Powers

It had to happen. I had to try and talk about superpowers. Here are some snippets.

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I think of the first beads of water to bubble up at the bottom of a boiling pot. Imagine that trembling, anxious fear all over your skin. The feeling comes from every pore, pouring out from the surface. Not a deep, gut feeling you feel inside your stomach. But, the pins and needles of blood rushing back to your limbs. Except this is all on fire. I am focusing energy and it is working!

I shaved my arms before trying this. The little ad at the back of Atomic Stories didn't say anything about shaving, but I thought it would help. This book was aimed at kids anyway. I don't remember my own arms from childhood, but they are certainly hairy now. Or used too, before I shaved. I read the rest of the ad for "Enchanted Defense for the Modern Age," but the little preview exercise doesn't tell you what to do with all this energy at the end of my fist. I hear my father in my head who was a technical writer that wrote, mostly, VCR manuals. "Instructions should never assume, son." I wonder what he would have to say about this. About how his pulp magazine actually worked and what to do with this missing information. I imagine lots of blown holes in the wall in mid 60's.

Unlike in the comics, the lights doesn't bulge out from my fist. Instead my arm shines in a shimmering iridescence, a peridot green that gets deeper at my fist. The ad never said anything about colors. There are no pictures at all! "Images are always helpful, son." My dad would rip this ad to shreds.

Neither does it say anything about my arm feeling heavy. Or that the joints of my elbow and knuckles tickle. I press my arm against a desk, it feels that cumbersome. The gypsum boars boils when my arm touches the top. The first layer bubbles up and peels away, exposing the sandy compressed particles of the interior. These then turn molten, burning and glowing like charcoal briquettes. I pull my arm away, but I don't remember the weight.

I drop to the floor and put my fist against the concrete of the basement floor. I hear a tiny "phoom" noise and then the crackle of splinters. The glow is gone, but under my fist I left a concrete divot in the floor. I am tired. Not just the arm, but my whole body. This feels like a gut feeling. Grabbing a softball from some scattered boxes I nestle it in the divot. A snug fit.
"All done, son."

__________________________

Recycling superhero! He exists! R3 gives the vilians something to watch out for. I saw him chasing a purse snatcher downtown. The snatcher had a good head start and R3 wears this sort-of armor made from bottle caps. It looked like the perp would get away, until R3 whipped out today's newspaper and touched it. Then, he somehow brought back all the recycled pulp that went into that. He reversed-recycled an entire paper just by touching it! And considering the Courier is printed on thin newsprint , the issue multiplied ten fold! A column of paper flew out from R3's fist. It shot down Second Street, each sheet leap frogging over the next and rammed straight into the back of the thief! Then R3 grabbed a soda can from his belt and turned into six little throwing stars! They flew fast and pinned the perp to the wooden scaffolding outside the Blue Street bus stop renovation. The local cops were then all over the perp. R3 dissappeared, riding his stack of paper up towards the rooftops. I tell my neighbors to recycle because it keeps our city safe.

___________________

Eh? Just playing. Peace!

Proto-meme

Thanks to Dave's Long Box, I have now participated in my (sort of) first blog meme*! To those not familiar with the blog-o-sphere, memes are little blogging trends that people start and try to spread. It is if I told all my readers to list their five favorite foods on their next post and everyone did it. Then their readers did it and so forth!

Here is my very own Atari 2600 game made with another picture from Sapsucker Woods.


Eat up those phosphorus molecules! Watch those dissolved oxygen levels fall. Goodbye commercial fisheries! WOO!

Peace!

Low-Impact Hike

Last Sunday, Amanda and I went for a sort of walk in the woods at Sapsucker Woods. Most people know Sapsucker woods as the site of the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. I had an internship there once and I was not very good at all. But, I can still enjoy the woods. This whole Finger Lakes area rocks for hiking and we hope that we can do some more before winter comes. Here are some pictures we took and then some musings.
Pollination continues life. We eat pollination and I like to think of the whole process as a sort of visual photosynthesis. There are no complex organelles to understand and formulas to memorize. In fact, the whole process is so inspiring that people condense it into trite little sayings and snippets

"The birds and the bees." and, "The pollen count is high."

I, like anyone who eats, appreciates pollination. However, I can't help but think of it as something much more visceral than sharing. Without knowing about convergent evolution and symbiosis, one might classify it as outright theft. Even rape! You can't see it well in that picture of the honeybee on the golden rod, but those insects often appear covered in the stuff. Their six legs and striped bodies sprinkled with pollen after they have raved in the flowers. Imagine Scrooge McDuck swimming in his money pit and you can see what I am saying.

We like to anthropomorphize bees. We label them busy, industrious, and productive. They are little workers in a factory working for the rarely-seen big boss. We admire their biological work ethic, but does anyone ever think that maybe they outstrip the flowers they harvest. Is their a federal department of pollen conservation amongst hives. A Bee Bureau of Pollen Management? A Bee National Flower Service? Anything?! Vicious little bees! Outstripping the pollen!

Lovely little butterfly. Maybe it's a Monarch, but it could also be a Viceroy Butterfly. We didn't get close enough to see it as it feed on this Joe-Pye Weed flower. Nice blend of colors in this one. The pink-purple of the flower. The living Halloween scheme on the butterfly's wings. And the golden rod nestled in the greenery. I anthropomorphize butterflies to be flitting samplers. The kind of people that go to the mega-supermarket on Saturday afternoon because that is when they give out all the free samples. If they outstrip the pollen then it is more a "tragedy of the commons" situation. One butterfly taking as much because the other one did. Lacking a hive situation, I don't imagine they talk much. They don't have that little "figure eight" dance the bees do to continue their pollen manifest destiny.

Wow, my voice changed a lot during that little set. I write these musings posts in real-time so what starts off serious goes into fable-like characterizations. There might be more of these if we stick to that hiking promise. Peace!

On Second Thought...

I should use Helium with caution. I read the fine print of the user agreement and they keep everything you write. Forever. I (the writer) still retain rights and ownership to whatever I put up there, but by putting anything up on Helium I give them the ability to do pretty much whatever they want with it, except sell. But, if somehow I do make it to the big time then Helium can flood the market with free, electronic copies of my pieces! NOOOOOOO! Of course, that is one HUGE if.

So I think I am going to put up stuff I would eventually want published/further explored up on the blog and anything else up on Helium. I will also continue the usual blog features and any post that needs some pictures. Helium is really a great sight and lots of fun, but got to read that fine print. I never read Blogger's fine print either, so who knows what they can do with such classics as the Co-Op of Justice!

Peace!

Some Updates

Just a quick note. After ignoring about a dozen tempting Google G-Mail ads, I decided to sign up for Helium, the online write and review site. I linked to it in my newly organized links section for future reference as well.

So far, the site has proven to be plenty of fun! It's great to see other people rating your stuff and see your writing climb up the rating ladder in each category. You write about anything and post it to specific channels. So, an example of one channel breakdown is: "Creative Writing>Short Story>Meeting Someone On the Bus." Some of the categories are broad "Mourning" or "Life." Others are damn specific like "Contemporary Britain" or "Talking politics and religion in bars." Some have lots of articles/pieces that mean yours has to really shine to get all the way to the top. Others only have two or three pieces, so you can be the big fish in the small pond. And you can make money, too! Helium gives everyone on the site a cut of their advertising profits (VERY SLOOOOOWLY I must admit. So far I have made one cent.) and you can also try to sell articles to the small publishers that host portals there!

I have put up a lot of the stuff that I already have on the blog up there. Just to get the Helium machine going. But I hope to write a lot more over the next few weeks, both online and in print at the local newspaper. I made it on the front page this week! And above the fold, too! WOO!

Peace!

The (fictional) spice

As I promised, before I went off on my sociological soapbox, here are my thoughts on the final Dune book, written 40-plus years after the original Dune hit the science fiction scene...

But before that, a rap from the guinea pig!
ROLL SPOILERS! ROLL SPOILERS! ROLL SPOILERS!
WE GOT BAD SPOILERS LIKE YOUR MOM!
WE GOT BAD SPOILERS LIKE CARCINOGENS!

Thanks, Dante!

The Dune books played a big role during my first summer in Ithaca. I lived in a basement apartment I rented from this kid and that apartment complex happened to be a creek about one hundred yard from the front door. Of course, it being Ithaca, the creek was just after a sheer drop-off, but some local folks had beat a path down the hill to the river. I would read the Dune books there, usually as close to the creek as possible. Being so close to the water really brought the whole aspect of a desert planet off the page and into my mind.

And there were so many books to read! Six Dune books by the original Frank Herbert and about four used-book venues in town! WOOO!
This was just as Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson started writing their prequel novels, but since I hadn't heard about those yet, I devoured the originals. Like many fans, I felt the original "oomph" of Dune had whittled away by the time Frank Herbert wrote his last book, "Chapterhouse Dune." A cliffhanger ending that seemed to break the fourth wall with having the last page dominated by "the old man" and "the old woman." Weird, but the book still had the original touch of depth and layering.

Many years later, Frank Herbert's son Brian and fellow author Kevin J. Anderson did the now required and created prequels. Then they said they had found secret notes from Frank Herbert and an outline for Dune 7! *

I liked B. Herbert and Anderson's Dune books, but they lacked the multiple layers of the originals. They featured much more action than Frank's versions, but it all seemed too whiz-bang for me. They moved incredibly fast, covering thousands of years in mere pages. One reviewer on Amazon. com said that, "The prequels always felt more like outlines of novels than true novels." That is a smart observation. I remember sitting on that log by the creek and felt as if I were taking forever to read the original Dune books. However, I slammed out this prequel in three days. As a wanna-be writer, I understand how excited one can get to just make a point or show a scene., but it feels like the prequels were written to appeal based not on their inherent themes, but their stylistic choices. I don't consider the original Dune books to be very "hard" science fiction. Herbert rarely explains anything, instead just dazzles us and hints at answers. He was obviously creating books you wanted to fall in love with, something you need to review multiple times for the full effect. The prequels, on the other hand seem to run towards the finish at full speed. The reward isn't that it makes you think, but that it has done the thinking for you and now you better understand the Dune universe. Not through epiphany or Spica Agony, but through plenty of exposition. And when I think something has too much exposition, then you know the narrative has gotten out of hand!

To be fair, I liked that the prequels explained the Butlerian Jihad, where the Fremen came from, where all the Great Houses began and so forth. The prequels have driven "original" fans crazy, but have brought in tons of new readers. Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson should feel proud they continued a legendary series that could have easily been hijacked by vicious nerds ("No, you can't read my Dune book, n00b!**") looking to keep it for themselves. Following in the footsteps of Frank Herbert must prove difficult and they have bravely chosen to inject their own style and thought into the mix, instead of just copying. However, continuing is one thing. Honoring is another.

However, like with every science fiction prequel series (I am looking at you Star Wars!), I don't see fans clamoring for it. Instead our fandom hurts us because we love the series so much that we just have to have those answers in the prequels, even if we weren't asking the questions. The prequels also sandwiched the essential six "core" books between bookends of the entire series being a war against robots. It dilutes the original majesty of Dune when you realize all that drama doesn't matter.

As for Sandworms of Dune II died thousands of years ago because here they are washing away all their , it exemplifies one of the reasons I never resonated with the prequels. Everything inherent about Dune, Arrakis, the sandworms, and the desert only appears here in name. I felt the book literally jumped the shark when the worms ended up on an ocean world! WTF?! Spice making sea-worms! Like my mom would say, "How can they have the SPICE *juts out hip* when they live in the cold ocean!? *swings to salsa music*" I feel that is something B. Herbert and Anderson threw in themselves. I can see the touch of Frank Herbert when Duncan Idaho becomes the ultimate and final Kwisatz Haderach. That explains all his deaths and rebirths through the series, something I felt the original Herbert did on an almost cartoonish level. As for all those other "gholas" (Dune for clone), I feel that was done just to bring back those characters we originally loved. I doesn't matter that Paul, Jessica, Chani and Leto are diminishing their historical importance by fighting robots! Since the clones in the Dune universe can learn the memories of their original self, the concept of cloning carries much more weight then in something like Star Wars. In Frank Herbert's writing, gholas were carefully crafted living machined, designed to spice something up. In the prequels, they pop up so damn often that they remove any sort of importance when a character dies. Same thing happens in comic books and in the Pirates of the Caribbean movies.

Why do we even care anymore? Because we are all fans. Dune spoke to us someway and we enjoyed it enough to keep exploring it I don't hate Sandworms of Dune. I am happy it exists to put a final end to this series. Whether or not it is the end we all wanted depends on the reader. But it's there for all of us to nitpick, whine about and, sometimes, enjoy.

PEACE!


*I just learned that Brian Herbert and Kevin J. Anderson are going to slam out three more Dune prequels! Set in between the original Dune and it's sequel, Dune Messiah. ACK! Give us a break, guys! I am too much of a sucker not to buy them.

** I hate the word "n00b" and all that "gamerz" language. Is Halo, so damn intense that you can't spell the word "owned," instead saying "pwned." Yeah, way to bring video games to the masses kids and free them from decades old stereotypes. Creating your own little secret annoying language. "Oh, but the rappers did it back in the late 70's," you say! Well, they had culture. You have a hack code for Halo 3.

Apples to Apples

This little piece started as a first person narrative, but I don't like writing those pieces because they just feel like glorified personal essays. I feel weird trying to pass off personal essays as straight up-fiction. Just call them creative non-fiction and be done with it! So I added a bit more framing to it and tried to remove my voice from it. I do love apples, though. A lot. That is where the personal comes from.

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Our Town's Apples

My daughter, Janice, writes an article for the local paper. The piece is called, "Talking About Our Town." She didn't come up with the title, but inherited it from the previous writer, a stay at home mother who ran an impromptu antique shop from her garage. Janice is out of town this week, a friend's wedding in Nevada. So I am writing the piece for her, covering the monthly town board meeting.

I settled into one of the steel folding chairs at the back of the room. The town just put new carpet in the building and the room smelled plastic. I didn't notice the man sitting behind me, an older man with a potbelly that hung over his waist, until he cleared his throat. He wore a striped polo shirt tucked into his jeans and a pair of red suspenders. His hair was white, licked into a smooth left side part. "New to town?" he asked.
"Well, no. I have lived hear about five years."
He shrugged then made his lips into a circle. "Oh," he looked at the ceiling. "Well, I've never seen you."
"Well, I've never seen you." I introduced myself. His name was Bob, but even after a cold handshake he still seemed funny. Like he was unconvinced with and of me. "My daughter writes for our town's newspaper. That is why I am hear. I am covering the meeting for her article." I held my notebook and pen.
"Don't read the paper, myself, but I guess if you're new..." Bob's voice trailed off as the side door opened. It was the mayor. Five minutes late.

The conspiracy theory around town was that the mayor showed up to meetings late because he was getting sick of it. And being the mayor of our town must be hard because with only 1,700 people you know everyone. It's one big family. And it's a lot easier to be candid, honest, and angry with your family.

"Let's get this started," said Mayor Valenti taking his seat flanked by Bonnie K., the town clerk. He banged a gavel on the folding table in front of him. "I call this meeting to order." Looking down at his agenda Mayor Valenti said, "Lets talk about our town."

The first few minutes were just pomp and protocol. Approving last meeting's minutes. Reports from various public service commissioners like the police chief, fire chief, and zoning officer. The fire chief, a hefty guy named Jay who looks like he could carry two twenty-foot ladders over each shoulder, gave my first source of material.

"And to conclude, something funny this week. The fire department got a call to Badger Run road to rescue a cat stuck in a tree." He then smiled and someone chuckled from the front row of seats.

Actual cat stuck in a tree! I wrote in the notebook, quickly jotting down the details. A grey tiger tabby named Aurora. Belonging to Jackie McGlot the local aerobics instructor. A poplar tree.

With the reports done, Mayor Valenti opened the floor to public comments. Bob behind me grunted and turned to an older, overweight lady sitting next to him. "Here we go," he whispered to her.

A hand came up from the front row. A knotted hand, smeared with paint and grease. A working hand.

The mayor knew that hand. "The board recognizes Mr. Tom Kell of 137 Invite Lane," he said. The polishing his glasses with the bottom of his t-shirt, Mayor Valenti said, "What have you got for us this month, Tom."

Mr. Kell got up and pulled a bushel of apples from underneath his chair. He passed them down the first line of chairs. "Please, everyone take an apple!" He smiled brightly, revealing yellowed teeth shining among all his farmer's scruffiness. I then realized him as the man people referred to as the local homesteader. Janice had written about him.

"I hope everyone enjoys these apples because they are behind," Tom struggled with opening the flap of a Photopix envelope. "Behind, behind, behind a new endeavor I offer for all the children of our town!" He wrung out the pictures and then flipped through them. "Here I got some pictures, but they are mixed up with some of a hike I just took to the falls."

The apple basket came my way. I grabbed one and held it to the light. "Oooo, yeah that's a good one," said Tom. I then realize he was speaking to me.

'Oh, yeah?" I brought the apple down and cleaned it on my shirt sleeve.

"Yes, sir. A Cox Orange apple. See how the skin looks so mottled and alternates between burgundy and auburn. Reminds me an old leather bound book. And it tastes so complex. Nutty and citrusy, never foamy!"

Never heard of Cox Orange apple, but I was excited. Taking the first bite, I realized Tom wasn't lying, but I could only nod my approval. Someone else spoke up.

"Hey! What kind of apple did I get!" It was a woman's voice.

"Excuse me," interjected Valenti. "Please say your name for the recorder" He motioned to the digital recorded by Bonnie K.

"Oh, sorry," said the woman. "Katie Peterson of 176 Oldfield Road and I just want to know what my apple is." She turned to the whole audience. "No offense," she said smiling.

"Another good one!" Tom scrambled over to her side and held her hands which still clutched the fruit to the light. "An Akane! A Japanese hybrid with cherry pie colored skin and a heavenly pure white flesh. Very bright and sweet. Sunny flavor!"

Over the crunch of apples Valenti asked what the point behind all of this. The town board members nodded in agreement.

"Well, I planted all these apple varieties in my front yard, and created the first ever walking tour of apple diversity for the area! We live in the second largest apple producing state in the country and we know nothing but effervescent Granny Smiths and Red Deliciouses!" Tom stuck out his tongue and faked a gag after saying those words. I scribbled down everything, especially the apple varieties which I hoped to rattle off to Meredith later tonight. She had grown up in Washington state and might help me with the research. "You can see all the trees in those pictures," Tom said stabbing his finger toward the tables up front.

The lady behind me stood up and puffed out her thoughts. She didn't extend any courtesy to the recorder. "Well that is why I am here! I don't want to see these apple trees every morning when I wake up. They are deformed or something, all low to the ground and gnarled. And the flowers attract bees and my grandson is allergic to bees!"

Another voice, young and shrill, came out from the side of the room. "Well maybe if you had a job you wouldn't have to see them all day!"

Then a rumbling din began. The crunch of fruit, throaty laughter of some, annoyed grunts of others, and Valenti slamming his gavel. I made my own noise, scribbling down what was happening in our town.

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I do love me some apples. Back home, the only apples we had were imports from Washington state. Red Delicious apples and Granny Smiths are anything but good. Horrible, messy things that taste like you bit into a fleshy Alka-Seltzer tablet. While I grew up I hated apples, because back home there were no such thing as good apples. But, now, in New York State, apples are everywhere and they KICK ASS! Of course, you can tell that I am a bit of an apple snob and when I taste apples, I bring out all the language usually reserved for wine, beer and coffee. Even when I worked as a barista, I could have never said something like that description of Cox Orange (They also have a wonderful graininess, like a pear, but not as overwhelming.). If you live anywhere in apple country then I suggest you look at any local U-pick farm and take advantage of the season. I will be the guy scaring kids out from underneath trees at Little Tree Orchards in Newfield.

"My apples, kids! BACK OFF! Don't test me! Don't talk to me, criminal! Or I'll cut you...a piece of this apple!"

Awww......even I can be nice to the kids.

Oh, yeah. What did you think of this little slice-of-life piece?

PEACE!

The Spice!

Around the apartment, we talk a lot about "the spice." Not the food items, but the weird cultural haughtiness that plagues many a Hispanic, particularly, in our case, Puerto Ricans.

Now any familiar reader of the blog will know that I am one crappy Puerto Rican. Mostly because I don't have "the spice," which means I don't think I am better than everyone just because I am Puerto Rican. Oh, it happens...

I don't have to explain anything to you, Mr. Tax Man! I have THE SPICE! *swings hips wildly while at the front door*

*Dancing on top of the boardroom table* Of course I picked the right font for that business report, Mr. Woods. I have THE SPICE!!! Serifs are always better because they move and dance!

*Yelling back at the movie string* Hey, it's OK I yell back! I have THE SPICE! *Indeterminate voice tells speaker to shut up* No, you shut up, honky-gringo! I HAVE THE SPICE! *Dances in chair*

You know how some Hispanic characters on TV shows have to always fucking say everything first in English and then in Spanish? That's the spice, except this time it is Mr. TV Producer telling the actor to ham it up.

"We must get there fast! RAPIDO!"
"Hey there. Where is the milk? LA LECHE!"

I mean all cultures have something like the spice. It's just a warped evolution of being proud of who you are and where you come from. "The spice" is the dividing line between patriotism and nationalism, between respect and idolatry. And while this can all get pretty heavy-handed, I treat the spice like one big joke. I mean its all pretty much bullshit.

As a minority you hear a lot of things. One is that the greater world, every culture, not just white, has certain expectations of you. Most of them are negative and its sad to see that stereotypes still play such a big role today. We want to break those stereotypes and show everyone that things such as intelligence, responsibility, and creativity are human traits, not national traits. However, at the same time you can stray too far from your roots. Too far from "the spice." Then you are a traitor, someone who betrayed your entire cultural nation because your cultural nation has been boiled down to how thick an accent you speak in and whether or how much you love dancing.

Bah! This was supposed to be a bit about the new Dune book. Get it, the spice? That is still to come, but I can't help getting on my soap box when I think about "the spice." As a wannabe writer, this cultural awkwardness is a driving force. A real writer parallel is the wonderful Sherman Alexie who chronicles the identity struggles of Native Americans. Read him, he is wonderful.

Peace!

Movies I Should Have Already Seen Vol 3. #3

I'm back and you know the freaks can't handle it! WOOOOO!

But, of course, you aren't a freak. Right? So you can handle it. Which is good because I don't want the three people that read this to not handle it.

Onward....

Movies I Should Have Already Seen #3

I remember when this movie came out. Yes, I realize how pompous that sounds since Borat is only about a year old, however everyone treated it like the next comedy powerhouse.

Like with Team America: World Police (another movie that needs the "already seen" treatment) I initially stayed away. I didn't know anything about Sacha Baron Cohen or his Borat skit. I thought this movie would just be an ugly excuse to play off xenophobia and stereotypes. Sort of like Eurotrip except without Michelle Tranctenberg in a bikini. The Ithaca in me overtook my movie judging powers* and I quickly turned my nose up at Borat.

Of course, I was wrong.

Now don't think I am too deep into the Borat army. I still don't think the movie is the next comedic watershed. For how much the shock value was billed, I found the funniest part to be pure slapstick that could work in any movie. The whole "NOT" gag, the bear in the ice cream truck, and the asshole neighbor were gold. I can never look at an Ipod Mini again and say, "Everyone knows it for girls!"

And then you just had those Amelia Bedelia moments like the "gypsy" garage sale and the dinner party. Classic.

When the credits rolled, I kept thinking, "Well, what was the big deal?"

The whole experience reminded me about a time Amanda and I were discussing art. In our plush leather chairs in the study we sipped on Lagavulin that our dapper bunny Carson brought while wearing a tuxedo. Dante the Guinea pig played harp atop the antique globe that held our single malt scotch. While we were so refined, I said that comment that no one is supposed to say.

"I just don't get modern art sometimes. What the hell is so important about a Mark Rothko piece?"

Then she brought on an epiphany!

What defines a lot of modern and post modern art and creativity is not so much what they are showing, but how it was made. Hence, the value of a Pollock piece. This same thing applies to Borat. I didn't find the frat boys particularly funny (Anyone who has been to high school and/or college in the past twenty years should have spent plenty of time laughing at guys like that already), but the method was scintillating. Baron Cohen duped hundreds of people into thinking that he was a real reporter from Kazakhstan and then had them verbalize their unhinged opinions. There lies the success and the comedy, the fact that such horrible figures* still exist in America and want to have everyone hear their vitriol. So the main impressions rests in the method itself. That is why it was a big deal. Obviously, I enjoyed it, and I hope that it is for the same reasons the producers of the movie thought it was hilarious. It is a buffoonish movie, appealing to the lowest common denominator, but still able to create huge amounts of discussion. Conversations about race, American image, and sociology.

I am not going to remove myself from this argument. If I would have been walking down the streets of NYC and some mustached man came up to me asking for a kiss, I would probably freak out. And if we were in a more controlled setting, like the Southern dinner party, I would get all tense and awkward at Borat's mannerisms. Just like the people in the movie. If I met a mysterious man from Kazakhstan then I wouldn't know what to say. I don't know anything about the country except:

1) It is a former Soviet republic;
2) It borders the Aral sea; and,
3) I can point it out on a map. Pesky Uzbekistan, too!

Peace!

* If Wikipedia is right, then I don't feel bad for the rodeo owner or the frat boys, but pity the news producer in Mississippi. But, how true is the report?