| Possibly the most exciting math exam ever |
[24 Oct 2006|01:36pm] |
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So, an hour before October 24th, the dreaded day of the first calculus exam in my entire life, I decided to go to bed. For good reason...I would need something like 300% concentration to take any sort of math test.
I woke up sometime later, and groggily checked my alarm clock. It was 1:10 in the morning, and the fuckers on my floor were chit-chatting like there was no (math exam) tomorrow! I woke up, took a crap, did some...other stuff...and then went back to sleep. After tossing and turning around on my shitty mattress for an hour, I finally fell asleep...
The next time I woke up, it was...10 in the morning! FUCK! I'm two hours late for my math exam! I frantically got dressed, flipped open my laptop, and checked the office hours for my professor. All the 161 professors had 12 o' clock hours, so I decided to dash to Hutchinson, which is about a light year away from my dorm, to the test site. No good...they were taking BCS exams in there.
Luckily for me, I found a 161 professor on the 10th floor of Hylan, and she said "if you were my student, I would give you the exam." At this point I nearly screamed "HAVE ME! I AM YOUR STUDENT NOW!" Shanon Starr, my actual professor, was nice, and he let me take the exam anyway.
So, conclusion? I'm lucky I got to take the exam, but I'm unlucky in the sense that the exam covered some shit I'm still a little unfamiliar with.
PS: Next calculus exam, please come to Susan B. Anthony and pull the fire alarm an hour before the exam please. I'm not sure my heart can take THAT kind of adrenaline rush again...
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| The Paradox |
[19 Oct 2006|05:17pm] |
I am sitting in my room, on the fifth floor, drinking Dr. Pepper and watching drops of rain commit suicide on my window panes, on the dirt, on the grass, on the bleachers, and the soccer players. My arms ache and pain from yesterday's workout, but my mood pains even more from the bleakness of everything, of the dim light, of the chill, of the eerie piano, and of the silence of everything else. My brain is stagnant, and it remains a fact that, no matter how hard I try, I cannot reach any sort of inspiration. I sit here and tap my feet, chew a pencil stub, switch the lights on and off, off and on, and drink more and more Dr. Pepper. These are the sort of days in which motivation is in full gear, but creativity and raw material are nowhere to be found. I am an engine running on nothing. The result is something like heartburn or indigestion, if you could call it that for an engine.
These are the sort of days when you desire to draw an entire rainbow, but, instead, find yourself too lazy to even make one primitive stroke of red or yellow or blue across the paper. These are the sort of days when you wish to write a dictionary but you cannot seem to find...what is the word...something. It is like having a full bladder of energy, stewing and churning, begging to be released, but not having the creative outlet urinal to relieve oneself. It is as if one had plugged a cork up my ass and not allowed me my fart, for, had I indeed farted in that auditorium of rougly 360, there would have been much olfactory and auditory amusement. Somebody or something or someshit is not allowing me to share with everybody else what I have in mind.
As it was a rainy day today, I decided to do a little bit of rallying in the Robert B. Goergen gym. I had the perfect forehand stroke in mind, and I desperately wanted to use it, but alas, the thought would not translate into anything of either chemical or physical form. The damned yellow fuzz would not allow me to push it around, for, whenever I hit the ball forward, it would inevitably slant to the right or left. Whenever the ball got dipped low, I would bend my knees for a swoop upward, only to find that the ball had smacked the rim of the white net. I am now inclined to believe that, on days of creative and performance based constipation, tennis balls are incredibly shy creatures. Or, shall we explain this phenomenon with the fact that, in my sophomore year, I had failed physics...and, today, physics has failed me.
In addition, a peer of mine was having a delightful time relating to me how he had been able to get into close contact with the girl of my dreams. The little bastard had informed me that she had greeted him with a "hi" on several occasions, and had even asked for his phone number. He said he gave her the phone number because he was to be teaching her biology. Now, at this point, my stomach was doing loop-de-loops and was disagreeing with the fish and sour cream I had tried so hard to swallow. I had a million clever and particularly nasty insults to use, but none of them came to arm me at the right time. All I could babble was "I'm going to kill you, you bastard" or "wait here, I am fetching the butcher's knife." I could have said "your only sense of humor is your face so kiss my yellow ass," but, right about then, I needed to leave and take a shit. Physiological constipation was, for the moment, no longer a danger to me. However, that relief robbed me of the opportunity of pulling a creative getback. Perhaps tomorrow I will think of something creative to say to get back at the rightist smart ass.
After lunch, was my all-time favorite calculus course. In light of an upcoming calculus exam, we were all assigned a practice exam. On the exam was an entire page concerning limits. I had studied limits for quite awhile, for my entire life, actually. The limit to how much money is allocated to one's allowance, for example, approaches zero when the temper of a certain breadwinner also reaches zero. Bladder control reaches zero when classtime reach infinite. When one is having fun, time approaches negative infinity as fun approches...1. But, alas, I had forgotten my mother's admonition ("know your limits") come practice exam time. On the exam, limits were expressed in very whimsical manners. There were, for example, many x's in one expression, but one x was penned off from all the others. I asked my friend if he was a bad x spending time in his room. My friend told me not to be a total fucktard, that that was an absolute value sign. No, he didn't say that, but he was thinking it. I forgot what vertical and horizontal asymptotes were, and I vaguely remembered that, at one time in my life, I attributed them to cup size. In fear of sexual harassment accusations from some of my XX peers, I kept my mouth shut. It was the worst form of verbal constipation I have ever had in my entire life. It was as if the little x's on the paper had unglued themselves and lodged their clammy little starfish-like bodies on to my lips.
On the way back to the Susan B. Anthony hall, I noticed that the weather had turned colder. The sky was an unforgiving shade, and there was an oh-so-tiny hint of rain in the air. Even the squirrels looked depressed, for they were the same shade as the weather. The floor was a preschool stew of organics, and nothing seemed to be going right. Then, out of the gray out walked Cinderella. Or it was the Little Mermaid, or Belle (I always though Belle was hot). It was her! Yes! I've heard so much about you, my goddess. Here are lines of ultimate praise and tribute I have concocted in this perverse and witty mind of mine: "hello darling, you are my sunshine after the Rochester," "you mean more to me than Smash Brothers ever did," "you are my defribrilator, my electric cattle prod, my global warming," "you are sweeter than my coffee," and if "love is a mess, you are my room". None of these adages ever emerged from my mouth. I desperately flipped and jumbled around my Very First Big Mental Bag of stuff to say for a simple "hi." Of course, that tiny molecule never came either. All I managed was a hard faced stare and a chemical reaction to my face, which we call the cherry. She probably thinks I have constipation, and maybe she's right.
And, so, after a very long and constipated day, I sit before my laptop, on the fifth floor, watching the rain die down and the soccer players run for cover. I am eating pretzel bits and honey roasted peanuts and drinking Dr. Pepper. I am tapping my feet, chewing my pencil, and wracking my brain. I feel an urge to write about something, but I do not know what. What was it exactly that I was going to write about? I don't have a ghost of a chance writing anything on days like these. These are the days when nobody gets anything done, when artists cannot paint, when tennis players cannot tennis, and when writers cannot write...
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| The Concentration Camp Phenomenon |
[02 Oct 2006|02:29pm] |
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Brian Jang
Professor Harper
Sociology 101
2 October 2006
I'm hoping that somebody didn't already coin this term in some way, shape, or form, or I might get my ass sued for this.
After reading pages and pages and pages of college rants, it occured to me that simply labeling the problem as "culture shock" just simply wouldn't cut it. After all, some of my peers have the thickest nerves possible and are probably immune to the small spark everybody else considers "a shock." The problem was more complicated than that, and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. Was it the fact that they went to horrible, humid places where they were forced to clean up their classrooms? Or was it the fact that they had little freedom to choose their academic paths? Or horrible food?
All of the aforementioned hypotheses seemed logical enough to me, until I realized that the subjects of interest were all of the same educational origin: NEHS, or The National Experimental High School. NEHS, a small high school (one that had engulfed a middle school and an elementary school to make up for its pathetic size), was indeed not the best of places. Students were required to, for some reason, wear feminine pink uniforms (accompanied with tasteless, comically short shorts in the summer) every Wednesday. In addition, the school's small size and blatant lack of resources meant that the idea of course selection (and, some would argue, free will) was gagged, bound, and raped in the most unsightly possible way. This is best supported by the fact that NEHS has had trouble hiring teachers, for whatever reasons, during recent years, and was therefore forced to accept anyone willing to take sorely needed positions. For those who wished to study Latin or various forms of the arts, no advanced placement courses were available. For those who happened to have advanced placement options available found, to their dismay, that the respective instructors of such courses had little, if any experience, and that many were, to be blunt, f***ing assholes and complete retards.
You'd think that the social life gets better, but, after close inspection, we see that even NEHS social life is a topic to pinch one's nose and gag about. With classes of approximately 40 students, social circle formation does not follow rules of compatibility. Rather, roughly three social circles evolved from a hodgepodge of different personalities: The Jocks, The Stress-a-Lots, and The Lump-Togethers. The Jocks consisted of jackass (yes, like the movie) elitists, some of whom excluded others from their social circle simply because they felt that anybody who didn't live in the fucking dump of a school dorm wasn't worth talking to. The Stress-a-Lots spent most of their time talking about TI's, laptops, and anything popularly labeled "geek," and also spent much time, sweat, and blood worrying about the 90s or 95s they scored on tests. The Lump-Togethers, then, was an oddball group that did not belong to either of the former groups. Needless to say, such rough and primitive social circles have arisen from the lack of a sufficient personality pool; a student body of 40 individuals diverse enough to be categorized into over 30 different social categories and pools were forced together, by means of artificial proximity, into three. Such is a recipe for disaster.
The dating scene? Incestuous and drama-leached. Some NEHS dating material best belongs in a cheesy soap; after all, death threats, exaggerated rivalry, and crying "YOU TRAITOR!" belong in shit we watch with our TV dinners. Thank goodness the NEHS scene did not include (much) sex, or we probably would've had to deal with some babysitter's club shit as well. Of course, it's always weird to suddenly start dating someone after one has known them for a decade. Perhaps we were one extremely perverse and twisted genetic experiment (thus the Experimental in NEHS) waiting for hormones to pop in so we could finally bear thoughts of screwing our friends.
Then, by some act of ultimate mercy (call it divine if you wish), all the horrible aspects of high school were all wiped away. Every single individual in the experiment was freed from the small, humid, artificial greenhouse of little opportunities and transferred to the ecosystem of their choice. No longer were their young, amoebic minds forced into a narrow and pointy iron maiden; no longer were they squeezed by peer pressure into taking certain academic paths; no longer would they have to lament the death of freedom of various sorts; no longer would they be forced into a social circle that is, at best, quasi-compatible with their personalities.
Come fall 2006, the NEHS class of 2006 was liberated from tyranny. Of course, if this were a happy story, that would be the ending. However, a shocking outcome, one that caused an uproar in the fields of both psychology and sociology, took place. Many of the liberated felt unhappy, or, to be more precise, devastated. The freedom of interacting with different peoples and getting a real taste of the world was lost on those who actually felt like crawling back to the dreaded laboratory. This phenomenon has therefore been coined "Concentration Camp," as it refers to those who, after becoming liberated from torture and starvation, actually threw up the rich food offered to them.
Such is a perfect analogy for nostalgic NEHS alumni. After growing up in a heavy, restrictive shell of a school, their bodies have grown accustomed to the narrow gaps and twisted spirals of their solid confinement. How is it that some alumni have it worse than others? The shell adheres to each and every one of us by means of a glue, nostalgia. For those who have seen freedom and recognize how lacking and how depressing an artificial NEHS environment is, an NEHS experience does not produce much nostalgia. For those who have clung to NEHS for far too long, that sense of enclosure, once taken away, can be milked for a shitload of nostalgia. Once the shell is forcefully taken away, those in the former category come free rather easily and are more than happy to take on a new life. For those in the latter category, the nostalgia rips away at skin and flesh, thus causing an agonizing experience for the individual involved.
From such an observation, it can only be concluded that it is best to keep an open mind, that nostalgia is valuable and should be reserved for only those experiences that are good and valuable. Should one ever bleed for miss of something, let that something always be wings and never a shell. Learn what must be discarded, for no matter how familiar a trash dump is, it will always be a trash dump.
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[27 Aug 2006|11:18pm] |
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I went to Vancouver on the eighteenth. Unfortunately (but then again, fortunately), my dad got us deluxe seats for Eva Air; with all the extra leg space, I was able to sleep, but jetlag hit extra hard once I got off the plane. I ended up drinking a lot of hotel coffee and watching a lot of late night South Park, Comedy Central, and Family Guy.
Fastforward a restless night, a crappy McDonald's breakfast, and a few showers. My friend Patricia drive from West Vancouver to Richmond (and got lost for about an hour), and brought me to North Mall. Fortunately for me, Patricia didn't make a scene when she helped me pick out clothes. Normally my mom does, though, because she can't seem to pick out anything without touching, picking up, and then criticizing all the clothes on display before telling me (no wait, ordering me) to try something on. For the first time in six years, I put on a pair of jeans. I still don't see what all the fuss is about, because jeans are heavy and they don't breathe.
Pat said I have to dress prep, so I have some sweaters now. Yay, white trash. No, but really, thanks for driving me all over the place Pat, you saved me from two days of would be sightseeing.
In a Roots store:
"Do you mind having 'Canada' on your shirt?"
"Not really."
"Is it going to get you beat up in New York?"
*quickly* "Probably."
Oh yeah, we also stopped by a Starbucks. Patricia works there, so, naturally, I assumed she was a coffee junkie. Oddly enough, she finds coffee revolting and only gets teas or juices from Starbucks. On yeah, and to prove my point about stupid people and lawyers, she told me that Starbucks had to serve hot drinks twenty degrees cooler because somebody sued Starbucks. Really, somebody go sue Microsoft for being too hot too, that should be profitable.
I also got the chance to visit the Vancouver aquarium. Upon seeing the salmon in the large tanks, Patricia said she once stated how tasty salmon were while visiting the Capilano salmon fishery. Consequently, a bunch of conservationists got pissed off and said "you shouldn't talk about animals that way!" (I agree, but I couldn't help but laugh). I guess that's why a few heads turned when I explained that sturgeon were "caviar fish." Fortunately, Patricia had gotten an ice cream cone by the time we visited the sea otters, so nobody talked about eating there. The otters drifted on top of the water belly side up and spent an awful lot of time grooming themselves. One rubbed both his paws on his forehead, as if confused...and then another otter came over and bit him (or her).
Let's see...I also went to Seattle. I visited the original Starbucks and was surprised it looked nothing like other Starbucks; it lacked that weird Starbucks icon. I also visited Pike Market, where my dad told me to go buy a crab. While I was handing the guy my money, I felt a fleck of ice against my neck. I blinked and heard a large plop(!) as a large salmon, the length of my arm, landed in the cashier's hands. Interesting...I almost got knocked out cold by a fish. Apparently, the guys at the fish market toss their fish from station to station, and the accuracy with which they do it still amazes me (we're talking salmon folks, not sardines). Maybe I'll sue them, too.
I am headed to University of Rochester tomorrow. Hopefully I will have some post about the hilarious stuff that will happen on orientation day.
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| Irony is... |
[08 Aug 2006|07:18pm] |
Irony is...
...the fact that Buddhists and Christians have gods that seem to resemble certain ethnic people (Asians and Caucasians, respectively), when adherents of both religions will claim that their gods (or god) are/is divine
...the fact that certain members of our previous generation studied hard and learned the rules of spelling and grammar, became computer engineers, designed fabulous computers and computer programs, and then bore offspring that type bullshit like "coolios, lolz, IRL, 'sup."
...the fact that most people who spend time admiring and observing computers use their computers to "play games and stuff."
...the fact that most kids who like to say "Asian Pride" can't speak a second language.
...the fact that nowadays even nonpoliticians have to be "politically correct."
...the fact that creationists, who don't feel they need to back up their religion or faith with any proof, deem evolution a "flawed theory."
...the fact that cosmetic surgeons earn more money than surgeons who actually do important things with their degree.
...the fact that people who can't write will go about criticizing other people for their ugly handwriting.
...the fact that there are fat people who spend more time drinking diet coke than exercising.
...the fact that certain first generation Taiwanese people will discriminate second generation Taiwanese people more then white people discriminate black people.
...the fact that a lot of people who claim they're Taiwanese can barely speak Taiwanese...and speak Chinese instead.
...the fact that sarcasm doesn't work on people who are too stupid, when sarcasm is intended for their breed...
...the fact that authentic goods and counterfeit goods are manufactured in the same countries.
...the fact that smart people who succeed in surviving law school eventually help those who try to earn money from "cups that don't say 'hot' on them" or those who didn't realize just how fattening McDonald's actually is...
...the fact that the previous generation has engaged in many many rounds of actual sexual intercourse so that the resulting offspring could say "fuck" on the internet many times before actually achieving sexual maturity.
...the fact that the US is the only country to have ever used a nuclear weapon against civilians, but is also the country that is first to threaten other countries that it believes is attempting to build up nuclear arsenals.
...the fact that there is an online site (http://www.websense-media.co.il/has_200706/default.asp?gid=friend) that is trying to support the troops in Israel by giving them chocolates rather then direct financial aid (which could be used on medication up to a million times more effective than chocolate).
...the fact that people call it an "Adam's Apple" rather than an "Adam's fruit."
...the fact that people say "bullshit" when they step in dog doo.
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| The Underground Dictionary of NEHS Terms |
[31 Jul 2006|08:27pm] |
Acetone (n.) 1) A substance intended for cleaning off pen marks from desk surfaces 2) a flammable solvent used for cubby barbeques
Aluba (n.) The act of inserting a broomstick or other polelike object between one's legs...and then pulling or ramming forcefully upward. (see "super aluba")
Bunsen Burner (n.) A device commonly found in chemistry laboratories. The exact purpose of a bunsen burner is unknown, but we have discovered that it comes in handy when making smoke bombs or burning holes through lab coats.
Chalkboard Erasers (n.) (see projectile weapon)
Clean Up (n.) A designated twenty minute period from 3 PM to 3:20 PM. We're not quite sure why we get a twenty minute break near the end of the day. Perhaps we're supposed to look for missing janitors(?)
Cockroach (n.) A common household pest, an insect, that is, for some peculiar reason, to be found in great abundance in the 12A classroom.
College Applications (n.) (see high school drama, cutthroat, backstabbing, bedlam)
Discipline Monitor (n.) The most pointless post that can be possibly assigned to a student. (see vice president)
Dormie Elitism (n.) An ironic form of elitism that occurs in response to what is perceived to be "ABC elitism"; the tendency for dorm residing classmates to scorn all others because they believe everyone else to be "too arrogant."
Eckerling (n.) A short, weather worn, and bitter man that occupies a room in the guidance office. His purpose at NEHS is not quite clear. Experts have speculated that he is a good source of income for the local Starbucks.
Elephant Apple (n.) (see skunk, stink bomb, senior prank)
Gladiator (n.) A battle event involving broomsticks, tennis and/or badminton rackets, heavy textbooks, chalkboard erasers, chalk, waterbottles, and any number of objects commonly found in the classroom.
Hair Fetish (n.) (see Denise Lin)
Happy Hour (n.) 1) a period in which free beer is offered at bars 2) Amy Chen's unique war cry
Hazing (n.) Almost anything. Like reading this entry, even.
Hilife (n.) The NEHS equivalent of Mecca.
Hockey Puck (n.) A flattened soft drink aluminum can.
Jang (Proper Noun). The proper way to spell my surname, you retards.
Plagarism (n.) The highest form of flattery a teacher can offer a student.
Quiet Time (n.) HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA.
Slacking Off (n.) Liar. You're not slacking off.
Soccer Field (n.) A half barren, rarely tended to wasteland. (see bloody shins, scraped knees, bruises, mosquito heaven)
Sparknotes (n.) Divine intervention designed to foil teachers' plots to force students into reading entire novels.
Super Smash Brothers Melee (n.) An event held during breaktime, quiet time, morning quiet time, physics class, PE class...
Tetris (n.) The program on which half a TI's energy is wasted on.
Wooden Desks (n.) (see tofu)
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| Blacklist |
[17 Jul 2006|03:46pm] |
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This is my blacklist of people, places, things, ideas, fads (...the list goes on) that I think deserve some love.
None of this is going to be sensitive or politically correct. If you don't like it, you can sue me (or get a life, whichever's cheaper).
People
George W. Bush: No, this has nothing to do with politics. I am not a tie-dye pot smoking hippie, but I don't think I need to be one in order to recognize a total idiot when I see one. Seriously, I think every hawk who screeched support for the war should stop taking steroids, because they're so pumped with an adrenaline rush that they've got their brains fucked up. "The Pentagon's got more testosterone in it than Mike Tyson's urine does." This I quote from a parody titled "Bushzilla."
Nobody in a sane state of mind should take George Bush's word for anything. He told America that there were weapons of mass destruction in Iraq, found out no such weapons existed in Iraq, and waved the whole "incident" away with some explanation. On the Richter Scale of fuckups, George Bush created a disaster that rivals that of the San Andreas fault. I can seriously imagine him saying "oops, I blew up your country."
We shouldn't be surprised. This is the same man that choked on a pretzel, can't tell the difference between presidents and prime ministers, and repeatedly claimed that the war was NOT about oil. First off, the Iraq War is all about oil. Really, there are lots of countries out there with "suppressive terrorists" dangerous to democracy. Take North Korea for example. Kim Jong IL actually has nuclear weapons. Bush is doing nothing about a dictator who spends all his money on the development and research of nuclear weapons. On the other hand, Iraq, proven to have no such weapons, is now in state of deep shit. What does Iraq have that North Korea doesn't? Oil (duh). Secondly, George W. Bush is a man that even has trouble pronouncing the word nuclear. How the fuck can ANYONE expect him to know how to handle something he can't even pronounce?
Stay home and don't hurt yourself, Bush. Help yourself to some pretzels.
Dick Cheney: Okay, I'm not surprised this guy supports the war in Iraq. I mean, come on, Cheney had no trouble shooting his own pal...he doesn't even KNOW the Iraqi people.
Chen Shui Bien: It seems that dumbass presidents are quite the fad nowadays. Several days before his second term, President Chen was the target of an attempted assassination...or so it seems. Here's what happened: the hitman missed Taiwan's chubby president. His bullet grazed President Chen's stomach AND Vice President Anette Lu's knee.
Okay, you're pretty clever, President Chen. You pulled off an incredibly stupid bogus assassination attempt AND took into account the fact that the southern bumpkins of Taiwan are even dumber than you are. First of all, any idiot should be able to smell something fishy. You don't seat two VIPs (Very Idiotic Persons) together for very goddamn obvious reasons. They did anyway. The only way the President could've made an assassination more likely was to bend over and take his pants off. Secondly, that "mysterious bullet" seems a little too good to be true. Seriously, nobody should call this "assassin" a bad shot; it takes a goddamn lot of skill to graze someone's stomach AND then graze his neighbor's knee with a single bullet. Really folks, anybody who calls the assassination attempt a failure or an "accident" would call the Clinton incident an "accident" as well. Put two and two together, like any second grader can, and the attempt to garner sympathy to secure a reelection should be pretty obvious.
I take it back. President Chen isn't dumb; he's actually a pretty clever guy. His supporters are.
Fads
Internet Newspeak: I've been noticing that it's a fad to type hollow periods these days, especially ones surrounded by peculiar borders. What the hell am I talking about? It's this linguistic curiosity: "lol." Seriously folks, "lol" is NOT a fucking punctuation mark. If you've got the grammar of a retarded seven year old, then type WITHOUT punctuation marks...it's the less retarded, much healthier alternative to "lol." Nobody gives a damn if you're laughing out loud (or laughing lots) if you don't have a mike. "I flunked my English essay again..." No shit, Mr. LOL.
And for you people obsessed with typing "...": if you have nothing to say, then shut the fuck up. Nobody'll miss you even if you don't talk, I promise.
Sports
Basketball shoes: Shoes named after people. A ridiculous marketing scheme...that actually works. People will actually pay more dough if their shoes are Iversons. Okay, for those of you who can't realize how stupid this is, lemme put this in terms of other sports. In soccer, people would be saying "hey, check out my Ronaldos." In golf: "hey caddy, hand me my nine tiger." In tennis: "hey, check out my Federers." Sound stupid enough? It sounds pretty stupid in basketball, too.
Soccer: I know some people cried when Germany lost. I know some nonGerman people who cried when Germany lost.
...seriously, get a life. It's not like you bet any money (if you did, this DOESN'T apply to you).
Idea(l)s
Patriotism: There are several things I can't stand: chives, seafood...and patriots. Patrotic zeal registers in my dictionary as hot headed stupidity. Anybody who screams "[insert country name] pride!" should be forced to pay extra tax or serve extra army time to back up their claims.
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| Progress, Improvement...and Technology |
[30 Jun 2006|08:58pm] |
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This is a story about a technologically advanced society, a cat in need, and Mr. Cold and Sarcastic.
Mr. Cold and Sarcastic was not a nice man. Few people liked to talk to him, because most felt that they could not understand him. Most thought that Mr. Cold and Sarcastic was hypercritical (for some idiots, hypocritical, even). After all, sometimes we need to forgive excusable mistakes. At some point in all of our lives, we've asked our friends "what are you doing here" (even in places like tennis courts or supermarkets), or made the entirely acceptable mistake of asking entirely retarded questions.
Mr. Cold and Sarcastic, why are you so sarcastic?
A cat in need was lying between two roads. Someone had torn off the flesh and skin off the cat's hindleg, leaving the cat a wretched, chickenleg resembling appendage. Nobody stopped to help the cat, for it was rush hour, and we all know that rush hour is a time of much more important things. For one, rush hour is a time when everyone is too busy to help an injured cat. Rush hour ir a time when everyone is too busy to make a short call to the police or fire department. Rush hour is a time when everyone is too busy to drop the traffic police a short notice.
After all, it was a technologically advanced society. Technologically advanced societies have much better things to do.
Mr. Cold and Sarcastic, the villan of the technologically advanced society, spotted a cat in need. He carefully crossed the road and observed the cat. The wound was dry, which indicated that the cat had been in need for quite some time. Mr. Cold and Sarcastic tried to catch the cat, but the cat hissed angrily and darted away. Mr. Cold and Sarcastic was worried, worried that some citizen of the technologically advanced society would run over the cat with a technologically advanced vehicle.
Mr. Cold and Sarcastic did not own a car, and tried to ask people for help. With his whimsical logic, he deduced that the cat had to be sent to a veternarian immediately. Few technologically advanced vehicles stopped, and the few that did looked at Mr. Cold and Sarcastic like he was an idiot. Frantically, Mr. Cold and Sarcastic asked two teenagers, who happened to be chatting on a sidewalk nearby, for help.
The first teenager looked up from his camera magazine and looked at Mr. Cold and Sarcastic the same way people looked at outlandish bumpkins or space aliens. The second teenager asked what it was Mr. Cold and Sarcastic required help for, and when he discovered it was a cat, he replied with an "oookay..." and went back to reading his magazine.
"Why won't you help?" asked Mr. Cold and Sarcastic, now exasperated. "It's a living thing!"
"Cats and dogs are out of style," said the first teenager. "They never upgrade them. Here, look at this T-707."
"...What? What's that?"
"A camera."
"Are you fucking retarded? There is a CAT with a BLOODY leg in the middle of the bloody fucking road and you're telling me about some bloody fucking CAMERA?"
"Hey, dude, no need to get all critical. I'm just saying, technology is amazing! Look what techonology can do. I mean, look at the beauty, the finesse, the art that steel, wire, and fiberglass can form."
"Okay, not to burst your bubble or anything, but a single cell in that cat is a million times more intricate, more complicated, and more fantastic than any technology known to mankind."
"What are you trying to say?"
"I'm trying to ask you to help me, fucking nerdwad."
"Nah, I don't want to get my hands dirty. Besides, it's dangerous."
Just then, the cat made it safely on to the sidewalk and Mr. Cold and Sarcastic promptly grabbed the cat in his coat. He thought about asking the two techie nerds for a quick car ride, but he decided it was a futile request. He jogged several blocks to the nearest veternarian and practically yelled out "help! help!" The vet arranged for disinfection and several days stay in an oxygenated chamber.
This is the aftermath of a cat in need.
The cat was alive, but alas...the cat was dead. The cat was dead to a technologically advanced society, a society in which those who contribute to technological advancement are as cold and unfeeling as the innovations they help crank out daily.
"Mr. Cold and Sarcastic," asked the cat, "do you think anybody else would've helped me?"
"No," said Mr. Cold and Sarcastic.
"Why do they call you what they do?"
Mr. Cold and Sarcastic smiled warmly, and the cat understood. With that, the cat fell silent, and spoke no more.
Engraved on the cat's tombstone: "Life is beautiful." This is why most citizens of a technologically advanced society should get a life.
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[28 Jun 2006|05:46pm] |
This morning, the kitten died.
When my mother and I were trying to change the gauze around his leg, he kept struggling and squirming. My mother tried to get him to hold still, but all he did was struggle and grunt even more fiercely.
He began to urinate and defecate...and then went limp. His eyes went blank. He died of shock, or stress, or whatever.
I don't know if it's my fault, but I've been feeling like shit the entire day.
Fuck you, world. You're not funny.
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[21 Jun 2006|07:13pm] |
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On the way back from school today, my sister spotted a kitten lying in the middle of two roads (an area marked off by yellow lines). My mother suggested we go back and bring it somewhere safe, because the traffic was really crazy. My mother and sister then saw the bloody wound on the kitten's hindleg, and almost decided to give up because they thought the kitten was dead.
Luckily, we went back to check anyway, and I saw the kitten move it's head from side to side. Mom pulled over and hit the emergency parking light, and, armed with my sister's uniform, we went after the kitten. To our surprise, the kitten sprang quickly away and hissed at us before running into some bushes. I ran to the opposite side and tried to prevent the kitten from running into the road, while mom tried to bag the kitten with my sister's uniform.
For an injured animal, he was pretty quick. The kitten ran away...into the middle of the road.
A car passed by, and mom almost fainted.
We were afraid to check, but, seeing that it was almost green light, we did. The kitten was there, scowling at us from under the shade of the car. Mom tapped the window and told the driver "there's a cat underneath your car! Don't squish it!" Chaos ensued, and we spent a frantic thirty seconds trying to scare the cat out from beneath the car. The kitten did eventually run out...and then hid beneath another car.
By this time, mom got a panic attack and kept asking what do we we do...what if it gets run over? I was frantic too, and I think I even cussed at my mom (meaning a colorful variation of "shut up.") The same thing happened: mom told the driver of the BMW to drive slowly, and we tried to shoo the cat out from underneath the car. The bus driver behind us was staring, and so were many other drivers.
I guess it's amusing to see people talking to car tires, to see people waving a pink shirt frantically across the asphalt.
The kitten was fine. That bastard was sitting between the two front tires of the BMW, so I told the driver to drive away slowly. He did, and the kitten stayed put. Mom, with Tiffany's uniform on her hands, quickly grabbed the kitten. She wrapped it up and put it into a bag.
The vet (yes, the one Denise works at) says the wound has been infected for some time, and, consequently, the kitten is suffering from a severe fever. I went in and observed the kitten; his right hindleg was bare, red, and bloody, while the one of the left had similar injuries below the thigh. I mistook the crawling dots for ants; they were fleas. They were everywhere on the kitten, and the assistant vet kept rubbing alcohol into the kitten's fur. The fleas dropped and hopped out everywhere on to the operation table.
The wounds obviously indicate animal mistreatment. The skin was torn clean, right off the wound, fur and everything. A dog, cat, animal, or car couldn't have inflicted the wound on the kitten.
He's got a 15-20% chance of survival. If he does survive, the vet says he'll need to graft skin on to the wound. Right now he's scheduled for an IV drip, wound disinfection, and an oxygenated isolation chamber.
Carrie was there. It was her first day of volunteer work at the vet's.
Denise and Carrie: tell me how he does. I intend to keep him.
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| Why Chinese Kids call Essay Writing "BS" |
[12 Jun 2006|04:20pm] |
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Westerners tend to emphasize the importance of free thinking. Such a claim is evidenced by the fact that there is no prominent cookie cutter path to success, no "ideal career"; when Westerners teach preschool, they really mean that it is possible to become either an astronaut, lawyer, or movie star, to name a few occupations. In addition, Western schools are much more liberal than their Eastern counterparts, and offer a wide variety of courses and sports. Consequently, Western students do not feel pressured into taking classes or participating in sports that to not interest them.
In Taiwan, basketball and badminton are commonly played sports. In school, physics, calculus, and advanced chemistry are the norm. Pursuing anything otherwise immediately deems one a minority. Imagine the dismay of the soccer lovers of Taiwan, who would rather kick a ball through a goal rather than throw it through a hoop, or that of a poet, who cannot understand the joys behind eyeballing graphs and calculators through thick lenses.
Eastern schools* emphasize competition and the idea of "definite success," the idea that one should pursue the most profitable, most lucrative careers possible. In Taiwan, such a career means foreign business, certain fields of "hard science" (electrical/computer engineering), or medical school. Consequently, most Asian schools are highly competitive and are dictated by rigid, creativity supressing educational systems, ones that prepare students for beating their peers on tests. Standardized tests, found in Taiwan, Korea, Japan, China, and other Asian countries, determine which kinds of middle schools, high schools, or universities students will attend.
*Here, my claims are backed from my experience as a student in a bilingual school in Taiwan. My school, in terms of educational style, is a diluted version of local schools.
These standardized tests contain several subjects, ranging from math to civics, and make tests like the SAT, ACT, IB, and AP exams look like sitting ducks. It is exactly such monstrosities that Asian students must wage wars against in order to get into top schools and colleges. With the heavy emphasis Asian cultures place on "filial piety," a euphemism for "get good grades and pay your parents back" and educational institution prestege, Asian kids are placed into pressure cookers from the first day of grade one.
Such a fixed manner of thinking, accompanied with such a cookie cutter notion of success, naturally leads to emphasis of certain subjects. Asians are often viewed, albeit stereotypically, as superior in terms of analytical skills (the ethnic composition of NASA's crew seems to back this stereotype well). With the maths and hard sciences heavily emphasized in public schools, its little wonder a large majority of Asian high school students seek careers in physics and chemistry (mostly engineering, where the maths are found in their largest and most fearsome forms).
In terms of mathematics, there is generally one solution (one shortest or most thorough) solution, and one correct answer; there is rarely an avant garde way of finding "x," short of painting the answer on some unique medium. Like the Asian formula for success, mathmatics involves hard, empirical data. No matter what the procedure is, the answer remains the same, and, consequently, there is little, if any, incentive for creativity.
The reason why Chinese students refer to creative approaches to writing or answering an essay question "BS," then, is rather evident; many Chinese students, who have been surrounded with the idea that empirical data is supreme, that efficiency is king, cannot fathom why anyone would use a fresh appproach to writing an essay. Needless to say, numbers are king here, and the general idea is to simply write the least number of words possible for the highest grade--an approach that is nearsighted, to say the least. Such a claim is evidenced by the fact that Chinese students will generally ask their instructors for a word count minimum on essay assignments.
Literature, as opposed to the maths, is much more open ended. There are several ways to write (tone, style, diction), but no "right" or "most efficient" method to write. One can write "the normal way" and say what he or she means, or one can emphasize a point with clever use of irony. One can either knock him or herself out with long, ornate words or simply "go Hemingway." One can write poems, essays, stories, articles...the possibilities are endless. Beyond proper grammar and sound logic, there is little in writing that can be doomed with the red x.
...and this is precisely the idea that needs to be introduced into Asian culture. The lesson to be learned: if you don't like playing basketball or badminton, or if you don't want to take AP physics or AP calculus, then don't. Nobody can justifiably say that you're doing the wrong thing, and the only thing that can be butchered with red x's is a math test.
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| A Philosopher Questions Faulty Taxonomy |
[25 May 2006|11:41pm] |
vivian 說:
i want to have senior ditch day
/\/\ a \/ e r | c k, / /\/ c e /\/ d i a r y 說:
you may have my senior ditch day
vivian 說:
not fair
vivian 說:
okkk
vivian 說:
when is it?
vivian 說:
wait.
/\/\ a \/ e r | c k, / /\/ c e /\/ d i a r y 說:
senior ditch day's not a big deal
vivian 說:
you guys arent going to take personal leave and THEN ditch?
/\/\ a \/ e r | c k, / /\/ c e /\/ d i a r y 說:
been cutting lots of classes anyway
vivian 說:
is EVERYONE doing it?
/\/\ a \/ e r | c k, / /\/ c e /\/ d i a r y 說:
yeah, that's what they're doing
vivian 說:
lol
/\/\ a \/ e r | c k, / /\/ c e /\/ d i a r y 說:
sort of lame...
vivian 說:
why is that ditching then?
/\/\ a \/ e r | c k, / /\/ c e /\/ d i a r y 說:
yeah, exactly
vivian 說:
lol
vivian 說:
*sigh
vivian 說:
our grade will be our grade
vivian 說:
party hardy -friendz forever-dance all night together-girls like boys-guys dig chicks-hey we're the class of 2006
vivian 說:
lol...our school is thte only school
/\/\ a \/ e r | c k, / /\/ c e /\/ d i a r y 說:
...in English, please?
/\/\ a \/ e r | c k, / /\/ c e /\/ d i a r y 說:
haha
vivian 說:
where you ditch school to go to the library..
vivian 說:
where you take a personal leave and call that ditching
/\/\ a \/ e r | c k, / /\/ c e /\/ d i a r y 說:
yeah, exactly
/\/\ a \/ e r | c k, / /\/ c e /\/ d i a r y 說:
OR
/\/\ a \/ e r | c k, / /\/ c e /\/ d i a r y 說:
when ditching PE is considered ditching a class
vivian 說:
HAHAHHAHA
/\/\ a \/ e r | c k, / /\/ c e /\/ d i a r y 說:
that's lame to the extreme
vivian 說:
or you get marked absent because you were late?
/\/\ a \/ e r | c k, / /\/ c e /\/ d i a r y 說:
yeah, that's messed up too
vivian 說:
hahahhaa
/\/\ a \/ e r | c k, / /\/ c e /\/ d i a r y 說:
some people ditch basketball to play tennis
/\/\ a \/ e r | c k, / /\/ c e /\/ d i a r y 說:
and they're all, "whoa, i'm ditching class! cool!"
vivian 說:
so why are they calling it senior ditch day if theyre taking personal leave?
/\/\ a \/ e r | c k, / /\/ c e /\/ d i a r y 說:
...I have no idea
vivian 說:
.....
vivian 說:
now i know why youre not looking fwd to it
vivian 說:
or encouraging me to join
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[22 May 2006|09:31pm] |
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For whatever reason, several pilgrims decided to go on a pilgrimage. I have been sent along to record their tales. Anything said by the mentioned individuals I do not claim any responsibility for, and any resemblance of the fictional characters described in this story to any unfictional peoples demonstrates the phenomenon of pure coincidence.
This tale is based on a true story.
Book I- The Carbohydrate Pilgrimage
"I'm horny. But, even more so, I am hungry," said the Priest. Father Frank was adorned with faded jeans and an ornately patterned T-shirt. In addition, he was outfitted with a bad habit, which he demonstrated frequently by increasing the probability of random contact. Such contacts are generally characterized by shrieks and screams of the victim involved. Apparently, back in the day, lawsuits did not yet exist, and the priest himself was somewhat of a pardoner anyway.
"Well, with your intentions," the priestess giggled, "it's hard to tell which one you truly are." Priestess Kim dodged another critical hit, emitted a mock shriek, and fell into fits of giggles. The dragon she was riding shuddered at these terrible sounds, and Father Frank's mule began to grunt and whinny regally. Like the priest, the priestess herself had on a pair of blessed jeans and the standard T-shirt of the Church. The habit she wore was quite a flashy one, one of gibberish and whimsical statements. It seems that she enjoys the Father's unusual attentions.
"Well, thou shalt not be hungry no longer!" screamed St. Peter. It was St. Peter's habit, full of hot air from the clouds of heaven, to yell for no apparent reason. St. Peter's memory was not exactly perfect by the age of 17, so he regarded everyone as "dumbdonkey!" If a sir, then "Mr. Dumbdonkey!" If a mistress, then "DumbShedonkey!" Sometimes St. Peter would forget the term "dumbdonkey" and substitute it for a more flattering one, such as "dumbfeces!" St. Peter rode on an ostrich, a big bird he thought to be much more regal than the huge yellow one on Pepper Street.
"Then letz go to Hilife lah," suggested the merchant. Mrs. Wong, the Far Eastern merchant, had a very unique vocabulary of her own, one that found the curves of every 's' very difficult to express, and thus substituted these letters with z's. Mrs. Wong, being a very pious merchant, often paid visits to St. Peter, where she could be seen bargaining for what she refers to as "hotel reservations." These reservations had to be obtained by means of tongue and flattery, as it seems that this particular merchant could not obtain a spot in this divine hotel by conventional means. Apparently, with her loud voice, she was rather popular with St. Peter.
"Fine, I want to buy...um, no wait...no, maybe, um, wait, I forgot again! Oh no!" The priestess's indecisiveness was also another habit she wore.
"Why don't we just go to a vending machine then, DumbSheDonkey!" hollered St. Peter from atop his fluffy bird.
"What's that? Can you not speak in Latin please, oh wise Peter?"
"It's a big machine with drinks in it, you dumbfeces! You pop a coin in it and drinks pop out! Whalah! DumbSheDonkey!"
"What, machine? Another Latin word," sighed the priestess.
"It a big thingy with lots of thingies in it! Donkey!"
"Okay lah, let's just go to Hilife lah," said the merchant. The priestess was still scratching her head, and the dragon was happily eating the snowfall. The priest whipped his mule, and headed west for the holy lands. The priestess followed suit, and the merchant trudged slowly behind on her boar.
It was scarcely ten minutes after the crew had reached the holy land that the Father wanted to quickly enjoy the milk (and honey) of Paradise. Consequently, the priestess dodged another attack and giggled ferociously. St. Peter began adding names to his "to enter" list, but found that he could not remember who to admit and who to turn away. To make up for this sudden loss of memory, St. Peter simply permitted all donkeys to enter heaven upon death.
The merchant began taunting the store owner, claiming that he would never enter heaven, and that she would. St. Peter looked at his newly confirmed list and confirmed the merchant's taunts.
The priestess looked at the various bottled liquids and was trying to decipher the hieroglyphics on each bottle. The Egyptians labeled their fizzy drink with "carbonated," another very Latin term, it seems. Sugars were then identified with the hieroglyphics of "oligosaccharides," and, unbeknownst to the priestess, "Coke" did not refer to cocaine. Needless to say, the priestess had much trouble making a choice.
"Just pick something! Now!"
"Ai yah lah, we hav lotz of time lah, no need to rush lah...besides, I am going to heaven anyway!"
"Just pick milk," urged the Priest, who now had a very dirty grin on his face.
...Of all the habits, none of the pilgrims had bulletproof vests. The store owner, who was quite fed up with the pilgrims' absolute bullshit, stupid antics, retarded comments, and dumbshit entertainment, whipped out two pistols and promptly shot all of them.
Even the vultures didn't even bother coming.
And, as St. Peter predicted, the four reached heaven.
"Ai lah, I was right! I am always right, ha ha ha."
"Yeah, DumbSheDonkeys! We're home!" St. Peter screamed so loud that a cherub got a heart attack, died, and fell with a loud crash upon Earth's crust. The smoldering crater was to later become a school.
The priest didn't say anything. He began flirting with the cherubs.
The priestess began crying to get attention. The angels pelted her with Coke and Sprite. It worked.
Book II- The Aftermath
The priest was pardoned for his sins, as he meant little harm, and his jokes were sometimes amusing. He was warned that he should change into a different habit.
The priestess annoyed the Archangels by not being able to tell the difference between their kind and the cherubs. Her inability to choose a cloud to rest upon at night led to incessant chatter. She was teleported to the crater with loud, dramatic, and painful thunderclaps. There she served her sentence by building a school of torture, of clean up. Her crime: breeding inefficiency with indecisiveness and whimsical, irritating speech.
The merchant kept trying to sell her wares the to archangels. When the archangels tried to sell her some of their own wares, she refused. Consequently, she was banished to the school of torture. Her crime: being absolutely charming when requiring help, but being absolutely otherwise otherwise.
St. Peter, of course, was not banished. They let him stay after he had quieted down. When that didn't work, they stuffed a watermelon down his gullet...whole.
The End
PS: The author holds no grudges against the mentioned characters. He is a humantarian and simply hopes that they will change their ways.
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[24 Apr 2006|06:31pm] |
Tagged by Jeff:
Once you are tagged you MUST write a blog about your 6 weird habits/things as well as state this rule clearly. In the end, you need to choose the next six people to be tagged and list their names.
1) When I'm nervous about something, I look for auspicious signs...ones I make up. For example, I once flipped through several channels in the morning for Cyndi's music videos because I had a hard test coming up.
2) I like playing devil's advocate against "popular" things. If everyone's talking about that "cool new movie," I start discussing plot flaws.
3) When I'm waiting in line to buy something, I usually fold up my bills into all sorts of weird shapes. By the time it's my turn to order, my one hundred NT bill looks something like a triangle.
4) When I'm hyper, I imagine I'm a South Park character. Needless to say, my hyperactive mode involves throwing around profane comments.
5) When I'm sick, I imagine soldiers romping through my blood vessels in pursuit of bacteria/viruses. I'm guessing this is because my favorite childhood book involves antibodies drawn to resemble British royal guards.
6) I sometimes like to doze off and imagine myself as a dictator (this happens most often when I'm in a bad mood). In such daydreams, I personally kill my opposition and laugh "compromise my ass!"
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| Post, In Chinese (translations included) |
[11 Apr 2006|11:59pm] |
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都快要畢業了,所以我有些話必須得對同學們說:
There are some things I must tell my classmates now, as it is nearing graduation:
給我酒肉朋友的話: 不要每次交英文功課前像狗一樣求我幫你改。用不到我的時候愛鳥不鳥的, 還說剛認識的人是你朋友...那是狗的行為。靠，九年算屁啊?
To my shallow friends: don't beg me like dogs whenever you've got essays for me to edit. When you people have no use for me, you ignore or disregard me. Don't say other people you've known for less long are "your friends"...that's a very doglike thing to do. Damn, what do nine years count for?
給耍憂鬱/失戀的同學: 想開一點,你(妳)又不是演電影的...
For my pseudo-depressed/pseudo-heartbreak classmates: get over it. It's not like you're actors/actresses.
給天天把大學/大學排名掛在嘴上的同學: 竟然這麼在乎,為什麼不去哈佛?
To my classmates who talk about colleges/college rankings 24/7: if you're so concerned about these matters, why didn't you just go to Harvard?
給少數的同學: 你(妳)們真的讓這鬼地方好受點。謝謝。
To a small number of classmates: you guys make this horrible place [school] easier to bear. Thanks
Note: each category describes more than one person. Some people may fall in multiple categories. I will not answer any questions regarding who goes where, so don't bother. If you feel offended, *shrug*, just remember to not piss me off in the future.
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