Walking around Baltimore, you'll see a lot of "BELIEVE" signs hanging about nonchalantly on trashcans, abandoned buildings, homeless people and so forth, ostensibly to promote the idea that if all the denizens of this city were to squeeze their eyes shut and wish really hard, all their problems will vanish. From what I hear, the previous campaign leaned toward advocating a more active response to all the violence/illiteracy/suckiness--for people to give a damn or get involved, or something. I guess when trying doesn't work, wishful thinking is the next best course of action.

Enough about this city, though, this city that I no longer despise. Honestly!

How about Cieo getting published for the first time? It tastes sweet. It makes all my pipetting sores feel like little love bites.

My bed is a loft that one of the former brothers had built for himself. It's more than ten feet tall, and I'm an ass-in-the-air, let-the-limbs-fall-where-they-may sort of sleeper. The good news is, he's also built a rickety ladder to go with it. The only thing missing is my phenomenal lack of coordination that can only be described as God's singularly humorless joke at my expense. Throw that in, and we'll have the makings of the grandest party ever--complete with flailing limbs, pumping adrenaline, and fruity red punch pouring forth from the punchbowl that is my broken skull.

***
There is a sign above my door on the outside that reads, "Ladies." I always wondered about why on earth such a sign would be on a frat brother's door.

A party is going on downstairs tonight. Featherweight girls are getting drunk off of Bud Light. Featherweight girls are stumbling into my room, thinking that it's the ladies' room. I think we've solved our mystery. Sitting up here near the ceiling, I do feel rather like a spider lying in wait for the next disgusting morsel of mind-numbingly dippy prey.

***
On a somewhat unrelated note, I'd like to know why boys are so icky. I used to think that I was just indulging in stereotypes, but faced with indisputable evidence, I must reassess my position.

There was a time when I hated my culture. Welcome to the world of an American Born Korean.

At the forefront of what I saw then as a glorification of ineptitude was the giant clique that traveled en masse through all three major blocks of my education prior to college. There was never more than one Korean clique in any given school, because the very concept of existing apart from the mother ship (whence flowed all manners of alien nutrients, blue eyeshadow, blonde highlights and rules on how to act in unison) had yet to be discovered.

Once chosen for one of their own, they would swallow the poor lambs whole and the end result of soaking in their digestive juices was always eerily indistinguishable from the other processed entities. The same unnatural accent that was neither 'f.o.b.' nor 'valley girl' (Foblish), the same liking of the insidious mockery of music that is K-Pop, the same hobbies, hairdresser, eyebrow tweezer--They were the same all the way down to the way they tied their damn shoelaces (no, seriously).

It took a long time for me to recognize exactly why I had such a viscerally aggressive reaction against them aside from the fact of the Western ideal of individualism that had been ingrained in me. I hated them for their lack of Korean culture. I hated the entire country for its lack of Korean culture.

The West has had its fair share of intermingling, with both dominant and subordinate cultures having something in the way of exchange (besides VD). Yet what I saw then in Korea, what I still see today, is nothing other than an aversion to itself, seeking only to borrow from the West in an effort to displace its own assets.

Its greatest commodity at the moment? Its soap operas. The style of story telling might not be as twisted as its American counterparts, but my issue is with the content. Take away the Korean actors and the Korean characters off the street signs, and there is nothing left of Korea in those shows. All you would have instead, are dramas that emphasize two things: the greatness of the West, and the inferiority of Korea.

Oh, it's never as blatant as that, but watch just a little more closely. In all Korean dramas set in present time, there will always be one character who is the envy of all the other characters for most of the show's running time. Her shining moments? Without exception, the moments when she either answers her incoming calls in English, when she visits the States, when she has the ability to order her food in another language. Anything that allows her to be a little less purely Korean for a moment.

It's all over the place, this phenomenon. I know it, it's called westernization, globalization, a whole slew of things--and probably not even isolated to Korea. But this is a country that is a part of me, and it disgusts me just a little more to see it happening there and in all the people who came from there. It started in my parents' generation, and I'm happy that I won't see the result of it in mine. But I worry for everyone else who comes after that, who will think of Korea and see the face of Britney Spears.
___________________________
I really didn't intend for this to become a rant. Alas.

Arjuna had such love and devotion for his god Shiva, that he begged Shiva to be able to see the true form of his greatness. Just this once, Shiva agreed, and revealed himself to the faithful man. Yet the sheer magnitude of all that was Shiva overwhelmed the prince, nearly killing him as he attempted to comprehend that which so surpassed his limited human mind. In his mercy, Shiva returned to his previous form, and contained himself within the bronze statue that the prince had worshipped before.

***

I sometimes wonder what it is about science and evolution that is so objectionable to some among us to the point where all attempts at discussion degenerate into barely controlled screaming matches. Personally, I’ve never understood why the two sides of fundamental Christianity and Darwinism necessarily had to be mutually exclusive.

Science and Darwin’s theory of evolution has always been bound by that which is logical and not contradicted by empirical evidence. All that belongs within its realm must agree and those points of inconsistency are the points around which scientists must converge to recover the common thread of logic. It is a process that has never failed to impress me with the methodical purity of its aims. Logic in itself is beautiful. To suggest that this world might be based on anything outside of a logical sphere of being is to suggest a less ideal universe.

It is inconceivable to me that the Christian God, in all his perfection, would ever have thought to create a world in which science, logic, and consistency had no place. Is it therefore so impossible that given one’s devotion to God, one might believe that evolution and science are the divine tools through which He might work? Is the idea of those seven days so powerful?

Maybe it is. But a part of me also remembers Arjuna. It’s unnerving to contemplate a world that you cannot completely hold in your mind. In the past few centuries, we’ve progressed further and faster than any preceding civilizations. A person’s world used to consist of his village, then his city, then his country. Now, the concept of world encompasses the entire globe, with eyes cast upward towards the stars. Yet it is still possible to maintain one’s sense of reality and self—the steady stream of images and knowledge, the simulation of interconnectedness, and the expanding of culture areas allows it.

The very concept of evolution takes all that security away. It tells you that there was once a time when nothing, least of all you, existed, and the unrelenting threat of reverting back to nothing barges its way into your consciousness. And if nothing remains when you and all that you know are gone, then not even the idea of Heaven seems quite adequate to justify your current existence. In short, with or without the presence of God, the idea of evolution chips away at your personal significance in this vast plane and for lack of better words, you cannot wrap your mind around the concept, try though you might. It’s easier to ask Shiva to return to his bronze statue, easier to believe that the world simply became, and remained constant and limited.

Maybe I’m wrong and there actually is true incompatibility between the two, with science and religion at odds for the rest of our time. But I’d like to think that there is room for reconciliation, or at least peaceful coexistence and mutual respect. I’m something of an optimist at heart, you see.

It was the unholiest of alliances, the breach of all that is pure and good--but it had to be made.

Higher education, sure. No one ever tells you about the darker half. No one ever. They show you glamorous brochures, sprawling libraries, an architect's wet dream sitting there in wait just for you. Through the glitter and sparkling pizazz of rare books and infinite founts of knowledge, they don't tell you about the price of it all hanging over your head, odious rainclouds of ruin that refuse to dissipate--skewered to you about a permanent axis. An axis of ee-ville.

You're broke; you've emptied your pockets, your bank accounts, even the false bottoms of your shoes in the name of that which you were promised. The Ivy League dream.

But you still exist, a delicate shred of humanity shining through the rubble of your pride. And so after much gnashing of teeth, rending of clothing, and whining of voice, you admit your need to subsist on something to continue the legalized highway robbery that is your education.

You eventually give into the deceptive temptations of Nong Shim or Ichiban-- rippling filaments of psudofood preserved many times over for your frugal palate. Alas, it ended as with all back alley transactions. My form curled, prostrate, with brief moments of thumb sucking to dull the pain within.

Ah, for the ability to self-induce vomiting.

There's nothing shameful about journaling, I don't think.

But try making sounds that even vaguely resemble "el-jay" at a party. You may as well have announced to the room that you spend your nights snuggled in the comforting silicon embrace of your Jessica Simpson blow-up doll while making sweet synthetic love to "Light my Fire." AND that you happen to be wearing a purple buttplug. If you've ever admitted to doing any of those three things at a party, you'll remember those slimy stares that make you feel like you've just been French kissed by a dead sea bass--you'll remember for a long time.

So as you make your way though your journaling path towards El Jay superstardom, it's best that you learn this painful lesson as soon as possible. El Jay, outside the tender womb-like environment of officially sanctioned gatherings, is not a socially acceptable topic for discussion.

"But Sundance!," you protest, tears of unforeseen rejection welling up in your dewy eyes. "Surely you are being too harsh in your assessment of the virtual world and its place in normal regimented society, for it is certainly not a shame to engage in the joys offered by a bound paper journal and is it not--"


At this point, I deftly stem the torrential flood of your ever more agitated words by singing you making a voice post of me singing you something catchy by Carly Simon or The Kinks.

Then, after your weeping subsides, you will realize the truth--as I have. Internet journaling for the internet, our dirty little virtual secret.

What do you suppose Sleep looks like?

Luck looks like Rita Hayworth, hair all done up, dress all flowy, hips swaying with the jangle of all the money she swiped from the last straight flush that didn't make it. Then I think about Death who looks rather rakish with California surfer bleached hair tossed back in a halo around a perfect smile that no one can resist forever. Why else would everyone eventually fall for him?

Then I think of Sleep, and all I see is a large bed exuding a huge swirling cloud of intoxicating perfume. The smoky perfume dances around him like his personal harem and draws you in, even when you know you shouldn't be tempted. But how can you resist just one dance? So you let those wispy fingers mingle with your own and you waft closer and closer, until Dream drapes over you and tucks you in.

Wake me up, come morning.

I sat alone on my bed with my laptop cradled on my knees, reading through the last of my friends page while cursing the fates that had earlier stolen every last scrap of creativity from my brain, which was, as always, far too willing to roll over and take it. Then I looked over to see a rather scruffy young girl perched ever so obnoxiously at the other end of my bed, filing her chipped blue nails, flicking her disinterested eyes ever so insolently at me.

My muse had never run away from me--she was just a sullen, angst-ridden delinquent. Realizing this, I died a little inside.
***

Dear BFF (Best Friend Forever),

Today, I met the dreamiest hunk-o'-man. Our eyes locked as we walked down Main Street, and I knew it was kismet. We drew closer and closer together as though a great magnetic Cupidian force were pulling through our eyeballs. Just before our noses collided, he cocked his head towards the nearby Barnes & Noble.

He led me to a secluded bookcase and pointed out all the books he loved to read. It just made me feel all hot and fluttery inside that he knew how to read at all.

He wanted to tell me about his thoughts on Dante. Of course, I put a stop to that immediatamente. Instead, I made him tell me about how he learned to read in the first place. He thought it was a bit odd, but the manic gleam of my dilated pupils convinced him to proceed. I nearly took him in a womanly fashion when he told me that he had mastered the skill by the age of six.

In that moment, I belonged to him. Or so I thought.

As we walked a meandering path through the bookstore, he insisted on discussing random and meaningless topics such as current and historical events in various world countries and a whole bunch of other disparate ideas that I'll file under the trash repository term of Science.

It was bad enough to find out that this heathenish traitor to the mother tongue spoke another language, but to then realize that he has the attention span of a drunken nematode? Too much, BFF. Too much. O BFF, how will I ever stand to be with a man who jumps readily from subject to subject, each time contributing something witty and intelligent to the so called conversation?

A real man knows how to be focused. He sticks to one idea, like the irresistibly sexy mechanics of reading, writing, and arithmetic, and he sticks to it persistently. Kind of like those really cute blood-sucking leeches. Now they have what I call stamina.

It's all a moot point anyway. I parted ways with him for good in front of Dickens when he added LYING to his growing list of vices, telling me he was a high school graduate. As if they let the likes of him out of the kindergarten playground anymore.

I've always lamented my tragic lack of culinary skills. It's a fact that makes the end result of cooking for myself almost unbearably agonizing to ingest. In my time, I've managed to screw up the most basic of food preparations.

I've burned eggs, overcooked ramen noodles, and dear god, left the electric burner on after cooking a whole pot's worth of pasta. I think the only thing I haven't thus far managed to irreparably mangle is water. I can get that stuff to boil without any major problems.

But I'll bet it's not as good as an Iron Chef's boiled water. I just know it.

It's always bothered me, but I always comforted myself with the idea that no one else my age really knows how to cook either. Maybe things don't magically turn into charcoal inside all their pans like they do in mine, but at least they're not cooking restaurant quality food. Oh, this assumption isn't based on reality, by the way. As with most of my thoughts, this labyrinthine train of logic developed in the mostly abandoned shanties of my brain otherwise known as the Land of Fanciful Thinking.

Today, subsiding_leaf and I went to Club Singapore's annual dinner which featured mostly Singaporean dishes made by its members. As the tender morsels of chicken melted on my tongue, I wept quietly inside--not because I couldn't cook like this, not because everyone else apparently could, but because I didn't care. It was the sort of food that made me forget about everything else in the room.

It was just me, a skewer, and ecstasy.

Now, LJ, I love you dearly. Livejournal, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Live. Jour. Nal.

My heart skips just a little when I see you every morning--when I tuck you in every night. This infatuation with you borders on that other unmentionable side of sanity if you want the pungent truth of it. So you must take my words to heart when I tell you what I'm about to tell you.

SOMETIMES YOU JUST ANNOY THE LIVING FUCK* OUT OF ME. And here's why:

You know, for being composed of people who claim to want to write, it is mind-bogglingly difficult to find any decent journals in you to read. I don't know why you have an option for "Random Search" available when all the journals you randomly give me have either been voided from your bowels, Russian, or written by some fluffy twelve year old emo child with all the cognitive capacity of a dung beetle's smallest ganglion. Why do they even want to keep journals in which they can't seem to write ANYTHING of consequence to save their lives?

And why you have to be such a reprehensible dramamonger is beyond me. Why can't you just sit back and count all the money you get from people who want you to put out, instead of making up things like FRIENDS lists? Why not READING list? This is why everyone gets into a feces-flinging frenzy every time they get kicked off of a list. No, now when I unfriend someone, I've rejected him as a person and made him realize that contrary to what his mother has taught him, he's not the most precious butterfly in all the world. And don't even get me started on the sad ones who "friend" you and then "unfriend" you 24 hours later when it becomes clear that you don't intend to read them in return. Note that this was back when my userinfo still made it pretty obvious that I am not loose with my affections.

That's right, LJ darling. Best you start learning how to sweet-talk me with pretty words and people who occasionally write interesting things. You think about that. I'll see you in the morning.




*It's not as vulgar as you might think. I imagine living fuck to be the primordial essence of being--that which animates us, that which inspires us, that which we all are born with and keep within our cores until it just GETS ANNOYED OUT INTO OBLIVION.

**This entry was not inspired by any particular person. It was spurred by almost two years of bottled frustration. Please to not be asking me if I was referring to YOU. I was not, I assure you.

When I sit myself down to write, I first purge myself of all Mary-Sueesque tendencies that might be lurking in the shadowy corners of my questionable psyche. The last thing I want is for my character to be a ridiculously romanticized paragon of everything you could ever possibly want to do or attain. Mary-Sues cheapen your stories, making them parodies of your original intentions. But Mary-Sue lurks in every writer, and just because you exorcise yourself before each writing session doesn't mean that you've banished her to the far-flung reaches of the 9th dimension where she belongs. She's only temporarily subdued, waiting to shoot herself back into your soul to skewer what's left of your respectability for breakfast.

That's why I can enjoy books by Anne Rice.

Writers all around the world should parade this woman about town on a giant palanquin with only the slightest hint of envy and indignation gnawing away at their heart of hearts. This woman, you see, has accomplished what no other writer has done as successfully on such a grand scale--she has made a career out of writing purely about the Mary-Sue in her triply distilled essence. No self-respecting writer will ever admit it, but deep down they've all thought about their unwritten Mary-Sue under lime* lights, a vast multitude of rabid fans groveling at her feet in rapturous adoration. Write a famous Mary-Sue, and her fans are your fans by very definition. You yourself will live on through her immortality, stand on her pedestal erected by the literati. Don't try to play it like you've never wanted it.

You have. But as a self-respecting writer, you've never done it. And that's where Anne Rice buys your soul through a simple PayPal transaction. She writes all the word porn you've ever secretly dreamed of but didn't think you could bring yourself to writing.

Everyone who is anyone in Ricedom is beautiful. Ethereally beautiful. Alight with the magical glitter of a thousand supermodel faeries kind of beautiful. Then they become vampires and they become, get this, even more beautiful.

Everyone who is anyone in Ricedom is a fucking genius. But not in the completely unsexy way that Einstein or the creators of Livejournal were geniuses. This is intelligence from having spent their entire privileged aristocratic lives reading books that nobody reads but everyone quotes from. Then they become vampires and they become even more freakishly well-informed. And they can read minds. And they can learn anything else they want to learn in one night. And they can beat any Jedi Knight in a contest of mind control and vampires don't have to stoop to using any pansy-ass force to do it.

And finally, everyone who is anyone in Ricedom never has anything permanent happen to them, because physical rules don't apply to them. Not even rules applying to vampires in Ricedom ever apply to Rice vampires. If you get into a fight, you can kick everyone's ass because you're the strongest vampire to exist EVER. If you lose an eye while on safari through the outer reaches of Hell, you can just go back to fetch it. If you try to kill yourself, enough of you will remain alive so that you can recuperate and your fans won't jump out of their windows. If you decide that you love another vampire, they'll like you back because all vampires are promiscuous whores.

Everyone who is anyone in Ricedom IS Anne Rice.

I always picture Anne Rice sitting at a throne made of her own books, held together by the sticky residues of what used to be her writer's dignity. I never picture her as sad, though. Rather, I see her content, eyes hooded, gazing contemplatively into the crimson light of an evening horizon. See, she's saved the lot of us. She's Mary-Sue enough for everyone else combined.

*Edit-- I originally wrote "limey lights" in an attempt to be cute with the made up words and such. Apparently, Limey is an actual word, and used properly, should make any man of British origin thrash you soundly. Apologies. I'm just a dumb American.

I wanted Barbies when I was a little girl. I didn't see the cheap fabric, the plastic shoes that Barbie couldn't even stand on, the gaudy use of glitter, the fact that Barbie was closer anatomically to a typical wasp than a woman. I saw the seeds of my own homemade theater instead, my beautiful actors packaged in cardboard castles. As an only child, I saw friends within the plastic molded plastic in the way that my grandmother never could be. She never was the type to indulge in my fantasy plays.

I remember asking her to buy them for me every time we went to the Galleria--we went almost every other day. I own five Barbie dolls and one Ken doll; not one of them are from her.


I don't know why she never wanted to buy them for me--my childhood best friend, Crystal, had a whole laundry basket full of them. She had so many of them that she couldn't even tell her dolls apart. She even had the Dream House and the red convertible. I was always a little jealous, but I never wanted to play with her dolls--somehow, I found it degrading, like a dog whining about the dining room table begging for scraps.

She never bought me dolls, but she did, on rare occasion, buy me books. We had a medium sized B.K. Toystore in the Galleria. It was on the far end of the mall with nothing but that department store, Robinson's or May before it became Robinsons-May, but we always stopped by there.

B.K. had a booksale one day, although I don't remember them selling books before, or ever again, for that matter. They had several makeshift cardboard crates full of books, all thrown together in careless disarray, selling for cheap enough that grandmother bought me a few. I don't know what drew me to it, but I ended up picking The Secret of the Old Clock out of the hundreds of books there. I ended up being a Drew fanatic for a couple of years after, hunting down her stories in the public library, sitting in the Waldenbooks to read the rest--Nancy was my heroine. You know what? I still adore her.

I can resent my grandmother for a lot of reasons, but at least I know that she gave me this.

I love going to art museums. In a new city, aside from the shopping, the art scene is one of the first places I'll hit. I'm almost afraid to visit Paris, because I'll never want to leave the Louvre--I'll be dragged away from there, kicking, biting, and screaming. Americans really don't need another black mark on their record like that.

I love the quiet serenity, the underlying zeal for preservation, the entire atmosphere of timelessness. It's the sort of place that demands respect--the fullest of the viewer's attention.

Which is why my actions today were unforgivable. I ran through the second floor galleries of the Philadelphia Museum of Art in less than two hours. I was supposed to get to the museum earlier in the day so that I might complete the research for my South Asian Art paper and still have time to go look at Poussin. In my infernal laziness and general lethargy, I didn't arrive at the museum until almost 4pm, with just over an hour left until closing time.

Forgive me, muses, for I have sinned.

Yes, yes you do. They were created some years ago when straight girls and gay boys were--just as dumb as they are now, only with different channels through which to express themselves. Five guys put together by the same obese megalomaniac with an odd penchant for younger dancing male flesh and bad combovers who created the likes of the Backstreet Boys and 'N Sync. In the last hurrah in the age of the boy bands, they were the new "sweethearts" in town. O-Town, to be exact. Lacking talent, drive, and the ability to sing and dance together in unison, this group inexplicably found itself shuffled away from the limelight into total oblivion.

Or so you thought.

Imagine my delight when I flipped the TV on to see that Ashley has decided to star in his own reality show, THERE AND BACK (again) with neither a hobbit nor elf in sight.

It was in the middle of some random episode, and it was relieving to note that I'm not the only one who finds his attempt amusing, if undeniably sad. He's now married with a child (whom he abandons on a nightly basis to get good and trashed with his wife at random bars), and the show's purpose seems not to be an attempt to chronicle his triumphant return as much as a hedonistic romp through the pitifulness that is his life.

Am I evil to revel in the thinly veiled public mockery of a fallen boy-bander?

December 2003, I was going to fly home to relatively sunny California, and do nothing but stare at the television set for as long as humanly possible. Much eating was planned along with comparatively little movement. I was going on the red-eye, United Airlines--in a few hours, land, drive past Encounter, then home. I dragged my solid Samsonite and Targus laptop case to check in. My e-ticket cleared, and I hurried my way through security and on to gate D9--it was supposed to be boarding already, and I only had a brief moment to grumble about D9 being counterintuitively farther down than D10. But no one was boarding. A snippy little chat with one of the flight attendants revealed that my plane was still in Washington due to some mechanical failure.

I was going to miss my connecting flight. Screaming silently in my head as to why no one down at ticketing was informed of this matter, I made my way back to reschedule. It was back in line that I met with the true face of incompetence that is United Airlines. In a daze, I wondered why the line was not moving. I had been the second person in line for quite some time. Then I noticed that there were five people seeing to the needs of one passenger, which, you know, is the way any logical person would run things. Thirty minutes later, I had a ticket in my hand for the next morning, bright and early at 6am.

The girl in front of me didn't have it as easy--apparently, she had been dropped off by a friend who lived three hours away. She was on her way back to Germany, connecting from Houston. In the spirit of camaraderie, the other similarly screwed Penn students and I offered her a place in one of our dorm rooms*. The other girls seemed to want to party, however, so German girl asked if she could stay with me. Off we went into my humble abode, empty since Carolyn the roomie had already left for Arizona. On the cab ride over, I called my friend Mariyahl to come and keep us company, act as a sort of buffer, be the one to call the cops in case German girl ever decided to get stabby with it, the usual.

The three of us spent the next couple of hours together, playing on my computer, talking about Germany, eating out at Philly Diner (the only 24-hour eatery we could think of), drinking coffee, listening to my mp3 collection. Back then, I was going through the last of my pseudo-goth phase, and kept a lot of angry German music on my computer accordingly. After she heard a couple of them, I suppose she was very glad for Mariyahl's company in that it prevented her from being alone with me, psycho killer.

I haven't spoken to her since then, but I think I left her with a positive impression of Americans--mostly. Here's Sundance, always doing her part.

*Yes, we knew that the airline would have put her up in a hotel, and so did she. But hey, we'd all just been raped by the airline and wanted some company.

This has been one of the least productive weeks in recent memory. Classes have been skipped, work has been largely overlooked, scheduled extracurricular activities have been blown off. At the moment, we are feeling sluggish and somewhat guilty for all the laziness.

Which brings us to one of the instruments of my non-productivity, The Da Vinci Code by one infamous Dan Brown. I finally joined the masses (I've been doing that a lot lately) and picked up the book from my neighborhood Barnes and Noble bookstore. It was a nationwide bestseller and practically everyone I knew has raved about it at some point.

I was not prepared for the suckage to follow.

Alright, back up, rewind. It wasn't that bad--but I still wish I'd waited for the paperback version to pop up in my neighborhood secondhand bookstore.

This book is a perfect example of a story that depends solely on plot as its driving force rather than the strength of its characters. After going through all 454 pages and 105 chapters (excluding epilogue), I felt like I had been mugged at gunpoint. I had to turn those pages, not because I wanted to, but because I had to, just so I could satisfy my curiosity about what was going to happen next. This should not be taken as a good thing. I believe that a good story offers both a compelling plot as well as endearing characters who make you care. In stark contrast, this book doesn't even offer that compelling of a plot. It was merely a sequence of semi-interesting events leading a meandering path through a twisted but transparent jungle of conspiracy towards the promise of one big-fat-secret-to-be-unveiled-at-the-last-possible-moment.

The individual scenes were not particularly memorable, and like Sherlock Holmes when he found out that the earth goes around the sun, I am trying my best to forget them as quickly as possible. The only thing I was left with at the end of each chapter was that Brown seemed to care too much about making this book screenplay-ready. More than several times throughout the book, he draws parallels from one insignificant event to the next (one character in England enters some building or other AT THE EXACT MOMENT that another character touches down on an airstrip in France) in what I'm sure Brown considers to be absolutely genius segues. Every time it happens, I keep picturing sitting at his little writers desk, index finger poking into his bottomless chin dimple, shoulders quivering in glee over his own cleverness--it's quite disturbing. Instances like these among dozens of others that I don't have the heart to bore you with, all tell me that he practically had the damned screenplay written before the book itself.

The characters are a hoot, though. Some writers have great skill at creating that person everyone knows without sliding down that slippery slope into the land of played out stereotypes. But Brown can't seem to get himself away from stock characters. The main character, Langdon--I personally find the thin layer of dust in my halogen lamp to be more exciting. In literature, some protagonists are macho men. They go out into the world, butt their heads into any obstacle standing in their way, and things happen. Other male protagonists are more subtle. They have gentler natures but have some quality about them to help deal with whatever crisis comes their way.

Langdon shrugs. I shit you not. Of all the times in the book that punches were thrown and guns were pulled, all I remember Langdon doing is The Shrug. It was made only more pathetic because Brown seemed to think it showed his dry wit--some glimpse at the cavalier rogue inside the otherwise fussy Harvard professor with the chiseled face, body sculpted and meticulously maintained by fifty fucking laps in the pool everyday, who was not conventionally good looking but had piercing eyes over which the female faculty went positively googly-eyed. Oh, I wish I were making this up. The man going after the Da Vinci Code should have more to offer than his tweed coat and good looks (which Brown won't admit to, but you know what he's thinking). He should have the personality to back it up--left to his own devices, Brown would have cast Keanu Reeves as Indiana Jones.

The girl--yes, the girl. That's what she is. The girl. She has purple hair, her eyes are green, she has legs, speaks French, is supposed to be a The Shit in her local codebreaker headquarters, but can't seem to figure anything out beyond the Fibonacci sequence that any 4th grader could tell you. Her name is Sophie, and no, you won't care about her.

The Albino. Yes, Brown has not forgotten the requisite albino that's a regular feature in every great Catholic conspiracy. He's got pigment issues, I get it. His eyes are red, oooh spookies and eeries. Now tell me why. I don't expect an answer because there isn't one. Brown abuses this character repeatedly, and has him running around in public with his naked albino backside flashing toddlers and the elderly alike. Fetish much? The bleeding, naked, self-flagellating radical ascetic albino monk man adds an ever so subtle dash of freakish fancy for which I can see the merit in the context of a movie but which I find unnecessary in the context of a book. I'd make fun of what happened to the albino in the end, but I promised a spoiler free review, and I'll have to stick to my word.

So. Plot: weak, uninspired, predictable, only interesting enough to keep you turning the page to see if he really went there. Characters: NO development, no personalities, extensively stereotyped, Mary Sue-ish, physical characteristics beaten into your skull so you'll know them on sight when the movie comes out.

What the hell did I like? At first I couldn't point to anything in particular, but subsiding_leaf pointed out to me that Brown does have talent for pacing. After some thought, I have to agree with her, although I personally found his chapter breaks to be excessive. It's because of his pacing that you feel like there's action even when there isn't. It's because of his pacing that you feel like you can bear to start the next chapter. And it's because of that pacing that makes you feel like something just might happen soon to redeem Brown as a storyteller and The Da Vinci Code as a book.

although it's probably a pointless endeavor. Last time I checked, I was the only breathing person in this old US of A who hasn't been keeping up with Lost, yet another J.J. Abrams creation. I just finished watching the eighth episode of the first season.

The way the story has expanded is wonderful. It all starts off after the plane crash, and everyone is a stranger to the audience. Their stories unfold over a series of flashbacks throughout the episodes. Some revelations are predictable, others come out of nowhere, but they all feel like real people, if severely stereotyped. Maybe that's why they're so familiar.

The reason I'll keep watching for the time being is because because of J.J.'s style of storytelling. It's just like in Alias. He hooks you with the suspense factor with the promise of some great unveiling in the episodes to come. The characters draw you in as well. They'll start off intriguing, unique, mysterious, endearing--any or all of the above. I expect his first season to be golden, because if there's one thing J.J. can do, it's a hell of an intro. After that, I'm not so sure. His trademark errors will start to break through, and while they may be a handful of people stranded on an island (if you call this a spoiler, I will thrash you), I'm not sure he can contain the story before it runs away with itself. I hope he's able to bring the show to a satisfying conclusion so that I'll be able to look back at it and remember it as a good show.

But already, the little things are bothering me.

In one scene, two doctors are talking. One mentions that a patient has passed away due to a severe myocardial infarction. That same doctor finds it necessary in the same line to explain to the other SURGEON that a myocardial infarction is a heart attack. Call me nitpicky, but that one really bothered me. It's just not good form, fellas.

The Korean guy bothers me as well, although I can't really blame anyone in the show for that. As someone who speaks Korean fluently, his accent is like a chainsaw ripping through my eardrums. I can, however, blame the show for their awful translations. They're inaccurate (and trust me, providing correct subtitles would not have changed anything in the show) to the point where I now completely ignore the subtitles. I really don't know what I should attribute this to, but artistic license isn't it.

And to end my nitpicking with the biggest nitpick of all: One of the characters dislocates his right shoulder. In the very same episode (note that each episode rarely spans a stretch of time greater than a day and a half), this man with the injured shoulder wants to beat on another character. Tell me, if your right shoulder was dislocated just hours before, from what side would you be throwing your hooks?

No, don't think I hate the show. I like it quite a lot, in fact. I wouldn't be sitting here writing about it if I didn't like it. I just have a few reservations, is all. I hope I'm wrong, and I hope that J.J. has some sort of game plan in his head.

A rose? I adore it, thank you :-)

Alas, sent anonymously. Time to fess up. Please?

Snow days are surreal.

Light from the streetlamps bounces right up off the snow into my windows and through the cheap, loose-weave curtains I have hanging. It's comes through maroon, and there's always a slight haze on the outer rim of my vision, even through closed eyes. It stays like that into the morning. It stays overcast but too bright at the same time, if that makes sense.

Everything covered, and everything about you changes. Walk slowly, look out for black ice, find a patch of untouched snow in which to make your mark--a handprint made with bare flesh. Snow days make you feel like you're someplace else, time frozen. The artificial quiet surrounds you, movement fettered and weighted down by white. Nostalgic thoughts creep in, and the day passes, lackadaisical. Or maybe I'm the only one?

At the end of a snow day, I wonder.

I wish I could be more grounded in reality, be more pragmatic, be more like other people. Times like these, I feel like I'm walking through life without knowing it, pretending that time doesn't exist--and I'm the only one.

I have been in lust with Stewart Townsend for five, going on six years now. During those six years, I have allowed neither his utter lack of acting ability nor his hideous choices in roles to distract me from that which makes him shine--his body. Ever since I saw him in Queen of the Damned, he's been my dark prince of blood, sex, gore, and badly-done-Transylvanian-accents-passed-off-as-his-natural-Irish-even-though-he-was-playing-a-French-vampire-at-the-time.

Not even the absurd experience of my blind date during which I first saw the movie could quench the initial lust that invaded my being. I didn't care that Lestat was supposed to be French, blond, and violet-eyed--the ultimate Gary Lou of Anne Ricedom. He was a vision of magnificence with his dark hair, painted-on black leather pants, and enough white body powder to take away any evidence of a tan, and that was just fine by me.

So knowing this, dear audience, dear friends who know me so well, WHY HAS NO ONE TOLD ME THAT STEWART TOWNSEND WAS IN AN EPISODE OF WILL AND GRACE? As if you didn't all know that I don't have a television set to tell me about all the important things going on in the world. Curse ALL OF YOU for letting me down. This beautiful footage of my half-naked-flour-covered-object-of-unbridled-lust might have been overlooked FOREVER had I not recently taken to watching Will and Grace for lack of a better show to download (not completely true--there are better shows, but no fast downloads).

Now if you'll excuse me, my episode is waiting for me.

PS: If I hear the word Superbowl one more time, I am going to put something alive and pulsing through a blender.

You might recall my beef with the show Alias not too long ago. You know, where I ranted about the show and how it's falling apart and how I refuse to watch another episode so help me God. Those of you who have been reading me for a while will also know that I contradict myself every other day. Well here's another one for the books because I've returned to the Alias fold. Pretty much.

My original complaints still hold. For the first nine episodes of season 5, the main character, Syndey Bristow (Garner), is still VERY pregnant. The original characters are leaving right and left, and new replacement characters are flooding in. The show itself is playing to the lowest common denominator. An example:

The branch of the CIA where Sydney works has just received the chemical analysis report on some guy who has been cryogenically frozen. Agent Dixon, a member of the team, reads a portion of the report.

Agent Dixon: They found traces of---erm---Calk--calkineurin...
Marshall (the tech guy) interrupts: Nono, that's calcineurin, with a "ss" sound. It's a neural inhibitor (a VERY simplistic interpretation, but I'll let it slide), blahdy blah blah.

Apparently, creator J.J. Abrams and all his writers have trouble understanding that this team is made up of freaking GENIUSES. A retarded infant would know that CALCINEURIN WOULD BE PRONOUNCED WITH A SOFT C, AND WHY WAS THAT EVEN NECESSARY? HOW DOES AFFECT THE PLOT EXCEPT TO MAKE DIXON LOOK LIKE A MORON, WHICH HE CLEARLY IS NOT???

Right, so they are still playing to the lowest common denominator and are still using kicky little modifiers like "next-gen" to describe every new weapon they happen to trip over. Yes, all of this is incredibly annoying. But I can't really blame them. Not everyone will be paying rapt attention, after all, and they need to simplify after every huge monologue; I get it. And they're not the only show that works this way. Plenty of other shows, especially in the sci-fi genre, do this on a regular basis.

I swore never to watch the show again, I remember. But things got boring, I needed a show, and I've invested so much in this show anyway--I wanted to see it through, it being their last season and all.

You know, the new actors are not bad at all--in fact, they're downright lovable in their own ways. I really thought I'd hate the new girl, Rachel Gibson. I know that she's only there as a booty call replacement for Garner while she's pregnant and not sexy, and it's shameful that they've actually introduced her EXACTLY like they introduced Garner's character in season 1. I mean, why don't you just tattoo "Sydney Anne Bristow" on her forehead? It's just as subtle. But I still like her. She brings a sort of sweet innocence to temper all the other jaded characters. After all, you can't have Marshall playing that role ALL THE TIME.

The new guy isn't bad either. He serves as a double replacement for both Vaughn and Weiss. The show has lost a bit of its comic flair without Weiss, but it did gain a little more edge now that they have this new stoic agent on board. Vaughn (Vartan), while pretty to look at, was SUCH a pussy. I've always thought so, even while drooling over his body in that episode in season 2 (you know what I'm talking about. Yeah, you do.). Total pussy wrapped in man-muscles. The new guy, however, is more like Sydney's father (Garber)--strong, silent, loyal, and gets the job done. Having read my last entry, you'll get why this might appeal to me.

Their crowning glory, however, is the addition of the Rienne character (Bouchez), a French assassin who goes by the moniker Le Corbeau. She's everything you've ever dreamed of being- dark, dangerous, mysterious, emotionally baggaged, and anorexic. But seriously, I've seen her in other French productions, and I've always really liked her. Here, despite some butchered lines thanks to her thick accent, I think she pulls off the part well. Must be because of her eyes--they're all you can really see since her skin has pulled so far away from her face, again, thanks to the anorexia (okay, I don't know that she actually is, but I'd be very surprised otherwise).

They're using these new characters as the driving force of the show, with the help of a new shadow government type villainous organization to serve as a counterpoint. In the show's fifth season, I think it works reasonably well, and I'll admit now that I may have been too quick to judge before. I said before that I've returned to the fold--that's true, but only to a certain extent. I'm no longer full of unconditional praise of the show, and all my positive thoughts about the show now come with caveats. But it's not as bad as I made it seem, and it's still a whole hell of a lot better than most of the other shows that are on right now. So go watch. You'll like it.

The water is wide, I can't cross o'er
And neither have I wings to fly
Give me a boat that can carry two
And both shall row, my love and I
____________________________________
I don't think that most guys realize just how attractive confidence can be. Not arrogance, but real confidence. Girls know what I'm talking about, right? It's the kind of aura that develops from knowing that you're good at whatever it is you do, and that you don't have to prove it to fucking anybody. These guys don't brag, and they don't strut either--they just go about life in a smooth, methodical fashion, taking one obstacle at a time into control. They don't need to advertise themselves because their merits are a natural part of them. Do you brag about the color of your hair and eyes?

Lots of guys try to fake it. Figure if they flap their traps enough, people won't notice their knocking knees. Figure if they puff their chests out far enough, you'll look away and miss the insecurity trembling in their eyes. They don't seem to realize that it's all so transparent.

True confidence is so hard to find in people, regardless of gender (present company NOT excluded). Which is why I'm probably going to die alone. I won't settle on this note.

Really, count 'em. My Korean friends. Now, subsiding_leaf gets on my back about this issue all the time. See, I don't have a single Korean friend.
_________________
Back in my high school, there weren't many other East Asians--really, mostly Koreans. I never liked how they all had this inborn compulsion to band together. Clique doesn't even begin to capture what they were like. A hundred little Korean boys and girls, all lined up with the same haircuts, the same clothes, and the same cars. Listening to them talk was like sitting through a remake of Clueless starring Jerry Lewis as the new Cher Horowitz. I never could figure out how they came up with those accents in the first place. It's not like anything you'd hear around the L.A./Glendale area and it certainly wasn't the result of being new to the country, but they all had it (or learned to have it).

New kids straight from the old country would arrive on campus, and be quickly swallowed up by the K-cult. Within a month, you couldn't recognize them, let alone tell them apart from all the other members. Same straightened black hair with blonde highlights, same blue contacts (yeah, because you're really fooling me now), same accent, and dear Lord, those childish voices.

K-cult girls would all adopt the most sickeningly fawning attitudes around the K boys. Everyone was their fucking oppa and Oma GAH, haji-maaaaa. From the outside, they just looked like this huge incestuous family, and I didn't particularly feel the need to join in on the Ma and Pa fondling fun.

For two short weeks, I was a part of that group. I didn't fall in line with the hair, the hideous makeup, or anything that they used to announce their K-dom. I can't say that I didn't get along with them, although only one of them really seemed to accept me. I can't say it was all boring either. But in the end, our short time together was no different than those instances when I pick up an issue of a mainstream fashion magazine. It's a fun break from anything important in life, but faced with an eternity of nothing but, and you'd rather shoot yourself through the eye.

Individuals, I get along with just fine--those who haven't lost themselves to the greater organization, the outcasts. But I just can't seem to find anyone. Always clumped together in purely cult-like fashion. What's a Sundance to do? I mean, not that it matters, but it IS kind of strange to not have one single Korean friend, no?

When I saw the first Underworld, I thought it was the worst movie ever made. I quickly changed my mind after seeing Van Helsing, but that's a story for another day. I don't particularly like Kate Beckinsale, the vampires in Underworld were mere pussycats compared to any self-respecting vampire I can imagine, and Victor the "head vamp" was a pansy.

But I'm still planning on seeing the second Underworld movie. I just have to, simply because it is a movie featuring vampires. This obsession started in high school during my second viewing of Queen of the Damned, another third rate bloodsucker movie.

_______
"Would you ever go on a blind date?" asked Darlene. I could hear her crunching on something over the phone. I glanced at the clock. Late--should go to bed soon. Well, soon enough.
"No, I don't think that I would," I replied. "Why?"
"Oh, no reason. What if you went somewhere and the guy just happened to be there?" I should have heard the sneakiness dripping out of the earpiece, but I suppose I was too distracted from painting my nails.
"Depends. If he sees me, I'd probably grin and bear it just to be polite. If not, then I'd probably duck out the nearest exit." It was all just hypothetical, after all.
"So, you, me, and Lina, are we still on for this Saturday?"
"Sure. Front of the second Mann theaters, noon."

I was looking forward to a girls' day out. Movie, lunch, shopping, maybe a coffeehouse chat later. It didn't take much to entertain us. When I arrived at the Mann Exchange on Saturday, they were there waiting for me. Darlene and Lina got the notion to start putting makeup on me, both coming at me with an assortment of eyeliners, hair pins, and mascara. Believe it or not, this wasn't how we normally did things. As they stood back to admire their handiwork, I regarded them suspiciously. Eyebrows furrowed, I made my way over to the ticket counter, eager to start the normal part of the day. Darlene followed, but Lina stayed behind, waving us away and pointing to her phone.

Darlene and I found seats inside the relatively empty theater, and waited for Lina to come inside. The trailers were almost over, and still no sign of Lina. When Darlene left to find out what the holdup was, I followed. There, right outside the doors, were my two evil betraitors, looking extremely guilty.

At the entrance near the concession stand, stood Lina's then boyfriend Simon, followed by a gangly looking fellow in a dingy mud-green oversized t-shirt with a hole in it, and jeans that were about an inch too short. He stood there looking thoroughly uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, shoving his glasses higher on his nose with his middle finger.

I threw a murderous glance at my Judases, who cautiously averted their eyes in case looks could indeed kill. So the plot was revealed: they knew that I would never agree to a pre-arranged blind date, and thus decided to ambush me. They did not know of any boy that I didn't know already, and so recruited Simon to find a suitable date as he attended a different high school. Except that they neglected an intrinsic flaw in their cunning plan.

You do not, I repeat NOT ask a straight guy to pick out other guys for the purposes of dating. NOT EVER.

I tried to break away, but I knew that would be too rude. The scrawny bastard with the scraggly moustache never did anything to me, after all. As most of the red in my visual field dissipated, I reluctantly agreed to sit through the movie with them. By now, we were a good twenty minutes into the movie.

Lawrence and I were forced to sit together, and I seethed silently throughout the movie. I barely noticed Stewart Townsend's naked chest, so great was my boiling fury. I did, however, attempt to make some light conversation sporadically. And that was how I found out that Lawrence apparently never learned how to talk. Not to human beings, anyway. The movie, in all its lackluster glory finally ended, and I made my way out of the theater glowering at the back of Lina's head the whole way. We made our way to the food court, choosing to lunch at the ritziest dive there: the Panda Express.

It was here that I discovered that Lawrence's one shining attribute was that he was unspeakably boring--and that his powers were only enhanced by daylight. There he sat in all his mind-numbingly dull grandeur, not able to respond properly to a single conversation starter lobbed his way. Not even when Darlene's gay pedophile pornstar/part-time cross dressing friend arrive with all his bawdy humor did Lawrence have a single thing to say other than a flat yes or no. Meanwhile, Lina wisely chose to stay on her side of the table while randomly mouthing apologies at me.

Four hours later, the ordeal ended. Over the course of those four hours, we walked all through the mall with Lawrence walking subserviently behind me, never saying a voluntary word. At some point, I forgot his name and started calling him Leonard--it didn't matter though, since he never corrected me. Later, while browsing through Borders, I took a break by hiding out in the bathroom with the girls (who were still bloody Judases in my book, but anything was better than hanging out with Leonard who still wasn't talking). When I refused to come out, he finally took the hint and called his dad to come pick him up.
______________

I still didn't know what the hell happened in The Queen of the Damned thanks to The King of the Insipid, so I ended up going again just with Darlene later that week. The movie itself was still bad, but we didn't care about that. We only cared about the heavenly face and body that made up this second incarnation of the vampire Lestat de Lioncourt. Since then, yeah, it's been a sort of obsession. If it's got vamps, then I have to go see it. So off to see Underworld: Evolution it is.

Every college student knows that sense of loss from the first time they get to go back home. You know your dorm isn't home, but suddenly, neither is the place you've called home for however long before you left for college. Before I came here to Philadelphia, I called one place home for 14 years.

It was the dingiest place you ever saw. The carpet was threadbare--brown and worn. If you ever tripped and fell, you bet your ass it was going to sting like a mother. Hard concrete, right over the garage. The stairs were creaky in all the wrong places, and there were nails where there shouldn't have been nails--step too far into any given step, and come away with a bloody punctured toe. Upstairs was just as bad, or maybe worse. Under the same threadbare carpet, I had a loose plank in my room that would go off like a gunshot every time I stepped on it. Over the years, it became habit to simply step over it. Part of my routine. Whenever it rained, the ceiling would come apart. Time to get the basin, and watch the cloudy little drops fall, two by two. The friends that I've known forever, love infinitely, they've only seen that place a handful of times each. If even that. It's not--It wasn't the sort of place you show off.

But man, that place is full of so many memories. My home for fourteen years, more than half my life, years I wouldn't like to forget. I practiced my writing on the southern wall of my room, back when I shared it with Grandma. Worked out well for me that she was nearly blind and the marks I made were faint. Mom has 20/20, but then she was never home so it didn't matter. There wasn't room for much else in there besides a king size bed, a makeshift foam mattress, a tiny nightstand, and a medium television set. Every night we'd watch the same Korean television drama about country life. The show ran about as long as any television show has a right to run. I can still hear the music they played at the beginning and end of each episode. I kind of wish I could watch an episode of it right now. Afterwards, I'd help Grandma with her glaucoma eyedrops, and then hit the lights. Come morning, I'd find myself in some strange contorted position, with my head jabbing into Grandma's neck or stomach.

Later on, I got the room to myself, and Grandma took the living room. No one ever did anything in the living room besides Grandma, so it worked out for the both of us. That room became my haven away from everything. The tiny 4x3 closet full of extra blankets that I'd wedge myself into every time I wanted to disappear. For some reason, I miss that most of all. I've never felt as secure as I did when I shut myself away from the world in there.

That place, that tiny apartment, that was home for me.

My family moved during my sophomore year in college. I never got to know the place, and didn't even help with moving in. I just came back for a short summer break, and we drove North from the airport instead of South. It was all set up, all new, all shiny, and none of it mine. Whenever I dreamed, literally dreamed of home, it was never the new place. I'd always see the old apartment in its rusty glory. Then, just last night, for the first time, I saw the new place. After two years, I finally saw it.

If anything, I feel sad--like I've lost something. There's a new place that I refer to as home, back in California. Except now I've got no memories to hold on to--no memories to hold me to it. It's another anchor that I've lost, just when I can afford it least. I don't want to drift anymore.

_____________________________

In other news, my throat is starting to feel raw. Hoping this isn't the start of a new and excitingly diseased existence.
I finally saw all of Firefly. I can now join the ranks of bitter Browncoats who had a perfectly marvelous show ripped away from them by Fox. Damn their souls to hell. With any luck, I will get to start volunteering at the children's hospital next Wednesday. As long as I don't make anyone there sicker than they already are, I'll be happy. I haven't gone to Kempo in weeks. Mostly due to finals and then winter break. Can't wait to get back to it tomorrow. Maybe that'll kick my ass back into gear.

____________________________
Sorry for starting out the new year by being such a sourpuss. I would say that I'm normally perfectly cheerful, except a) it's my journal and b) someone might call me on it. So here's hoping for a better year.

Every time I go away for the holidays, it's always so difficult to get back into the LJ swing of things. Hell, I don't even know if I'm completely back yet. I'm just a lurking spectre--it's an existence that, for now, isn't much different from the one in real life. I feel so disjointed--disconnected--I may as well not be here at all.

My room is a mess. Books from last year and CDs from the years before that litter my desktop. Luggage still gaping at me from the floor. Classes are going, but I'm not with it. Parents call and I lie with a straight face--productive days. Can't seem to get my act together. Oh, bother.

I want my muse back.

Every minute that passes brings me closer to glorious sushi. Come on Friday, come on, come on, Friday. Sushi, I'll walk through wind and snow to feel you on my tongue. Fish, raw slivers melting in my mouth the way you were meant to. It's right. On my plate, fillet of mine, you will fulfill your destiny, your life's plan, your spiritual journey towards enlightenment that is my gastrointestinal tract. Be one with me.

On Friday, I'll cast all worries aside and indulge in an endless array of all that is good in the world. On Friday, I will be euphoric.

It's a dangerous age for me, although I think I might deserve it, having never gone through a rebellious phase during my teens.

I think about a place of my own. It'd be in some place with all four seasons. A cozy little hole in the wall place with oddly mismatched furniture that just works in its own eclectic way. I'd go to country art fairs and buy curious little lamps and sconces to drench the place in shimmery golden light, and at night I'd curl up under my own private sun and read out of a book that I'd keep tucked in that great antique bookcase I'd found for a bargain at that sweet little flea market.

I'd cover my bed with a nice knitted throw that I may or may not have made, in colors that remind me of sunset in the desert I'd left behind.

When I think about that tiny haven of my own, part of me wants to push everything away. A fresh start, wouldn't that be nice? It feels warm. It's a thought that pulls at me to shake everything and everyone away and just start over.

Shake it all off--who needs big flashy dreams when it would be so nice to just get away? Disappear, change my name, work a nine to five, make the rent, have a little something left over for pretty things once in a while, and God, just disappear so I don't have to face the disappointed look on everyone's face. Potential potential, I'm so sick of my fucking potential.

Just get away to a room somewhere and maybe I can be content with average.

But I know I'd wake up the next morning, the day after, a year later, and see disappointment in myself that I'd never get away from. So I'll keep working now, and keep my dreams of a private little place for another day.

These days I rock out to the eighties. These days I nod my head at sappy lyrics and the electric guitar. These days I listen to the songs I was born with, the songs I lost myself to before I even knew about boys, mascara, and boys with mascara--sweet eyes with androgynous smiles looking into mine from the cover of a Boy George album. I listen, but from a different place than I can ever remember being.

I haven't decided if I miss it yet, my California, my city of angels, smog and those sometime long ago stars of some silver screen. Remember? Do I miss it?

I'm in the East now. It's all different here through the hazy facade of homogeneity.

You know, when I first came here, all wide-eyed-lost-to-the-nightmare-freshman, I never put anything on the high crown-molding shelves they gave us for storage. Later, my East coaster roomie convinced me to put as much as a plastic bottle of lotion up there. Until then, my world was still one that shook me awake several times a year. My Cali chicas, I bet you don't put anything on high shelves with sheer drops unless you want to get smacked by your $4.99 bottle of anti-bac Bath and Body Works gel and sweet little goldfish when the earth moves again, bless the San Andreas fault.

Brick was new, too. Red brick and nothing else, are you crazy? A good quake and that building is gone to rubble, suckers, and don't you forget it. And while we're at it, where the hell are all the palm trees?

I've been here for three years now. I'll stuff my shelves to hold as much as I want them to hold, and sure, I'll put my bed right under it if I have to. I'll walk by the brick and not wonder how long it'll last because it's not like they'll ever know about shifting earth. When it gets cold later this year, I'll look forward to snow days, laughing at the freshmen stealing dinner trays out of the Common, sledding down the bridge overlooking the traffic on 38th street.

Do I miss California? I haven't really been in the West for a long time, now. I have a feeling it's not mine anymore.

I was there--really there--three and a half years ago.
There was sun and (forgive the stereotype) sand, kite flying and laughter. I was truly happy, I think. It was that magical time everyone should have at least once in their lives, when everything is about to happen and all that exists is the anticipation.

In California, we'd drive around and ask inane questions in the sweltering heat of a car that'd been baking in the sun for the past several hours, like, "What do you want to do now?" and "How about the Promenade?" "Again?"

"When do you have to be home?"
"Want to go on the ferris wheel?"
"How about the roller coaster?"

"Dude, let's just go somewhere--anywhere. Let's just chill at the mall."
"Chill, yeah."

"Which one?"

We had all day to decide, and I never got tired enough to want to drag my weary, sun burnt body back home no matter how late it was. So let's sit in the car now, and joke like the night will last forever and time will stop until we say otherwise. Like mom isn't sitting at home with a grim smile on her face, waiting to savor the moment when you step through the door and all hell can break loose. Sick with worry, chicas. I knew it.

Do I miss California? I miss the good times. I miss the friends. I miss the family.

In California, I'd have never spent Thanksgiving alone. Now let me decide if that's necessarily a bad thing, because it was a pretty spiffy time. I'll never do it again, though. But first thing's first. If I miss California, then why the hell is it taking me so long to buy the damned plane tickets home for Christmas?

The stories about my family, my mother and father, must be misleading to those who don’t know me in real life. They’re misleading enough to those who have known me for a decade or more. You see, I almost never feel the need to write about them unless I am either angry with them, or am feeling somewhat melancholy and nostalgic. The former tends to happen more frequently than the latter, which can only serve to make you, reader, see my family in their worst moments.

It’s wrong.

The love I feel for my family is most certainly not out of obligation, nor do most days consist of me grinning and bearing their antics, although I do not deny that this happens on occasion. No, I love them because in their best moments, I cannot think of any person more noble, more giving, more altruistic.

I cannot think to do them justice in this one entry alone. This is important to me, and I want you all to read what I write on this—which is far less likely if I write out everything in one giant post. So I’ll break it up and give you bits and pieces as the mood strikes me, to temper all the bitter words of the past.

Here’s one story that my father had for me.

Back then we lived in Fallbrook, California, and we had only just moved from Ohio. My family was still extremely new to the country, and I was very young--no more than two, maybe three years old. I probably didn’t understand a word of it, but I loved to watch I Love Lucy. As I was a rather rambunctious child, my mother would often set me in front of the living room television while she worked near me, just to keep my focus away from doing something stupid to hurt myself.

One late evening, my mother was doing the dishes in the kitchen when she heard a sound from my general direction. She looked over, and saw me lying on the floor, unconscious. She immediately got my father who came running. They didn’t know what to do. They had only been living in Fallbrook for a short time, and in Korea, they didn’t really have a good emergency number system. It’s different these days, but even now you have to dial 119.

In a panic, with his severely limited English, he ran outside to the building’s manager, and pounded on her door, yelling, “My baby, my baby, my baby is dying!” His accent was thick, and the words unintelligible through his fear, and the manager thought some wackjob was outside trying to break her door down.

It did the trick, since she called 911 to come save her from a lunatic. Then she saw that it was my dad, carrying my limp form in his arms. The 911 operator told the manager what to do. Set her down on the kitchen floor to reduce the fever and keep her on her back. An ambulance soon got there, sirens blaring-- but they would only let my mother ride with me to the hospital. Before my father turned to get the keys for his own car, he could hear my half-conscious prayers to God to save me.

I got to the hospital with a fever of over 104°F—later, they took a spinal tap to check for bacterial meningitis. It took five nurses to hold me down as I screamed for my parents. By morning, it was over and they told my parents to relax. Soon, I’d be strong enough to control my own fevers, and they probably won’t have to go through the nightmare again.

The doctors said I nearly died, or ended up mentally impaired, but I can’t remember any of it. I can’t remember screaming, I can’t remember praying, and I can’t remember my mother trying to let me know that she was right there next to me even as I wanted to know why I was all alone. I can’t remember any of it, but even now, my father shudders a little at the sound of an ambulance siren. Then he’ll reach over and squeeze my arm and say something about nightmares and troublemaker children. I don’t take it personally—I know it’s love.

"It's so much easier for girls to get laid than guys," he remarked plaintively, munching on his generic burger from a generic burger joint in California.
"Excuse me?" I said, eyebrows raised, mouth frozen open in mid-bite.
"He’s right. It’s so much easier for girls," Darlene chimed in.

I don't know how we got onto that subject, Alex, Darlene and I, but that was the moment my nerdtacular virginal status got itself launched into the ever coveted stratosphere of the SUPERNERD. Not only was I a virgin, but I was a virgin of a gender with a curve. That's like failing remedial arithmetic for the special education class. Or getting your ass kicked in a karate class for preschoolers. Clearly, there was some intrinsic hole in their claim.

Now, I will admit that if a girl and a guy, both equally ugly (or equally attractive) were to stand on some street corner and announce to all and sundry that they were horny and available, the girl would probably get picked up first. But that doesn't prove anything, because we have two different words for girls and guys like that--prostitutes and perverts, respectively. Personally, I'd take the prostitute over the pervert any day (although I'd rather not take the prostitute either if I could help it) and the same probably goes for everyone else. Presently, I have yet to see any empirical evidence that girls have it the least bit easier than guys in the sexual arena.

I think, rather, that it all just depends on how big your balls are, figuratively speaking. This is what I need to work on. I need to work on somehow getting my hands on some balls of steel so that I can just begin to have a relationship—which is not to say that the only reason to have a relationship with a person is to get some action. I’m just a girl who can’t force herself to be some horny slut that can deal with one-night-stands with random guys. The first step for me has to be an actual relationship.

Herein lies my problem. As I described in a previous entry, I will never have the nerve to try to get the man of my dreams, assuming I ever find him, to give me a second glance. The sense of vulnerability is too intense, and that sort of rejection isn’t something I’m going to enjoy getting from THE ONE. Thus, as with all drastic moves in life, I’ve come to the conclusion that this approach is going to take practice, and lots of baby steps.

Therefore, the current plan is for me to go about campus and profess my undying love to people for whom I feel little or no attraction whatever. I’d get to have some practice with the words, and a good handful of guys are going to get their egos boosted. Everybody wins. If it doesn’t work out, then no sweat because it’s not like I really care about them to begin with, and if for some unfathomable reason they reciprocate my expressions of ardor, then I won’t be too bothered about breaking the sad truth to them—they were just good practice on my way to something better and nothing more.

I may have come off sounding a bit callous towards the end there. I don’t particularly care.

The anthropology department here at Penn is pretty damned interesting. I'm not talking about our museum or the classes themselves, although they're pretty good, too. I'm talking about the faculty. One in particular stands out to me since this guy, I kid you not, is the spitting image of Peter Griffin. Aside from the bizarre joy of hearing intelligent words spewing out of Professor Griffin, it's also great that he can present his lectures in an entertaining manner, which makes him something of a rarity in this particular field.

If you want to pin Dr. Griffin to any ideology, it's to the idea that people in the field need to approach archaeology like they would an actual hard science like biology or chemistry. It may seem obvious, but let me tell you one of his favorite stories to illustrate the problem.

A team of archaeologists come upon one particular site* containing the remains of a population of hominins. Of the adult bones, some appear to be larger than the rest. Thus, as the excavation continues, the intrepid team proceeds to place all the large remains in one category A, and all the smaller bones in another category B. After running statistical analyses on these two groups, they find that, indeed, they seem to be dealing with two different species simultaneously sharing the same territory. The average heights of group A were significantly different from the average heights of group B--there could be no doubt. Are you with me? Do you see the fallacy?

Of course you do. And of course group A would be significantly different from group B, since they were categories that the brilliant archaeologists created. It was ONE population of extremely variable and fairly sexually dimorphic individuals that the team took upon themselves to divide arbitrarily. I can imagine that it came as a shock to them as they realized that the reality they believed in was one of their own making. It must have been a lot like life when you realize that things are the way they are because of something you did to yourself.

Well, that's always hard to deal with--we're all human, and let's face it, things are just better when we can blame someone or something else for everything wrong in our lives. My grades are horrible, my family hates me, I have no friends, etc. And so we come to the point in my little post where I start to sound obnoxiously pedagogic and overbearing. Don't mistake me for an instant that I'm implying that there are no extenuating circumstances or things beyond a person's control. That's not what I'm saying at all. I am merely distressed that there just doesn't seem to be any real sense of personal responsibility anymore--in anyone. Very few people that I can think of truly confront the problems in their lives by first asking themselves what they themselves did to bring about their current situations. Hell, I could definitely stand to be on the receiving end of this entry myself.

Much more common is the scapegoat method that takes away most or all of the personal accountability. This professor is unreasonable, everyone is just plain crazy, that's just the way fate treats me. That's great. There was nothing you could have done in the face of all that, is there? Fabulous, because now you can absolve yourself and proceed to do exactly what you've been doing--a real bang-up job. Really, congratulations. Six months later when the same things happen again, you can blame your allergies and damn God for creating histamine.

I don't mean to come across as boorish and insensitive. To people out there with problems that they really had no control over, I have all the sympathy in the world. Even the ones who are in bad places solely by their own design, I feel for. I truly do. All I ask is that everyone at least attempt to sincerely acknowledge their mistakes in hopes of not having repeats of the same issues ad infinitum. Even those archaeologists, as grotesquely incompetent as they were, eventually recognized their mistake--and I'm willing to bet that they never made the same error again.


*I'll fill this in once I check my notes. Ha, like you're really dying to know.

Your best friend comes running up to you one day, looking relieved to have finally found you. Her face is flushed with excitement, and she's panting from having to hunt you down. Her eyes are shining--happiness? anticipation? fear? It's too soon to tell--the adrenaline is stronger than she is. She grabs your arm to steady herself.

"They're here!" she cries, her eyes wild and frenzied.
"Henh?" you respond numbly. You're confused, without a clue as to what the hell is happening.
She's steadied herself for the time being. The words rush out of her.

They're here. They work together, they're driven--such a unit that you can't even tell the bloody things apart. They look down on you from somewhere up there--insidious eyes watching and waiting for you, perverse voyeurs behind their treacherous cloud-cover. They control you--they know you. There's no way to fight them, although you can try. Don't waste a minute, though, because when they mean business, nasty things come flying out of their chests. Oh, no--it's a good thing, kids. You should try this at home.

The Care Bear Stare.

I don't know what genius of entertainment thought to pair something as innocent as animated bears with the likes of this:

but he/she is stinking brilliant.

In today's world of Sponge Bobs and the purple Teletubby, you just can't feed kids this kind of pure, undiluted evil. Mother's milk is what it is. I say bring back the Care Bears. Bring back the original evil. I think they're ready.

A singular obsession. He can't live without that nectar of euphoria--it covers him, he basks in it, he can't resist that one last sinful taste. All around him, his world spins. His friends leap to dizzying heights in one gravity defying bounce, woodland creatures and humans alike intermingle--most of them have visible seams down their midlines. The high passes, and he shudders awake, eyes in a daze. It's not over--it'll never be over. The ground shakes, moves, breaks. The underground is alive, and his contact is always underfoot, always listening. Gopher, gopher, gopher! He needs more--he's desperate. Who? What? Where?!

WHERE DID ALL THE HONEY GO????

I used to watch Winnie the Pooh when I was a kid. I can't say that I was aware enough back then to fully appreciate the show for what it really was--a thinly disguised metaphor for addiction, narcotics, and underground drug cartels of which The Pooh was king.

I didn't try to question. I just accepted the fact that somewhere out there, in some fanciful meadow, there lived a bear that would religiously wear t-shirts without ever thinking to put on pants. I accepted that he'd be prone to mood swings and general lethargy without some sticky substance that I was supposed to believe was honey--purely on the grounds that he said it was honey and all the pots had the word "honey" scribbled on them.

I didn't question the fact that his friends, as stuffed animals, were capable of things I couldn't even do in my superhero dreams, and that the rabbit kept a personal "garden" that he protected with unreasonable ferocity. It didn't strike me as odd that the Gopher always managed to find Pooh with some urgent news and a cryptic cover story. And it escaped me that while Piglet was really just a young pig, he always seemed just a little too jittery about the smallest things. How many kids do you know that have more worries than you do? It seems almost superfluous at this point to mention Eeyore.

Uppers, downers, everywhere and anywhere--I never realized the message that was all too clear. The Pooh was the head honcho of the ultimate drug trafficking ring, with all manners of things addictive and illegal contained in those ever innocuous honey pots. His right hand man, Gopher, always with his ear low to the ground, bringing news of alliances, and gang wars from beyond the meadow. His stuffed associates were not so much friends as poor suckered souls, permanently chained to the narcotics so beguilingly offered by a chubby little golden bear with a heart as black as hell.

He was a mastermind, The Pooh. And he had us all fooled--every last one.

About a week ago, my friend Darlene managed to catch me on a break. There was a lot that she didn't know about in my life since we hadn't spoken to each other in forever. She didn't know about my new childish infatuation--how silly and girly I got whenever I thought about him, or how I couldn't concentrate on anything because he wouldn't stop invading my every waking thought. She wasn't there to go through it with me this time because she's in L.A. and I'm in Philly--because she has her own life that's totally different from mine. She wasn't there to see how head-over-heels I was, and how abysmally idiotic I looked as my eyes glazed over at the mere mention of his name.

By the time we finally got back in contact, I was halfway over it, true to my ever fickle heart. All she got was a recounting of how much I'd lost my head over this one guy, a brief description of him that didn't really dwell on his physical attributes, and then a little flashforward to the present where I was all but completely over my obsession. She laughed and laughed, until I asked her what was so funny. There I was, having retold an account of one of the most emotionally tumultuous experiences of my life, worried to death that my fickle nature would render me incapable of caring for anyone in a more permanent sense, and there she was choking over her own laughter. When she managed to compose herself, she finally told me. She was laughing because, as she saw it, I have never been more wrong about myself. I wasn't fickle at all--I just had ridiculously high standards when it comes to my men.

"High standards, you say?" I asked, not quite comprehending. I couldn't really see where she got this idea. Sure, I've never dated anyone, but that's because I'm fat and ugly--not because I have such high standards. Girls like me, we have to go after the guys because they sure as hell aren't coming for us--and I, will never have the balls to go up to a guy, tell him about my girly feelings, and ask him to be my forever and ever, my one and only. In fact, even thinking about it makes me want to throw up a little bit. So I asked her what gave her the idea that I had such standards that no mere mortal has ever been able to measure up.

As I recall, she wasn't able to give me any specific instance of my high-and-mightiness, but she was able to provide me with a description of "my" perfect man. As paraphrased, this mythical man would have to possess the body of some idealized Greek God (i.e. Hephaestus is so out), a face that would put any Hollywood actor to shame, a brain that would make A. Einstein crawl into a corner to suckle his thumb, and such eloquence that Cicero himself would bow before him. He would also have to be the perfect companion, aware of my needs/feelings/blah blah blahs.

I'm just grateful that she, as well as she knows me, couldn't have been more wrong this time around. I'm grateful because if these really were my standards, then I should just lock myself away in a convent because it's never going to happen, and if it ever does, he'll probably be gay.

Ten years ago, I never would have thought that our beliefs would become so reversed. I was a devout Christian back then--I even tried to convert some of my friends who weren't already immersed in the path of righteousness. Mostly, I just ended up pissing people off, and there's nothing new or surprising about that. Back then, I was afraid that my mother would go to Hell and burn for all eternity. It never made sense to me that God was omnipotent and yet was compelled to let this happen--but the Sunday school teachers told me that it would all make sense later, so I shut my mouth and kept on harassing my mother. She took it as well as any mother of a zealot could, and kept telling me that she had no intention of going to Hell, since she did believe in God. Well, I never saw her praying, and surely that meant she wasn't devoted?

This went on for about a year, maybe less. Then my church broke up in an ugly court battle (don't ask me for the particulars, as I'll never understand it), and my family and I were left to flounder. Well, not literally since we did have lives, and such. I lost most of my religious self then, which is not surprising. My "spirituality" wandered, and life was more about angst than anything.

Since then, I've lost most of the angst, but if anything, my faith is mostly gone. All that's left in me is the urge to capitalize "God" and maybe a tiny cringe if I hear a really offensive joke against my old beliefs. I can't bring myself to renounce it since it was such a big part of my life, but I can't call myself a Christian either without feeling like a big liar.

So it's surprising to me when my mother uses religion to help me regain some perspective these days. She trusts God implicitly, that everything that happens has a reason for happening. While she says these things, I can't help but scoff as my logical mind rejects her words. I'd like so much for what she says to be true--life would be so much easier if I could just leave it up to God and his will. But I can't. So with a heavy sigh, I thank her for her effort, and hang up the phone. Then the funniest thing happens as I realize that despite my skepticism, I do feel better about life.

Maybe my faith hasn't died completely at all. Maybe I never really believed, but my mother is pushing me along. Or maybe this has nothing to do with faith and it's just a nice thing to have someone truly believe that everything is going to be alright.

There was a time when I would stay up all night with my eyes riveted to the computer screen as the download status bar crept along at in infuriatingly halting pace. Few things gave me as much joy as when the next episode of Alias finished downloading, and few things caused as much agony when the downloads crashed with 99% of the file completed. This is sad, I'll admit. No doubt about it--but that's how much I used to love that show. It was all action, angst, suspense, and even a little romance. It was a high tech soap opera flying on Bond-esque weapons and assassins around every corner.

Now, in the beginning of its fifth season, I refuse to watch any more. Somewhere along the way, the show got lost (no pun intended) in itself, and all we're left with is watching the results of behind-the-scenes drama unfold onscreen. Jennifer Garner gets knocked up, Greg Grunberg decides he's tired of playing sidekick, Michael Vartan still has issues with his ex (Garner) and vice-versa. Who knows what the hell is going on with Mia Maestro. All this leads to is writers scrambling back and forth trying to maintain a storyline that fits in with the past while still moving the story forward. Clearly, it's failing.

All I see now, is a show under the strain of trying to please everyone. Please the actors, please the rabid fans, please the people just tuning in. They're even trying to please the idiots who can't figure out what's going on, so they have to dumb down the show even more. For example:

CIA team tracks down a mercenary who works for some crime lord.
Mercenary gets cornered by CIA team. This causes him to get very emotional.
Mercenary: "He won't get me! My family! I won't be made an example of! I won't have it! My wife! My kids!"
Mercenary slits throat.
Sydney, the main character, supposedly a genius: IS UNABLE TO FIGURE OUT WHY THE MAN KILLED HIMSELF.

Hm. Could it be that his boss is a mean old bastard who leverages the lives of his men's families?

A few minutes later in the show, the brilliant CIA team discusses the daily agenda. It appears that the bad guys have a weapon. Jack (a senior member of the team) describes it thus:
"...This device would facilitate the targeting of an individual based only on a DNA sample or a biometric scan."
This is where Sydney finds it necessary to sum it up by saying, "Next-gen sniper."

Thank you. Thank you very much for clearing that up. As if you or anyone else in your team had trouble understanding that.

Maybe I'm nitpicking. Maybe all spy shows have to do this to accommodate the masses, but you have to draw the line somewhere. You can't claim that your character is brilliant, yet suffers from sporadic fits of impaired faculties of deductive reasoning. You can't start off a season with half your actors going off in all different directions due to personal reasons. You can't drastically change the style of the show, thereby eradicating everything that made the show watchable just to get more viewers, because you'll lose your original base and the newcomers won't stick around anyway. And if you have to go against all reason and commit these crimes of television, then Jesus H. Christ, DON'T TALK TO ME LIKE I'M AN IDIOT. Thank you.

You know, if I didn't have to worry about getting a good night's sleep, I'd drink coffee all the time. I wouldn't give nasty old decaf a second thought and I'd have my java rich and black every time. No creme, no sugar, just coffee, black as hell.

Does that make me odd?

Wherever I go to get my fix, I see people lined up next to the condiments stand, pouring packet after packet of sweeteners and creamers into their drinks. See, I've never understood this--not for anyone out of high school. Why on earth would you pay good money for decent coffee, and then ruin it by turning it into a sugary sludge? Younger kids, the ones who just want to look cool with their little Starschmuck's coffee cups, the ones without a foggy clue as to what coffee is supposed to taste like, do this all the time. But isn't this something you eventually grow out of? Isn't broadening your palate and trying out new things supposed to be a part of growing up?

Looking at those crowded condiment stands, I suppose I'm wrong.

I feel torn about this. On the one hand, watching people who are obstinately against giving new things a chance aggravates me to no end. On the other hand, that just means I get to keep my soapbox. I think it balances out.

I hate to be such a stickler for the rules of acceptable conduct, but I must be firm on this one particular point.

It is NOT cool to decide to start your menses and then proceed to BLEED ALL OVER THE TOILET SEAT and LEAVE DISGUSTING BITS OF YOUR ENDOMETRIAL LINING BEHIND. Do you hear me you filthy, uneducated philistines?

If you have to bleed, then do it-- but it's REALLY NOT THAT HARD TO KEEP OTHERS FROM KNOWING ALL ABOUT YOUR BUSINESS.

------

To the few men in my audience, I do apologize for this post. I probably should have warned you.

For those of you who have allowed that apalling waste of demon flesh otherwise known as Al to slip from your thoughts, now would be a good time to go and refresh your memories.

For those of you who are too damnably lazy to click the link, Al is my nickname for one very annoying girl who happens to be in my African-American literature class. Whenever she chooses to open her considerable trap (too frequently, in my opinion), she invariably causes my eyes to twitch and my hand to go flying in an attempt to make some painful contact with her hidious face  (see figure 1).( Cut for dial-up users, etc.  )

Al would be doing this society a great favor by simply learning how to SHUT THE FUCK UP. Needless to say, such a thing is impossible, and while there are miracles in this world, there are things that not even the Almighty would ever want to touch.

Well today, Al announces in the course of a discussion about sex in foreign countries, that, "French men think that American girls will have sex with them if they say,'I love you, I love you, I loooooove you.'" Of course, being the bright little bulb that she is, she says this with a thick Italian accent. Right. And let's not even touch the issue of whether or not she was even right.
After an hour of this veritable house of Al's horrors, my teeth were pulverized to about half their original size, clumps of my hair lay strewn about me after having been RIPPED OUT OF MY SKULL, and my eyeballs were barely within the limits of their respective sockets. And then, Al uttered the sweetest words ever to fall from such disproportionately large lips: ROSH HASHANA.

GOD BLESS HER SHE'S A JEW!!!!! A JEW, A JEW, A WONDERFUL, MARVELOUS JEW!*
[insert maniacal laughter]


*For those of you who need it in black and white, Rosh Hashana is on Tuesday, as is the class where Al makes it her life purpose to be the fucking bane of my existence. Thus, on Tuesday, I will not have to suffer her presence in class.

"Darlene, that's disgusting!"
"What? It's just a flower stem."
"But you're eating it! Right out of the ground! How do you know if a dog hasn't peed on it, or..."
"If a dog had peed on it, it would be dead."

We were close like that, Darlene and I. Still are. But man, we were so different. I was the nerdy looking Asian girl complete with glasses, stringy hair, mismatched clothes, and about 30 pounds that I really didn't need. She was the short, spunky one with Sailor Moon balls on her head, black bands on her wrists, and what teachers might have considered a "rebellious nature." We didn't even hang with the same crowd. She had her punk friends--the ones who would eventually end up gay, goth, and in porn (in that order), the ones who liked to talk about pushing sharp objects through their penises, the ones who actually had drinking problems since before middle school. I had my ubernerd friends--the ones who went around school getting the teachers to recycle, the ones who hung out with teachers at lunchtime, the ones who stayed afterschool to hang out with teachers, the ones who went with me several years in a row to Latin conventions. But we were close, and we got along famously with nary a fight between us.

We've often wondered about how the hell we became friends, and why the hell we were still friends. Really, the Odd Couple only happened on t.v. We finally decided that it was because despite our outward differences, we were the same person inside. Inside, we squealed with girlish glee every time Obi-Wan (Episode 1, 2, 3) swung his light saber. We both squirmed in our seats every time we saw Lestat in Queen of the Damned (another awful movie). We both had the same sense of humor, and we both had open ears for one another.

Well, that's why we became friends, but that doesn't help to explain why we stayed friends. You know what it comes down to? We understand each other down to the smallest detail. She knows that it bugs the hell out of me when she uses netspeak, so she doesn't do it around me. I know that it drives her up the wall when I get neurotic, so I tone it down for her. In the end, we're friends because we've learned to understand and accept each other's idiosyncrasies.

To understand the other person's idiosyncrasies IS to understand that person. It's to know them and to accept them. It may seem like a small thing, but really, everyone would have a lot more friends if they could just get this down. But that's just it. With most people, the friendship falls apart before you even get to that stage of appreciation. So here's a little activity for all of you.

Tell me about ONE of your little quirks. If I'm already close to you, then tell me something I don't know. And if it's personal, well...you can e-mail it to me.

Freshmen at any level tend to be annoying little asshats. They get under your skin like tiny shards of fiberglass and it's all you can do not to scratch yourself bloody to be rid of them. Penn freshmen, however, reach a whole new level of grotesque incompetence that I can't even begin to describe.

Take, for example, your average freshman that turns up in your liberal arts classes. We'll use English as an example here. There's this girl in class that I've just wanted to stomp under my little heel since the first day. Allow me to give you the gory physical details of a big fat brat called Al.

Al was born with a mop of curly brown hair and has in the course of her life, learned to be even more annoying than one Annie Warbucks. Her face is neither round nor oval. It is instead a strange cone shape, kind of like those candycorns you get on Halloween. Right-side up. If you're talking "literary" characters, imagine a thinner version of D. Umbridge out of Harry Potter 5. Add to this her penchant for "bohemian" dresses that show about 50% of her neon aqua blue bra, and you have the makings of one really fucking annoying specimen of freshman trash.

With a mouth that makes Steven Tyler's gaping maw look like a dainty spring bud, it comes as no surprise that she finds it so hard to SHUT THE FUCK UP. If you don't know what the word REDUNDANT means, just listen to her for a minute and you'll get a painfully clear idea. And don't even get me started on the fact that this happens to be an African American lit class and I've lost count of how many times she's temporarily convinced herself that she's actually black. "WE have been oppressed, and WE have been down-trodden by the WHITE man...wait...I know I'm not black.." Direct quote, I swear.

So at the end of class today, she had a question to ask, and she seemed to want privacy. I had SEVERAL that I wanted to ask, so I put out about half of them, but didn't want to be selfish. Since she kept hinting that she had somewhere to be, I assumed she had class soon and would ask her one uber-private question and be on her way, leaving me some time to ask the rest of MY questions. Little fucking bitch just stood there for the next TWENTY FIVE MINUTES BLABBING ABOUT HER OPINIONS ON WHAT HARRIET FUCKING JACOBS MEANT TO SAY AS OPPOSED TO WHAT SHE DID SAY. And the professor wouldn't even try to wrap things up with her even though they were clearly no longer even talking about her paper or anything else relevant to her supposed question. In the end, I packed up and stormed out without a backward glance. I suspect Steven Al Tyler is still blabbing away.

I.Fucking.Hate.Freshmen.
Thank you.

Posting that previous meme really triggered some memories. One in particular came to me when I was answering the question about boardgames.

I happen to enjoy playing baduk. I'm not great at it now, but when I was younger, it's all my dad and I used to do. (For those of you who don't know, Baduk or Go is an Asian game which originated in China several thousand years ago, and has since grown in popularity around the world, Japan and Korea in particular. It's played on a simple grid with white and black pieces, and is based on the strategies of war and battle. If this is sounding like an Asian version of chess to you, then great. That's essentially what it is.) I remember the first time we played together. That evening, mom needed some things from the Korean market, so the three of us hopped into the car to make an evening outing of it. While mom was looking for her bag of dried seaweeds, dad took me around the store to browse through their random inventory. High up on one of the shelves, he spotted a Baduk set. Immediately, he took it down, and then asked me if I wanted to learn how to play. Taking my mumbled, "Sureiguessso" as an affirmative, he popped the set into the cart and promptly started off on a two hour lecture on the origins, merits, and strategies of a game called Baduk.

When my eyes came back into focus and the buzzing sound in my head diminished, we were home, mom had long since started dinner, and my dad was setting up the board (normally, there wouldn't be any setting up since Baduk starts with an empty board, but he wanted to start me off with a 25 piece lead). At the end of that first game, I lost by nearly 300 pieces, but I digress.

The point of this long and drawn out anecdote is really just for me to say that I've played the game, and I know just a little something about it. Why's that important? Well one day, I was sitting in Latin, waiting for class to begin. The movie A Beautiful Mind had just been released, and the few people who were around me were talking about it. Then one of them mentioned the game John Nash had played. Baduk. I hadn't seen the movie, so I was looking for an angle in their conversation that I knew something about, and this was it. I enthusiastically joined in, talking about how great it is, how complex, and how popular it has been since many many years ago. Imagine my surprise when one V.K--yan turns to me to inform me in a very condescending voice that I am full of crap and why.

So here's my public service announcement of the month.

Fellow LJ-ers,

Did you know that the ancient game of Baduk/Go is not, in fact, ancient? Did you know that it's not even of Chinese origin? Well if you didn't, then you should be ashamed. Baduk was actually invented just fifty years ago by one John Nash, as is clearly shown in the 2001 blockbuster of a man and his schizophrenia. Well I feel like a perfect idiot. I mean, really, it's just so obvious.

Truth be told I've tried my best
But somewhere along the way
I got caught up in all there was to offer
And the cost was so much more than I could bear

Though I've tried, I've fallen...
I have sunk so low
I have messed up
Better I should know
So don't come 'round here
And tell me I told you so...

-Fallen
Sarah McLachlan

Only a week left before I'll be back in California. I'm not deluded like I was last time, with the sunshine, rainbows and lollipops nonsense. I can't say that I'm really looking forward to the trip. Sure, it'd be nice to say hello and all that, but right now I'm more afraid of what they're going to be like in the two weeks before the exam that's coming up. You see, what they've managed to master in the past two decades of raising me, is the art of burning insinuations. Little things here and there that they'll say--a cookie crumb trail into a room full of fire and brimstone that Hell itself has yet to discover. I've been through it countless times, and I know what to expect. I just hope they have the decency to bite their tongues for two weeks until the exam is over with. Then I can deal with it a little better, and use the days remaining in my little "vacation" to sleep off the anger.

Right now? I feel trapped. Just a little trapped. The past few days have been nice in some ways, but then not really. I can't call what I've been doing "living." I feel like a well-trained animal, or else a machine. I wake up, shower, get dressed, eat and go to the bookstore where I study until it closes, and then come back, eat, and then go to bed. All I've had of human contact consists of asking the barrista at Java City in the bookstore for a tall iced mocha. And yes, I'd like my quiche heated, thank you. The only highlight in my day is when I take my study breaks in the bookstore by reading through Harry Potter again.

It's gotten to the point where my increasing isolation is starting to feel normal. Is this how hermits are made? You just start to cut yourself off from society until one day you wake up and realize you can't go back?

If I were free to do whatever I wanted, there'd be so much more that I'd be enjoying right now. Me? I'm all about the sensations. I could find happiness in the sweet summer breeze blowing through my hair, the deep reds and violets of a sunset on the beach, and the simple sound of a deep masculine voice vibrating through the air. If I were free, without this constant stress that has me shackled to the workbench, I'd enjoy that voice rather than find it annoying for penetrating the silence I need to do my work. I would have listened to it for a little while longer and let my imagination predict what he looked like.

Instead, I had to look over to find some short schmuck with ratty brown hair, a dirty five day shadow, obvious myopia and a hole the size of my clenched fist in his shirt. Ah, well. C'est la vie and all that--the illusion would have been broken anyway. He just started eating and while he may have a nice voice, he's apparently been raised by wild dogs and has learned to eat accordingly.

I'd love to elaborate, but the smacking noises have become...violent.

Please read the following:

Jewlery
Libary
Axe
Nucular

Only one of those four items is an actual word, and used in the particular contexts of which you are all so fond, it is most certainly NOT the word you are looking for. If you type in any of the remaining three sets of letters and hit the magic SPELL CHECK button, you will see for yourselves that they are not, in fact, words. They are figments of your ill breeding, so please...stop it. Stop it, and repeat after me:

Jew-el-ry.
Li-bra-ry
Ask
Nu-cle-ar

Is it really that difficult? If so,
Please die.

Sincerely yours,
Sundance Tango

I've been posting on this subject a lot lately, so please tell me when this starts getting tedious. This morning, while I was sitting in lab lecture, mind mind, as per usual, started to wander. It lingered upon this person, and then that person, never on any one person for too long. Our professor was handing back out exams from last week, and then she called up this one girl. I lingered on her for a little longer than the rest of the class. If ever there was an individual, or a stereotype in one, it'd be her.

Her hair is short, curled, blond, and boyishly cut. You can't really tell the color of her eyes behind her thick glasses, but you know they're there and you know that they don't really stay on anyone for a long time either. In fact, I've never seen her look at anything else but the papers in her hand the reactions in her flasks and the chalkboard as the professor lectures. For clothes, she wears the same thing every day. Some brightly colored Polo tee (you know the kind...guys wear them all the time), baggy jeans that are just a little too short for long pants, and nondescript white sneakers. Wherever she is in the lab, she slouches or stoops just a little, and if she ever talks to you, her voice barely even disturbs the air. As soon as she has your answer, she and her ghostly pale complexion are gone.

I don't know why she draws my attentions more than most of the other people in the class, but she does--this person whom the others consider invisible. She makes me wonder why she would continue to dress and act the way that she does. Hell, if she were only a bit shorter, I'd think she were still in grade school with her mother picking out her clothing every morning. Then I think that maybe she's afraid of growing up and becoming what nature is pushing her into becoming. Maybe this is her little rebellion against that, clutching to her outdated traditions to defy what society would have her be. It doesn't matter if I'm right or wrong--but people like her make me think just a little bit more about them.

The jocks? The guy who knows that he has it all? They rarely draw more than my passing disdain. If they're nice, then they get my quiet acceptance. But the rest of them are all the same and afraid to be different. When I talk about the new Harry Potter, I see them smirk a little, and openly humor me. That's alright, since it's all passed off as a joke. The message is clear, though. They accept me, sure. But they'd never be anything like me, no NEVER. And they want to make that crystal clear to everyone around. Amy? Oh yeah, her and her vampires. That's one funny girl. Oh-ho, me? Nah, that's not for me. Please don't associate her with me just because I laughed with her that one time.

Hm. That's fine with me, although I find it pathetic that they hold themselves back from what they truly want to get involved in for fear of peer judgment.

I sat quietly for a few more moments as the professor's voice droned on in the background, telling me what I already knew, or could easily get from the textbook. That's when the thought crossed my mind about how exclusive I was. Yes, as exclusive as those cliques in grade school, middle school, high school, and college ever were. You can't tell my kind of exclusivity because I'm not surrounded by throngs of people trying to get in. But it's there. Very few people are around me because very few people are ever let into my world--and that's how I want it to be. The crowd doesn't interest me, because anyone willing to fawn and flatter is let in (maybe not completely accepted, but they're allowed to hang around). No, what does interest me is, in some sense, the loner. It makes me wonder why they're alone...why they're as discriminating as I am.

I'm taking a gamble, sure and odds are, they're probably just totally lacking in social graces and their isolation is not one of choice. But if they are what I hope they are...finally, another person who's not afraid to be just a little bit different.

( Spoiler cut )

So all in all, this book now replaces PoA as my all time favorite HP book.

I really hate people. Let me ask you this: If you were in a perfect stranger's house, and you knocked on a CLOSED door and received NO answer, would you open the door?

I ask you this, because just after I had returned from the library for a quick nap before the midnight haul of test preparation, this exterminator guy did just that. I didn't hear his knocking because of the earplugs in my ears, and by the time I did, he'd already opened the door, and lemme tell ya, it was a REALLY hot day today. I'll let you figure that one out. He closed the door quickly, and a few minutes later, he proceeded to pound on the door again. I replied, irritated enough that I wasn't the least bit embarrassed. He just wanted to know if my room had mice problems like the kitchen did. I assured him that this was not the case, and then firmly locked the door after I'd heard his apologies. It was fine that he apologized and all, but that's not the point. The point is, he had NO FUCKING BUSINESS opening my door.

It's NOT his house, it's most certainly NOT his room, and there was NO ANSWER on my part. And as far as the extermination itself was concerned, I never even called him, and did NOT authorize him to enter MY room. Maybe I'm overreacting, and maybe he did have a valid reason for breaking into my room the way he did, but this isn't the first time it's happened.

Freshman year, crazy bitch Renee from down the hall in my dorm did just that. I didn't want to deal with her, and I thought that I had locked my door, so I ignored her knocking. To my utter shock, she started to open the door when she thought that no one was in the room. Why on earth would any person do such a thing? If there is no answer upon knocking, then there are only three possible reasons for the silence:

1) No one is home
2) The person inside didn't hear you
3) The person inside doesn't want to deal with you

If you knock loudly enough, choice 2 is effectively ruled out. So left with choices 1 and 3, why in HEAVEN'S NAME would you try the door? Someone please explain this to me.