siiiigh

siiiiigh

don't be a man who falls prey to his own hubris.

[do it for the lulz]

It's an addiction to attention, to caffeine, to sugar and to food and to the rush. It's ability and inability to focus, the daring and self-harm and pushing and wondering if I can, the competitiveness yet indifference. It lunges and goes on and dives and looks back and is wondering... wondering if it is falling

improvise, invent, innovate, rinse and repeat and cliche all over the room.

"I'm not a doctor, but I play one on TV."



I'm not an accountant, I just pretend to be one in real life.

Where are you, I said.

Right here, I answered.
Which is where I've always been. Not that I know where that is , exactly.
But there's only one thing to do: soldier on.
Soldier on.

Not prone to bouts of neurosis, my ass...

Indeed.

choosing a career

There are two main variables in scoring a career choice:

Expected return of income, and satisfaction.

Satisfaction is hugely nebulous, and at the same time I recognize that it must be weighted much more than expected return of income - or perhaps more accurately, expected return of income needs to have some sort of math-y thing done to it that I'm in no state to phrase out that expresses its diminishing value as y as we increase income along x. They are both variables, but satisfaction is of much more importance.

[unfinished]

new pickup line

Okay, so I came over here to ask you to dance, but I'm kind of concerned. I mean, we could hit it off really well, end up having a few drinks, next thing you know you're giving me your number because I'm too shy to ask for it, I finally get up the nerve to call and we take in a movie, have some dinner, I relax, you relax, we go out a few more times, get to know each other's friends, spend a lot of time together, then finally get past this sexual tension and really develop this intense sex life that is truly incredible, decide our relationship is solid and stable, so we move in together for a while, then a few months later get married, I get a promotion, you get a promotion, we buy a bigger house. You really want kids, but I really want freedom, but we have a kid anyway, only to find that I am resentful, the sparks start to fade and to rekindle them we have two more lovely kids, but now I work too much to keep up with the bills, have no time for you, you're stressed and stop taking really good care of yourself, so to get past our slow sex life and my declining self-confidence I turn to an outside affair for sexual gratification. You find out because I'm careless and a lousy liar, you throw me out (justifiably so) and we have to explain to the kids why mommy and daddy are splitting up. That's just too sad. Think about the children. For God's sake, if you dance with me and we hit it off, let's just keep it sexual, because we both know where it's going.

Was walking

Was walking to the 20 bus stop at the loop today, and my thoughts were on interest and goal and purpose and career like they so often are. And I realized that what I'm interested in is behaviour, the behaviour of humankind and of individuals, and what I want to achieve is a a better standard of living for those with less opportunity through no fault of their own.

And that's the disconnect I so often see in business, I think. That's the disconnect that I've so often felt.

[unfinished]

Vancouver

I just found out that an old friend is working in Vancouver.

And my thoughts turned to the city, and...

I realized that Vancouver, Vancouver, the city of great weather and hippies... is also the city where I lost my head and heart.

---- edit:

Do you remember, T? Do you remember, how you lost, lost it all? Lost, lost your head, lost, lost your heart?

Yeah, I do. I do.

Sexual Harassment at Work

KV: "We're going to totally miss you sooo much when you're gone.. we're going to have to have a going away party for you. In the backroom. It's going to last... well that part's up to you tiger!"

TW: ... ~~

3 weeks into my temp job

Working at the Foothills Hospital, Faculty of Medicine... I work at a place where life begins, ends, and is saved from ending. I'm surrounded by so much good work. This is so very different than any other job I've had. Here, I am reassured that the works of the people around me - if not absolutely always, their motivations - are creating greater good in this world.

It is inspiring. Leaves me hopeful.

You know, I never had the mind for chemistry. Right?

Cognitive dissonance (and cognitive dissonance coping auto-strategies) rear ye head..

UNICEF, Aiding Africa

There are numerous issues with donating to Africa all the time, as I once said. Where is the money going? How is it being spent? How much is being wasted? We know what they tell us, as in any other situation - we know what answers they give to these questions we ask.

What I do know is that what I can do now is to help lead a time that will lead in building awareness and raising funds that will help the sick, shelter the vulnerable, and feed the hungry. And that those people whom we are helping have been left with little to no opportunity; that it was only by the luck of the draw that we were born unto the side of the world where we have so much more opportunity.

And that it is our duty, as fellow humans - and as I write this, I realize that a part of me still believes that it is our duty under God and Jesus Christ - to do what we can to help.

[unfinished]

So much of what is wrong with the world today is caused by sectarianism. I'm convinced more and more of this every day. Opening up the Western Standard at the gym, reading it between sets, I'm reminded by how much unreasoned, blind hatred there is even in our seemingly peaceful little world here in Canada. If I am to believe and embrace all that I read in the magazine, I would believe that environmentalism is the new cult, that Christianity is under violent, unjust attack moreso than any other religion in the world, that leftists once allied with Hitler, are now allying with jihadist Muslims, and are forever evil and corrupt, that the Liberals and Greens can do nothing right.

What a bunch of crap, a bunch of shit. I'm not a leftist. Nor a rightist. All the mostly old, mostly white, mostly rich men that control the world fuck up just as much as everyone else would if they were in power. I guess that difference is who their fuckups benefit. If minorities were in power, we'd probably just pork barrel ourselves, right. The only benefit to that might be that minorities have had their fortunes paid less attention to, so we might see an even-ing out effect. But I'm convinced that the end result of corruption would be the same.

A universalist, really, a libertarian but not really. So much of our fighting --being pretentious here, our = humanity as a whole-- comes from people stubbornly [synonym for REALLY STUBBORN) believing that they --whatever group it is that they believe they belong to-- are completely incompatible with another/other group[s]. That any attempts to understand other groups result only in understanding just how evil, terrible, unsavable the other group is. That the other group is such an enormous threat to their group that they must do all in their power to remove that group.

A sort of collective individualism. That I care first about myself, and with that, I care about the tribes that I have staked a claim in. That my tribe is always right. And if we do err, it is the result of outside causes, of the actions of the other tribe. That my tribe is the only right tribe, the only tribe that should exist. That your tribe is so wholly incompatible that we cannot coexist. That yours, and not mine, have led to all that is wrong with the world.

I think.. that it is the simple lack of any attempt to understand one another, to have compassion for one another, that has led to much of what is wrong. I don't offer olive branches, because I know that you'd take the branch, ram it up the ass of my children, and then burn the branch. I don't offer olive branches, because I'm arrogant and I fervently believe that I'm right, anyways, and you should change yourself to become more like me or die.

Is socialism the answer? I look at where socialist-ish societies have seemed to flourish; Europe. In Europe we see people that don't work, relatively peaceful majorities bend over backwards to dangerous minorities view, lest they offend someone. In capitalist la-la lands, and by that I mean North America, we see people who work, (etc).

[unfinished]

My dad pulls me over from the kitchen to the living room to point at the TV. Him and mom are watching this tall, thin black guy sing Mandarin pop. Pretty interesting. Then my dad pulls out his trusty old "Wah jun hai sai lah uh hoh chee Kevin cheng ah".

Ah, damn. hahhahaha

[unfinished]

You know those crazy people you meet on the bus?

Oh Toni, the crazy Asiaphile, you're the best.

[unfinished]

Reminder to self to post Black Militants.

Reminder to self to post Black Militants.

I was at McNally Robinson, waiting for Cat and...

Anonymous Lawyer: A Novel
Jeremy Blachman

I found this. Oh snap. I know what I'm reading next.

An excerpt:

I see you. I see you walking by my office, trying to look like you have a reason to be there. But you don't. I see the guilty look on your face. You try not to make eye contact. You try to rush past me as if you're going to the bathroom. But the bathroom is at the other end of the hall. You think I'm naïve, but I know what you're doing. Everyone knows. But she's my secretary, not yours, and her candy belongs to me, not you. And if I have a say in whether or not you ever become a partner at this firm—and trust me, I do—I'm not going to forget this. My secretary. My candy. Go back to your office and finish reading the addendum to the lease agreement. I don't want to see you in the hall for at least another sixteen hours. AND STOP STEALING MY CANDY.

And stop stealing my stapler, too. I shouldn't have to go wandering the halls looking for a stapler. I'm a partner at a half-billion-dollar law firm. Staplers should be lining up at my desk, begging for me to use them. So should the young lawyers who think I know their names. The Short One, The Dumb One, The One With The Limp, The One Who's Never Getting Married, The One Who Missed Her Kid's Funeral—I don't know who these people really are. You in the blue shirt—no, the other blue shirt—I need you to count the number of commas in this three-foot-tall stack of paper. Pronto. The case is going to trial seven years from now, so I'll need this done by the time I leave the office today. Remember: I can make or break you. I hold your future in my hands. I decide whether you get a view of the ocean or a view of the dumpster. This isn't a game. Get back to work. My secretary. My stapler. MY CANDY.

Amazon

oh, coffee.

listening to murmurs of Haskayne library
drinking Starbucks House, venti + black
procrastinating from studying for astronomy

coffe, oh coffee.

you are my worst enemy and best friend.

especially my good pal Starbucks. I don't <3 you for your 'prestige', I <3 you for your taste and caffeine power. I do <3 Starbucks from the business side of my brain though-- I <3 the brilliance of the Starbucks niche/aesthetic/you know what I mean, selling Ray Charles albums and stuff like that.

On best friends

Not too long ago, a friend (who is a close, great, spectacular friend) told me that I was one of their best friends.

Is it odd that it seems that I am many people's best friend, yet I don't consider myself to have a best friend? As much as I treasure the friendships of those I hold close, I cannot bring myself to apply the label of best friend to anyone.

There has to be a word for people like me. I'm thinking there's at least a bunch of us out there-- hey, maybe we should start a club. And you get kicked out if you get too close to any of your fellow members.

This has been a part of my life for a while now. On the other side of it, I can recall my "best friends" in chronological sequence. Christine, Homing, Kevin, Lisa.

Maybe that last one explains it, why I haven't had a best friend since.

Not sure how to merge two blogs, so...

I'm going to repost my old archives, even if they're pretty sparse.

And leave them unedited, for ...posterity.

A vagabond sitting next to an empty coffee, an open Nalgene, and closed books that should be opened

The taste of coffee reminds me of riding the transit downtown in the morning. Blinding sun, chill air, and the whir and hum of the transit coalesce into an urban ambience. A few shadows find niches in the light. Their starkness is matched by the starkness of the bare glances of tightly suited men and women as they step over the homeless dregs of the city core.

It is a typical Calgary morning.

I find my own age incomprehensible as I ride the train to the university. Twenty. Not so old, I know. If an older person somehow stumbles upon this blog as they are finding all and any alternatives to unfulfilling work, it would not surprise me if they laughed at my immaturity. Twenty is young. I know this-- not "only deep inside"-- it is obvious. Yet it stuns me nonetheless that in another lifetime as so far I have experienced --in another twenty years-- I will be dead, or forty years old. No, it's not that I am enough of a drama king to think that to be dead would be preferable. I just find it difficult to grasp; the concept of being forty, when I scarcely am able to contemplate the fact that I am twenty. Perhaps it's because despite all my lunging and leaping, I feel so unaccomplished, so unfulfilled. Words I spoke to a friend seem also personally relevant; I don't want to close any doors-- I don't want to miss any opportunities. So I haven't. But at what point do you have to leap through a door-- and when you make that leap, isn't it inevitable that you close a few along the way?

For many reasons, Social Psychology is probably my most favoritest class ever. For one, it was so personally relevant. I can still remember reading about integrative complexity for the first time. Integrative complexity refers to "the degree to which thinking and reasoning involve the recognition and integration of multiple perspectives and possibilities and their interrelated contingencies.refers to the degree to which thinking and reasoning involve the recognition and integration of multiple perspectives and possibilities and their interrelated contingencies." And integrative complexity is "a specific cognitive style that concerns the differentiation and integration of dimensions. Differentiation refers to the degree to which persons use different dimensions to discuss an issue. For instance, if a person uses a single dimension (e.g., good-bad) to discuss the issue, there would be no differentiation. Assuming that there is differentiation, the second aspect of integrative complexity concerns the degree to which two or more dimensions are related or connected. There can be no integration, some integration, or complex integration. The greater the degree of integration, the greater the integrative complexity. A person exhibiting the lowest level of integrative complexity recognizes only one perspective to a problem or an issue. Persons with higher levels of complexity recognize the existence of alternative perspectives, but see them as independent and unrelated. At the highest level of integrative complexity, there is recognition of the trade-offs among perspectives and solutions. Stolen from here.

According to the textbook we had in the class, a high level of integrative complexity apparently implied high intelligence and leadership skills.

I'm inclined to disagree. I myself am notoriously indecisive about what it is I want. I think that it has to do with a ridiculously high level of integrative complexity. Everything to me is multifaceted. Newton's laws apply to physics (well, most physics) but the artificial/organic mechanisms of... ugh, "life" are not physics. For every reaction, it is not that there is a lone equal action that was its cause; instead, these causing actions are countless, and each of them had some contribution to the reaction.

I feel that I should be satisfied. I take a look back, try to be objective. I compare myself to the situations of others, especially those who are --I would not say doomed- ...bound, then-- to a life of poverty simply by who and/or where they were born. It is not that I do not understand my own fortune. That whatever notions of material quantity or quality that I perceive I lack compared the economic elite that seem to, at the very least, pervade my faculty, are stupid, ridiculous, selfish and what have you. And in fact, I don't believe it to be for any material reason that I feel so unsatisfied. I understand very well, I think, that I have already won the lottery by being born on this side of the world. And that winning that birth lottery is like winning any lottery; it was purely by chance and was not through any virtue, talent or work of my own.

So what, then? Some say that it is enough that I understand this, appreciate it, and work all that much harder as a result-- and give back. I understand this reasoning. I feel that for the most part, I do all of those things.

But the feeling of unfulfillment persists.

In the past I have thought that this unfulfillment is --watch the integrative complexity (and doubtlessly cockiness) here-- at least partially caused by the fact that I am fairly sure I can succeed in whatever it is I want, at least academically. A teacher in Grade Nine told me that the world was my oyster. I have succeeded in everything in school that I have put my mind to; the only class I have ever done truly bad in was calculus; but I really do believe that that was more out of disinterest and lack of appreciation than any lack of ability. Yes, this is a cocky perspective. I know that. But it seems to be true. And as long as I perceive it to be true, it will be a thorn (a good thorn, I am aware) to understand that many doors are open. That most any door I would find appealing short of Super Bowl-winning NFL quarterback or NBA MVP point guard is open.

Maybe that is the true problem, then. Any door that I would "find appealing". Maybe I've stuck too much to the things I am good at (and so my cockiness has expanded, my friends [and especially brother] would tell you) and so then as a person, I have not grown as I should.

I really do think that this is a good point. I cannot dance. I am pretty sure I interview poorly. I lack story-telling ability. I can't play any instrument short of very amateurish recorder. Oh, and I can't wear hats, because of my huge and malformed skull.

This makes me feel better somehow.

Man, I'm weird.

You know what's even weirder? I can hear the integrative complexityish devil's advocacy-esque skeptical-ness coming on right now. "Fuck, you're not weird. You just want to think you're special."

And on, and on and on and on and on.

no title

Maybe writing about it, in this blog that no one reads, will make me feel better. Maybe it'll help. Maybe it won't. To record, is probably for the better. So that I always remember what the past was. Like I did that time.

They say double happiness is doing something, being something, achieving something so glorious that it not only makes you happy, but makes others- in the best case, the people you love- happy too. I say 'glorious' without any speck of sarcasm. I remember what that's like.

So is double sadness when you do something that makes you sad, and makes those you love sad? Or worse, when you can't do anything?

I never understood the depths to which my father loved my mother until this day.

Something is wrong with my mother. No one knows what. Three different doctors have examined, poked, prodded scanned and analyzed and they cannot determine what is truly and really wrong with her. She walks around in a depressed haze. Unable, unwilling, incapable, I don't know. She doesn't do much more than talk of how's she going to die. Die. Death. Of how much pain she's in, about how useless she is, about how useless and foolish and terrible we all are. About how she can't eat, can't walk, can't think, can't sleep. About how she is a walking corpse. About how we all might as well all die.

My father quit one of his two jobs to spend more time with her in an effort to make her happy. No one knows quite what is wrong with her. Reasoning, loving, caring, talking, or just sitting their with her... nothing seems to work. We've tried everything. And my father perseveres. Quitting one of his jobs, losing out on the money, making sacrifices here and there. Just to be with her, to spend time with her, to help her in whatever way he can. She is never appreciative. She rarely smiles or laughs. And yet he soldiers on.

My father is an ox. He was robbed of his childhood at a young age; working and tilling in the fields, walking and, when he was lucky, biking long distances to help support his family. He did the best he could in the limited schooling available, but even that ended with the dawn of Mao's Cultural Revolution.

He then was lucky. He came to Canada, land where a man who speaks no English can raise a family. Can somehow, if he puts his mind, his wits, his arms and legs and back and some unknown, unfathomable perseverance, support a family of four. Since arriving, he has worked tirelessly, cut corners, been the best provider he could be, to give us the best chance to succeed.

You know, I used to fault my father, my parents, for not presenting me with the opportunities that other parents have. Ridiculous, yes. I'm aware. I saw where others were, and in my jealousy, in my envy, thought that if only this, if only that, if only they had been better parents, then where would I be?

What a ridiculous, foolish attitude that was. I am no longer ashamed, but I do vividly understand know the ignorance of my youth. I only hope that that ignorance has been somewhat reduced, or at least stemmed.

My father works side-by-side with her. It has been a long time since my mother has last washed her hair. It is visibly unclean. It is not that we cannot afford the water or shampoo. It is that she simply does not want to. Does not want to wash her. That when my father, or I, beckon her to give her hair a wash, she rebuffs us with an utterance that we should just die. That she was on the inevitable and short road to dying anyways.

I don't understand. I try to, and I feel that maybe I'm more choking on straws than grasping at them.

Today we visited my grandmother. She is elderly, late eighties. My father and I had yesterday built a small bench for her to use to help herself out of the bathtub. Despite the railing that exists in her washroom that is meant to accomodate the elderly, she can no longer rise out of the tub.

When we arrived, we noticed the amount of dust, dirt, and debris littering her living space. My father and I set to vacuuming the apartment. As I vacuumed, pushing the head around the carpet, I looked at my grandmother's face, and then back to my father's. It is not an issue of not quite understanding the effects that age have taken on their faces, on their minds, although the latter is more obvious on my grandmother. No, such transitions are difficult to see in the people you see frequently. It was in comparing their faces, that I wondered what my grandfather was like.

I had never known him. He had died in the Communist rising back in China. He had been a very successful man, and so with the rise of the Communists, others urged him to flee to Hong Kong.

"I've never done anything wrong," he said then. "Ask anyone in the village."

He was soon murdered by the Communists.

He is rarely spoken of-- never by my grandmother, only a few times by my father. Pictures are never shown, and thus I must interpolate his face from where my father's and grandmother's diverge.

What was he like, I wonder. Would he be proud of the man that I am today? Would he be proud of the man my father is?

To the former: I hope so.

To the latter: fuck yes he would. Fucking yes he would.

ooo, another cliche.

as much as things change, things stay the same.

dogged by the same problems.

self-definition, discovery, that thing.

family things. frustrations.

wondering.

religion.

...seems like it's all about being positive.

Going Hard - Talib Kweli

Saturday, Saturday, Saturday.

You gotta love white parties. You just gotta. They're just so chill. Everyone is around, drinking, dancing, talking, making noise... just for the hell of it. Enjoying life. Is it shallow? Who cares? A fine balance in life is walking the line between being a pretentious asshole and a shallow-brained asshole. As much as I love cigars, beer, and well, more beer, Freud and Jung give me that tickle that no one else does.

I bet it'd be fucking awesome to drink with Voltaire.

People watching

As far as guilty pleasures go, people watching might be a little tame, but I'm still addicted anyways. You sit there, look around, seeing people going by, and it's like you're having hundreds and hundreds of tiny little one-sided affairs-- like you're a slutty ass peeping tom. Probably the best is when you're people watching and you notice another watcher. Then you try and watch them without them knowing, wondering if they're doing the same.

Malls are interesting things. They're like little microcosms of Las Vegas-- a civilization constructed out in the middle of nowhere. Wholly artificial despite tireless efforts to seem real. Clothes hung on mannequins and on models with impossibly 'perfect' features. Ever so pleasantly chilled stale air. Really, they personify the delusions of false grandeur that we're all still clinging to so desperately.

I was sitting at a C-Train station today downtown, watching the rush of people go by. I can't remember the last time it was like this: I had nowhere to be, no schedule to follow, no restrictions. It was... nice. Didn't have to talk, didn't have to listen, didn't have to use any of my pseudo-Carnegian, well, pseudo-charm.

In light of Bush's recent victory in the United States presidential election

Bush did not win on policy or action. Instead, polls indicate Bush won on moral values; on principles; and on his better image. Consider this election a triumphant victory by the Republican spindoctors, destroying their Democratic counterparts. A president that suffered the first loss of jobs in recent memory, the president who vacationed while Al Qaeda planned their attacks, the president who was utterly destroyed in the presidential debates, has been given a significant mandate or "political capital" as he likes to say, given the domination of his party in the Senate and House of Representatives, and achieving over fifty percent of the vote, something remarkably even the likes of Clinton did not do.

Much of Bush's appeal sits with his Southern, traditionalist American image. The president appeals to those individualist, America-centric 'patriots'; they see Bush as a strong, America-focused leader, refusing to bow down to foreign pressures. They believe that Bush will do whatever necessary to ensure the best for America first and foremost, and any international concerns should be secondary at best to American interests. A friend of mine made the remark that "Kerry was a very European politician." Very apt- say you get your ass kicked by another kid at school. If Bush is your dad, he's just going to go over and kick the kid's ass, no questions asked. Kerry will file a complaint with the school board over this 'inappropriate behaviour.' Oooooooh! I'm ALMOST going to write a VERY stern letter about this!!!!

Polls can be notoriously inaccurate, of course- the Zogby poll predicted a significant Kerry victory- but exit polls showed that Bush found favour with eighty percent of those voters whose largest concern was terrorism. Looking at this statistic in combination with how the votes broke down- essentially, the (Midwest, South, etc) states that will be the last places to suffer an attack controlled the fates of those states that will be most likely to be attacked. Is you friendly neighbourhood mujahideen going to attack Nowheresville, South Dakota, or Los Angeles, San Francisco, or New York? Indeed, a commanding three quarters of NY voters voted for Kerry- and yet, the leader that they desired to ensure their safety will not be in government.

Irony at it's most dangerous.

A Study in Contrast

Remembering my childhood, I realize the maxim "youth is wasted on the young" has become true for me on a personal level. It's very possible- probable even- that the original author meant that saying towards young people around my age, speaking from the perspective of a more aged adult- but as for my personal meaning... it all became so completely true when I stumbled upon my Grade Six yearbook.

The cover is a brilliantly neon amalgam of yellow and green, still shining bright after all these years. It remains in better condition that you'd think- armoured in cheap laminate, something that my welfare-sponsored elementary school splattered on everything, like the way an eleven-year-old girl playing with her mom's makeup. Covering up for something that isn't there? Trying to give an illusion of beauty? Or a thousand of other pretentious similes. Inside are blurry photocopied computer sheets adorned with our photographs.

Our photographs. We were so innocent, then.

It makes me sad, for the children of today. It's only been a few years- but of course, because of my relatively small experience, it seems like a lifetime.

We're so different.

They're so different.

Our faces smile so innocently. They try to look sexy, mean, angst-ridden, or smile not at all, afraid of their appearance, that their smile might not be up to par. We're dressed in oversized grey or navy sweaters, cheap department store jeans, and any sneakers that have soles on them. They're adorned- not dressed- with Diesel, FCUK, and Puma gear, with clinging sleeveless tops, distressed jeans and only the latest kicks. We listened to Green Day, Our Lady Peace, or in all reality the largely sexless Backstreet Boys- they weren't "sexy", but "cute", or at most, "hot." They love Justin Timberlake's coying lyrics, 50 Cent's violent gangster posturing, Christina Milian's commands to "dip it low."

We lived for the adventures of Ash and his unbearably cute Pokemon, Pikachu, singing along merrily to the tuneless theme songs. They die for Tony Soprano and his human meat-grinding.

Maybe I'm being... no wait, I am being melodramatic, but of course. The point is that I feel sorry for the children today. They're missing their childhood, their time to be innocent and free and fun and whatever. They're having their childhood taken from them by the juggernaut of the media machine and the societal pressures of coolness- probably two things that are inextricably linked.

I'm so going to win that competition next year or the year after

Troy and Amy from last year's The Apprentice were at Tantra yesterday. Wooooooo!

Everything (well, almost)

(there was a picture here originally... I still have it, somewhere.)

Girl from the 1950's , Voted Most "Faaabulous", your Worship, Japanese Ghost**only one of these nicknames was ever used. If you know, you know which one.

Missing those days... those days of Math 30, skipping class to be with a crying friend, having my eyelids sliced open by slippery hands, eating homemade sashimi and playing the Friends board game. Playing the meanest (and of course, therefore funnest) game of Charades EVER, wasting massive amounts of time on CP, and laughing as some of us dodged teachers (creepy McKeage) left and right as we skipped class for no reason. The dominance of Big Two. The drama that seemed so important at the time. Someone's first kiss. Scaring them at New Asia. The last day, there at Banana Jak's. Singing the three or four Chinese words we hadn't forgotten how to read from Chinese school. Falling asleep in Ernest's bedroom simultaneously. Coordinated our spares together...so we could waste it in the library. (Not really) having their boobs stared at. Some lesbian-onic boob grabbing, ass squeezing, nipple touching. Someone touching someone's ass like everyday, come on I know it was you. Someone drinking their bum-bum off and getting, for them, soo touchy. Someone denying their complete love of drinking. Someone despising drinking (party pooper =D ). Someone with two other dudes helping birthday boy drink his skinny, children's shoe size-ass off. Someone pretentiously spouting during seminars. Someone's generosity I won't forget when I was pretty much broke... you'll get what you want when I'm a rich old dude, although I can't provide what you REALLY want. Unless it's sex, but that's what someone is else is for. Someone's black coat. Admitting they masturbated, right there on MSN and saved on two people's computers. The "things" that that black coat hid and weren't as obvious until the time they drew their arms back at that person's house. Three-way phone calls. Realizing who we wish we had spent time with more during high school. The devil Charney. The awesomeness of Jan Mohamed. Computer-like writing. Two dudes who wrote like Asian girls. The lunatic Taven. The super-genius Wagner. The evils of chemistry. Being a big brother. Talking at Beddington Mall and chilling at Boston Pizza. Graduation night. And thinking we were the greatest philosophers of our time. Oh wait, I still think that last one. Someone pooping their pants. Oh wait, Colin still does that.

NW- We never see each other, but hopefully you still know I'm there for you anytime, whether it be to listen, or to protect you from some guy. You've got your own knight now, though. He's a good guy and a hell of a lot smarter than you haha jokes. Consider me his assistant then, and make sure to call me if he's a jerk. But he won't.

VL- I wrote this long ass shoutout for you a long time ago. Everything I said back then is still true. You're still amazing and we still don't do enough stuff together. Missing Math 30 everyday. And when are we going to strippers / casino? CC's underage, how lame. Here's to hoping you find your "first and only". Do you remember what I'm talking about?

CC- Brilliant. Cynically optimistic. Tries to show lack of confidence when everyone knows he aced the test. Existentialist Buddhist, apparently. Utterly pretentious raging liberal, like myself. Mr. CC. You say you want security, a steady paying nine-to-fiver in a cubicle where you type away at numbers. In your heart you'd rather be an SNL or Conan writer, though, but you want security so much. You know, for a guy who's so organized, and in some ways, conservative, to my completely improvisational personality and complete lack of shame, my God Colin, you're one of the most interesting and intelligent people I've ever met. You just might be my favourite person to have a conversation with about anything remotely meaningful, except when you're being an asshole or party pooper, which is most of the time, haha. I don't know dude, I wouldn't be half as the pretentious blowhard I am without you. Just know you've had a fucking profound impact on my life in so many ways. Woohoo.

There's others who have been amazing. I'll post something sometime, promise.

comment from way back when

seeing sanjay at the library

Thursday, September 16, 2004 - 5:05PM

It all started with the noblest of intentions- as some might say, with very typical asian intentions. I was going to the library to reformat my psychology notes and print them off. How very nerdy. But alas, as always, I was thrown into yet another misadventure. Mister Sanjay Biswas, as always, managed to be where I was.

The guy made me realize so many things. It would seem I am learning nothing from university and would be better served as an acolyte at the Temple of Sanjay. Without his remarkable teachings, I never would have known that "the Punjabis are the brave race of India. They are the brave warriors. All the soldiers, they are Punjabi. All the Hindis are cowards. They would rather be professors." Sanjay, by the way, is Hindi.

Forgive my sarcasm. In truth, I highly doubt I will ever meet a more fascinating guy in my life. I also think he stands a good chance of being the first person from my graduating year to die, but that's another matter. The boy genius/completely insane bizzare male chauvinist inspires me. I have decided that one my life's works (how corny is that) will be a book about his life. What better way to celebrate the person who called me late at night on my cell phone, and subsequently had this conversation with, which bordered on pure lunacy (well, actually, knowing Sanjay, probably not, but I digress):

SB: Is this Terry?

TW: Yes...yes it is. Who is this?

SB: It's me, Sanjay. Anyway Terry, you have been my friend for a long time now. Because of that I give you exclusive video rights to my suicide.

TW: What...the fucking fuck. What the fucking fuck are you talking about?

SB: No seriously. I have a handgun, you'll make millions.

TW: (a revolution in reality TV, I'm thinking. but anyways.) Sanjay...no.

SB: (is drunk, I later find out. not surprising.) Come on it'll be cool.

TW: ...No, Sanjay. I have to go.

Really, I'm doomed to be an wannabe-NYC cool writer, with live material like this. Or maybe I can grow up to be a brave bare-chested Punjabi warrior. For King and Curry!

"stella ella ohla, tap-tap-tap, singin' es tigo tigo, tigo tigo tap-tap, es tigo tigo, baloney, baloney, with cheese and macaroni..."

"bananas... UNITE! peel bananas, peel peel bananas, peel bananas, peel peel bananas. slice bananas, slice slice bananas-"

While the acrid smoke sliced with surgical precision into my nostrils and a menagerie of coloured lights pierced the darnkess of the room, a notion entered my head that I couldn't escape. To risk vulgarity- as dancer after dancer stripped and swayed and gyrated and ground the air and mock-fellated, as pairs of jiggling breasts and shaking asses made their wildly cheered processions around the stage, I was puzzled. It wasn't thoughts of these violently thrusting body parts that filled my head so much as the idea that it was someone's daughter up there. Someone's kid. Could you imagine seeing your daughter in a strip club?

"Oh daddy... Daddy??"

"Oh baby.... Baby??"

While I'm an admitted addict of the surreal, I think I'll pass on that particular experience.

We humans believe ourselves to be so utterly advanced. We're civilized- not base animals or simple-minded cavemen or anything beyond remotely akin to the barbaric peoples of centuries ago, but we've really remained stagnant. The strip club is the same as the slave bazaar of the Romans which is same as the football field or wrestling ring or gladiator's colosseum. We bear in our minds and hearts the same basic wanton lusts- blood and sex.