Letting Go

As the new year rolls around, ready to pounce on us like a LOLcat on a ball of yarn, or just any cat really, it's easy to feel both nostalgia and hope. That's what year-end festivities do to us. They make us happy, but they make us recall the year that's been, and sometimes the years before the last.

I appreciate nostalgia as much as the next person. In fact, just yesterday, I hung out with two of my friends from St. Justin's. It wasn't weird, but I think they felt that I changed. For one, they thought I was smart still. Also, they were in the midst of me and my brother, so we were singing a lot...Needless to say, it must have been an almost surreal experience for them. Then we watched Scrubs, and I think I fell asleep because I woke up to Samantha about to suffocate me with a pillow while Francesca (quiet Francesca!) was recording.

Thus, I am not unused to nostalgia, as few people are, since it visits us every day. We don't always see it, but it does. And for those of us that do see it, and dwell on it, I contend that it's healthier to let things go. This doesn't mean that we should forget what makes us who we are, but if we live our lives in regret, won't that impede our future? Won't that even impede our present?

We need to let things go. Even as a culture. We gotta stop talking about Michael Jackson's death and Tiger Woods's infidelity (for the first, it's been 6 months, the second, who really cares?). I know how hard it is to let things go. That baby picture of your ex, that letter you wrote to me when we were 14, that prom picture we took that hangs out behind my closet. These things don't have to be thrown away, no. But they do have to be removed from our subconscious so we can move on with our lives.

Regardless of our need to move on, though, I really hope you threw away my thong. Please. Just throw it away.

Attached By the Hip

Last night, I was given a complimentary suite at the Sheraton San Jose, which is in Milpitas. It was a lovely room, similar to the one my Uncle San had when he stayed at the Element in Irving, Texas, except less contemporary (and eco-friendly).

I didn't want to have a party or anything, but I did end up playing Settlers of Catan. Things get crazy sometimes, and who am I to control it? I woke up around 2, and checked out at 4. Then Helen and I went to Applebee's because she was craving a steak. She got me two frogs for Christmas. One is a lot fatter than the other, so I'm naming them Kermit and Miss Piggy.

Anyways, the purpose of this post is to inform that I had a wonderful day today, even though it started late. My phone was out of service the whole day for reasons unknown, but I paid the bill yesterday. My throat has been in pain for the last two days, ever since I went to the Warriors game (beat the Suns<3), but even though I was hurtin' like mad today, I felt wonderful.

I wasn't near a computer all day, and my phone was rendered useless. I think it just shows how much happier I am without being rooted in technology. When we give into those needs to reach out, I guess I feel like we're losing a part of ourselves, asking ourselves to look outward and therefore be empty inwardly.

Maybe it's just me. Maybe I'm the weird one who's missing that inward connection. I don't know. I do know that while few things truly made me elated, while I didn't laugh extensively, while I spent most of my time alone at home, I caught a tantalizing glimpse of what seems to be true content.

But seriously, why aren't my calls, and more importantly, my fucking texts going through!?

Hey

Hey, hey. For all of you who have read what's-his-face's works, James Joyce, in the vernacular of Gaelic dialect, in the Irish tones of the lost English. Well, speaking of stream-of-consciousness, here I go.

I have possibly, maybe, possibly, probably drank more than I have in awhile. This means, combined with my little food consumption, I am probably at the most honest level as I will ever be. HAHA. Jk. I am never honest. The thing with inebriation is that it reveals your true self, or rather, exaggerates those qualities in yourself that most represent the natural tendencies of your mind or soul.

Thus, if you have secrets that are simmering, brimming, ready to seep over the already boiling pot, then those secrets will more likely be revealed with a small percentage (relatively) of alcohol in your system. However, and contrariwise, if you are a liar by nature (as I am) then those very qualities will exacerbate in you, promote the verbosity and strangely undisciplined nature of your tongue. Ergo, this blog entry.


More to come later.

Keys

It was 4AM. I as working on an assignment, and by working I mean opening the assignment and procrastinating. Sean, too, was working on a project due the next morning. He came downstairs periodically to talk about fantasy football, so naturally, we were both working diligently.

I was downloading Spirited Away from Rapidshare. Unfortunately it's in parts, so I have to download 14 things. Regardless, Sean came down for what must have been hte fifth time, discussing players he wanted to trade and pretty much bragging about how good his team is.

"You wanna take a break?" he asks. I knew what he meant. Smoke break.

I declined.

"Alright, then. Your loss!" he smiled as he closed the door.

About fifteen minutes later I heard a rapping on my chamber door. "It's open," I called out, not wanting to take my eyes off some basketball blogs.

The knob turned back in forth. "It's not," Sean said. "What are you doing in there?"

"I didn't lock it!" I called out. I got up to open it. It wouldn't budge.

I turned the knob and pulled. It still wouldn't budge.

I look in between the cracks and saw this. The big part is called the latch bolt, and I think the small part is called the lock bolt. When you turn the door knob, the latch bolt turns. If the door is locked, the lock bolt somehow clings on to the latch bolt and neither go in. In this case, the latch bolt went in, but the lock bolt, the small one, was stuck.

So yes, I was locked IN my room.

I asked Sean to get my room key from Eric, who lives above me. We all switched rooms at the beginning of the semester, but our keys are all switched up because they gave us the keys based on our assigned rooms.

The key didn't work. Sean woke up Evan, who sleeps on our couch. As disgruntled as Evan was, he soon saw the hilarity of the situation.

"Hey Andrew," he asked me through the door. "Can I make one of your ramen noodles?"

"I don't think now's the time, dude...but if you're really hungry..."

It's okay, I thought. They'll think of something.

"Andrew," Sean called to me, trying to sound soothing. "Don't worry. Evan and I are brainstorming ideas to get you out of there...Hey, Evan. Can you put on Madden real quick?"

"Andrew," Evan would later ask me. "Can you take off the hinges of the door? Do you have a screwdriver out there?"

"Yeah. Let me check real quick," I replied. I shuffled through my drawers.

"Alright, guys. You still there?" I asked.

"Yeah. What'd you find?" they asked.

"Alright. I got a flashlight and a pair of fingernail clippers."

Needless to say, it didn't work.

So I ended up calling Public Safety. The door was broken down. I left my room.

How frustrating it was.

Grosse Pointe Blank

So the tragicomedy that continues to riddle my life lives onward, full swing in its cliches and mundane grievances. It seems like we've become so much of a culture that complains that it has inevitably led us into a dark crevasse of criticism.

Because we've felt this unyielding urge to express ourselves, in words, in actions, in pictures, we have forced ourselves to become self-aware. We have made criticizing art into an art form itself, rewarding not only the attributes we supposedly should hold so dearly and so closely to our hearts, but also those very attributes that supposedly make us better.

In addition to the already extant expressions of complaints, our interestingly inexorable ability to self-reflect on our culture has resulted in an immeasurable amount of nonfiction. I believe this is a shift in our cultural values.

While we once loved legends and myths and stories made up for our fancy, we are slowly and certainly shifting our love to stories that are real, reflecting our preference to understand ourselves more. Our films were once lauded for their storytelling abilities, their fiction our fancy. However, in recent cinema, the trend has been to reward films with a basis in real stories.

We see much greater appeal in movies that tell stories that have already happened, but captured in a light that somehow makes it more appealing, romanticized for our viewing pleasure. Biopics have recently taken off and will eventually peak, culminating in a genre of film few thought would be as popular as they are now.

We began as artists. Art is expression, and, as I see it, art is complaining. Criticism came along, bringing along its cynical brother satire. In this era, we have emphasized criticism and satire. We seek constantly to make things better, so we follow commentary on how to make other things better.

Look at the intense popularity of Stephen Colbert. He's so famous that you don't even pronounce that word the same way anymore. When you see "Colbert," you don't read it as "COAL-BURT" but "COAL-BEAR" (see irony). Colbert's popularity points not only to his capable and satirical commentary, but also points to an audience that seems ravenous for such commentary.


So as we began as artists we are evolving as critics, masters of observations. We become experts at looking inward as well as outward.

And yet, sometimes, we cannot express ourselves to we look to others to express it for us. We flock to those who can relate to us the most, allured to the security that is ultimately a reflection of ourselves.

And we keep quiet those emotions we find difficult to express. We harbor obsessions we seek never to disclose for reasons that aren't obvious. While it may seem we don't disclose these obsessions because we are embarrassed, it is also very possible that the embarrassment is actually not as great as the fear of embarrassment.

So we hold these things to ourselves, our quiet obsessions.

And I can honestly say that the cross that is resting on my chest has never been heavier.

Goals

I hate being guilt-tripped into any charity. I hate feeling remorse for moral quandaries that shouldn't pertain to me, but are somehow thrust into my own responsibility by people whose agenda it is to shift blame and moral duty. I'm not a huge advocate of life-changing events or flashes of ephemeral righteousness that last no longer than the time between meals, but there was something about this site that made me think twice.

The oldest is 9, not going to school. The youngest is less than 2 years old. They lived in [a] severely polluted area. [Their] hands and faces were always dirty.

I would like somehow to earn a vast income, learn Mandarin and bring over 10 kids every year to educate. I'd like to start a school for those disabled kids or just kids living in gross poverty who have been abandoned and forgotten.

I would find that very fulfilling.

I would also like to know why that kid is wearing a Shroud of Beijing shirt.

Dealbreakers

Lots of things have been happening lately, but at the same time, it feels like nothing is happening. This is, of course, a result of the level of value I place on my daily goings-on.

Learning to appreciate the seemingly mundane is certainly a daunting task, and while the tempo of my life has hardly changed, it is definitely not the same everyday. People will complain that they have nothing to say, that their days are filled similarly and repetitively, yet I am compelled to believe that life is impossibly novel each moment.

Maybe our lives just need a different lens.

Or maybe I'm just looking for something that isn't there.

Heh. There may be something there that wasn't there before.

Talks

I just had a talk with a friend. It was 10 minutes of genuine conversation, which is much more than I can boast for a lot of other people. We were discussing our personal views on relationships in general with regards to his situation.

Without going into further detail, I'd like to bring up a constantly used, if not outright cliche, metaphor: the half full/empty glass.

The glass being half empty means a person has a pessimistic viewpoint, while half full indicates an optimistic person. All is well, until my friend brought up the point of someone seeing the glass as overflowing.

A person who claims the glass is overflowing is a cynic, and probably a melodramatic or at least hyperbolic one at that. What others see as a good or bad scenario, the cynic sees as good, but probably bad in the long run.

Take for example a break-up. While some view break-ups as a learning experience, others a terrible misfortune (full, empty, respectively), the cynic would say, "Yeah, it could be a learning experience, but it probably shows how incompatible I am, and love doesn't exist."

Personally, I hate those people.

That's because I think that the glass is always empty. This puts me in the category of the cynical optimist. It's empty, life sucks, shit's gonna happen, but it can be filled, this glass.

Probably not, though. The glass is always empty, and we just have to deal with it.

What are you?

Hard Palate

Today I had two dinners, one with one of my roommates and an almost roommate and one with some old fraternity brothers. Both dinners found me eating faster than I normally eat, and both were interesting in their content.

I found that my habits are slowly changing, possibly for the better. I can't sleep too late anymore, usually. Obviously, tonight and the last night may have been an interesting exception, but I feel as if I am finally making strides with what had once been a goal of self-discipline.

I am also now a vegetarian. To be specific, I am an ovo-lacto pescatarian, meaning I eat eggs, dairy products and seafood. I made this choice spontaneously. For those of you who don't know, I had already tried this diet for three-fourths of a year before I enrolled in college. However, upon seeing the dietary option available to me at the time, I chose not to continue that lifestyle. Now, though, a year removed from a new dining venue at my school, I feel that I have now been given an opportunity to pursue my previous lifestyle, just to see how it pans out.

I might start with eating meat only on Fridays, so as to keep myself in irony with the Catholic church, but after awhile, I might go full-time. We'll see.

I've been doing a lot of soul-searching, too. That is, I've been thinking a lot about what I want exactly and specifically. It has led me to some dark paths upon which I didn't really want to tread, but more importantly, it has forced me to think about myself, a pastime from which most of you now well know I will never shy away.

It's late, now, almost 6.

When I was younger, it would be just another day, but as it turns out, the combination of alcohol and good friends (and bad ones) has forced me to think further about my place in the social circle as well as my own public solitude.

I've learned a lot about myself.

Like when I'm hungry and tired, there is a very likely chance I am going to get hungrier and more tired trying to decide whether to eat or sleep.

Good night, dear friends. Nom nom.

Have No Fear Johnny Muir

My campus is located in central Northern California, in Stockton. It boasts a high crime rate and nationally recognized high foreclosure rate. It is consistently considered as among the most miserable places to live in the country.

However, in this hellhole of a city, there is a fairly isolated paradise.

I have yet to find it, since I'm stuck on campus.

Regardless, within the confines of my university's campus, there are numerous trees. In fact, just recently as I was driving on an overpass into the city, I got a good view of the skyline. I was pleasantly surprised and impressed to find that the city is extremely green. There were trees as far as I could see, which I thought was wonderful not for the environment but rather, for the pure aesthetics of the city.

Anyways, within this city is our campus, and our campus itself can claim ownership to hundreds of trees. Small as the University of the Pacific's campus is, its tree to area ratio is higher than most campuses I've visited.

Among the trees on campus is the redwood tree. Some know them as sequoias, but redwoods are a bit more distinct than the typical sequoia, even though they are in the same family. Sequoias are the largest trees on average, but redwoods are the species with the tallest trees right now.

But it isn't their height that makes the redwoods my favorite trees. It is their location. Redwoods only grow in coastal Northern California and a tiny bit in Oregon. They do not grow anywhere else in the world.

And in our humble campus, there is a copse of redwoods trees upon a forested foundation, with a few picnic tables and a large statue Mobius Strip statue, about three times the size of an average person. At first glance, this copse may seem random, and admittedly, in the context of the rest of the campus, the basketball court-sized area is strangely contrasting when juxtaposed with the rest of campus.

However, it is my favorite area on campus. All around it people walk by, and it's almost as if no one really sees it, like an isolated area within an isolated area. And these trees are as high-reaching as any trees can be.

A lot of our campus has gone through renovation. The lamps all have a certain look to them. The other day, though, as I walked by this particular copse of trees, I noticed that the two lamps there were different.

They were much more old-fashioned, and their light had a yellow glow, as opposed to the more "modern" white glow of the other lamps. I am certain that these two lamps are the only ones of their kind on campus, and there are dozens and dozens of lamps on campus.

It just further made this area unique to me, and along with the redwood trees, is just one more reason why Northern California will always be better than Southern California.

(Also, on the back of our state quarter is John Muir and Yosemite Valley, not SoCal beaches. So suck it, SoCal bitches.)

Be a Part of It

DATs are over. Don't ask how I did, please. I pulled out with an 18 Science and a 19 Academic Average, which isn't bad, I guess, but far, far below my expectations. My opinion on myself varies from time to time. We'll see how it affects long-term Andrew.

I want to blog about my trip to New York, among other things, but I don't know where to begin.

It's like life is somehow much more blurred and disheveled now. The schedules I've made before are somehow thrown out, my plans forgotten. All my grandiose ideas and self-induced responsibilities are out of reach, just beyond the tips of my fingers.

Yeah, like everything that was put in place in the past is disregarded in the present.

Like New York City, where the lines on the road seem only to be a formality, and rarely am I the one doing the driving.

Sooty Mangabey

"There is no room for complacency..." - from Evolutionary Analysis, 4th Ed. by Scott Freeman and Jon C. Herron

The quotation is taken completely out of context, and I found it awkwardly melodramatic in a textbook setting. Freeman was discussing the repercussions of HIV and its toll on human life. He says that we shouldn't be satisfied with the medical treatment of HIV/AIDS because it is still very prevalent. In fact, the life expectancy of Botswana went from 65 to 40 once HIV was introduced and is still declining (Freeman & Herron, 2007). So no, there is no room for complacency.

Maybe it's not melodramatic after all.

I, however, took it differently. What I realized from the reading was that progress, while positive, does not necessarily equate to success. As truistic as it sounds, only success can be success. So while we pander to ourselves about how much better we're getting or how we have been improving, it cannot be forgotten that these concepts, while under the guise of sycophantic praise, can be retrogressive in nature, at least in terms of attaining a goal.

There is no room for complacency if success is not reached.

My DAT is this Friday, and slowly I am realizing the difference between progress and success. School is in full swing, my dental application awaits just yonder, behind the horizon of "the test". Stress is inescapable, and while I think of myself as a relaxed person, my mental and emotional flexibility is constantly being tested even before the actual exam.

So maybe I was just looking for some words to thrust me into confidence, but somehow, even if it did seem like extra information I didn't need to know before something so monumentally important, reading for my Evolution quiz helped me study for my DAT. I took something completely out of context and meditated on it. A simple sentence that, if put into another context, could have such powerful significance, or, if you're reading an Evolution textbook for a class, mean next to nothing at all.

Maybe we just need to meditate on things more, even if the intentions of those statements are obvious or self-evident ("homo-evident").

Maybe we already know these things in our minds but forget their worth in the daily chaos of our lives.

Maybe we don't really need these little ditties and motivational lines to drive us because we are already driven.

Maybe we do. Maybe we need reminders. Maybe we need something beyond ourselves to succeed.

And maybe some days we are satisfied with our lives, happy to be living simply because it is life, reaching for our goals that we'll attain sometime in an impersonal future.

But, in my own experience at least, we must remember how crowded our lives can be, like a car that's moving your possessions from one residence to another.

And in this car, there is no more room for complacency.

Will Someone Please Call a Surgeon

So the hot topic right now is health care. I'm torn in my opinion of the reform, as you'll see. Obama's administration is proposing a major reform to the current "system" that insures millions of people in this fine and flawed country.

From what little I understand about the issue, what we have in right now is not really a true system. A system in the political sense means to me there are rules set by the government, and there is some governmental control. While there is an FDA and a number of complicated and specific laws in order to control health insurance, it doesn't seem too different than the way the government controls Wall Street. There are some rules to prevent one corporation taking over and to allow justice to prevail economically, but, as was the agenda of the Bush administration, the economy is rather laissez-faire.

That's how I view health insurance in America right now. The major health insurers have a huge say as to who or what gets insured, and they control coverage by how much people can pay. Companies provide health care for their employees to some extent, but this is barely enough to survive as healthily as possible. It is a travesty that millions of our citizens go uninsured and thus receive fewer benefits as their richer counterparts. It says in the Declaration of Independence that everyone deserves "Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness." Life is an unalienable right, according to ol' Ben and Tommy.

That people are opposed to "socialistic" health care is appalling. Every citizen deserves an equal opportunity to the health benefits as the next citizen, regardless of race, class and gender. The current "system" that exists is denying these people of their rights, saying that they are not worth those health benefits, and in some cases, not worth living. If a person dies because he was uninsured while a person in the same circumstance is saved because he IS insured, because he can pay for it, is that not an inherent problem with the system? Whoever pays more lives longer, survival of the fittest? Are we animals, stuck in some Darwinian Twilight Zone where only the rich survive while the poor continue to die simply because they are poor?

Yeah, you say, that's just the way of things. To some extent, I agree. That's just life. It's unfair, but never has anyone preached to me the fairness of life. Never has anyone truly advocated "karma" in the Western sense of the word as a fair way of settling things. That's just life, that the weak don't survive.

But does it have to be?

I often oscillate between opinions as to whether we are animals or something better, and one of the arguments is empathy. Only humans are truly empathetic. Animal sympathy comes from an instinctual desire to insure survival. Human empathy revolves not only survival but happiness as well. We can want others to live happily, not only survive.

We can prevent poor people from dying because they are arguably trapped in a system that works against them, but as a people, Americans are largely against that. Reform means change. Most Americans aren't convinced we need the change, but we do. We need it to save potentially millions of people's lives because they can't afford to save themselves. And it's not like these people are far away, either. Sure African kids and Cambodian kids are dying and all that jazz, but the problem that exists is OUR people are dying. Moreover, we are LETTING them die.

That's why we need a health care reform, so that privatized insurance can stop pulling in billions of cash at the expense of the American people. I'm not saying that a public option, which is pretty much what Obama is going to establish, will be perfect, but I want to do something, to change something, that may be a step in the right direction, because if there is no reform, the standard of life in America will remain stagnant, not improving.

The public option will let people be covered by the government. In a sense, the government is paying for those who can't pay for themselves the health care. It's going to hurt the private insurers a lot. There's no denying it. They'll probably lose billions of dollars, but their lost equates to our health. A few people losing money so the majority, well actually, ALL the American people can live better is worth the change.

And this is where I'm torn. I'm planning to be a dentist. This change will mean the government will probably give me less money than private insurers would for my work. Health care reform will save millions of people, but in all likelihood, those in the medical field will be paid less.



So yeah, fuck health care reform.

Like a Lick of Ice Cream

There's no time like extra time.

I've postponed my DAT. Not because I wasn't ready, but rather, I want to be sure to be at the top of my game, not before I peak.

Lots of things are happening as summer winds down, but I am facing it...Mostly cuz the things that are happening aren't happening to me, so it's pretty easy.

I am going to make a list of the funniest people I know soon. It will be fun to write and I hope people don't care about it enough to care whether they are on the list or not.

School starts soon.

I'm eating ice cream. This is rare for me.

I'm listening to Thao Nguyen with the Get Down Stay Down. The CD is We Brave Bee Stings and All. It's transcendent. Folksy and upbeat.

Lots of things are happening.

The Power

Of compromise.

If tomorrow's practice test yields one more upsetting score, I am going to postpone my DAT.

DAT and Other Puns

Every pun of the acronym DAT has been used. Please don't present any more puns as if they are original.

I am scared as hell.

My test is next Thursday, and I don't know if I can do this. I am seriously considering postponing my test until September, but I don't know if this is because of nerves or whether I am seriously going to bomb the test.

I don't think I have ever been this mentally terrified in my life.

I need to figure out if it's just my nerves or not, because I refuse to play this game with myself. I am a very proficient mental opponent with myself. Some would call me equal to myself.

Which only reminds me of the Quantitative Reasoning section of my test.

And this blogging reminds me of the Reading Comprehension portion.

And my impending failure.

Save me.

Secret Blog

I have a secret blog. It contains a lot of secrets that I don't tell people. It's like a diary, which already has turned everyone off at the prospect of reading it...

If people care, I'm going to be setting up a riddle, and whoever can get it, will be added on the list of people who get to see it. There will be no freebies, so don't bother asking. It'll just annoy me.

The first part of the riddle is this coded message. Decode this, and the riddle will appear. The answer to the riddle is a screen name I use that no one knows. IM me on this screen name, and we'll have a chat, which will most likely lead to my giving you access to the secret blog.

Good luck.

Also, if you figure it out, I'll buy you dinner at your choice of a restaurant.


Hint: Recent News of Thomas Jefferson

The key is: Tri Nguyen, Thor, Attention Deficit Disorder, Sacrifice, WSJ

EDIT: THERE WAS A MISTAKE IN THE MESSAGE. EVERYTHING HAS BEEN FIXED. It shouldn't change much, but if you got that far, it could be annoying. GOOD LUCK!

XLANHTYLEWIRJ
VRYZEMAYRREWR
ATAGHHSLDKFJI
KMNNERTSDKFJI
OTLVRNXDRHATC
RIITEEEERIERH
BZKJENEIDPOQW
BFEHWNFKJDFIE
FCNHTSEFIDNCI
QXVRKMGSEMMEF
UYNZTHIFIDJCH
KFDE/SCLOFJID
JWOEIYYJIDERU
IXOTHHFCNVBFH
RSKVLXFRANTSD
HIMLLNWCUCVIU
MZRQETHELGNVB
ADTTNLQWEDNBF
BLOIDIIFERESA
BXVNQPSAPOLUF



tree or tri (4:17:35 AM): hahaha
tree or tri (4:17:37 AM): yay
tree or tri (4:17:38 AM): i win
(4:17:40 AM): FUCK
(4:17:42 AM): but YES
(4:17:52 AM): isn't this awesome!?
tree or tri (4:18:03 AM): haha
tree or tri (4:18:04 AM): AH
tree or tri (4:18:06 AM): i get it now
(4:18:09 AM): doesnt it feel great?!!?!?!
tree or tri (4:18:12 AM): cooked meat
tree or tri (4:18:13 AM): lol
tree or tri (4:18:14 AM): yes
tree or tri (4:18:18 AM): i must admit
tree or tri (4:18:26 AM): it does


On my Secret Blog:
tree or tri (4:48:46 AM): i love this blog
tree or tri (4:48:47 AM): btw
tree or tri (4:48:50 AM): its great
tree or tri (4:48:56 AM): very real
[...]
tree or tri (4:49:31 AM): it shows a light to you that i dont see often
tree or tri (4:49:41 AM): i thorougly enjoyed it
tree or tri (4:49:55 AM): keep it up

CONGRATS TRI! =D

BTW, the offer still stands for anyone else who can figure it out. I'll only let 2 more people win. =)

EPIC

As many of you know, I have been studying (not so) diligently for my DATs. I have been known to study at various places around Milpitas, such as a local Starbucks or Peet's Coffee.

Today, however, I decided to go with my friend Christian to the Milpitas Library, which is relatively new. It boasts state-of-the-art facilities and utilities, such as a computer monitor that allows private internet viewing for people so others can't watch at odd angles. However, for those looking directly into the monitor, the screen is in full view.

Christian and I are sitting next to an island where the public computers are. Next to us are two seemingly innocuous public library users maximizing their opportunity. On one side is a 50ish-year-old Chinese man. To his left is a young black middle school boy, supposedly studying. Behind the boy is a woman sitting who seems to be watching him, making sure he works.

Christian and I are behind them.

The old woman falls asleep, so naturally, as any of us would do, the boy starts to fool around.

But things get out of hand...


The old man has been watching graphic Chinese pornography this whole time, and Christian and I can see this. It's surreal, the porn and the fact that he's watching it.

Furthermore, the black kid's babysitter is dozing off so he's sneaking glances every so often.

AND THE OLD CHINESE MAN WON'T STOP!

Pic or no proof?

From left to right: The sleeping babysitter, the black preteenager, the perverted old man.
Christian clarifies in case you couldn't tell which one was looking at the porn.

7th Inning Stretch

My ecology final is in 15 minutes, and after that, my DATs are in three weeks. Pray for me.

I am not a fan of baseball, nor have I ever deigned to be. I do not pretend to enjoy any aspect of baseball culture, but it inevitably permeates the American culture in which I live.

I do, however, support the fact that it, like most major sports, brings the American people together. It gives us something to watch together and follow with each other. It promotes national unity. Baseball games are as much an exercise in patriotism as they are a form of entertainment and athleticism.

I just wish it wasn't so goddamn boring.

Plead the 4th

There's New Year's, which has turned into a night of drinking and partying to start off the year. There's Halloween, which has turned into a night of sweet-tooth indulging. There's Thanksgiving, which has turned into a fiesta for the fat. There's Christmas, which has turned into a yearly fix for America's spending addiction. However, of all the self-serving holidays a country can have, I think the 4th of July is the worst, not only in terms of how we've twisted the day (we tend to do that) but, more perversely, what birthdays are in general. And I'm not saying this because I didn't get invited to any parties today.

Now, most of you who know me well understand that I have a general distaste for birthdays. I don't mean that I like bashing on birthday bashes or being a killjoy or anything like that. If anything, I love celebrating friends' birthdays as an appreciation of having them as a friend. I do not subscribe to the idea, however, that birthdays are someone's "special day" so that they can get whatever they want, that they are somehow "entitled" to special privileges not normally given to them on any other day.

No, birthdays are a day to celebrate your presence on Earth, not your command of it. It's self-serving even to assume that somehow your birthday is any better than any other day, because everyday is someone's birthday. I don't mind giving you a gift, but I hate people who say shit like, "But it's my birthday," or "C'mon, not even on my birthday?" because it just shows their immaturity and their obsession with themselves.

A wise comedian once said, "There comes a time when you should stop expecting other people to make a big deal about your birthday. That time is age 11."

And thus, that leads me to the the 4th of July, which is the birthday of our obviously fine, fine country.

Don't get me wrong, I love birthdays as fine reminders of our lives and the beauty if life in general, and I definitely love our country, the wealthiest and arguably most driven in the world (both in terms of motivation and number of cars per capita). But I think all this celebrating, these parties, fireworks, sales, advertising and all this crap is just so excessive. We don't need to waste literally millions and millions of dollars on a day about ourselves. That's just self-serving and interestingly, very stereotypically American.

And I don't think a country this great should be about that. I don't have any alternative ideas for celebrating, but using our birthday as a ticket to the shitshow, as an excuse to get drunk and vomit all over our birthday selves is just pure narcissism and vainglory.

In addition, I hate fireworks. They are literally exploding goddamn lights in the goddamn sky. I have glow-in-the-dark stickers on my ceiling, and they light up at night. Is there anything fucking special about that?

AND THEY'RE THE SAME THING EVERY GODDAMN YEAR! It's just lights of different colors and shapes in the sky! WTF?! Is it so novel, so amazing that you have to clog up highways and crowd random areas to watch it? We spend more time looking and finding places to sit than actually seeing the damn show itself.

It's just frustrating to see so much fuss made over something so trivial on a day where we are supposed to be celebrating our country's birth. Instead we strategically place lines in our speeches thanking "for our freedoms" and "for the men and women fighting overseas." Do you know what the American troops are doing today? They're freaking marching in Afghanistan in the fucking desert while we get drunk and throw our pool parties.

The 4th of July is easily the worst of the holidays, in my opinion. Not that the other ones are much better in their perversity. "There comes a time when you should stop expecting other people to make a big deal about your birthday. That time is age 11." We should have stopped with the celebrating in 17goddamn87.

Strange Things Are A-Happenin'

I think this may be the strangest dream I've ever had. I left out some stuff because it was a bit too personal. Honestly, most of you won't ever understand why it's as harrowing as it is, but feel free to read along if you wish.

While sleeping, I remember waking up and going to school. In my head, I knew I had already graduated from high school, but for some reason I was walking into St. Justin's, a parochial K-8 grammar school in which I was enrolled from third grade until graduating after eighth. We were in my first classroom there, but the desks were arranged like my high school, in rows facing the the wall with the door. It was a bit eerie returning to this place, but it was a dream, so I don't really remember questioning my discomfort.

As I'm sitting in class, I see people around my age. I guess in this dream I was of high school age again. Guys and girls began to sit down. A teacher came in, dressed formally but still looking young. He looked like he was Latino and had a goatee of some sort. He looked like a confident teacher, and he knew I didn't belong.

As it turns out, even though I was at St. Justin's, the school was Archbishop Mitty. I was confused because I knew the architecture of the school to be of my alma mater, but the students were all high school students that went to Mitty. I don't know how I knew this, seeing that I don't know many Mitty kids, but I knew. I also recognized one of my old classmates from St. Justin's who also went to Mitty there, and she was old, thereby confirming that these students were, in fact, from Mitty.

The teacher started going over something. I have no idea what class it was, but he'd periodically ask questions. I knew I was new to the class, but the rest of the class wasn't. Apparently it was my first day at Mitty, and it was already midway through the year for the other students.

The teacher went over a worksheet, which I didn't bother to follow because I knew I only had to get through one class and the day would be over. I don't know how I knew this, but I knew that the whole day was only this class. After, I would be done and I could wake up and return to normal life.

But he made me go over the worksheet anyways to turn it in at the end of class. There was some math involved, but it definitely wasn't a math class. I distinctly remember answering a question.

"So here," the teacher said, writing something on the board as the other students took notes, "This letter represents something for the calculation. I don't know if you guys would know this, but...anyone?" He stopped and looked around, searching for an answer within one of our minds.

I ventured a guess, since I was bored.

"Is it growth hormone?" I asked.

"Yes!" he smiled, then writing it on the board. He turned around. "How did you know that?"

I shrugged. I think my ability to answer the question made it seem like I was following the lecture and also very intelligent, or at least quick. It made him expect me to be able to fill out the worksheet. I didn't, obviously. At this point, I knew it was a dream, so I didn't bother filling out the worksheet before turning it in.

But I turned it in anyways, and I stayed back. He started grading them right away and saw mine. He looked at me and just shook his head. I'm thinking to myself, Why do I feel guilty? This is a dream!

He then proceeds to look at me and say, "I know it's your first day here, but your work ethic isn't enough to help you here. That's not how we do things at Mitty."

And I tell him, "It's ok. I only planned on being here for one day only."

He just looks at me with a knowing smile, as if he's thinking, Sure thing, kid. Whatever you say.

I ignore this and leave, still knowing it was a dream. I wake up and check the clock. It's 7AM. I just think to myself, that was so weird.

So I go back to sleep.

And I'm back at "Mitty."

I walk into the class, and this teachers just looks at me and says, "Welcome back."

The rest is even stranger. His name was Hay Gale, or Mr. Gale. Suffice it to say that I met with my old priest and Father Joe was not happy with the way things were going. Also, I woke up at 9 and went back to sleep and came for a third day.

It was terrifying.

Doo and Goliath, Part 2

Doo Lim is a good friend of mine. As I've already said, he's given me enough pearls of wisdom for a necklace. Doo is still growing up, as we discussed about a month ago. We're all growing up at this age, if not mentally then still physically.

Regardless, there are those times in our lives when we seem to undergo metamorphoses that leave us better, more self-aware, more mature (or maturer). We're smarter, savvier and we just understand a little bit more about ourselves.

And it is in these moments, that we find hope for ourselves, hope in the comfort of our identity.

Up until and beginning high school, Doo had been known as David Lim. His friends all called him David, and his teachers were instructed similarly. During all these roll calls, teachers would read from the class roster to start off a new school term. After each name, they would often ask if the student would prefer a nickname or to be called by any other name, to make the students more comfortable.

Doo Lim had always told his teachers to call him by his English name.

"Doo Lim," they would say.

"Here," he would reply, and, "I prefer David," would be the inevitable follow-up.

His teachers would quickly jot down "David" in parenthesis after "Doo Lim." He was "Doo Lim (David)" to his peers and his instructors. He had always been hesitant, a bit uncomfortable with his name, but at this particular stage, he was growing up. Like we all do, he was getting more comfortable with who he was and what that meant.

One day, during another typical roll call, a teacher called out his name. Like a call-and-response, name-and-a-here. The students are a slave to their education, but some things must be done.

"Doo Lim?" she asked, her question not really a question, her voice not really a voice, but a demand.

"Here," he replied, matching her decibel for decibel in confidence. The other students were only half-listening at this point. The L's are halfway through the class, after all, and they were just going through the motions unthinkingly and mindlessly with a duty that was the staple to every new beginning in the school term.

The teacher waited expectantly, hesitated ever so slightly for a nickname from Doo, a preference or a hint of another name, but during this roll call, it was different. He wasn't a different person, just coming to terms with the man who was always there.

"Just call me Doo," he said, and all his friends looked up. Who? they thought. Wasn't he David?

He was David, but he was Doo first. He is Doo first. He is many things, but his name is Doo. David is a good name, a strong name. But who was he to himself? David wasn't his name. It wasn't how he looked at himself. His whole life, he was David. The friends he had, the teachers from whom he learned all knew him as David.

But in this moment, this nirvanic second of clarity, he knew who he wasn't, but more importantly, he knew who he was. He knows who he is.

Just call him Doo.

Doo and Goliath, Part 1

A good friend of mine named Doo Lim often surprises me with pearls of wisdom. Right now, I think he's given me enough to string on a necklace, but I'm not a huge fan of jewelry.

Doo, whose birth name is David, once told me his philosophy on friendship.

"Friends," he tells me on the last day of finals at the Lair, after all the tests are done and the stress is passed, "are like circles. You know, like concentric circles. Do you know what I mean?"

He looks at me hesitantly, unsure if I could follow, and rightfully so. I have often told anyone willing to listen (all two of you) that I think Doo is ahead of his time. I think he's a dude growing up about ten years before he should have been born. People don't always get him, but I think it's because he doesn't really care the same way we do about our problems. He cares differently somehow, though not necessarily less than we do, just differently.

I guess when I write it out, it doesn't sound as sensible, but I just want people to understand that Doo is misunderstood for a reason. It's because he's great, in an Emersonian sense.

"To be great is to be misunderstood," Emerson says. Doo is misunderstood, and people gloss over his rants and seemingly trivial thoughts without truly getting him. Some dismiss him as unique, too dorky or just plain weird. Not everyone disregards him, of course, just the naive ones, the ones who don't fully get him. Some people aren't comfortable with what they don't understand, which is...understandable.

But Doo is great.

"They're like concentric circles," he continues, gaining confidence as I nod to show I follow. "The largest circle is all the people you know or all our acquaintances or whatever." He looks at me to make sure I was still following. Doo's timidity is part of why I love him. He's humble and modest, even when I tell him he's a man before his time.

I guess to some people, that's synonymous with insanity, talking and not being understood...which, looking back, makes me think I should have phrased it differently. Now I just look like I'm calling him crazy, multiple times to his face.

Regardless...

"Then there's a circle within that circle," he says, gesticulating emphatically, moving his hands closer together. "These are the people who are closer to you, the ones you grew up with or what have you."

A simple process so far.

"Then you have these friends," Doo says, moving his hands even closer, "who you would give or do anything for. I only have a handful of these friends, maybe five or six, but they're the ones that are very close to you and you would probably risk your life for them."

"Got it," I reply.

"So after your close friends, for whom you'd risk your life, there's an even smaller circle," he says, no longer using his hands, but looking at me very seriously.

"Then you have one or two friends who you know would do the same for you."



And that, avid readers, is just one reason why I love Doo Lim.

Songs from Swift

"But if I were to write a good novel," Johnny continued, "I would want to make sure that all the grammar rules and spelling of words would be most accurate. There is nothing more that I detest than a typographical error in an otherwise enthralling read."

Rufio paused to think about this. "Well," he responded, "what about the word 'Yahoo', when referring to the website?"

The inquiry was a strange one, to say the least, because the website's name is officially spelled with an exclamation mark.

"Well," thought Johnny carefully. He paused a bit longer. "I think if the official spelling of 'Yahoo!' is with an exclamation mark, I would say use it in the writing."

"But wouldn't the exclamation mark ruin the flow of prose and dialogue?" Rufio inquired, "I think it's better if 'Yahoo' is spelled without an exclamation mark, because that's still the name of it, and people will recognize it regardless."

"'Yahoo!' needs the mark to distinguish it from other...you know, uses of the word," Johnny replied feebly, still unsure about his point.

Rufio laughed. "What other uses of the word? You mean to refer to the beasts as described by Gulliver? You think that proper context will still cause confusion of the word?"

"I don't know," Johnny grumbled. "It's obviously causing confusion right now." Johnny didn't like to be the subject of laughter. He was sensitive that way and couldn't quite understand how others found it even funnier that he was so.

"I think that grammar is grammar, and rules are rules," Johnny continued. "I'm not trying to be a stickler or overly rigid on the rules, 'cause I know they're pretty arbitrary, but if the name of the object has strange punctuations, they should be included. It is how the creators of the word intended it to be, so writers should respect that."

"True," Rufio thought. Johnny had a good way of sounding like he had thought about everything before, as if he was prepared for all conversations. He always had something to say, a clear opinion on things, or so it seemed. It probably was just the way he said things, his tone, Rufio thought.

"But," continued Rufio, "do you not contend that, when referring to the website, readers will understand the use of 'Yahoo' in the context of the conversation? So would the use of the exclamation mark really be necessary? It seems kind of excessive to me. It interrupts the flow of the conversation in dialogue, and distracts the power in prose. It weakens the writing ability of authors, in my opinion."

"It doesn't matter," Johnny stressed. "The word itself is 'Yahoo!' with an exclamation mark. Obviously when we talk about it, it doesn't matter whether the punctuation is there or not, but if it's in written form, at the end of the day, the word has an exclamation mark. Without it, it's another word!"

"No," argued Rufio, "the punctuation doesn't dictate the word. It's the use of the word itself. How you use the word to convey the message is the important part. It doesn't really matter how you spell it, as long as the message gets across. The word has served its purpose, and any other rules are just superfluous. The exclamation point in 'Yahoo' is a perfect example. Plus, like I said, with it, the flow is ruined."

"Don't be stupid," Johnny replied. The command was said innocently, and anyone who knew Johnny knew he didn't really think others stupid. Johnny did worry that he might be using it too much, though. You never know who you might offend with what you say.

"It doesn't interrupt the flow of a conversation any more than the © symbol does. It's just punctuation," Johnny contended.

"But think about it," said Rufio. "The exclamation point conveys an emotion, while the copyright sign doesn't. Plus, if you used the copyright thingy in context, it just looks weird and that in and of itself is a distraction to the reader."

"It depends," Johnny said stubbornly.

"Maybe," Rufio thought aloud, "maybe the author himself or herself needs to decide. But whatever he or she decides, an author needs to be consistent with his or her choice. If he or she spells 'Yahoo' without it once, it has to be the same way throughout, at least when referring to the website."

"I agree wholeheartedly," Johnny said. "Though I can't imagine any good novel being written if the word 'Yahoo!' is a main point of contention in the story."

Rufio chuckled. "Yeah," he said, "it would be a pretty boring, to say the least. Talking about it is already boring."

Johnny laughed. "We'd probably make horrible writers anyways," he said. "We also would never be able to edit shit for each other since we disagree all the time."

"Yeah," chortled Rufio, joining Johnny's laugh.

Slowly, like fire to embers, their laughter faded into smiles, both quietly drifting away from the topic mentally and into the aimless thoughts before sleep, the calm before the unconscious.

"Night," Rufio said a minute later.

"Night," replied Johnny sleepily, still distracted in his own thoughts.

And with that, Johnny and Rufio fell into a silence that bled into their slumber.

Flashback, Memories

I have just spent that last 3 or 4 hours reading my old Xanga. I admit to making myself chuckle sometimes, but in doing so, I realized that my laughter came from hearing the joke the first time. It seems like I've changed so much that I don't expect what comes out of me anymore, even though I've already expressed it.

There are lots of things I've learned from reading some of my old stuff. Primarily, I'm a horrible poet. I personally blame all my "friends" who told me I was good. I reread some of the crap I wrote, and a vast majority of them are poorly written. I am proud, however, to say that they are not nonsensical, so at least I make sense to myself.

Another thing I learned is that I am always learning. I read a bit over a year's worth of Xanga entries, and I literally followed my own growth and memories. It's a harrowing alleyway, but memory lane is somehow satisfying in its answers. It refills the part of me that was missing myself. Sometimes we lose sight of who we are, forgetting that an important part of that is who we were.

In addition, I've found myself, like I assume many teenagers are, to be addicted to attention. I crave(d) it. I don't know what I'll think when I look back on this particular post, but I do know that I'll be happy I have some account of my personal thoughts, to see and remind myself of myself, if that makes sense.

I did this a few times already, but I guess here's a previously written entry, raw from the crypts of Mista_ex93's Xanga, dated Saturday, 15 October 2005:

"I jumped into the blackness and started writing...


Meaning I clicked "New Weblog Entry" on my Xanga, since it's so black and dark and all. I think I set a personal record. I slept for 16 hours straight. There were a few breaks, like when I called Alex/Daniel/Abbie around 12:15, but other than that, I slept from about 1:15 AM until 5:15 PM. I just realized that for the first time in my life, I received too much sleep. I never thought it possible until now. I got up and brushed my teeth. I admit, that it was probably one of the best sleeps I have ever had, but now I can't help but regret it. It's like you love something sooooo much, yet you know it's bad for you. I am still groggy as we speak. I still love it though. I still do.


Yellow Goodwill Tires.

Let me begin here then. Hello, avid Xanga readers. I know, I know, Xanga is TERRIBLY out of fashion what with Myspace's takeover of the blog/photo/friend world. Admittedly, I myself have a Myspace, yet I can't help myself but to feel loyal to the one blog site that has remained with me in my days of socializing. Ever since the summer before freshman year at Bellarmine, Xanga has remained to me a loyal friend, unbroken in its patience and feedback. So, I find myself here again, over two years later, "blogging" to the tacit world of my life.

But it's different now. The world still remains silent at my rants, and I am still adamant to rant. However, the world has changed and I have changed. Things are always changing, and whether they are for the better or worse, I am not at liberty to say. It is much more practical and sensible to just say: Things are changing and let's just accept that they are.


Heffalump

What is with October birthdays? How can so many people be born in the same month? I am going to try and list the people right now, but keep in mind that this makes up only a small percentage of the people I know, yet just forgot when their birthdays were: John, Rosemary, Andy, Mom, Desiree, Alex Tai, Victoria, Grant Bauer, Eric Masch, Vivian, Bryan Nguyen, Andrew Strawbridge....

A few of them I don't know very well, yet regardless of that, the fact that I have heard of them makes me wary. I just don't understand how so many people can be born in the same month. Until this month, I had thought that the month with the most birthdays was November, but I question the validity of that fact. I mean, shit! Hella people in October.


Door hinge on the X-wing.

I met and old friend yesterday. Over the past year I saw her more often than I thought I would, since I thought I put the St. Justin's life behind me for the most part. I am sure she doesn't read my Xanga (and for that matter, neither do most people), so I am just going to use her name. Olivia Teixeira. She is a really nice girl; well, she was at St. Justin's in my more adolescent years, and from what I see of her now, she still seems to be a really nice gal. Well I saw her again yesterday (Friday) at practice for A Few Good Men. Now, her brother, Eric, and my brother, Matt, are apparently really close friends, so I tend to see Eric a lot. I never usually think of Olivia when I see Eric though. Luckily for him, I see him as an individual and not a spawn off my friend Olivia. Well, I see Olivia again, smiling like she always used to when I knew her and the short time I spent with her was all smiles as usual. She started off the conversation asking what happened between me and (dare I repeat the name?) Jeri. I glossed over it, being the touchy subject it was. We were all smiles again. I was also very mean to her in what I saw as a joking way. I know I must have crossed the line somewhere, but I guess that's just who I am. I did not know how else to deal with an old friend. Well she took it as a cue to be mean to me back, which is perfectly okay; I can take dishes as well as I can give them out and often times even better than I can give them out. Well, she dished one my way..."Thanks for breaking Jeri's heart," she quipped as she walked away. I quickly got over my shock and said, in a seemingly joking manner, "Ouch! Straight though the heart!" She laughed and walked away, "Bye Andrew!" That girl is fun. And I felt like shit. I tried to call to her and say, "It hurts more to hurt someone than it does to be hurt," but I doubt she got me. I don't blame her. I'm an asshole.


Newborn Purple Stars.

How can anyone be so fearless? It kills you when the ideal you tentatively called "love" is shaken at its roots. Why? Because you passed the point when you no longer "tentatively" called it so, but rather, you walked confidently into the realms in which you could call it "love" with neither fear nor diffidence. You called it "love" because it was simply that and you knew it was love. There is no explanation for why it was so; it just was. Love just was. But now you are dying because as it turns out, it wasn't. Love wasn't that. It appears that you were completely wrong and now you walk with your head down in shame because you were wrong. You live in sadness everyday. And along comes a spider. You sat down beside her. And all your errors were thrown away. Now it gets complicated. You had lived your life according to simplicity, thinking that everything boiled down to something simpler, thinking life was simple and that was what made it worth living. But this is the raw form of complexity with which you can't boil it down to simplicity. You don't get it, and you want to. You are afraid. Everything tells you not to be. But you are afraid. You thought there was no such thing as anyone who was fearless. How was it possible that someone can live as the true Romantic? (The Romantic who follows his/her heart and looks inside his/herself in order to order the chaos of the world. The real Romantic; not the shit-ass one who believes in love and all that sappy shit. The Romantic that undoubtedly most of you are learning in your Literature classes. The Romantic.) You found the Romantic and she defies all your conceptions of the perfect girl. You thought the perfect girl had these characteristics and behaved like this and looked like this. But she is the perfect girl too and she did not qualify by your standards. On Josh's scale, she was a 6 or 7 but still a 10. She contradicts everything you believed and believe. And you are afraid.


Silver Mushroom.

Because someone else is seemingly perfect too. Yeah, I'll say it: There's a choice between what you thought was perfect and what you think is perfect, and both make sense.


The Panic Button

I went to Tri's house last night. We argued certain points and concluded that in this life, you gotta "be prepared" for the next. Lisa claimed that "love isn't love until it hurts" meaning that love is only proven through pain. I disagreed and agreed. Pain can define love but it doesn't always do so. It's just because we are afraid of pain and suffering. We are too afraid to risk and too afraid to step blindly with faith. We are, meaning I am, too afraid of it. But I guess Lisa must be somewhat right since all these guys are calling her up all the time.

We played charades last night for a little over an hour. What I have mentioned was only part of what we tried to charade.

Leave a comment for me by which I can define myself."

Thanks for reading, guys.

Coats

I have been at the receiving end of many a criticism regarding my choice of outer garment on days of questionable weather. Namely, I have been given incredulous looks when I wear coats on warm days. When I say warm, or when others think it's warm, I usually get these looks around 75 degrees Fahrenheit, when shorts and a t-shirt would more than suffice.

But I think that if the weather is below the 80 mark, a jacket or a long-sleeved article of clothing should at least be brought just in case you go somewhere cold. This has rarely failed me. Not since I was much younger did I find carrying a jacket or coat too inconvenient as to demerit a moment when I actually needed it. Many times I have been comfortable in colder-than-assumed conditions when others shiver.

A few months ago in Stockton, when the sun was happily shining around 75, I walked to the dining hall to eat with Sean and Eric (who happen to criticize me the most on this and give me often-to-the-point-of-you-should-know-me-by-now looks of question). I sit down and put my coat on the chair, Sean in a black tank top and Eric in a t-shirt. Well, soon after Eric left, it seemed to get a bit colder, so I put on my coat.

As I put it on, Sean says, "I'm cold too but I won't admit it because that would mean you're right."


Yesterday, on my way out of the house, I get in the car to go to church with my mom.

Says she, "Andrew, do you know how hot it is? Why are you wearing a jacket?"

"If you're shivering in church, mom," I replied, closing the door before we backed out of the driveway, "I'm not letting you borrow my jacket. You can freeze, and I'll be warm."

Sure enough, the fans of St. John the Baptist Church made it colder than usual and when my mom asked to borrow my jacket, chuckling as she did so, I chuckled with equal hilarity and shook my head while pretending to pray.

To those of you who argue that it's not worth carrying around, I have only to tell you that a jacket can easily be left in a car or hung on a chair, and it's worth it to have in case of those moments when you wish you had brought it.

Just a tip in case summer isn't as hot as you thought it would be, as is sometimes the case in the sun-kissed Santa Clara Valley.

Happy beaching!

Memories Consume, Like Opening the Wound

I'm picking me apart again.

I was reading over some of my older posts. I realized that I've grown more self-conscious in my writing. I used to update less frequently, and I think I'm falling into that old habit again.

Or am I breaking the habit of blogging? idecay. Via Eric Woo.

It's difficult to blog in the summer because for me, blogging is something I do when I have things to say, when the gritty gears of my mind are turning. Since summer began, even though I study most days, I don't seem to have as much on my mind. It's possibly the result of summer, or maybe I just don't have as much on my mind like I pretend to have.

I would say that I blog less often because I enjoy my life more now, but I don't think that's true. I don't really feel any happier now than I have before. My life is just bland right now.

A bland life doesn't necessarily imply an unhappy life either. People associate blandness and the neutrality of life with stagnance, like still water that collects debris and mud. I don't think it works like that. Life doesn't need to be exciting all the time. It doesn't need to be brimming with adventure or teeming with activity. Life just needs to be purposeful.

So I guess I'm okay with the way things are for me right now. There isn't the hullabaloo of college life or living with my friends, but as much as I love that, I've come to terms with living in whatever situation I happen to occupy.

I blog less because maybe I'm living more. I'm not necessarily doing more things, just things I didn't think I'd be doing.

Like playing Settlers of Catan.

Or SimCity.

Or eating at Red Robin twice a week. (Actually, not anymore. It's not easy on the wallet.)

This wasn't my vision of my summer, but it's better that I don't know all the details of my future, even though I think about those details frequently. It adds a flavor to my life that makes it a bit more daring, but not in a bad way. Like a new sauce you've never tried but know you could learn to enjoy.

I remember when I was in elementary school, probably in the second or third grade, and I was learning about the inequality signs, "<" and ">". I remember being so confused, so befuddled as to the reasoning or method to discern between the two. I think it took me weeks to figure it out. They told us something stupid to help us remember it, something to do with alligators eating each other.

Really? You're trying to teach simple arithmetic to 8-year-olds using cannibalistic reptiles as an analogy?

Needless to say even then I thought it was a stupid way to remember it. I thought the kids who drew teeth on the signs were idiots, but I never said anything because I didn't fully understand the signs themselves. I eventually figured out that the side that's bigger faces the quantity that's bigger. That's how I think about it in my head to this day. It's childish, but it works for me.

No goddamn reptiles are eating each other on my binder paper.

"But It's Summer"

This one's for Steph.

I know a few of my friends have been going through tough times. I've said what I can to quell the storm that is their emotions and their lives, but in the end, my words can only help so much.

I'm not trying to say that my words should be the cure to their problems or anything, far from it. I just try to do what I can, because it's sometimes just as difficult to see a friend or friends go through difficult times without being able to change anything directly.

All I can really say is that for me, patience usually wins out. Waiting for the pain and difficulty to subside is my favorite tactic.

No matter how shitty and shoddy things can get, things can get better. They also might get worse before they get better, but lives tend to be a combination of ups and downs, not just downs.

Life is, as Stephanie and I discussed, bittersweet.

So no matter how stormy things get, the rains and hurricanes that brew before you will weather down. No matter how horrid the flurries and blizzards may seem, the hardships of winter once seemingly insurmountable will be behind, and summer will arrive.

Life may hand you dirt on a platter, but it's summer.

Your friends may be deserting you, by their choice or not, but it's summer.

They may not be as attentive to you as you they, but it's summer.

Your lover may be gone forever, but it's summer. (He wasn't good enough for you anyways.)

Your confidence may not be always there, or you may feel like you're not the person people see you as. You may feel like there's a part of you that's missing, and you may not be able to figure it out. But it's summer.

Life is bittersweet like that.

Now someone, please help me fix my sticky "w" key. LASKDFJAL;SDKFJLASDFALSDFJ!

A Road Trip Later (cont'd)

When we passed the border, everything was so different.

Actually, the only things that were different were the units, i.e. km/h and cents/litre. Everything else was the same.

My first Canadian meal was at Milestone's, where our waitress was good-looking and gave us free a free spinach-dip with nachos. That was awesome. We also had a waitress ask us randomly how our food was, but in the end, we decided she wasn't a waitress at all, but someone posing as one to decide what to order...It was kind of weird.

The next day (Saturday) saw us wake up to get Sean signed up for the gym and run a few other errands. For dinner we went downtown to Calgary Tower.

"Hi," I said, addressing the waitress smilingly. I was ready to order. "I'd like the Fresh Fish of the Day, but please, please don't tell me the fish. I want it to be a surprise."
Without skipping a beat she said, "It's halibut."

Wtf? She caught herself right away, but still. How daft can you get? I wasn't angry since the halibut was exquisite, but it was still rather funny.

Afterwards, we walked a bit downtown to look at some of the avenues. We saw a few homeless people. We saw what we thought was a homeless couple.

"Excuse me, sir," one of them said, smiling toothily. He smelled of liquor. "Can you spare us a few dollars for our pursuit of hard liquor?"
I was caught off-guard, but before I could react, the indigenous lady said to me, "We can give you this shirt, if you'd like!"
She showed me a shirt from Spencer's displaying a cannabis leaf insignia. Below it read, "I'D HIT THAT," and below that was a large joint underlining the caption.

At first I was tempted, but we walked away, the three of us, brusquely. Two steps out, we stopped.

"Do you want a souvenir of your trip to Calgary?" asked Claire-Lise, Sean's sister.
"Yeah!" Sean interjected. "It would make for a great memory!"

So we turned around, and I gave them some change. And I got the shirt in return.

What impressed me most was how honest the homeless in Calgary were. In America you hear things like, "can you spare some change? I'm trying to catch the bus" or "Do you think you could help me out? I want to make a phone call."

But no, these bums were honest as hell. No lying or deception for Calgarians, homed or homeless, no. If they want money for liquor, that's bloody what they'll tell you. Anything else is just crass.

We also met Dave, who was very homeless. He had tried numerous shelters to no avail. He is one of the only Canadians I've heard use "eh?" in conversation, but he made up for the lack of it, using it at an average rate of .75 eh/ss (spoken second), a number not to be taken lightly.

Put it like this, .75 eh/ss is the same as 750 meh/ss.

And the three of us have some harsh words for Dave. His hygiene is just despicable. As his friends, we have decided to talk to him about it. I think Sean should, but we'll see. Dave just has to change. He can't go on living like this.

Anyways, The rest of the trip was fun. I bought some Canadian beer that night, and had to drink it all alone, since Sean is allergic, and Claire-Lise decided not to like beer. Canadian beer is a bit stronger, but hey, I liked it a lot. Plus, I was legal, so it made it even tastier.

That's it for my trip, really. The rest is rather ho-hum. I met Sean's friend Ashwin, who was hilarious. We somehow got him to leave his number for the waitress at Earls, who was very pretty.

Actually, Canadian girls are generally prettier than American girls, as I found out. They're nicer too.

I leave you, then, with a quotation that best represents the general attitude of our conversations for the weekend.

I was talking to Ashwin, "Are all your friends in the medical field somehow?"
"Almost, I think," he replied, thinking, as we were about to part our ways outside at earls's parking lot.
"Sean's going dentistry," he started. "Declan's medical, I think. I'm medical..."
"Oh, Tyler!" Sean said.
"What's he doing?" I asked.
"He's doing business with my sister," was Sean's accidentally genius reply.

A Road Trip Later

Finals were over, and I had smelled the spicy scent of freedom in the air, like the chili you know you will not be able to handle but still enjoy smelling regardless. Sure, I had started a Restaurant City account (more on that tragedy later). Sure, I was still at school days after my last final. Sure, I had only a week before summer school started and grades would (unfortunately) be out. Yeah, I had failed a final or two, but at the very, very least, I was finished with the semester.

I hung around Pacific for a day or two before taking the last of my stuff home on the immediate Sunday following my Friday final. On Thursday after everyone's last final, I planned to drive up to Canada with my good friend Sean (not Eric). But for a few days at least, I was free, free at last. (Actually, I ended up writing an essay or two before Wednesday, but it was still awesome the lack of responsibility.)

I think I overuse parentheses.

Thursday morning rolled around. My week was finally over. Seven straight sunrises I had seen and gleaned, and I knew Wednesday night had to change. So Thursday morning rolled around, finding me woken up at 7:45AM simply by the sheer excitement of leaving Stockton, officially ending the months of existence that I thought akin to prison but must concede to label "school."

Oh, I know why the caged bird sings, alright.

Yes, I just compared the life of the average college student to the plight of pre-Civil Rights Era blacks. I am indeed a Renaissance man.

We dropped Eric off at Sacramento Airport, about an hour north of Stockton. I was forced into the cubbyhole backseat, not unlike the ones my father used to describe to me when he was escaping the warfare in Vietnam.

Yes, I just compared sitting in the a cramped back seat to the struggles of Vietnamese refugees escaping a war-torn country, harrowingly haunted by the napalm and smell of burning flesh that followed them until they left in the barren waters that still held no promises.

But Eric left, and gave me a hug. I say this because his goddamn cologne (perfume) stuck on my collar for about 10 hours. It's like he never left at all.

As Sean and I drove past Truckee, we noticed the Sierra Nevada hills, and we agreed that a camera would have been nice. Man, those hills scream vista and beauty.

We stopped at Reno for lunch, at a place called the "Wild River Grille." According to Sean, they had the best bread, at least for a (turkey) burger. I had a salmon wrap that was superb. We continued to trek across the Nevada desert, rarely stopping and using smallish towns as milestones to mark our travel. In the process, we came to the conclusion that Sean's car should be named Jenna. It has something to do with Moses. Ask me if you're really curious.

We also started calling each other S-Man and A-Dawg. It had something to do with the town of Elko, NV ("The Heart of Northeast Nevada"). The website says to "take a moment to explore the "City" of Elko and all it has to offer!" because it really only takes a moment to explore all Elko has to offer.

But take it from S-Man and A-Dawg. That moment may be one of the greatest moments you'll ever have while exploring. Elko has loads to offer. Like the Fire Science Academy. And Metro Gasoline...

Both were lame. One was defunct and decrepit.

In Elko, we had a chat about whether to take a different route or not. It would be about the same distance as the previous one, but would cut through Utah, which I wanted to do, just to say we went through Utah. However, we agreed to stay on course and just take the original route to be safe.

Instead we missed the exits to both routes and ended up in Utah regardless of our intentions. West Wendover, NV-UT was our destination, to be precise.

We only crossed the border of Utah for about 50 yards, but we stopped at a gas station 50 yards in Utah, realizing that Utah was definitely NOT a part of our road plans. Sean got an apple and a coffee, and I bought a hot dog.

As we drove back into Nevada (which took about a minute since we were so close to the NV-UT border), we both agreed: Utah has the best apples, coffees and hot dogs. Damn that hot dog was good. I got one in Idaho, and it wasn't even CLOSE to the quality of dog I experienced in Utah.

Anyways, we drove up to Idaho and believe me you, Idaho is by far the WORST state. It's so bland and boring.

I swear, when we got to Montana, everything was just so much better. I recommend that everyone experience a Montana sunrise. Since it was so early, few cars were on the road. Thus, I was "allowed" to go 100-115 on the highway uncontested. Those damn mountains were so goddamn beautiful I have to swear to describe them.

Actually, Sean described them best when he said that Canadian mountains were better.

Said Sean, "These snow-capped mountains look like they're wearing a yarmulke while the Canadian mountains are wearing KKK hoods."

True dat.



vs.




When we were driving in Montana, a tantalizing 60 miles south of the border (it's weird from that perspective, isn't it?), Sean was pulled over for going 90 miles on a 75mph stretch. The fine was $40, which had to be paid right there. The cop was nice, but he would have been nicer if he let us go. So close. I actually thought it would be a good revenge idea to go outside and take a dump in the grass while the cop was looking up the information. Sean was against it.

Anyways, we stopped by Helena, Montana for some breakfast. By breakfast I mean Sean and I both had burgers. Eric called shortly thereafter, as he does twice daily to see how Sean is doing, and when I told him we were in Montana, well, it was funny.

"Where are you guys right now?" Eric asked through the reception-seeking phone.
"We're in Helena," I replied. I fielded a look from Sean, shaking his head.
There was a silence in the car magnified to me by the silence on the phone.
"...Is that in North Dakota or South Dakota?" Eric asked hesitantly.

I laughed, but Sean said he didn't know it either. He said he doubted most people knew...which makes me the abnormal one.

Dammit. Talk about story of my life.

I'll have more to come later!

Long are the Days, Dreary are the Night

I'd like to take this moment to thank the academic deities for scheduling my finals earlier than everyone else's.

It gives me a chance to gloat and play as my friends toil away at their tests.

That being said, I'm definitely hitting up the library on Monday. Their computers are faster than mine, and I can get a lot more done on Restaurant City.

I feel like I have more to say, but really. Now that finals are over, I'm back to being bored and lazy...Wait, nothing's changed.

Like my new layout?

These Are the Words of a Gentleman

I vow that this will be my last blog until finals are over.

Today, I completed three course evaluations. This is not including the online evaluation I took for Physics yesterday, so you can imagine my chagrin when the third form was handed to me, a scowl chiseled upon my normally squinty-eyed face.

All in all, I gave good reviews for my classes, except one.

It's a one unit course that I need to take to stay in the Honors program. I spent more time than anyone else in my class because I wanted the department to understand the strong feelings I have for the course and the lack of respect I have for the department in general.

I told them exactly what I thought, and the words I used were exactly as follows:

"What improvements could be made for this course? What were your general feelings for this course? Be as specific as necessary.

Well, Honors Department, judging by the lack of quality in the reading material, I can only give a positive review for the seminar-styled course. Where else can you go but up? When a class such as this gets approve by a board, it gives me hope to know that I have experienced the worst of the worst, and that future classes can only improve from the abomination that is Honors Seminar. Thus, I would like to start with the basics, since I have been asked to be specific.

The readings that were assigned to students were neither thought-provoking nor informative. They were controversial only in name, but the fine students in the Honors program have quickly realized that the department must pick readings at random, because such an eclectic repertoire could only be the result of lack of thought, and not careful consideration. Thus, it is my strong suggestion to implement a strict policy of "interesting-only" assignments. That way, at least we as students will be lucky enough to read something worth our while every so often. We are very fair judges, understanding that complete interest cannot be cultivated or expected from this "department" and expect only a few readings that will actually pique our intrigue. Thus, it would be in everyone's best interest to discontinue the laundry list of rejected philosophers and sociologists that we have been forced to swallow with our noses plugged.

Maybe someday someone will care about these readings, but for the present, there is nothing that could possibly describe the worthlessness that has been our companion one hour per week for the last fourteen weeks.

Hopefully, from our input the program can head toward a different direction and scrap the format altogether. It is neither beneficial for the students nor the teachers that only mildly care about the course.

Our time would be better spent sleeping or reading FMyLife.com, perusing YouTube, or even taking pictures of our fecal matter and sharing it in a discussion format once a week. At least that way, we learn something about each other instead of pretending to care about topics that deserve a much higher platform upon which to discuss.

I would also like to take this time to congratulate the department for sucking out any interest I may have once harbored for the pursuit of knowledge. It must have been a top priority because in my near two-decades of living, I have never lost motivation to question or argue. It is therefore an accomplishment both for the department and the university that I now do not give a penny's worth of scrotum sweat for Morality and Knowledge, the topic about which this class pretended to teach.

If you wish me to be more specific, please watch the film 300 (2007) directed by Zack Snyder. I believe that many viewings of the film will adequately convey the pain I've experience each time I walk laboriously to class. Do not be fooled by the hopeful tone of the film's ending, however, since the survivor is not you, but the students who arise out of the ashes and blood to tell others and warn them of the folly that is Honors Seminar.

To be even more specific, I am a child of immigrants who traipsed their way to America amidst a brutal civil war that tore apart a country. It is therefore not a small thing to say that, after taking this course, I almost feel like my parents experienced that horrendous journey from Vietnam in vain, because the sidewalks paved with gold have been replaced by sewers lined with urine and feces. As a matter of fact, even that metaphor for the dashed American Dream cannot adequately scribe the banality and violent uselessness that I was forced to sit through every week. Though I do not pretend to speak for all the students, I can personally say that I would have preferred an eternity of waterboarding than another minute in this class. I would also like to say that I will enthusiastically trade in my first three children in order to erase the memory of this class from my mind. I do hope the University of the Pacific can compensate for the many years of psychological doctoring that will be required from this traumatizing one-unit nightmare.

I don't even know if I can love after this.

True story: I once saw Lucifer walk into the classroom and leave within five minutes to vomit.

No, he didn't return.

In fact, the only enjoyable part of this course was the opportunity to summarize my thoughts on the incompetence that is the Honors Department during this evaluation.

I hope this has been helpful."




Wait.

These evaluations are anonymous, right?

The Hammer of Thor! (May 4)

The thought of failure is inevitably and inexorably instilled upon our bodies and souls. Evolutionarily, we have been physically set up to survive, our bodies nothing more than the sum of the parts that we use as a tool to ensure the survival of our species. Our minds and thoughts often care little more than survival, chemicals being freely transferred across our endocrine system and nervous system to coordinate our bodies to ourselves and other bodies. Our brain is the center of it all, cephalization ensuring our most important physical attribute goes protected.

And there is no profound argument that can claim we are more than animals, more than the rocks that we lightly throw and skim upon the surfaces of our reservoirs. There is nothing that can convince me that there is purpose, that there is something more than the physical world that matters. There is nothing that can claim with correct reasoning that humanity is somehow “different” than others, not in the physical sense, obviously. There is no argument that can possibly prove that humans are somehow “more important” than anything else in the grand scheme, long term existence.



Except for the argument of love.





Yes, I’m fuckin’ around. I hate finals.

Fizz THIS, physics!

I had an interesting talk with Sean and Eric today.

It was short, but very profound. Michael even had some input.

To keep it brief, it went along the lines of, "Andrew, get the fuck out of our room. We're trying to sleep."

GIRUGAMESH!

Eric Woo is an interesting character. I'm glad to be living under him next year. I'm only saying that because he reads my blog (not Sean).

Anyways, sometimes I spend lots of time in Sean and Eric's room. Now, there are probably trillions of things I could say about that particular room in Casa Werner, but I'll spare you the (often) gory details.

Eric likes to webcam with his girlfriend a lot. I get it. Love. Or whatever.

Oftentimes when I'm in the room, Eric just chills with his girlfriend, Kelly, on the webcam. Her face is always on his screen, or at least moving in and out of focus as he changes his windows. Sometimes the window with her face isn't showing, but it's definitely minimized, or behind, ready to be opened at Eric's whim. Thus, she can always see what's happening in his room and he hers. They don't always talk, just kind of simulate each other's company the best they can. Therefore, since she's so far away, her window is always on. I mean ALWAYS. All the more power to them, I suppose. Love, or whatever, right?

Anyways, while Eric was chillaxin' in the bathroom the other day, I was talking with Sean and decided to weigh myself. I put the scale in front of Eric's desk, but before I could weigh myself, Sean interjected, "Don't weigh yourself with jeans, dude. It's going to add at least two pounds."

So, being as comfortable as I am around my friends, I took off my pants and jacket and shirt, pretty much stripping down to my boxers and one sock. This was at Sean's request actually. I guess he has a limit.

I weigh myself, a modest 168 pounds, and it goes on pretty much without incident. Then, for some reason, Sean and I thought it'd be hilarious if Eric came back to the room as I was weighing myself almost butt naked and just staring at the door on the scale. So, I proceed to stand there, keeping myself busy by checking out my rippling abdominal muscle (yes, just one) until Eric returned, where I would be sure to reward myself with laughter at his expression.

It all worked according to plan. Eric opened the door and gave me a really funny look, and I, still standing on the scale in front of his desk near naked, burst out in laughter. Sean and Eric chuckled as well, but Eric was chuckling for a different reason.

Sorry, Kelly.