Los Angeles is a scary city. Angelenos and visitors have a smorgasbord of neighborhoods to choose from in which stereotypes and reality collectively instill the fear of physical endangerment. Finding a place that plays on the mind’s more irrational fears, however, seems much less doable. Of course, there are the annual Halloween iterations of local theme parks, but less contrived and expensive experiences exist few and far between. Being the cheapskate I am, though, I said to hell with paying for actors and décor to spook me, did a little research, and embarked on a mini-tour of creepy LA locales that require no entry fee.

Murphy Ranch, Rustic Canyon

Last Sunday, my roommate Jason and I hiked away from civilization to hunt for Nazis. Well-kempt lawns faded into wild brush and tree-strewn hillsides. The sprinklers' pulses and the growls of cars yielded to buzzing insects, the whir of bikes, and sometimes, actual silence.

The trailhead begins at the back of a neighborhood in affluent Brentwood, leading to an allegedly haunted Nazi commune in Rustic Canyon. According to a Los Angeles Times article and personal accounts, a German-American Nazi spy named Schmidt convinced a wealthy American couple to establish an isolated community in the 1930s to ride out the predicted anarchy in America following the Third Reich's victory in Europe. After 1945, it apparently became an artists colony before burning down in the 60s to become the ruins that it is today.

Following a 30-minute climb up Sullivan Fire Road, we approached the grand entrance to the abandoned compound-a pair of black cast-iron gates ironically not unlike the entrance to a concentration camp. Descending into the canyon, the former water reservoir comes into view on the right amidst a tangle of brush. As is the case for most of the camp's remaining structures, graffiti blanketed its walls.

Courtesy of Gary Yao

As Jason and I walked farther down the dirt path, we encountered more clues of human settlement: fallen window mullions, a deformed fireplace, and rusting household appliances intertwining with vegetation. The Nazis lost to the world at large. Their legacy here lost to shrubs.

On the way down to more residential ruins and an overturned Volkswagen van, what we presumed to be another hiker, seated on one of the steps, asked for some water and engaged us in conversation. This eventually devolved into a one-sided speech like the ceaseless nagging of mothers during a never-ending telephone call. Except, imagine your mother as a mustachioed and balding middle-aged man spewing only sporadically comprehensible sentences.

Jason attempted in vain to make sense of the conversation, but I was having none of it. Jason asked the man how he knew so much about the place. "I grew up here 30 years ago," he said. "My girlfriend, Rose, lived over that way...When they said, ‘hoy,' they came out of the woods. They did her in first."

Courtesy of Gary Yao

Jason and I walked away as nonchalantly as possible and, thankfully, the man stayed put. We explored the area briefly before finding another way back up to the main road, lest we cross paths with the man again. Finding only one other set of stairs, Jason and I made it about 5 feet before being forced to crawl on hands and knees by the overgrowth of vegetation. Near the top, the stairs disappeared completely into the hillside. At this point, the drama queen inside me couldn't shake a sense of impending doom. Jason and I correctly agreed that moving up would be sounder than moving horizontally, and made it back onto the Murphy Ranch's main road. We laughed nervously about our awesome adventure.

"Thank God I didn't end up coming alone," I told him as I exhaled a sigh of relief.

Lower Arroyo Seco Park and
Colorado Street Bridge, Pasadena

I did, however, end up tackling the next photo shoot alone. At night.

Courtesy of Gary Yao

Nicknamed the “Suicide Bridge,” the Colorado Street Bridge is the site where dozens of people plummeted to their deaths in the early 20th century. Having already photographed night shots from the bridge deck previously and not encountering any of the rumored paranormal activity, I swithced gears and decided to shoot a set from the completely unlit Lower Arroyo Seco Park below.

I arrived at sundown, and the park still hosted a lively mix of strollers, joggers, and dog-walkers. Two other photographers had set up their equipment below the bridge as well. As the sun set, with my sense of sight almost out of commission, my ears perked up at every noise—every rustle and every voice made me a little less motivated to stay.

Once finished, I hummed my way back to the car, trying to convince myself that what I’d heard came from small animals and local kids, and that nothing would step out of the closed Port-A-Potty as I rushed past it. Mine was the last car to leave the lot.

Courtesy of Gary Yao

It took a little mental pep talk to convince myself that heading over to the Old L.A. Zoo at that point would be a wise decision. Once notorious for its mistreatment of its animals, the zoo has since moved to a new site in Griffith Park. The old zoo is now home only to abandoned cages and storage sheds. Despite being claimed as one of the safest abandoned sites in Los Angeles, I hoisted white flag to doing anything in a pitch-black unfamiliar environment besides photographing a sign marking the old zoo’s location.

For People More Daring:
Linda Vista Hospital, Boyle Heights

Linda Vista Hospital embodies all the trappings of a classic haunted place. Judging by pictures by others, the random noises, the flickering lights, and cold spots, among other things make the setting a terrifying visit.

Unfortunately, the hospital has been officially closed to all except for production companies renting out the place for filming. Yet, this will surely not stop the most enthused aficionados of haunted locations. Not that I condone trespassing or anything...

Mobs gathered at the tables, anticipating. We were screaming, shouting, performing like circus animals—all for a morsel smaller than our outreached hands. Was this ripped from history, a Depression-era image of food ration lines? Hardly. We paid $5 admission for this. Another key difference: we all had smiled plastered on our faces. That didn’t make the competition for food any less Darwinistic.

Welcome to the 1st 7th Annual Grilled Cheese Invitational. Held last Saturday, April 25th in Los Angeles State Historic Park in Chinatown, this competition calls itself the “Grilled Cheese Sammich cooking competition.” And how exactly does a mere mortal like myself get to judge such a competition? It only took the hard work and perseverance…of an internet search. Don’t ask me how and the other hundreds of people found out about this niche of a cooking contest. Call it divine guidance.

And on a Sunday afternoon, with churchgoers and late-night revelers awake and famished, there was something ungodly about the line that snaked itself into a good 45 minute-1 hour wait. Alas, foodies like myself will do a lot for a quality piece of grub, so wait we did. We were richly rewarded.

The competition was conducted in 4 separate 45-minute heats, with each heat having its own category of ingredients (I’m telling you, this isn’t a joke!). And when they call the odious, “SPATULAS DOWN!,” your sammich better be finished and expedited to the judges table and to some of the audience crying out for your attention in front of you.

Category 1: The Missionary— "Standard bread, standard cheese (or cheeses), standard butter and NO ADDITIONAL INGREDIENTS.”

Ok, so the creators have a penchant for cheeky names, but there is something to say about the inherent connection between innuendo and food. I guess they find grilled cheese to be just that satisfying. For my tasting of The Missionary, I had some clean flavor profiles—just to butter me up for Round 2. A group of nun-dressed chefs were delivering up a cheddar-coated grilled cheese, with the bread taking just as long to grill, separate from the whole. If you weren't lucky enough to snag a competitor sammich, there was the ever-flowing cornucopia of simple grilled cheese from the Kraft Singles booth. These, in essence, became palate cleansers for the main course.

Category 2: The Kama Sutra – “Any kind of bread, any kind of butter, and any kind of cheese PLUS additional ingredients(the interior ingredients must be at least 60% cheese).”

"MR. PESTO MAN!" I was ravenous, and my gastro-emotions got the better of me. I waved desperately to the young chef offering up his mysterious pesto-garnished grilled cheese. Ugh, too many people were hollering. Time for Plan B: the quiet but desperate plea. I looked over at one point after the first samplers went out and, well, gave him a "I'm completely famished and in love with pesto" gaze. It worked--and he shouted out, "You're #1 for the next sample!" This was certainly music to a salivating foodie. And with its goat cheese and sun-dried tomatoes, there was no shame in wolfing it down. Not that shame has ever played a role in judging an eating contest.

This category was split into 2 tastings (vegetarian and meat), and we stayed for the former. That said, carnivores don't despair. These samplings were so filling and tasty, we didn't realize it was the veggie round until it was over. The highlights of the day were had here. The Italian, panini-like grilled cheese with basil, tomato, mozzarella, lemon zest, and a chili kick. Each tasty sample comes with a ballot card to judge everything from basic taste to the weirdness factor and presentation. Our grilled cheese with swiss, cheddar, and red paper got top marks here with its inclusion of a yellow duck candle--random, but nonetheless appealing.

For the non-vegetarian category, Chef Eric Greenspan of The Foundry on Melrose did a public demonstration of his entry. With the grilled cheese world as his stage, his audience interaction blasted over a speaker system. His sammich mixed savory and sweet, with a unique blend of arugula, braised beef short ribs, apricot-caper sauce, all housed in raisin bread. As last year'swinner of the Kama Sutra category, he whipped up his blend proudly and with lot's o cheese.

Category 3: The Honey Pot – “Any kind of bread, any kind of butter, and any kind of cheese (the interior ingredients of the sammich must be at least 60% cheese), and with an overall flavor that is sweet and would best be served as dessert.”

Who could forget dessert? One noteworthy dessert grilled cheese was the combo of mascarpone cheese, honey, almond, dried figs all sandwiched between raisin bread. Not heart healthy, but your tongue won't complain.

And just as quickly as we gorged ourselves, we headed off--satiated with dairy and bread, I ask Downtown to challenge me with more food explorations. So far, it hasn't let me down.

by Michael Sullivan

By the dawn of 2010, you will probably never see a film again—at least, not in the strictest sense. Though digital cameras have long been a staple of home movies and amateur films, technology has advanced to a point that independent filmmakers and professional production companies are looking to digital for current and upcoming projects. And if they aren’t yet, they will soon. Say “goodbye” to celluloid and “hello” to the RED-volution!

In 2005, Jim Jannard, the man responsible for Oakley sunglasses, decided to turn his attention to film, and developed the Red Cinema Camera Company and their flagship product, the RED ONE camera. The RED ONE is a professional-level digital camera that shoots at a resolution of 4K (or 4096x3072 pixels) at 30 frames per second (professional films are shot at 24 frames per second), though resolution decreases when the frame rate is increased for slow-motion shots. Recent films shot on this camera include Jumper (2008), My Bloody Valentine 3D (2009), and the recent Knowing (2009)

Films shot on celluloid, as they have been since the 1920s, project at a resolution somewhere between 4K and 5K, and until only recently, even high-end digital cameras only shot up to 1080p, the standard for HDTV home sets (1920x1080 pixels, less than ¼ the resolution of celluloid film). Even the RED ONE, though an excellent piece of equipment, can’t compare. However, by the end of this calendar year, the Red Cinema Camera Company will change the playing field altogether.

The company will be launching two new cameras by the end of this year—the RED Scarlett and the RED EPIC—though to be fair, these two are really a nearly infinite number of cameras courtesy of customizability, which I’ll get to later. The RED Scarlett line consists of a lower-range end of cameras, featuring models that can shoot as many as 120 frames per second, but are limited to a range of 2-6K. The RED EPICs, however, are also equipped to shoot up to 120 frames per second and range from as little as 4K to as much as an unprecedented 28K, a resolution so brilliant that projectors don’t yet exist that can display the image in its entirety. And even a cheaper RED Scarlett can shoot in 6K, better resolution than any film ever made. Yet.

For freshman film production major Alec Morris, the new RED cameras are most exciting because of their appearance. “They’re just going to look insane.” This is because each RED camera is completely customizable. “You can rig it up any way,” he said, citing the fact that amateur and independent filmmakers will be able to change the form of their camera virtually at will to cater to the shot at hand. Also, because of excellent resolution specs, Morris believes “[an independent] will look just like a big movie…and the best movies will look much better now.”

But Morris acknowledges that “resolution isn’t everything.” Another factor that contributes to the assertion of RED’s unmatched image is the RED patented Mysterium-X and Mysterium Monstro sensors. According to RED’s website, these sensors contribute to the excellent resolution and frame rates of RED cameras, but also account for “increased dynamic range and decreased noise,” two factors that will basically improve low-light performance, an issue that has plagued digital cameras since their inception.

Finally, and most importantly, cost. Though RED cameras vary greatly in price from model to model, the cheapest RED Scarlett’s will cost in the range of $4,000, a price that would be considered average for a 1080p camera just a few months ago, but for a camera that shoots at more than three times the resolution. This will put “affordable” filmmaking up to a whole new caliber, allowing amateur and independent filmmakers to focus more of their budget on costumes, sets, and special effects.

The vast majority of these models will be on the market by the end of the year, with most Scarlett’s available by this fall. So please, take a moment to shed a tear for the death of film. My guess is you won’t miss it one bit.

What comes to mind when you think of Downtown LA? Words like “grungy,” “poor,” and “ghettolicious” are common for USC students. But don’t we owe it to our alma mater and the community to break free from the dark cloud of the University of South Central? Luckily, we’ve got some venues that are helping us solve Downtown’s poor image—think LA Live, the new hub of dining and soon-to-be-hotel venues that surround the powerhouse of the Nokia Center. With a vision of Downtown as a place to take a leisurely stroll, the creators constructed a “Times Square of the West.” They even lobbied to repeal the “traffic-reducing” law forbidding taxis from being hailed on the sidewalk (which, one must admit, was not one of the smartest solutions to LA traffic).

We have other allies in the quest to make our downtown livable and lovable. The Historic Downtown District emphasizes the nostalgia of old Broadway, trendy bars, cafes, and museums that are centralized on Main and Spring Street—all within a five-minute drive of campus (www.historicdowntownla.com). The Downtown Art Walk takes place on the second Thursday of every month, attracting droves of people with free admission to art museums, galleries, and the nonprofit venues. They even have a complimentary Art Walk Shuttle to ferry participants to and from the 45 sites (downtownartwalk.com). And while this should be music to a Trojan’s ears, we might as well be deaf. In an informal-yet-sound survey of 15 students, all of them had been on outings to the Grove while less than half had been to LA Live (with some only having been to the Nokia Theatre, not daring to venture out to one of the 10 dining venues). Let’s do a comparison to see what makes sense here.

FADE IN:

EXT. TROUSDALE WALKWAY - NIGHT

STARBUCKS, 38, a twin-tailed siren with a starry crown on her wavy black and white hair, slithers behind a table on the campus walkway. The stall is stacked with different coffee bags.

She munches on a coffee bean.

STARBUCKS
(munching)
Mmmm. Remarkable coffee with a depth
and versatility — a perfect pairing with a
variety of gourmet entrees and desserts.
(pause)
I give the world - Guatemala Casi
Cielo!

JON TSANG, voice in the sky, thunders from the clouds.

JON TSANG (V.O.)
Starbucks... sometimes you can get
over-the-top with using exoticism to
sell your products.

STARBUCKS
Never you mind, voice in the sky!

CBTL, 46, a large anthropomorphic coffee bean, bounces towards Starbucks, the two tiny leaves above its head flowing gently in the wind.

STARBUCKS
Coffee Bean.

CTBL
That’s “The Coffee Bean & Tea Leaf”
to you, Starbucks. What are you
doing here this late?

STARBUCKS
Why, handing out late night
frappuccinos, of course. They’re
one of the hippest drinks on campus.

JON TSANG (V.O.)
It’s true. People wear
Starbucks like it’s another piece
of designer clothing. The plastic
cup and the green straw - it’s all
part of the outfit.

CTBL
No thanks to you, J.T.!

JON TSANG (V.O.)
I’m just saying...!

A group of giggling girls pass by. They each grab a frappuccino from the table then continue along their way.

CTBL
Do they even know how unhealthy
those things really are?

JON TSANG (V.O.)
That’s a good point. Even
the plain sounding Coffee Frappuccino
packs 10mg of cholesterol and a whopping
31g of sugar in a small, 12 fl. oz.
cup.

CBTL (CONT.)
Also, it’s 11 p.m.! They don’t
need the caffeine!

JON TSANG (V.O.)
Students here drink coffee at
ungodly hours.

STARBUCKS
Shush, J.T.! Whose side are you on
anyway? CTBL has been copying
us all along. We started doing the
whole “love the environment” theme
first. Then CTBL went ahead and copied
us with cup holders made from
recycled materials.

JON TSANG (V.O.)
Well nowadays, being environmental
is sexy and it sells.

CTBL
The difference is that we actually
care about what we do. All you care
about is stamping your despicable
green logos everywhere and making
people say ridiculous words like
grande and venti.

JON TSANG (V.O.)
I agree. Sometimes Starbucks overuses
marketing ploys to expand their
customer base instead of focusing on
the actual end product.

STARBUCKS
Hey! There’s a reason why there’s at
least five places on campus where you
can get my coffees.

JON TSANG (V.O.)
You do have a dominating presence
here on USC, though at times it feels
like USC is forcing branding on the
Trojans.

CTBL
You know all those “We Proudly Brew
Starbucks Coffee” signs and vendors on campus?
You don’t even care enough to give them the
recipes for making frappuccinos. The
poor girl making the drink doesn’t even
know what a “Creamice” is.

JON TSANG (V.O.)
I was confused myself when I could not order a
frappuccino on campus. Lots of students feel cheated because nobody explained why.

STARBUCKS
I trust that Trojans know how to pick
the best. They only go for the original.

JON TSANG (V.O.)
Interesting you bring up the point,
since CTBL was actually established
first for a full eight years.

YOGURTLAND and PINKBERRY, infant anthropomorphic yogurt cartoons, crawl by.

YOGURTLAND and PINKBERRY
Gagagagaga gagaga!

JON TSANG (V.O.)
Stop complaining! I didn’t even
start comparing the parallels
of froyo and coffee culture yet!

FADE OUT.

Attention Business Students! With finance jobs down the tube, odd jobs are receiving some more credibility—and an influx of job applicants. Disgruntled with your boss, freshly laid off, or just looking for extra dough? Check out these jobs, and see if your calling was just a little too odd to be listed on Monster.com.

Canopy Zip Guide

Resume Description: Alaska Canopy Adventures needs guides to lead zipline tours. Don’t understimate: testing required.

Why You Want It: Getting paid to dangle anywhere from 30 to 1500 ft above the ground? And you thought Wall Street was risky

Why You Don’t Want It: Bears, the cold, Bridges to Nowhere, bears.

Average Salary: $14/hour

Who’s Offering: Coolworks.com

Christmas Tree Farmer

Resume Description: With as little as 5 acres to support 500 trees, being a rancher never seemed so…jolly.

Why You Want It: For those of us with farms, it’s an easy way to make use of all that extra space we’ve been itching to crop.

Why You Don’t Want It: It takes 7-15 years to grow a tree to Christmas-authorized proportions.

Average Salary: You can fetch prices of $30 per tree in rural areas, and more near cities.

Who’s Offering: This is more of an entrepreneurial task—and Santa doesn’t do loans.

Feng Shui Restaurant

Resume Description: Forget Deloitte, it’s time to cater to spiritual health in the ancient Chinese art of living arrangements.

Why You Want It: All that study of chi and energy flow has to have a major ROK (Return on Karma).

Why You Don’t Want It: If your client has too much clutter or 90-degree angles in her house, you have a lot of work to do.

Average Salary: $44,000 a year, though some charge $500 per 100-square meters of space

Who’s Offering: Check out the Feng Shui Directory of Consultants and Schools

iPhone App Field Tester

Resume Description: The booming market of smartphones needs its guinea pigs.

Why You Want It: Really, how hard can this be?

Why You Don’t Want It: May not want to share this one at your next family party.

Average Salary: $12-$17/hour “depending on skill,” whatever that means.

Who’s Offering: Craigslist

Promotions: Internet Pranks

Resume Description: A web-based company seeks evil friend-on-friend pranks to promote its products and brand.

Why You Want It: The next time your friend wakes up with his hand steeped in warm water, you could claim “occupational hazard.”

Why You Don’t Want It: By the time you get your pink slip, you won’t have any friends left.

Average Salary: Pay-per-prank

Who’s Offering: Craigslist, under “etcetera jobs”

Roller Coaster Designer

Resume Description: Start from entry-level drafter to conceptual designer at one of 100 rollercoaster design firms.

Why You Want It: Perks include jumping to the front of the line for your ride. Everytime.

Why You Don’t Want It: Bearing responsibility for making all those wimps cry—it weighs heavily on the conscience.

Average Salary: $45,000-$80,000 a year

Who’s Offering: Arrow Dynamics

Williams Sonoma. Nordstrom. Crate & Barrel. Abercrombie and Fitch. This was San Francisco’s Union Square, a spot we had been told was a must see. Thank goodness we came here. We had never seen a Williams Sonoma or an Abercrombie and Fitch before. As a liberal gay couple, San Francisco seemed like a logical and obligatory place to sojourn en route to Seattle for spring break. And so there we were, sipping cappuccinos in the middle of the city’s prized landmark. As enthusiastic as we tried to act, we couldn’t help but feel that we had traveled hundreds of miles only to end right back up at Rodeo Drive or New York’s Fifth Avenue.

“This is so depressing,” Gary sighed. “I feel like people need their favorite stores anywhere they go just to feel safe. They’re so terrified of getting out of our comfort zone…”

“Same brands,” Jeremy added. “Same cappuccino. Same busy people on their cell phones.”

We gave each other a knowing nod that really meant “Ha! This consumer society might have fooled everyone, but not us!” Hand in hand (San Francisco does have its perks), we headed back to our Honda, dearly baptized Dushonda, and drove triumphantly away. We were done with this city and its thinly veiled pretense of originality.

At 11 p.m., 100 miles into Oregon, we stopped at the nearest gas station in order to put some junk in Dushonda’s trunk. Our bleary eyes took a moment to register exactly where we were: nowhere. On our left, there were broken gas pumps that hadn’t been used since the last Great Depression; on our right, a desolate hotel with the almost-too-cliché flickering “Vacancy” sign. “Let’s get the hell out of here,” Gary muttered under his breath, adrenaline pumping as he suddenly cast himself as the dashing lead in a Hollywood slasher flick. Without hesitation, we drove away and scanned the area for the closest gas station.

It didn’t take long for us to spot another one in the distance. Exhausted and looking like we’d just taken a bottle of Prozac, we stepped out of the car and tried unsuccessfully to shove the pump into Dushonda. Jeremy winced as a muddy liquid spurted from the pump and dribbled onto the cement. Something was wrong. Ten minutes and a brief explanation from the bemused gas attendant was all it took for us to realize exactly how wrong everything was. We had pumped Dushonda with one gallon of diesel, and would have to wait at least one more day to have her drained, refilled, and functional. Shit.

Thinking quickly, we secured a reservation at the nearby Leisure Inn and called AAA to tow the car away and drive us to the hotel. We were headed to what we imagined was a luxurious boutique hotel with room service and a hunky masseur on night duty. It was only when we pulled up to the parking lot of the Leisure Inn that we realized in horror where we had arrived…or gone back to.

The blinking “Vacancy” sign seemed to smirk at us as we stumbled inside. At the end of a corridor plastered with American flags and patriotic paraphernalia stood Genevieve, the hotel manager, receptionist, cleaning lady, plumber and bellhop. She sported a blond mullet and an oversized T-shirt that read “Army Strong,” looking like she had spent her youth shucking corn in the nearby fields. Next to her hung pictures of her son in an army suit, bearing more muscles than both of us combined.

“Hello there,” Jeremy said in a voice so deep he sounded like that movie trailer guy. “We’d like to reserve a room for the night.” She nodded and looked down at her guest book. “Okay, gentlemen. That’ll be one room with two beds, right?”

Gary, slumped on the counter with fatigue, yawned and rectified her mistake nonchalantly: “Oh no, just one bed.”

There was a sharp crack of thunder as rain began to pour down outside. Genevieve picked up her pen from the page abruptly, not looking up. Jeremy silently gathered a list of reasons as to why Gary would be crazy enough to make such a request, from “It’s cheaper” to “He’s joking around — what a homo.” But, much to our surprise, Genevieve simply smiled and handed us a key to room 206.

“Your room is right upstairs,” she said warmly, and waved goodbye as she stroked her bat-like Chihuahua. When we went to sleep that night, we made a pact: whatever happened, we had to get the hell out of this town as soon as possible. Sure, Genevieve might have seemed nice enough, but surely she would try to castrate us Anthony Perkins-style in the middle of the night.

The rain was still going strong the next morning. As Jeremy called AAA outside, Gary waited in the lobby trying to avoid talking to Genevieve as best as he could. She tried to do the exact opposite and hurriedly gathered some cookies and coffee for him. Gary had no other choice but to make small talk. He asked her how long she had been working in this hotel, predicting the answer would range from 72 to 86 years.

“Well, I’ve been living in this town for a few years, but I spent most of my life driving a van across 49 states with my husband and three kids,” she explained as Jeremy came inside.

As it turned out, Genevieve had seen more of this country than we probably ever would. We briefly talked about our faux pas with Dushonda and had a good laugh about it for the first time. Then she told us about her son, who was being shipped to South Korea this month. Her eyes welled up with tears as she shared her everyday anguish that something might happen to her baby.

At that moment, we were both taken aback. We realized that we were complete hypocrites. A day before, we had criticized the fact that each city resembled the next, declaring that we were looking for something different, something off the beaten path. But when given that opportunity, we were immediately judgmental. Finally, a town without a Banana Republic, and it had frightened us. Sure, Genevieve and all the people we had met in this town looked like they had last bought clothes during the Carter administration, but they sure were nicer and more hospitable than most people we had interacted with during the week. What’s more, we automatically assumed that Genevieve would categorize us as two raging queens who deserved to be stoned. As it turns out, we were the ones who immediately cast her as, well, Ann Coulter — with a mullet.

Then we realized something else: even if Genevieve did worship Ann Coulter, even if she had never graduated from high school, even if the idea of two guys sharing a bed initially caught her off guard, we shared a more meaningful moment with her than we did with most people that week. It didn’t matter if cities were depersonalized as long as the people were not. A few hours later, Dushonda had been drained for $10 (she’s a cheap lady, that Dushonda), and we were back on the road, driving into the distance.

Alas, it has already been more than a week, but many students are still trying to get over spring’s big tease. En route to summer lovin’, spring lust has caught many of us with our pants down.

But while you were taking ¾-naked photos poolside in Cabo, other Trojans were out there trying to save the world. And among the proverbial fruits of such labor: Facebook photos of Mary plowing the fields instead of Mary riding the mechanical bull.

After having served on an international electoral observing delegation (essentially to ensure fair and free presidential elections in El Salvador), I ran into some familiar-looking faces on the flight back to Los Angeles. With the exception of one person whom I actually knew, it was a composite of gringo accents, tinted with hues of cardinal and gold. Christ, I thought, another one of those alternative break groups.

On the Volunteer Center’s website, part of the description of the Retalhuleu [Reu], Guatemala trip reads: “It is important that students who live in a wealthy country such as the United States understand that poverty is a serious issue around the globe.”

In other words, keep the Uggs at home. When paired with a miniskirt, the net monetary value is enough to feed a refugee camp in Uganda (conveniently there’s another service-learning trip scheduled there in the summer).

“The impact of seeing poverty first-hand does not compare to reading about it in the news.” In between bouts of “Montezuma’s revenge,” you can take plenty of pictures next to all of the brown babies just like Brangelina.

“In addition to learning about poverty, students will be engaging in a cultural exchange with the Guatemalan people.” Unlike Facebook westerners, the other does not fake a smile in front of the camera. Nor do they say queso.

Later I learned from a friend of a friend that the Guatemala trip was cancelled at the last minute, supposedly because of security issues of some sort. Vice President of Student Affairs Michael Jackson did, after all, caution students against touring any of the border cities – apparently the playground for drug cartels. Dodging bullets at Señor Frogs, while in flip-flops, seems quite the endeavor. So in the event of a wartime contagion effect, maybe it was the legal obligation to extend this State Department warning beyond the mechanical bull-riding "SCitizens" of the southwest.

At any rate, that mutual friend ended up poolside.

Other trips this year included volunteering in health care clinics in

Baltimore; invasive plant species removal in Death Valley; and trail-building in Moran State Park on Orcas Island in Washington. And as far as the run-in at the airport, they were the USC Global Water Brigades on the tail end of another packaged, life-changing experience in Honduras.

And yet, while arriving in San Salvador this last time, I writhed in the fact that on this 160-person delegation, they actually put us in a hotel. (And by us, I mean lawyers guilds, Washington D.C. college students, resurrected hippies from eras long gone, and so forth.) And not even a hotel, but a facility with running water, flushing toilets and showers.

The audacity! As an anti-establishment traveler and descendant from the third world, my street cred was being infringed upon by an ostensibly large-scale gringo tour. I’m safeguarding Salvadorans’ constitutional rights, dammit. As such, I should be deprived of at least 70 percent of my basic human rights, too.

And so to compensate for this pseudo absence of the gritty and legit, I immediately reverted to hopping from one bus to the next, eating street food and drinking the water in between.

The night before Election Day, I woke up around 11 p.m., then again at 1 a.m. and 3 a.m. Jackson was right. A contagion effect had occurred. The Mexican drug war had spilled over a third southern border – its latest battlefield being inside my gut and spilling once more into the toilet. At 4 a.m. we were to commence enforcing passive-aggressive, international policies of note-taking nonintervention. I’m fine, I contemplated on the toilet, I have bowels of steel.

Despite everything, I was able to eat electoral fraud for breakfast. Or at least establish in my intimidating 5-foot-2 presence that I was ready to do so. But, in between loose stools, I was persuaded by my delegation coordinators to donate one of them to science. And so, an empty Gerber’s jar was “sterilized” in Hotel Alameda’s kitchen for me.

Doctors there revealed that the X number of parasites and bacteria (both adults and eggs) were leftovers born anew – originally deposited when I had lived in Central America last year. Accordingly, I’ve been medicated, purged and intestinally reconstructed via Activia yogurt.

Still, looking back, not once did I enjoy such comforts of gringolandia.

… Maybe just a little.