Stanford Pollutant

I grew up in the shadows of two great universities. Living in the Bay Area, they both certainly made their presence and they certainly were not something you wouldn't notice at all. In the fall, their games would be broadcast on television and towards Christmas, the Big Game would just spread over the Bay Area. But until three years ago, I hardly even knew the definition of "Big Game". In fact, College football wasn't a priority. Not at all. I would work as an ordinary student at an ordinary high school in an ordinary town. Not to say in the least that Alameda was ordinary all the time. I bode my time well, making friends and having as much fun as possible, but when it came time to choose colleges, there were too many options ahead of me.

Another thing, let me tell you. I grew up knowing where UC Berkeley was, but not Stanford. I always thought it was somewhere north of Berkeley, but then, I think it was senior year of High School when I bothered to look up where it was. Apparently, its in a place called Palo Alto.

But a big decision in shaping me was football. I didn't like it at first, but when on the local level you could relate, then it became personal. My first memory of Memorial Stadium was around early October of 2006 when my friend's family offered to take me along. It was amazing. The first thing you could do was the march to victory, the parade route Cal Band always took from Sproul up to Memorial. Its changed now, since all that construction on the Bancroft has stepped up. You'd enter this gigantic archway and find your seats, watch the band just burst out of the tunnel to two "bombs" as they're called and watch pregame. The cannon on the hill would fire and the general atmosphere would be amazing. For me, my first time was absolutely breath taking. People were cheering, students were standing, I was sitting, etc. And at that point, I fell in love with Cal. I never knew this sort of thing existed. I mean, sure, i've heard of the play and stuff, but not in this context. This brought it upon a whole new level. I always assumed that Cal was the place where smart people go. I never realized that there would be this informal, football loving side to the university.

From that point on, I always saw Stanford as the enemy. I stopped wearing my stanford sweatshirt permanently, and I gave away my Stanford Tshirt. The only reason I had those was because I just wanted college gear back in high school. Stanford, Cal, University of Virginia, it didn't mean much other than you got cool shit from one of those places. I had a really small sweatshirt I loved from University of Washington and I believe there's a Buckeyes sweatshirt somewhere that was a handmedown from my cousins. I still wear stuff from other places, all but Stanford.

But mind you, I've never been to Stanford. The occasion never called for me to go that far south on the peninsula. So my only impressions of it is, well, a school. For those of you who dont know what Berkeley is like, imagine this: A school was founded, but towards the early 20th century, a plan was envisioned. By one of the wealthiest women in the country. Willing to back up and finance this, the goal was to turn this school into the Athens of the West. Massive greek style buildings, amazing libraries, a Campinile, in other words, a model of the great learning civilizations of years past.

So what did I think of Stanford? My only images were those conjured from what I've heard. Flat, boring buildings and a stubby penis looking tower. Fair enough I suppose. But I'd never set foot onto the campus until December 1, 2007. When the majority of all these ideas were reinforced. Never had I seen such a flat spread out campus. Apart from Davis and Santa Barbara. But those were understandable. They had the space to spread out and merit Bike lanes and signals. There, it was just plain confusion. Trees and random ugly bits of land. Such a strange site to behold.

My view on Stanfordites weren't any better. We learned to watch our things, to be vigilant and to notice every single attack they may make. The day of bonfire, they tried to hang a banner. It fell, ripping the sheet. Epic Fail. That's all I need to say. Epic FAIL.

So with Rally Comm, my friends, and a few others, I visited Stanford with the notion that they were mean, cruel, evil and awkwardly weird. Seriously, I couldn't imagine a nice person from Stanford. Well, I suppose I could, but they'd be just normal students. A high school professor/colleague of mine was a Stanford Alum and decided to put a beat Cal sign on the wall. But it soon changed to read GO CAL. Lol. So my first visit to the farm, I couldn't find a single nice Stanford person. So at this point, I do my best to stay away from there.

Go Bears

- A Stanford student and a Cal Student were using the urinals in the bathroom of Memorial Stadium. They both finish up and the Stanford student walks to the sinks and starts washing up whereas the Cal student finishes and goes for the door. The Stanford student nonchalantly calls out: "At Stanford, they teach us to wash our hands after we pee. Without missing a beat, the Cal Student replies: "At Cal, they dont teach us to pee on our hands."

California

Let me give you some background. I kinda was an unofficial adopted buddy of this girl I knew in the University of California Rally Committee. We became fast friends and we'd do some things together. Somewhere in the middle of the year, my pink slip somehow had been transferred to her roommate. Then her roommate and I spent more time together. It didn't eliminate me from my first friend, but it did mean I saw less of her. Her roommate worked at my residence hall cluster so it was much easier to see her than my friend.

But now we're getting into complicated relationship stuff of which I still am confused about.

It was around Christmas time when I received the invitation. It sounded like fun, It'd be my second party of the year. Sure we had done some illegal things in the dorms, but there's only so many people you can meet over and over again. So I arrive, dressed up a little. Shirt, tie. that's about it. But if you knew me, you'd know that I'm an awkward wall flower. For the most part. I actually find it difficult to mingle with groups where everyone knows everyone else, but I only know a third of the people. I actually tend to follow a person for the evening, but that gets kidna creepy. But the party's over, i'm leaving, good bye then.

In the middle of winter, there's this thing called Men's Basketball and there's barely enough people to constitute a rooting section, but locals were usually there, and I had no way of getting home until 12 midnight. So I decided to crash my friend's place for the night. My first friend, the one I mentioned first, was away. Wait... no she wasn't. She was getting ready for a date with some boy she had met on New Year's. I had a thing for her. She was pretty and smart. Well, is, to be correct. But I had no chance at this point. She's still dating him. But that's beside the point. I was thrown two blankets when sleepy time came. I put the Oleg blanket on first, then their new fuzzy, totally awesome blanket. That was warm. The lights went out, everyone retired to their rooms, leaving me in the common area. They forgot to put out the Christmas lights on the wall. No matter, it was like a night light. I rocked to sleep with the patter of gale force rain on the window panes, the word CALIFORNIA was lit up, enblazed in my mind. My eyes drooped, weighted with lead. They were mere slits now, the only thing I could see in my mind was the California Banner.

I woke up, the morning was groggy certainly. I could hear the vehicles in the street leave lines of water in the slick street. A bus would rumble by and you could recgonize its characteristic low rumble from the massive engine. But I stared at the brown couch and to my surprise, there was an unfamiliar shape. It wasn't their cat. It was long and it had long hair. One of my blankets had moved in the night too. Must be Oleg. I put on my glasses, and certainly enough, it was Oleg. I called his name softly. His only response was a soft "phut" from under the blanket. It took me awhile to realize that it was him farting.

I put my jacket on, threw the rugby in my bag, and looked around. No one was awake. Not my friend, or her roommate. I figured i'd see them soon anyways. So I left. I stared up at the windows from the outside and the only thing I could see was CALIFORNIA.

Oh the things the internet will say...

Everyone's done. Once, or twice, or daily. They've Googled themselves, or someone else, or someone of a particular interest. Not just the popular celebrities, but the common man, the guy who works at a job and doesn't appear on TV. We're that person. We google ourselves for the hell of it, to see what we'd look like, or just plain see if we even make internet recognition. Let me tell you, you wont really find me by my name, but now if you were to use my screen name or gamertag, then yes, its much more likely. If you ever urban dictionary search your name, you'll certainly get blown away by the much more interesting *ahem* definitions:

my name: Zach

so here's some favorite definitions

1. A name of a person who is often smart, cunning, dresses well and likes to have fun. A party goer that attracts many people with his intellect, jokes, and good smile.

2. Zach- N. literally translated to... the great women seducer.. in ancient the Greek language. Usually having an urge to have sex for more then 7 hours.

Ok, well those are my only favorite definitions. The rest get kinda weird and kinky, sadistic and insulting.

She

I never let it get me down before.
It was bound to happen. She came in through those doors. That wooden door with the frosted glass. She opened the door, the way it looked.

She's the reason you lose sleep at night. Not really, you're actually tired from long nights in Wurster. But then again, she does like to pop into your head.

You think about it, you consider it and you ponder it. You're too damn methodical. If you think about it too hard, you're just never going to get there man.

You know it, her friends know it. Even friends of her friends know it. But she doesn't. She just doesn't seem to notice you.

The moment you get to talk to her, you just cant entertain her. You've tried. She's gone away.

Just be natural dude. Natural. What the fuck is that? "Natural". I have no idea how to act then. Nerdy? Smothery? Handsy? God. When I have it in my brain, it gets in there. Normal goes away. Shit.

What happened last time with what's her name? Oh. Her? Yeah. I guess I let my mind get in the way. I never asked her or anything. Typical dude. Well, we're friends. I think. You think? Well, shes there sort of... Its hard to explain. You're always hard to explain.

And what about the one after that. You liked her. But I never talked to her. Oh. Yeah. Loser.

And what's her name. The cute one. I tried. No you didnt. Yeah.

And look at you now. You've got another one don't you? Another infatuation. Its infectious on you isn't it? I suppose. Well, from what i've heard, she's really nice and likes alot of things you might like. Yeah? Go for it. Ask her. nooooo. C'mon. Just try. Noooooooo. Fail... just fail.

Do I? But it might affect our friendship if she says no. That's true. Well... Looks like you're screwed my friend. Crumbs.

Sesh sion

So Professor Sullivan, Christy and I finally decided today was going to be our pipe day. We packed and we enjoyed ourselves outside wurster today. We drew a comic together and it was quite nice. I ended up getting myself a decent fountain pen for use. since at this point, I think I have replaced all pens with the fountain and dip pen. Dip's a little harder to carry to class and such.

Fear

You know that feeling. That one called fear? Some of you claim no familiarity with it, others of you may say he has never left your side for a moment. I dont blame you. I've had that moment too when it would stalk me for hours on end. But the moment daylight came up, all was resolved. But night would come soon and you'd go back into it.

As a college student, you realize how much fear has transformed. As a child, your fears were the opposite sex, no recess, the boogie man who lived under your bed and in your closet at night. All sorts of wild and fantastic things and beasts that never existed. As you grew older, I'm sure the opposite sex became less of a beast and recess was nothing more than a mere period for teachers to relax and catch a smoking break. Then the boogie man. He never quite left now did he? I still know people. At my age. Get freaked out by scary movies, then can sleep at all at night. I know. I'm like that. That's why I abstain from it.

But the fear I want to talk about is that fear of the opposite sex. Sure, it has gone away for the most part, but still. It exists. In the virgin, the one bereft of confidance, the one who thinks about it, but never acts on it. To let you know, i'm one of those.

To be honest and frank with you all, I haven't been on a real date since august of 2006. That's an approximate time. I'm sore some of you could consider when I took a friend out for dinner, the two of us, a few months back as one, but it was more of a quasi dinner get together. With the two of us. In Jupiter. At its loudest. Ok, for certain, I probably wouldn't go back to Jupiter for a date, but the food's amazing.

But still friends, I live in that fear of rejection. Its why I cant flyer on sproul sometimes. I cant bear to be one of the annoying broods attempting to stick you with a flyer that you're not even interested in. Which is why, thankfully, my group has decided to abstain from hand to hand flyering and stick with stapling and stalling. But back to rejection. I'm guessing from the most of you, you all have that confidence to do it, right up, no worries there. But I still live day by day, one step at a time, plotting and calculating every outcome and every downfall that may happen if action is taken place. Where some of us rely on quantum physics too much and less on the initiative. We are pathetic sometimes. In the presence of that special someone, our legs turn to jelly and we talk about the weather instead.

Dont get me wrong, the weather is interesting sometimes, and in normal conversation, it has come up actually. I kid you not. But back to jelly. I know a girl, shes beautiful, funny and interesting. But I had not the courage to ask her. Even when drunk, I could not ask her. That fear held me back.

What I hate most in relation to this topic is when your friends catch on. When you're more transparent than see through lingerie. When they can read you easier than an alphabet book. Blast, damn, bother and curse. Then there was the other girl, much older, but I never bothered.

What also was quite annoying was my inability to tell if someone was interested. It always happens to the person of another person's affection. It just seems like that. The person is completely oblivious except for his or her friends. Its annoying.

Then came at last, someone new. Someone I can relate to (I think) and someone who was pretty and funny and oh so sweet. What am I doing here just writing about it? Fear. That's what. That little four letter word we mingle with every so often.

For me, I wish I could have the courage to ask her out. I've had the made up scenarios in my head that it works, then the onset of failure plagues me. Then I forget and fade back into a wall flower.

I need courage. She'll never say yes.
You just gotta try
No, I cant. I dont want to hear say no.
Just do it stupid.
No no no!
You like her. What's the fear in asking?
Rejection. That's what.
Fine. Be a dick. No, a pussy. That's all you'll ever amount to.

Rosie Teagarden's bar and grill was a regular for the beatniks and whodads back in its day, but today, it was only a mere shell of what it was before. Rosie Teagarden died of cancer in 1984 and her two boys sold the store to a restaurant enthauist who apparently adored the place, but the next thing you know, walls are knocked out, new chairs, replacement of all the historical photos on the walls with what looked like rejects from an art academy. The place was popular but the patrons obviously knew nothing of the heritage that Rosie's had. Last time I had gone, I stood dismayed in the door frame of the restaurant for about a minute before someone had pushed me in and out of the way. I woke up. This was a world rotted out underneath the gilt paint.

Jackson Thorre had bought Rosie's after a dinner he had there in 1983 which he claimed was magnificent. I knew Rosie was an amazing cook, but I had very little faith in this reclaimed place. Rosie's special was fish and chips. It was quick, cheap and easy to make. She would fry them in a pot of oil on the stove, then throw it into newsprint and serve it in a basket. Here, everything came on an oversized plate with cutlery that seem to fight the contour of your hand. I couldn't stand it.

I met with Thorre after an unpleasant evening to talk with him about the horrendous changes he had made. He was impenetrable in getting ideas and a single word in. He butted in when he liked and he most certainly had the look of death in his eyes more than one occasion. He left and so did I. I looked around the place, there was nothing I could discern except for an imaginary footprint of the past. The stage was over there, my buddies and I always sat at that table where that coat rack is and there was a column in the middle that supported all the weight that was covered in carvings. Wait, it still was though. But most had been filled in when they were plastered with paint. I could still see the rifts and cuts where names of numerous poets had been carved in, sometimes by the muse himself. In the day, there wern't as many female poets who like the Atmosphere of Rosie's. Wait, I know I had carved something. Where was it? It was above the queen frame.

The only scratch marks that wern't painted where the ones above the queen frame. Apparently, Thorre wanted some weird pub look. But I could clearly see what I carved. But as clear as it looked, it was illegible. For certain reasons, I would not ask that monkey of an owner to bring a ladder so I could examine his king post, nor was climbing around on the frame while other diners were still eating would be in good taste. I wanted to know what I carved.

I came back to Bastard Rosie's later in the week, but with a digital camera this time. I took 10 photos of it to make sure I didn't end with a bad image, but none worked. I attempted with mirrors, also did not work. Pretending to be scared by something then jumping onto the lower half of the king post didn't either. I gave up. I started coming almost religiously. Much better than their regular patrons. Only now did I start to spend my entire lunch just staring at the cryptic self-inflicted message.

Wednesday, the place was repainted, and the column filled in. It was gone. For good.

A letter from Police Chief of UCPD to all Students

As a student, my emails are private unless I put them onto this domain. So at this point, i'm all for the UCPD's actions and course of direction they took during the events of late March

During our recent efforts to end the occupation of a tree outside Wheeler Hall,
I was surprised and deeply moved by the number of students who went out of
their way to express support for the University and its police force. Later
that day I received an email from an undergraduate urging me to give you,
Berkeley's students, a better sense of the principles behind our approach to
the tree-sitters on campus and in the oak grove next to Memorial Stadium. It
was a suggestion that made a lot of sense.

First, a confession: I have been the chief of the campus police force for more
than 18 years, but in all that time my officers and I have never confronted an
ongoing challenge quite like this one. I thought I had seen it all; I was wrong.
Yet, even though the situation is unique, the values guiding our response are
firmly rooted in the longstanding traditions of our university.

The very existence of an independent university police force is predicated on
the fact that this campus, our home, is a unique environment. Ensuring the
safety and security of the campus community is our mission, but everyone who
wears the UCPD uniform understands that policing here requires understanding,
sensitivity and tolerance if this campus is to remain a hospitable host for the
free exchange of ideas and opinions.

It may seem counter-intuitive, but the guidelines that govern the "where,"
"when" and "how" of on-campus protest are there to make sure everyone's rights
are protected, everywhere, all the time. They help guarantee we can accommodate
interest groups regardless of their cause or the size of their support. The
fact is that, over the years, thousands of organizations and individuals have
found these rules of the road compatible with the desire to have their voices
heard.

Unfortunately, we are now contending with a few non-students who have placed
themselves above the law; people who seem to find our relatively permissive
environment and traditions too restrictive. While as a police force we are
neutral when it comes to causes espoused by campus protesters, we cannot
condone tactics that infringe on the rights of others while seeking to change
policy through a kind of extortion.

I ask you to imagine a different, but parallel scenario: a group opposed to our
study and teaching of evolutionary biology occupies a laboratory and refuses to
leave until we agree to their demands. Would you suggest that we change our
curriculum? Would you support closing the lab? Would you want to reward the
tactics?

From my perspective it's pretty clear: the tree-sitters have willfully chosen
illegal occupation of University property - which is not public property - over
the sort of permissible and potentially persuasive engagement that goes on
every single day out on Sproul Plaza.

While there should be consequences for these actions, our response needs to be
commensurate with the crime and consistent with our values. I understand that
many of you are frustrated by an approach that seems overly tolerant, while
others believe we should just let it all be. However, I am convinced there is a
middle ground where we can and will maintain that delicate balance between
tolerance and law enforcement. We do believe that some of the sitters want
confrontation, but we are doing our best not to give them what they want. We
also know how difficult it is to safely remove people from perches that are as
much as six stories above the ground. One slip, one misstep and we run the risk
of causing serious injury to an officer or a protestor.

So far, UCPD has managed to contain and, to a certain extent, cordon off the
affected trees so that the protestors pose little immediate danger to members
of the campus community. That, in turn, is allowing us to make life in the
trees more difficult and less comfortable while minimizing the chances anyone
will be hurt. Already the number of people in the stadium oak grove has
dwindled to a hard-core few. They may continue to complain about conditions,
but the fact remains that they are free to come down any time they want.

There have also been complaints that we are trampling on their right to free
speech. Last October the campus went before an impartial judge and asked for a
temporary restraining order against the tree-sitters. We wanted to be certain
the protest was not, in some way, "protected speech." The protestors were
represented by their own legal counsel and had ample opportunity to make their
case. The results were clear; the court ruled that the tree-sitters are engaged
in an illegal occupation well beyond the scope of constitutional protection. If
the ruling had not gone our way we would have no choice but to abide by the
judge's decision. Unfortunately, the same cannot be said for the other side.

I also know there are concerns about the cost of our operations, and the extent
to which our officers have been pulled away from other duties. First, you
should know that additional expenses generated by the protest are financed from
a contingency fund that supports police response to unexpected events. In other
words, funds for policing the grove are not being redirected from teaching,
research or student services. At the same time, I cannot pretend that managing
this situation is not impacting other enforcement and safety operations. We
have tried to minimize costs by utilizing an outside security firm and,
whenever possible, redeploying our staff. There's no doubt that there are other
law enforcement strategies that might be quicker and less expensive but, again,
our response must be consistent with the principles that guide this
universitys police force.

At this point we are all waiting for the court's ruling on the lawsuits filed
against the plans to build a new Student Athlete High Performance Center, a
decision that is now expected no later than June. Until then the trees, by
court order, cannot be touched. It's also worth mentioning that if, at the end
of the legal process, we are not cleared to begin construction, the University
will have to live with the final ruling. Meanwhile, the tree-sitters vow to
abide by only those court decisions they agree with.

When that ruling comes, everyone will have had their day in court, and it will
be time to end the occupation of trees. While we still hope for a voluntary
climb-down, we are not naive and planning continues for a peaceful but certain
conclusion to this protest.

While some of you may not agree with parts of our mission or some of our
methods, I hope that after reading this letter you can, at the very least,
appreciate the complexity of the situation. I also hope that you can appreciate
the extent to which our UCPD officers have done an unbelievable job in their
professional, tolerant, and sensitive response to a really challenging
situation. We take seriously our sworn duty to uphold the law in a manner
consistent with our culture and consistent with our primary concern for the
safety of every member of our community.


Sincerely,


Victoria Harrison
Chief, UC Police Department

It's Just That!

Finding this old entry, I couldn't remember what I was writing about. But let's make the entry one that is the openings to very Zachesque pieces of writing.

Growing tired and weary, I sat on the on the stoop. It was still wet from the morning dew, but I didn't mind. I could feel the seat of my overalls growing cold from the dampness and I shifted over in discomfort. My wrist watch said it was almost half past nine. The truck was late. As usual. I couldn't help but scoff and spit in disgust at the driver's tardiness. I suppose he couldn't help it.

The room was dark and quiet. The dust moaned softly underfoot as I walked along the edge of the enormous carpet. Professor Van De Glehn would have wanted it this way. I just couldn't let three years of research mold away in his abandoned office. I knew they would be somewhere, but it most certainly would be hard find thanks to vandals. The office remained relatively untouched apart from a few books lying on the floor here and there.

Rejection finally hit him. Roger had tried everything from speed dating to online services. The only thing left was to walk through those doors. The swinging french doors squealed with a piggy-like giddy and no one took notice of the new entrant. He sidled to the bar and ordered a scotch on rocks. Looked around and left.

Letterbox

As a columnist, I received hundreds of letters daily. Some of which were junk, others not junk. Half of them (the non junk ones) were all business, a third would be utilities for my house and the last sixth would be a few rare letters of admiration of my writing.

I loved working as a journalist in Plainview. It was plenty of time to work and play. I would write a paper, catch a train into Hillsborrough and watch a little league game, then write about it. Quite literallly, I was the only journalist in town, but that would have been a lie. Now if you had said I was the only hard working journalist in town, that would be much more accurate. My boss was a tall, lanky, wispy haired old man. He was the kind of boss who would go out fishing during the day sometimes. Those days, the office would just shut down completely. The other journalist who worked at the paper, or supposedly worked there was my senior, One E.V. DeMartin. In the 12 years I have worked at the paper, never once did I see him. So I only could assume that he was either dead or just a figment of the boss' imagination. Somehow, he managed to get three columns in every sunday paper. Other than that, it was only me writing and the boss making a few contributions to the fishing page.

But fan mail was a rarity. Not a necessity or a commodity, but it certainly was a treat. DeMartin's desk would be piled in perfume stinky envelopes of admiring ladies, but never were they collected. I did note that one day after I had filled his last box with them, the boxes were empty the next morning.

It looked like every other envelope in my box that morning. I milled through the other things, browsing through the catalog for fishing tackle to buy the boss for chirstmas, then at possible useless things to buy for DeMartin. I thought he supposedly could have used a two speed shoe cleaner and buffer. But then I contemplated if he had feet or not. I had gotten from my uncle several years earlier what he called a Dynamus Speed Letter opener. It was an amazing little piece of machinery. Slip in a stack, turn it on, the letters zip through with the their tips shaved off and the letter ready to be read. I brought the stack to my desk, and carefully, I pieced out which was which, one by one. At the very bottom of the stack, a neatly hand addressed envelope caught my eye. You could tell it was a lady's handwriting. I had a knack for handwriting, I could tell which hand you were, what size your hand was and how you held the tool. Also, I could tell your sex. Sometimes, it gets ambigious, but for the most part, I could tell.

The letter was a fan letter, but it seemed strange. It made comments about how "dashing" I looked in my photograph in the paper. Funny, I had a photo in the paper? My arm shot out for the last issue of the paper. Sure enough, on the second page, There was a photograph of me dressed as superman. God, Boss must have thought ruin your worker's lives photo edition must have been very beneficial. I tried to find a picture of DeMartin, but only a big "Photo Missing" was in its place. I tried to look the other things that she mentioned. My "elusive" use of contractions, etc. Crazy weird grammar related things.

What made me post the letter in the paper, I dont know. But I guess it was now for all of Plainview to see. At least at this point, whoever read the Plainview gazette would see it. The next day, another letter arrived, this time, it was a bit angry at me. I could understand that. I decided to post a response to the letter when I published the paper tomorrow. It went on and on for several weeks. It seemed more of a conversation now than an admiration. I kept the letters carefully documented and filed in a cabinet. This was actually turning fun for once. At one point, I couldn't anticipate the moment for when the letter would arrive and I could start writing a response.

The last letter came in the middle of August. The weather was hot, the fans were all on. To leave the room with moving air was like stepping out into suicide. The humidity and heat hit you like a train. But anyhow, the last letter came that day. It said, lets meet. I was certainly speculative about meeting a stranger. But then again, were we strangers? We had been on a very civilized conversation for the past three months and now all of a sudden, there was a chance to meet the mysterious person. The person who had always signed her letters with a large A in red ink. I examined the A closer. It wasn't a ball point or a gel pen. It was one of the dip pens and the A was written with a scarlet ink. It still would glisten in the light if I moved the angle about. The thought nearly dazzled me, of printing lest writing all my letters in dip pen with shimmering ink.

My last response came without hesitation. I published my response.

I'll meet you in the Okeh Diner on Seventh street at ten tomorrow night.

I hoped she would read the paper religiously.

The Okeh wasn't anything fancy at all. It was your plain old ordinary kind of diner. One side sectioned off for passing truckers and the other side for the regular patrons. To have a seat at the counter was like being on the council of elders. Custom would dictate to never sit in any of the seats. Heaven help us if one day, a new comer would just walk in and sit at the first counter seat. I've seen it happen once. Judith behind the counter set down the scalding coffee pot on the patron's hands. He winced, and she directed him at a booth. Luckily, there were a few seats without names at the other end, all the way to the rear of the counter. I took my spot in one of these pleather chairs and ordered a cup of coffee. It came, in a still slightly wet mug. The blip stains now just leaving their trails down from the lip to the saucer. I heaved my shoulders up and leaned onto the counter and unfolded my paper. Stanford beat Washington in sports. Nothing new. There was hardly anyone in the diner. Just the fat waitress behind the counter, a shady looking teenager "enjoying" coffee while grinding something, then dumping it into the coffee. A few truckers could be heard snorting in the background and making farting sounds. A chortle of laughter from fellow brothers.

The neon clock on the wall indicated now it was half past six. I had sat in the booth for nearly three hours waiting. I had work to do, lots of it. I had a choice, I could stay and wait, stood up by a sap of sorts, or just leave.

It was now quarter til nine. The diner would close soon. The waitress stared at me with the intent of getting me to leave. I rolled up the bundled newspaper file, and I left for the door. My reflection did not greet me at the door, but a young beautiful face stared back at me. It blushed bright red and retreated back to a car and drove off. I stepped outside for a moment, tossed the file into the trash and went home.

Anvil of the Majesties

There was only so much work one could do these days. Weeks upon weeks of built up stress just suddenly came loose one day. I was working in lab when I decided to walk out, right in the middle. Professor Hartmann stopped me at the door.

"Where are you going? You have to finish your problem set."
"Out. I dont care."
"Then I wont hold you back."

He moved aside and I strode out. The let the wood door close itself and I went down the clean hall. It was one of those sorts of days. Where you'd much rather just sit about and do nothing. It was 11:43 in the morning. Fuck. It was too early to feel like this. I knew there were two more classes that I had work to turn in. I figured, I might as well just hand them to my buddy Sherman who would go to class and turn it in for me. He was really diligent about working through hours and hours without stirring or turning towards facebook.

I caught Sherman sitting in the north reading room. On both sides sat his usual piles of reference books. One lay sprawled in front of him. I caught a glance at it. It was the US Census of Okanawah County, OK in 1912. Seriously...

"hey Sherm."
"Oh hey there Adam. What can I do for you?"
"D'you mind if you turn in these for me? I dont feel like going to class."
"One of those days hm?"
"No... yes."
"Sure. You know the price."
"It'll be on your Bureau in the morning."

Sherman was 20. I was 21. We were roommates since freshman year. I just guess it worked out. Sherman, Earl and I moved into a place sophomore year and we've been there since. But Sherman, as brilliant as he was, was a heavy drinker and smoker. He went through a pack of camels a day. It was gross. But, his usual cost was a third of a fifth of whatever. Usually, I just poured tequila into a large flask and left it for him. He didn't give a care what I put in there. Just as long as it was drinkable and he would be asleep by the time he finished it. So I was free now. What do I do? I could have gone bar hopping. But no respectable place serves anything hard before six, let alone noon time. The park was out of the question. At all hours of the day, I couldn't find myself not being at the other end of a cup being shaken at me. So the park was out. I suppose I could find some solace in the library. Nah, Sherm was there. I guess to the bar it is.

The Charleston Pub is my usual watering hole, its decent, not the best. It wasn't one of those nasty grimy places you see in the tenderloin with men in studded leather standing at the door, nor was it a place where the bouncer a 5 foot 3 inch man wearing a turtleneck. It was the kinda bar where you'd sidle in, find a table, and drink and chat. I suppose you could call it the coffee house of pubs. It certainly felt like one for sure. They know me by now. Since my twenty first birthday, I was becoming a regular down at Charleston. But it seemed empty to me. Devoid of its usual cheeriness. The dining hall was dim and there were only a few couples scattered here and there. Lunch wasn't the same anymore. The pork chop looked less appealing, the beer tasted flat, the potato a mere pebble of starch. The world was certainly a much blander place now. I suppose going home would help. Then again, it would always be the same drab old place you went home to and ate dinner at and etc. Ah what the hell. Why not?

I had the waiter put the rest of my stake cube and marble sized ball of starch in a to go box and I left for home. For some reason, I only was ever comfortable sitting in my easy chair, by my favorite window, with my little table by the side and the smell my cigar humidor nearby. I found myself at a friend's place once. It was filthy and there certainly were fantastical things about the place. One of which was mold growing on ever flat face in the bathroom. To that, I gave my applause by running out of the apartment and never going back. But back to my place. Sherm, Earl and I had turned it into our own little club. The walls were white, we covered them with prints of famous photographs and paintings. There used to be a big stain in the middle of the lounge, we covered it with an navajo rug. The kitchen wall has a hole in it, well, its still there. But we covered it up with a decorative object none the less. That just goes to show how much we cared about house beautiful. Each of our rooms had a special quality to it. They were intended as our special private kingdoms. Sherman decked his out with a small laboratory, with a cabinet of all the safer elements and all sorts of cool things. Earl was the big sports fan of us three. He had pennants from every college covering every square inch of wall. In the corner sat the ColorKing television set. He had been watching football in front of that since he was born. Heck, his father was watching the same sport on it since he bought the television in '69. Of course, there was no color left and the image came out blurry, but the sound was amazing. Watching a UCLA game, we could hear individual hate calls from the USC side. Or when we would watch a Cal game, we could tell when the announcer was sick or had a frog in his throat. My room, I didn't go all out like the other two guys had. I only went as far as to have a few bookshelves put in, and several of my rare books brought out from home. I was the only lucky one to have a window that faced the street. Nay, it overlooked the street, the rooftops and the shops, plazas, markets, trees, parks and the bay. The bay. I had a view of the beautiful San Francisco bay. At least here, in my room, there had better be some feeling of solace and calm. Otherwise, it wouldn't be my room. I bought the most monumental looking chair to have by the window. I didn't go with the e-z boy recliner, those were tacky and Earl had two in his room. Nor did I go with the standard leather arm chair that typically found its way into every man office. No, I had been down to Urban or Ore and picked up this beauty of a chair. It had the curved legs of an egyptianesque chair, the hand sewn leather sling between the legs, the way I draped a sheep skin over the back. This was truly a chair for Zeus. Or Mars at least.

I eased my way into the chair, taking note of the crunching sounds, each sigh of stress as it sagged under my weight. Everything the chair did, it was both physically and psychologically. At least now, the world seemed to mean more than the small chop and tiny red potato. The weight of the world seemed to swell up into the cloud in the distance. I sat for several hours, just staring at the sky. Everything else moved, except for that one cloud. It only got larger and larger and at one point, it looked like an anvil.

It bore the brunt of the world's misery and boredom. It contained all our problems and gripes. Every gripe, every remorse, every to-do we had. Collected into a single mass of droplets and feelings. It consolidated over the other apartments, it stayed in place. Hours passed, the light went from bright to orange, orange to red, red to purple, then the light went out. The anvil was gone. The stars began to shine through the anvil cloud. Then it was totally gone.

St. Matthew's Belfry

I'm not a devout catholic. Mother used to punish me by coming to visit my dormitory back in college daily leaving my roommate cards for him to convince me to go to the ten o'clock masses at night. Religion in college was the last thing that was on my mind. I had my bachelors to work at then. I was majoring in civil engineering and two months after my mother stopped sending cards, I graduated with a B.A. in Civil with a focus on concrete structures. After that, she stopped communication altogether. I made several attempts to contact her, but each time, I had failed to reach her.

One day, a wax sealed envelope was carelessly crumpled into my small aluminum apartment mailbox. It had the crest of my mother's family and the heavy parchment felt almost like gold in my hands. Breaking the seal, I carefully examined the letter. An uncle of mine died. No matter, he wasn't that close at all. But a card fell out and it caught my attention.

Master Dwight Mulholland Joyce-Roosevelt
Your Presence is requested at the
Greer Family Morturary
Napa, CA

Your recent deceased relative:
Rutherford Bernard Regent Willford Roosevelt
Has passed away on:
June 29, 2008

Mr. R. Roosevelt has mentioned you in his last testament and will
And your presence is required to fulfill the last requests of
the deceased.

Uncle Rutherford? Never heard of him. To me, he certainly was new. So if I was needed at his will reading, why not? Napa is a bit of a distance to go, especially from where I lived. I made the necessary arrangements at the office, finished up some filework, made the final rounds and left the office. Little did I know, this would be the last time I walked through those rows of cubicles. My plane arrived in San Francisco with little trouble and the woman next to me had to shake me back to life. I guess I couldn't stand in flight movies. I had rented a small SUV for the drive north to Napa county. It was probably more than I needed. The scenery exchanged itself from the bustle of San Francisco to the vast open fields and plains and rows upon rows of grapes growing in lines whose effect reminded me of stacks from college.

It was a small chapel. Chapel is an inappropriate word to describe. It was more like a rustic shack with a lean to office. Uncle Rutherford must have not been that important. Inside, the chapel was filled with flowers and his casket sat at the end of the room. The room was small. It seemed as if only twelve or ten people could fit in here. From the door that led into the lean-to, emerged the director of funerals. He was a short, stocky man. His hair was snow white and his skin tanned from years under the California sun. His suit was ill fitting and he was obviously perspiring from the weather. At his command, the usher went to the windows and pulled the top transoms open.

"Rutherford Roosevelt. A great man, a philantrophist, a simple man, a king among paupers. He will be sorely missed."

Where did that come from?

"Born in 1942 to Harvey Lewis Roosevelt and Edith Jane Hamil, Rutherford..."

It went on for another twenty minutes.

"Thank you all for attending the service. If you would, the body shall be interred and if the funeral party would like to proceed towards the cars outside. People who came in personal vehicles, please adhere the 'funeral' sticker to the front window."

Funeral Party. That was one way to describe it. But I hadn't seen my mother yet. The procession found its way further north, into Ukiah, then onto a small side road. I thought this must have been the most remote cemetery location possible. The procession made one more turn and we were on a private road. I caught a glimpse past the three limousines and the hearse. There stood a massive victorian thing. Palace seemed like an appropriate word to describe it. It turned again and the hearse stopped outside a fenced area of grass. A few gravestones marked the area and obviously, this must have been a family site. The procession brought the casket to the corner of the fenced in area where a large stone mausoleum stood. The door was unlocked and the casket brought inside. The mausoleum itself was a round building with a rotunda in the center. In the center of the room was a long oaken table, with magnificently hewn legs in the shape of tigers claws. The casket was placed on top of the table and a silk flag with the Roosevelt crest draped over it. The director who had made his presence known back in Napa entered again.

"Friends and family, I welcome you to the Roosevelt mausoleum. Built in 1935 by James Naimsmith Roosevelt and his son Harvey Roosevelt, it currently houses the remains of all descendants of Thaddeus David Roosevelt when his body was exhumed and moved here"

He pointed at a dusty panel with an urn in front of it.

"In 1939. The mausoleum finally welcomes its last child of Harvey and Edith Roosevelt, Rutherford Roosevelt."

Last child? Grandpa Harvey and Gram gram Edie's last child to die was Rutherford? What about mom... My eyes frantically searched over the dusty stone panels. It took some finding but it was the top one on the south side.

Elizabeth Seagram Joyce-Roosevelt
1953-2005

I turned to the director. I asked.

"When did this happen?"
"Ah, it was a sad funeral. Only Rutherford and Bill had shown up. She specifically asked to be buried in a small quiet, immediate family funeral."
"But i'm her child."
"Oh... oh dear."
"What do you mean? 'Oh Dear?'"
"Well, we went through her will, the money went to Rutherford. But now that he's passed away..."
"But..."
"Come now. We'll deal with it after we inter the body."

The ceremony lasted a few minutes. The Pall Bearers slid the coffin into the narrow slot and workmen lifted the granite slab in place and sealed it.

The office of the victorian "palace" was comfortably furnished. A massive oak desk rested in front of the large windows and overhead, an old painted china lamp cast a dim light. By now, there were more people present. There were at least thirty of us in here. The lawyer stood up and opened the envelope.

"To my dear family. I know that the blood line runs dry and there are only a few of you left. To my only son Wilbur, I leave the Ukiah House and its lands except for the family plot to you. Also, the endowment of 200,000 dollars shall be compounded into bonds and three 500 dollar bonds will be issued to you every month until its expiration. To my only nephew. Dear Dwight. We have had such fun over the years watching you grow up. Although we never saw each other after you started middle school, you are not forgotten. To you, I leave you the safe deposit box 4220 in San Francisco, a trust fund of 130,000 as well as the envelope which I trust Mr Biddup (the lawyer) will give you. Its contents will be self explanatory."

The lawyer handed me the key and the check for the fund to be deposited immediately and the envelope mentioned in the will. I opened it. It was a detailed account of my mother's death. She was ill towards the end of my college career and went into the hospital from 2003 until she passed away in 2005. I was apparently not notified as thought it would interfere with my studies. But apparently, they completely forgot about me until Uncle Rutherford died. Inside also was one key. It was an elaborate skeleton key, with a cracked piece of marble in the handle. a paper tag tied to it said that it would open the attic door C. With Wilbur next to me, we went to the top floor of the house. Wilbur was older than me by a few years, but he was obviously a country boy. He grew a beard, and he had a rugged air and look about him. But in the attic, there were several rooms partitioned to be storage rooms. A and B were open, their contents soaked in dust. But room C remained at the end of the hall, its door firmly shut. The key croaked in the slot and with a bit of shoulder into it, the door opened.

Several paintings leaned up against one of the partition walls and there were a few boxes of things here and there. But the most noticable thing stood in the center. Draped in a faded and stained silk cloth, it made a formiddable shape. I tugged it off. Underneath lay my old baby crib, a hit & miss engine and a large trunk. The trunk wasn't locked and it opened. Inside, several old furs and a photo album. Its cover was bound in leather and it was cracked in several places. Opening it, nothing was in its pages apart from a single letter.

"December 21, 2000

To my baby boy, Dwight Gregory Hammond Mulholland Joyce(-Roosevelt)
I know I cannot keep you. Your father is not who you think he is. If you are reading this, you have either discovered Attic C's key, or I have passed away. Truth is hard to bear. But William Joyce has been a father to you for the longest time. Treat him that way. Your real father well, I dont know. Is not anyone I remember. Dont bother searching for him. I beg you son. Truth is, Mommy never really well, she was promiscuous during the sixties. Your father is one of many people. The world is your father. But Bill has taken care of you. Please. Forgive me Dwight."

The letter ended there.

One word

Funny how life can change at the utterance of one single word. Suppose worlds had clashed over one word uttered whimsically at a conference. I made the mistake. This wasn't a battle for quick resolve and victory. Its still going on. Its more attrition than decisive.

The Cut

Its been there for awhile. You'd never really notice it until you dug your hands into your pocket. Searching for some unfathomable hermitage from exposure. For me, I never knew where the hell to put my hands but the sure fire and accepted standard was the pocket. Sure it meant, yeah, i'm a punk. What ch'you gonna do about it? Or. Heh... So Embarrassed. Just put hands in pocket and look like everyone else. Well, screw it all. I never knew what to do with the damn things anyhow. Standing through endless reviews. What would I do with them? I could put them up to my face, the other one wrapped around the front of my torso to support the other one. I suppose, I could go with that intelligent air. But then, my hands were usually greasy from the pastels, charcoals, pencils and inks. To casually place my finger over my lips in intense thought might mean a small charcoal mustache underneath my nose. Or I could just fold them. Then they seem too high. Damn. I suppose the pockets are the last resort. By doing so, I guess i'm like 10% less efficient that with my hands free. Restricted by these prisons of cotton, duck and denim, they found solace, but limited life. It was like finding the perfect house. In Yreka. But commuting to San Francisco on call. But today was different. My hands are busy ones. Searching through my pockets for the phone, my wallet, sometimes my pocket knife or Leatherman. But today, I need the latter. But then, it stung. It hurt. Staring carefully at the wrinkled folds of skin, the most marginalized, the smallest possible cut emerged on the thumb. The thumb. The boss digit of the hand. Turned up or down, it was a matter of life or death with the thumb. One motorcyclist was so desperate enough to replace his lost thumb, he grafted his big toe to resume his racing career. But the thumb, this noble necessity, the judge of life and death, the meaning of good or obscene through biting, had been attacked. A small clean cut. It certainly was annoying. But much to my relief, there was hope. Like St. Helena to Napoleon, Alcatraz to the Birdman, the cut in my mind, was to be gone. Application of medication, it was still there. Half hour, it still was there. I guess I lost this battle.

no wait.

Victory!

Sara

Sara is sitting beside me. It is a few minutes before my birthday.

Cheers.

Rain Stopped Play

I just want to note. Its funny how the rain here in the bay area. Stopped for one whole day, cleared up just for the lunar eclipse. GO away rain.

Love and Respect your (LRY): University

Hello readers! Today, I'm starting up a new series post called: Love and Respect your: whatever. So every so often, I'll just vent out on something we all should love and respect, but others don't.

So today's column is your University. Well, i'll personally vent about mine. So today was finally the pushing event, that sparked this new column. Personally, it has never pushed me this far. So walking home from lecture in Wheeler hall, I found myself face to face with graffiti. Well, usually, Graffiti has been a very common place thing, growing up in Alameda, surrounded by the industrial part of Oakland and San Leandro, I would see graffiti everywhere. But back to this. One of the university's most distinguished monuments, the Gate of Sather, or Sather Gate has been vandalized. One of the oldest things on campus, has been vandalized. And what's more, written in the typical graffiti fontage, is the word: Punks. Obviously, punks have vandalized the school. For shame. I know, deep down, all of us have a deep love for the school we go to. That's why we cheer at the football games and we participate in activities around campus every so often. My guess, it's probably one of those tourists. I've been seeing them around lately actually. A bunch of, well... not to be racist, but honest, namely massive groups of gangish looking latinos. All prospective students for Berkeley. Supposedly. And one of them could have been carrying a paint marker, and marked up the gate. I wont point fingers, but in my mind, they're the first suspects. Outsiders, people building up their street "cred." and whatnot.

Kinda hard to enjoy your own place without people marking it up. So far, a trashcan, the gate, one of the seals and the balstrude for the gate has been hit. Shame on you. I dont go into your house and vandalize it. But for the rest of you university students who know what i'm talking about next, you might get pretty pissed. So I saw a guy, attempting to go from Sproul plaza up towards um. Wurster. Its a very hilly route. Even its hilly for me. But he's on crutches and I see a Loop car go by, I, thinking that it would stop for him, watched as it zipped by and started up the hill, while he, fully laden was still trying to get up there. When I got to Wurster. Before my eyes, I saw the little Loop car had stopped only to pick up a football player who in no way looked immobile or impared in the legs. The higherarchy of persons allowed to use it at this point, is hazy and one cant help but note, Is'nt the purpose of the Loop to assist the handicapped around campus?

That's it. Love, Respect, Other stuff

Dream Log: Feburary 5, 2008

It is 8 minutes before 9 pm. I have volunteered to ring the bell nine times marking the approach of nine Oclock. I am on the Campiniele. But something about it doesn't seem right at all. Instead of the hammers you hit your hand with, there were levers you had to pull to make the bells go. Leighna was there. Apparently, she works at that specific campiniele doing maintainence work there. But finding out what they had to do was the weird part. They would hang off the ledge, using only their feet to hold onto something. What was more strange was that the black and white photograph of the two people doing it, was captioned: Collecting the seeds. How strange I would think. To hang off the side of a tower and collect seeds using only your feet to hold you up.

Absolut Bullhonkey

http://www.answersingenesis.org/articles/2008/01/22/flying-spaghetti-monster

So the intelligent design people as well as the christian fundamentalists tried to explain, to us obvious stupid people, the true meaning of the Flying Spagetti Monster. He obviously can believe, that people who have been touched by his noodley appendage, that for some strange reason, a salad can murder someone.

Tired

I sat in the corner, with my laptop. There wasn't much else to do you know. When the rest of them had fun things to do, I sat here doing... not much.

What could I possibly do? Everyone else had fun things to do. I didn't.

Bah.

"Night Out"

A short story by me. In lieu of my shitty stories about the guy, girl and Faulkner.



Well... not quite the same people.


I stood in front of the dresser mirror. As clean cut as I was, I still looked slightly "ragged" as my friends described me. I had graduated from Ibsen college with a degree in Chemical Engineering and a fine lot that did me. I got work at Ebmud working as a rendering plant engineer. I had dreams of working something much more exotic such as working for NASA or even concrete. I had a passion for concrete for some reason. But anyhow, I might as well have made the most of looking shaggy. A little bit of hair gel, ruffling my hair and putting on my fur lined coat. I looked like a lumberjack. Apart from the gel of course.

It wasn't much of a night out to be honest. It was just me and a couple buddies heading up to a bar in cow hollow. This wasn't like most bars. The ones you see with the rock band in one corner and the gross looking fellow working at the bar. It was the kind of bar where there was a jazz band playing, there were chairs and low tables everywhere. We took one by the curtains and I had a beer. Well, a guinness. Something to keep me entertained while my buddies would chug down shots.

The band played Straight no Chaser when she entered. She had come with her friends. Her friends seemed like young college friends all, using her to get drinks. They wore Ugg boots except for her. A sign of maturity I thought. After she had paid for their drinks, they scurried off to the nearest man hunk in the lounge. She stood alone at the bar, a cosmo barely new in her hands. I stood and walked over to her and leaned on the counter.

"They'll always be teenage girls no?" I said.
"They're my Sorority sisters. They begged me and I guess I caved in. They're all freshmen. Stupid girls."
"I suppose. So you're still in college?"
"Yea. I'm getting my bachelors in Chemical engineering. Some major for a girl eh?" She turned away for a second.
"You know, I'm a chemical engineer too."
She wheeled around. "Are you really?"
"Yeah."
"What's life after like?"
"Pardon?"
"Well, I figured you've graduated. Right?"
"Yeah. Ibsen college. I just got out a half a year ago."
"Ibsen. Nerdy school."
"Har har."
"That's nothing. I'm at Altarra. The nerdiest all girls college. The only thing keeping me sane is the sorority."
"Heh. All girls college. That sounds funny."
"How so?" Her lips pursed a little. Almost in a pout.
"I dunno." I shrugged my shoulders a little. "I guess growing up and going to a school with boys and girls..." I cut off my sentence there.
"Tsch..." She looked at me. "so tell me Mr. two gender school. What do you do?"
"I work as a rendering plant worker. Well, i'm the chief engineer. Most of the time, i'm in my office, doing work and paperwork."
"Gosh, look my life has become. A sewage worker."
"I take resent to that you know. What do you expect to get out of working as a Chem E?"
"I dunno... NASA?"
"Hah. I had that dream too."

Our conversation went on for another hour. I found her name was Jessie and she apparently loved chocolate alot. So much, she had one of her ex'es cast his *ahem* well, yeah then made one out of the aforementioned foodstuff. I had turned back and to my surprise, my buddies had left the bar without my notice and her sisters had done the same. I offered to walk her home but she declined. I was almost dejected and made the offer to wait with her for her bus. She wasn't wearing much, other than her shortsleeve blouse top and skirt. Not at all suited for the weather here in the city. I handed her my coat. She almost whimpered when she found that it was lined in fur. I asked her what the matter was, she only looked at me and said: "nothing". I stood away from her, and without warning, she walked over and put her arms around me. "Woah" I said. She looked up. She looked at me almost like she was saying: what's the problem? I shook my head and looked over her head. Not wanting to be an idiot, I put my arm over her and she kissed my chest. I presented her in my hands.

"What's going on?" I asked?
"Its just... You're the first one to... You're the first guy i've been with in awhile. That story about the chocolate thing. I made it up. I thought guys were into that weird kinky shit."
I just shook my head again and said no no. She asked another question.
"Do you object to my head on your body? You're alot warmer than the jacket is."
"Sure. Go ahead." I knew she was lying. My coat was the warmest coat I owned.

The tram had pulled up. I asked her, if she was going to get on. She only buried her face deeper into my chest and shook it. I took it for a no.

"You know, I have work, and you got class."
"Dont care. We still have 8 hours before its time for class."
"Stop. Look, I hardly know you."
"Doesnt matter, you know more about me than any of my ex'es did."
I looked off to the side. "Look. I live right here. Your campus is on the other side of town."
"Class can be missed. All I have tomorrow is just a lecture I can see online."
"Fine. Its your career."

I had taken her back to my place. A little apartment in an old building on Van Kugelen St. It was a few blocks away. She held onto the right arm and didn't let go. I chuckled at the thought. I gave her a blanket and a pillow and a place on the couch. I closed my door and went to sleep. It didn't help much that a girl who was pretty and just my type too in my house. On my couch. The lights from the cars casted shadows onto the ceiling and I couldn't fall asleep. I heard the door crack open. It was Jessie trying to sneak in. I pretended to be asleep and she crawled into the sheets with me. She gave a little poke to my ribs. I pretended not to notice. She kissed my forehead, again I tried not to notice, but I couldn't help but pull out a slight grin. I dont know what made her do what she did next, but then I opened my eyes. I couldn't stand it any longer. I pulled her head from underneath the blankets.

"Look. We only met. Slow down. We've got time."
"Ohh... I love how you use the word 'we'."
"Oh well... I uh..."
"Shhhh... lets go to sleep."

I couldn't argue with that. When I woke up, she was still there. Her skirt rumpled and her hair mussy like. I was dressing for work when she stirred.

"Hello there."
"Hello Jessie."
"What time is it?"
"Time for me to work. Look, just close the door on your way out, my number is on the table. And well, now you know where I live."
"Did we do it last night?"
"No."
"Are you sure? I hope you did."
"Stop that. No."

She stood again. Grabbed my tie and pulled it off. I didn't quite know where this would go. I thought I had made it clear last night. Her lips pressed against mine. My hands relaxed and pressed against the dresser.

"Sffomtop" I muttered through her mouth. She pulled back. "Look. We haven't even known each other for 24 hours and already, look where you're at.
"So?" She climbed onto my bed and tried to look sexy. Problem was, it was to me.
"Look. You can stay. Just dont go out. I dont have a spare key. So. If you stay, we can get dinner or something. Maybe some take out. Who knows?"
"Fine." She hid herself under the covers and she went to sleep. Or tried to. I smiled as I readjusted my tie.

I came back to my place and found her still curled under the sheets. At least she was real I thought. I tried to gently wake her but she just slapped my hand back. She quickly wheeled around and stared at my face.

"You look cute in your business suit."
"Thanks. Its just an old suit."
"It *heh* suits you."

It was a bad joke, but you could appreciate it. Sort of. We had a quiet dinner and I got to know more about her. She had never contacted her sorority sisters since last night and they didn't make the effort. My friends sobered up to me at work telling me, seeing me with a girl rather than a magazine or book, they left to make sure things worked. Heh. Its funny how the fates collide with each other. In my case, how everything falls into a really weird shaped puzzle assisted by your friends and some random freshmen sorority girls.

Everybody's pin numbers!

http://www.positiveatheism.org/crt/pin.htm

The World's Most Brilliant Idea

I've always wanted to do this. I know some of you have as well. When we go there, we always think, man, this place would really be awesome to stay at. That's right. I'm talking about Ikea. For those of you who have no idea what Ikea is, its a giant scandanavian based furniture store that exist all over the United States. when finally, One person finally had the idea, guts to ask to live there.

Its the same Mark who went to 151 starbucks in one day. Only in NY. Now he's living in Ikea from the 7th to the 12th of January. So he'll keep us all abreast of goings ons there.

http://www.marklivesinikea.com/

I'm only 30 away

I'm realizing. Looking at the statistics board, I haven't "colored" a new picture in a long time. But also, i'm only 30 away from 300 posts on this one. So this gives me the golden opportunity to do the THIS IS SPARTA thing.

There are so many things I could possibly do to celebrate the 300th post. Count out a stack of 300 books. Eat 300 jellybeans (please no...) or kiss 300 people. Then again, I dont know 300 people. Unless you mashed the people I know in High school with People I know in college. Then yeah, that's about 30something peoples.

Ideas people.

Surviving 10 minutes into the future: Holidays

Let's take a metaphorical example. Then tweak it. You've been thrown into the future. TEN WHOLE MINUTES.

So at this point you're wondering. What possible other situations can we go through. Well, As a college student, you'll have more situations than old highschool self. So right now, we're going to cover the survival guide for 10 minute jumps in your holidays.

Surviving through Christmas:
1. If you've somehow managed to wind up at a party, good for you. 10 minute jumps are pretty common at this point. I'd be pretty safe and sure that what you're experiencing is drunkenness. So lucky for you. You wont remember a damn thing that night. Unless you somehow wind up in some totally awesome or strange situations. Lets mete Dave. he's a student at CSU Hayward. (I know its not called that nymore, but I dont care. I still call it what I want to call it. I'm stubborn that way :D) Ok. So Dave is at his friend's party. Dave is at Kate's party and and he's intoxicated. Obviously. Let's watch.
Dave: Kaaaaate! Great super fun-tastic part.
Kyle: I'm Kyle dude.
D: Oh. Sory KAAAAATE!!!!1!
Kate: Oh hey d-dave. How are you?
D: Totally kick ass man.
K: I see you found the booze. That was locked in my parent's cabinet.
D: Totally
*time quirk*
D: wha?
K: that was the worst sex ever. never ever ever call me again!

So what went wrong there? Obviously, Dave's endowment wasn't large enough. But then again, you gotta play your actions and times just right.

D: Hey man, how's things?
Kyle: Cool, Kate throws pretty nice bashes. Hey. Kate's parents keep a ton of booze stashed in a glass cabinet in the office. Wanna go punch it in and get really started up?
D: Nah i'm cool
*time quirk*
D: bwah?
*In a kegstand*
D: Woooooo! *beer shoots out from everywhere*
Kyle: Damn Dave!
*time quirk again*
kate: Best sex ever!

So you gotta play your cards just right.

2. The inevitable Family Get together. Meet Maurice. He's just come home from college. He's going to have to sit through conversations with his relatives and on and on and on. But play into a time quirk correctly, it can be good. Make sure, you always have a rebound excuse if you're suddenly pulled into a trap.
Maurice: So uncle Dave, how are you
UD: I'm good. How's school.
M: not bad
UD: Good. I hope your grades are up
M: They are
UD: When I was there at Vartonol U, I used to hang out at...
*time quirk*
UD: So do you recall any sort of place called the pink pussy?
M: Only on weekends.
UD: Hahah! Good lad. Here's a beer.

Surviving through Ethnic Holidays
As I celebrate neither ethnic holidays usually celebrated around this time of year, I wont go into too much detail.
*time quirk*
And that's what you call a triple kwanza shot.

So in a nutshell, that's all that it is. Merry christmas, Happy Hannukah, Happy whatever else, and Happy New years! So have a good one time travellers. I'm your blogger, Czach

For once

I've been fairly neglectful on my behalf in up keeping my web logs. Yes I know, its been a month. Get over it. So I didn't' post for exactly one month. In that time, I've managed to lose all ability to use a keyboard properly so I'm having the dandiest time trying to write this.

I've been through the Rally Committee's "hell week". A week long of sleepless nights, endless numbers of rallies and in the end, the axe left our hands. For the first time in 5 years. It went back to the other side. I didn't cry. I had to be a brave big boy and hold back the emotion for later so I wouldn't end up on ESPN's losing faces page. Whats worse was I had a front row seat. Right behind the O in California on the Banner. You know, the sheer audacity of Stanfurd's players. To practice kicking and purposely trying to hit the banner. Mo-rons cant hold anything to themselves. When you give a 'furd student the opportunity to steal, he steals for the thrill. When we have the chance, we steal for glory and the respect of the University. Then again, its always a risk when stealing from the Farm. Who knows, you'll run into a bunch of slut cheerleaders who look like cows.

We always love a victory. This year's season has had the craziest changes i've ever seen in the years i've been watching Cal football. Never have I seen the school go from 2nd to 24th in a month. That's on some other polls. The big polls didn't even have us ranked. This made me sad.

The all knowing bear "Tedford" once gave Pig and Rat advice. Avoid Costly Turnovers.

That didn't happen this year.

So christmas time, finals, etc. It all went by quickly. Out of my entire list, I only got one thing I asked for. And that was probably the most obscure item on there. I didn't even get Steven Colbert's I Am America (and so can you!).

I'm back into the RP on Nation States. Somehow, I started again. I think it was through persistent nagging on Jess' behalf as well as the need for something to do while I was at home. I'd forgotten how boring Alameda was once you went to Berkeley.

Lets compare homes. In Alameda, the foot traffic outside my house is .5 persons per hour. That's on a good day. On a lucky day, i'll have a group of 5 kids go by in 8 hours. Car traffic is about 10 per hour. I guess its because everyone drives an automobile nowadays.

In Berkeley, outside my Dormitory/"Residence Hall" as my RA so aptly put it, its around 102 persons per hour. Also, maybe because through that way is the fastest way to Yogurt Park. Cars, dont get started. Its an alarming 36 cars per minute. Of course, I'm glad my room faces the other way. Towards the courtyard. Where it faces a gigantic stupid tree. No one can see my weather instruments. But they did see my fantastic masking tape sign that said: the intergral of "e" to the x power is fun. It would look something like Se^x is fun. Just mod the S into an intergral sign or something.

Here at home, yes, all my great child hood and high school friends are here. Jeff from Drafting and english, Stacey from english as well as the afterschool Park visits. Steffie from Joo's and all my little junior. I mean "senior" friends now. I miss them a bit. Just outside the school system :P

So i'm stuck remodeling my own bathroom. At least the horrid wallpaper is gone. That's all I can say. Who likes a white wall paper with blue green and manila stripes? Blech. So after what? 14 years, its finally out. I managed to do the shower room all by myself. All I needed was a screwdriver, my buck knife and a stepladder. I had that room de-papered in an hour.

So there's something to think about. Something to write about. Something to hold you over for another month no? :D

Czach is home for the holiday

I'm home. So there's alot to do. I still need four more sporting events for the requirements
for the big game ticket I need. So what does Czach need to do? Well, he's cutting his holiday short just to return to go and help out at the Speikier Water complex for rally com events. So tomorrow and sunday will cover that. And then he also has an MSE presentation due monday as well as a cable car rally to do that day as well. God there's too much to do. What will I do? At least I'll have most of the requirements down.

So next week is the big game week. There's alot to do.

*note*
*this entry was stopped, then resumed today: November 27, 2007. Two days into BGW.

So already, I'm tired, I'm exhausted, and I've still got more work to do. It seems right now that its a never ending line of work to constantly do. In fact, right now, i'm still doing work as we speak.

For your enjoyment: Time Laspe Photography

it never ceases to amaze me...

http://www.jsonline.com/story/index.aspx?id=684920

How to survive 10 mintues into the future: Lectures

Lets take a metaphorical example, take you and time and tweak it. You have now been thrown forward, into the future... TEN WHOLE MINUTES

Lets take a metaphorical example. Meet Fred. He's your average chemistry student at Vanderbilt college. Sitting through a lecture on molecular structures of organic compounds, he suddenly feels very strange. Very very very strange. At this point, he has transversed across space. Space time and jelly beans as we know it. He has travelled... ten minutes. Into the future!!

First, dont panic. That's what your future 10 minutes from now friends expect. Or maybe it isn't. But other than that, we really wont know how anyone in the future will react. What this article will help you, is to deal with the ten minutes of the future. And today, we'll deal with the lecture.

Step one: Dont panic, you've done the reading

As long as you've done it. If you know what I mean. Ok. So if the conversation suddenly jumps into a totally new section, one of two things will happen. I can guarantee it. You'll either understand the conversation, or you'll have absolutely no idea what the hell they're talking about. The first situation is thanks to: Reading before class! The second situation is a result of *ominous music* not reading the night before! So here's an example of what is likely to happen. So let's go look in on Fred.

(Fred read the night before)
GSI: So class, Janick states that the mind is a quagmire that cannot comprehend new data in a modular form.
Bill: But then that contradicts Usther's theorem that any new data is comprehended over a slow period.
Fred: But then Usther is recgonized by the catholic as well as the american psychological society as a radicalist and cannot comprehend the actual details of a working mind
*time quirk*
GSI: So if Usther and Janick met, the consequential algorithm would be in such a cataclysmal manner that the necessary hereditary abilities would be lost.
Fred: But then, what if they were to cross paths without meeting would the resulting experience might eliminate the possibilities of apathy.
GSI: Very good. Have some candy.

(Fred didn't read the night before)
GSI: So if you induce an pulating and repeating force, the amplitude of the wave effect on the tensile string will result in a parallel shift.
Will: What would be the effect of the quantum parables on the system?
Fred: Well, the effect would result in the creation of excessive amounts of force on the outer limits of the system
Will: Ahhh i get it.
*time quirk*
Will: So what would the be the the degrheteryan mode of the paranormal shift in the case of oscillating phalluses?
GSI: Well the quantum phose shift will result in the creation of multiple parables that create a modular quangular delanger on the freschon. The quarbled deton of the mischav will multifrange the descalanator. Fred, what's the resultant of the dilution?
Fred: fuck!

(*I know for the sake of you college students, I made up at least half the words used by the GSI in the second situation)

Step two: Ask questions to make it seem like nothing happened
Even if you dont have any idea what class you're in, still ask questions that are broad and generic. It works everywhere. Trust me. Advanced linear analytical calculus? No problem. Material Science Engineering analysis on stone frequencies? No problem! Taxidermy 101? Works like a charm. So let's put Fred in our little situation.

In Math Class
*fred wakes up*
GSI: Mr. Wilton, Is there a question you have?
Fred: Yes, can you apply this to the homework?
GSI: *taken aback* Uh, sure. You put this over here
*does homework problem*
Fred: *copies homework then turns it in*

In Physics Lecture
Professor: Mr. Wilton!
*Fred wakes up*
Fred: Yes, I was awake
Prof: Then ask me a question *smug look*
Fred: In what way does can the problem be applied in real life?
Prof: Uh... it cant. It exists only in perfect systems.
Fred: So are you calling me a failure?
Prof: No! Of course not
Fred: Fine, i'm leaving I need to see my psychiatrist.
*walks out of lecture hall, and walks to bar*

In Taxidermy 101
GSI: Mr. Wilton...
Fred: *snore*
GSI: *pokes Fred with a taxidermy pin
Fred: yeow! What was that for.
GSI: Sleeping
Fred: No I wasnt...
GSI: So ask me a question relating to the chapter
Fred: Can we apply the technique to things that require constant moisture?
GSI: Uh, the technique of cross stitching can in fact be applied to large sport fish, but not small trout and fish like that.
Fred: *pretends to write it down* Thanks GSI

Step three: steal notes
Does it really seem that illogical to steal someone's notes? Of course not. Not when your booty is on the line. At this point, you're going to either take a pen scanner and scan everything and read it over later. In the mean time, sleep through the rest of the lecture. When you go home, upload the file you scanned with your pen scanner. Got it there on your desktop? Good. Now delete it. Hah, as if you've ever need them before. You're a one man test wrecking machine!

Step four: Just leave
Its college. Who's going to care if you fail? Other than you and your parents and family and friends and your GSIs and peer advisers. Everyone else wont care. They're your new friends now! Make sure you get me the one girl who doesn't remember your name or face's number. She's totally hot.

So with that in mind, remember. Happy futures mean you did something bad in the past! I'm your blogger, Zach

A note on throwing things away

Living in a dormitory, I highly advise you, make sure you keep clean as much as possible. Be it vacuuming alot or just merely arranging the room in a pleasant way so that the vacuumable area is not obstructed.

As I mentioned in a previous post, I ended rearranging my room so now I have stadium seating and other than that, Where my old drawers used to be, there was a thin line of garbage. Disgusting. But its not as bad as the refuse in the laundry room floor. Lint, garbage, socks, dust, wrappers and detergent powder.

Thank you cleaning staff for not working over the weekend. The whole unit three turns into a garbage dump over the three day weekend. Which is also kinda cool.

Also, we got a notice for throwing things out of the windows. Apparently, the lower floors (i.e. 1-6) spens black takes great enjoyment of throwing things out of the windows and balconies. I saw a watermelon fall, a pineapple on the roof, A chair and even a florescent light bulb. The latter three, didn't see fall. But stuff I threw out was usually just dusty water from my cup which always fell onto the balcony. I checked first! And harmless paper airfoils. The sort of thing that would more likely be hurt by a troublesome toddler on a rampage.

Zach's new word:

Ajaust: A victorious, sure fire candidate in a jousting or sparring match.
i.e. Clemens is the ajaust in the match against Pinieleppi with an amazing record of 88-2-13 for today's joust.

Just for you

I dont really know what the title really has to do with this post. For the first time, i have nothing to blog about. Ok, I lied. This is the millionth time, I've got nothing to blog about. Since the last time I wrote, I guess I can update you guys now. But at this point, I feel the whole point of my blog is to constantly update you guys wiht little petty things I've done in the black spots of time between posts. So, I'm gonna make a stop of that.

But first, an update. I've finally cleaned my room. It feels nice. i can walk barefoot and not be afraid to do so. So I strees, if you're one of my friends, please feel free to visit. Just call me first. If you dont know my number. Shame on you, you non-friend person.

So i'm gonna vent. Over the past few days, i've gotten lazy, and its obviously been showing, I haven't done any homework for awhile. I'm ashamed of myself. Lie. I have done homework. Just not certain homeworks. Yeah. That's my story. So the last few months of the entire ED1 experience is slowly beginning to wind down and at this point, i'm not quite sure if I want to be an architect. I mean, I love design, but the way I build models, I'm put in shame by other people just in my section even. I mean, my first model was nice, i did it a few days before so i had time to make plenty of corrections. Now, I dont even have money to do much work. *scoff* I have a model due in two days, I've only goten drawings done. Gaaaaah.

I discovered itunes after finally collapsing to the whims of my friends and the pressure. Maybe windows media player wasn't all that. maybe there was something even better than real player. Just maybe. I like it actually. The upload format is kidna quirky, but I can live with that.

I hate the blue screen.
I can sit here and just cry
All my work is gone

There once was a man who didn't save
And upon himself did his computer cave
Til the blue screen of death, left him bereft
That foolish college student who didn't save

I have no Idea what the purpose of the little poetic innerts was for. I just made up a word too. innerts.

Innerts (N) Pronunced (in-ehrt-ss) Am. Random inserts and blurbs which have much ado about nothing.

Life is fun sometimes. I can mold it in any way I want. I can reshape furniture, I can redesign this and i can redesign that. I'm unlimited in my boundaries and work.

Dear Bears...

Come on Bears, you've never let me down like this before. I know, I shouldn't be a "Cal Fan" the kind who turns red the moment the season goes sour. But i'm sitting here, listening to Mr. Starkey on the radio and i'm getting worried. I'm not going turn coat or anything like that, but I just want to know what you're really doing. When your offensive line was uber strong in the 5 game streak, now the defense is doing bad, and now you, but the defense not so much. Curse the radio and its lack of TV-ness. But even Mr. Starkey is showing the otherwise. He said no miracles in sight. Or something like that. Compared to the speech he gave at colloquium, Joe Starkey said: Cal's going to need a miracle to save them (the play). Blah blah blah. I'm pissed. No, not really. Really Dissapointed. Kinda like a parent who finds out their child is failing school, impregnated a girl and smoking pot constantly. I want you do better. I want not just longer practices, but more effective training and intense training.

COME ON!

frock frock frokc. DEFENSE BEARS! DEFENSE! *clap clap*

Sorry, I'm trying to listen to the game on the radio. *Cries*

How can you? Why did you? Why aren't I wearing the lucky underpants and Cal Tshirt?

Quiet you Arizona...

1st half go!

I'm just gibbering now. Gosh.

Oregon and Arizona st... powerhouses. It sounds so strange.

Damn... the game's over...

31-20...

So much for the amazing season we were hoping for...
There's still hope. Sort of...
Well, no more rose bowl.

It was this close. Right in front of our faces...
FUCK!

What turned on us? What cruel fate turned on us to cause the loss streak? Why? Was it something I did?

I'm turning into a fan freak. The kind that does the special thing everytime the game is happening. I used to wear the same underpants and tshirt for all the games. Maybe that's the problem. I shouldn't wash them ever...

Hum

I always say, a post is long overdue and yet, I do nothing. I just sit in my room and just stare at the computer.

And I just left and came back. For a whole half hour. I'm a terrible person! Gaaaugh.... I'm so easily distracted out here in college. Work is always an option, one that, at first, can be taken fairly lightly and as time goes on, you'll definetly need to step it up. And I just think, i'm turning into that one guy wiht the beer belly and the comb over sitting in an e-z-boy just watching from a bunny ears tv the news or something of that or a similar nature. But then, I hear on the radio that the bunny ears are being phased out at this point. Kinda weird feeling. As a kid, you always grew up with these certain ideals. Safeway and Luckys. Then when Albertsons came along, you got freaked out. That's kinda what i'm feeling at this point, knowing that the ears will be useless. After serving me well for the past 18 years of my life. I recall grandma's tv in her room that used to have the old fashioned pull out knobs and the set channels on the TV. Now that was a tv. Back on those days when they used to be a piece of furniture. Now, everything has reached this threshold of digital confusion and for certain, I'm gonna fall behind in all this foward moving technology. I cant even figure out how to do certain functions on a computer and trying to do so just throws me off at some points.

So what's great about college. Alot of people keep asking me that. As if something really amazing is supposed to happen. Like in all the movies you see portrayed by hollywood. With everyone getting drunk and there be a total plethora of boobies and hot blonde chicks trying get laid with the hot looking guy or the guy who's pretty ugly but owns an entire house. College is nothing like that. So far, its been alot of studying, alot of sleeping, alot of missed sleeping and alot of eating dorm food. If anything, dorm food is disgusting and i can help but find myself lost in a sea of meat loaf, jungle curry and fountain sodas.

But there are its ups. But it varies from college to college. UC Berkeley is nestled into the heart of Berkeley. Without it, Berkeley would probably be just another suburban town located just north of Oakland. The university brings so much life to this area and my dorm is just wedged right here. Wedged in without thought or process. I guess the University owns alot of land and I cant blame them, they've been probably the largest landowners since 1868. But back to where I live. What can I say? Its truly an amazing place, all the shops, tea places, bars and restaurants. It gets crazy. I can say that one person on my floor has vomited in our bathrooms twice as of yesterday. First time, he wandered in drunk and puked all over the door. Second time, at least it happened one floor below me. I guess if I had moved to Cal Poly instead of Berkeley, I would most likely have spent a million less dollars. I'm sure about that. But then again, CP dont have a football team I enjoy watching with friends.

Speaking of friends, I miss the Brownsons alot for certain. Espically when we'd go watch the Bears games. It was a new and sensational feeling. Being the nerdy spaz that I am, I had never been to a collegiate football game in my life. Look at me now, freshman free tickets, UC Rally Com, I get great seats.

Living out here, like 12 miles from home, you would think: Oh hey, that guy's not home sick at all. I totally think that. I'm sure he can survive out and never get sad at all. Not true, I guess i'm starting to really feel the misery and sadness that's associated with this lack of going home. I'm planning going home soon.

Thoughts from my voice recorder

Dates recorded: Unknown

1. "Dream log, uh.. I had a apparently was walking through the street and I saw this old junk shop, kind of a low shanty building. Then I suddenly grow excited cause I see and recgonize this white vest and cross belt on it and much to my amazement it was a Cal band uniform with the pants and the top part and the hat. The price for the top and the pants were 33.90 and the hat cost 12.50. Call me crazy but I wonder if these numbers have to do with anything... Ok, well... goodnight.

2. I do not wish to visit a country where the entire language consists of: "Please give me food", "Help me!" and "Look! there's an american. lets steal his pants.

3. You can do it...

4. Random Banjo Sounds

5. Good evening, this is the six o'clock news and I'm Dan Rathers and I endorse the following statement: "Bang, Bang. Skeet... Skeet"

Victory at last!

So this is what it feels like when you're in a state of high elation.

Muahah!

http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/article.cgi?f=/c/a/2007/10/02/MNN6SI0OS.DTL

so after a year battling the court system, the Tree people lose and suck alot and now, the University is coming out on top as the victor.

You couldn't imagine much of a case for these people. Living in the University's property, trying to tell them what they can and cannot do, and on top of all that, they fling their poo around and increased their hostile actions against fellow university students as well. So I can say this, justice is finally served and like revenge, it tastes amazing served cold.

is it a real problem?

Is it a problem when you order garlic fries at a restaurant, and it has the strong odor of gasoline, paint or any sort of burning petroleum product?

I probably shouldn't have eaten those fries

Gooooood mooorning Cal Fans!

Goooooooooood Mooorning Cal Fans!

and welcome to another game day, today September 15, 2007. Its a beautiful day, hopefully cold enough to freeze some southern flowers if you catch my drift.

On the other side of the peninsula, several Spartans will be clearing the forest,

Unfortunately, Some of us feel extreme sympathy for the forest and would like them to win a game so they dont bring the pac 10 so much.

Sorry Livia: College Life

Welcome! I read something I like that was on Oh My Livia (see blogroll for link), and I just wanted to do the same thing. My guess is that we're both freshmen in college and certainly at very different schools. Me, UC Berkeley and she, I dont really know. But I wanted to do something similar with what I like and dont like about colleges. (Sorry to her if some of the things are just like hers as well, but I think they're just as awesome.

So here goes.

Top 5 things I love about college

5. The bonding between you and your floor mates. Seriously, I think that some of these people will be your best friends for the next few years. On our floor, we had some pretty crazy activities going on, hallcest, floorcest, dormcest, our own floor orchestra, sushi parties, sleeping in other people's beds, fooling around with people who pass out in front of your door step and throwing things out of the 8th floor window. *cough*soccerball*cough cough*. 'scuse me...

4. The convenience of having a dining common right outside of your building. I swear, its more convenient than most other things. I mean, pull out my ID from my wallet, swipe and i'm good to go and eat food!

3. The option of going to class

2. The Campiniele is such a wonderful place, I've made several sketches of it, being an architecture student of course, and the view is magnificent. I dont know why I forgot my camera that day, but the day I went up was the last day you could even see the golden gate bridge and the rest of the bay area. As usual, Evans hall is an eyesore to look at.

1. The world of culture in Berkeley. It seems that every single culture in the world possibly has managed to mash up into the 40 square miles that is Berkeley. Dancing, chanting, music and Art, its everywhere! I cannot turn my head without being acclaimed as the latest masterpiece of phenomenal tai chi.

Top five things I hate about College

5. Doing my own laundry. I used to make my own little brother do the whole thing, now I have to do it on my own and watch it too and the whole process is like an hour and a half. Maybe more. The first time I did it, it wasn't too bad. i thought there was at least a sky light that had opaque panels that opened to the sky. Then I realized that right above is the DC and upon closer inspection of panels themselves and for heaven's sake! Fluorescent tubes! Biggest let down since that one episode of How I met your Mother.

4. Class in Evans Hall. Other Berkeley students hopefully agree with me on this one. Having sections in an indoor classroom at Evans is like being stuck in the Fishbowl classroom twice back in High School. But walking to class in Evans Hall is almost reminiscent of walking through the death star and taking class in the Death Star. Gaah, talk about dreary. Andre makes up for having class there though.

3. Hearing religious radical yell profanities such as "JESUS HATES MORMONS! JESUS HATES JEWS! JESUS HATES HOMOSEXUALS!" Being as I am, I am offended by all of these comments. Being the Asian bisexual mormon/jew I am, I find total offense from these people. And because of the sixties, they have a right to say that. But I wonder, at what point does the public have the right to use the university to spread their message? I'm sure there's a public threshold and right but to spread such awful ideas.

2. The Lack of Privacy. Granted, my roommate does go home every so often for stuff, but then the rest of the time, we're usually at each other's elbows. Which is OK and all, but I miss having a private room sometimes.

1. The tree outside my window. Yes, I live on the 8th floor and it does communicate a level of privacy for me from the ground, but then I cant post stupid signs on my window for everyone to see

Gross Negligence

Yes, I've been really bad about keeping you all updated about things and nuts like this. But ok, let's do some catching up. First, I need to read my own blog to see where I even am at...

(a moment later)

Okay, I have an idea now. I should think.

So since that time I felt the spine tingling notion of an all out campus war of hippies and normies, I attended the Tennessee football game on saturday. Granted, I was a little worried when every time we scored a touchdown and Tennessee would get their own back. But then, they fizzled off. During a fourth down punt, Tenn had punted the ball to DeSean Jackson who proceeded to kick ass by scoring a 70+ yard touchdown. Next time Ts had to punt, biggest pussy ever. 13 yard punt. Obviously the shining pinnacle of Tennessee's punter's achievements.

And the Brownsons, who have been always so gracious and kind to me, had taken a starving, well maybe two starving college students for dinner on Shattuck. Calzone was absoutely delicious. I wish I had more...

Sketchbooks. My room is starting to fill up with sketchbooks and art supplies. I guess that's the slow transformation into an architect. Unfourtunate for me, the mess follows me everywhere. Heh, it wasn't until two days ago when I discovered the joys and pleasures of using Tombo water based markers to color. Its like god now and i'm actually psyched about coloring. If any you really know me, you'd all know that of all things in the world, I hated coloring. Coloring tried to make amends, oh it did. But it wouldn't work. No sir it didn't. Coloring would try its best, and here's the conversation I had with it.

Zach: Oh Zeus! I can't stand coloring things!
Coloring: Oh please, try harder!
Z: why bother?
C: look, crayola came out with some really nice new line of smooth flow color pencils, no more breaking tips!
Z: Oh stop, I hate coloring still
C: Or maybe your water colors set. You love watercolors...
Z: Yeah, I do. But its so much work and alot to clean up.
C: What about finger paints?
Z: Like I said, messy.
C: I give up
*Tombo marker walks in*
T: Hey, what's goin' on in here?
C: Not much, Zach wont color?
T: Yeah? Well, try me
*Zach uses tombo marker*
Z: Ooooh *orgasm's everywhere*
C: Damn you to hell! Damn the likes of both of you!

So that's sorta what happened.

What else? I should post pictures from my sketchbook some time. I'd do it, but then i'd have to pull out my camera and stuff like that...

Well, so long for now readers!