Fourth Class

Our scheduled speaker didn't show up. She was supposed to give us tips on researching for our stories. I'm actually glad she rescheduled, because I was fifteen minutes late. When I walked in, I saw that my regular seat was taken by the chirripy undergrad, so I sat in a chair further back. Immediately, I was assaulted on all sides by loud, heavy breathing. There were three of them all around me, and they tried their damndest to keep me from hearing the teacher. It was like a symphony of Hoovers, like sticking your head out of a speeding car and listening for a hummingbird.

Anyway, we spent the first two hours of class talking about our ideas for our final articles. The topics ranged from the French ambassador's upcoming visit to town to the decrepit condition of juvenile hall. All seemed interesting, but what was most interesting was the way people presented their ideas. Looking back, I should've been able to predict what they were going to say. Well...maybe not what their stories would be, but definitely how they'd present them.

Like the old, eager guy who kept going on and on...or the Boston-transplant who's cooler than I am and thus said very little, "Uh...I dunno. Skiing?" Mrs. I-Have-A-Kid-And-I'm-Also-A-Health-Nut prefaced her idea with five minutes of build up about how deep and meaningful it was. And Mrs. Horrible predictably has an annoying topic, but somehow it reflects well upon her and shows how awesome she is. What does this say, then, about me and my story on supernerds? They obviously thought I was a big nerd as well. I could see the triumphant gleam in their eyes as they snickered and asked snide little questions. They'll get theirs though. I'll write an article that's so great, it'll make them puke all over their crappy papers. And then I'll burn down the building.

Bill wins

These posts suck, but it's because I'm having a great time in the Bay area. Tonight, Mediterranean food, hookahs, and Feroshus Sizzle.

Just in time for summer: Diabetes!!!

Good Lord.

Only because I don't feel like writing anything else tonight

At the front of the room, Lynne Jennings towers over a small, stooped, elderly lady named Rue. The tiny ancient takes no notice of Jennings, nor does she seem aware that she holds the attention of an entire classroom. Under Jennings’s watchful gaze, she takes a few faltering steps, hesitates, and begins nervously fiddling with her hair - she is absorbed with private thoughts and is oblivious to all else. Suddenly, Jennings lifts Rue up, and, immediately, all the life drains from her. She lays limp and quiet as she passes from student to student, some of whom pinch her limbs and prod her face in an attempt to draw out some of the animation that was there moments ago. She withstands these indignities, because, more often than not, those hands will help her express to emotion and character that would otherwise stay locked away inside her. She endures them, because she is a puppet - made from cloth and foam by Jennings, a professional puppeteer, for one of her upcoming productions.

Quite the opposite of Rue, Jennings is brimming with vitality at all times. She is the board president of the San Diego Guild of Puppetry as well as a past member of numerous other boards across the country. In addition to that, she writes and directs performances, creates puppets, teaches, and consults for other puppetry centers. However, her love for her work is most visible when she talks about working with the puppets. For her, puppetry is much more than her hobby or profession – it’s her passion. She is so involved with her art that it has taken over her life. She jokes, “I live with razorblades and curved scissors in my pockets.”

Puppetry in America needs advocates as passionate as Jennings. Interest in the art is rather low – many feel that puppetry is entertainment solely for children. In this country, there are only around thirty puppetry centers where one can go to receive training. Those that do pursue puppetry as a life’s work often have to supplement their incomes with second jobs. There are those that become quite successful in the industry, but they are somewhat rare. Jennings says, “Most artists are not equally talented as business people and have a hard time marketing themselves effectively. Those that succeed may not, sadly, be the best puppeteers, but they are the best at marketing.”

However, Jennings is working to make puppetry more accessible to everyone. As president of the San Diego Guild of Puppetry, she hopes to make her organization grow to the point that it rivals The Center for Puppetry Arts in Atlanta, the largest center of its kind in the US. Jennings says, “Of course, they have been at it a lot longer than we have, but they did start just as small as we did, so it is a ‘possible dream’....even as tiny as we are currently.”

Jennings has reason to be optimistic. For the first time, her troupe has received a seed grant from the Jim Henson Foundation to produce an upcoming show. “Goldilocks: The Nursing Home Version” is a brainchild of Jennings that she based on experiences she saw her mother undergo at an eldercare facility - it is also the reason Rue was created. Although the grant is a great honor and will help defray production costs, it is adding a bit of stress to the troupe. Jennings says, “It’s both the most exciting and the most terrifying thing we’ve ever done…it has to be good.”

#156

Tonight, my volleyball games lasted until 10:30, so my ride home was spent dodging Love Line as I fiddled with my presets. Fortunately, there is a wonderful program on 94.9 late at night. It's called Big Sonic Chill, and it's the bomb-diggety. The soft-spoken DJ plays indie tunes that are so mellow, they become almost ambient. Red House Painters, Nouvelle Vague, and whole blocks of artists whose names I wish to God I knew fill up the stacks.

It's this program that makes me wish I were a disc jockey, which is dangerous, because my sister keeps forwarding me job positions for radio DJ's. As cool as this could potentially be, it's not what I had in mind when I decided I wanted to work in radio. These people are slaves to the station, and they all get fired at the drop of a hat. I've heard stories about what happens when radio stations get sold. They don't transfer staff. You just show up for work that morning, and they tell you to get out.

Also, I should admit, I don't have the charisma, the chutzpah to be an on-air DJ. God forbid I should become one and then be as bad as Marco on 91.1 (how I loathe him) or that guy on 88.7 in Ann Arbor that Pete hated so much.

This post will only make sense to San Diegans. You others won't ever know what you're missing by not catching Big Sonic Chill. Oh well. The station broadcasts online. You on Central and Eastern time should totally stay up to listen sometime. Hell, do it tonight. You don't have anything better to do.

I've gotten kind of bossy in these last couple of posts. Send me fifty bucks!

DO IT!!!

Tomorrow is "free-ice-cream-cone day" at your neighborhood's Ben & Jerry's store. Go ask for a Blizzard. When they refuse, sigh and tell them you're willing to pay for it. When they still refuse, tell them you're on a first-name basis with Jerry. Then, after they've explained everything to you, if they haven't kicked you out of the store, get vanilla. Then, drop it on the floor and ask for another.

Some useful tricks to help you get your way:

• Sob over your dropped cone.

• Say, "This is America, dammit!"

• Offer them a lick.

• Blame illegal immigrants.

• Warn them that you'll take your business to Tasty-Freeze

And then my plan will be complete...

On any given Sunday...

Hell, on every damn Sunday, the Cubs will win their game.

delicious dream

It even seems a little sad itself, laying there on the ground, rivulets of melting cream spilling down its face like tears, almost visibly giving into oblivion. Mint chocolate chip melts into the pavement and adds a small, slowly spreading spot of brightness to the vast, forbidding, canvas of blacktop. It will bring great joy to the ants, but for the child whose hand I knocked it from, it is only sorrow. He'll never realize the beauty of the moment. He is a philistine and deserves what he gets.

Before we head into the weekend...

Tomorrow morning, I will proctor a practice MCAT for Princeton Review students. It will run from 9:00am - 5:00pm. I will start the timer, stop the timer, start the timer, stop the timer, and that's pretty much it for eight hours. I'll bring in my laptop, but I'm not allowed to type excessively, because it'll enrage those stressed-out college students. This'll give me time to work on my writing homework.

This week's winner is Alice. Frank deserves commendations as well.

Finally, this scrolled Blogger's main page by as I was posting this morning's warning about Googling A.C.M. It's too fitting to resist. It's probably safe for work, but your IT department will still raise their eyebrows.

Class III

I consider last night's class to be ok in that it had good content. The teacher brought in an interesting woman who talked to us about her passions, and we interviewed her in a press conference setting. Her passion, and man was she passionate about it, was puppetry. PERFECT! Here is the type of person I most like to interview: someone who is a bit odd, but still is a fascinating and sympathetic character. This is the type of interview that makes for a great piece on NPR, and I was sitting right smack front-and-center where I could ask all the questions I wanted. I had a whole slew of them ready that would provide us with intimate knowledge of her. I had all this, and all I wanted was to go home.

I don't know exactly what was wrong with me, but do I recognize the ailment. This plagued me all throughout college -- and I can't believe I had forgotten about it until now -- but often, when I sit in lecture, I feel a desperate urge to escape. It sounds trite, and maybe it is, but it's extremely powerful and won't be denied. Even when the lecturer is engaging, and the topic is one that I'm interested in, I have to get out.

As an undergrad, it wasn't so hard to deal with - I just quietly gathered my things and slipped outside. I wouldn't even necessarily go home. I was perfectly content to sit on the benches outside of the building watching the squirrels mug for sweets. As an adult, it's been more trying. When I was working in a research lab, our weekly meetings to discuss members' research were agonizing. Now, the only reminder that I have of this exitlust is the writing class I so need to take in order to advance towards becoming a journalist.

Fortunately I was reminded of yet another one of my tendencies, this one a remedy: IRE. Fiery, seething wrath that bubbles below the surface of my skin and burns away my desire to leave along with any other concerns. Mind you, no one else is ever in any danger from my anger. The only harm I might cause someone would be if they happened to be in the blast radius when my head exploded.

Last night, the focus of my rage was a fellow student. She had asked the puppet lady, "Why do you do what you do?", a decent question, sure to provide insight into her motivations, only mildly annoying in the way it was posed. It was later, after the interviewee had left, when she asked the professor, who was giving us interviewing tips:

Speaking of not being offensive, I asked that one question earlier, but I didn't...I...I hope I didn't offend her when I asked her why she does puppetry. Can you...can you tell me a better way to maybe ask...that...question?

I immediately saw through her ruse. She wasn't at all worried about any offense she may have caused. She was merely panhandling for validation. Indeed not only did the teacher provide her with it, several other students chimed in as well. "Oh no, that was a good question!" "Yes, it's a great way to get deeper information." She positively glowed with each compliment. Only by jamming my pen in my neck could I keep my own question silent, "HOW DO YOU PLAN TO LEAVE HERE ALIVE??!!!"

Alas, though powerful, rage-a-hol is a fleeting salve. Like the timed release of a self-administered morphine injection, it is soon metabolized leaving you with not only your original pain but also memories of your short-lived reprieve. Three minutes later, I was staring at the clock, willing it to jump an hour. Just one hour.

Sorry about all the gay porn

Yeah, ummm... Hope you didn't get fired. Let me reiterate. DO NOT google American Cock Meat if you are looking for my blog. Once upon a magical time, mine was the first result. Now, it's blessed hot men. Mr. W, we here are a little worried that you should probably be contacting your IT department so you don't get an official reprimand.

I still need to figure out how Google works. Can anyone tell me how to get my blog off the results page when googling my name?

And if anyone is looking for more of the risque stuff, well, let me direct you to my new offshoot www.thehotandsexymeatsweats.com.

Do you feel lucky, punk?

If so, then Google the phrase: American cock meat. The truly adventurous will click "I'm feeling lucky."

I've never been so proud in all my life.

More of a mental exercise really

Everyday here at the university, vendors from all over the city swarm the busier sidewalks on campus and hawk their goods. Tuesdays are for the "Farmers Market" (in quotes because there is only one stand devoted to actual produce) where you can purchase dishes as varied as crepes, smoothies, Chinese barbecue, and falafel. There's also a vendor who sells Torpasta, a culinary delight I'm too frightened to try. What if I end up really liking it? Today, there was a whole slew of people selling general merchandise. I didn't have time to stop by the shoe guys, nor could I browse the used cd selection, but I did manage to try on some sunglasses before I headed back to the office. I don't know what's in store for tomorrow, but I'm sure it'll be exhilarating.

I'm not bragging here. I rarely have the money to pay for these extravagances -- $7.50 for a crepe? I'm just curious why we didn't have this kind of thing back at the old U of C. Everyone seems very happy strolling in the sunshine and talking to the friendly merchants. Sure, we had the poster people for the first week of each quarter, and occassionally there'd be the weirdo jewelry lady; but other than that, we were left pretty much alone. Did any of you actually let the creepy guy massage you at the Reynolds Club?

Doesn't it seem like this would be just the sort of thing to brighten all those unhappy Maroons' days? I mean, sure, most of the area's restaurants already sell their food at all the campus's eateries, and they'd have to cancel half the time because of all the unscheduled torrential downpours, and most of the local merchants don't have the kind of stuff that interests college students, and... Never mind, I get it now.

Because I'm too desperate not to try

Oh God, I just got off the phone with him, and I'm almost too jittery to type. He said he was emailing me and that we should, "talk real soon." Have you ever been in a conversation that you desperately needed to escape -- because you were sure you were going to be caught in your many lies -- so you maybe agreed to do something; but that's even worse, because it threatens to expose you as a liar, but in a much more official setting?

So, I told him I'm a freelance journalist. So what? I am. Everyone is. It's just nothing of mine's ever been published. Actually, to be fair, I didn't say I was a freelancer -- I just said that I'd seen his ad looking for freelancers. It was one-hundred percent his assumption. I just wanted information on what kind of stories he's looking for and maybe how much he pays. But then he kept asking me questions about my "strengths," and before I could confess that I didn't have any, he rattled off all the qualified people he had writing for him, all of whom are much more qualified than I. So maybe when he wanted to know my field of expertise, I got flustered and said "Science." How was I supposed to know he'd get all excited about it?

Now I've got to come up with some sort of clip to send him so he'll be fooled into thinking I actually am a writer. His target audience is 35-60 year old business owners: CEO's, vp's, directors, etc. How am I supposed to write for that crowd? I review South Park episodes for Chrissake! I suppose it's my fault for not reading the ad closely enough. NOW I see the part about it being a "business" magazine.

He also said that since biotech is such, "an up and coming field in San Diego," that he, "might be able to get you in each month." I now have five weeks to submit an article to him. My first-ever writing class still has seven weeks left in it. Let's hope these next couple of classes hold a wealth of information.

Anybody know about a big story in the sciences?

But did you see the one about the fart-sniffing hybrid owners?

I stayed up late last night to watch the second episode of South Park's "Cartoon Wars." I wasn't even expecting that much after the first episode turned out to be so decidedly unfunny. Still, it managed to disappoint (but not as much as that first episode -- that blew). Now, I think making fun of Family Guy is great and all, but the Muhammad thing was really annoying. I did and still do feel that the response to the Danish cartoons was ridiculous and shameful, but just because the violent reaction to the cartoons was wrong doesn't mean that it's also wrong to get offended by them.

I doubt Parker and Stone really even feel that strongly about the defending their first ammendment rights. It just seemed like they were trying to be edgy and controversial. The second episode barely even dealt with the Muhammad thing anyway. Instead, it had Bart Simpson. Their self-deprecating remarks about being all preachy and up their own asses seemed tacked on too. Nope, there was no saving it. I'm hoping this wasn't the episode that jumped the shark, but they really seemed to be reaching.

That bit about the manatees was pretty good, though.

G.D. Easter Bunny didn't leave me nuthin'

Once again, Sundays aren't for blogging, and way to go Cubs.

Only Nappy When It Rains

Everyone complains when it rains in San Diego. Either they bitch about the traffic, or the landslides, or simply, the fact that it's raining. Since I grew up in the rainy Midwest, I'd normally dismiss their whining as silly, but I do have one complaint of my own. You know that fresh smell that fills the air when it starts raining? Well, that happens here too; only, the smell is magnified by about a thousand percent. And that's a bit too fresh for me.

What's it smell like? Get one thousand of your closest friends and neighbors, and take all their dryer sheets. Have them help you stuff every corner of your house with the sheets. Be creative! Remember: most walls are hollow behind the drywall! Oh, and it doesn't matter if they're different scents -- in fact, the more the better. Then, as you're lying in your cocoon of enveloping freshness, get everyone to vomit all over the place. And there it is.

Usually, the smell goes away after a couple minutes of heavy rain. Sometimes though, it just drizzles forever, and I have to endure stenchy world all day.

I don't know why it smells like this here, but I've learned not to miss changes in the weather. San Diego: Enjoy the Sunshine! or else...

Better than Memento

I found this guy's blog by watching the scrolling names on Blogger's login page. I don't know why I find it so fascinating. Maybe it's that it feels like a mystery unfolding as you continue to scroll down. I wonder if anyone'll like it as much as I did. Anyway, I wish him well. Sounds pretty rough.

Good for a free serving of the Meatsweats

It's Friday and time to announce the week's best entry. I had a tough time deciding, as it's been a good week of blogs. I liked posts about Megan's run-ins with softball-jackasses, Frank's begrudging respect for a terrorist's ideals, Pete's adventures ala Luigi's Mansion, and just about everything else everyone's posted. How to decide?

And then I happened to check the Perry Bible Fellowship. I eagerly anticipate each week's new strip, and it seemed to be taking Nicholas Gurewitch an extra long time to post this week's. However, the wait was worth it. The Throbblefoot Aquarium is a reference to Edward Gorey's The Object-Lesson. Gurewitch's tribute to Gorey is fantastic not because of its reproduction of Gorey's style, but because it's actually funnier than anything I've seen of Gorey's own work. I've always been too disturbed by The Gashlycrumb Tinies to fully enjoy it. I'm sure the purists will disagree with me and say that the true humor in Gorey is, in fact, his disturbing mind. I just think drowning cats is infinitely more palatable than drowning Ida. Not that Gurewitch isn't a bit dark himself.

For originally introducing me to the PBF, I've added Yuh Wen to my list of blogs and made her this week's winner.

Class II

Tonight was our second class for feature writing. The whistler didn't show. I'm guessing he found the blog and was too scared by the high-pitched nose-squeal I was gonna unleash on him. Instead, I sat next to a very attractive girl who works for Telemundo and Univision. I didn't want to expose her to the siren I had built up, so I breathed through my mouth all night. I'm sure she was very impressed.

Once again, there wasn't all that much information presented. Our homework last time was to bring in a feature article to discuss tonight. I grabbed a copy of the New Yorker and read an article over my lunch break today. He called on me to share first, and I wasn't ready for that, so I talked way too much. Or so I thought...

Everyone else kept going on and on about their article and why they loved it and blah blah blah. We were a class of eighteen, and it was an hour and fifteen minutes in before we got to the lecture. I was tired and damned near suicidal by the end of it. The low point of the night was when some annoying lady kept going on about some article in a new magazine whose motto is "Celebrate your child's love of learning." Yucko. She identified with the article's author who was talking about loving her children even when they're annoying or some crap like that. I dunno what she was saying -- my eyes glaze over even now just thinking about it. But then she said:

...and I understood! I mean, it's easy to love my kids when they're asleep, and I can say 'Oh, look at my little angel!', but it's harder when my child won't eat the food, the ORGANIC food I made for him...

and at that moment, my eyes snapped back into focus, and I used my hate of her to boost my energy reserves for the rest of the evening. "And Jed was sooo angry"

The highlight of the evening for me came before class, when a Korean lady whom I had introduced myself to minutes before, came over asked me to explain some confusing terminology in her article on low-rise jeans. There is no way a foreigner can understand what a "muffin-top" means when he/she reads it, nor is there a graceful way to explain what one is. But I managed, using my belly as an example. Then, she asked me to explain the sentence: I see more cracks at a nightclub than I do in the paint on an old barn! That one was a little more difficult to explain. I believe at one point I made a cupping motion with my hands and then ran a finger down where the asscrack goes. Sufficiently embarrassed, she didn't ask me for anymore help all night. The Telemundo girl was, again, veeeery impressed.

Drivin' me mad, makin' me craaaazy

I was all flattered by Connie's comment until I realized it was merely a ploy to make me relax my guard. But it won't work! At least, not until I go to Vegas. That's right, I'm going back for Mr. Scott's bachelor party. I'm not going to let unimportant issues like money keep me from giving Scott what he needs: one last, wild, passionate night of uninhibited lovin' before he ties the knot. And now I'm not invited anymore.

Sense Chronology

Sound
In writing class last week, the guy sitting next to me and I had a contest to see who had the louder whistling booger. He didn't know we were competing, but he still won. I'll get him tomorrow night.

Sight
Yesterday, I spent the most money I ever have on a t-shirt. You should've seen the look on Megan's face when I told her how much it cost. It doesn't look the same on me as it did on the mannequin, so I'll return it tomorrow and use the money to get that operation I've been needing.

Smell
This morning, my microphone at the radio station smelled like cake batter.

Taste
Rachel Ray is a wasteful bitch. I should have her job. Forty dollars a day just to eat? Try five bucks.
Breakfast: Butterfinger - $0.50
Lunch: Cheez-Its - $0.99
Dinner: slice of pizza - $2.25.
That's only $3.74. I still have enough left over to sponsor a hungry child in a third-world country.

Cheddar Jack Cheez-Its are basically crispy little crack squares.

Feel
I swear that I'll start running in the mornings beginning tomorrow. I'm pretty confident that I can keep up with it this time, because I've a new goal for myself. Instead of distance or time goals, which do nothing for me, I've decided I want to run until I am fit enough to experience a "runner's high." I've never had that before, and I want to know what it feels like at least once. My guess is it's a sham.

Sixth
I know Connie's probably gonna beat me in most consecutive daily posts, and she isn't even trying. Dammit.

Sneak sneak sneak

Until we actually go out and get a digital camera, I'm going to have to steal pictures of us from friends. This one's a keeper -------------->

I stole it from Frank's blog. I've always liked his nifty photo-popup thing. I like it even more now that it labels everyone who pops up as Dylan & Frank.

Dylan and I have a lot in common: we're both short, disarmingly cute, Asian males. The person seated next to me is even easier to explain: she looks like a Frank.

Six years is a good run.

Pujols is an unfortunate name

I've kinda been hired by one of my show hosts to sell advertising time for her radio talk show. She made me the generous offer of taking fifty percent of whatever I bring into the coffers. Sounds great, right? I thought so too, but then I learned today that her listenership worldwide is roughly three hundred per week. That's not live either; that's the total number of clicks. What have I gotten myself into?

Any advice? Should I start a grassroots campaign to up listenership, or should I just cut and run?

One common beginning many writers seem to take is writing reviews. Sarah Vowell got her start writing about bands like Nirvana. Why shouldn't I do the same? Of course, I'm neither cool nor motivated enough to go out and find something new to review. Instead, I've decided to do a book review on something that's been out since the mid-nineties. And, since I am a nerd with an attention span severely stunted by years of video games, I'm going to review a comic book. Please feel free to skip today's post. I understand completely.

I've heard so many good things about the Preacher series -- IGN even ran an article a couple of weeks ago, listing it as one of the greatest comics of modern day -- that I finally picked up the first volume, Gone To Texas, last week. This is the first in a collection of nine, each costing about fifteen bucks. It's a hefty investment to buy all of them, but there doesn't seem to be any other way if you want to read them, since the content is way too adult for libraries to carry. Based on what I read in the first one, I think I'll save my money.

It's not that it's a bad comic. The artwork is solid, if a bit too gruesome for my taste; the storyline is original; and the characters are compelling. It just seems a bit juvenile to me. Big surprise from a comic book, right? But great comics today read more like... Oh God, this is drivel. Look, just don't waste your money. The archnemesis is a resurrected, supernatural being who kills people with his six-shooters. He's so evil, he doesn't even have to reload. The dialogue sounds as though it were penned by a thirteen year-old who's just discovered the "F" word. For example:

Cassidy: Curiosity won't just KILL the cat, it'll bite its head off and stump-fuck the remains 'til the sun comes up!

Also, some of the most intricate, detailed work in the entire book is reserved for sex scenes between an angel and a demon. As I said: JUVENILE.

I understand that Preacher may have influenced the way comics are made today, but I'd still rather read today's comics. Maybe it's just that the series takes awhile to hit its stride. If there's a way to read it without spending any more money, I'll give it another shot.

Not a good start

Sundays shouldn't count in the blogging-every-day. So they won't. Except, I just gotta say, "HOW ABOUT THEM CUBS??!!"

This is the end of everything...

I started a class at UCSD on writing for newspapers and magazines. I figured that it will help me get into the practice of writing -- something I missed during my biology career at U of C. Now, I've made a pact to post something everyday, even if it's crap. For this first post, I've decided to write about the class itself.

First off, my instructor looks like Eric Idle. And not young Eric Idle from the Monty Python days. He looks like old, womanish Eric Idle from today. Exactly like him. Well, not exactly like him. He wore suede cowboy boots and a green shirt with a paisley tie. He seems cool enough. For this first session, he didn't really say anything I didn't already know. That's ok, though -- I'm mostly in it to practice writing, and I'm sure I'll learn a lot eventually.

The class itself is made up of a ratio of two females to each male. Apparently, journalism is a very girly field. Each student is infinitely more qualified than I am. Most have had some sort of experience freelancing their work. I thought I'd be the dark horse of the group, coming up with the most brilliant and original work of the lot. Sadly, that wasn't to be.

As I said earlier, I didn't really learn all that much new stuff in this first class. I'm looking over my notes, and they seem a bit thin. I do know that when the instructor said, "The first step to becoming a better writer is to read", exactly five people copied it down. Four wrote down the second step.

That made it all the more bitter when, in our first exercise -- to pair off and interview our partners and then write up a brief profile on him/her -- I turned in a pithy four sentences of crap as opposed to the pages everyone else wrote. It wasn't for lack of interesting material either. I was able to wheedle a wealth of juicy information from my hesitant partner's past: credit card fraud schemes, marauding teenaged hacker-gangs, etc. I just couldn't get past figuring out how to start writing the damned thing.

Normally I'd take comfort in knowing that I only had twenty-five minutes to write, that with more time, I could've come up with a compelling feature. However, Columbia requires each applicant to take a timed writing test in addition to writing the standard essays. With my history of choking under pressure (i.e. the laughable GRE essay of '04), things look bleak. Thus, the renewed dedication to the blog. I'm going to use this space to practice writing every day. This site is going to become intensely boring, as I'm going to be writing even when nothing has happened. In fact, for the hell of it, occasionally I'm going to blog on a time limit: thirty minutes to post a complete entry on a random, general topic, let's say, mebbe once a week.

Joy to the world.



p.s. I'm thinking of removing sitemeter from this blog. It's unhealthy for me. Anybody know where I can find a simple counter without extra spying features?

With friends like me...

New winner

Pete is this week's winner, because I liked his post on experiencing the receiving end of evangelism. I must say that no one's ever asked me that particularly awful question, and I am proud to say that I've never asked that question of anyone other than impressionable children. Oh God. Sonshine clubs. My greatest regret. Someday I'll explain, but for now just know that I'm going to hell -- the special hell peopled by fervant Mormons, Jehovah's Witnesses, and Gideons, all who will knock on my door in rapid succession asking me for a little bit of my time, all looking pityingly at me as I mutter some lie about being busy. Maybe I'll meet Jack Chick there. If I do, I'm gonna kick him square in the sack.

Speaking of past memories, every time I hear Saddam Hussein mentioned, I'm reminded of Mr. B, a teacher at good old Emmanuel. This was shortly after the Persian Gulf War, and Mr. B repeatedly (and brilliantly, I might add) evidenced his dislike of Hussein by refusing to call him Saddam. Instead, he referred to him as Sadat Hussein. "...But we shot down all of SADAT Hussein's scuds with our patriots. Every time he did it, I'd always think to myself, "Oooh, you really showed him that time, Mr. B." Unfortunately, this man was (among several other roles) our World History teacher, and I'm sure some of my former classmates still confuse Saddam and Anwar and their historical significance today. Also unfortunate is that Mr. B's sneering face pops into my head each time Hussein's trial is mentioned.

Sigh...the morons have already won.

Addendum

That being said, that Adam Carolla really does bother me. Every night at 10:00 pm, one of my favorite local radio stations stops all music and switches over to Love Line. I can't deal with that. Sure I used to listen to Love Line secretly as a teenager in the hopes of hearing something extra titillating, but even then I was usually disappointed. I'd sign the damn petition if it'd get 91.1 to drop his dumbass show.

I guess I'm just angry that every other channel on my presets was on commercial break, save one, which was playing Sheryl Crow.


Further addendum: Angry Little Asian Girl kinda sucks.

What these slanty eyes be beholdin'

I am well-aware that the majority of my limited readership is Asian. Apart from my fellow Asian bloggers, there are occasional Malaysian visitors seeking their fix of Ms. Jarvis in pain. So to those of the squinty persuasion, I offer this website. Now you don't have to forward me all those angry email petitions calling for the apology of some dumb asshole. I can just check MANAA.org once every two years to catch up on all the imagined slights done to us.

Actually, I'm pretty satisfied with the way I'm treated. It's been a long time since I've felt actively discriminated against. unless you count all those times pretty girls wouldn't look at me -- that's racist. Apart from that, I don't have much to complain about. In fact, the last time someone said something even remotely offensive to me was yesterday morning -- when your mom asked me to cure her of her "Yellow Fever". But that's only wrong 'cuz the bitch don't need to be talkin', if you know what I'm saying.

To all the non-Asians who read my blog and are concerned with not offending your neighborhood's resident Asian, I can only tell you my point of view. I've compiled a list of common Asian stereotypes that I remember from experience, have seen in the media, and have culled from the internet. For a crappier list, check this "research" paper. Or don't. It's pretty crappy.

MY RESPONSES TO COMMON QUESTIONS ABOUT ASIANS

1. Are you good at math?
No. Yes. I was in fifth grade.

2. Are you really into computers?
Yes, but only for pornography.

3. Are you a big pervert?
Goddamnit

4. Do you know karate?
No. It's Taekwondo

5. Don't you just love Asian food? It's soooo much healthier than American food.
My favorite food is ice cream, and my mother's is sandwiches.

6. Can you see how many fingers I'm holding up?
Can you see how many fingers I'M holding up?

7. Do you play the violin?
No!

8. Do you play ANY stringed instruments?
The guitar.

9. Do you play any OTHER stringed instruments?
NO!

10. HAVE YOU EVER played any OTHER stringed instruments?
.........yes

11. Are you a hard worker?
Oh my Lord, no.

12. Do you like Jackie Chan movies?
Yes.

13. Do you have a small penis?
Yes, but I blame that on the car accident.

14. Do you show respect to your elders?
Sure.

15. Are you a doctor?
Not for lack of trying.

16. Finally, do you love a big American cock in your slutty Oriental snatch?


Of course