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.