Gang life in Walker, Texas Ranger probably isn't indicative of how it really is.

Camp Lejeune, N.C.

It's a long, four-and-a-half hour drive back from Atlantic Beach. But about halfway through you hit what I can only imagine to be the town near Camp Lejeune. Every time I pass this town, the roads are riddled with green-and-brown tinted Jeep/Hummer cars, the soldiers driving with their elbows sticking inches out their windows. Hell, if I were a soldier, I'd revel in the drive, too. When I was passing a caravan the other day, I fleetingly estimated how much longer they had to drive, and hoped, still half-consciously, that they could just keep on driving forever. Today, though, there were no caravans. The evidence of the war (or war, sans article, or 'security' for you patriots out there) was in the air -- literally. There were these amazing planes, which resembled even more the birds that were flying around, diving in front of my car, than regular planes. They were diving up, down, into nothing, and then leveling out to, I assume, land. There were others, too, but I don't think they were the same kind. A bit more boxy, they flew in groups of two.

So I have a new mission: Fly a jet fighter plane. Imagine how amazing it would be. There are some schools in Charlotte that look legit. If I can't fly a jet -- and I'm not really willing to join the Marines, although if I did have to join the armed forces, the Marines would be my first choice -- I can at least fly a plane.

I've never really understood why these types of ideas or dreams were deemed crazy. When else will I be able to fly?

In other news, House was intense tonight. And the next episode looks even more trippy. I'm going to need to watch that with someone; this time I'd TiVo'd it, and watching it alone at 12:30 a.m. wasn't the best choice. Especially following the Gossip Girl thriller, which was exceedingly shocking.

In other other news, I've got an eye exam Wednesday. The only time I've needed glasses was in 6th grade, when I faked the exam to get a pair. And then I lost them. Or left them in the backyard? I don't know. Anyway, I do want some now. But I don't know if I'll have to fake the exam.

Oh! Poll time.

Which glasses should I get, should I need to, and provided it's after June 1 so the frames won't break my bank account.

One, in green or brown
Two, in copper
Three, in brown
Four, in tortoise

Sweet. I hope I need glasses now, or that whole search will be very disappointing.

'If only, if only,' the woodpecker sighed.

Ayres.

That's that my middle name could have been.

Granted, "Davis" is the only part of my three-part name people can spell correctly. When I was in elementary school, my teachers (or one of them, I can't truly remember) spelled, so often, my name "Allison Harmon" that I started to spell it that way, too. I was a really smart kid. When my dad found out, he was endlessly furious. I remember that argument. I think it's one of the only memories from when I was that young that I remember without pictures or family lore -- besides taking turns walking on the hill in front of Lindley with my dad's glasses, eyes glued to the ground. The step-in-fake-holes effect. Anyway, he was furious, I didn't understand why, the usual. But the point of my story is this: For 20 years (yes, even as a small baby!) I suffered with the manliness of my name. Alison Davis Harman. Boy Boy Man. Convinced, as I was, that my parents had wanted a son (and very in tune to the Russian style of the obvious but hidden meaning of one's name) it was saddening, every time I thought about it.

But Ayres (pronounced Airs) would have been wonderfully 1940s Poirot. Yeah, I would have spelled it horribly for a while, resulting in a hippy both Cartman from Southpark and my own sister would have loathed, but that kind of happened anyway and I grew out of it... in practice.

Dinner's almost ready. It's 3:57 p.m. My grandfather starts asking for dinner about 3:30.

"Do you like sushi?"

"Your uncle Johnny likes it. Me, I like my fish cooked. I don't think it's a meal if you jump into the ocean and bite one." My grandfather

Amongst the creepers and cuties

The library is a labyrinth. I think maybe the one Hercules fought the lion in. The exact same one. I realized that walking from the East Wing to the second floor on Tuesday, and the theory was reinforced today, right now, in the "Media Center," which is up the stairs, to the left, down some stairs, through a hall that has the nation's newspapers (who knew?!) up some stairs, to the right, and bam! you've found one of the strangest rooms on campus. There is a line of desks, each of which has a video tape player, a dvd player, and a small panasonic tv with headphones. The kind where you can adjust the volume level of each ear. And you've also got the creepers, who I think come up here to have fun. Or, like me, end up vowing to return many times in the coming weeks to see the cute boy with huge glasses and nice, full hair.

This also happens to be where they store the newspapers. File cabinets are everywhere. If the labyrinth and From the Mixed-Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler had a love child, this is it.

I'm here watching Stalker, a very Russian, very existentialist, very, very slow film. Imagine the thickest Russian accent you've heard mixed with that guy who can go on mile-long tangents, and throw in some doubt about life and being and happiness and existence. Eksistence? Oh god I don't know.

This movie is so weird.

Maggie just came to visit and we walked around this square hall for a million years and an hour, chatting about exams and work and future work (painting houses?!) We couldn't find a job painting houses. Maybe we could start our own house-painting company. Maggie and Alison go to Paintingtown & Co. Or maybe we could serve that old man who called Housing. I'm good at making scrambled eggs. Maggie's good at old men. Maggie, Alison & Indentured Servitude.

One of the Russians just asked the other if he could really believe in all those fairy tales, following a comment about super-bacteria.

I might as well leave. There are notes on Wikipedia.

New development: Library is labyrinth, without the "nth" and with an extra "r."

And there's a skeleton hand. A skeleton arm. Some red hair. Time to go.

Halp Wanted

And the job search begins.

Here are my current options:
Starblocks
Bruegger's
McDonald's

A bit about lately.

It's been a while since I've sat down and written in this thing. There's not too much to say, really, except that last week I clocked in at only 30 hours. That's down a good 15 from the weekly average of March! It's very exciting.

The weather is lovely. Tomorrow will be quite warm. I'm walking to Cameron Village in the morning to cash my check, since I believe I've got two cents in my bank account. I'm not joking -- I think it's two cents. Hopefully it will also be lovely tomorrow and not windy, and I can go to Starblocks and get some coffee.

Mostly I'm just very excited for this summer. I've got a job, although I don't know the specifics yet. I've got some classes, which will suck. I've got a place to live, which is cute and looks like:



I've got a massive cat to keep in said apartment.



I've got some time to sit down and think about the section. The sister is graduating and giving the poet laureate speech; then she's off to debutanteland!

This summer will be so very wonderful.

Countdown

• Days to go: 15
• Classes: 14
• Exams: Three
• Term papers: Two
• Presentations: One
• Issues: Six

Job Experience: Technician, Outer Space Beat Reporter

I get to interview an astronaut soon.

Just... let it sit for a second.

An astronaut.

If you had told me last year I would ever be given the chance to interview an astronaut, I would have laughed in your face and resumed my nap. Hey remember when I took naps? Remember when I lived in Avent Ferry? If taking naps positively correlated to living in Avent Ferry, to hell with naps.

Anyway. Astronaut. What am I going to ask an astronaut?

I can see it now:

Actual script of Alison Harman's April 12 interview with Rick Linnehan, NASA. Asterisks indicate moments in which Harman paused awkwardly for extensive amount of time. The amount of asterisks correlates with exactly how extensively awkward the pause was.

Harman: So what was it like? Going up in space? I mean, oh my god. SPACE. Tell me. What. It was. Like.

Linnehan: [pauses] Well, it was breathtaking and, at the same time, scary as hell. You never realize how --

Harman: YEAH. I read something about that, about how the space men, you know, feel all this stuff but really it's just the nerves and then they get up into space and it's just like ** wow.

Linnehan: ... Yeah.

Harman: Oh yes. ************** Well, what was it like then? Did anything really bad happen?

Linnehan: I can't really talk about that. You know, top-secret NASA stuff.

Harman: Oh my god, I forgot you worked for NASA. What? How could I forget that!! I've always wanted to work for NASA. If you read my blog, you'd know that. But of course you don't, you're too bust flying up into space! Also, I'm not good at math at all so I'd be a real awful astronaut. Are you good at math? I'm not. Also, I want to work writing about NASA. For NASA, writing about NASA. So basically what I'm doing now, but all about NASA, and also I'd get paid more. Do you think I'd be good at that????


It would be a really wonderful interview.