Keep me up till five only because all your stars are out, and for no other reason.

It doesn't happen very often (and truly, these events would be the very archetypes of improbability were their existances acknowledged in the first), but ever so rarely I am able to set to rest (for a couple of months at least, or most) an issue. To be sure, I have not completely defeated the question, but I have at least abated a pressing anxiety, which I will pretend to explain in the following paragraphs.

I do not imagine myself to be alone in this. It is, at its core, a question of purpose, and I will be damned (I'm not even kidding) if I'm the first one to wonder in this way.

I feel sometimes as though time ravages around me, devouring anything I will let it grasp. My Blue Blanket, my rabbit, my Green Machine, my sensation in tooth number 9, Brandon, and countless, certainly innumerable, opportunities. I feel like I should be an expert in something already. I should be Mr. Manager of a Banana Stand. I should have discovered something, or written something, or invented something, or contributed something to something. But no. I'm John Wuchenich: Unaccomplished. And it was getting to me.

It's the same feeling I had for about eight weeks my Junior Year of college. I was in Honors Research Writing, and had a thesis paper to write. Unlike most of the class, I hadn't done reading during the summer to prepare my topic, and so it took me a bit of time to do, what with all the reading and notetaking and planning and writing and revising and all. I knew it would be some work, and I put in the effort, but no matter how much I worked on it (and it really did turn out good; I got asked out for it (well kinda, but that's another story)) I could not shake the feeling that I wasn't putting in enough time into it. I'd feel guilty if I spent any free time doing anything else. A little ridiculous, maybe, in retrospect. But I got that same feeling when I was working (or, as was largely the case, not working) on my senior project, and the week leading up to the MCAT.

For some time now, that panic has been back. What am I waiting for? Why am I wasting my time doing anything else? Why am I not writing that paper?

That means two things now. It's not just my 40 page thesis about a certain piece of legislation in Hong Kong, but the story of my life.

I told all y'all the other day that I was pissed with Salinger (or maybe pissing Salinger) (great, now it sounds like Salinger is a beer. Well, he is addictive. Friends don't let friends sip Salinger and write. Too bad I was drinking alone. Isn't that one of the signs of alcoholism?) You'll pardon me if this next bit tastes like vomit, or is at least somewhat emetic. I was under the influence when I read it, I suppose. Or maybe I was like those scuba divers who descend too quickly and earn themselves some nitrogen narcosis. And in my altered state, I found the coolest piece of coral (sound familiar, Kosrae guys?) that really wasn't cool, but euphoria makes everything look better. So I return from my Deep Dive with this increasingly stupid-looking chunk of calcium carbonate (and maybe the bends (is that why I'm nauseous?))
So yes, I lied. Here's the piece of coral. You are getting the Salinger quote. Yes, even after I told you to read it yourself. Sorry to any of you who have seen it.

"Do you know what I was smiling at? You [21 years old and unpublished] wrote down [on your draft registration form] that you were a writer by profession. It sounded to me like the loveliest euphemism I had ever heard. When was writing ever your profession? It's never been anything but your religion. Never. I'm a little over-excited now. Since it is your religion, do you know what you will be asked when you die? But let me tell you first what you won't be asked. You won't be asked if you were working on a wonderful, moving piece of writing when you died. You won't be asked if it was long or short, sad or funny, published or unpublished. You won't be asked if you were in good or bad form while you were working on it. You won't even be asked if it was the one piece of writing you would have been working on if you had known your time would be up when it was finished—I think only poor Soren K. will get asked that. I'm so sure you'll get asked only two questions. Were most of your stars out? Were you busy writing your heart out? Of only you knew how easy it would be for you to say yes to both questions. Of you'd remember before ever you sit down to write that you've been a reader long before you were ever a writer. You simply fix that fact in your mind, then sit very still and ask yourself, as a reader, what piece of writing in all the world Buddy Glass [the name of the character this particular note was addressed to] would most want to read if he had his heart's choice. The next step is terrible, but so simple i can hardly believe it as I write it. You just sit down shamelessly and write the thing yourself. I won't even underline that. It's too important to be underlined. Oh, dare to do it, Buddy! Trust your heart. You're a deserving craftsman. It would never betray you. Good night. I'm feeling very much over-excited now, and a little dramatic, but I think I'd give almost anything on earth to see you writing a something, an anything, a story, a poem, a tree, that was really and truly after your own heart."

But that doesn't quite answer the question of how I have put aside my fears of not yet being an expert. See, at twenty-two (and an unmistakably retarded twenty-two at that), I am too old to be a Boy Wonder or a prodigy by any stretch of the word. I am a little discouraged at this. It's discouraging to think that I'm going to be neither a football star nor a genius theoretical physicist (both who, coincidentally, have about the same retirement age, or at least they're past their prime in their mid-30s). Not that I'd most want, more than anything else, to be a Manning or an Einstein. Nor a Marsalis or a Michaelangelo or a Miyazaki, much as I respect their work.

Given my heart's choice, I'd write (because I'd most want to read) the story of Gandhi. Or Paul Farmer. Or Jesus. And those guys started a little later. Undoubtedly they were bright little boys, but they weren't Bobby Fischer or anything. To be sure, they were stars on the rise, but weren't publicly hailed, at 26. Or lets keep to the previous analogy. They could bring out their stars, but they weren't seen as giant galaxies at 26.
I'm indecisive at times because I know that the choices I make have a lasting impact on the rest of my life. Every choice. Damn chaos theory. Or maybe it's the Bible. Or that old emperor in Mulan. One of those says that everything matters. It can be paralyzing. Who should I keep as friends? Where should I go to school? Where should I live? What should I use for transportation? How much should I work? Study? Exercise? Eat? Do I have time to go to a baseball game? When do I do laundry? Should I finish this blog or get some sleep? What socks should I wear tomorrow?
Do my socks matter? Who knows. That's what bugs me. What if, more than anything else ever, wearing green socks on Saturday, April 1, 2006, would change my life? What if it would ill behoove me to not get 8 hours sleep? When everything matters, it's easy for me to get caught up on triviality's trinkets.
Still, what am I waiting for? Do I really think a most perfect path (yellow brick road, perhaps) will pave my way and will brush away all the impertinent, curio-peddling street vendors. I'm not gonna embark upon the journey of my life only when the fiery chariots come to lead me triumphantly through the streets of Jerusalem. No one starts out great like that (except maybe Harry Potter). But really. Einstein was a patent clerk (ahh yes, I went straight for the most overused one). Jesus was a carpenter. A carpenter! That's why they're called humble beginnings. And really, it's not going to matter whether you're in Haiti or Durban or Oxford or Loma Linda. Diligence, passion, and aptitude is success's template the world over. Regardless of the color of your socks. And I needed to know that it's OK to commit myself to something that will be impermanent in my life. I can work my damned best at ADRA even if ADRA isn't my calling, and it's not a waste of time or energy.
So that's it. That's my insight. I don't need Ben Carson knocking on my door to convince me that I want to be a doctor. Maybe I won't want to be a doctor. But I won't know until I try. So stop waiting for that chariot and start writing the life your heart wants to hear about. Tyler Durden agrees.

Still, all I'm really doing (probably) is putting off my midlife crisis for later midlife. But I guess this is good, otherwise it might mean that I would die at 35.

That's morbid. Let's throw in an AD quote to lighten the mood.
[George Michael and Maeby sitting in the staircar]
George Michael: Yeah, uh, I'm gonna, um, you know, I'm gonna stay out here and, um, watch that famous Reno sunset.
Maeby: Isn't it behind you?
George Michael: Yep, there's...there's mirrors...It'll actually look closer.


Another recently acquired gem/coral shard (though this one didn't require the SCUBA gear):
Paul: The pineapple is so good. It will make you roll your eyes.
Ahh the wisdom of 6-year-olds.

Paul and I had another conversation today.
Paul: Where are you going?
Me: Back to my apartment.
Paul: Why?
Me: I need to hang my laundry up to dry.
Paul: Excuse me John, do you know Anaket?
Me: Is that your friend?
Paul: Yes.
Me: Is he the one I met?
Paul: Yes.
Me: Is he the one who bit me?
Paul: (giggling and playing with his shirt) Yes!
Me: The one who bit me while you were biting me?
Paul: (now almost squealing) YES!!!
Me: Yeah, I remember him.
Paul: He told me something today. Do you know what?
Me: No. What did he tell you?
Paul: He said he is made of stone. OK, bye.
And he ran off before I could respond. Or maybe I shouted a "Bye" after him, but I doubt it caught up. He was running pretty fast.

My Exceptionally Current Likes and Dislikes

Things I am enjoying (for various reasons, which may or may not be accompanied here—I haven't yet decided):

The end of Spring Break (though, i'm sure this belongs in the second list of most of my readership. Nevertheless, I am, to quote myself earlier, "pleased as punch," which is so pleased that it means I'll use a phrase without even caring for it's etymology, or caring for the Grammar of this explanation.)
Finishing another Salinger. He's such a joy to read. It's troubling, or at least I feel disturbed, that we could have similar styles if (or maybe there is no if, and we just do) I didn't try to, for my identity's sake, remove, or at least somewhat divert, that incessant stream of consciousness.
Listening to that gecko rustle through the bag that houses my cache of Western World goodies every time I turn on the kitchen light. Although, he must consider it his bag, and I'll let him; he spends more time in there than me. Still, his furniture (the Boston baked beanbag chairs and black licorice beds) will be repossessed over the course of the next few days, or possibly hours.
The pre-Opening Day anxieties that every baseball year brings. Silly me, thinking the Pirates will be contenders. You, the reader, would think I should learn.
Playing "Who's Taller?" with Vietnamese people. This never gets old. I only hope we never start playing "Who's Shorter?" That game's old just thinking about it.

Things I am not enjoying (for various reasons, which may or may not be accompanied here—I haven't yet decided):

Cooking for myself after a week's hiatus.
Sounding like Buddy Glass, because I just did finish another Salinger, but at least I no longer sound like Austen. The diction and manners inspired there brought naught but trouble to my orations and tete-a-tetes alike. I have no intention in keeping such language so much as near at hand, for it lends itself excessively to panegyrics and verbosity, devices I employ immoderately even now.
Finishing another Salinger, because once again I'm trying to identify with Seymour Glass, just as I do with Dostoevsky's Alyoshas or Duncan's Everett and Peter Chances or Potok's Danny Saunders. Seriously now, who writes stuff like "Keep me up till five only because all your stars are out, and for no other reason," and then explains it so it hits you, instead of leaving it for fluff a bad movie might try to use as it's big romantic line. Damn you Salinger. I hate getting lessons unexpectedly from someone who knows he'll get his message across. That's not the message, by the way. The message comes after that. I won't ruin it. Read "Seymour: An Introduction." Actually, the message isn't quite spelled out, but so long as you don't find me dysgraphic, I should think that you might manage J. D. just fine.
Needing sleep.
Conservation of Mass. If I got to reinvent physics, or just make some Notable Exceptions to its laws, I'd make sure that there'd be be absolutely no downside to drinking as much water as you pleased.

A literary display of John's great condescension and charity

Current mood:irate

It happened quite late this year. Rather, it's happening quite late this year. This period of time in which I
1) Haven't any good ideas at all,
2) Have a thorough distaste and ineptitude for productivity,
3) Can't manage the completion of (m)any tasks or conversations without an obligatory and crucial error of some sort, and
4) Won't be bothered to be sociable, amiable, or prepossessing under most circumstances

Also, I often adopt a bit of a superiority complex. But given that I'm usually under the influence of a perennial inferiority complex, I end up finally believing I'm as awesome as I actually am. Yeah, it's pride the roundabout way. Or complete misapplication of multiplication to self-esteem.

This is typically a late January, early February occurance, as that has been the time of year when I was least likely to, hmm, something. See the sun? Have a break? Associate with friends? Watch the Steelers win? Keep up my resolutions?
In any case, that affected state has caught me now and left me more glowered and less glum than usual. Ineffectuality has scowled my disposition, and I am as determined as ever to regain my normal wisecracking, overtasking, self-effacing, accommodating manners.

But enough on my temperament, and onto some thoughts.

This week I read a chapter in my book (as pictured below) that caused me to realize that I was misguided in my dread over the prospect of a mechanistic universe; my real anxiety comes in the possibility of a mechanist human body. So it's all well and good that we can call on Heisenberg to abolish determinism, but what I really need is biology to show that my thoughts, my rationale, my feelings, my beliefs are more than nerual pathways and electrical impulses, hormone molecules and biochemistry. That's where my science and religion crash. It shouldn't be bothersome, for I at least feel as though I make my own choices. But the notion that I might be so easily manipulated by drugs or electrodes makes me doubt that I have much choice in my thoughts or feelings in the first.

Three words for Merriam-Webster, courtesy Gillette-Wuchenich

Current mood:accomplished

whimtrigue - the lazy Sunday morning curiosity that might cause an individual to shave one of his legs, possibly the left one, because a) it's winter, and he won't have to wear shorts for some time; and b) he won't be in the company he normally keeps for some months; and c) he wondered if he was hiding any unsightly bruises beneath all that manly fur (he wasn't); and d) GOB might need a good pair of legs for his tricks. Illusions. You know, just in case George Michael isn't always available; and e) he did wonder how it would feel. spokey - how it feels now. a sort of smooth pokey. like some of those cacti. i would say cactaceous, but that would make Jarrod laugh, as in the following: Jarrod: what's up? Joh...nonymous: i feel cactaceous Jarrod: lol Jarrod: lol Jarrod: cac symmetrophilia - the driving force for shaving the proverbial right leg, despite the pangs of homophobia. Not to be confused with sim-metrophilia, which is simulated love of Parisian subways.

My Orange crush

I have come to a rather abstruse, and yet strangely startling, discovery: I cannot find an orange food that I don't really, really like. I love sweet potatoes and pumpkins, persimmons and papaya, squash, all the citruses (tangerines, tangelos, mandarins, clementines, valencia and navel oranges) and their juices, cheese and cheetos and cheez-its and cheddar goldfish, carrots and cantaloupe, orange peppers (bell or spicy) and orange tomatoes (cherry or otherwise (what all kind of crazy orange tomatoes are there anyway besides those cute little pear-shaped ones?)), marmalades and mangoes, lentils and loquats, apricots, Fanta, and Easy Mac. So in the spirit of science, I have my new theory of orange. If it's orange and edible, I like it. And all you critics out there are welcome to try to prove my theory wrong, and I will credit the improbable individual who is able to debunk this conjecture. OK it's true that orange fruit loops and orange marshmallows exist, but this is unnatural. By unnatural, I mean that they are merely dyed, and still taste of nothing but gross and sugar. It is furthermore unnatural that anyone should like marshmallows or fruit loops, because they really are nothing but gross and sugar. And though tigers are orange, their edible bits are not. Also, I'm sure if science tried hard enough they could make eggplant orange, and then my orange crush rule (or as I like to call it, my OC rule) wouldn't apply.

I'm Mr. Manager

The funny thing about sports is that it's so momentary, so fleeting. Well, many things fleet, but with sports I find it especially pronounced. Especially at the Olympics. After a 200 week reprieve, I'm once again supposed to be interested in Herman Maier and Apolo (what a cool name) Ohno, which wouldn't be so bad if I wasn't also required to be magically caught up with all the gossip airborne produce (that snowboarder) and people getting in trouble for being drunk on the job (Bode Miller). And then there are the fanatics who sling names and event names with total abandon, like we're at the batting cages or something. If we were at the Olympic batting cages, I'd be chillin with the 50 MPH chain-link fences; I would not pretend to be facing Randy Johnson or even Jamie Moyer. I mean, and seriously now, have we heard any of these names (besides Michelle Kwan) in the past four years? And how many of these athletes have been here in the past? How many of these events have been here in the past? And why don't they show more hockey instead of so much of that crazy ski thing that's moguls and jumps and 26 seconds long? While I'm at it, how does one go about getting on the Olympic committee so I can get my awesome sports snowboating and skyboating in the lineup? Also, do we only get new Olympic music when the US holds the games? I think the hosting country should be responsible for getting one of its premiere composers to treat us to some new tunes. I'm not trying to pick on the Olympics here. I have these same difficulties with March Madness and World Volleyball Championships and UEFA Champions League (apart from most of Arsenal and Manchester United and then the superstars that are sprinkled and clumped throughout the other teams). Vote Wright and Wuchenich (even though the only few people with AUSA voting (w)rights that will reading this are either named Wuchenich or are living/have lived with the candidate). And at the risk of causing Paul more myspace trouble, Down with Gaymo! PS Danielle, I think I've found you a good campaign slogan. PPS If you're an administator at Andrews, I'm just kidding, and please stop reading here. PPPS Danielle, I still like the slogan, though you could modify it to be Down with Gaymo and Gaydministrators. PPPPS If any FOX executives happen to be reading this, please know this: in vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love Arrested Development. (P^5)*S My apologies to any (......others......) who just melt at this line from Mr Darcy. But it is a good line, and I've yet to find a situation where it might be better applied. Yes, I do realize tomorrow is V Day.

Things fall apart

Two thin envelopes (Stanford and Dartmouth), one phone call to the admissions guy at Yale, three days, zero showers, zero changes of clothes, some hours of shoveling gravel and moving it in a wheelbarrow, many hours of Pieces and the Real Folk Blues and the like, twelve chapters of Pride and Prejudice, two episodes of Mandy Moore Scrubs, and one berry pie later I gave up my giving up. I'm just not a very good quitter. A very capricious part of me wants to tell all those affirmative action loving bastards to (family guy allusion alert!) go tuck yourselves in and then i would run to the mountains or Canada and read great literature and write music and poetry and practice trumpet for countless hours and learn to play guitar and dream and work some little job just to get by. But I won't; I'm too devoted. Or just not desperate enough. Maybe if all the medical schools rejected me I'd go hermit, but now I'm too set on doctorship or doctorhood. And if Loma Linda is the only acceptance I get, Loma Linda is where I'm going. My real struggle with the whole situation came about because I had thought that the things that had happened to me over the last year were going somewhere, were purposeful. I really that I was being set up to be a better applicant so I could get into one of those insanely competitive schools. I mean, really, a diving board accident that makes me want to take the MCAT again? And then i did well on it. And then I'm off to foreign lands to do research and humanitarian work. So I have the grades, the scores, the extracurricular activities, the philanthropic service, and I thought I had a shot. I believed that God or Providence or Whoever or Whatever was guiding all this. This is what I believed Whatever's plan to be. But then something happened. Because I'm still probably going to Loma Linda, and if I was just going to go to Loma Linda, why did Whatever take me to the edge of Canaan only to send me back to wandering the Southern California desert for 4 years. I'd have taken on those giants. I wanted to be one of those giants. But perhaps I haven't explained why this situation is so problematic for me. Allow me to do so now. See, the Whatever I believe in wouldn't tempt and tease me, wouldn't dangle my dreams just out of my reach. Especially when I thought they were within my grasp. My Whatever isn't so cruel. But the situation is cruel. The alternative I then see is that Whatever, in His or Her great benevolence, couldn't have had anything to do with the situation. But this too is unsettling. ALL things are supposed to work for good, so what happened here? "Oh, I'm sorry John, I couldn't do anything with that diving board injury. Yeah, you basically just lost a year. You do know you would have gotten into Loma Linda with your first MCAT score. So yup, sucks to be you. Also, April is a freebie; I've got no plans for you the whole month there, so enjoy. And don't say I never gave you nothing." This wouldn't have been so bad if I at least had some sort of choice and then got to figure out that I was supposed to go to Loma Linda. It's not that Loma Linda is the problem; it's how I'm getting there that bothers me. Ok, this isn't quite fair. I can't suppose to have Whatever's plan all figured out, but at what point do I get to say "Whoa whoa whoa, wait, I don't like this story, I want to change it!" I mean, if Whatever's hand is in it, shouldn't I see traces of said hand sometime? It shouldn't all just look arbitrary. I guess my beliefs lost some of its powers of nomization, because Whatever either has lost some of its goodness, which by definition it can't, or history has lost purpose and significance, which is just as dangerous because absurdity clouds in and I get stuck again in a downpour of existentialism which causes pools of doubt. Maybe it's my job to weather these storms. Maybe it's just a squall. Maybe the sun rays of legitimization are just behind the gray billows overhead. But how long do I sit in this deluge before I leave in search of the sun?

So this is the new year / I don't feel any different

Current mood:distressed

I tried. I really, really did. I thought, "To hell with history and defense mechanisms; let's try a new approach." It wasn't truly a new approach; it was actually an old approach that had never achieved the intended results. So I really did try. I'm not in the habit of trying because I'm in the habit of failing. Failure is much easier to handle if you didn't try at the thing in the first. You dismiss the disappointment as trivial. After all, if it wasn't even important enough to put real effort into, it must not matter. Plus it's not really rejection if you weren't accurately represented. I'm here referring to the med school rejection notes I've been receiving. One is an exception (Mayo—I didn't even get to send in a secondary; I'll still be fine). Two is a coincidence (Stanford—the different schools probably have different admission standards; I should be fine). Three is a trend (Dartmouth—If I can't get an interview at Dartmouth, there's no way I'm getting one with Harvard, Hopkins, or Yale; fuck). Fuck (fuck—fuck; fuck). I should have seen the signs. I should have consulted history. I don't win. Never have. Elections, girls, scholarships, sports—I'm just not all that successful. I'm Peyton Manning. I look good on paper. I have some successes. But I haven't figured out how to win the big game (get accepted to the big school, win the big election, get a big scholarship, get a date or two with the beautiful girl). And I don't think it's that he or I can't win the big game; I don't think that we're psychologically incapable of such a thing, or that we're defeatists, or that we're any less the guys we are just because we're not publicly hailed. I don't know where it goes wrong. I guess I'm just sore because I laid it all out there and got burned badly, though that's not the reason my hand is bleeding. My hand is bleeding because all this upset me so much that I punched the wall hard on my way to my bedroom, which is where I am now, almost as shaken and teary as I was when Brandon Moor died. And I'm not sure which is scarier, my mortality (which is what I came to terms with January 31, 2005) or my failure to be acknowledged. I just feel like I get skipped over time and again, which would normally be OK but it sure isn't when I'm actually trying. Or do they not know that I'm trying? I guess they don't have anything to compare it to. They didn't have the benefit of seeing how I normally conduct myself; how are they to know this is anything special? Still, where did I go wrong? What about me is so unattractive or uninteresting? What makes me "eww, gross" or "ehh, whatever?" I have the grades, the test scores, the humanitarian service, the experience abroad, the wit and wisdom. Would I be noticed if I was from Kazakhstan, or if I was less self-effacing (which shouldn't be confused with a lack of confidence)? I'm not looking for the whole world to love me, just legitimization from certain individuals and institutions that I admire myself. It's not that I mind failing. I'm just tired of it. I'd take any small victory at this point. Beyond mountains, there are mountains. This I know. I just would like to come to a summit that matters every now and then. I'll be fine tomorrow.

Super Bowl post-game smack

Current mood:jubilant

And to think, I was about to write about how Seattle needs to stop whining about the refs because a) they wouldn't even have known to complain if the nfc-biased announcers and commentators hadn't brought it up b) the pass interference was a push-off (or did the receiver just happen to have a hand on the defender, who happened to decide that the best thing he could do would be to hop backwards, away from the ball, just as D-Jack broke for the ball) c) after a suspect holding call on pittsburgh, ward made a superb catch; after a suspect holding call on seattle, hasselbeck threw an int d) the hasselbeck block penalty was a truly bad call, but nonconsequential, as the randle el td pass would have worked whether they had 40 yards or 80 yards to go. was it a good game? no, not like the past few super bowls have been. seattle made one big play, and the steelers made three, and neither side was consistent enough to have anything else really matter. also, seattle's coaching was pretty much crap. they completely mismanaged the clock at the end of both halves. they tried for too many long field goals. they opted to pass 50 times instead of handing off more to alexander who was running just fine on that left side. pittsburgh had better coaching. offense: ben couldn't throw, so they let someone else try (result: td). defense: seattle may have gotten a nice pile of yards and TOP, but when they're 5 of 17 on 3rd down and their only td came off a 76 yard int return, well this is the time when you remind yourself that this isn't fantasy football, and yards and catches and 40-49 yd field goals aren't worth extra points. All that said, I was mostly impressed with Hasselbeck, Alexander, and the Seahawk's O-line. They have a better chance at being back in the big game next year than Pittsburgh does. And yes, that's something of a cut on the NFC, but that's also a lot of respecting. Or at least as much respect as I'll give 11 point losers. oh, and don't talk to me about injuries, because if you'd seen the way Polumalu had played in any of the other playoff games, you'd know he wasn't nearly 100 percent.

My plagiarism problem

Well I just got my Loma Linda University School of Medicine acceptance letter, so at this point I'm very certain that I will be starting medical school next year. Not that I was ever really worried. It's funny; I got a personal email from Dean Hadley (the Roger Dean, not the Dean Dean, who isn't a dean as far as I know) informing me of my acceptance, and in it he addresses me as "Johnny," which I found humorous because it seems that even though we are on informal terms, a letter from the school of medicine seems like it might be more formal. Espy went to the tae kwon do class we just signed up for (at $2.50 a month), and said it was fun. I sat it out (or really, lay it out; I was asleep on my bed) for ankle reasons. OK, that's another story. Espy and I, for a few weeks now, have been asking the management of the compound to invest in the repair of the basketball hoop here, and just the other day we went by it to find that it was fixed (in the it finally has a rim sense, not in the rim being on straight or at 10 feet sense, because it's not straight, and I can dunk). So I ran back to our apartment and grabbed the only ball we have to play witha soccerball. Short story shorter, after playing a while and then chasing the ball through a flower bed that actually had an invisible wire fence around it (so it wasn't really invisible; it was just night and my vision wasn't so spot on) (also, if you don't understand the idea of a wire fence, think of it as a barbed-wire fence without the barbs, but able to tear the skin just from it's ability to withstand the force of a night-blind boy trying to run straight through it) I found that I wasn't so much in the mood to play any more. I'm also quite out of shape. So I returned to my apartment, only to discover that I'd left my keys at the court, so I once again ran there, and then back, and on my way back I rolled my ankle because it was dark and I was tired and the sidewalks here can be mountainous. It was this ankle issue that kept me from TKD tonight. Oh, Espy and I also got a note from one of the ladies who works in the ADRA office (actually, the same lady who took me to take the motorbike test, who happens to be the same one who went back to pick up my motorbike license today) asking if she can use our oven "to bake the bone of a black cat to make medicine for [her] son's asthma." Of course, this is no bother to us, but even if it was, I would have consented out of sheer curiosity. So i guess it's true. Curiosity killed the cat. A black one in this case. PS. The title of this blog will make sense to just about one person, and it's a gift from me to that person for allowing me to copy much of the material that is posted here from a personal letter to that person. That being said, I'm sure the title makes sense to a couple more people as well. PPS. Thank you all those lovely people who leave blog comments. I have finally achieved my myspace-long goal of having as many comments as posts.

My big bike test

Last Sunday I rose early to go to Vietnam's equivalent of the DMV to take a driving test so that I might get a motorbike license. This particular morning was a damp cold grey, and I was ill-prepared. From all past experience with government agencies everywhere I should have known that this process would take far longer than I would like, but as I left my apartment I looked at my hat and warm jacket and decided against both, opting only for a windbreaker in case it started raining again. Later, as I walked my bike to the start of the obstacle course, I felt like kicking myself again, but I had been doing that for the past couple hours, mostly in a feeble attempt to keep warm, and my numb legs were having enough trouble with the walk that I didn't trust them to try kicking. Having a US drivers license, I was able to procure a Vietnamese equivalent with little hassle ($$ and a couple weeks of processing), and was also exempted from the written portion of the motorbiking testing process. All that was required of me was a short skills test—navigating a figure eight, driving in a straight line, slaloming a bit, and finally negotiating some very tame speed bumps. This was all handled on one go, and took a moderately skilled driver about a minute to complete. The course is marked by white lines in a parking lot, which on test day is lined by many soon to be licensees. The officials have a desk on one side of the lot, and as they call out the name of the examinees the prospectful participants walk their bikes up to the entrance to the figure eight, don a helmet, are reminded of the course's pattern, and are turned loose. The figure eight really is the only difficult part of the course and therefore is the only part that the judges pay attention to; once one biker has completed this portion another would begin so there were two bikes on the course at any given time. Except in my case. My bike wouldn't start. I wasn't the only one feeling cold. By the time I got the motor running I was all alone, and the audience was getting impatient. Oh right, I had an audience in all the other testees (two Es) and each's corresponding boy or girlfriend. And I was near the beginning of my test group (though I had mistakenly waited through the previous group's tests, which did nothing to conserve body heat). Most bike-test audiences were rather inattentive, unless some old lady or man kept running out of the lines and putting her or his feet down to catch the bike before it toppled, at which point there would be some snickering and the remainder of the ride would be watched a little more carefully in the hopes that something scandalous would happen further down the course. My performance, had I been an old man, would probably have drawn such snickers. But I was a foreigner, and so they laughed outright. And for good reason. I got my bike started but I was in no way prepared for this ride. I was shaking, first from the freezing cold, second from fatigue (I had gotten only 80 minutes of sleep the previous night), and third from the fear that I might make a complete fool of myself in front of all those people. Appropriately, my bike shook with fear as well. Vehicle and driver looked like they were being electrocuted throughout the whole ride around the ocho. That I managed to keep the bike within the lines and upright hardly mattered. I was the spectacle they had all been hoping for. Look at that clown! with his white face and oversized shoes and colored nose (if I had to guess, I would say it was blue), just look at him shiver. Oho! He won't last a second on these streeets. As the buffoon on the bike exited the circus ring and proceeded to complete with relative ease the rest of the run, the following exchange took place between one of the officiating officers and the nice lady from the ADRA office who took me to the test: Official: "Is he seriously going to be driving on the streets?" ADRA lady: "Oh no, he'll be driving a car. He's much better at that. It's only office policy for our workers to have both car and bike licenses." So I passed. Addendum: In defense of the poor soul who has been made out to be so incompetent, I must say that Espy and I, on a number of occasions previous to this incident, have taken the motorbikes out around town without mishap. Well, we still get lost some and end up down darkened, deadend alleys, but what I'm trying to say is that I haven't crashed or caused a crash yet, thankyouverymuch.

My sales pitch

There comes a point in a man's work day where he looks at himself and wonders if he wants to be any more productive. Or at least I like to think that this phenomenon is common to all mankind, and is not just restricted to whiny boywimps. Regardless, this moment struck me around 8:05 (incidentally, this happens to be the same time I sat down at my desk this morning). Oh, allow me briefly to make one thing clear. I am not a nerd. I may be somewhat nerdy. I mean, there is the chemistry, and the video games, and the anime, and the small collection of science books that I read for fun, and the social ineptitude, and the slightly askew sense of humor, and the Star Wars cards, and the irrationally overwhelming fear of rejection. But those are quite minor. See, I got this happy dance and all sorts of sports trophies (ah summer church softball) and loads of girlfriends. Like heaps and piles of them. I can't even keep track of them all, much less their names, or the names of their dolls. They're all really cute though. I hope we get to go see them next week. Espy and I started visiting kids a nearby orphanage. Not sure how I got onto that topic. What was I saying before? Oh right, not a nerd. Definitely. I think I've made a strong enough case already. And for those of you who still aren't convinced, well I give up. Oh, speaking of rejection (well, I spoke of it a couple paragraphs ago; don't rain on my segue parade! I kinda wish I got to go to the Rose Bowl parade. And I kinda wish I had a brother named GOB who rode a Segway. Well so much for smooth. This is turning into one of my worst transitions), speaking of rejection, I got my first piece of medical school admissions hate mail from Mayo. So looks like there is no longer a possibility of me being in Minnesota next year. I'm not sure why I feel at all disappointed by this, but I do, if only slightly. Saturday is Christmas for all of Eastern Orthodoxy, so if you want to join my family for some pogacha and searching through straw for coins (this is mostly for the kiddies) and who knows, maybe a little slivovitz (ok, not really, we don't drink), give them a ring or just show up. And don't worry, it'll still be good wholesome Adventism Sabbatarianism; you aren't going to be asked to kiss icons or anything. Well, my dad might make you swear fealty to Pittsburgh and its sports teams.

Leaving PST

My newfound experience would be quick to tell that it is completely ill-advised to do something rash and brash moments before embarking on a 30 hour trip where you have nothing to do but think. Or maybe it's only my brain that makes for such a perilous prison. In any case, I am back in Hanoi. I was once again the last one waiting at the luggage carousel. Baggage is such a drag. I had only one small suitcase, and all that was in it was a huge box of cheddar goldfish (oh my favorite!), a large bag of raw almonds (another favorite!), a new soccer ball, and a new wireless mouse. So pretty much necessities. I had a good time at home. Of course, any week that affords me Erik, Greg, Katrina, Montry, Jennifer, Kara, Peter, Laura, Doug, Eric, Marcus, Jonny, Craig, Jill, Jay, Emily, Ginger, Lynsey, Lauryn, Carl and Lisa is wildly successful. Oh, and my family, I don't mind them either. Happy birthday Peter. I know this is a tad late, but in my defense, I spent your birthday on plane listening to little kids scream from the row behind me, and was unable at that time to post. Oh, I finally finished Dostoevsky, and am on to The Brothers K, by David James Duncan. So far it's about baseball and Adventism, and is awesome. Here's a few tastes just in case I can get any of you interested in it. Jarrod I'm thinking particularly of you. [this bit comes after the kids consider rewriting the Bible to include evolution] "Anyhow," Everett said to Peter, "you can bet any amout, any odds, the Christians will stick with the Bible they've got, sure as the Chicago Cubs'll stick with Wrigley Field—even though it's got no lights." Peter nodded. "Nightfall is to the Cubs," he said, "exactly what Charles Darwin is to the Christians." [the narrator is talking here, after his dad makes an EGW joke he doesn't get] All I know about Ellen G. White is that she was this super-religious 1800s lady who resembled our bulldog Gomorrah and wrote a book called The Gift of Prophecy, and the Adventists liked her book so much they hang her picture all over their churches, making it look like it's always Halloween. All I know about Ellen G. White is she isn't funny. Peter read her book once, and discovered she was the culprit who talked Adventists into banning meat-eating and makeup and jewelry and such. He said she also laid down the law about not going out on the town on Friday nights, but Everett argued that, judging by her face, it'd be a snowy Friday night in hell before anybody asked her.

The one that should have been posted last Thursday

I's a good thing they moved the airport to Lantau, so I don't have to see the city's harborscape from the plane. Otherwise i'd be gone. Just gone. Hong Kong at night is altogether too tempting. And Holiday Hong Kong? This is like staring Dream Girl in her suddenly shy eyes underneath the mistletoe. And i can't kiss her. dammit dammit dammit. This is completely unfair. I cant think of anything I like more than Holiday Hong Kong at night. Future wife, I hope you're listening. If I ever seem a bit too reluctant to ask a certain question, convince me to take you to Holiday Hong Kong. It works every time. I mean, I'm sure it'll work the first time.

Mai Soshul fo paw (it's phonetic, not foreign)

I'm in Bangkok for a couple of days to attend some meetings on Avian Influenza. There are a bunch of business people, especially from food and agricultural industries, like McDonalds, Cargill, and Tyson. Also, I'm easily the youngest person at these meetings. This has its advantages and disadvantages. Some of the disadvantages include: no one takes me seriously at first, people don't usually try to approach me to talk, and There actually aren't any advantages really. Well maybe one. Wednesday evening the participants of our meeting were invited to a cocktail party by the hotel's pool. I figured that it'd be a good chance to meet some of the other people. So I thought this would be like a pool party. I almost wore swim trunks. I decided instead on jeans and a collared shirt. I arrived (half an hour late; who knew that red lights could last 15 minutes?) to a gathering of suits. Awkward, party of one. Well, it wasn't any worse than it had been already. I got to listen to a man from the US Department of Agriculture explain how fake pear bacteria are causing $5 billion economic problems between the US and China. Let's rewind a few days so I can tell you about Espy, my new roommate, who arrived on Saturday. Espy is 19, and taking year's break from school to work doing public relations for ADRA Vietnam. I think he's designing a web site (sorry Jill, maybe it'll suck and we can improve it). He's pretty funny, and we get along well. It helps that he cooks, and I know enough numbers in Vietnamese to get stuff at the market. We're taking Vietnamese lessons together now, and he'll very soon surpass me (actually he already has; in my defense, I hadn't learned any Vietnamese before he arrived). But he already speaks like four languages, and I'm thinking that might be something of an advantage. So we have some differences. Also he has a girlfriend, is diligent in his work, preferred Goal! to Fight Club, and has lived in Kenya. I'm half jealous. Or maybe a little more than half, but less than 3/4. I'm bored. I should fill out one of those Christmas surveys, so when it asks if I've ever kissed under the mistletoe I can write something like "unwillingly, or unwittingly" and feel very clever and then see how the clever thing is working out for me. It usually works pretty well, especially here in Vietnam where no one understands my simple sentences (such as "No meat."), much less any of my wordplays. It's now almost 6 am and I've been up all night annoying people. It happens.

My New Plan

It's a little thing I like to call everyone makes my Top 8 at some point or another. So if you're feeling like you're not getting John's Top 8 respect, send me a note or a Howler and I'll remedy it. But family always makes the list, so if you want a permanent spot you'll have to marry in or at least volunteer a sibling. And I'll post for real later. I promise. But at the moment I'm at work and "supposed to be doing work-related things." Somehow this doesn't count. Maybe I just should have not asked.

No more philosophy; back to facts. Or at least things I imagine.

The city was screaming and groaning a lot last night. There must have been a football game on. And by football I mean soccer, not American football. The past week has been fraught with bad ideas on my part. I would like to report that most of those potential disasters never made it past the thinking stage. For those of you who know better, please refrain from reporting my fall from repute here. I'm sure there are whole message boards reserved for such things. And no, I will not be answering any questions regarding a grey sock, a bag of tofu squares, and a chicken. I'm just glad that I wasn't in the range of cameras when the little rogue cut through my belt. I hadn't realized that I'd lost so much weight here. Mom, I need a new grey sock. I don't need that grey cloth belt anymore. I learned that chickens in fact don't sink when you throw them in water, they just get angry and grow poisonous talons. The weather here got cold almost overnight. Truthfully it took two nights. One day it was mid 70s. The next it was 40s. And a cold wet 40s. Humidity sucks. Cold humidity is just so freakin chilling. It's like living in an ice bath. But at least with the cold weather I get to wear warm clothes that don't reveal my emaciated body. It's not that the Vietnamese food isn't good, it's just that I don't trust my chicken, cow, pig, and fish impressions combined with the shaking of my head is enough to inform the restaurant owners that I don't eat meat. So I have to cook for myself. Let me just say that when rice burns, it doesn't all burn at once, and I can usually salvage the top inch or so. I convinced a girl to read me The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe. I'm excited. And when I say convinced, what I really mean is that she hasn't said no yet. I'm not sure that she's actually had the opportunity to say no. Basically it'll be a surprise. I mean, it won't be a surprise to me; I'm the one who planned this in the first. I'm finally to understand my work here. It's a lot of meeting with people and government officials (who are people too, except for that one meanie that served a very strong and bitter tea that I politely sipped (because I'd feel embarrassed to have a cup full of tea sitting in front of me), but apparently i sipped too much because the guy then refilled my cup, and the whole process started anew). Still, it's pretty cool to ask governments for $500,000. I hear I'm getting a roommate tomorrow night. All I really know about him is that he's Congolese (I'm not sure which Congo he's from), but I've decided that his name is Chris Turk (or maybe Cal Turk) and that he's going to medical school with me next year. Speaking of medical schools, I got my first interview invite. The double L. Yeah boy. Someone tell Erik Nielsen hi for me. Danielle, maybe call him or something. Or at least get me his email address; I seem to have lost it or never known it in the first place.

Hate mail to a long dead author, who remains annoyingly influential

At Delphi, a place in Greece where these old hags, or oracles, got visions by inhaling the methane that was exuded from fissures in the rocks, there is a temple to Apollo. The temple houses two rather famous phrases: "Know thyself" and "Everything in moderation." These quotes are often considered to be jewels—finely cut quotes that have stood the test of time. Generally speaking, yes, they're concise and sound nice. Know thyself is alright. It's a nice little self-evaluation. Figure out your strengths and weaknesses. Recognize your potentials. Find out who you are. But it sounds too much like a process of discovery. Like you're a person who's already formed but just has to be fully unveiled. It's very predestinarian. Which is fine, if you're an ancient Greek who believes in the certitude of fate. Or if you're Martin Luther or Calvin. But they'd call it something different. But it's determinism from most points of view. And that's OK. Some people like that certainty. That capital T Truth. But I'm not so clever, and don't easily discover Truth. Or sometimes Truths become truths. And then that's messy. It's also messy when someone else has a Truth they think everyone should hear, and their Truth disrupts the peace. I'll stop with the philosophizing, but I'll suffice to say that until everyone everywhere has the same Truth truths, there will be no Peace. And given the choice, I'd take peace over truth any day. But that's the scientist in me talking. And if that doesn't make sense, just ask me about it some other time. Everything in moderation. This is a f-ing lie. Moderation is an exuse. An excuse to drink, or to smoke, or to eat another piece of cake, or to not eat another piece of cake. It's an excuse to stop work at 5, or to obey the 3 second hug rule, or to not sing and dance when you're so happy you just might die. Moderation is middle of the road. It's mediocrity. It's status quo and self control and unaccomplished. Seriously, what has moderation ever done? It's a safety device. It keeps people from colliding with their cars or their lips. But I'm pretty sure it didn't build the Taj Mahal or the pyramids. It didn't invent the light bulb or paint Starry Night. I mean, do you seriously think that Oppenheimer and Einstein were moderate? What about Muhammad Ali or Mahatma Gandhi? Florence Nightengale or Napoleon Bonaparte? Jesus? Was Jesus moderate? Think about it. Or don't. Go ahead and believe the Greeks. Anything that's well written and sounds clever makes for good Truth. So tell a girl you love her moderately. Ask for a moderately skilled dentist. Listen to moderately good music. Just don't hope to find me around. In other news, my wall is chirping.

My cook-for-myself Thanksgiving

Yesterday I had the good fortune of spending a Western holiday absent from all things Western. Wait, I did the lying thing in my last post. Yesterday I had the bad fortune of spending a Western holiday absent from all things Western. It's not that I'm particularly attached to mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce. I love good food in general, and have been missing it since I left home. So it's not about the food, or at least not more so than every other day here. My family and I have a love-tolerate relationship. But Thanksgivings are never on the tolerate side of the spectrum; they're far too delicious for that. Maybe I'm just romanticizing all of the past Thanksgivings, but I'm pretty sure that I even offered to help, and then did actually help, with preparations and clean ups for these events. (Not that I normally don't help, because I'm capable of being very helpful, but my utility on any given Thanksgiving is above reproach). I've been away from home at Thanksgiving before, but when I was in Hong Kong my uncle, sister, and cousin visited me and we had dinner at Fat Angelo's. Yesterday there was no family. I couldn't even bring myself to leave my apartment, so I stayed here and made myself rice noodles, fried up some tofu with a delicious soya sauce (which, strangely enough, had a picture of a fish on the label), and boiled some water so I could learn that this Milo stuff doesn't taste much like hot chocolate. In good news, it looks like I'll get to return home for Christmas. The bad part about this is that now I'll have to get gifts for all my relatives. Of course, they wouldn't be too disappointed if I didn't bring back gifts, because most years this is the case, and if I was to ask them what they want they'd only say, "Oh JB/Jumbs/Mr. Sun, you don't need to worry about gifts for us; your presence here is a gift enough." Well my little brother would probably ask for a VidiPod, and my sister would probably ask me to talk to Mom and Dad again and convince them that she needs my car (and it's manual transmission that she can't drive but that she thinks she can learn in 3 or 4 hours) back at college. And my cousins (yes, mostly you Peter) would just tell me not to bother, because they can't be bothered to find something for me. Still, gifts always beats no gifts, so long as it's really a gift and not a revenge or a manipulation. Now it probably sounds now like I'm just complaining. I probably am. Am I trying to appear pathetic? Maybe, but not consciously. Really, I'm quite happy, for reasons I haven't discussed here. My posts are often, in the names of reticence and entertainment, incomplete and slightly skewed versions of my self-perceived reality. So enjoy the good stories, hyperboles, and fibs. Believe what you want, and laugh at the rest. Congrats Lisa and Carl. I'm very sorry that I am not able to attend the ceremonies and celebrations, but please know that I wish you the best as your lives and loves continue to grow together.

it's over

ok, i'm done with blogspot for now, because I can't view my posts. I can post, but I just can't see how it looks, so now you'll find all this at www.myspace.com/jwooch.