One of the things Toby fell in love with immediately was the magazine’s name: Mental Floss. For Toby and Melanie, this is one of the first important aspects of what they’ve learned after switching into the magazine business. In their “10 Things We’ve Learned” PowerPoint presentation, the Maloneys said, “1) A good idea, a great name and hard work can take you pretty far,” and William and Mangesh had all of these.

After flying to Birmingham, Ala., for Mental Floss’s initial pitch, the Maloneys expressed their surprise at the level of professionalism employed by William and Mangesh. Fresh from college, where the Mental Floss idea bloomed in their dorm rooms, the pair arranged for a conference room in an up-scale hotel, presented a detailed agenda and coordinated supplier and production conference calls via speakerphone. This passion that followed William and Mangesh morning, noon and night is what encouraged the Maloneys so thoroughly. Toby says an idea could be missing key pieces, but if the idea-generator believes in it enough, and that belief is transmitted during his or her investment pitch, that it will inspire him.

Another point in their list of learned things is “3) Content is King.” They suggest there is no other magazine directly competing with Mental Floss because of the variety and purpose of the content being created. Toby suggest people like feeling smart, and, in that regard, Mental Floss is a service magazine engendering that feeling. He says how anyone attending a dinner party should read an issue before going to have a roster of small talk ideas. Melanie says the forces behind this feel-smart idea are 12 full-time employees for the print magazine, with some 20 freelance writers contributing. The Web site features between 30 and 40 paid bloggers, who also create the content for the popular quizzes. “We’ve been banned on some corporate servers,” Toby exclaims, excited to see the reach of his investment. The key factor here is that great content will win out over mediocrity.

In terms of their bottom line, this unconventional magazine makes its money in much the same way. The greatest stream of revenue comes from subscription sales, followed by Mental Floss’s online store, newsstand sales, Web ads and, finally, list rentals, in that order. While most magazines receive their bucks through print advertising, Melanie suggests Mental Floss’s potpourri of content makes targeting a clientele for advertisers difficult. Melanie says readers range from 13-year-old boys to people in assisted living facilities “who can’t live without it.” Whatever Mental Floss is doing, however, appears to be working, as the magazine is now a multi-million dollar business with ancillary products ranging from network television appearances and books to a scholarship and physical store in Chesterland, Ohio.

What drove the Maloneys into the magazine business was a love of media and an enthusiasm generated from the ideas of William and Mangesh. Toby says anyone wanting to get into this business needs to have a well-formed idea and the drive to make it succeed. It doesn’t matter it you fail one, two or even three times along the way, he says, but that you use the lessons learned from those failures to see the bigger picture through. In the end, it’s about dedication to the trade, delivering fresh and relevant content and possessing a killer name.

Kiwi or kiwi? (Photo by MIT's Cat)

What came first: the kiwi or the kiwi? Both fit in the palm of your hand, are brown with coarse fluff and cannot fly. Both are produced in New Zealand, although the latter (or is it the former?) is grown in Italy and China, as well. But while one has a beak, eyes and personality, the other has none – although some may argue that last point. The kiwi, or, more technically, the kiwifruit, sits egg-shaped with a nipple at the head and an inny-outy-bellybutton at the rear. What it lacks in digestive square centimeters it makes up for in lime flesh haloed with seed freckles and a palish-yellow pupil. High in fructose, it still has the potential to pucker faces.

New Zealanders may have penned the fruit “kiwi,” from Chinese gooseberry, because of it’s semblance to the bird, but can’t compete when it comes to exporting the mammalian fruits. According to the Italian Trade Commission, Italy, which exports some 100,000 more tons of the fruit annually than its closest rival, New Zealand, reigns king. While Italian lacks the ‘k’ and ‘w’ composing “kiwi,” the same land and methods traditionally producing grapes also cultivate kiwis. According to the Los Angeles Times, Italian farmers reap up to three-times more profit with the kiwi than the grape making it one of the fastest growing Italian crops to produce. Even so, the kiwi remains an underutilized ingredient.

Peeling back my kiwi’s skin (although edible, I’ve never eaten it), the bright layers of green on green emerge as juice dribbles onto my fingers. I’ve only eaten a kiwi plain or as a compliment with other fruit in a salad or parfait. Iron Chef’s may use it in sherbet or a cognac soup, but I was more daring: peanut butter, homemade strawberry preserves and kiwi. Like banana, I thought, perhaps the kiwi could reinvigorate this lunchtime staple.

Elvis may have had it right all along: banana is definitely the better choice. But for a tart treat that adds layers to a sandwich, give the kiwi a chance. If nothing else, the little guy will make your lunchtime cuter.

Recipe after the jump:

Justin’s No-joke PB&J + K

Ingredients:

2 slices bread (I used Italian)

2 tbsp. peanut butter

2 tsp. jelly, jam, preserves, cream cheese or your favorite sweet condiment

1 kiwi, plucked (a spoon works great for this, just run it around the edge of the fruit’s skin and discard)

Instructions:

1. Lightly toast both pieces of bread.
2. Spread one side with peanut butter and the other with your sweet condiment.
3. Cut the kiwi horizontally so that you have circular cutouts, not ovals.
4. Pepperoni the cut kiwi on the peanut butter side and top with the condiment side.
5. Flip if you prefer the peanut butter on top, and enjoy!

He not only bought me flowers, but delivered them.

He not only bought me flowers and delivered them, but also left them on my doorstep.

He not only bought me flower and delivered them by leaving them on my doorstep, but also drove away before I could see him.

He’s so real, it’s unbelievable. He makes me so happy, I can’t contain it — I have to write, I have to dance, I have to sing, I have to shout, I have to cry, I have to love, I have to feel.

He makes me happy and turns me into a wimbling idiot.

He makes me happy and makes me feel like my dreams are coming true.

He makes me happy and perhaps I’m making him happy, too.

1. Don’t file your nails.

This is disgusting. Pure nastiness. Not only do we, your fellow passengers, have to listen to your scratching, but also ingest through our lungs and osmosis your nail dust, which gets picked up by the recirculating air and transported to everyone in the cabin. I felt nauseous after this woman started doing it four seats in front of me. I wanted to throw my Sky Mall catalog at her. Gross. If you have to file your nails, on a plane, for some reason, at least do it in the bathroom.

2. Don’t wear a leather jacket.

Not only does your leather jacket smell, but it wreaks and doesn’t go away. It’s like you’re trying to say, “Hey, everyone, look at me! I’m wearing this dead carcass so that I can not only look like an ass, but also smell like one, too!” It isn’t pretty. Unless you came to the airport on a motorcycle, leave your leather jacket in your checked bag. That goes for leather pants and bustiers, too. Purses and shoes are probably OK. In reality, don’t wear anything that exudes such a potent smell when you’ll be in a confined space for four-plus hours.

3. Don’t let your baby cry.

Muzzle it! Babies on a plane are like dogs:  Once one starts crying, they all start crying. Four hours of baby wailing isn’t something I like to sit through. Especially when that baby has access to his own seat and the Airbus operated by US Airways doesn’t have in-flight movies. “Snakes on a Plane” should have been “Babies on a Plane,” a much more scary prospect, especially when coupled with poopy diapers and breast feedings. Blech.

Although a short list, it’s something everyone should take to heart, especially if any of the above actually applies to you, haha.

As mentioned in the previous post, my mum called inquiring about our discussion about my being gay — or as she likes to say “what we talked about.” I was thinking she had come around and wanted to know more about my life. I was wrong. She remembered something I said in passing during our first conversation about my not telling the family because we aren’t close. And by family, I mean my relatives in the Portland-metro area and my uncle. During this exchange I mentioned something about how I wasn’t going to write them a letter or anything, since we aren’t that close. (As an aside, my aunt and uncle from Gresham actually came down the Friday I left, which further spurred my mother’s telephone call.)

She called to dissuade my writing any such letter. She called to inform me that telling the family would be a bad idea. They wouldn’t understand. They wouldn’t know “how it happened.” They wouldn’t know how to deal.

But deal with what exactly? That statistically something like this happened? That one of the brood turns out to be a gay?

She follows up with how it is a choice. How I chose this lifestyle and have been brainwashed into keeping it. How God made Adam and Eve and how homosexuality is naturally impractical. She tells me I used to like girls. I tell her, “Yeah. Right.”

I felt disappointed. Like the whole climax to this one conversation, in which she brings up something I had completely forgotten about, was wasted. I managed to tell her this. I managed to tell her how I thought she wanted to talk. To get to know me better. To want to know about my boyfriend.

“Boyfriend?”

I used the word boyfriend. I finally told her, for the first time in my life, that I have a boyfriend.

“Is it that boy who picked you up from the airport?”

Yes, it is, mother. That same beautiful boy who entered my life and gave me something I didn’t expect to find in Ohio. She didn’t want to hear his name. Didn’t really ask anything about him, really. Just if he was from Ohio. If we went to the same school. I see it as an improvement, like it’s finally settling in.

And then she tells me it’s her fault I’m gay. She did something wrong when she raised me. She tells me to look at it from her perspective, which I have. But I can’t help laugh about it. I see her perspective, but I don’t understand it. I know it, but can’t see how it could ever be right, because I know, fundamentally, that my being gay has nothing to do with religion or parental causation or societal pressure. It has to do with who I happen to be.

She tells me again she loves me, and always will. I know she does, but also that she’ll never love me entirely until she accepts it. I really think the only way to change her is grandchildren. Hopefully I’ll be able to provide that change.

My apologies for these rants about my mum and this predicament. I may sound angsty, but I’m quite happy. Happy with my boyfriend. Happy with where our relationship is heading. Happy for a new semester and the new prospects for self-discovery and knowledge. Happy for being able to share it with someone I care about and discover something new about, or with, every time we’re together.

Happy 2010, whether the first call, or the second.

I tried having the “gay” talk with my mom again the night before I left. As mentioned previously, she thinks it’s a phase. It’s something that will correct itself. It’s something she played a part in by letting me play with dolls and not letting me play outside. It’s something she doesn’t understand.

My first real relationship ended after almost three years. I got to know him and his family familiarly-well. His family supported us and welcomed me into their home. But throughout that time, I never told my mom about us. Sure, we lived in the same apartment and shared the same room for much of that time, but the subject never came up. After the breakup, one of the things that may have contributed was my reluctance to tell my mom about our relationship, and I felt the same.

I’ve always wanted to tell my mother how I feel, who I’m seeing, what I’m experiencing. This time, given my wizened years or some such, I decided to try to bridge that gap between us — the only thing separating us from a full, healthy relationship in which I don’t resent her and she finally gets to know me.

She drove. I asked if she wanted to talk, if she wanted to ask me any questions. I asked if she wanted to get to know me better and then mentioned our masking of my gayness since I came out over five years ago. I asked her if she wanted to know who I was dating.

She said no. She said it was unnatural. She said it leads to human extinction. She said that side of my life is something she doesn’t want to hear, doesn’t want to talk about, doesn’t want to know. She said she still loves me, will always love me, yet how can she love someone she doesn’t understand or even want to?

To say the least I was hurt. I was strong, but hurt. Older and able to deal with things, but wounded deeply. I wanted to share with her a person in my life who means something to me, who makes me happy. I wanted her to be happy for my happiness. I wanted to be able to share something with her, and with him, that his family has already shown me. I wanted to bring someone home to her, but she refused the invitation.

I got a call from her Jan. 8. She said she wanted to “talk about what we talked about earlier,” which can only be an allusion to the above. Maybe she had a change of heart? Maybe she wants to know more? Maybe she wants to book me a “rehabilitation centre” extended-holiday? Either way, I’ll call her, let her talk. I’ll let her tell me what she has to say. But if it isn’t something progressive — if it isn’t something heading in the right direction — I don’t know how close our telephone and email connection can ever become.

I’m tired of keeping this enormous part of myself sitting in the backseat, playing a second fiddle, shunned. I’m going to start countering the hyper-conservative religious emails she forwards me sometimes with ones of my own. I’m going to try to change her perspective on gay people. Maybe if she realizes gay people function naturally in society, and want the same things as she does for herself and her family, then maybe she’ll come around. Maybe. Maybe…

After 17 days in Oregon, all I can say is, “What a trip.”

- – -

Look for more Oregon-related updates in the future.

All screens are simulated. Great stuff.

Mag+ from Bonnier on Vimeo.

As seen on Gizmodo.

He has the same kindness as his mom:  the hard work and caring and fun. I see a lot of each of them in each other, if that makes sense.

His sister has the same easy personality that makes you instantly able to connect on some human level, like seeing an old friend after years of estrangement.

We had pot roast. It was delicious. We peeled potatoes, drank coffee and watched his Web show, and it was all really fantastic. He’s able to share with his mother something I haven’t been able to with my own — myself.

I came out to my mom my freshman year of college. I told her after Christmas while I was still on break. She didn’t take it well. She cried. She told me it was a phase. She told me to try girls. She told me what I needed to do for her to feel good about herself.

But I told her it wasn’t a phase. I didn’t want to try girls. I wasn’t going to sit by and limit myself to all of the possibilities of human experience.

We’ve talked only briefly about it since then. She called me, worried, one evening when my cousin found out. She told me not to tell him — to deny it. She told me not to tell the other family members.

And out of that, I got the greatest of surprises. My youngest cousin, the one who I thought would react the most negatively, turned out to be the greatest support. Not direct support, perhaps, but supportive of my exs, supportive of my life. He didn’t turn his back on me and accepted it as natural, and probably not as a surprise.

But I still want that relationship with my mom. I want to tell her about my boyfriend. I want to explain to her that I still want a family, I’m still the same person. We still talk, but it always feels shallow without these bits of information. We still love each other, and she’s definitely tried harder after I came out. But I haven’t been able to breach that last barrier, and I wonder when it will happen.

I want to “bring someone home to ma” and have it be alright. I want to show her how happy I am and for her to realize that everything will be OK.

Perhaps it stems from my uncle’s conservative influence, my grandparent’s religiousness in the end or one of her friend’s dieing of AIDS long ago, or perhaps a combination.

She blamed herself for a long time, even though I reassured her my gayness isn’t anything she could have predicted or controlled. Perhaps I’ll breach the subject this holiday season. Or perhaps not. Perhaps this is the way we can exist…for now. Until I do find a man — a husband. Until I do get married. Until I do have children. Until I make her a grandmother and she can see the fruits of my happiness. Perhaps. Perhaps.

I met my boyfriend’s family tonight, and it was wonderful; they were wonderful. And I want that. I want those family ties.

I’m in the clouds — Cloud Nine.

That feeling you get when you know another person likes you for who you are regardless of differences, regardless of faults, regardless of past.

We decided to go out. Make it official. Update our Facebook statuses — the works. And you know, I really like him. We celebrated a one-week anniversary Sunday. I bought him a rose.

He came over to my place last night. I made him dinner. He helped. He washes dishes. He’s a keeper.

We watched a movie, we had the dessert I made for him, we had sex. It was a perfect night. Slept in each other’s arms. He’s so warm. He tans. He thinks he’s pale, while I’m paper.

I’m eating dinner with his family Friday. I’m making the same dessert again. I love the way he ate it. With his hands, off the saucer. Filling the graham cracker crust’s cavity with chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream — his favorite. I loved it. I want his whole family doing the same.

It’s going to be work to not miss him the 18 days I’ll be in Oregon, but we’ll make it. He’s strong. I’m strong. Stronger than I thought I could be. We’ll survive. And be happy together in the New Year.

And, you know? This new one looks to be pretty great.

Have you ever been on Cloud Nine?

I’m there.

A professor thought I was a Chinese exchange student and was taken aback when I told her I was from Oregon. What does this say about Ohio?

My professor in a graduate intro class remarked that his daughter had to compete with Asians, who scored almost perfects on the GRE. What does this say about the education system in general?

Last night I watched iCarly for the second time and was treated to two Japanese people attacking each other with karate. Can Asians ever really exist as Americans and not as outsiders?

Your thoughts?