Our door room eats shirts.

In all perfect honesty, I really don’t consider my dormitory incredibly dirty. It gets “messy” sure, but in that teenage-denial sort of way I attribute it to the fact that 3 human beings inhabit a 13 x 13 foot space. Someone once told me that if you did the math, the square footage allotted to each person in a standard triple room is less than the county jail.

The numbers aside, I really don’t mind living here. Sure, if I didn’t like my roommates my words would be undoubtedly different. But luckily I love my two fellow partners in crime to death. We’re like a Peanut-Butter-Jelly-Sandwich. I’m creamy and brown, Yuletide is sticky and fermented, and Fatty is the bread, thin and white.

However, I digress, back to the more important point. Somehow our room has this innate talent for sucking up clothing into some intangible inaccessible 5^th dimension. Losing your favorite shirt can be likened losing your favorite child. When I couldn’t locate my yellow golden bear tee I was at a loss, when Taylor lost his Bouncing Souls shirt he lost a staggering amount of weight as we cried in each other’s arms for endless days.

Nonetheless, we recently scored a pivotal victory in this sick malicious garment ingesting war. After disassembling our dressers we recovered 3 of 6 missing Tees which brings a much needed glimmer of hope.

That’s life I guess. Sometimes you win; sometimes your favorite piece of clothing is devoured by an inanimate housing unit. Just keep fighting.

Labels: damn shirt monster

I don’t have vivid dreams very often.

But when I do, I remember things like being a fugitive on the run after being framed for a murder of the royal family in China and having to orchestrate a tactical airborne incursion to infiltrate a heavily guarded fortress with my roommate Taylor in order to reach the Empress’ hot daughter and return to her a broken brass letter opener to prove my innocence all the while being pursued by the American Secret Service and intermittently finding myself in the middle of their grand ball where all of the attendees are dancing some type of bizarre twist-foxtrot hybrid.

Hell yes.

Labels: dream dream dream

A few nights ago, I was engaged in the usual giant-lunchroom dinner experience at the Dining Commons. In a fleeting moment of nostalgia I proclaimed, “I want Kiwis. Remember during Elementary school hot lunch when they’d put the half kiwi on your tray… The day they have Kiwis here… my life will be complete.”

Well apparently, last Sunday God decided to complete my life.

Ever since I can remember, my brother has called me Kiwi (it actually serves as part of the title “Kiwimonk”). His original justification was that I was short, fat, brown, and fuzzy like the fruit (as well as the bird). And to be honest, he was totally right. I’ve gotten leaner but back in the hay day I was little, chubby, tan, and had short black fuzzy hair. Maybe not much has actually changed but it even came to a point when I’d internalized my nickname enough that when I talked to myself to get psyched for a tennis match or reflect on the day I would definitely refer to myself as “Kiwi.”

Sunday was Vietnamese New Year (same day as Chinese New Year) and there are plenty of superstitions about the first day of the Lunar New Year setting the tone for the remaining 364. Well, if that’s the case, this year should be moderately phenomenal.

Either that or at least I should be seeing more of my favorite fruit at the lunchroom. In the mean time feel free to call me Kiwi if it should tickle your fancy.

After a heaping mound of Yogurt Park “Caramel Chocolate Éclair Frozen Yogurt” with Cookie Dough, a couple floor mates and I found ourselves loitering at the Tie-Dye shirt venders bordering Telegraph Ave. Naturally, I moseyed over to Twiggy (a Telegraph vending icon embodying all that is hippy and totally awesome) and picked up a pair of his homemade Juggling Sticks to rehash a hidden talent I’d been cultivating for years.

Today marks almost exactly one year since I first stepped onto the Berkeley campus. In a past life I was a Speech and Debate kid, (I actually competed in the Original Oratory category which was basic speech writing as well as the Improvisational Comedy events) and one year ago I flew out from Colorado and was competing at one of the nation’s largest high-school Forensics (speech) tournaments here at UCB. It was easy to tell that this fateful day had rolled around. The campus was crawling this morning with teenage boys in dashing professional attire and their counterpart females in sharp pant-suits and even as I tossed my Juggling Sticks back and forth there was a lad with his suit jacket getting his hair braided by Twiggy himself.

Just mentioning the glory days on the Forensics team bring back so many ridiculous, epic, slightly awkward, fond experiences. What you have to understand is that Speech and Debate could not be any further from the “nerds-arguing” connotation it seems to bring up in conversation. Forensics represents the most bizarre smorgasbord of hormonal teenagers with solely one thing in common, a love for the spoken word. There were intellectually volatile philosophical debaters prone to strike with hissing poison ridden comments backed with Aristolean philosophy designed for the sole purpose of stripping away at emotional flesh. And in the same exact room you could find lightning-fast wannabe stand up comedians screaming Dane Cook quotes and performing Michael Crichton’s “Jurassic Park” (as if it were a comedy.)

That was the Forensics life. A bunch of high-schoolers with a love to talk, and I couldn’t get enough of it. Being emerged in such a random, high-energy, high-stress, loud, expressive, diverse, passionate, hilarious melting-pot – you couldn’t help but join in. It made me speak, it made me throw myself out there, it made me the person you can talk to today.

There’s actual YouTube video of me on Telegraph back in the day playing with the same Juggling Sticks on the same exact corner between competition rounds. Watching the footage, it really is funny to be the one looking in from the outside now. I seemed to have traced the same steps by accident, but I’m glad. A little bit has changed since then, a little taller (probably not), a new address, a few new snippets of knowledge…

But I’m still the same ridiculous little speech kid, just in a slightly different place and time and for some reason that’s comforting.

If Chipotle burritos could talk they would proclaim, “Love me Kevin. Love me tenderly."

When I left Colorado for this little college excursion, I honestly had little faith in my ability to stay in touch with my old friends. My parents had shipped me off to my fair share of camps, conferences, and forums both 15 minutes from home and 15 hours by plane throughout my various summers.

I’d seen how quickly friendships could form and I’d seen how easily it can turn in to some epic chore just to shoot an E-mail to an old friend.

It wasn’t necessarily some “Notebook-esque” tragedy, it was just how things turned out. You win some you lose some and especially at the ripe old age of 16 knowing that there was little chance to see a specific summer-camp girl from Texas ever again the necessity to reach out on a regular basis just didn’t seem worth it.

I feel guilty admitting that now, but especially when I was on the cusp of venturing off to Berkeley it was even harder to admit that I was less than optimistic concerning how well I would stay up to date with even my best friends at the time. It had been about 2 weeks since our last phone conversation but today, I talked to a few of the usual suspects from back home.

There’s something special about tasting a little slice of home. It’s refreshing. It’s less this need to spill everything and catch up on every semi-pivotal moment since the last talk. It’s an understanding that there’s a setting waiting for you at the dinner table. There’s a spot on the neighbor’s couch, a stocked cheese drawer to raid for quesadilla construction, a toothbrush in another house for sleepover emergencies (Yes, I’m 18, and of course that still happens)…

There’s just something special about those punks. They have the power to maintain my sanity and the responsibility to keep me in check. I guess home is a little different than summer camp. Thankfully.

I miss slow dancing.

I remember my first slow dance ever in the sixth grade. Eliza and I held each other. We turned, we whirled—we got lost in each other’s gaze as time stood still and our eyes clashed in this streaming river of melodic revolving. We were young, we were silly, we were green with love, we were slow dancing…

I think Eleanor Roosevelt put it best when she said, “Slow dancing is the easiest, most awesomest thing ever.” The beauty of the slow dance was really the fact that you didn’t need an ounce of dancing ability to be proficient. When House of Pain’s “Jump Around” hit the track I could barely find the right beat to hop up and down to seem just remotely awkward in my movements, but once the DJ threw on the K.C. & Jojo (the quintessential slow dance song of my era) I was in my element. I was the regular prepubescent Casanova—teenage girls flocked to me and by teenage girls I mean girl friends of teenage girls flocked to me to ask me to dance with their teenage girl friends (of course).

The beat smoothed out; I just slyly shifted my arms into place and started swaying. Obviously, the classic slow dance was basic and any hormonal teenage boy could perform adequately but like any well honed skill there were tricks to the trade. I’ll admit Eliza and I enjoyed the classic full length arms dividing canyon between us as did Elizabeth, Lisa, and Mariko. But by the time Pam, Lily, and Jacqui rolled around my techniques were redefining the very dance genre I entertained. Believe me; I had a mishap here and there, a social faux pas every now and then you could say. A girl-hair in my mouth, a step on her foot--they were natural casualties of the Middle School dance war but over time I cultivated an art.

I introduced variations to the long beloved pre-teen pastime. I started with the hands. Moving away from the prehistoric hand-waist relationship I utilized a multi-position single song system with a softer Waltz-like frame cradle that allowed for a more free upper body variance. I pioneered the one handed open face mixer that invited open interaction with other couples as a short sabbatical to the single slow dance adventure. I even showcased the multiple partner slow dance circle that shined through with its delicate inclusion undertow to lure multiple shy female on-lookers into the Slow Dancing culture.

However, I am afraid to admit that Slow Dancing is a dieing language of love. Sure there were even shining moments through the later post-junior-high years. A memorable Winter Ball filled with carefully practiced slow dancing turns, releases, and retrievals but as time slides by it seems that the Slow Dance is becoming just a fleeting fad of yesterday.

It epitomized everything that was the awkward, the childish, the innocent, the eager, and in more ways than one I hope I can always keep that with me. Listening to John Legend’s “Slow Dance” as I write gives me hope that maybe someday the Slow Dance will return to my generation. But until then as Slow Dance opportunities continue to dwindle I’ll have to settle for revisiting those unrivaled, time-stopping, juvenile world-changing, 3 minute 38 second budding manifestations of adolescent flirtation in the music of my memories.

I played in the rain today. I played hard.

In some fleeting moment of genius at around 9pm I rallied the troops and by troops I mean a single partner in crime prepared for battle and made a mad dash for the pouring outside world. There wasn’t really too much pre-meditation. A couple minutes standing outside on the balcony letting myself get soaked, pondering the workings of the world—and before I knew it I was sprinting with a good friend to the deluge in wait.

There are some points in my life, my week, my day, that I get in this random fit of childish happiness. It’s easy to recognize. Usually, it involves this googly half mouth open smile and uncoordinated jogging in place accompanied by odd groans of joy. I know, kind of scary, but it’s me. Today, I got that feeling once again. I can easily recall moments of the same emotion—running into a best friend at random in a parking lot, prepping for a diving start onto a magnificent 50 foot long Slip and Slide setup down my backyard hill during the summer, and tonight I got that lurch of childish satisfaction as I burst through the metal doors of my building into the pouring rain.

I wrote a short introduction to my blogging career describing a random day in my life to give a little glimpse into my day to day as a fresh start and I had really grappled with the idea of writing a short quaint description of myself and my personality. Most likely it would have been filled with short declarative statements like “I’m ridiculous” and awkward contradicting sentences like “I’m intelligent but foolish.” But I think really the deeper goal of this entire smorgasbord of thoughts is an attempt to illustrate myself without actually writing it out simply, without restraining it to a one-dimensional frame.

Some of my readers have known me since I’ve been born. Others I have never had a conversation with face to face. Some already helped shape who I am while others I hope will sometime pitch in soon enough. And for some reason I think that letting my readers discover who I am rather than read who I am is better way of going about all of this.

I used to be the shy kid, and in some senses I feel I still am. If you saw me now as the happiest child alive high on elation stamping with unrivaled force (both feet of course) in every puddle in sight you probably wouldn’t have guessed. But my brother was the one who aced Kindergarten with the exception of his “unsatisfactory” in behavior as he raced through his work for the sole purpose of bothering every other kid after he had finished. I was the one who jumped behind my mother, deathly afraid to ask the worker at KB Toys for help to find my coveted Nerf Gun Crossbow. But years later, I found an outlet that taught me how to throw myself out there, let loose, scream at the top of my lungs, laugh like never before—just speak from the heart.

That’s obviously another story, another day, another blog, but for now, I’ll just tell you that I’ve come to find it second nature to just open up. It keeps me sane, it keeps me alive. I’ve had run of the mill generic first conversations, and I’ve told people I’ve just met about my sea of tears when leaving home for college just because they asked. That’s how I’ve learned to deal with whatever comes next.

When I was jumping in circles staring up at the sky with my mouth wide open in a futile attempt to catch as much rain water as possible tonight, I wasn’t just being the idiot skipping around in the rain. I was preserving my sanity, I was dealing with the looming first round of midterms, I was dealing with stress, I was refueling-- I was just washing myself off .

Labels: rain

There’s a special crack in the sidewalk between my dorm and the East portion of campus and today, I tripped over it. Hard.

Tripping is one of the most unnatural acts of life. I was moseying along with a tune in my mind—one of those half dancing, half walking walks where your body seems to focus more on coordinating your steps to Bill Wither’s “Just the Two of Us” rather than… actually walking. So there I was, Johnny Tambourine meandering along without even a fleeting thought of the ferocious cement death trap lying in wait ahead…

Before I knew it, the concrete lurched out at my right foot, throwing me entirely off my groove sending me in this pitiful futile struggle to prevent a pavement make-out session.

Obviously, I attempted to play it off in one of those, “Oh yeah, I totally meant to do that” sort of ways and obviously I totally failed.

But that’s life, sometimes you trip, sometimes you fall, sometimes you pick yourself back up, and sometimes before you know it you are being pounced on by a vicious cement embodiment of evil bent on serving you a fresh searing pan of rocky-asphalt-y goodness.

It rained today for the first time since I’ve returned to Berkeley. I’ve missed it.

For some reason, it’s so easy for me to remember this scene of me absolutely drenched in the Colorado summer rain with my gray T-shirt. I was kicking my sandals through puddles in my driveway in some sick bizarre game of soccer … against myself--without a care in the world.

Rain and I have a special understanding.

Whenever I see it’s raining, instead of dressing warmer I almost automatically take off my jacket and put on my squeaky yellow Crocs—prepared to venture back to elementary school and play in the rain.

Umbrellas are for the weak.

During a viewing of Titanic a few months back a good friend of mine broke the sentimental silence and proclaimed, “You know what blows my mind? The Ocean.”

Despite the fact that back then I laughed in her face, I have to agree now--she was totally, utterly, entirely right.

I went to the Monterey Bay Aquarium this weekend on a retreat. In one of those usual “Oh, cool, Aquarium” teenage-I’m-just-alright-with-everything sort of ways the rest of the group moseyed towards the ticket line. I’m going to be perfectly honest, I was freaking psyched. My mom once bought me a shirt from the Bay Aquarium that I never wore, and she eventually took it back after I had wasted its cotton-y goodness but hell, I was ready to make up for lost time.

For some reason I had spent Winter Break uncovering the wonders of the Discovery Channel with specials about Giant Squids, Killer Squids, Giant Jellyfish, Killer Jellyfish. And now, the prospect of having almost an entire day devoted to ogling over Sea Horses and giant Ocean Sunfish surrounded by elementary school field trippers seemed like quite possibly the most awesomely amazing weekend retreat a self-respecting 18 year old college student could ask for.

After just screaming, “AQUARIUM! AQUARIUM!” before even entering the building I proceeded to simply stare at the Moon Jellyfish tank for about 6 beautiful, unrivaled hours of my life.

I watched. I learned. I took aquarium pictures that were bound to fail because flash and glass don’t jive, but I did it anyway! It’s part of the aquarium experience—the experience that has the power to turn me into a giddy school boy. I should have gotten a T-shirt.

I’m a professional nap-per.

I think people really do underestimate the power of a good nap. And in all honesty, I believe naps get way too much bad publicity that should be attributed to improper napping technique. Hey, if I had a nickel for every time someone came up to me complaining that they napped for too long and they missed their class and they just woke up more tired than before and they’re dog died I’d be able to purchase the African nation of Malawi.

Napping is an art. Napping is not like sleeping. Napping is like sex.

It takes practice, you are never amazing the first time, and you may find yourself embarrassed in public. But if you suddenly open your eyes after a mid day siesta to a crowd of people and 5 minutes later find out that you had unknowingly produced intricate drool stains leading from your cheeks to your right shoulder blade there is always hope.

To be honest, when you get to be my age you learn a thing or two, and when it comes to napping you have the opportunity today to learn from the best. The core emphases of a good nap can be summed up in a simple yet effective 3 letter acronym.

P.U.A.

This 3 step process to unconditional napping success stands for Posture, Usage, and Alarm. P.U.A. (Pooh-uh)

Posture is key. The wrong napping position, especially in the wrong location can be disastrous. Truly, the secret to correct napping posture is mobility of equipment. Don’t nap without head and neck support, would you go shark hunting without a harpoon? If you have time to prepare, stuff an unnecessary clothing piece into your bag of choice to soften up your makeshift chubby Tempur-pedic bag-pillow (TBP). Removal of shoes is optional. If class-napping is your cup of tea, adopt the in-class Akimbo arm brace position. Cross your arms and place your left hand under your right elbow while resting against the desk to create an air pocket to allow for proper ventilation. Additionally, this allows for emergency post-nap cleanup tactics. If you seem to unwittingly produce a saliva pool gently slide your full Akimbo arm arch back towards your torso to mask the mess.

There reached a point last semester when I enjoyed 3 to 4 naps a day. I employed the spectrum of naps, long naps, short naps, deep naps, shallow naps, naps on couches, naps on concrete benches, and if you speak to any expert nap-per they’ll tell you that to stay ahead of the game you have to stock up your arsenal. Some key naps to perfect for adaptive usage are:

1) The Gonzalez (tm):

A full on classic power nap, this shouldn’t last more than 14 minutes--perfect for post-breakfast, pre-class, lame-night-of-sleep catch-up. The rejuvenation should last about 2 hours, but with a pre-nap cup of coffee it’ll last you twice as long.

2) The Trifecta:

The Trifecta represents the triple threat of a three course meal: appetizer, dinner and dessert. Really it’s reserved for a 3 hour midday break and requires a designated sleeping receptacle (i.e. BED: Body Engulfing Device). Take the time to prepare for sleep including the removal of pants and uncomfortable jewelry, proceed to a speedy yet gentle entrance into medium-level sleep depth (generally a pillow on the face as well as under the head will do the trick), and budget time for a comfortable awakening.

3) The Midnight-Werewolf-Sack-Attack (MWSA):

This is a personal favorite. Late night sleepy symptoms prior to or during a long night of work are the worst. For the MWSA, shoot the moon for about 25 minutes at the midnight hour or even early AM’s on a couch under low light to prevent over-sleeping and to keep the ball rolling for a couple necessary working hours.

Last but not least is the Alarm. This isn’t your 4^th grade roller rink birthday party. This is napping. This is serious. The alarm serves as quite possibly the most integral puzzle piece to completing the intricate enigma that is a successful nap. Most preferably a mobile alarm such as a cell-phone is ideal. For the Gonzalez and other quick draw battery chargers switch the alarm to vibrate and hold it in your hand for a comfortable yet effective immediate wakeup. For longer stays slide a sound alarm under your pillow to guarantee effective time-keeping.

Napping is beautiful. Napping is bold. Napping is dangerous. Napping is like a vicious untamed pet or whirlwind storm, if you don’t harness it correctly the consequences can be tragic but if done right, the rewards are immeasurable. I’ve provided you with the best advice I could mister and given you the tools to live by the 3 fold path, P.U.A. (Pooh-uh): Posture, Usage, and Alarm. Embrace napping. Nap to live. Live to nap.

I need to go now; I’m going to go take a nap to get ready for bed.

Labels: napping, shark, werewolves