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.

Restless

Everyone needs to see this.

I don't know exactly if others' education parallels my own experience, but growing up, my elementary school days were invariably replete with American history. We learned of our forefathers, and especially, we learned about the Revolutionary War that established these great united states.

Thus, though we may not always proclaim or show it, but the undercurrents of the "underdog" very much flow through our veins. For some, it flows more strongly, and for others, it is but a hint, a trace, a trickle of emotion that we may or may not squash before it hinders us.

We have always been a culture that celebrates the "story" behind a journey. We exalt and proclaim the bravery of those that fight "against the odds." Even when we are at the top of our game, already respected and revered, we somehow make ourselves the underdog, twist our point of view to fuel our underdoggedness and fight to beat the powers that be.

And we are usually the powers that be.

Take, for example, the Olympics. We are already considered athletically superior to a very large percentage of the world, yet our media coverage somehow finds a way to make it seem like we're the underdogs, fighting for the American freedom like our forefathers.

I'm sick of it.

We live in a great country, maybe the greatest in the world, maybe the greatest in the history of the world (except for Iceland, Norway, Canada, Australia, Ireland, Netherlands, Sweden, Japan, Luxembourg, Switzerland, France, Finland, Denmark and Austria), but quite honestly, there is a fine line between national pride and national arrogance.

Also, the whole "underdog" thing is so tiresome. I don't care if the story is inspirational, or if it's truly "American", in the end, it's just a story, a life that has to be lived like all other lives.

Enough with counterculture and underground and indie. It's time to realize that all of that is a part of the whole, a part of the big picture.

It's time to understand that nonconformity has become the new conformity.

Now leave me alone to eat my burger and freedom fries.

Based on a True Story...

It’s like a scene from a comedy, and then you realize how horrible it is.

Here I am, sitting at my local library, my weekends filled with the droll and arid taste of studying. I had been sharing a table with a stranger, both of us mutually compatible with capitalizing the limited space. No words were exchanged. We just sat and minded our own business.

And then I believe my stranger left temporarily. I’m sure many of you have been in that peculiar, potentially awkward situation when you’re sitting with a friend, and then your friend leaves to use the bathroom. Then someone else attempts to take the seemingly vacated spot, only to hear your disappointing proclamation, “I’m sorry. I believe someone is sitting there.” Or if you’re Jillian, “I already claimed that spot.”

But that’s another story in itself.

Now imagine this person has left, and someone else is trying to take the “empty” spot.

Imagine a paraplegic, confined to a wheelchair, a Stephen Hawking type. He can only move with the movement of his fingers, the index dictates the direction of his desire. I see him from the corner of my eye, the shame of my mobility preventing me from looking at him directly.

What I see for literally the next three minutes is his painstaking attempt to wheel into a small spot. I noticed that he had glasses and hadn’t shaved in a while. He first tried to go into the spot feet first. Then, when he found he couldn’t fit, he turned around and wheeled backwards. He still couldn’t fit all the way, but stopped, half his back end in the spot, face to face with me, who was still avoiding any eye contact possible. I’m pro at that. When he stopped, seemingly settled into his spot, he began to open the book on his lap.

FML, his arms were shaky. He couldn’t clench his fingers to open the book so he half-scooped it up with one hand and shuffled through the pages clumsily. It was really a sad sight, this old, frail man confined to a wheel chair and trying so weakly to open a book and simply try to enjoy the minor pleasure of reading. For us, it’s simply sit down and open, but for this man, it has taken him (and still taking him as I write this) an immense effort to do that which we take for granted. At this point, I was torn between laughing out loud and crying.

Then I noticed he was wearing a baseball cap with “I <3 Jesus” on it. Again, I was torn between laughing and crying.

Then I noticed the book he was trying to read was the Bible.

He took another three minutes to open it up, his arms vibrating involuntary and violently and his fingers noncompliant. It was as if God sent this man to see if I had a heart or not.

Well, God. I didn’t laugh out loud.

I just chuckled.

And he left.

You may say that I’m going to hell, but let me explain the reason behind my overt burst of giddiness. I didn’t laugh at his condition itself, far from it. I was laughing at the fact that it was such an exaggerated form of his condition and seemed almost surreal. I was laughing at the fact that this could be a scene straight from 30 Rock, and I was definitely laughing at my own awkwardness and inability to deal with the situation like a mature adult. It was ridiculously awkward and random. I was laughing because this is a situation that could easily be handled with maturity, but I noticed that I failed to be mature.


Dammit. I’m still definitely going to hell.