These were my grandparents in Hong Kong

Two of the most awesome people I know. I really can't say that enough. Or well enough. But it's rather fun for me to see that someone else recognizes their awesomeness.

2 Proverbs (can be read as "two proverbs" or "Second Proverbs")

Two very random observations, just to get things going:

The word dizzyingly should be used to describe its own pronunciation.

Statistics are as useful and as dangerous as religion.

OK, one more, just becuase it just came to me, and it sounds almost good enough to be true. (It's amazing how carefully worded rubbish can be so convincing.)

The difference between simple and complex is quite often familiarity.

I'll have to think about that statement for a while before I can tell you if I agree with it or not. It's basically an adaptation from one of the things my trumpet teacher would tell me when I'd comment how it was harder to play passages in C.. than in F.

I just finished For Whom the Bell Tolls. It reminded me why I like Hemingway so very much. This is probably my favorite book of his that I've read, with A Farewell to Arms being a close second. Still, I haven't read The Old Man and the Sea. I need to. But I'm promised to another Dostoevsky first. Too bad I'm out of Salinger. I love books. I think I've said that once already today. I should make a list of all the things I love so I remember to love them every day. I wonder which would be a better use of my time. Remembering to love books or reading them. I wonder if it's the same with people.

Also, I'm trying to put together a summer reading list. Suggestions would be nice. Or else just tell me what you're planning on reading, or what you wish you could read if you have the time. I probably won't have the time, but that's not really the point.

What they call disorder I call defense mechanism

I feel like I should go on a rant or something. Like how much I hate this and that and whatever, or how the rules that most of society adheres to (with regards to life, love, family, friends, duty, driving, poverty, or politics) is dafter than Jack Sparrow (Captain, Captain Jack Sparrow) (but not the good kind of daft, the bullocks kind. Blimey, I believe my English is almost passable. Well no need to cock a snook about it).
But no, the ranting must wait, for a proper rant requires a condemning tone, insidious accusations, and an anti-establishment sentiment against high-handed dealings and abuses. I'm just not feeling it. Now I know I've been known to talk as though every news report, every government bill, every social grace, every materialistic message, every PC catchphrase is the plot of Satan, as carried out through his corporeal vassals. Not that conspiracies don't run deep, or that there isn't treachery about, but deviousness takes a considerable amount of work, and I have to believe that the media has better things to do than scheme for corruption and manipulation. It makes for a good hobby or summer internship, but as a full time job, it feels like it would be tedious to plot demises all day long. I'd get sick of it at least. But then, I've also gotten sick of video games. Well, not for any length of time. It was like 15, maybe 17 minutes.
Still, as is unwritten custom, I write these blogs either to moralize or (im)mortalize, and that often requires passing judgement of some sort. I know I usually do, and it's strange because I try to keep up some illusion of que sera sera (well, it's more than an illusion; I do utilize that theory quite often in fact). Now, I won't use the word pro@..î$@!active because it's one of my least favorite words ever and I think it should burn in the innermost circle of word hell, but I often like plans, even when they don't work out right. Now some look at me and mistake contentment for lack of assertiveness (which I also possess, situationally), but I think I've long advocated a "figure out what you want to do and do it" mentality. I mean this in the grand sense and in the daily sense. It's why I like lists. I make lists of all the things I want to accomplish in a day, and by the time I go to sleep I have, on good days, half of them checked off. Now is that any real indication that I'm getting done what I should be getting done? No. Sometimes my list has things like "Watch a movie" on it. Still, it is good for order and productivity. So I guess I'm a happy, plan-making guy who doesn't so much care how the plans turn out. And I think prolonged perfidy is more trouble than its worth. And I'm not ranting today. Or maybe I did. I can't tell sometimes.
Peter, I think you're right. I think next time I should just write a Wooch column. I'll have to think of a topic. If anyone has good ideas, I'm happy to hear them. And make fun of them.

Things that make me smile (this be no longer one, at least not in the first two senses)

A bit of a note here first: this started out as a good idea (meaning, one of those silly little few rhyming lines that mistakenly thought I could work with) but then went to hell in a handbasket long before i tried to give it regular rhythm, a rhyme scheme, or a theme. i post this now against all my better instinctsenough rubbish reading already exists. still, i haven't blogged in a while, and my brain's wrecked from being racked, and, well, who knows, maybe something is salvagable.

Things that make me smile
Let's just put in a nice big Author Unknown here, right from the start

I smile out of joy
When I see one playing coy
Girl or Boy,
But mostly lass who shyly laughs
Around an older boy.

I smile knowingly
When a boy finds apathy
"Look, that's me"
And finds it scholarly employ
In all his poetry

I smile, almost tear
The beggar nigh is drawing here
Oh how queer
In theory have I sympathy
Than Pitiful is near

I smile, still confused
A little laugh to try and lose
the foreign ruse
And all the lookers on who leer
Before I blow this fuse

I smile, all is lost
These last three verses should be tossed
'Stead of glossed
This garbage you should just refuse
For fear it leaves us cross

lemonade. because summer starts in a month

the one, and probably only, benefit to having an ant problem is that when i accidentally squish a small gecko in the door i dont have to clean up the gooey mess. rather, i wait a couple days, and then just have a few, tiny bones to sweep up.

Since when am I up before the sun on a Sabbath?

It's about 4:30 am, and I'm already awake. I guess my body doesn't know what to do if it's allowed more than 5 hours of sleep. But I guess this is what i get for going to bed before midnight.

So here I am, listening to NPR podcasts, wondering how Sunderland drew a tie with Man U (in Old Trafford!), being disgusted at how long my past few posts have been, and contemplating writing something a little more personalized in a vain (and probably vain) attempt to amass myspace comments or gmail inboxes.

Oh, right, so I lost my voice again last night teaching English classes. Also, those kids are far too keen to know stuff about me. I've managed to keep wildly evasive. They've managed to stay wildly intrusive. And intrusively wild. I am not a disciplinarian. Nor really a self restraint...arian. Well, that's less than true. I can be indefatigably abstemious. Maybe we'll just say I'm a bit like my writing--well composed when it doesn't matter, and unbridled when I should (Oh the moralizing "should") be of tempered spirit (and sometimes, too, vocabulary. But cmon, who really can resist that thesaurus widget?)

I promised myself this would be short. I suppose I can stifle volubility this once.

Light Urple

Today I learned that while it is unnerving to find, late at night, a spider whose legs can stretch farther than my fingers (if it was stronger it'd probably be a magnificent pianist, or Shelob) perched on the wall above the showerhead, it is equally worrisome for that arachnid to be missing the following morning, given that it had no escape save the door to my lair (aka, the rest of my apartment).

Oh, I guess I forgot to mention it earlier, but I've started teaching some (six in total) English classes at night to little 7-13 year-olds (a hundred some in total). They're loud. I end up screaming half the time, just to have them scream back. Not mad, angry screaming, but excited screaming. They're so excited to learn a new word that they just have to scream it. The other way to keep their attention is to sing. So I sometimes sing lessons. I think they prefer being able to shout. I'd prefer being shot. But no, it's just my voice that ends up so lucky.

It must be almost 40 outside. Not the good 40. The Celsius 40. A muggy, buggy Celsius 40. I cannot but think that it must have been the original inhabitants of this land who invented air conditioning. Their Prometheus must have stolen not fire, but ice. Or maybe that's what Uncle Ho Chi Minh did for this nation. God bless Uncle Ho. He stood years of torture, shackled by Papa Zeus to the Caucasus Mountains, to keep us cool during these stifling spring months. Or at least that's my best guess. I never saw Apocalypse Now, and our history classes never made it more than three sentences past Nagasaki. From what I can gather, post-World War II history goes something like this: J.D. Salinger writes stuff worth reading but then stops publishing even though I think he's still alive (what a selfish bastard), Watson (who also designed a beautiful water bottle for Hong Kong) and Crick (who named all streams in Pennsylvania) discovered DNA^2's structure, Kennedy went swimming in Castro's Pork Pond (Tobias: I thought it was a pool toy!) but then King David wanted his hot wife so he sent JFK to the front lines of the Alamo vs. the Philistines (MLS teams?), MLK gets shot too (James Bond never bothered to protect black men, which is why the world now loves Jack Bauer more. Coincidentally, my nickname is JB; Hollywood and hotties take note), some guys went to the moon so we could make an IMax movie about it later, some other guys tried to go to the moon but had space ship troubles so Tom Hanks could make a movie about it later, Henry Louis "Hank" Hadley Aaron hit a bunch of home runs (while not on anyone's fantasy team, or cow steroids), there were hippies (which Cartman killed, but some escaped to San Francisco and Oregon, where they then captured Harrison Ford, stuck an earring in him, and made him do the Super Bowl this year), Mr. Lucas had a brilliant idea (it involved Harrison Ford, but then someone had the bad idea to exclude him), Mr. Nintendo (or maybe it was Mr. Atari; either way, some Japanese dude) had a brilliant idea (it involved Mega Man, but then someone had the bad idea to exclude him), and then suddenly Reagan was President.

Game, set, match, oil.....errr, national security.....errrr, democracy.

I need a syrupy, frozen treat. Wonder if I can find Otter Pops anywhere.

Anecdotes, Thoughts, and Dinner Menu: 10 April, 2006

Today I was designated drinker.
On three occasions in my life, alcoholically speaking, have I come to a point where it's just easier to give in. Today marked the third such occasion. Under none of those circumstances have I done so under the influence (ha!) of that oft-warned-of scourge, peer pressure. No, on every occasion it has been supeerior pressure.

The first time was beer. This crazy Serbian scientist (who was teaching me how to use a scanning electron microscope) got it fixed in his mind that I should try his beverage of choice (he had two crates of this stuff in the laboratory stockroom, which looked more like a carport since it had a garage door and was messy, but he knew his way around it pretty well). He then got it in his mind that this libation should be further cooled (Belgrade is quite warm in the summer), and as he was a loss for liquid nitrogen (he regretted to me later), he used a fire extinguiser to take the liquid to a temperature at which gases are more soluble. Such an offering is not easily refused, and I found it worthy of a real sip, and a couple subsequent fake sips just to appease the guy. He really was nice. I'd have drunk the whole thing (it didn't taste good, but it didn't make me want to vomit either) if he woulda showed me how to use the transmission electron microscope.

The second time was at a party. It was again at the Vinca Institute of Nuclear Science (oh yeah, that's where the first one was). Anyway, the head of the whole lab asked me to sit at his table (how could I refuse?) and while I was there he poured me some sort of something (rather moderate, 120 proof i think, but it sure beat the alternative, red wine), and when we got to toasting, well, I had to be polite.

Today's revelation. You can't say "no" to the People's Committee. When the boss says drink, you toast, gulp, and grin back. Then you ask for your Fanta back, which was taken from you when the shot glass was thrust in your face in the first place. In my defense I was able to fend off the advances by the people from the Department of Agriculture and Rural Development, but when the real soldiers showed up, well I guess you have to pick your battles. (Well, there went all the vaunted bravado of my recently issued battle-indiscrimination policy. Instead of you teasing me about this, can I just give you points for being right in the first place?)
I guess it's something of an unwritten rule here (and also in Bangkok, so I hear, which means it undoubtedly extends even further): No drink, no work. If you don't drink, you don't get work. The other two ADRA employees I was with somehow managed to decline the officials, but I guess it was because I was so obviously young that they wanted to recruit me. I tried to tell them I was Buddhist, but I guess that only excuses me from meat (though I could have sworn it was supposed to give me R-OH exemption as well). On the plus side, the potent stuff I drank probably killed any of the germs that probably crawled over the rest of the meal.

My real feelings about alcohol: It's overrated. The people who think it's evil blow it way out of proportion. Yes, sure, fine, it can become an addiction and all that, and it does lead to rude, lewd, and reckless (wreck-full) behaviour, but it's not going to keep you out of heaven. It is not liquid sin. It is not inherently evil. Doug Bachelor, you do not have to pretend that Jesus turned the water into very tasty grape juice at that wedding. Besides, ethanol can be used to treat methanol poisoning.
BUT! It's way overrated the other way as well. The stuff tastes terrible. It smells bad. OK, it'll loosen you up, but I'm not really a fan of looseness. It causes much more trouble than it's worth as it hardly facilitates a) good conversation b) good manners c) good relationships d) good driving.

In conclusion, it is not an activity of mine (except under the most extenuating circumstances), in no way do I support consumption of alcohol, nor do I see a legitimate and rational appeal in it, but I refuse to be fanatical in my abstinence from it and I am tolerant of those who engage responsibly (does anyone actually know what "responsibly" means, besides having your pit crew take the tires off of your car when you arrive at a party or asking your drunk friend for his pants because they have the keys to his car) in such an activity. Actually, I just don't think it's as big a deal as everyone wants to make about it. Or at least I just wish the extremists on each end would stop all their foofaraw.

I'm a little irritable. I need to start getting at least 5 hours of sleep at night.

Dinner (my fourth meal in 3 days, but this is the simplest, so don't anyone go throwing a worry hissy. If anyone DOES mention how skinny I must be getting, I will take a picture of my awesome body, and post it, unless the comment was made only so that I would post a picture of my awesome body (Doug I mean you)):
3 Vege-Links
2 handfuls of almonds
1 small orange
A decent amount (by my sensible standards) of brown rice

In this one, you can't see the end from the beginning

For some reason, and I really don't know what it is, and even if I did know, which I dont, I might not tell you what it is and I might even go so far as to say I don't know the reason even if I really did, but in this case I don't. I'm just trying to warn you that my writings aren't altogether transparent. Rather, I bend the light (truth) so that you might see (believe) what I'd prefer you to see (believe). Not that I lie. I like to think I create literary illusions, MC Escher/GOB Bluth-like. But still, I probably allude and elude more than I illude (not a real word. oh wait, yes it is. but i didn't think it was when i wrote it.). If you're already lost, then elusion (and maybe even elution, you silly chemists {hey, that's me!}) successful.

But back to the "for some reason." For some reason I remembered today that when I was first up at Walla Walla as a freshman we had to take some sort of entrance exam, only it was like one of those initial assessment surveys that didn't actually mean anything except that Walla Walla statistics people could compare it to the senior exit exams (which I don't remember taking) and brag about how much smarter they made their students. In effort both to help it make WWC feel good about itself (as I would be doing bad on this test and probably good on the later one) and to entertain myself, I used the scantron sheet for that test to help me imagine what my name would look like in pencil-blackened braille bubbles. But I don't know Braille, and all that beginning stuff was just guesswork, so next I went for something a little more tangible. Block Print. This was the result.

OOO?OO????OO?OO?OO?OO?OO
OOO?OO?OO?OO?OO?OO??O?OO
OOO?OO?OO?OO????OO?O??OO
O???OO????OO?OO?OO?OO?OO

well nevermind, it didn't turn out here. the question marks are supposed to be big black dots.

But in the test I was rather pleased with myself, except that it only took me a couple minutes and the test was to last for 45 minutes and we couldn't leave early. Or maybe we could. I forget some of the details here.

But moving along. It was during that test, when I was done bubbling and looking around at other people's answer sheets to see how we compared that I noticed I was sitting next to (by virtue of the alphabetical surname arrangement that testing rooms enjoy so much) a boy who, upon closer inspection, I recognized to be my best friend from third grade, who moved away after third grade.

Oh wait, maybe that's what happened. Time for an emendation. Ok, so maybe we were allowed to leave the test early, but I'd recognized this boy, and for fear of not finding him around campus in the future, I waited until the end of the test so I could say hi to him. And wait I did, and so after the test I reintroduced myself (something I don't particularly mind doing, since I myself have a propensity for forgetfulness in these things; ask any of my second cousins), but upon reintroduction he had exactly no recollection of who I was. Or he decided not to show any recollection, for fear that our friendship of old would somehow now obligate us to reacquaint ourselves. I don't think there's necessarily such an obligation. People force it sometimes, or maybe even so much as often. I'm not saying not to test the waters, I just mean give change a chance. Reminisce about old times, but there's no real reason to try to recreate them (though, the Braves could use Glavine and Maddux these days. And the Lakers probably would be better with Shaq. I bet Jordan still has game. But if you think Gretzky's gonna slip on skates and rake in 200 points in a season or Joe Montana can save the 49ers from another losing season, well do what you want, but I don't want to hear about it).
Every moment passes. Things will get better and things will get worse. Plans will succeed and plans will fail. You will live and you will die (rapture permitting). Everything dies. Mayflies, Mayflowers, radiation, superpowers. Your watch band is going to break. Your car will blow a tire. The Simpsons will go off the air. Oprah will retire.
Is this so bad? Is Michelangelo really better off being immortalized in his Sistine frescoes, or Shakespeare in his stories? DiMaggio in his super streak, or Einstein in his theories? Is Jesus any better off because people pray to him, or because of a Mel Gibson movie? Will you truly be improved if you ace that test, land that job, wear that dress, get that guy/girl, stick that landing, make that sale, donate to charity, go to vespers, call your sis, win that election, get invited to that party, get accepted by that school, or by those people, secure that distinguished prize, resist that urge to gamble or tell a foul joke, or have your seat in that full upright and locked position?

I'm just asking. I don't pretend to know. Or maybe I think I do.

One last thing. You can't cut God out of your life for six days a week and expect everything to be fine for just one in seven. Or, maybe you can, if you're as serious about God as you are The OC, provided you don't think about The OC or talk about it with your friends except for Thursdays. That includes looking up Music From The OC playlists in the iTunes music store, or seeing if the clothes were from Urban Outfitters again, or even making sure that Anna and that girl from the Bad Day music video are one in the same.

gone phishing

The purpose of this blog is to shamelessly try and get as many comments and/or kudos as possible in an overly narcissistic effort to convince myself that people do read this and have some sort of reaction. To accomplish such a task, I feel it is probably necessary to bring out my big guns, aka my fearsome powers of insight.

Insight number one: people get riled up if you talk about things they strongly agree or disagree with. Disagreement is especially powerful because they usually want to add in their two cents (if I got 50 million people to add their two cents I could be rich!) and tell me why they're right and why I'm wrong.

It is commonly known, and rightly believed, that all people get to love two things, and I think those two things should be nuclear energy and Indian casinos that don't pay taxes.

Insight number two: people, especially girls, relish the opportunities to console handome young men whom the much admire if or when the young man should befall some illness of misfortune.

I've been sick all week. Fever, sore throat, headache. It's pretty miserable, especially since I still have to cook and clean around here, and take care of my boss's place while he and Paul are gone. My other friends are gone two; Marford's job has taken him to Malaysia, Espy will be forever stuck in Thailand, and Dinh is visiting his fiancee, who lives near Saigon.

Insight number three: people love being made fun of. Just look at how many people were laughing at Stephen Colbert when he roasted Bush at the White House Correspondents Dinner (there are 3 parts to this).

My favorite part about myspace is how all these nice people get all gussied up for the occasion. They take their most flattering photos, couple them with some new hot music that they think everyone should find fresh and awesomely, drop a bunch of "hey gorgeous" to the girls and "DUDE YOUR [sic] AWESOME!" to the guys and then go on to say how much fun they had with that person the other day (because comments like that let the whole myspace world how fun you are and private messages don't), fudge a few quizzes or surveys, blog with their (or just as often, someone else's) best prose or poetry, describe their heroes or people they want to meet as "people who are real and everyday live life to the fullest" (and would someone tell me if that actually means something, or has it become one of those ceremonial figurehead phrases like "gay rights" and "orphans" and "save the rainforest" and "Jesus died for me" and "I pledge allegiance to the flag" and "I do" that we all agree to (like governments agree to tobacco control) but then really don't take all that seriously. or maybe it's one big package. like to be real and live life to the fullest, you have to care about gays and orphans and Jesus and so you get baptized and sign those Amnesty International or those World Wildlife Fund petitions and buy hats and pins from them so they can tell you how many cheetahs your dollar can save, or could save if half of it didn't go into advertising. Speaking of full of it, those bloggers who go on hypocrisy rants sure have some nerve).

Insight number four: that last paragraph was way too long. I'd revise it, but it's awfully big and intimidating. Let's hope everyone's attention span is as short as mine. Plus everyone loves to be able to skim an article and have the last couple sentences wrap everything up. That's bound to win me some thank yous. In fact, I should write some thank yous myself to all the writers who bother to sum up long discourses in a few concise sentences. They truly understand the something of my ways. Wisdom? Must be wisdom. (Hey, that's not original.)

And that's why you never trust the media. Liberal sycophants. Yup, that's what we've learned today.

Weekend Homework

Due Monday, May 1, 2006: Compare and contrast the two days of the weekend. Pay particular attention to having awesome topic sentences.

Every weekend seems to be comprised largely of two daysSaturday and Sunday. I hold both in rather high regard, both because of the ways in which they're similar and the ways they differ from each other. It may be stating the obvious, but the experience I have with Saturdays and Sundays, even any particular Saturday or Sunday, will vary largely from the encounters of others, and so this should not be seen as any sort of definitive work on the subject, especially since this essay will seek to focus on Saturday, April 29 and Sunday, April 30, 2006.
The particular Saturday and Sunday in question were similar in many ways. Firstly, I awoke both days to discover that the Pirates had won their games the night before. Secondly, I talked with four people (Jarrod and Jill on both days). Thirdly, I read. Fourthly, I ate rice (which actually happens every day, but on these particular instances it represented the better portion of my caloric intake). Fifthly, I thought about practicing trumpet, but then didn't. Sixthly, I think I took naps both days (or really, I fell asleep while reading). Seventhly, both days were rather boring, at least compared to that time when Brian Giles threw me a baseball and then my cousin Joe got a foul ball at the same ballgame, or that time when that lady threatened to call the cops on us because we were rolling eggplants and throwing pomegranates from my hillside onto Redlands Boulevard.
Saturday and Sunday were, for all their similarities, remarkably different from each other. On Saturday, I didn't go outside, but Sunday I did. On Saturday, I didn't actually speak aloud to anyone, whereas on Sunday I went and got a key to the Cooper's apartment from Santosh so I could water the four plants on the Cooper's porch, and in the process engaged Santosh in conversation (well, we alternated talking about 3 times, and less than 30 words were said). On Saturday, nothing broke in my room, while on Sunday, one of the crossbeams that runs underneath my bed and supports the mattress broke (no, i'm not getting fat, I weighed myself up at Cooper's apartment and I'm still the same) and so I rearranged the supports, and in the process had to face the dust bunnies and spiders that live under my bed (I chased them away {into a corner} with a broom)fortunately for me, the rabbits were Disney Bambi Thumpers and not Watership Down brutes, and the arachnids weren't on the scale of the Aragog I'd seen before.
As you can probably see, Saturday and Sunday were quite alike and quite different. I never was in the habit or writing good conclusions to my papers, and I think it would be quite out of character to try to do so here. So instead, I think I'll just end mid-sentence and see how that works out for me. Oh, well I missed my chance at that. Whatever.
How about a haiku. Surely Michael can't be the only poetic one. Oh wait, my last entry was a poem. Yeah, but I didn't really like it. Did I just promise you a haiku? I'm sure I can make one up here right quick.

i do best with words
that can mean two diff'rent things.
like impertinent

(If I had to score this, I'd probably say post one of those yellow warning "12% downgrade" signs and then put a runaway truck ramp with those loose gravel slopes that your tires get stuck in somewhere in the middle of the contrast paragraph.)

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.