien Amas en Realidad Es a Mi,” their collab with Lido Pimienta).

“Veo la Tele” is about distracting yourself with TV so you don’t think about calling your ex. Ultimately, the main character in the song gives in and dials up, but the object of her affection doesn’t answer. It all got me thinking: There’s something kind of Sisyphean about continuing to love someone long after they’ve left.

RECENTLY I WAS catching up with one of my best friends, and lamenting how I felt “doomed” to live feelings and attachments I no longer wanted. He lives abroad, so our conversation was mostly virtual. The next day he wrote me an email. It said,

“I think every love leaves rocks, & on normal days the plain is flat, & on great days the slope is down, & on the worst, upward crags…& if stone’s the sign of a lack, be happy that it too represents that empty space which you’ve filled with your own growth, because like you said, it makes us better people, richer ironically, denser, streaks of painful gold, removal of false pyrite.”

Good luck with the crags, Matadorians.

Photo courtesy of Mark Seaton

LAST FRIDAY, 154 water skiers met at Macquarie Harbour in Strahan along the west coast of Tasmania with the goal of breaking a world record. The previous record for the largest number of water skiers skiing at the same time and pulled by one boat was 114, which was set two years ago. Although nine participants fell out along the way, the 145 that made it the entire nautical mile easily broke the record.

The boat was a modified 114-foot World Heritage Cruises catamaran Eagle, with 3,000 horsepower and an aluminum boom over 300 feet long that worked to prevent the skiers’ ropes from getting tangled. Skiers came from all over the world to participate, and ranged greatly in age — the youngest was only 12.

According to The Daily Mail, Guinness World Records officials are expected to confirm the record in a few weeks.

Future site of Sierra Nevada's East Coast brewery, approximately 90 acres along the French Broad River, 12 miles south of Asheville

FOLKS IN WESTERN NORTH CAROLINA are stoked with this past week’s announcement that Sierrra Nevada Brewing Co. is coming. As reported in Mountain Xpress, Sierra founder Ken Grossman said, “We could’ve gone anywhere and we chose Mills River and North Carolina.”

Sierra’s blog states:

Sierra Nevada began the search for a new location several years ago. The brewery looked at hundreds of potential sites, eventually narrowing the search down to a handful of locations. The list of criteria was long and included quantifiable factors such as ease of shipping and water quality, as well as quality of life issues for its employees. Sierra Nevada has a reputation for a laid-back brewery culture and a love of the outdoors, and the new facility will retain this same tone. The Asheville area offers Sierra Nevada Brewing the perfect confluence of community, recreation and craft beer culture.

Sierra is the second-largest privately held US brewery, and saw sales increase by 8% in 2011. In operating the new brewery — which is also slated to have a restaurant and gift shop — the company will be investing nearly $108 million over the next five years and hire 95 full-time and 80 part-time employees.

This past summer saw intense discussion among local Asheville craft breweries as rumors circulated that both New Belgium and Sierra Nevada had Asheville on their shortlists for East Coast operations (The Coloradan is reporting New Belgium still considers Asheville among its top picks).

Founder Ken Grossman was attentive to concerns raised about unfair competitive advantages in the form of economic incentives awarded to big outside companies (Sierra was given nearly $3.5 million in Henderson County tax breaks and over $1 million in grant money via the One North Carolina Fund), stating, “I understand their concerns. It’s one of the reasons the company decided to locate outside Asheville.”

Post-decision though, people seem fired up about having Sierra here. Wedge Brewing owner noted, “Ken and Sierra Nevada paved the way for the whole craft-beer world.”

Photo by marc falardeau

SAY YOU HAVE a group blog. You set up the site and email the other members the login information. If any of those members are like me, they might not delete that email, meaning there’s at least one copy of the password hanging around online in a potentially insecure place.

We’re often in the position of needing to email or text passwords, credit card numbers, and other sensitive data with no way of ensuring the information is completely deleted once it’s been received. One Time Secret, a project currently in beta mode designed by the guys behind Stella, attempts to solve that problem by generating temporary links.

Remember how assignments in Mission Impossible would self-destruct after the agent read them? That’s the idea. (Sort of. It makes you feel cool, at the very least.)

When you visit One Time Secret, you enter the password or whatever information you wish into the box and click “Create a secret link.” The app generates two links for you — one you can share that will display the information, and another you can use to find out when the recipient opened the link. Both of these links are only displayed once, so it’s important to copy them before you leave the page.

The links function for two days, or until they’re viewed, and then they disappear. That’s the free version with anonymous users — for those on the paid plan, the app will hold the data for 30 days. One Time Secret also offers a temporary password option — just select “Generate a unique secret” and the app will provide a password and the two links.

There’s no registration involved with One Time Secret, and it probably adds all of three seconds to the process of sending someone a password, credit card number, or any other secret message. An easy way to add another barrier between yourself and hackers.

Photo: fomu

IF YOU FLY, you know the drill: Empty your pockets, remove your laptop from your hand luggage, have your passport open to the picture page — and be ready to produce a letter from your healthcare provider explaining any discrepancy between your perceived sex and the sex on your ID.

As absurd as it sounds, this is the current situation facing anybody who wants to board a plane in Canada — a regulation that was quietly changed back in July 2011 and went unnoticed until transgender activist Christin Milloy blogged about it on January 30.

The rule in question is item 5.2 (c) of the Identity Screening Regulations, which states:

5.2 (1) An air carrier shall not transport a passenger if …(c) the passenger does not appear to be of the gender indicated on the identification he or she presents…

Like the United States, Canada has a program in place to try and identify security threats. The Identity Screening Regulations, along with a “Specified Person List,” make up the federal government’s Passenger Protect initiative — Canada’s “no-fly list.”

These regulations don’t have to go through the reading and voting process in the House and Senate because they’re not legislation, and back in July 2011 the Minister of Transportation unilaterally made some changes to the rules, including the addition of section 5.2 (c).

Not only is the regulation discriminatory (and unnecessary — in what way is sex or gender related to aviation security?) but also, for many trans people, such as non-operative and pre-operative folks, the regulation is impossible to satisfy. In Canada, the government requires proof that a sex reassignment surgery (SRS) has taken place or will take place within one year in order to change the sex designation on a passport.

Currently, transgender people do not enjoy federal protections under the Human Rights Act. Bill C-389, which would have enshrined protections for trans people, passed in Parliament and the House of Commons, but stopped in the Senate when the last election was called.

As published in Canadian gay and lesbian newspaper Xtra, Transport Canada issued a statement with the following instructions for passengers who fail the screening

Any passenger whose physical appearance does not correspond to their identification can continue to board an airplane by supplying a letter from a heath care professional explaining the discrepancy.

You probably don’t have such a letter, but you might need one. The regulation affects all passengers, and that means that your haircut or clothes or choice of luggage or gait — or any other social marker, intentional or not — could cause an airport screening officer to deny you boarding.

The regulation has been criticized by politicians including Liberal MP Justin Trudeau and NDP MP Dany Morin, and by Susan Gapka, the chair of the Trans Lobby Group, but as of this writing the Minister of Transport Denis Lebel has failed to respond.

Photo: puroticorico

FIRST THERE WERE the “Happy Merry Christmas” banners hung across the doorways of restaurants and guesthouses. Then mannequins had balloons stuffed inside red jackets and white construction paper beards glued to their faces. Soon store clerks were forced to wear Santa hats while parents dressed toddlers in miniature Santa costumes.

Then came the lights. The many, many lights.

Christmas had struck Phnom Penh. Actually, it looked as though Christmas had thrown up on Phnom Penh. Strands of blinking neon were strewn from streetlights and trees and awnings. Independence Monument was cast in an electric glow, while the medians surrounding it became home to illuminated outlines of bells and trees and gifts, creating a kind of psychedelic altar in the middle of the city. Even the US Embassy got into the spirit. Behind its ten-foot fence, it erected a giant Santa riding a motorbike, pulsing in the night.

Photo: bengarrison

But something was missing, and not just the cold. There were no references to Jesus, I noticed, no Manger scenes and no hymns. There were no ads, no Christmas lists, no frantic shoppers. I’d read friends’ stressed out Facebook statuses — bemoaning impending visits home and constant pressure to Buy! Buy! Buy! — with detached bemusement.

It was as though Phnom Penh had taken away the bummer elements of Christmas and whittled it down to its simplest, most fun form: an excuse for more shiny shit.

I liked this version of Christmas, I decided. In fact, I preferred it.

Christmas Eve

“All right, all right,” Ray set the tray down on the table and yanked the tin foil away. Steam rose in squiggly, cartoon odor lines. “Turkey!” We clapped.

I inhaled the scent as he began slicing. It mingled with the other scents of the table: stuffing and cornbread, potatoes and gravy — a Christmas Eve potluck with all the fixings.

I felt a thousand little memories rise with the steam: the stockings my grandmother had made, my favorite angel ornament, and Aaron Neville’s Christmas album.

“Oh my god, I’m excited!” Lina cried out. “Did I tell you I cried on Thanksgiving when we didn’t get turkey? Literally cried.” She shook her head.

I smiled. “You know, it’s funny — I hadn’t really been missing turkey, but now that it’s in front of me,” I breathed in deeply, “it smells like the best goddamn thing in the world.”

I served myself a plate and sat down, cross-legged and barefoot in my sundress. Nat King Cole played in the background. I chewed slowly, savoring the familiar flavors: overly sweet canned cranberry sauce and salty Stove-Top stuffing. If I looked away from the open terrace doors and piercing sunlight, and towards the fake tree glittering with ornaments, I could have been in any American living room.

We put on A Christmas Story. It’d been years since I’d watched the movie all the way through, and I laughed at the familiar scenes — the tongue on the ice pole, the department store Santa, “you’ll shoot your eye out.”

The camera panned out, paused on a scene of the house from the outside — nighttime, snowing, the house was all lit up. I felt a pang of longing. It was the picture of a stereotypical American Christmas, a cliché I’d never lived. I’d grown up non-religious, in California, in a little house huddled between apartment buildings. There’d been no snow, no chimneys, no letters to Santa.

I thought about surly Facebook statuses, everyone’s “holiday blues,” and wondered if maybe that’s part of what the holidays were all about — a longing for something we’ve never quite had, for the idea of Christmas.

I felt the longing well up in me. It was a part of Christmas I’d thought I’d avoided, conveniently side-stepped, along with the religion and consumerism. But even here, it’d found me.

Especially here.

Family tech meltdown

The next morning, I clicked the “Answer” button on the Skype icon. No video appeared.

We all let out a groan.

I’d been up most of the night with a grumbling stomach and insomnia, but I was determined not to miss my family Skype date — determined to fill that loneliness that had risen.

Photo: tvol

“Do you want to see if we can video chat on Facebook?” Under the perky overtone, my sister-in-law’s voice was tired and thin.

I opened a new window, clicked icons, downloaded software. While I waited, I could hear them all, clattering around. I heard my niece’s high, young voice; I hadn’t heard it since I’d left.

“Hey Zaia!” I exclaimed.

I heard a faraway whisper. “You have to say it louder,” my mom told her.

Another muffled response. “I still can’t hear you, sweetheart.”

“She wants to know what Christmas is like in Cambodia,” my mom told me.

“Oh, well,” I drew in a breath, trying to think of what would be most impressive to a 6-year-old. “There’s lots and lots of Christmas decorations here. Especially lights. And some people put their kids in these little Santa costumes, and—”

“Oh, wait,” my mom cut in, “she just ran off.”

I felt a sink in my heart. “Oh.”

The software loaded, but the video didn’t work. We tried other options and troubleshooted.

Twenty minutes passed.

I heard a sharp, high-pitched infant cry, then rustling.

“Hey sister,” my brother cut in. His voice was soft, but had the same layer of tired just beneath. “The kids are starting to get cranky; I think we’ve gotta go home.”

“Oh, okay.” I felt tears well. My nose tingled.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

“Hey, I know how it is,” I said, trying to sound upbeat and understanding. I wondered if he could hear the layer of longing beneath.

“Email me this week and we’ll set a time to figure this out!” my sister-in-law interjected.

And in that moment, I wouldn’t like the Cambodian version of Christmas at all — I’d be homesick for my own Christmas. Even with its cold and consumerism, even if it was just an idea, a myth, an image from a movie. It would surprise me — a longing for something I hadn’t known I was missing.

I said goodbye to my parents and disconnected. Then I shut my laptop and let myself cry.