I believe that sunshine is good in small doses, but that an afternoon spent lying in the sun in Cabo San Lucas will probably result in a nasty sunburn; I believe that dogs smell bad and that cats smell good, despite their refusal to obey my commands. I believe that hard work is overrated, that too much of anything probably is, and that even my four year-old could do that.

I believe that the criss-crossing telephone wires above my sidewalk might spell out enigmatic messages if I could just figure out the right angle to look at them.

One of our esteemed candidates for the Presidency made the news recently for a comment which seemed to elicit quite a few giggles from all but the most ardent of supporters. I giggled too. Of course, I’m just embarrassingly immature, so my laughter didn’t surprise me. For all I know, I might have been thinking about something completely different at the time. What are some really good reasons for sticking string cheese in light sockets? Why do people keep telling me to try it because, oh boy, you’ll be so glad you did!

That probably was not what I was thinking, because I’m thinking about it now, and it’s obviously a ridiculous idea. Reading by cheese light makes you hungry, and nobody can eat that many crackers.

Here, it’s all Bieber. During week one in Daegu, “Korea’s most colorful city,” which is actually, “Korea’s card catalogue of faded gray sky scrapers, overcast skies and endless stream of black Hyundai’s,” I digress into the infantilization that occurs when relocating to a new country. Neon signs are everywhere: small dashes and zeroes mixed into an array of disfigurement as if someone has jumbled the shapes together in a felt bag and then blindly arranged them into miniature squares. My rationalized excuse for not yet enrolling in Korean lessons is that I’m afraid Korean words might lose their beauty. What are probably cell phone adverts and other mindless billboard messages look like oversized scrabble pieces, as if the whole, uniform city is actually a playing board being used to somehow score points in life.

The Westboro Baptist Church has gained a certain degree of notoriety for protesting both military and celebrity funerals. Their attempts at linking all deaths to God’s condemnation of America’s laxity towards sin have, unfortunately, become hackneyed. Their most typical signs read: God Hates Fags or Thank God for Dead Soldiers. What’s most shameful about these placards is not so much the vitriol of the sentiments, but rather the missed opportunity.

Pity poor Ebenezer Scrooge. Throwing open his window that nippy December morning, he’s so culturally insensitive as to wish everyone a merry Christmas (Pardon my language!). Had he only known how to celebrate the seasonal festivities in a more thoughtful, less offensive way, he could have shouted “Happy Holidays” at all he met. Scrooge, alas, forgot that lots of people out there are not Christians, don’t know what a Christian is, don’t take being a Christian seriously, regard themselves only as nominal Christians, hate Christians, or have vague ideas at best that something Christian is somehow or other connected with December 25th. That’s a big audience ready to be offended. Be very careful.