MiracleFruitWorld.com

A short note from your favorite sell-out:
www.miraclefruitworld.com is the best place to get the fruit tablets. The tablet-form has a longer shelf life and is believed by many to be more potent. I can vouch for both the effectiveness of the product and the legitimacy of the vendor. A lot of resellers have sprung up in the last few months... in fact one of them was just featured in Thrillist, but www.miraclefruitworld.com offers both lower prices and the piece of mind that comes from many happy customers.

One Year Ago Today

On July 18, 2007 I stepped onto a plane from Detroit Metropolitan Airport, knowing in only a few days I'd find myself the farthest away I'd ever been from everything I knew. I can't quite remember or describe how I felt that day, just as I'm sure at the time I couldn't dream or predict how I'd feel one year later. But the year passed, and I imagine I'm just as unsure and directionless now as I was then.

The complete title of the following is "In the Margins of My College-Ruled Notebook V", and I wrote it during the turmoil and uncertainty of graduating.

DATE: 02/06/2007 02:20:44 AM
-----
BODY:
I could tell you how I'm just afraid
I could tell you how I stayed behind
I could go on for hours and say nothing
I could tell you how I made up my mind

I might think to ask a stupid question
I might think to try to cut in line
I might want to ignore all the little rules
I might think to make my own design

Next year I'll make a living chasing sunsets
And write a book on how we're all insane
Next month I'll move to somewhere west of paris
And give a speech on how to live in spain
Next week I'll call up all my friends and neighbors
And give a toast to each with fine champagne
Tomorrow I'll set out upon my journey
And I'll never be the same

It's obvious that I don't fit the mold
It's obvious I knew that in advance
It's wrong to say that life will just work out
It's obvious that I don't stand a chance

Next year I'll make a living chasing sunsets
And write a book on how we're all insane
Next month I'll move to somewhere west of paris
And give a speech on how to live in spain
Next week I'll call up all my friends and neighbors
And give a toast to each with fine champagne
Tomorrow I'll set out upon my journey
And I'll never be the same

I thought that life was a four-lane highway
I thought that I could simply fall in line
Some plans are made carefully with time
but still others need a bottle of old wine

Next year I'll make a living chasing sunsets
And write a book on how we're all insane
Next month I'll move to somewhere west of paris
And give a speech on how to live in spain
Next week I'll call up all my friends and neighbors
And give a toast to each with fine champagne
Tomorrow I'll set out upon my journey
And I'll never be the same

I didn't know how literal the "journey" would be when I wrote that, but at the same time I don't believe it was ever just India.
So, what will the next year bring? I know it's foolish to think there will be a date somewhere in my future where I'm content, but I find myself believing it daily. But despite the hazy road ahead, the last 365 days were not for loss. And I can only hope that no matter how unsure and directionless I feel on the July 18ths to come I never count the year wasted.

About Me

When faced with filling in a text-box titled "About Me" I usually default to, "I'm a nate, urinate." But I always guessed that wasn't entirely true. So this afternoon I free-wrote an answer:

By trade, I am a man of numbers and figures. By choice, I am a storyteller with an insatiable appetite for human experience. Without this balance, I will spiral down into a life of responsibility and dreamlessness.

In my dreams I own a cafe where the guests can purchase my wares with an essay, poem, song, or film. They don't even have to be well-written. In my cafe, there are many tables for four, and six, and eight, but still adequate tables for one. I've placed it in the most ideal latitude where the nights are breezy and warm but you can still see the northern lights. It is on a cliff overlooking a beach (with a convenient path down), and I live in a small cottage closeby. The body of water resembles both Lake Michigan and the Arabian Sea. My cafe is open 24 hours. My cafe has free wi-fi, but I have instructed management to block any business-related use.

There are two main rooms in my cafe. The first one, closest to the entrance, is well-lit and sociable. Friends meet, artists paint, poets write, and some people just sit and watch everybody else with their white earbuds in. The walls in this front room are covered in photos of guests, mostly from polaroid instant film. There are photos on top of photos, leaving no room for flyers or handbills. Each photo contains a salutation and signature of its subject, so each time it is viewed it feels like a personal letter to the onlooker. With Love, Jacob. Beating Heart, Leah. Under The Stars, Dahlia.

The tables in the back room are aligned towards a performance space against the cliff-facing wall of floor-to-ceiling windows, which during the day are usually opened vertically with a top-hinge and hooked to the ceiling. At night, however, sheer black curtains are drawn and the lighting is dim. During the early evenings, my guests can listen to a lecture taught by any volunteer, no Ph. D. required. Later in the evening the stage is reserved for performance art: musicians, beat poets, dancers and dramatists flock to fill the always-full but never booked-too-far-in-advance schedule. Every once in a while, I like to stand on the cliff with the water to my back and stare at the faint glow of the stage emitting through the curtains.

Birthdays of guests both new and old are celebrated by strangers and friends alike. On these occasions, the guest of honor is honored by superlatives and affirmations of only the most sincere form. There is no birthday song or clapping or free cake unless requested.

When regular guests announce that it will be their last visit due to an impending move or extended international travel, they are instructed to remove photos from the front-room wall of friends and memories they wish to cherish, in exchange for one last photo of themselves. It never seems to be a final goodbye, for so many that have left will make their way through again while visiting the region for a wedding, vacation, or pilgrimage of self-rediscovery.

When asked if I will ever leave, I cannot give a certain answer. For here in my cafe I have human experience at its fullest and emptiest, for unlike my guests I cannot call it my Shangri-La. And I'm not sure anyone can live in Shangri-La forever.

Miracle Fruit Party

[youtube video]

flavor tripping. a group of young hipsters find a distraction from the monotony of post-college life after a plethora of blog posts popped up last month about the effects of "Miracle Fruit", a small berry native to west africa that supposedly makes sour foods taste sweet.

in the 1970s, a group of scientists and entrepreneurs attempted to commercialize the Miraculin protein found in the berries as a low-calorie sweetener, but was stopped short by the FDA, who many believe was bribed by the sugar industry. The craze never began, and the berry remained under the radar. Until May 28th, 2008, when the New York Times covered a flavor-tripping party in Brooklyn, and turned the heads of an internet-savvy thrill-seeking generation, like these ten twenty-somethings, in Chicago, Illinois.

the premise of the party is simple: every guest brings a different food item with enough for everybody to share. but as the miracle tablets are passed around it looks less like your mother's potluck and more like a cult meeting.