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lil_MissBroadway
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Name: Stephanie M.
Birthday: 6/26/1988
Gender: Female
Interests: ~One more shopping day until tomorrow~
Expertise: God will look to every soul like its first love because He is its first love - C.S. Lewis
Occupation: Student
Message: message me
Website: visit my website
Member Since:
12/22/2004
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| My sojurn from xanga has lasted entirely to long. I am back - though for how long is questionable.You see, this point in my life is many things; I'm on the brink of college, the final semester of highschool- I read alot and I struggle with ideas to write. I write essays and then turn my attention to the unending process of editing them. The subject of communism is of great fascination to me at the moment; so if my next post is a passionate rail in support of Lenninest ideas, don't bother to retaliate, but understand I am entering the stage of life where ideas grab me in all directions, and like a child I want to explore them all. Except, unlike a child I think I know everything. And if this vanity within me shows, please, like a good xangian, just shake your head and whisper, 'oh dear! Whatever happened to Stephy?'. It'll pass - trust me. But, this essay is on a subject I have not yet abandoned; style. So, please buy a starbucks or make a cup of tea and then read it. Or don't waste money on a Starbucks and don't fritter you minutes away boiling the teapot - just read it anyway. The money is much better spent towards that new pair of shoes in the this seasons hottest shade of pink, and the time much better spent looking for them. Spring is wonderful. Me loveth it. In Style In the fall, fashion unfurled its fun, flirty, 07 spring collection with a new look that floored jaws and set pens and newspaper pads into a tizzy. Grabbing the spotlight from the-catching outfits and funky heels, it became clear to us that this new look wasn't a passing fad. Destined to catch fire, it swept across the country with magnitude, bound from New York to Hollywood, and began to be reffered to as the ‘skinny’. And I do not refer to the type of jean which shares the same synonym. It’s the new chic - the old chic is at the moment being tossed in among racks of size tens and twelves, waiting to be replaced with the look . The look which brags you haven't touched a calorie for months. The look which places you in the size zero contingent. Size four? Oh! That’s the new sixteen! Joining the bandwagon of many who are fast converting to this new image is a list of Hollywood’s top celebrities, including Lindsey Lohan and Nicole Kidman. Appearing in public, they look as though they haven’t eaten anything recently -- some old woman who sits in her knitting chair and bakes apple pies would call it unhealthy. Put some meat on your bones! She encourages while dishing out a copious slab of apple pie for herself. But these words of wisdom, though persistent,grow incoherent among the sea of younger, more impressionable, female fans who eagerly drowning themselves amidst the pages in the latest issues of Vogue and Bazaar, and afterwards adamantly resolve to skip breakfast, lunch, and dinner, all in a dire effort to emulate Nicole Kidman, or the models who struted down September runways, 5’9 and 125 pounds. Goodness, at 5 4” I’m….. well, I’ll stop there. But of course, I was never featured in a magazine. And here, we grasp the blunt, brutal edge of the matter. Like most teenage girls, red carpets appear frequently in my dreams, but never on my doorstep. Meanwhile, it is impossible to ignore as Kidman, Lohan, Nicole Richie, and more jump from magazine cover to cover, sharing their opinions and success stories to a captivated world who isn’t listening; we are too busy looking. Or, rather, gaping. Our eyes are unable to see beyond that little cute dress which accentuates all the right spots, or those high heeled red shoes - the ‘in’ item of the season on back order to the public; that’s us. It has always been said that one cannot argue with success, but who’s arguing? In fact, the female population is not resisting the message these images are sending - they are embracing it. As the weight scales are pulled from beneath bathroom sinks, the diet books pulled from bookshelves, and mini sizes pulled off the racks, girls are proving that they are getting the message; loud and clear. The skinny. As a large part of the fall campaign it succeeds in grabbing the shopper’s attention, and wallet. As advertisements inundated my mailbox, I was transported back in the 1960’s era of funky glamour, and one which particularly grabbed my fancy was from the company GAP, which used a recycled --but by no means stale-- photo of Audrey Hepburn, dressed in skinny jeans and a snug, black top. Everyone knows how much I love Audrey Hepburn, including, apparently, those executives at GAP. As intended, their ad was successful in dissuading me from my usual path of wide-leg jeans and cargo pants, and during a shopping trip I wandered into the jean department where I was confronted by shelves stacked full of the hottest item of the season; skinny jeans. Inwardly, a glimmer of hope leaped forth as I calculated the possibilities of being transformed into an Audrey Hepburn or girl from a magazine cover. With this vision engaging my mind, I reached for a size six, but stopped midway; it’s nearly two o’ clock in the afternoon, and having not yet eaten lunch, feel remarkably skinny. Confident I’m five pounds lighter than this morning, I picked up a size four, tucking the six under my arm, just in case. Five minutes later and I know I’ve made a mistake. There are some things one should absolutely be forbidden from seeing in a three way mirror; and me in a pair of skinny jeans is without reservation one of them. Instead of the lighter, free flowing, delicate look I’d envisioned, the skinnies on me resembled an overstuffed rhinoceros which did not in any way compliment the demure, stylish Hepburn example I had been aiming towards. Staring at myself in dismay, I was, in fact, convinced I‘d gained pounds. Lots of them. And so, after wiggling out of a size four, I squeezed into a size six and, being met with an identical outcome, squeezed out and sadly returned both to their racks before walking out in melancholy despair. But, perhaps not. For though I left those skinny jeans behind, I carried out with me a new hope accompanied with determination. Hope for a new beginning, and determination to execute my plan which had already begun to wheel around in my active and somewhat impetuous mind. Yes, I’d made my decision, and it was definite; the time had come to go on a diet. The only way to describe one’s life when on a diet is with four simple letters - long. From the hours you lay awake at night waiting for breakfast till the minutes you count till lunch, the days, now consumed by thoughts of food, seem much longer than twenty four hours. I awake in the morning to the first thought which has occupied my brain all night; breakfast. Throwing back the covers and lunging for the kitchen I measure out exactly my daily cup of dried corn flakes and half full glass of orange juice. Both are consumed under thirty seconds, and ten minutes later all contents have vacated my stomach. Hoping to quench this hunger, I gulp down a bottle of water and spend the rest of the morning running to and from the bathroom. Ah, at long last - time for lunch. Carefully measuring out a bowl of raisin and dates, I wash it down with a bottle of pom juice, but even this does not satisfy the hunger that progressively and effectively gnaws at me all day long, and which causes me to live, wait, and dream of one thing only - dinner. My salad of green leaves, minus even a smidgen of dressing, is devoured with passion, but still is unsatisfactory. And at the end of the day I crawl into bed, weak from hunger and unprepared to spend another restless night interrupted by dreams of calorie polluted deserts and dinners, after which I awake in the morning to the bitter disappointment of reality - a cup of dry cereal. Craziness! Insanity! When will I realize I am in danger of joining hundreds of girls who, like me, read the fashion pages and suffer from eating disorders and in consequence develop anorexia. Together, we make up four percent of the female teenage population who idolize and emulate models and movie stars, because they, as we put it, are ’living the life’ we only dream of. For they are the ones swarmed by photographers, in demand for interviews, and walking down runways in the world’s most stylish fashions. And their images effortlessly become the mark we strive to meet, the goal we crave to achieve ; the look we all want. Sucking from our lives any enjoyment which hinders our aim, we are unwilling to face the reality, that: no, we aren’t thin. We can never experience the stardom of walking down a spotlight-flooded runway nor ever be photographed for a magazine cover. When we have stopped wallowing in this fact, and treating it as though it were a sentence, we can at last begin to savor the delectable freedom it offers, as I do; each time I stop in Starbucks and call for my favorite drink - a Grande caramel frappuccino. With extra caramel.  *Yum*
Steph(y) | | |
| Recently, I was in that ice-breaking situation as a guest at a friend’s house whom I’d known only a few months. The formal 'how are yous' and idle comments on the weather exhausted, I found myself shifting from one foot to the next, fretting whether she would prefer that I take my shoes off. Both of us were in dire need of a diversion, which miraculously came trotting around the corner on four legs, wagging its tail in all friendliness as it approached me. All my nervous energy was eagerly bestowed upon the little creature, who was hesitant to whether my vigorous attentions were a good thing or a nuisance. Finally, after I'd rubbed and scratched it clean to the bone, it withdrew beneath a dark oak lampstand for refuge, leaving me to prattle on about how much I adored dogs and how he -- or was it a she-- was just the perfect size. What was his name? How old was he? Is he your only dog? I paused as I allowed myself a breathe, and considered commenting on the resemblance between the two; the furry creature and my hostess. They shared an uncanny likeness, perhaps so much that it would be unwise to voice my thoughts, which proved to be futile anyways, for by now my hostess was at ease, and broke the silence, inquiring as she led me into the kitchen, 'Do you have any pets?' The idea of owning a dog first appeals to us while watching old TV re-runs of Lassie. On screen, little Timmy need only call, before the beautiful, bright and eager Lassie bounds towards him in all obedience and willingness. She saves him from danger, protects him, eats the food he doesn’t like, and we think to have such a companion must be wonderful. Companionship is what launches this small notion into something more, a desire and longing we realize only a Lassie can cure. The greater we think on it, the more we begin to appreciate and dwell on the possibilities and benefits. Someone to fetch the paper in the morning, sleep with you by the fire, eat your leftovers. Yes, this is sounding very agreeable. And so, after we’ve watched the episode where Lassie pulls Timmy from a burning building, our minds are made up. Convinced we cannot not live another second in a life devoid of any bark, we leave the house, keeping our coffee pot warm, and our newspaper and slippers out and ready for our return. When those little balls of fuzz first enter our home, they begin to familiarize themselves with their new surroundings, and fully aware we are watching them, put on that little puppy innocence they know we adore. They pretend to be puzzled when investigating the cupboard, uninterested in the couch, yet fascinated with your slippers -- when, what they are really saying, as they survey the cabinets and couches are ’hello, meet your new owner’, and then proceed to destroy your slippers, dispensing with them as quickly as possible. Ownership of a dog is a lot like parenthood, the roles between a father and his child similar to that of a master and his dog, and the latter knows and respects the distinction. How then the two are confused is a riddle to us who unknowingly set the precedent which later becomes the pattern of constant giving, sacrifice, and yes, even obedience to the dog. Sacrifice dooms us the moment we lay eyes on ‘the one’, our Lassie, and knowing our search has reached its end, naively ask while reaching for our wallets, 'how much?' Though the verdict is initially staggering, we console ourselves with visions of crisp cold evenings spent at home next to a crackling, glowing fire, a copy of Pride and Prejudice in one hand, the Wall Street Journal in the other, and the expensive sound of the steady, rhythmic, breathing of our dear Lassie contentedly at our feet. This picture dutifully remains with us as the purchases augment; dog food, their favorite treats, and of course that toy so irresistible it isn't until a thousand squeaks later we liken the noise to an ailing duck. After they've dipped into our funds, they begin invading our comforts as the couch, which has always been ours, is declared contested grounds, and any attempt of protest labels you the resident dog hater. Early morning and we awaken to the persistent sharp nudges, the low soft growls our spouse pretends not to hear. It's your turn-- it always is -- to arouse yourself from the warm comforts of your bed, and plod downstairs, tripping over your robe in your sleep, once again catering to the dog's needs. Some mornings you are met with a soft, miserable drizzle, and stand waiting inside the door as you call, then shout and then finally scream her name -- hoping this time the sound of your voice will be enough to command her obedience. Of course, it never is, and you find her sheltered beneath a tree, and willingly rescue her under the protection of your robe because her forlorn look leaves you no choice. Lastly, they are invaders and thieves of what we often hold most dear -- that leftover bacon we've saved for lunch, or the drumstick looked forward to all day, only to return home and find out it was Lassie’s dinner. And she enjoyed it-- very much you are reminded as you munch on a welted lettuce leaf and a green tomato. Looking down, at its healthy little frame, it occurs to you your canine companion eats, sleeps and is allowed more privileges than you are. Our notions of proud ownership over a Lassie who pulls us from burning buildings and fetches our slippers have long diminished as we try to hold fast to our rights, which are thoroughly doomed when our spouse with deprecation chides us to 'move over, that's Lassie’s spot'. It is then we realize it's too late, they've already wrapped us around their little paw, and are wholly enjoying the benefits. Sitting on the cold, comfortless wood floor, we watch them peacefully napping on what used to be our couch, and see plainly they feel like they've earned the right to it. Which is, of course , nonsense; we gave it to them, like we give them everything. And yet, Sometime, you'll find yourself in that awkward situation; hostess to a friend who is just as uncomfortable as you are, unsure whether to leave her shoes on while you're anxiously trying to follow proper etiquette. In these moments of tension, you spot out of the corner of your eyes, those loveable eyes and a friendly tale wagging behind them trotting up, fully prepared to steal the spotlight. Much in the fashion of being pulled from a burning building, your ’Lassie’ has saved you again. As your guest squeals and awes, you make a mental note, relinquishing your claim on the last hamburger; it goes to the dog instead. *your fellow xangian* Steph(y) ****End note*** Wow, it certainly has been eons since I last posted! I wanted to put in here an idea that's been teasing me for several months now ; of kinda making this xanga 'official', or featured, or whatever you call it. I love writing each one of these posts, and am encouraged by all the sincerely nice things you guys have said about them. If it happens, it won't happen till next fall -- and when and if it does, I'll have to get on a regular posting schedule. Just because I'm considering making this xanga 'official', please please, to those who know me, don't refrain from posting those personal comments about what's going on in your life or jokes or whatever -- I love to hear from you! If you could just do me a couple of favors -- Begin spreading the word about my site. Yea, well, not to the stranger on the street or anything, but if you could casually pass it on, I'd really appreciate it! No rush either, because this, as I said, is going to be a long process. --- feed me ideas! There are times, like now, actually, where I become ill with what is known as 'writers block'. So anything you think would make a good post -- any irony, or quirky facts or stories in life you find witty, interesting, or thought-provoking, please pass on! -- Answer this Question: Is the layout of this site to distracting from the content? | | |
|  | Currently Watching
Rodgers and Hammerstein's Oklahoma! (London Stage Revival)
By Hugh Jackman, Josefina Gabrielle, Shuler Hensley, Jimmy Johnston, Maureen Lipman, Peter Polycarpou, Vicki Simon, Stuart Milligan, Helen Anker, Howard Ellis (II), Kevin Wainwright, Craig Purnell, Sarah Bayliss, Marilyn Cutts, Leigh Constantine, Philip Cox (II), Luke Baxter, Sarah Ingram, Stephen Spender (II), Julie Barnes
see related |
I've never liked baseball. It in fact, sits on top of my column of dislikes.
Perhaps the reason lies in the distasteful encounters I’ve had at ballparks. Squished in between thousands of zealous fans, all of whom are decked out in ball caps, with sweaty jerseys and hands full of beer. The man beside me happily watches the game, seemingly unaware he is hogging both armrests. The boy in front of me enthusiastically waves his inflatable bat, keeping me busy as I duck to avoid contact. Oh how I hate giveaway nights. The woman behind me has devoured two hotdogs with sourkraut, and needs an altoid -- desperately.
Of course, there is the unavoidable topic of rest areas. Those long lines to which you are chained for several innings. Compromising one’s dignity seems unavoidable when, due to lack of supplies, you break the silence between your neighboring stall to ask if they might 'lend you the roll'. (this is done while keeping a dubious eye out for any spiders crawling about.) Then there's the humiliating experience of discovering you've locked yourself in. A veteran of such situations, I've often had to shove, push, rattle, even pray myself out. After the third occurrence, I devised a plan 'b' . If you couldn’t do it by brute force, you waited until the exact right moment, when you were sure nobody was looking, dart underneath the stall, and dash out. That is unless a sweet old lady who, noticing your difficulty, drawls out as she gently knocks on the door, ‘Are you alright in there, honey?’ When that happens, don‘t answer, just pray she goes away.
Then there is the time I attended a game in the most grave conditions of health. No, let me rephrase that -- on death’s doorsteps. Though my parents pronounced my temperature normal; I assure you I was on the brink of demise. Still, I dragged my sickly infested body out of the comforts of my warm toasty bed, and to the ballpark, to sit on a stiff, plastic chair. With no armrests. And a guy sitting behind me who had self-appointed captain of the cheering section. Faithfully and most emphatically did he carry out this duty. A player sneezed and his bellowing voice unleashed in exuberant support. A hit ’allright’! a catch ; ’yeah!’. Every time he made that -- noise--, it felt like Big Ben going off in my head. The evening was spent in doomed misery, as I, in desperation, fervently prayed for a great cloud of thunder to miraculously sweep over and send everyone home.
Before I was twelve, my passion against baseball was firmly rooted. It was not because of the laboriously long bathroom lines, or the trouble I experienced therein. Rather, the lack of understanding for anyone who paid money to sit in a plastic chair and watch a game which dragged on nine, long, innings. Why they cheered exuberantly for someone who stands out on a green field and swings a bat. Why they get excited over a tiny ball hit yards away from them, is, to me, a mystery. Yes I was dreadfully uncomfortable without any armrests, and yes it would have benefited all if the woman behind had packed altoids -- but it wasn’t discomfort or scent which drove me away.
I wasn’t surprised when my sister informed me I was uninvited to Friday's game. They were taking friends instead, ’people who actually wanted to go.’ To soothe and nurture this crushing disappointment, I spent the day in therapy -- shopping, that is.
It was evening when I settled down on our couch with the front page of the Washington Post. In the background, I could hear my mom listening to the game. 'Israel Suffers Highest Toll Yet', the bold letters stared at me, and below it: ‘A wave of…rockets…civilians… killed....' The casualties: a father and his 15 year old daughter, three friends. Ages 20, 17 and 19. 'There was no chance…they were already dead.'
The article reports the death toll in Lebanon since the conflict began. There's no telling how many more will be added before the end. If there is an end. For weeks, every time I clicked on the television, there was a new alert. Another bomb exploding, rockets firing, an explosion in the distance the reporter couldn't explain. Plastered on the front pages are pictures of the mourning, the fighters and the dead. It is a time when the world seems in chaos. Good news is hidden on page b12. More dismal than that, there is no way escaping.
A cheer goes up in the background, and the announcer rapidly describes to his listener the excitement. Someone's hit a ball. For a moment, I listen, oblivious to what he saying; hearing only how. He passionately relays what he sees, focused entirely on the field before him. He isn’t thinking about the latest bomb attack, the number of casualties, wondering if we’ll be hit next. The only battle he’s worried about is one played in front of him, with balls and bats. And in the stands, are forty four thousand like him. They cheer, eat heartily, and participate in the wave. Life beyond the stadium lights doesn’t exist for nine innings. Forty four thousand people who have put aside the front pages, and immersed themselves in a separate world.
Dad and the rest come home around 11:30. Excitedly, he begins to tell us of the fist fight which broke out between two opposing fans. “This big six foot guy,” he said, elaborating with his hands, “climbed over the chairs, and said 'cool it' -- and they knew to cut it out.”
And it hit me then --why people keep coming back. Despite the long bathroom lines. Despite the boy in front who blocks your view, or the guy behind who devastates you ear drums. I’d never understood, but now I did, and the boy waving his inflatable bat wasn’t foreign to me anymore. He and thousands of others fill up the stadium when gas prices and Middle East conflicts become too much. The fear of being locked in a bathroom stall doesn't bother them; it's what happens outside of the ballpark that keeps them up at nights.
As my passion against it was unrooted, I found myself, for the first time, wishing there was more baseball in life. More cheering over that single hit toward progress. Worries so simple as choosing the right stall to inhabit. A six foot guy always there to settle any disputes.
But life isn’t that way, and so for a few months during the summer, thousands of people pull out their jerseys, ball caps, gloves, and watch a game that to people like me, seem silly. What we don’t know is that they’re experiencing life; as it should be.
As my dislike is replaced with understanding, I retrieve 'Stephanie's list of detestable things', and cross out 'baseball', and add, instead, another game I've never appreciated -- football. Two people trying to push each other down; ah yes, now try and explain that one.
oh yes -- I do
Steph(y) | | |
| Up early and Adam it was for me on the morning of the glorious fourth. Of July, that is. The firecrackers seemed to have already begun, in my head, - bang! bung! zap! zing! - one after another giving me a pounding headache. Of course, I always get headaches on summer mornings when I rise to early ; and believe me, 7:30 is too early - for any respectable teenager, that is.
I dressed -- how or in what I haven't the foggiest -- and trudged downstairs to wait for the rest of my family. We were just about to head out, when a click in my still groggy head saved me from all disaster. Like lightening, my feet carried me up the stairs, and rushing into my room, I snatched my miniature life support ; a miniature black I-pod. One can't venture anywhere at 7:30 in the morning with out it. The alternative is to ghastly. One might otherwise actually be forced to think!
With plastic bowls in hand we strode toward our destination like determined soldiers, resolute on executing their assigned mission. Ours? Every step doomed us as we walked closer to the distant field where endless blueberries await us.
We do it every fourth. Every fourth of July. No matter how hot, -- or unpleasant the weather may be. We go, bowls in hand, and dutifully fill them with dozens of blueberries -- hundreds, yes perhaps thousands. It's back breaking work; bending over, squinting down and twisting sideways in the most awkward positions to grasp the ripest and plumpest clumps of berries. It felt like I'd been condemned to a chain gang, forced to serve out my sentence under the grueling sun. No hope for escape. The time forever ticking, my I pod doing little to sooth my misery. Finally, I heard those sweet words, releasing me from my agony. 'It's been half an hour, shouldn't we be getting home?'
It's one of those -- what do you call them? Ah yes -- traditions.
Those things one is obligated to do when one is apart of a family. Something everyone takes part in. Whether it be suffering under a scorching sun to pick a bowl of blueberries, or swallowing down that overly tart cherry pie your Grandma makes on Washington's birthday. Oh why did old George have to cut down a cherry tree -- would an apple tree have changed the anecdote so drastically?
Is there no other alternative, compromise we can reach? Could we not bake a apple pie, and perhaps stick a cherry on top? Or -- a brilliant idea has just struck me! Instead of picking blueberries, might one buy them at the nearest market?
Instantly, the stern face of Tevye the milkman from 'Fiddler on the Roof' pops into my mind, as he jerks a grimy finger in the air, shouting 'TRADITION'!
TRADITION! One cannot simply destroy something built over years, decades, yes even centuries! But...on the hand.....
Why not? Traditions are tacky and outdated. Time and planning being involved, they are an odd fit for society. Who has the time anymore to make that gingerbread house that always turns out wrong anyways? What use is it to set up an Easter egg which last for only half an hour, and produces only mess and bellyaches. Christmas tree hunts? Didn't those go out with the pushing lawnmower?
Then again, on the other hand.... there are those traditions for which our life wouldn't seem complete. They bring us security, knowing no matter what, they'll always be there. Every Christmas eve dimming the lights as we settle back, candy canes in hand, to watch 'It's a Wonderful life'. Cutting the turkey on thanksgiving day. Exchanging chocolates on Valentines day. Buying tickets to the 'Fords Theatres production of 'A Christmas Carol'. The story, is still the same after these years, and never seems to get old or outdated. -- reminds me a lot of the many traditions I share with my family. They never get old.
And then there's that feeling of responsibility. Knowing one day it'll be your turn to bake that cherry pie and watch as faces turn sour. I think of this as I taste my first forkful of blueberry pie, the product of my morning labor. Every fourth of July, a blueberry is created and later devoured in the McGill home. That, my fellow xangian, is a tradition too. 
So, what are some of your traditions?
(this is not a rhetorical question. Yes, I know-- rhetorical, big word. Oh my, hope it's spelled right. You know what it means, right? Oh good... that means I don't have to explain it...because frankly, I haven't the foggiest  )
*in the tradition of the true xanga spirit*
Steph(y) | | |
| It was one of those movies. Where the previews were better than the feature. Where you wished the theater had one of those dream policies:
‘if you’re not satisfied, neither are we; get your money back if you don’t like the movie’.
There'd be a lengthy line from the theater where all us Davinci code viewers sat. 
Tom Hanks was bland and insipid. The French woman running in unbroken high heels was pathetic. . Paul Bettany creepy, and whenever he came on, my eyes squeezed tight. As I look back, I wonder what compelled me to sit in a crowded theater, and watch a movie for which I paid to much for the ticket.
-- and then, it struck me; what lured 77 million dollars worth of crowds to the theater over the weekend. You know why? Because contrary to popular belief, America is smart. They know how to discern reality from illusion; fantasy from life. The Davinci Code caught their eyes ; and they knew - I mean we knew -- it wasn't something to be dismissed. It wasn't just a movie. This my fellow xangians; is the real thing.
Now, as I look back, whatever the ticket price was; it was to little. They under charged; compared to enormous amount of learning I took away. Davinci was a genius; Dan Brown an intellectual, and me? A whole lot wiser thanks to the both of them.
The is as follows; In Davinci's painting of the last supper, he left us a clue by painting in a womanly figure sitting next to Jesus. On the left side - or is it the right (?) well, whatever side it may have been, sits Mary Magdalene; as Ian McClellan point out to us. We are then told how Jesus and Mary Magdalene were married, complete with children -- and the descendant of Jesus, believe it or not -- was standing in that very room. She's the one whose hair remains perfectly in place throughout high-speed car chases, gunpoint encounters, and numerous dangerous escapades. Yes, after watching her escape through head - untouched, I figured she must be somehow related the almighty. That takes a miracle -- or a dozen cans of hairspray.
But it doesn't stop there. Davinci left us other codes too ; you just have to look for them.
You? No No! My dear xangian, you don't have to look for them -- that's been 'taken care of Yes, my fellow xangians, after hours of tireless studies and staring mindlessly at ??? paintings. I've done it; I've cracked the code.
I started with Mona Lisa; that all to famous painting. The painting we all study in school, look at in museums. Could it be, after thousands of years of looking, we missed what was beneath the canvas?
  
Take, my xangians, one last look. She seems to be telling us something....pulling us closer....and closer...and clos--- ouch. I just got a paper cut.
What? No! I can't lift the canvas -- I didn't mean literally beneath the canvas. That was merely an artistic term to say we missed the kit-and-caboodle -- the meaning of the painting. And there it my friends, in the place where you'd least expect it -- in the eyebrows.
But she has none.
I know -- odd, isn't it?
I did a little research, which led me to discover Mona Lisa was painted in 1503. That made me wonder -- why not 1504 -- or 1506 , or even, 1507? These questions led me to math. A simple division problem might solve everything. The question was though, what to divide -- 15 into 3, or 10 into 5 or -- and then they fell in place -- the numbers, right in my head. It made me feel like Tom Hanks in the movie -- numbers, just popping into my head in the right order. The numbers were 50 into 13.
There I was, ready to divide when I stopped in horror, realizing my mistake. The clue I'd missed -- the clue Danvinci had left me. It all lay in a single digit; the zero. Do you realize what an 0 is upside down? A 0! -- wow, what a discovery, so with that in mind I quickly flipped my 0 and divided;
50
13
um...yea....so -- hm...um...yea....soooo... er...uh -- 
what? 
You say the answer's 37? Why yea; of course; sure, I knew that -- yea, of course -- 37. A 3 and a 7.Well, don't you see?!? I can see my fellow xangians, that rather ignorant look painted upon your face. Well *ahem* don't worry, there was a time where I was like you; unaware of what those numbers meant. I searched, and searched -- in the Bible, in books, in movies. Then I found it -- in a place you wouldn't expect -- those numbers didn't signify page numbers or chapters or verses. It was date; a coded date. March (thus the three) day seven. March 3rd 1777 -- where'd I get the 1777. well -- (I added them) But you're allowed to do that in code breaking.
Five letters (thats 5) passed between Abigial and John Adams; in which John called Abigail Portia. Ah ha! As in the Portia from 'Merchant of Venice' -- and there is a character in 'Merchant of Venice named Leonardo' -- I could not help but notice the numerous times Portia said 'sun' it must have been two or three -- just a striking number.
And so it is imperative to ask ourselves ; just what was in those letters passed between Adams and his dear*winks wink* 'Portia'? Casual conversation, notes of love and good humor? NO!
It was vital discovery Adams had just made after....well, just after he'd had his second cup of coffee.
Let us take those eyebrows so conveniently left out in Davinci's portrait Mona Lisa; painted in 1503. It was around the time people were concluding things; like the given fact we live on earth. Leonardo Danvinci however knew better, but feared being cast out from the elite political circle, and branded a maniac. So he told the world in his own way; through paints and brushes. Attach those non-existent eyebrows together, and they take on a familiar shape. The shape of a circle -- but not an ordinary circle. It's funny how the particles of hair from the brows stick out resembling; you've got it. The points of the sun.
Ah! and here is a lovely example compliments of google and the gentlmen
And now, for my version -- the version of what should have been in the Mona Lisa :
What Davinci was telling us -- the earth shattering truth -- is actually the sun- shattering truth. In other words -- we don't live on the earth -- we live on the sun.
We live on the sun -- not earth.
The eyebrows, the mysterious year the painting was completed all points to the undisputable fact that --
What? You say it doesn't make any sense? It has what?!? It has discrepancies? Like what? Well how should I know why were all not toasting in the heat? And you ask how Davinci knew for sure? And how I know for sure that's the reason why he didn't paint the eyebrows? Well I know because.... well, painters don't leave out important features in their works of art unless for a reason!
What? You say I'm off my head? But ...but then that just makes my discovery another fictional penny -worth --theory. Yes; just like the other code this great painter supposedly left behind; the Davinci code.
*your clue cracker.... *
well....
Steph(y) | | |
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