The theory of relativity

I am older. One year older to be exact, which makes this the thirty-fourth year I've existed on this planet ... and I don't believe in acting my age. What does 'acting your age' mean anyway? Does it mean having kids and settling down while working on a beer paunch? I'll take a pass on that if it does. As long as my body is ready and willing, I have no intention of moving towards that definition of old.

To mark my birthday, my weekend was filled with a flurry of activities. It started with going to a cowboy saloon where there was line dancing and a mechanical bull that I was determined to break in. I did break in something, alright, coming off second best with a few friction burns, bruises, torn callouses on my hands and ripped jeans. The bull had beaten me but I think I did gain some respect for my dogged persistence (some would say foolhardiness). Strangely enough, I felt alright the next day and followed that up with Kayaking, beach tennis and clubbing at boulevard3. It was probably one of the coolest clubs I've been to. Good sound system, good production and great dancers. It was also a little trippy (surprise, surprise), with a guy on stilts flipping this little Asian girl around the stage while he wore a black bandanna across his face bandito-style. This was followed up with some contortionist krunk/krump dancers that did weird things with their shoulder blades and were generally wiggity wiggity whack (to use a 90'sism). It was really cool and the music was a good blend of RnB, house and pop. And so, to summarise: I had a good weekend and, as long as this is what getting older involves, bring on the next year.

Interrogation for your benefit

Ah the rigmaroles of the US work visa application process.

All those convoluted and intrusive questions required just to have the privilege of being subjected to the TSA screenings upon your arrival into the land of opportunity. I cannot help but feel that it takes on a sort of sado-masochistic process wherein, by the end of it all, you look forward to your next punishment.

I can't believe bears like these exist ...

Please sir, give me another. <twhack> Another, please! <twhack> ... and so on.

Prior to being allowed 'the privilege' of being interrogated/questioned/lynched about my visa application, I needed to fill out a 30+ page application form covering everything from my mother's mother's first name to what countries I have travelled in the previous five years to what drugs or prostitution I partake in. To say it was thorough would be an understatement.

I'm not sure who is being benefited by this increased level of 'security' and I am pretty sure most of it is not warranted. Outside of big brother wanting to know every minutia of your existence I can't see the benefit. Where has the 'innocent until proven guilty' mantra disappeared to? We are all treated like terrorists until we either are proven to be a 'low-level threat' or are motivated by their exhaustive intrusions to rebel. I can almost empathise with those people from Guantanamo. No human should be subjected to this. All, of what could only be called crap, for a country that should be grateful for any injection of earnings or assistance to productivity in its plight to fix its ailing economy. I'm not sure whether it's arrogance or just a general distrust of anything that isn't American. All I know is I don't feel welcome.

UPDATE:
Now that I have an *official* work visa, there should be no reason to be pulled up by the TSA now, should there? No, would be the logical answer but the TSA is anything but logical.

Having an official visa embedded in your passport with your ugly mug displayed and being able to verify your legitimacy in their system is not enough, apparently; you also need to show your original Visa application as well - ah the wonders of progress.