Sweetening Thru the Ages

...just like wine.

So yesterday I had to take some forms to my professor for letters of recommendation. Don't get me wrong, she is a "distinguished professor," which means she's at the top of her game; she's super brilliant, super respected in her field, and even has her own anthology of British Romantic literature. On top of that, she is, in large part, responsible for my decision to attend grad school (because of both her example and her encouragement to pursue my doctorate).

Nonetheless, she, it seems, is either rather lazy, technophobic or both. Most universities have moved to online applications for letters of recommendation, but she still wanted hard copies to fill out and mail in (which means I had to address and provide postage for many envelopes). Since she notified me of her desire to use the hardcopies via email, I doubt that she is a technophobe. And so I ventured forth to UCLA last night to drop off the copies.

On the way there, I passed by 550 Veteran Avenue, the building in which I lived my freshman, sophomore, and super-senior years at UCLA. Brought back some memories, and strangely, only good ones. I thought of my four senior roommates who took me under their wings when I was a freshman; I reminisced about all the older people in my fellowship who lived there my first two years of college. Since I was the only first-year in the apartment complex, they all shepherded me and did their utmost to keep me in line.

Here's a photo I took of our campus at night:

De-lovely, no? I didn't use the "sepia" mode on my camera; I think the photo just turned out this way because the only light sources are all those yellow-ish lamps on campus. It makes me want to go back east, attend a nice Ivy League school, and wear a rep tie and blue blazer embroidered with my school-crest.

The Only One Who Could Ever Reach Me

The impending deadline for undergraduate UC applications has created an onslaught of essays to edit, and has produced an overscheduling of personal appointments, during which I advise students on what--and what not--to say, and how (and how not) to say it. Along with the looming deadlines for my own applications, all this extra work has proved rather taxing. This stress is sometimes compounded by the moral dilemma of whether to help students into colleges where their placement is, at best, questionable.

As an advocate of high university standards, and an aspirant into the world of academia myself, I wonder whether it's right to coach students to say what admissions officers want to hear, or to prevent them from saying things at which the officers would cringe. I suppose it's all part and parcel of my job. I repeat this mantra on a nearly daily basis; that cliche (and many others) quench my conscience and allow me to keep on working.

On occasion I will meet a student whom I feel is truly deserving of admittance into a university, but whose entrance might be hampered by low grades or test scores. These students usually strike me as altruistic, amiable, or generally sincere; I always feel that not only would they benefit from a university education, but that they, in turn, would use their degree to benefit humanity (in some vague way--I never speculate about how exactly they will better the world).

Of the (literally) hundreds of essays I've surveyed this season, one struck me as particularly honest. I can't say that it was the best written, but it displays (what I deemed) a candid nature, free of the affectation and artifice I see in so many other personal statements. This essay doesn't overreach, or try to have larger implications than what it should. It tells what this students experienced, and how it genuinely affected him. If you don't like it, then let me show you the myriad of other, much more pretentious and boring, essays I've looked at.

The only essay to "reach me" thus far is by the son of a preacher man. What follows is his response to the third UC prompt.

"I get $20 a month," said Douglas. "I get ten a week," said another friend. Silence filled the air because I had nothing to say. In my immature mind, it seemed unfair to be a pastor's kid. I felt that everyone else had parents who were successful and admirable, but my parents only work at our small church, which doesn't make much money.
My perspective was completely changed through an experience in another church in downtown L.A. Upon going inside, I saw dusty cracks in the walls, broken down seats, and faded carpet. "Maybe my church isn't so bad after all," I thought. Although only a dozen members were present in the chapel, they were still determined to continue the service. As I sat there, I realized that although the congregation may have lacked material wealth, they were very satisfied.
After this experience, I was thankful for my church, and I realized that success isn't measured only in money. Being in the family of a pastor is something to be proud of and thankful for, because my family makes a larger contribution to the world. From my situation as a pastor's son who has to endure certain hardships, I've learned to be tolerant of hard situations and to be optimistic, even when things don't look good.

Ghost of Thanksgiving Present

So today is Thanksgiving. Happy Thanksgiving! Though this is typically my favorite holiday, this year's Thanksgiving did not live up to the memories of Thanksgivings past. Maybe it's just not as fun when I don't get to make the turkey myself; the meal certainly isn't as good without my angioplasty-proceeding turkey gravey. My family doesn't go around the table and name one thing for which each member is thankful, either. Bummer.

What follows is a ficticious Thanksgiving narrative told in the third-person. Though you may be tempted to speculate, please do not assume the story is in any way based on me, my family or my own experiences.

As on other major holidays, on Thanksgiving the Knudsens ate an amply-provided lunch with the maternal side of the family, and then pack that down with dinner prepared by the paternal side. Today Clark was swamped with essays to grade: 13 U.C. personal statements, 11 SAT writing exams, seven homework essays, one student evaluation paper, two turtledoves and a partridge in a pear tree. All of these needed to be returned either the following day or the day after that, when he would be working eleven and eight hours, respectively, so clearly Clark had no time to correct them later.

This predicament led him to read the papers and exams in his aunt's livingroom before lunch. His mother and father arrived after he did, and were disgruntled to see his engaging in (what, apparently, they perceived as) such anti-social behavior. They called him aside, castigated him for working (woe betide him for his unfriendly diligence!), and demanded that he put down the papers.

It should be noted that during the span that immediately followed this little exchange, neither of Clark's parents displayed the type of conduct one might expect from such paragons of social grace--the type of behavior befitting those who had just berated their only son for his temporarilly eremitic behavior. Mrs. Knudsen ignored all others in the kitchen, and silently arranged her jello-based dessert; Mr. Knudsen took to watching the football game--alone on the sofa.

It should also be noted that the guests at Clark's aunt's guests were not necessarrily the type of people with whom he, at that moment, desired to converse. Having overheard parts of their conversations, Clark made the (possibly hasty) decision that they were either unwilling to or incapable of engaging in the type of discourse in which he wanted to participate.

He further noted that there was very little way to discern which male was paired up with which female, or which child was part of whose brood. The situation was further complicated by the fact that many of them lacked wedding bands, so Clark was left to wonder whether all of the chidren were offspring of adults present, or if perhaps a kind aunt or uncle were baby-sitting as a holiday favor. It crossed Clark's mind that he could inquire about all of these things, but he didn't feel sufficiently engaged in the topic to remember the answers, and would have ended up having to ask again a few minutes later.

All the while (when not lamenting over the lost time he could have spent finishing his work), Clark was assiduously committing to memory relevent details, emotions, and responses to the environment around him. Under normal circumstances he would have simply recorded them in the small, black notebook he had recently purchased for this very use, but this would be too conspicuous. Clark was well aware that the act of observing changes the observation, but felt that this effect could be mitigated if the objects of his scrutiny were ignorant of his designs.

"How often would people act or speak differently if they knew I would record, edit and publish their behavior on my web log?" he mused.

Revisionist History

While my reputation as an excellent literary scholar and writer is well established, few people recognize my aptitude in history. Despite these distinctions, I prefer to maintain a certain degree of humility; in that spirit, my altruistic nature led me to obscure my genius, and I allowed my friend Ben to rank first in our junior and senior years of high school history, while I relegated myself to the lowly second place. [Incidentally, my benevolence ensured his reception of the prestigious--though ill-named--Don Donkey award for history.]

When one of my tutorees who usually gets writing and verbal assistance began preparing for the SAT II U.S. history exam, he enlisted my help. Notwithstanding my aptitude for the subject, my days in AP U.S. history seemed like history to me. The Battle of Where? Which Amendement was that? Gibbons vs. Who? Fortunately, a little review refurbished my memory, and equipped me with the necessary knowledge.

Here's a sampling of a conversation we had one day while I was quizzing him:

Me: So, who assassinated John F. Kennedy?

Student: Bunyan, Paul Bunyan. No, wait. I meant John Bunyan!

Me: Uh...Paul Bunyan is the fictional lumberjack of American folklore. He had a blue ox named Babe, and supposedly created the Grand Canyon with his axe. Maybe you mean John Wilkes Booth, who assassinated another president. Which president was that?

Student: Grover Cleaveland?

Me: Uh...no. Booth killed Lincoln. [Altogether ignoring the various conspiracy theories, which at this point I deemed too complicated for my student, I continued:] Lee Harvey Oswald shot and killed JFK.
-------------------
At the end of the session, I returned to the material which earlier had proved so difficult for my student (yet so entertaining for me).

Me: So who killed Kennedy?

Student: Olsen?

Me: No. Are you referring to Mary-Kate and Ashley? Though they have done a different sort of disservice to society, to my knowledge they have not yet assassinated anyone. Lee Harvey OSWALD shot Kennedy.
-------------------

On an unrelated note, here is a conversation that occured today among three of my students (whose names have been changed to protect their identities) during break.

Brittany: Kirt doesn't have bacne [back-acne]; he has it all over his face.

Kirt: Brittany, you're a whore. You have pimples down there.

[Here I intercede, reprimand Kirt for his language, and assure Brittany that he said "you're a horrible person."]

Brittany: What's that? Like yeast infection? Can you see a yeast infection?

Jeremy: No, I don't think so.

Brittany: Yeah, Jeremy would know. He's probably had a yeast infection.

Jeremy: No, I haven't.

Brittany: Yeah right.

[At this point I interupt again and explain that males do not get yeast infections.]

Student Profile #1

Since I spend so much time with my students, I thought I should blog about them a little more. Partially as filler, though mostly as pieces of actual interest, these entries should provide delightful, humorous, and occasionally poignant sketches of the people with whom I spend most of my waking hours.

I suppose the portrayal of Jeffrey (still considered one of my best entries) is really the first profile, but this account marks the official beginning of (what will hopefully be) an occasional and entertaining series. I begin with Anthony.

Technically, Anthony isn't really my student; he's in the homework room that I monitor for 30 minutes before his actual teacher arrives. Of the 15-20 students who come early for homework help, Anthony is among the best behaved: he works quietly, never allowing himself to be distracted, and rarely, if ever, causing disruptions himself.

His most conspicuous characteristic--which one, if he has one or more functional ears, cannot help but notice--is his speech. It's really a mixture of several curious features that makes it so fascinating. The first is that while he hasn't yet hit puberty, Anthony's voice registers somewhere in the same range as Barry White, or perhaps closer to the Godfather. Either way, I'm sure that when his voice deepens, it will drop below those amplitudes audible to the human ear, rendering him effectively mute. The first time I heard him talk, I thought he might be a chain smoker with an acute case of laryngitis.

The second aspect that contributes to his unique sound is his accent. One of the reasons I likened his speech to the Godfather above is that his pronunciation an ineffable amalgam of Italian and Chinese accents; honestly, it's so bizarre that I'm having a hard time trying to generate the sound in my mind's ear. My best guess is [Click on photo for higher quality pix.]
that he was raised by Chinese speaking parents, but lived in the Bronx until moving here recently.

To top it all off, he has a lisp. It's not a lisp per se since he can produce sibilant sounds just fine. I'm not sure exactly what kind of speech disorder it qualifies as; maybe it's related to his peculiar accent.

This photo is of Anthony wearing a female classmate's jacket. He thought it was funny, and declared, "I'm a crossdresser!" I'm not sure where he learned about drag queens and the transgender phenonena (too much Jerry Springer?), but actually to me he looked like a pimp in the jacket (don't you think so? A little Asian pimp). Ghetto fabulous.

Deathday/Birthday

Last Thursday was my Uncle Jon's 43rd birthrday; as the title of this entry indicates, it marked another important day as well: the second anniversary of my grandmother's passing.

My family got together at my grandma and grandpa's house to celebrate the beginning of our planet's fourty-third circumvolution around the center of the solar system since my Uncle's arrival into this world (yes, that is actually how my family has come to think of it). After having finished tutoring at 9:15pm, I drove over to wish my uncle a happy birthday, and to have some dinner.

Our family likes to eat: dinners tend to be excuses to indulge our appetites; holidays and birthdays are exercises in gastronomic excess. On this particular night, the entree was steak. My uncle bought a meat smoker a while back, and has been merrilly churning out smoked beef and poultry like a Farmer John's subsidiary. His recent embarkation on the Atkins bandwagon has only fueled this carnivorous practice. The side dishes included Chinese chicken salad from Rascals (yummers! they make the best Chinese chicken salad!), and a potato o'gratin dish. The latter was a dairy fiend's dream; it was suffused with enough sour cream and cheese to induce gout in anyone partaking of more than one helping. The birthday cake was a chocolate creation from Hoff's Hut. The cake itself was exceptionally moist, and the rich, thick frosting contained chips made of dark chocolate--the bittersweet kind.

Upon arrival, I noticed an ethereal gloom wafting through the house. It wasn't quite "depression," but something more akin to meloncholy, or even disappointment, the way one might feel after finding his weight has moved five pounds in the wrong direction after a couple weeks on a new diet. Even my uncle, typically the most high-spirited of all my relatives, responded to my "happy birthday" with a cheerless "thank you," and a forced smile.

No one mentioned the cause of this oppressive disconsolation,but of course, no explanation was required. I had just discussed the situation a few days prior with my mother.

My grandfather has tended toward reticence for as long as I've known him, but after my grandmother passed away, he became even more quiet, and rather sullen. Whenever I visit (and from all accounts, whenever I'm not visiting as well) he sits in this big leather recliner and watches TV. I'm not really sure he's always paying attention; sometimes he dozes off, and sometimes one can just tell that his mind is elsewhere. I told my mom that it's been two years, and grandpa should do things, go places, live life.

She responded that my grandmother's death was very hard for him. Then she said that maybe I just never loved anyone as much as he loved my grandma. She implied that I was being insensitive, but I said that it seemed rather wasteful for him to just sit there all day. My grandmother had been a very active woman; she loved traveling and trying new things. I said that he should make the most of his life now, otherwise it were as though he had already died. (After I die, I hope all my friends and family do things, go places, live life.) My mother summarily concluded the conversation by telling me I had better miss her when she goes. I surmised this was her way of insinuating that I had better be in mourning for her at least two years, and that I should to little to nothing during that time to prove the sincerity of my bereavement.

Since I was in Beijing teaching English last November, this was the first anniversary of my grandmother's death that I spent at home. I had expected that this dual deathday/birthday would be marked by some ambivalence, but I suppose I wasn't prepared for how pervasive the disconsolation would be.

It's strange how much dejection a sad event can bring to what would otherwise be a festive moment. I don't think the converse is true: happy events don't really ameliorate the grief of a doleful event; at least in this case, the celebration of my uncle's birthday seemed to have no effect on that day's other commemoration. If anything, I think it made it all the sadder, because everyone knew we should have been merry, but merriness isn't the same when it's forced.

Maybe it's all confusion about how to feel, or how we're supposed to feel. Maybe we want to celebrate, but in the back of our minds it seems disrespectful to show mirth on such a day. Maybe we want to mourn, but in our hearts it seems unfair to let my uncle's special day turn so bitter. So maybe we're just left with this confused ambivalence, the pretext of blowing out candles and cutting the birthday pastry, but the reality of what happened two years ago is still so fresh, even fresher than that bittersweet cake.

Unseasonable High Holy Days

One of my first blogs was about my student Jeffrey (see "It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven.") As do many freshman high school students, Jeffrey will occationally perform random, enigmatic feats in class. One of his particular favorites is twisting the hood of his hooded sweatshirt around and wearing it like a Yarmulke.

For those of you who read that early entry and wanted a visual image of Jeffrey, I have posted it below. For those readers who haven't partaken of that blog, make a point to click the hyperlink above! I guarantee your satisfaction, or your money back. In either case, here's what he looks like in his pseudo-Yarmulke:

Perspective

Sundays are great, aren't they? There's a Craig Morgan song called "That's What I Love about Sunday." Here are two sections of the verse-chorus:

That's what I love about Sunday
Sing along as the choir sways
Every verse of "Amazing Grace"
And then we shake the preacher's hand
Go home into your blue jeans
Have some chicken and some baked beans
Pick a backyard football teamNot do much of anything
That's what I love about Sunday.../

That's what I love about Sunday
Cat napping on the porch swing
You curled up next to me
The smell of jasmine wakes us up
Take a walk down a back road
Tackle box and a cane pole
Carve our names in that white oak
I steal a kiss as the sun fades
That's what I love about Sunday

Admittedly, my Sundays don't have quite this Norman Rockwell's Saturday Evening Post, heartland-of-America sensibility, but I think most of us can relate to a day of rest and leisure.

This past Sunday after church, I had dimsum with Shui, Auggie, Alvin and some other Baptist friends. To put an Asian twist to what otherwise could have been a very Southern event, we substituted dimsum at Tian-Tian for "chicken and baked beans."

As we walked out, boba milk-tea in tow, I commented to Shui that he seems "alot easier to tolerate now [he's] a Christian. Praise Jesus!" We laughed, and in a more earnest tone I added, "No, really. I'm glad you're a believer now."

This comment was followed by Shui's response: "No, I think I'm still pretty difficult."

Reflecting on this a moment, I said thoughtfully, "Maybe you're right. Well, then I must just be more patient and tolerant of your insufferability now that I'm Christian."

...and if I weep, let it be as a man who is longing for his home*

*Rich Mullins, "If I Stand".

Tomorrow marks the two week anniversary of my stay in Chan-land. Over the course of the last fortnight, I have come to realize that I am not at "home" here. Though Alvin and his parents are very welcoming and have been entirely accommodating and gracious hosts, they are hosts nonetheless, thus resigning me to the position of "guest" rather than "resident".

I spent a little time attempting to identify the cause of these feelings of misapprehension. I initially attributed my position as "outsider" to the fact that I was unaccustomed to the ways of this particular world. For example, the Chans almost never seem to use the front door; the preferred entrance & exit is the garage.

I also noted that the washing machine is a dual-use appliance: it not only washes clothes, but also serves as a dirty laundry receptacle during periods between washes, thus effectively eliminating the need for hampers. One of my hosts later elucidated the rationale for this practice: "When we're downstairs and use something, we don't need to go all the way upstairs to put it in the hamper." I suppose this makes sense, if ascension and descent are completely anathema to you.

A second manifestation of this aversion to the stairs became clear in the same conversation. I noted that, unlike in most households, television watching is the done upstairs, rather than in a downstairs family- or livingroom. I was informed that most households lack a room in the second story suitable for television viewing. When I noted that both Pam and I have such rooms, but have applied them to other uses, Alvin brought to my attention the fact that most movers are too lazy to lug a TV all the way upstairs, so most families must simply make do with entry-level entertainment. He added that the other benefit to this was that once television viewing had been completed for the night, there was no need to make the long trek "all the way upstairs;" one could simply jaunt off to his room and retire for the evening.

After further deliberation, I decided that while these idiosyncrasies have proved amusing, they are not really the source of my (for lack of a better term) home-sickness. I realized that "home" is about belonging, and about permanent residence in a place. Even when I lived in Beijing for a year, I thought of my apartment as "home." I knew I would be there for a while, and a sense of ownership informed my behavior. It is a little strange to live as a guest in someone else's home, and feel that you own almost nothing.

Then I realized that this is what it's really like to be a sojourner, an alien as Abram was. Perhaps it's strange that I gained this understanding right here in America--rather than half a world away in the PRC--but it has been an important lesson nonetheless. I hope that I will have less consideration for my earthly home, and gain a stronger yearning for a place in heaven.

Do not rejoice for James Joyce

I am taking a five-minute break from my preparation for the GRE literature test.

In order to do well on this evil exam, I have had to supplement my strengths--Elizabethan literature, Restoration comedy, 18th century satire, the first and second generation Romantics, early Victorians, early American poetry and fiction--by studying up on my weakness (a.k.a. everything else, but namely Middle English literature, modern and post-modern novels, all plays written after 1777, the pre-Raphaelites, and anything American after the turn of the last century). It has thus far been an exciting ride. I have rediscovered--and thoroughly enjoyed--A.E. Housman; I have been reminded why I dislike Woolf, Joyce, Faulkner, and Byron.

Having judiciously decided to use this time for a tirade against the inscrutable James Joyce (who puns in multiple languages), I think it best to begin with an anecdote relayed to me by my Princeton Review book for the GRE Literature test:

James Joyce demanded that his readers be erudite--and persistent. Of his notoriously dense Finnegans Wake, he is reported to have said, "Well, that should keep the critics busy for the next three hundred years." The text, whose purpose is to recount human history, is laced with everything from puns on Aleutian vocabulary to references to the author's life. At one point, due to his failing sight, Joyce tried dictating to Samuel Beckett. In the middle of the passage, a knock came on the door, which Joyce heard but Beckett did not. Joyce's "come in" was sedulously noted by Beckett. When this came to Joyce's attention, he was initially disturbed, but after a moment's pause, and presumably with a look of glee, said, "Let it stand."

I am not fond of Joyce. While reading through "The Dead" (of Dubliners), I noted that Joyce refuses to use quotation marks...maybe he inspired e.e. cummings. Instead of quotation marks, he has dashes thrown wildly about. I saw all these dashes and yelled, "WHO DOES JAMES JOYCE THINK HE IS? Emily Dickinson?!?"

And the camel's buried in a big straw stack

So, my first day as "sojourner" at Alvin's house, and already several things have gone wrong. This does not portend well for the future; on this trajectory, I should have caused Alvin's home and half of his neighborhood to have been destroyed in an unprecedented conflagration by Christmas time. "The Great Cerritos Conflagration of 2005," they'll call it.

The morning started off well. Alvin woke me at 7:30 to move my car, because I'm parked behind him in the driveway. I went back to bed, and woke up later in the morning. After a nutritious (and tasty) breakfast of Kashi Go-Lean Crunch cereal, I noticed several mugs and dishes in the sink.

"Wouldn't it be nice if they came home and saw that I had washed their breakfast plates?" I asked myself. "Yes, it certainly would!" I proceeded to clean the dishes. Toward the end of my task, the dish rack was rather full, so I vigorously shook the last mug in order to get the water out.

The unnerving clank of a high velocity ceramic-porcelin collision broke silence of my morning. Apparently in my alacrity to dry the mug, I had hit it against the sink.

"OH NO!" The jovial, carefree spirit that had characterized my dish-washing was quickly replaced by great trepidation. "What have I done?!?" Along the rim of the shiny, dark green glazed cup, a half-inch sliver of ceramic had fallen off, revealing the porous, white interior.

"Alvin's parents have allowed me to stay here, and I have repaid their kindess by damaging their property!" There was only one thing to be done: I had to hide the evidence. I checked the cabinets to make sure this mug was not one-of-a-king. Fortunately, I found five or six of its sibblings in the cabinet. With so many identical mugs, this one's absense would likely remain unnoticed. Whew! Of course I wasn't foolish enough to throw away the mug in the Chan trashcan, where it would almost certainly be discovered. I took it to work, and disposed of it there.

On my way home from work, I called Alvin to ask what kind of pastery his parents might enjoy for breakfast the next morning. He didn't pick up, which is very unusual; unlike me, Alvin rarely screens his calls. I was a little worried, and phoned again once I arrived at King's Hawaiian Bakery. Still no answer.

"Odd," I thought. "I wonder if I left the garage door open. Maybe he's talking to the police now! Maybe I left the garage open, and all of their things were stolen! Alvin can't answer the phone because he's telling the police everything that was taken from his home! WHAT HAVE I DONE?!?" I called Pam for a second opinion of my horrible vision. She assured me that Alvin was probably in the shower, and that I was being illogical.

I came home, and Mrs. Chan told me that I had, in fact, left the garage door open. Needless to say, I was mortified, but also very relieved that nothing had been taken from the house or garage. Although I had been careful to make sure the door began closing as I left, I had not seen it close completely. Alvin later informed me that the door sometimes reverses directions as it's closing. Sigh. This has been a very difficult day.

It remains to be seen for whom my sojourn at the Chan house will be more trying: for me, or for the house. I feel great stress to avoid completely dessimating their domicile; the house must do its best to withstand my inadvertent assaults. Who shall be the last one standing?

J-Talk

Here's an excerpt of a recent online conversation I had with Jay [edited only to remove redundant/unnecessary messages]:

Tomato JT: have you read my "celebrity enthusiasm" posts?
jerrick0: I have
Tomato JT: i can only imagine what you must think. but it's not really about the celebrity anymore: it's about my GOAL. that i decided to get the photo, and now i want to follow thru on it.
jerrick0: you are driven. to some odd things admittedly, but driven
Tomato JT: all my friends are very impressed at my super-sleuthing in finding the address. some are always concerned for my sanity...
jerrick0: you should be a private investigator, except I think you're a little too emotive
Tomato JT: HAHAHA. and my bright blue Prius is very unique looking. it's an interesting shape. the top is very parabolic
jerrick0: not exactly a convertible SUV?
Tomato JT: HAHAHA! very clever.
Tomato JT: no, that was only when i was inextricably drawn into the SYSTEM. but i have since been slightly extricated. but, if i had such a car, i could run down an old lady in it...
jerrick0: while sipping on your chai latte with soy, or something like that
Tomato JT: HAHAHA. i should have added that! i had more observations about the system while at the mall on saturday...
[Here I begin a tirade against "the system."]

jerrick0: the very fact that we're typing on computers we presumably own at 2:48am about the system plants us firmly within it
Tomato JT: (it's only 11:49pm here) hahaha, i suppose but it's not unusual for college students (or law school students) to chat late at nite.
jerrick0: I'd say that most college students and arguably ALL law students are in some way part of the system
Tomato JT: HAHAHAHHAHAHA.ok, that is true (about the law school students)
jerrick0: what about doggie sweaters and boots
Tomato JT: yes i know--i really object to animal clothing. UNLESS you live in a VERY VERY cold area, and your animal is relatively hairless
jerrick0: have you hear about these surgical implants for dogs? prepare yourself http://netscape.petplace.com/Articles/artShow.asp?artID=2630 http://www.neuticles.com/webpages/faq.html

[If you don't want to click the link, "Neuticals" are prosthetic testicals for dogs who have undergone neutering. Companies marketing this product claim that these replacement gonads give the dog a more "natural" look, and spare the dogs the supposed "trauma" of the missing glands.]

Tomato JT: THEY HAVE CUSTOM SIZING! OK, THIS IS JUST SICK AND WRONG
jerrick0: I was expecting the all caps : -)
Tomato JT: i told my friend that we should move to communism so that production of things like this would be banned
Tomato JT: that "anne gedes" lady...she dresses babies as FLOWERS and BEES, and then photographs them. that part is weird, but okay. BUT people actually BUY her photos, and things with the photos on them!!! but all of that is but a shadow of NEUTICALS.
jerrick0: you could dress up Ryan Conferido as flowers and bees and sell pictures of HIM
Tomato JT: HAHAHAHA. i will for SURE mention this conversation in my blog.

Halloween

In celebration of Halloween, here I am in the AUTHENTIC Japanese schoolboy uniform that I bought in Hiroshima. Unless one is an *actual* private school student, these uniforms are hard to come by. I visited three stores that refused to sell this to me; each private school has its own uniform, and only students of that particular school are allowed to buy/wear them.

I'm a bored student in Japan, with a cat-girl next to me (I thought that was a nice touch...doesn't it seem very cosplay, something a student in Japan might actually wear?)