At Geghard monastery there was a tree out by the Goght river that was covered in torn pieces of cloth, one for each prayer, one for each suffering or desire. In Lost in Translation I noticed that when Charlotte went to Kyoto she tied a white ribbon to a tree covered in such ribbons. This highlights both the unity of faith--trees, prayers, beauty-- while also illustrating how the Japanese are clean and uniform and scrappy Armenians rip up whatever they have. I went for torn fabric printed with kimonos--oh, meaning out of nothing!-- and tied four strips to a tree on Logan Blvd. One for each of the women I am praying for these days, one of whom is me.

Which is ridiculous. While I am unemployed, very nearly broke, and heavily in debt, my blessings would choke a tree. I got to go to the Lake County fair with three beautiful boys, their Top Tier Nanny, their useless father, and their Bulgarian housekeeper. We saw the monster truck races. During the car-crushing portion of the show, when you think that the monster truck will NOT be able to crush the minivan and will, in fact, tip over and kill the brave driver, the monster called Nemesis met his match in a Monte Carlo. His back crumpled, the ginormous tire exploded, it seemed as though all was lost for Nemesis and brave driver Tom. He managed to right the truck and emerged from the cab like a returning astronaut. I went with the crowd, the screaming, the jubilation; I threw my elephant ear on the court; we all knew that Man had finally conquered Beast--the beast man had made for $100,000 of his retired parent's money.

I am a dumbass and forgot my camera, so to commemorate our day I took a picture of the oldest beautiful boy in his monster truck PJs. There was nothing of fashion note at the fair; just good people eating fried cheese dipped in ranch dressing and getting hustled by carnies. Useless Dad (from Toronto, the city-sized version of a desk zen garden) felt that the people were trashy. He is wrong, and after the whole Ironic Mullet craze of the past few years, I'm not about to take pictures of a rat tail or a Calvin-peeing-on-something shirt. Leave poor white folk to be, I say. You have your own troubles.

Mere hours ago I was deep in it. I was at St. Sabina church, holding out my hand and calling to Jesus, whose name is hung in neon over the alter. All the themes--connectedness, truth, suffering--they were all touched on; I was where I needed to be. Next time, however, I will know to take a snack, maybe do as Sister recommends and come in a few hours late, thereby skipping part of the first song. There were lots of choruses, many things said that drew lines between ideas in my lonely heart; Pastor had us all yelling at each other that It Is Coming Down The Block. The miracle we need. It is on our street; now I am doubly glad that my ribbons are on that tree, so that my miracle knows where to turn off Logan.

I stole Lost In Translation from the Movie Star and noted a couple of points of major, major interest to everyone reading this, meaning my Sister. She and I recently discussed that in media--movies and TV, let's say--people don't laugh enough. Of major concern to me is that women don't laugh very much when men say funny things. Elaine never laughed at Jerry. Annie Hall? Nothing. Very similar to Charlotte in Lost in Translation, actually, now that I think about it--androgynous WASP style and slightly derisive titters when their respective partners say funny, funny, funny things.

I worry about this because I want a funny man and I love to laugh. Big dumb laugh, all the time, at anything funny. Studies show that I, as a laugher, will live a long and more contented life, although if movies are any indication I will be alone forever, as I am looking to land a dry-witted genius and am just too effusive, middle class, and loudly dressed.

Effusive, middle class, and loudly dressed women marry kind-hearted plumbers and other such tradespeople, and are always berating them and involving them in schemes. Which is fine, too, as long as the schemes result in wacky shenanigans and I get to laugh.

Wacky shenanigans can include walking into a mosque during Friday prayers. A friend and I were on Devon and needed to eat. I wanted to go to the restaurant with the big red dome on the corner at Western, but when we opened the heavy doors there were shoes everywhere. We backed out but a cute Pakistani American with big hippity hop pants lunged after us, and despite my friend's initial instinct--see a giant pile of shoes and hear chanting equals walk away--I went in. And he said "Hey, check out the buffet!" but he was whispering because everywhere except for the small buffet area there were men in round white hats on rugs, praying.

Checking out the buffet would involving lifting the loud metal lids and walking around in my suddenly shockingly tight shirt and so we waited while he kept saying "It's fine." It took a long while for the good food to come out--initial buffet offerings were weak--and my friend realized that this was because all the cooks were praying. Our sweet host made her some awesome chicken and brought me fresh naan, so in the end: it's all good. In fact, we were both motivated to pray over our food, despite the fact, according again to this wise woman, that "We look weak because we don't stand up or kneel down or anything." Later we went to Royal Sweets and had some damn good Indian sweets, although I think the only reason we went in was so that she could ask about barfy. "You got almond barfy? What kind of barfy is that one?" While I was thinking that she can't keep saying 'barfy', I ate something that looked like dookie.

These are the famed Scissors of St. Renegade, currently on display in Goght, Armenia. While the icon does not have the historical or cultural significance of the Fire Temple in Garni nor the Rock-hewn Monastery of Geghard, visitors to the one-room dwelling that house this stunning example of renegade art have reported healed wounds and soothed itches.