• More Photo 40 photos for your perusal. They're from two weeks ago, two long weeks ago.
• I know that my newest roommate did not open his window and piss into the side yard just now. It took him weeks to figure out where to toss his spent 40s (i.e. not in the bathroom trash).
I also know that someone didn't cop out of thievery and leave their would-be ill-gotten gains in the bathroom. Stained. Someone will sure be glad that I took the time to not only place their belongings in plain sight with a note, but that I left it in much better condition.
• Did some more wonder-working in the photo labs: the rolls I took over Spring Break look excellent. I'll only use a few of them for my upcoming Humanities speech. There are enough interesting ones to share with family—Noah was an excellent subject Saturday. His shots will make for great prints.
• I hate styrofoam peanuts. Wasteful and inefficient. And they leave such a mess.
• Got about four hours of sleep last night. I usually run on about 5-6, but I was too busy tending to the site, dealing with eBayers, and soothing a restless mind. Today wasn't much help—work was slow, and friends were few and limited by time. The time you're paid for rarely passes by quickly enough; the time you want to spend speeds by too fast. Visited my sister again to drop off film and not-watch Bernie Mac again. Came home to find that I mistook someone's loose CD for the DVD that is lost somewhere in (or out of) the household—seems I've found another way to misplace affections.
Tonight, I get to wade through three Powerpoint presentations for Weather test study. I convinced myself to come to the past class, where I got up to speed and found out about the two fronts, one of which passes through here as I type. ...
That's all I got. Later.
• Again, welcome and greetings to those of you I met earlier Downtown. I'll probably have my latest rolls developed over the weekend, so Monday at the very earliest you can expect images of Friday's protest session, as well as some shots around town, and perhaps Chuck's recital, all done basically to get further acquainted with the camera. Like practicing an instrument...
• In light of all the talk of chemical weapons, SARS, and disease in general, I find the latest round of sicknesses here locally a little disturbing. My throat has felt infrequently scratchy for a few days. Others are talking about their own throats, too. And what I considered to be an allergic reaction to the recent campus demolition and reconstruction seems to be shared by others, too. Is there something more insidious going on here? I'd like to think not.
• There was a fairly decent turnout for his senior recital. He has definitely learned much from his studies here. In between etudes and concertos, I snapped what few pictures of Charles that I could. Having the tripod and my recently-arrived cable release made shooting in the Concert Hall's low light much more viable. The one thing I don't like about my camera is the noise it makes. If not for the power winder, I could vastly improve my choice of shots, being unhindered by the pronounced whine of film advancing. I don't think I got one shot of him playing anything more than tuning notes. It wouldn't seem like much to the average person looking at a pic of a guy with a clarinet in his mouth. However, he's much more visually dynamic while performing. A bit of Vanguard posture has crept into his playing; it looks strange on a clarinet player, but is quite distinctive. Another telling element was his sister's choice of stage dressing: potted plants and short tables stood with the grand piano and music stands. Class all the way.
The party at his house afterwards was full of food and friends. I hadn't seen Joe Kelly in a while; it was great to hear what he has been up to. Mike, Erik, Tony, Adam, Warren, Paul, and Kim were also present. The conversation turned towards expected topics—things I can't relate to much, have any say in, or would rather not hear. At this point in time, it's more soothing to hear people talk about things, regardless of whether I'm laughing or dying.
• As it's my sister's birthday tomorrow (belated wishes, Isis), the family is gathering back in Vallejo for the usual festivities. This trip home will also find me playing "Tech Support" with the family computer, the monitor of which has decided to give out without warning. I'm also shooting my latest Photo project at home, since calls to my friends have been completely ignored. Nothing new... Otherwise, it's a diversion on a spare weekend where I have things to do, but can't take care of them outside campus.
• Not only did I sleep through the Spectrum Dance Team auditions (but seriously, what would I have done there?), I missed Kim's recital because I forgot to reset my alarm clock, the one timepiece I have that doesn't automatically adjust itself.
• Watching CNN today in McDonald's—of all places—I was intrigued by the report of Marines filtering through Baghdad. The unit shown on-camera was clearing the suburban neighborhoods. One Iraqi family was evacuated while Coalition soldiers swept through their home. Despite images of the stressed and frightened family kneeling in their lawn, the reporter said that the soldiers were careful not to point their guns at them, reassuring them that, "this was for their own good and safety." When the unit was sure that no Fedayeen, Ba'ath, or Republican Guard soldiers were hiding inside, the family was allowed to return inside.
After a "station image" break, another report informed us that the same Iraqi family was being held at gunpoint.
If anyone was curious why I don't watch TV coverage of the war, this would be one reason.
• One important lesson you learn from photography is that what the camera captures can quite often be different from what you see or what you envision. More importantly, some of the images your camera makes turn out better than what you originally wanted.
Some of my night shots and protest photos demostrate this principle (you'll get to see them soon). Accordingly, some of my other shots crapped out. But that's what I get for experimenting. One thing that would definitely improve my photographs is a new prescription from the optometrist I haven't visited in four or five years. The glasses I normally wear are definitely not for my eyes today. I've seen some focusing problems in my latest batch, notably those where I relied on the focusing rangefinder (normally precise) instead of using the distance scale on the lens (more appropriate for gauging depth of field). Until my current pair of glasses break, getting a new pair is low on my list of priorities.
• Can anyone tell me why Windows occasionally forgets which icons go with which files? Usually, my text and HTML files are affected first. Other files get icon-swapped in time. The problem goes away when I open Folder Options and correct one of the filetypes; the others switch back after a moment or after a Refresh.
• I'm due to give a speech in about 12 hours. It's safe to say that I still haven't figured out what I'm going to speak about. Until I retire to sleep, a lot of fishing and bullshit is going to go into something I had weeks to prepare for, soemthing I wanted to execute with decisiveness. All I have to help me at the moment are a few brainstorms and caffeine in the bloodstream. Commiting to this speech outline has been most excrutiating, given that I have more than enough information to write out whatever topic I decide on.
The speech is supposed to be argumentative, though the original objective of the speech has been loosened far too much to not take advantage of. It should feature some development of the 19th to early 20th century—I've wound it down to something about photography, which was to make things interesting creatively for me. I shot five or six rolls of film to make some visuals—these no longer fit with the idea in my head right now. A waste. I'm trying to settle on arguing for the modern trend of photographic divergence from art—that photography has less chance of being regarded as art because of the industry's current marketing.
Complicating things are inspirational flashes relating photography to marksmanship (which I could likely fit in with WWI war machinery), Marxist disillusionment/alienation from the crafter and his craft, an analogy comparing cars to dehumanization, and technology in general making people stupid. I wish I had these flashes over Spring Break, or even before, so I could labor mentally over this glut of material. Even if I do manage to piece together a speech, I still have to prepare to address an audience of possibly critical, but likely apathetic peers, and not break down in confusion and tears like the last time I tried this.
I don't remember being fully prepared for that speech, either. I got off to an okay start, but soon my 3x5 cards began to melt into puddles of blue-white light. Meanwhile, the disaffected stares of classmates grew into an endless chasm of accusation, leaching away the meager bit of confidence I managed to pool together. I next remember someone, probably a classmate, encouraging me to breathe deeply and to forget that I fucked up. Few of my shames have escaped me—they tend to band together at inopportune moments, casting again their guilt by their sheer existence.
Since that damned day, years ago, I've learned to deal with/ignore the anxiety of presentations. I still tend to stutter when my thoughts fail to translate into words, but I regard these moments with a sentiment equivalent to, "I screwed up again... whatever." There may come a time when I can endure the attention of large crowds faultlessly. That time may even be tomorrow, but not if I don't get this outline together.
• Let me get these out of the way before I forget that I thought and did stuff like this.
I got up around 7 after an hour of sleep and sped through the outline I couldn't touch the night before. It's actually a beautiful thing, probably more than enough for the five minutes I'm allotted. The problem with the speeches was that I was the only one prepared to give one, out of the two others scheduled. All the hard work, just to get bumped back an entire month.
By this combination of latent caffeine, sleeplessness, utter relief, and some mischeivous subject material for my Photo class, I have been having such a marvelous day, that can't be proper grammar. I still fear that I'll have nothing serious to worry about before dreaming tonight.
The blood letter, perhaps...
• Here is an out-of-the-ordinary man. While I was shooting frames for my next photo project, he convinced me to check out a beehive that has been growing near Spartan Complex/Uchida Hall. One of the old squirrel holes has been remodeled into the familiar hexagonal dwellings of a hive of bees. They were just doing their thing, probably checking out the Botanical Garden near Duncan Hall. Apprehensive as I was, they didn't mind me taking pictures, all as Al explained how he tracked the swarm to their hideout. It probably doesn't look too remarkable on black and white, but I'll choose a frame anyhow.
• So Lane had his recital tonight. I'm handily impressed. There were some trouble spots that perhaps only I could hear; I'm not too far from my percussive technique. That belies the fact that percussion can make for some interesting music. The marimba is quite unique in its tone and sound—primal, yet cultured. If I had followed such a path, I could have made my own impressions with the marimba, or the vibraphone, even.
Lane's parents stopped by, with a varied selection of brownies. (I couldn't finish my plate!) His mother is quite proud of her baking, and with good reason. It was a little weird watching them mingle with Christiana's family—I only mention it because there's rarely occasion here for parental interaction of any sort. Genialities and compliments—nothing surprising. Just about as low key as Christiana and Lane. (Seriously, where does she find time for him?!)
Anyhow, it's probably time I trekked back for the after-party at Lane's place and dungeon. [I had wanted to link to my previous journal entry regarding his place back when Anna was still in SJ, but I can't find it. At all...]
• It felt like I had my ass handed to me this morning. Like someone kicked me in the middle of the night. Repeatedly. I blame (what I believe was) Beth's spare pillow, or Dana's carpet. Or perhaps I shouldn't have worked down that Bigfoot so fast. Or walked the few blocks home to my own bed. I would have missed out on some interesting late night discussion, though.
• I wish there were more people like Lauren at the Photo Department window. I had barely begun to check out a darkroom when she introduced herself, and her fellow volunteers Drew and Christina. Soon, we were talking about our hometowns. She's of mostly northern European descent, growing up in places like Zurich. Tim, from another photo class I presume, was also impressed into the discussion. It's pretty cool how just one little spark (whether from interest, curiosity, desperation, personality quirk, etc.) can inspire near-endless talk between those willing.
It just seems like everyone is easier to talk to nowadays. I hate to think that this is simply what is to be expected by not worrying about Christiana as much as I used to. Oddly enough, I find her easier to talk with than before. Of all the reasons I could cite, I'm sticking with the thought that I don't feel obliged to attend to her, with the hope that she might see me with brighter eyes. It makes sense, I think; trying to engage someone in a moderated, controlled manner makes you less of yourself, hesitant to break your image, losing time to anticipation and contingency.
Save for the rare nagging thoughts, I feel much better than I once thought I would. It's relieving, all of it. And as much as I miss listening in on the vagaries of her days, everyone has something to talk about. Someone might even be interested in what I have to say.
• My darkroom technique has greatly improved, judging from this afternoon's session. I vaguely remember Estabrook saying something about how we would come to waste less print paper over the months. From looking at a contact sheet, and under what conditions it was made (darkroom, enlarger height, exposure variables), I stand a good chance of one-timing select frames, as opposed to the dozens I might have wasted before.
My Directorial project shots came out good. The beehive Al pointed out to me also looked crisp—Lauren had no trouble identifying it, and possibly knew of it beforehand. However, I'm wondering what to do with the shots I took at Santana Row and Valley Fair. When I finalized my Humanities speech, it no longer had anything to do with city development or materialism. They might still make for acceptable stock photos, or still see action in one of my final projects.
And now to get my first good night of relaxing sleep this week. It probably won't be as inspirational or social, but I can do without it for the while.
• Damn, I totally forgot to scan my Directorial pics last night. They've already been mounted, and are just waiting for retouching and packaging. There are only two ways I can see them getting reliably scanned: taking the mounted prints to Kinko's in hopes that they have a machine capable of the job, or making reprints with my dwindling supply of paper. Something will happen.
• I remember the last time I spent time with Dinah and her friends. Back in sophomore year or so, we decided to make a McDonald's run during a Band evening. I was the extra wheel—I rode in the trunk.
Things have become a little more egalitarian since then. Silvestre gathered a bunch of her friends and me to surprise her at House Of Siam (formerly San Jose Live). I had known about the place since it opened, as it's next to the Light Rail track and bus station. Having never been inside, I was a little surprised myself at how complete it was. For some reason, I didn't expect much of a restaurant in the Pavillion. It was full of Thai decor and colors, and the menu was similarly packed. Thai food is a conversation-starter by its very nature—those who wonder why anyone would eat shrimp with milk or what makes Angry Chicken angry have much to discuss, and will be pleased with what the food has to say about itself. For its quality, food at House of Siam is a little spare. The dishes barely made it halfway around our table for ten. I suppose I could have made by with sauce in rice, but those wanting more should come with heavier wallets.
Afterwards, we headed over to the Cabana (formerly Polly Esther's) for drinks and dancing. Mind you, I'm not too hip to the club scene—it's only popular with a few of my friends. There is something to be admired about it, though. When we came in, the dance floor was empty; a few dozen ladies were huddled on the side, talking. As soon as a small group came in and took the floor, hundreds more filled the place. The daring ones climbed the tabletops or ascended to the front balcony for some rail dancing. The men that weren't already dancing lined the edge, raised so they could check out the dance floor.
After a few Hefeweizen, I was ready to groove. It was a little strange to be there with my sister's friends. I'm sure they didn't mind, but I mostly kept to familiar faces. Ericson was with us; we had some fun picking out notables like the girl with what is best described as a "nipple-hiding" shirt, some fine Asians, and the blonde that was dancing behind me all the while. (When we were leaving, some hefty guy was playing with her.)
The club crowd is definitely different from the people I normally hang with or come across. I likely wouldn't be appealing to any of the regulars—I'm sure they probably aren't patently interesting themselves. If anything I would club with friends as a special kind of night. The kind of person I'm interested in would probably have the same approach. It's actually quite simple to tell the two from each other, the regular from the recreational.
Outside, the streets were slick with fallen rain. The normally bland street lighting made the parking lots much more interesting to look at than the colored lighting and dance floor in the Cabana. The "corporate" feel of San Jose becomes more plastic and stylized under the administration of proper weather. I should come back with a camera sometime.
• Some ass won over me in an auction for some lenses. S/he had placed a high bet earlier in the day, which I found out just now was but a dollar above my own. Pity. However, I'm kinda glad that he had to pay much more for what would have been an $11 purchase without my intervention.
Asshole.
• I can't say that I was prepared for anything that happened today. A pity, too, because it was such a jam-packed Monday.
As light as my coffee was, it managed to speed me through work. All the stupid people that would normally come on Friday stopped by today instead. And after unjamming the towel dispenser, I had no patience to deal with them. I was openly complaining about the severe offenders, and flinching at the regulars: those who refuse to ask the book clerks about books, those who ask where the test forms right beside them are, and those who just cannot find the lone shelf in the front of the store for their backpacks.
One poor woman wondered if the $10.75 price applied to the other "catalogs" on the magazine rack. "Or is that the subscription price?" Another mistook the white-erase boards for book stands. And the local mental woman that I hadn't seen in a while popped in to tell me about her taxes and how she was President or something. They were all small issues, but bunched together in a short period of time, and the sane are driven from it.
About the only thing sparing me from outright murder were the ideas I was storming for the upcoming Band Video, which I intend to direct in some major capacity.
Meanwhile, the conversation in the Lobby turned spooky quickly. What was with the sudden fascination with breakfast cereals? (This, I ask while munching on Cocoa Krispies.) It popped up on at least two separate occasions, I being the only common link. Completely unwarranted, that was.
On to more valid concerns... I spent a total of 15 minutes studying for my Human Development midterm. Mind you, this three-unit class is more intensive than my six-unit Humanities class. I don't think even my patented brand of bullshit could cut out more than a C. And I still have to turn in a late assignment and an upcoming Life History project.
Fortunately, I'm ahead in two or three of my other classes. I'm usually struggling to keep pace with any class, regardless of my learnings. Also, I managed to recover my Less Than Jake that I left behind in the ProTools lab on Friday. Unlike some people here at the house, the RTVF folk don't seem to be kleptos. For this much I'm grateful. I'd appreciate more, buy this much will do.
• It must be the Full Moon...so many voices to listen to today. The insane man trying to reason away the deportation of Filipinos; people talking shit, love, and business in the Lobby; Noah becoming more demanding and declarative, as well as memorizing Blue's Clues scripts; Bernie Mac burning through a "Cost Depot" experience in an episode...
The only voice that was interested in what I had to say was Scott's. But since I was interviewing him, I had to hold back a lot of replies. I'm starting to wonder if I should drop in more often to shoot it with him—the times are stressing him.
For every complete thought I can clearly communicate, there are about ten more that fall on deaf ears, dozens more that I should have said, and an endless stream of thoughts that couldn't possibly interest anyone. It's days like today that I feel like I'm wasting away, losing grasp of sociability. Am I still too shy to speak my mind, and convince people to listen to me? Is everyone so unaccustomed to having thorough dialogue with me that every attempt must go unheard?
I've always held on to the mentality that I would gut myself before I fight to make myself heard. It makes no sense that I should hesitate to say anything of even paramount importance while others feel unhindered with disposable words. Despite the suffering this is causing me, all I do is complain about it, and occasionally wish to remedy it. What the hell is wrong with me?
• Conor Oberst, currently performing as Bright Eyes, is one of those marvelous singer-songwriters who, like Rufus Wainwright (more so, perhaps), you won't hear on national radio. I just happened to catch a few of his songs on KSJS, and managed to google out the rest of his discography. I don't know where I might find any of his CDs (I'd rather not file-share them if I can help it), but know that I am looking. Maybe you should, too, if you're into emo with a heavy eclectic bent. It's totally what I'm hooked on right now.
• I've finally taken the WST. I am confident that I did exceedingly well on the objective (multiple-choice) part of the test. However, I'm still wondering if my essay was of quality. (On "learning outside of the classroom", I applied my costly experience with a con man.) It was some class writing, worth at least a 5 of 6. Shortly after I finished it, I noticed that the flow wasn't too smooth. The main topics were addressed, but two of the threads diverged; one faded out of importance while another popped in two-thirds of the way through.
I couldn't do much about it because the writing portion ended when I had written my last sentence. The chances are good that if I'm concerned about it now, the scorers reading it over and over days from now will notice it too.
One other regret I have about the test was not finding enough time beforehand to sell things like dictionaries and pens to the other test-takers. Since Roberts was closed today, I took it upon myself to work the last-minute crowd. Too bad I'm a last-minute person myself, huh?
The music? It was fine to listen to, but I've always found it hard to remember what I heard afterwards. It's like this with me and concerts, I guess. I'm probably spoiled by radio and Winamp, being able to listen to songs over and over and over...
What I do remember clearly was how I had somehow tied in music education with my WST essay. It also goes back to my interview with Scott. The point had something to do with how funding for music, art, and sports education has been lacking in my lifetime. When the budget cuts roll around, these programs are among the first to suffer. Scott himself observed how cuts at the elementary level made for tough recruiting when those students graduated from high school.
The problem is that arts and sports teach you things that language, math, the sciences, and history cannot. They teach you how to care about what you do. They give you an opportunity to find your passions, especially if they are not of the academic variety. They teach you what it means to be part of a group that strives for something; how your actions lead to the fulfillment of a common goal. They teach you how to look at the world in an abstract sense, how to find beauty and emotion in what would otherwise be structured and methodized in the academics. More importantly, they give you something you can be proud of: a creation, something you can call your own and sit on the shelf with the creations of others. The sculptures, paintings, prose, recordings, and trophies say more about ourselves than any theorem or natural law or historic event or social movement or book report can.
Without these finer pursuits, is it no wonder that people today are so self-important? So unappreciating of artists, musicians, and perhaps sportsmen? So bereft of care and compassion? So unwilling to put in more energy than what is required to achieve mediocrity?
(In this same vein, plenty of mediocre people are wrongfully glorified in our society. I hate hearing about what the celebrities are up to. We have public figures commiting crimes, getting into trouble, and cheating on their loved ones—I don't care about them. Just because we pay people to entertain us doesn't mean that we need to hear about every detail of their lives. The people that truly matter in this world are losing out to those with better agents.)
Having these programs in our schools is fine and all, but the point I want to bring up is that there is so much more that we can't learn in classrooms. A lot of the things I'm learning now are things that I wish even one teacher brought up back in grade school. Things like how to make and deal with friends, what to expect out of life, how society influences us, what kind of people seek to do us harm, why sitting back and ignoring everything is the most anti-human thing imaginable.
I remember one teacher in particular. Richard Wright (who joked about how he wrote Native Son and Black Boy) was my 8th grade English teacher. His freeform approach to teaching ensured that I would get nothing higher than a D—I was supposed to read books and compose literature at my own volition. What makes him memorable to me were his lessons. They had almost nothing to do with English; they were more like revelations of our society and culture, and questions that could not be solved through any process or method. One of the games we played had a particularly devious quirk: everyone could score higher if select people gave up their chance to gain each round. Selfishness often prevailed, leaving many with miserable scores, and precious few people—like me—with pivotal understanding. Another diversion involved ethics. You're probably familiar with the "heart transplant" exercise where you have to choose the recipient of a donor heart. The choices include a critically ill patient, a prominent but corrupt businessman, someone who has been on the waiting list for years, and others. (I think I chose the child, betting on her future achievements.)
I just hope that society has a relapse soon and comes to realize what kind of effort we need to put into education in order to truly make ourselves ready for life.
• I knew there was going to be trouble when I saw the line winding through the Music Building. Turns out I came just a few seconds too late to catch the Latin Jazz Ensemble Reunion Concert. It sold out just as I made it to the front of the line. Any chance I had at convincing the door staff to allow my lone presence was drowned out by the cries of students who needed to attend the concert for class. And still behind me were dozens of other aspiring audience members. Sure is a shame that I can't attend.
• On the other hand, I have more time to devote to classwork I have been skimping on. The quality of my work is starting to suffer, judging from the Anthropology essay that turned out to be just a collection of facts. I don't write quickly, even with handwriting like mine. I have an two papers due soon, a few papers I fell behind on, other projects I need to get started on, and not a lot of time to do them.
A major part of the problem has been the time I spent on eBay. Though I recently won a replacement for my broken zoom lens and a studio strobe flash system—both for real cheap—I wasted hours tracking items and protecting bids that I could have spent writing papers or reading for classes.
My sleeping pattern is also shot—it hasn't been the same since Daylight Savings Time. I suppose it has a lot to do with my coffee and eating habits. Many nights, I don't get dinner until around 10p. If I have a coffee with it, I'm up until 4a, and often wake up toasted. The days are already unbearable as they are; what more when I have to meet them fatigued and pre-drained?
One thing I would like to try is something like what happened my Monday morning. I had trouble getting started on my latest paper, so I went to sleep early, around 11p. It took about an hour to rise again, but I got to typing around 5a, feeling fine enough to nuke some coffee crystals downstairs. Of course, my caffeine plateau dropped around midday, but Darrah's Human Development lecture was involving enough to keep me from drooling on my notes, napping. That might be why I was tired most of today, but the morning was quality. If I could maintain a schedule closer to that, I think I could do some cool things. I would probably be more sociable, too.
• I'm hanging on desperately to the last few free megabytes left on my hard disk. It has made things act strange—I now have a "B:" drive where my A: drive used to be. (It now points to nothing.) Startup is taking longer, and I've faulted out of more programs than I would normally like to. I'm pondering options regarding spacier hard disks.
The least expensive option seems to be to just get a new internal IDE (or whatever goes inside). This is also the riskiest option, since I have to goad the computer into using both drives when the case only has space for one. I'm also not familiar with HD-to-HD copying/imaging—if something goes wrong here, I could lose up to a week reinstalling/downloading things I have lost. The cleaner option would be to acquire Firewire/USB 2 capability and add an external HD. I could also potentially handle digital video and other capture technology. However, shopping around for a FW/U2 drive seems more challenging than for IDE. I would also have to be mindful of the extra machinage the computer would have to bear.
Decisions...
• As much as I have ignored the situation in Iraq, I've worried about the issue with North Korea. Their media has plagued us with what amount to immature threats. The sad thing is that North Korea likely does have a nuclear capability it intends to use against the United States, whether or not the U.S. responds in a way of their liking.
North Korea has been a hole since the U.S. military presence in the '50s. Whatever the intended goal, it ended up as a crippled military state holding on to the swords it should have dropped long ago. This all brings to mind the "Black Knight" of Monty Python fame, taunting King Arthur long after losing his limbs. Blood-stained, we try to turn away, hoping that we are not bit in one final retaliation.
To no one's benefit, we may soon hear again the shock waves of nuclear war hastily waged by those who have no business being in power. I have no qualms about being vaporized in a fireball—there's nothing I can do personally to alter such a fate. I hate the fact that everything I stand for is such a disposable thing to the juvenile minds responsible for North Korea.
If covert operations and some luck of the anti-ballistic kind don't keep us safe, then our only hope rests in one unusual solution: stupidity. By launching their missiles, North Korea will jettison the only thing of value in their entire economy. What would have powered their nation for a good while will instead be wasted in violence. The chances that North Korea will safely develop a nuclear arsenal are slim to begin with. Mistakes by a less-than-stellar crew may lead to a detonation on home turf, which would probably be passed off as a "test" of some sort.
I'll stop wasting your time with these immoderate words of my own.
• My computer now sees it fit to reset itself on certain occasions. I believe it might have something to do with the spikes from my refrigerator turning on in it's ungrounded outlet. I didn't think much of it before, because it did not respond to it at all. The house wiring was lame to begin with.
There's also a slim chance that my packed hard drive might be a factor, in ways that I don't comprehend completely. Whatever...
• I've spent so much time alternating between writing papers on the computer and curling up in bed that I'm typing this dizzy and nauseous. I'm afraid to throw up, because it doesn't seem necessary. Whatever I ate must have been sloshing around inside so much that my stomach can't rightly digest it. I also don't want to go back to bed, because then I'll never get these papers finished. I'm pissed off and falling further behind in my studies.
• Settles that. Shame...that was some good lasagna. My stomach must not have thought so, and judging from the smell, I understand. Still, the portion I had the other day went down without a problem, and that was barely a day or two ago. It should not have spoiled so quickly.
I haven't thrown up in years. Soothing in such a bad way. I didn't realize how much preparation the body goes through before commiting to regurgitation. Everyone is familiar with the strange feeling in the abdomen, the biochemical equivalent of someone driving the wrong way down a one-way street. Owing to some sort of resilience, my body tries to hold onto more meals than it rejects. It has caused a lot of distress over the years. What I noticed this time was my mouth slicking up, the mucous forming along my upper digestive tract. Mucous means protection against something (like digestive acids and biles), so I wasted no time in getting to the toilet.
The first ejection was oily in consistency, the familiar dark red of tomatoes. It seems weird that during a time like this, my body still has control over itself, segregating the lipids from the water-based solution that would follow. In another, pronounced ejection came the lasagna, and perhaps the cereal I ate this rare morning. I can only guess there was some disagreement between the lasagna and the cereal, or maybe an adult finickiness to curious food combinations like peanut butter, corn flour, and milk. It would probably have worked if I kept up such a diet. But considering that I usually don't have time to eat breakfast in the morning, I expect nothing less than another uprising.
I still feel dizzy, unfortunately...
• Street bums are dicks sometimes. (Remember the one that wanted to box me last year or so?) My current complaint is with the ones now "camping" around 10th and William. They hadn't been around until the spring rains kicked in. Now I'm cussed out everytime I pass by to/from school because I didn't give someone their quarter. Never mind that I haven't given anyone change for the past few weeks...I find they're always better spent at the arcade anyhow. Slim hours at work have made it hard to pay the bum tax anyway. I'd beg for quarters myself if I thought I had more charisma than the bums.
I suppose the day-to-day existence makes it easy for one to forget that I'm not the jingliest of passers-by. If I even tried to address this fact, or whined about my situation, I would somehow be villainized, or stabbed at the least. I suppose if I were so inclined, I could make a candid shot of myself being harassed.—it would fit in quite well with the photo project I'm currently working on. Of course, I'd have to be careful deciding which angry bums I could outrun while loaded with a camera bag and tripod.
• Let's see, roughly 10% of my semester grades are accounted for tomorrow. None of it is ready. I did have time to take care of things in the past week or two, but wasted all of it. I simply could not bring myself to do any advance work, knowing that more opportunities would arrive. The same thought, this, each time another opportunity passed. The way it always has been—procrastination until the last minute, and occasionally beyond. But now "occasionally" is becoming more inclusive.
It's really sad to know what your problems are and what solutions to apply, but still remain stupid and unwilling to affect a favorable result. I'm starting to think that I am simply predisposed to avoiding important things; that I find some perverse comfort in building my own frustrations. It's the only real future planning I seem to do. No amount of self-hate has yet pushed me to make use of the pattern of failure I see in myself. No memory of time well spent, no argument for efficiency, no motivating words... All powerless before my desire for false comforts.
So why do I still believe that I can be rid of my vice someday?
• Lately, my computer is also having a case of "fuck it all". It restarts itself at various times, for what I hope are similar reasons. It doesn't seem to be the fridge turning on/off, but rather some internal malfunction, likely memory issues. Recently, I did install Pro Tools Free in place of MusicMatch Jukebox. The latter is pretty suspect—it was never a polite program. Uninstalling MMJB made the computer forget what to do with CDs, and where they were located. PTfree is a little buggy myself, but it puts the processor to use in such an intensive manner that it's probably warranted. Restarts usually happen after I use it, so long as the computer has been put on standby in the same power period. The only time I remember this not quite happening was when I had AOL, Netscape, Winamp, and some files and folders open.
I used to think little of the cache until it slowed down performance. Now that it's causing the computer to seize, I am more mindful of what kind of loads I'm putting on the system. It used to have such vitality...
• Perhaps I should have mentioned Mom's birthday yesterday. We're not all that big on birthdays anyhow, but I did make a point of calling her this time. Being the marvelous conversationalist I am, I asked for some more pasta to get through the weeks, and told her how I wouldn't be able to come over to Dinah's tonight because of papers I have to write.
• You're right...it's been a while.
Last night I had this dream where I succeeded in assassinating two anonymous people (though I only remember aiming at one). For all the carnage that should have happened, the kills were quite clean—practically spotless. The cremated remains fit into a sandwich bag, taking up no more space than two hot dogs. (I don't recall taking the bodies to a crematorium(?), much less setting them afire.) The trouble now was how to dispose of these remains, which I kept in my pocket. Tossing them in city garbage was probably among the plans. However, I was concerned the whole while about the consequences of what I had done. Would people somehow find out? How could I be linked back to the crimes? Did I account for any remaining evidence?
Shortly after Scott made a cameo, I woke up wondering if I really had killed anyone. I'm still slightly curious.
In unrelated news, I managed to finish two papers for Human Development over the weekend. I'm not sure they were my best works. Might my teacher think them crap? Did I burn them completely?
• There is at least one (important) paper I will not have time for. With about a week left, I'm running dangerously close to botching a few others. One would think that after seven years of college, a little more initiative would be gained. Well, when all this "school" stuff for the semester is clear out of the way, I can get to some updates here. Lots of megabytes to upload when I get the chance, and perhaps a project I'll develop over the summer.
• Welcome to this moment's edition of My Inbox, where we have a look at my e-mail. Let's get started!
Klaatu Verata... damn, it's an n-word.
• Another shameful day. I finally got a chance to give my Humanities speech, which had been postponed a month. However, shortly after I rose to the podium, the anxieties that once plagued my speech-giving made a return. I couldn't bring myself to concentrate on my notes, much less to remember that they were there. A diagram that I was beginning to draw on the whiteboard looked unfamiliar, unrecognizable. I could barely hear the voice of my instructor, asking me if I wanted to delay my speech yet again, which I accepted.
I haven't cried openly for a while. I should be glad I was able to contain myself until I was out of the classroom. Listening to people bitch about Christiana in the Band Lobby (while Lane looked on all this with detached amusement) wasn't helpful at all. Sara asked what was bothering me, but I couldn't say anything—it made no sense to talk about how I have problems talking. For this blown opportunity to communicate, I came up with a way to address my speaking difficulties.
What I plan on doing differently next time is attacking my own weakness towards speaking—a counter-speech if you will. Offer a persuasive argument on why I should not be judged on my speech-giving skills. I don't know how it will be received, but being up in front, I won't be able to think of much else.
Through all this, I'm reminded of a conversation I had with Katie earlier this week. She noted that despite my anxiety towards speaking, I had no trouble talking to her. It's an irrational fear that binds me. I can't really say that I fear speaking my mind—Katie was undoubtedly judging my words in much the same way that my classmates would have. I'm not afraid of my voice; I think it could use some improvement, both in delivery and in tonal quality, but I like having a voice. I'm not afraid of having an opinion; if anyone is going to take me seriously, I need to have one.
It seems that what terrifies me is having my words fall on so many uncaring ears. It's painful to think that my voice doesn't matter, and devastating to have this confirmed by reality. And it really isn't fair that I should be so fucking critical of myself over such an essentially small matter, when others have no problem expressing themselves. All I've wanted out of myself these past few years was to be able to speak out when I wanted to. To this end, I have not progressed at all. I'm still the shy little fucker I've been all along, afraid to stand up for himself.
It's times like these I regret never having yet removing myself violently from this world. I should look into it—perhaps I might finally succeed at something.
• According to Scientific American, my concept of parallel universes is only Level III out of four. I had thought of other versions of myself coexisting within my frame of spacetime, differing only by a decision or action. By doing or not doing something, a parallel version of myself was created. Accounting for each possible action of mine, I could express the totality of my parallel selves in a tree-like arrangement, with each branch representing an alternate version of myself. On top of this, accounting for everyone else who has and who will live makes for one dense tree of possibilities.
To abridge the article, a Level I parallel universe is a universe contained within our spacetime, but simply outside the extent of ours, kind of like a friend that you haven't met yet. You will come to meet him/her, but you haven't yet progressed far enough in time. A Level I parallel universe is one that, given enough time, would be able to contact ours. Photons or other particles would eventually cross the gap between Level I universes.
A Level II parallel universe is still one within our spacetime, but infinitely far away. It's more of a patterned assumption than an expectation. Remember the saying, "If you've seen one, you've seen them all?" The existence of Level I and II parallel universes are inferred from the assumption that all of space was once uniformly dense. But where Level I universes are a discrete distance away from each other, expansion boundaries prevent observers from one Level II universe from travelling fast enough to cross the gap to another Level II universe.
Level IV universes are differentiated by alternate mathematical laws. The ideal mathematical representation of our universe is different from another Level IV universe.
• Very bright and sunny outside. It's a shame I have to waste most of the day with academic endeavors. I couldn't attend the drum major tryouts for band, nor could I spend time at the Metro Fountain Blues Festival, which was setting up while I was busy with my morning.
I managed to burn through my Engl. 1B exam since the essay topic dealt with people living with technology. My speech topic was about photography automation, and I constantly think about what machines are doing to us as a civilization.
I've done away with a few reservations I had towards my Humanities research paper due Tuesday, finding little about my intended topics. Instead, I'm examining Ansel Adams and his contributions to California and photography. I had originally thought that doing something like this seemed a little shady of me, in ways that I now ignore. If it means that I can finish my paper sooner, so be it.
I've already memorized my library barcode, which I consider amazing since I only got it about an hour ago. The last time I visited the public library, I felt overwhelmed by its presence and never got around to borrowing anything. I don't remember why I didn't just ask around for help, but I had no problem this time getting things done.
Thusly, I've managed to gather up some motivation to write up my final papers, this and my outstanding portfolio assignments for Human Development. Earlier today I managed to finish other things that I would normally do over the weekend, like laundry. Nothing should stand in my way now.
• The best thing about writing papers in Word is my little Office Assistant, the orange cat. (I think its name is Links.) As I type, he does his thing, grooming his coat, stretching, chasing butterflies and sleeping. I find it hard to disturb him when he's coiled up in a pile on my paper, snoozing away since I rarely ask his help. This causes me a little worry when I imagine my computer might decide to suddenly shut down before I save my work. I'd have to make him get up and file away my document, and sit patiently awake while I ignore him further.
I do realize that Links is just a bunch of code taking up processor time and memory space. But I feel that he belongs there whenever I type. I don't know what will happen when I have occasion to care for a real cat. Until then, I'm content to offer him free reign upon my desktop.
• I've done all I can for my classes. The stress of all my final projects has dissipated, their sources accounted for in what ways I could.
I was able to write a decent research project for Humanities. However, I haven't finished all my research—I was writing about Ansel Adams, and found that there was quite a bit more I could read into. His personal life, as well as a majority of his professional works, is well accounted for. I only skimmed the surface of an influential man, and I intend to finish out my reading until the library demands their books back.
With other, more qualified classmates waiting to give their speeches, I never did get a chance to redeem myself. All the time I wasted on the program, and not once did I give a decent speech. I still get to agonize over it until the next time a speech is asked of me. Perhaps I should finally delve into the books on speech I've collected, and maybe try to be more talkative. Maybe I need to stand for something, and trust my words to justify me better.
Another form of expression I've had to deal with this semester fortunately hasn't failed me. My darkroom skills have become quite dependable. It's too bad I won't get a chance to exercise them further, as the Art Photography Lab has closed down for the year. All the money I will now save on materials can now be reserved for the commercial labs, supposing the money is free to spend. I'm considering taking up business with the Downtown business whose name I can't currently remember, but is located near 2nd and Santa Clara. It will be a while until I have rolls to develop—plenty of film, but nothing interesting or rewarding to shoot at the moment.
In the final lab hours available to students, I made some prints that weren't tied to any projects but looked cool, some enlargements on my remaining 11″ × 14″ stock, and a few pics for mounting. I wasn't able to use everything; I still have a fresh pack of 8″ × 10″ paper. I haven't decided yet what I want to do with all the darkroom equipment in my name. (I'm definitely keeping the camera kit I built. With pride.) I could sell plenty of the stuff to other photo students in the Fall, but I would like to erect another darkroom in the future, or simply volunteer time at the school lab for its privileges.
There are still final exams to prepare for. After all the toil I've been through, I'm not worrying about these at all. They'll come, I'll take them, and the semester ends. Fall awaits me.
• Congratulations, Fall 2003 students! Your class registrations have now become damn frustrating!
I'm browsing through the new system, and my first impression is that I'm lucky to have gotten as far as to find my registration datetime and the Schedule of Classes. This shitpile they call our new registration system is packed with all kinds of nasty problems.
Nothing is intuitive. 80% of the people doing their thing online won't be able to make sense of the navigation. This is one of those rare times my complicated sort of thinking helps out. Everything we need to register properly is securely tucked away in a needless mass of nested menu options. The only thing you can do on the front page is click on a link to take you further along the menu. Drawing inspiration from classic Legend of Zelda, one path through the options is circular, leading you right back to where you started.
Some of the interfaces are cool—the schedule pages are much more detailed than in the previous system. Thankfully, here all the information is neatly organized. Optimizations to streamline searches, like a history or even simple last-selection memory, are painfully missing. The Basic Search looks overly complex, offering more parameters than the average registrant will need.
I don't think they'll get around to importing older information into the system. We're probably stuck with having to deal with the old system to check on previous semesters. With the problems they had getting the current system up in its present form, I heartily believe that trying to convert the old files would have broken both systems. In any case, I'm getting my transcript printed out, and I suggest you do the same, just in case shit happens.
• Trying to pick out 15 units worth of classes for next semester is going to be a stretch. One favorable trend is that my classes seem to all fall on Tuesdays and Thursdays. My Mondays and Wednesdays could stay open until Band, and a Friday or Online class would round things out. At least one class I need isn't offered for Fall (at least), and a lot of others conflict with RTVF 171 and its activity sections. One notable exception here is TA 100W, a section of which is offered Tuesday afternoon, allowing me to take the activity section on Thursdays.
All in all, I doubt any schedule is going to leave me enough hours to work. My family has expressed interest in supplementing my tuition needs, but I wonder if there is a way to get by without work. It would be a heavy strain however it might happen. It certainly wouldn't help me pay off my card, which swelled during the semester.
I'll have to think about this all later. I have an important final tomorrow morning that I haven't studied much for. Here's to luck.
• Spending the first few moments of my weekend cleaning house. I've let things get out of hand here. All the piles that usually find table space migrated to the floor when I started worrying about projects and papers. I still have patches of floor suitable for walking.
Orderliness of this sort was never a big thing in our family. Jerry is our prime offender. I seriously wonder how the kid manages to live like he does. Mom is a little chaotic herself, and I think it has spilled over on Dad throughout the years. I'm inclined to believe that I am the most critical about this, being the obsessive one in the family.
• It's pretty lame how people can leach the life out of each other so much more easily than they can infuse themselves with it. Being the social creatures that we are, why do we take so readily to hatred? Is there some kind of species advantage to divisiveness?
• The short of it is that I couldn't finish those last few entries. I probably shouldn't have posted them, incomplete as they are. I'll think about them again when the feelings return.
• I found a pack of brownie mix in my room as I was cleaning it. It got me thinking—I hadn't baked anything in a long while. In moments the mix was complete, the pan greased, oven burning, and half an hour later, brownies baked. Such a therapeutic foodstuff.
• I recently came across a few of my friends' journals. Nothing unexpected, but still the kind of things I would never have found out under my own power. In a way, it feels like I'm cheating somehow. But I'm reminded of these very words, this thing I've been doing myself for almost two years now. How has it changed me? How do people look at me now, with this guidebook/exposé of sorts?
Then again, how much should it have? I don't really play into any of the action around here. Pointed barbarisms of wit, a stray question, vacant glances—I don't contribute or detract in any way. While I bumble about with my own distractions, friendships collide, words fly, hatred and apathy duke it out.
I stopped picking sides back in high school. We were as dramatic as any teenage collective. There was no place, however, for people like me, people who simply wanted to live without a fight or struggle or other drain upon the soul. Nowhere. That's where you would find me most of the time. I would not allow myself to be polarized, made to bolster any disjunction. That would mean I would have to eventually stand in someone's way. Rather than violate this core value of mine, I shied away from anything resembling conflict.
Perhaps this is what makes me so useless now. The only people that talk to me now are those that haven't learned to properly detest me yet. Some don't even know my name yet (and vice versa). Soon enough, we'll be in our proper places, the world and I.
A shame...this place had such potential. Too bad no one had the strength to look past their own suffering.
• I would normally be reminded how...mundane my emotions and experiences are during Human Development class tomorrow. With classes done and finals upcoming though, I had time to come across this little passage out of Berk's Development Through The Lifespan:
When loneliness persists, it is associated with a wide variety of self-defeating attitudes and behaviors. Lonely people evaluate themselves and others more negatively, tend to be socially unresponsive and insensitive, and are slow to develop intimacy because they are reluctant to tell others about themselves. The extent to which these responses are cause or consequence of loneliness is unclear, but once in place, they certainly promote further isolation.
On one level, it's relieving to be validated by such a learned authority. On another level, it's a little disturbing that I'm basically following an established pattern. I've always wondered about the modern knowledge we've acquired. If we have so much information at our disposal, why do we still have problems? Maybe we're predisposed to act as we do, regardless of any higher knowledge. Emotions make people act in ways that often defy logic and reason. But knowing the answer to our problems or having some insight into our condition, why is it difficult to improve in some cases?
I don't enjoy ever feeling lonely or isolated, but do I somehow enjoy such private suffering? I've likely answered this before by saying I do, a sentiment I won't contradict at the moment. To argue in a banal manner, it's much easier to feel sorry for myself than to alter my condition. Obviously, I still seek companionship of any degree, and when I can't find it when I desire it, I'm going to complain in some form or another.
Damn, this train of thought got old long ago.
• Nothing soothes Finals anxieties more than a proper fear of drowning. I'm trying the pool thing again, seeing as how I'll have more time to devote to such athletic pursuits. I could also use the physical activity to regain some endurance.
I'm still not swimming more than a few laps of front crawls, but I've found that I do real well with dives. Not the springboard kind, but the "venture further underwater" type deals. My dolphin kicks have also become more dependable, to the point where I can make it about 2/3rds of the way on one dive. I practiced some deep dives cleaning stray leaves off the pool bottom—major fun. However, my allergies have kicked up, so I'm feeling the pressure.
If I so desired, I could become a crispy Flip by the summer's end. I see no distinct advantage to this—I appreciate the tonality of my lighter skin. I do see myself coming back pretty often; it will be a lot easier if other students make the same commitment. I would totally enjoy having a swim buddy, but I can't imagine that any of my friends take well to the waters.
• On my way home from the swim, I ran into a few of my roommates. Allie was on her way to drop off a paper and drop on some videos, and Stephen was keeping her company. Somehow I got caught up in the excursion and ended up wandering around the New Dr. MLK Jr. Library (the fenced-off areas), running into Donald, another former roommate at the house, and making a taco run to Mi Ranchito on Alum Rock near OSH. Total yum.
Apparently, rents in the area are dropping to very appreciative levels. I don't plan on moving out yet, but have no qualms over doing so, even if it does mean going through the moving routine again. Compared to some of my former roommates, I'm a fucking angel. Rents always on time, no incriminating stains, no drama to speak of. Still the place here is kind of a dump, and it's going to get major hot here over the summer, with my sunward windows and all. If not for the fact that this is where all my crap and food are, I probably wouldn't spend any time here at all. Alternatives are currently lacking, but I wouldn't mind a change.
• Save for its directionality, I like my beard. It's a little difficult to train it plumb, but I could probably retain it unless someone pays me to cut it off (esp. employers). My moustache, however, is starting to get in the way. I find myself chewing on it at inopportune times. Originally, I had planned on growing it out until it reached my beard, whereupon I would trim it inline. I may decide to reduce it prematurely. Ultimately, I'm glad that my end of the family can sport such distinctive hairpieces.
• One more exam to go, then I can consider my GE finished. I also got my WST score report: like others who have complained, I was one essay point short of waiver eligibility. It really does seem shady. I won't worry about it much since I otherwise managed a definitive sweep.
I think I also did well on my Human Development final. I hadn't studied or read much, but I did attend all the lectures, so I had enough to start from. A lot of the questions could be answered by those with considerable grasp of English. I have considerable grasp. The essay portion probably turned out better, since I made more effort to focus my topics rather than spooging information.
When I turned in my test, Professor Darrah—wonderful man—made a point of reminding me of my potential. It's the kind of thing you don't pass off, especially from someone who makes their living studying people. By the nature of the class, he knows much more about me than even my more durable friends. How could I benefit from his unique position? Do I simply need someone telling me that I can do good, using this as some sort of impetus for doing good? Perhaps he knows what sort of behaviors might result in failure on my part, and where they might arise.
I'm pretty sure I'm supposed to know stuff like this, too. That's why I took the class. Again, it's his perspective that intrigues. Maybe I should keep in touch.
• With classes and finals (esp. Humanities!) out of the way, I now have time to get sick. This sinus infection/irritation/thing of mine popped out of nowhere. Just like the week's heat. Perhaps they're related. I'm not one for sudden temperature shifts, which makes living in Northern California around this time troublesome.
The nasal drip can't decide whether it wants to be post-nasal or...not. Lean one way and I'm choking on anti-allergenic irritant fluid. Lean the other way and I spill onto clothing and various things that do not wish to be wet. And medication? Turns me into one mess of a man.
I need to invest in air conditioning.
• I'm a little disturbed by my memories of last night. Getting to what is now Alexa, Michelle, Jini, and Kristen(?)'s house was ass—various components of VTA conspired to make a 15-minute trip last about ten times as long. This is not hyperbole. I remember lots of laughs and their reasons. Jon managed to seduce yet another with the Quickness™. People hugged me, and some kissed my cheek. I don't remember who, unfortunately, though I remember liking one of them especially. Made me feel tingly and stuff. Maybe it'll come back in a dream...
But no, my vivid memories were reserved for those who puked last night. In both occasions, I had just turned my attention upon them in their moments of gastric salvation. (I love the sound of those words—I hate the sound of the action.) Erik's was particularly shocking, partly from the intensity and partly from the reaction of those in the den. And to be egalitarian, I was treated to a private viewing of Beth purging. Such viscerality I may never forget.
• Astronomy : Economy :: Astrologist : Ecologist
What warranted this? Beats me...
• The old Filet-O-Fish boxes were blue because fish come from the deep blue sea. I'm sorry...it takes me a while, okay?
• Congratulations Charles, Chris, Christiana, Rich, and Sara! (And those of you whose graduations I haven't yet heard of.) I'm not yet sure what I want to write, but I'll come through when the words arrive.
• With people diverging for the summer, bumping into friends in random places has become much more exciting.
Katie stopped by the store yesterday to sell some books. (As I know too well, the readers for Humanities program always get re-written, sadly.) She's staying in the dorms for the summer. She's also looking for a job to keep busy and pay for things. I'll probably need to look for one myself, so we might be able to team up somehow.
I had asked her about the parties on Saturday (Chris and Charles')—she wasn't particularly interested in going, seeing as she wasn't invited. In retrospect, I understand why she might not have wanted to attend Chris' party (I was probably the youngest there). As for Charles', I'm not sure how well they get along. It's kinda moot to wonder, since Jason came by. It just gets me thinking...she's nice and all, but how does she really feel about us as a social group, being around people? I only remember seeing her at that one Denny's drumline dinner and the Portobello party—she got wasted quick. (Did I hug her?) But I also hear those rumblings about her and the frat houses. And I also hear that my friends fancy a bit of shit-talking every now and then.
But through all the truths and variables, I worry about her in valid, certifiable ways. There's something important she hasn't told us yet, perhaps out of shame or fear. Just what sort of vast mysteries lie hidden in her petite form?
• Whereas the bump-in with Katie was almost guaranteed by my work schedule, meeting Elizabeth was entirely unforseen. At least four degrees of uncertainty were broken when I crossed her on my way home from the Lava house. Obviously, arcane forces conspired for us to gab about days past, racoons, Chris and other ex-loves, arboreal rapists, and other stuff and people. Loveliness, all.
• Asian Ginger Dressing.
I remember something Christiana showed me on the side of her Wheat Thins a while back. Asian Chicken Salad. Apparently, "Chinese" had gone out of fashion. It took me a while to figure out just what disturbed me about this, but now I think I know why.
They're trying this political-correctness bullshit over at Jack-In-The-Box, too. One of their new salads comes with Asian Ginger Dressing or something similar in name. For some reason, it's not Chinese. I wasn't aware of any Japanese, Filipino, Korean, Thai, Malaysian, Indonesian, or Vietnamese version of Chinese Ginger Dressing. I don't know how society benefits from such a generalization. What if there is an Asian country that despises the use of ginger in salad dressing? How craplike would we feel for arbitrarily, mistakenly including them into the fold?
Is there something wrong with having a national identification on our food menus? China isn't known for being a champion of human rights, so I hear. Perhaps this is some way of expressing disapproval of their sociopolitical climate. By changing the name of a salad dressing, we can secure a standard of living for all nations! Even then, why not just refer to it simply as "Ginger Dressing"? Not like they need the extra distinction from the European, Middle Eastern, African, and Arctic varieties.
• So I get a callback about a job offer to which I responded. We were having a nice conversation, but somewhere along the line, I get chewed out for not having a "positive attitude". So shortly after inviting me to an interview, the manager hung up on me. It's as if I was hired and fired in the span of a few minutes.
No one has ever before challenged my demeanor in this way. It would explain a lot of the difficulties I've had—people thinking less of me because I didn't bring a smile to their face. I would love to think that somewhere, someone might value my potential for success, my good work over my personality. I haven't had a lot to be happy about lately, and I'm sorry if I shove it on people doing what I do.
It seems like such a fundamental principle of human nature, but it has managed to evade me for quite some time. If I can make people feel happy, they will be pleased with me. Mistakenly, I had thought that this meant doing a good job and accounting for any troubles that might occur. No, this is too practical—the results are too far off to appreciate properly in this attention-deprived society of ours. We're so focused on short-term satisfaction that we'll forgo any durable solution to our problems. That's why the tech industry was the sweet tooth at the turn of the century. That's why we bum rushed Afghanistan and Iraq.
Is it any wonder that our economy has since bubbled over? That critical portions of the Middle East are now power vacuums too unstable for anyone's benefit? What of the rewards that we were supposed to reap from this? Many are dispossessed from the current state of affairs. Some satisfaction this is.
On the other hand, doing a good job entails bringing some positivity into the field. Business is essentially people interacting with people. Without a baseline level of care, we would just keep to ourselves. Ultimately, I care about what I do. But it disturbs me that it doesn't show through to people. Hell, in those few minutes spent on the phone, I managed to disappoint someone important to me—I was totally unaware of this happening.
Is this where I have failed as a person? For lack of a smile and a laugh, I should be damned and villainized?
• I've already broken the registration server for SJSU. And I managed to do so without actually registering for a class! The sad thing? I'm supposed to be one of the first registrants (thanks...Scott). What sort of disasters might happen when the first real wave of registrants finally find their way to the service?!
• Crafting a new semester using a printed schedule. I particularly love how half of the classes I can/need to take are (only) offered Tuesday/Thursday at 1:30. And I say "particularly" because I'm already taking Television Production at that time. Fuckin' yay!
An obsession with polite or correct public language is a sign that communication is in decline. It means that the process and exercise of power have replaced debate as a public value. The citizen's job is to be rude—to pierce the comfort of professional intercourse by boorish expressions of doubt. Politics, philosophy, writing, the arts—none of these, and certainly not science and economics, can serve the common weal if they are swathed in politeness. In everything which affects public affairs, breeding is for fools.
—John Ralston Saul, Canadian essayist, novelist, and critic, The Doubter's Companion, 1994
• After a few months of digital silence, "Salam Pax" has returned from the bowels of war to continue his popular blog, Dear Raed. Salam is a resident of Baghdad, which Coalition ground troops had reached by the end of March. Shortly before war was declared on Iraq, Salam began Dear Raed, which I think holds a unique place next to works like Frederick Douglass' Narrative as a representation of current events. Many of us have not had the pleasure of watching bombs decimate the neighborhood outside your window. While the world figures out what to make of Iraq, Salam will continue blogging away.
He had actually reestablished contact on the 7th, but I haven't had the time to check back on him until now. Various aspects of the war and its aftermath get mentioned, like the Media's "Spectacle of the Moment" attitude, the instability of the dinar, Iraqi citizens dealing with unemployment and looting, and the first few organizations arriving to make sense of the mess.
In comparison, just about everything I've written seems useless. So while I stumble about trying to figure out how I'm going to live life, go read about the details of someone firmly entrenched in his. Perspective.
• Taking advantage of Dinah's business trip to use her car for various reasons.
I journeyed down to Livermore for Sara's graduation party. Since I was last there, her family got some sheep and perhaps another goat. I didn't bother with the picture-taking much this time, mostly so I could get an ear in with some old friends. I did manage to squeeze in a roll of Kodak's new High Definition film, which uses the APS-grade film (finer grain) in 35mm cartridges.
If it wasn't apparent before, my time here at SJSU has spanned perhaps three "generations" of band members. I noticed it at Chris' party, as well as Sara's—most everyone present was of the "first" generation, those who joined up when I did or prior. ("Second" gen to me would be those who termed while I am in school. "Third" are those who are just joining or will continue after I leave, supposing there is a band to join then.) Chris and I started at the same time, but I imagine he found his groove earlier than I did. So too with Sara, perhaps, if not already by Dan's influence. I wonder where I fit into things, as I tend to befriend the different generations with equal ineptitude. What probably should be put to more critical consideration is that few of us have good friends that never marched. I hope there aren't any pathological explanations for this.
Enough about me. Sara, like Christiana and Charles, still have schoolwork to do, so we'll see her around for a bit longer. I suppose she'll still be clerking at Mervyn's and teaching under Joe Kelly at Fremont High. Her family is doing fine, especially her brother, who I met for the first time. He's clearly the odd one in the family, dark dress, piercings, and all. It's kind of hard to imagine someone like him just a step away from ranch life. Boggling. He doesn't seem vicious or anything—he even gets along well with Dan.
• The kittens Kara and I tried to goad out of the log stacks last summer are now fully grown. Of the two I saw, one was clearly more comfortable with all the people around. While the other skittles away from approaching strangers, this one lets you pet her even as she lounges about.
In other cat news, Dinah's new neighbor also has a cat. It's pretty wary of people, but not so much that it's unapproachable. It has a neat patch of color on its nose, something that could easily be mistaken for blood. Noah likes playing with it, and isn't so forward that he gets scratched. Dinah on the other hand has since become allergic to cats. Pretty strange considering we had one in almost every home since we were young.
I seem to have become allergic myself. The cat that hangs around my front porch followed me up to my room that night. She usually doesn't like the indoors, being away from all the familiar noises. Simply rolling around on my bed frightens her. Otherwise, she seemed comfortable, kneading with her claws as I rubbed her neck. I seemed comfortable too, until I noticed a scratch on my arm had swollen up. My sinuses had also turned against me (I was on Chlor-Trimeton most of the day).
I'm not sure what might happen later on if I decide to get a cat of my own. I don't know how allergies of this type arise, or how long they last (could easily be a lifelong sort of thing).
• The nice lady who sent in my voter registration form—to validate my signature on a petition of hers—has gotten me in a little more trouble with creditors and marketers. My middle initial is a little hard to distinguish from Dad's, which got us in a little fiasco a while back. Once again, the greedy marketing arm of corporate America thinks that a retired Navy officer is living in an apartment and attending college.
There may be some way to benefit from this. 21st Century Insurance challenges that they can save me money over my current insurance. They were nice enough to provide some base rates for other insurers. Let's have a comparison:
| Allstate | GEICO | State Farm | Farmers | 21st Century | Current | |
|---|---|---|---|---|---|---|
| LA | 1063 | 1152 | 1179 | 1263 | 828 | 0 |
| SJ | 807 | 672 | 748 | 760 | 520 | 0 |
| SF | 988 | 861 | 914 | 1126 | 728 | 0 |
As you can clearly see, I'm saving up to $807 a month by not having insurance. If 21st Century wants to help me save even more (their customers average a savings of $300), they'll have to dip down a little more.
• If by chance you're aware of my Hotmail account, an unexpected mailer-daemon thingie has made me aware of some spam that's probably being sent in my name. The only mail I send out of there is related to a GameFAQs posting I made years ago. I apologize if these illegitimate spams have been bothering any...
Wait, no...fuck that. I'm not apologizing for those piles who think they can somehow benefit from such deceptions and shift all the blame and flame my way. Fuck that. I am not anyone's scapegoat. Those who try to convince you of otherwise are dicked in the head. I learned to stop bothering people in such ways.
btw, I did send out those "you named it what?" pics.
• Don't be surprised if I'm a little slow here at the site. I'm a little busy doing things with the car. That, or sleeping. Like it matters... I'll get some stuff up here soon.
• Taking Mary's place in #1 is a girl named Marsea, a slender blonde, about my height. Seems like a cool person. Allie, Stephen, and I were giving her a few pointers for living here—I hope she sticks around. >:)
• I drove home to Vallejo to check in with my family. Specifically, Jerry needed my system CD (which I totally forgot to reclaim) and some help cleaning his room. With Jerry, this entails separating a loosely yarn-woven layer of clothing, bags, fabrics, and papers. To complicate things, the yarns are often feeding into half-finished beanies, sometimes doubly so from a single skein. Though tiring, especially from the heat, I actually found it quite therapeutic, untangling the mess. We only got through enough of the room to make a clear floorpath, but any improvements are welcome.
For this, I was rewarded with groceries for a few weeks, some ice cream (my brothers work at Vallejo's Cold Stone Creamery), and water to wash some cars. Dad and I had a little talk about what I plan on doing for the summer, and what he did one rainy summer back when he was a kid.
From what I recall, my Dad's family "borrowed" a canoe-like raft from a school, and rode the monsoon rains off Luzon volcano. The river nearby would break its levees and carry them downstream a few towns. They used to catch fish in the lake that was in the backyard (now a rice paddy) until a monsoon washed it away one year.
Meanwhile in the current timeline, the rest of the house remains a jumble of things we like to collect/not-throw-away. I still intend to come back for a few days/a week and help put things in order. All those 1970s Tupperware (aged and warped), old computers, outdated clothing, and other useless crap will finally find a better place to be. If possible, we'd like to make a profit somehow.
• Made sure things were well at Dinah's place after an arcade session (yeah, that's me having an active life). I usually loathe to watch the hypercommercialized banter that is now MTV. It used to be cool when cartoon series like Daria and Downtown were on. Now it's like an overdose of pop culture and bling bling. I did, however, catch enough of the MTV Music Awards to notice how the CG overlay people used comic fonts wrong.
With more people turning to software to do their comic lettering, the standard font format has been altered a bit. Instead of two cases of letters, the lower case is replaced with standard capitals, while the upper case has the bold capitals. In effect, the Shift key acts more like a Bold key. The first mistake people make with this is continuing to "capitalize" proper nouns and such, which is redundant when the font is all caps. What ends up happening are names with unnecessarily bold initials, which for some reason I find issue for complaint.
Yeah. Oh, and that Sean William Scott? Damn, that guy is meatsome. I should envy him.
• Bought some replacement silverware down at the Dai Thanh. I'm strangely amazed at the quality, cheap or not. There's just something elegant about the forks and spoons I bought, even if they aren't gilten, jewel-encrusted, or internet-ready. I also found my favorite brand (Ligo) of sardines in tomato sauce, but I'm not yet sure whether they're the American or Philippine version.
• Anyhow, I got together with the guys on Saturday to indulge at Max's and watch a Pixar film. But first, we wasted time with Michelle over at Saratoga Barnes & Noble. After checking out some books (and the lovelier ladies reading them), I declared war on a particularly luscious mud pie. Drizzled with chocolate syrup and caramel, the coffee ice cream stands about a half-foot tall above a dark chocolate crust. This thing is richer than you are. Meanwhile, Izzy squared down with a 6″ cube of strawberry shortcake. Manny had a little learning experience with a blended drink, which our waitress attended to in various, humorous ways.
As for Finding Nemo, I am...proud of this movie. It's one of the few non-sequel, non-remake movies on the major market. And like Manny(?) said, Pixar has never made a bad movie. It seems consequential of the manner they go about them: rendering the movie one frame at a time makes for one hell of a quality-control situation. Every aspect of animated/CG films is created by someone, from props to characters to lighting to angles to composition. Such a movie depends on so much interaction between its elements that overlooking any detail would completely ruin the mood. Kudos to Pixar for remembering this.
• The little fuckers are making another run at my blood.