It’s been a little over two weeks since the end of my sophomore year at Cal, and with the lengthy sabbaticals between my blog entries it always seems like there’s too much to ramble on about.

I’d like to provide a short-attention-span summary of my sophomore chapter. Here are the highlights in semi-particular order. Here are the top 10 days of my year. (Note: for the most part this only covers this past semester, because I realized I forgot everything that happened before 2008.)

Honorable Mentions:

- The Night Freshmen Indian Girls Sang Happy Birthday To Me in the Academic Services Center

- John Bister’s Graduation

- Meghana’s Ever-interesting Monday Luncheons

- Bar Night with Bluehouse Girls (aka A Couch On Our Front Porch Where I Ate Leftovers)

10. Boating on the Delta with the Mcguirks
    On a fateful Friday when Dan and I should have been in Thermodynamics, Dan and I found ourselves with a small conglomeration of AOpi’s zooming on a boat to the sounds of Techno and Bob Marley. That day, I found my calling as I have decided to soon devote my life to professional knee boarding.
    

9. John Bister’s 21^st Birthday
   John Bister, for the most part, turns 21 only once in a lifetime. And this once in a lifetime we ventured to Safeway at 12:15am for JB to grab a six pack which we would soon cheer over a birthday chocolate chip banana bread loaf (courtesy of Laura).
   

8. SUPERB Presents Counting Crows on Lower Sproul, 5pm
   I was a certified giddy school girl as I sat backstage of the Counting Crows “secret” concert on Lower Sproul. A buzz in the air, pretty much shat my pants when I first caught a glimpse of Adam Duritz’s whiteboy dreads.
   

7. Bluehouse Night of Debauchery Slash My 20^th
   After a 120 day hiatus, and by hiatus I mean noise warning, bluehouse returned by inviting way too many people to a synergetic night of close friends, Indian friends, Berkeley Group friends, not-close friends, sketch Berkeley high kids, sweet jams, and Dan trying to climb off the roof.
   

6. Team “Buy or Die Local” Berkeley Group Presentation
   A stellar, edgy, hard-working, contempo, sexy team. A sick marketing plan. An incredible lack of sleep. A money presentation. An ongoing exstitential crisis… One more successful BG project.
   

5. The Day Simon and I Remembered Cookie Crisp
   Simon and I rediscovered how amazing it is to scream “COOOOOkie Crisp.” Easily one of the best days of 2008.
   

4. Successful Flight of the Mark V
   Semester-long E28 project: produce a contraption out of silly materials (foam board, dowels, rubber bands, etc.) that would travel a maximum distance forward, turn around, and return back. Going big and even with oodles of hard work, my stubborn team did not see a successful trial until ten minutes before our final test. Needless to say, after 31ft forward, a sick flip, 34ft backward, and nearly fainting during our final trial of 3, we emerged victorious with a new class record.
   

3. Sleep Deprived Finals Conclusion with Graceface
   Forty-eight hours without sleep, the weekend finals whirlwind out of the way, and some long awaited quality time…

2. Superbowl Sunday Feasts
   After an 8:30am supply run to Safeway, the crew proceeded to cook up a breakfast feast of eggs, potatoes, sausage, bacon, pancakes, biscuits, fresh tortilla chips, and OJ. That was followed by a lunch BBQ feast of cheese burgers and fresh guacamole. And that was followed by betting money on the winning Giants during easily the best Superbowl I’ve witnessed.
   
   

And with great pleasure, I present the #1 day of my entire school year…

1. Quesadilla Flipping Lesson with Kristeezy, Jiggz, Yaxo, and Manders
   Mid-semester: I was feeling kind of emo and overwhelmed. With the excuse that I would be working on my Berkeley Group deliverable, I sauntered over to the apartment of my four favorite surrogate roomies. Though it sounds like just another night at the College Ave. pad, it was a much needed and highly appreciated night of professional quesadilla flipping demonstrations, giggling, making fun of yaxo’s 9,182,124 stuffed animals, and all-around fun with the now Berkeley graduates. Congrats, I’ll miss playing.

So there you have it. My top 10 days of the entire school year in a relatively ballooned nutshell (paired with a few honorable mentions). There’s plenty to philosophically reflect upon, but I think I can sum it up pretty quickly.

A lot went down: I laughed, I cried, I fist-pumped. Thanks for making all that loving, living, and learning happen.

Labels: birthday, cookie crisp, counting crows, quesadillas, superbowl, top 10

**Written on January 18^th, posted ridiculously after the fact**

My mom tells me I’m unique. But that hasn’t really helped with the job hunt.

Applying for jobs oddly resembles applying for college. I can easily recall the feeling of submitting my final college apps. That day, I proclaimed to my mother, “I’m sick of being deep. I’m sick of talking about who I am, what motivates me, what makes me unique… I just want to be shallow, M-dog. I just want to talk about girls.” It was the search to portray myself as something special, one of a kind, bound to revolutionize the world… as a hormonal teenager who had no idea how to even iron his own shirt.

Doesn’t the adjective “unique” just sound so appealing? It’s the individual conquering all, the singleton rising above the sea of six billion other bodies; it’s ownership over an ethereal quality that has no comparison. It’s our qualification for an open position; it’s the unseen product that hashes open an untapped market, the undiscovered solution to a global issue.

I was flipping through a book on Western art the other day. Well, it was more like a modern tome; the book was almost two feet tall and a foot and a half wide. My journey through the manuscript’s lavish depictions and concise, digestible descriptions was a relaxing effort to feel more artsy and worldly. After quickly passing over the Byzantine era, I ran across the famous Renaissance names: Michelangelo, Masaccio, Leonardo… And apart from being stunned by the detail of their artwork I frankly became undoubtedly jealous of their titles. Whatever happened to the days of the painter slash philosopher slash scientist slash mathematician slash world renowned pastry chef? Seriously Da Vinci, was that really possible? Sure, I secretly long to climb the ranks as the world’s best Mechanical Engineer slash Department Store Soundtrack Producer slash Dodgeball Tournament Announcer but realistically…

Yet maybe the modern quest for individuality can take a page from the Renaissance masters. I recently stumbled over a blog entitled “Defining the New Singularity.” Senior VP of Creative at frog design (a creative consultancy in San Francisco) struck a chord with his opening line: “Mick Jagger is a beautiful man.” Mark continued to elaborate upon what he coined as the “Mick Jagger phenomenon,” the beauty that ensues from the perfect harmony of personality, emotion, identity, and talent: his singularity. The article was mostly concerned with the present and future of successful “design,” the poignant balance of form, function, consumer identity, and emotion among a myriad of other factors, but this manifestation of singularity is what stuck with me.

I told a friend last night that “half of college is about finding balance,” and I think I finally believe what I said (moderately silly). It’s possible that truly excelling in numerous areas academically and creatively is not as feasible with modern standards, but maybe today’s Renaissance man, today’s sharply unique individual is a complementary mix of the right talents and traits, one who embodies singularity through his balance rather than solely his excellence.

The New Year passed about two weeks ago, and the I think the air is less about resolutions and more about sticking to them about now. I know my road through adolescence has been fraught with this struggle to unleash this inner Mick Jagger—and I’m sure the internal conflict won’t soon subside--but in some ways I like to use the New Year as another go at it. I’ve found time to evaluate, to weigh in, to make resolutions to better balance myself, and one can only hope such efforts will translate to a stronger, more singular embodiment of oneself.

Of course this is big talk for a soon 20-year-old who still wears a retainer to sleep in his truck blanket at night, but thinking forward never hurt. M-dog used to tell me I’m unique. Granted that was in the second grade when I was applying for the gifted and talented class about oceans, it was most likely a first step towards my wide-eyed, optimistic outlook.

Foolish as it may be, I continue to search for the right mix of experiences, influences, and inspirations. And at least until now, that’s been enough.

Labels: job hunt, mom, unique

This is definitely one of those undeniably embarrassing moments that I guarantee you’ll never see coming. My unfortunate ordeal actually took place a number of weeks ago, but it was not until now that I have mustered enough courage to speak freely. I kid you not, that fateful day I actually thought to myself, “Wow, I wonder why more people don’t fall on the treadmill… It seems like such an accident-ready machine.” Well, let me tell you first hand, the treadmill is a nasty, nasty, devilish tool of bodily destruction.

I was at the RSF (Recreational Sports Facility, Cal’s student gym) gunning it at 8.5 on the speed scale. Now, if you’ve ever ran on a treadmill, 8.5 is pretty fast and incredibly unnecessary, but I wasn’t joking around.

I saw the reflection of a friend of mine in the glass window in front of me, and as I turned around to greet Simon, I unwittingly shifted left and stepped directly on the non-moving portion of the spinning track beneath me. For lack of better diction, when you’re sprinting full speed ahead that stationary plate on the side of the treadmill apparently messes you the hell up.

My body was somehow flung backwards as I instinctively shot both of my hands out to grasp the handrails (my flailing 135lb frame miraculously never touched the ground). Against all common sense and to the shock of my two innocently exercising female neighbors, I idiotically attempted to clamor back onto the pride-devouring-monster as the tread slashed at my exposed shins (think rug burn meets slamming your shin into a stair-step). But don’t worry; it was only a flesh wound.

Most likely laughing his face off, God took pity on my oh-so-pitiful efforts. I somehow managed to monkey-crawl back onto the torture device and immediately continued running at my blistering pace as if nothing had happened in those previous life threatening seconds. After tunnel visioning my next 15 minutes on the treadmill—to make sure that any soul who had witnessed my brush with certifiable death had exited the premises—I lightly hopped off and headed to the locker room as if nothing had happened.

But really, I had just emerged from another one of life’s valuable lesson laden, work-out machine, death-dealing encounters.

Labels: accident, exercise, injury, running, treadmill

New Year’s Eve for me has always been an entirely random occurrence, and this year was definitely no exception. I remember ringing in 2006 with Dance Dance Revolution and Midnight Ice Blocking with three close friends… Then there was 2007: a beautifully crafted get-together of Catch-Phrase, some unspecified movie (most likely “You’ve Got Mail”), and some Italian exchange student boy in an argyle sweater whose name I have surprisingly forgotten.

Delightfully surpassing my expectations this year was the first annual New Year’s Classic (NYC): a no-holds-bar octathlon of unrivaled intellectual and physical proportions.

In short, the ’08 festivities involved Sean and I constructing an elaborate plan to coordinate an epic competition that spiraled into two teams of three engaging in extreme Cranium (where all team members’ hands were lashed together with abrasive twine), Wise & Otherwise, and naturally, a laser-sight NERF gun death-match. After the traditional opening ceremonies of the Tiki-torch lighting (in sub-freezing outside temperatures) and the usual burning of the sacred scroll, it became apparent that “Clan O’Reilly Factor National Olympics Squad” would emerge victorious over team “*click*click-naAH-naAH-caw-caw-THE-AVALANCHE-IS-COMIN!” with a convincing 120,000 point margin. (Unfortunately, due to poor planning, we only completed three of the six specified events; however, there are talks about finishing out the remaining NYC contests: “Iron-Chef-style” baking, Canasta, and Karaoke).

Otherwise, I had originally planned to recap a few prime moments from 2007, but I think they’d be better served as singular ramblings down the road. I have a few resolutions in mind that involve making quicker decisions as well as no longer saying “Uh” on the phone, but as always we’ll see. It’s just past midnight now meaning New Year’s Day has come to a close, and I think I’ll turn in. Happy New Year and I hope your following 365 are filled with good fortune, love, money, power, knowledge, messenger bags, large three-dimensional national monument replica puzzles, treasured American Indian relics, and whatever else your little heart desires.

Oh, and his name was Nicolo. The argyle-sweater-wearing Italian stallion was definitely named Nicolo.

Labels: celebration, Cranium, NERF, New Years

I’d venture to say that Final Exams represent one of the most perplexing of university phenomena. Undoubtedly, the experience varies from student to student. Some laugh. Some cry. Some laugh while crying, and others simply remain entirely emotionless for a full week’s time. I like to think I fall into category three, but that’s beside the point.

For me, Finals are a flurry of music and words. Countless hours are expended in the Unit 1 Academic Services Center (the ASC, a freshmen hot spot for studying that I exploit to no end since I live quite close) under the pulsating sounds of my ridiculously large Sony headphones. (For some reason my $15 investment towards cheap, fatty headphones was one of my best decisions in life. I have small ears. Earbuds hurt.) I believe last year’s examinations were coated with the cool beats of The Killers, Jack Johnson, Red Hot Chili Peppers, and John Legend, but as Taylor would say, this semester was all about the “jams.” I was aggressive, taking no prisoners this year, homie. DJ Girl Talk, Citizen Cope, The Hush Sound, Miles Davis, and T-pain (hell yes) basically pervaded every instant of my book-ridden, sleep-lessened, academic existence. I’d study with music, walk with music, relax before tests with music, shower with music, eat with music, go on dates with music, fight off animals with music… I’m sick of my music collection.

In some inspirationally juvenile mode, I like to envision myself during Finals as the center of some epic movie montage. A layered protagonist gearing up to dominate a rising challenge, a brilliant Russell Crowe surrounded by a world of equations, a humble bachelor pouring his heart into his work only to surmount the defining moment of his career, a scarred warrior soaking in the aroma of a cold landscape on the eve of war… At moments I can trick myself into believing it’s the battle-ready preparation kind of montage, but on the whole, my journey is more of a studying for my life—preparing for the world’s most grueling intellectual clash the world has witnessed—kind of montage. Although still an outlandishly exaggerated perspective on a measly semester conclusion, in some childish way, this time-lapse dimension paired with the perfect movie montage soundtrack (via the helmet I pass off as headphones) not only passes the time but helps me relish (dare I say enjoy) the workload.

Days in the ASC (even after hours with the workers) and 4am’s at Crossroads (always with three cups: hot chocolate, ice water, and too much honey with a little hot tea)…not to mention the optional nature of hygiene (no details necessary)…

At the very least, finally wrapping your head around a concept or exhausting every single practice problem is something to bite into. I feel like it’s part of the classic college experience (well, what you see in movies or in those pretty college pamphlets)… Of course Final Exams have their downsides. One of my favorites is the exponential decay of social skills. My own psychological analyses led to one conclusion, the allotment of the majority of my brain’s resources to silent reading and ungodly stacks of practice problems inevitably left my communicative efforts at a loss. Mumbling, incredibly lame and horrendously delivered jokes, and aversion of eye contact resound among my symptoms as tell tale signs of a hard working, Mechanical Engineering Golden Bear.

And on the real, our time honored college tradition is really not that bad. Sure there was a Saturday morning where I woke up and just thought, “Wow. Hmm… I’m kinda tired of waking up with quantum physics problems rattling through my skull.” Say what you will, take it as is, for me, it’s just more chaos to relish in.

I began writing this post during my flight home yesterday, a start to a promising break that holds a little more time for a few neglected past times and a couple new interests. I’m reading a bit more now. I’ve always avoided simple recreational page turning but I’m giving the revolutionary practice a shot and let me tell you, it’s wild. Who knows, there might be a few more blogs on deck as well as a chance to hop back on the buff-getting train.

The core plans include home cooked meals, idiotic adventures with good friends, and the mountain slopes, three elements of a quality recharge. Cheers to another semester whisked away in a blink and another successful Final-Exams-battle-montage. With some luck, I’ll replenish not only my music collection but also my social skills.

Happy Holidays

Labels: college, exams, finals, soundtrack

To be perfectly honest, I’ve been a smidge out of whack recently. I think it all really started that one day I got hit with an egg yolk.

No, seriously. Some hoodlum actually threw a freaking hard-boiled, yellow, cholesterol bomb at me. I was on a bench in the Unit 1 Courtyard, just reflecting upon life over the phone with my mother and before I knew it—kapow. And accordingly, my life proceeded to disintegrate into shambles.

There was something beautifully disastrous about that day. I went grocery shopping with Kristy that fateful evening after the egg yolk incident. A few weeks earlier I discovered that my good friend and Berkeley Group colleague owned a car, and the prospect of hitting the Safeway without the sinking dismay of being forced to haul all of one’s grocery-loot back on the 51 Bus was too hard to pass up. Specifically, I bought eggs that night, (a consumption staple for my high protein, giant muscle diet) a brand new carton of eggs that I proceeded to drop on my kitchen floor less than an hour later.

Flexing my machismo I had intelligently decided to carry all eight bags of groceries in one trip back to my kitchen (you have to, it’s Man Law: one trip for groceries no matter what) and the single bag that escaped my grip had to contain my eggs. The moment I saw the oozing yellow substance, I sprung into action. There was absolutely no hesitation. Like a crazed chef, I immediately threw a non-stick pan onto the stove and with a quick whirl of olive oil I was gingerly salvaging what was left of my carton directly into a flurry of scrambled goodness. There was no way I was losing my eggs.

Then, the fun began. As I cleaned up the last remnants I managed to bash my head against the freezer door. And moments later, as I hastily washed my frying pan I somehow maneuvered my sponge in the perfect sweeping motion to launch a deluge of scalding hot water onto my body. Nice.

I really should have taken a hint as I trudged back up to my room, battle scarred. At the time, I was working on a report for my Technical Communication course about Snowboard Design. It was actually amazing, I spent three days just learning everything I could about the modern snowboard—trolling through the websites of Burton, K2, Sims, Ride, as well as reading research papers about cutting edge modeling. So there I was, without eggs, but ready to print out my midterm paper. I had already expended much of the day hopelessly attempting to wrap text around some of my images, but somehow, by an act of pure pure college-student-frustrating, Murphy’s-Law-fulfilling, salt-in-my-wounds-rubbing evil my Word Document just started generating pages. Seriously, on page fourteen of twenty, Microsoft Office decided to continuously add blank pages. This wasn’t a small matter, as my document reached 4000 pages (no joke) I was ready to crack some skulls. I dashed across the street to grab my laptop from my house--almost got hit by a car--and after an hour of finagling and troubleshooting I was finally ready to print the devil’s paper. I was finally ready as the Color Printer chose to just laugh at me and only produce one page at a time. Eventually, I dragged my worn psyche back to my house around 3am with little fire left in my bones and cracked open some physics homework.

As the clock struck 4am I passed out in my desk chair and at 4:30 I somehow magically found my way out of my pants into my bed. The problem was… I had to turn in that midterm paper at 9:30am—and I forgot to set an alarm.

Now, at this point in the story most people gasp (trust me, I’ve told this way too many times to drown my mediocre sorrows in unnecessary pity, pity hugs to be exact). So dawn broke, morning showed its face, and I snapped open my eyes in stomach-wrenching fear. I knew it the second I woke up, I forgot to set that damn alarm on my stupid phone. I desperately searched for my phone to uncover the damage that had been done, and I caught a glimpse of the clock…

It was only 9:20am. By some act of God, I had managed to wake up at the perfect time. I literally just sat up in my bed, raised my arms spread, and like a moron--howled in victory “WOOOO!” I dressed, brushed, granola bar-ed, and leisurely walked to 42 Bechtel Hall in triumph over a night that had left me weather beaten.

Happy ending. That whole fiasco turned out relatively well and in hindsight the day really wasn’t that bad—just a number of annoying occurrences that seemed to add up at the time. But between you and me, the last few weeks have truthfully been a little off. I’ve always been the kind of kid that lived for the weekend. Not in that ready-to-go-party-crazy mode, but simply the concept that I could easily justify hours and hours of work with the comfort of a stress-free Saturday on the horizon. Nonetheless, there have been a couple more hours lately, and a few less vegetative states. I’m learning a lot; my head just isn’t all “there.”

It’s probably that time of the year; I feel like there are a lot of people in limbo at the moment. The easy solution: drop everything and start an organic farm in Mammoth. My solution: cry.

What?

A guest speaker once showed me a speech by Jimmy Valvano, the late college basketball coach and founder of the V foundation for cancer research. During his ’93 speech at the ESPY’s , Jimmy (who had been diagnosed with cancer) said that everyday we should do three things: Laugh, Think and Cry. If we lighten up, spend some time in thought, and have ourselves moved to tears…hell, that’s a full day. I’m not really a wreck and my life isn’t charred and torn to shreds, I’m just a little tired and extended time in the college bubble can understandably throw you a little off center.

So I’m going to do the following and I extend an invitation for anyone to join me. I’m going to take a deep breath of something. Whether it’s filled with laughter, brilliance, or tears, I’ve just been pining to take a deep breath of something with some bite. And afterwards, I plan to savor the aftertaste, stretch out, relax my shoulders, throw on some Frank Sinatra, and lose myself in the comfort that I still wouldn’t rather be anywhere else in the world than where I’m sitting right now…

…unless some other idiot decides to throw another egg yolk at me.

Labels: college, eggs, valvano

So some might ask where I’ve been since my last blog post two months ago. Well there’s one solid answer to that elusive question. I’ve been getting buff. Working out. Sculpting the guns. All day. Everyday.

I’ve told a number of people about the summer challenge. A few weeks before spring semester at Cal came to a close, I proposed a challenge to the dudes on my floor: whoever could get the buffest over the summer, I would buy an entire pizza for to undo everything he did. I’m sure everyone took it to heart. I figured Dan the Bear would be the stiffest competition since he could already out bench me by… double. But it was a “most improved” sort of contest so I figured I had a chance. If Bister or Fatty worked out religiously they probably could have got cut real quick since they both weigh a buck twenty-five but that would mean them working out religiously which at least for Fat would be next to impossible.

So I set to work. Ish. It was more a kind of guilty make-up ploy for all those Top Dogs (tm) and Gypsy’s Calzones (tm) over the past school year. I told everyone at home jokingly about my challenge. It was one of those “qual” (a phrase my brother coined, just watch you’ll start using it every chance you get) stories you reserve to tell every single person you’re reunited with so you can seem exciting and intriguing right off the bat. Nonetheless, it seemed like everyone was gunning for me to win the challenge.

Faceface started to call me every day to go on cramping Altitude-Sickness-Inducing-Runs (ASIR); my Dad started making sure I was lifting three times a week… He had been in the habit of making my mother and him fresh juice with his Birthday Present Magic Bullet (tm) and he even started making me a batch each morning. I would soon find out he was slipping Protein Powder into my smoothie. I had even taken embarrassing “before” pictures that I discretely hid in my laptop, so if you ever search through my hidden files you’ll find some moderately embarrassing shirtless photos of me not flexing in the mirror.

But the quest for a ripped “bod” was good no doubt. Summer workout sessions made you feel like those movie stars that just get paid for two months to learn how to sword fight and get ripped so they could make an awesomely bad action flick. I even watched the making of 300 where the guy said they would engage in 3 hour workouts, twice a day, 6 days a week for 3 months… not to mention the bench pressing between takes while filming. I was on the road to getting huge.

If you ask me in real life I’ll tell you I’m a freaking beast of a man with giant muscles on muscles. But to be perfectly honest I’m not that ridiculous. Though once again, I’ll never admit that in person.

Nonetheless, it was odd, my habits really did start to change. I was on vacation in Vietnam and I started going crazy after not working out for a few days. I was used to this sweet one track routine in my Colorado home—work out, eat well, summer job, and this vacacion was totally throwing me out of whack. I actually started caring what I was eating. It was one of the most disturbing, slightly depressing, “qual” changes in my esteemed 19 year life thus far.

I had already Wikipedia’d “How to Get a Six Pack” so I was eating fruit for extra fiber, drinking plenty of water… At the same time last summer I was downing those chocolate chip cookie sandwiches like there was no tomorrow while washing it all down with three Blue Koolaid Jammers (tm). But this year… when I hit 2 of 5 ice cream cookie wheels… I felt guilty. Of course I still did it but hell, I felt kinda bad—like every bite was taking a chunk out of my carefully chiseled physique. It’s depressing really, losing that carefree, shove your face adolescent attitude. Nobody wants that, it’s one of those things your parents said would eventually change in your life and you never believed them, but kaboom, there it happened (e.g. not dancing like an idiot, not waving at strangers from the car window, not making loud “woo” noises in public areas).

Nonetheless it is a change for the better I have to admit and in some ways I hope I don’t recede back into my old ice cream shoveling ways. The goal is to lift twice a week while at school—I’ve already cast away prospect of maintaining cardiovascular endurance so I figure it’s a reasonable goal.

But who would’ve thought, one second you’re just trying to get “cut” and the next you’re growing up. At least my triceps are huge.

Labels: fitness, health, top dog

I saw a deer the other day on a hike around Cataract Lake near Dillon, CO. It just bounced across our path en route to sniffing out a nearby campsite. As I stood mystified in its path all I could think to myself was…

“Animals kick ass.”

Animals have this inherent healing power. I’m convinced. Not really in the I have a broken arm better bring in a 9 foot Grizzly Bear sort of way, but almost every single person I know that has had major surgery ends up spending their immediate hours of recuperation watching “Animal Planet.” I remember when my father tore his ACL it was straight to the Flying Squirrel specials and poorly produced recreations of a family’s unfortunate camping trip turned encounter with African Flesh Eating Ants (AFEA). But seriously, when he couldn’t move, it was to the Discovery Channel to vicariously explore the unturned crevices of the jungle.

Let’s talk about cats. In all honesty I’m not a giant fan of the domesticated version unless they’re incredibly chubby or fasten themselves into small receptacles. But I don’t really have beef with cats. That’s except for Piano Teacher cats. For some ridiculous reason every Piano Teacher I’ve met has a colony of cats infesting the household. It’s not a horrendous crime against humanity or anything I guess, I did enjoy playing fetch with one trying to get Fred to jump into my piano music bag but every single cat manifestation in existence is available in a Piano Teacher’s domicile. Regular cats, heavy set cats, clawing cats, Jamaican fighting cats, cat pictures, miniature marble cat figurines, cat embroidered pillows, pillows for cats, cat embroidered pillows for cats, cat soup, catsup, Cat Stevens…

But still don’t let this phenomenon steer us away from the true unfathomable power of animals. Just a few days ago I was watching a special on the artificial insemination of elephants with the Pretty Girl Next Door (PGND). Many would surmise that watching a Discovery Channel exclusive on the artificial insemination of elephants (and rhinos) with the PGND would spell disaster but such neigh Sayers would be unequivocally wrong. Most definitely wrong. Oh so wrong because those moments, that mutual experience, that valiant massively awkward effort to preserve an endangered species brought us closer together than ever before. (I’m serious). (No, this actually happened).

So long story short, don’t underestimate animals. Or they will maul you. All of them. At once. Repeatedly. But if you embrace the animal kingdom, the realm of los animales, if you harness the undoubtedly epic power of Flesh Eating Ants, Flying Squirrels, White Horned Rhinoceroses, and even Domesticated Piano Teacher Cats, you can take on the world.

With that said, if you need me I’ll be at the PGND’s house gawking at a special on Camouflaging Sea Snakes.

Labels: animals, discovery channel, funny cat

It’s been a luscious 1 month and 28 days since my last literary blogging masterpiece. There’s a number of factors to blame for the sub-two-month sabbatical: the end of the beloved DeCal Blog, finals, packing, moving back to the CO, free under the table web hosting dropping off of the face of the planet for Kiwimonk, starting the new job… Nonetheless, with a new face to the Think.Kiwimonk blog, and renewed legal web space, there exist definitely good intentions to return to the blogging circuit.

It’s odd being home. Odd in a relatively good way. Comparable to the enjoyable type of “awkward.” I’ve told a few people, well—more than a few, I’ve actually probably beat this saying to death, but when I’m at Berkeley I feel like I’m at summer camp, and when I’m at home I’m on vacation… So essentially I lack a home in this enjoyable pre-adulthood sort of way. For some reason, I’m still not able to comprehend the fact that anything changed in the home-state while I was gone. It’s as if I’m convinced that the world stops whenever I leave. At least it should. I am unable to grasp the idea of any of my younger acquaintances getting any older, and I’m absolutely horrible at recalling what grade anyone is in anymore. You know, when you get to be my age…

I made my rounds during one of my favorite past times, graduation party weekend. Somewhere, in the long abyss of my past I made a pact with my friend Allen to eat at every single Graduation Party I ever attended. Now, this was not just “have a bite of a little something something” at every graduation party, it was “enjoy at least the main course” at every graduation party, “man up and eat” at every graduation party. Needless to say those 10000 Calorie weekends probably didn’t aide my health, but they were unequivocally worth it. My own graduation party is another blog in itself, but I kept to the oath this year as well (of course) and relished in the schmoozing, assortment of graduation cakes, going out of my way to cut out the graduate’s face from the cake…

I’m heading to Vietnam at the end of this month on a family excursion. It’s been almost ten years, meaning the last time my relatives saw me I was a plump, buck-teethed, bowl-hair-cutted animal of a third grader. Without a doubt, I’m excited to travel the mother country North to South seeing family and gorging on ridiculously cheap, freaking amazing Vietnamese foods along the way.

It’s nice to be back, and it’ll be nice to go back. There’s plenty more to reminisce, catch up, reflect, and provide ridiculous commentary on—100 foot slip and slides, the voyage to the eye doctor, high class adventures at Country Buffet.—all in time.

Welcome back.

Labels: Country Buffet, graduation, home, Vietnam

New hosting is on its way.

Kiwimonk will soon be back.

Apologies, apparently my web hosting for Kiwimonk.com has decided to encounter problems.

And by problems I mean drop off of the face of Earth.

Temporary blogspot domain until fixing occurs.

Don't eat expired Easy Mac (tm). Trust me.

For the vast majority of this epic blogging exploration I have concentrated my efforts to having at least something that remotely resembles a focus. However, tonight will be entirely different. There's a tiny liberating feeling in swaying on the cusp of a literary roller-coaster of glory. So tonight I will spend 500 plus words without a topic in mind or arugment to convey, tonight... will be phenomenal.

Dinner was fantastic. Eating almost every day in a giant Dining Commons really got me pondering the possibility of mass embarassment. Really, I've just been waiting for it to happen and with barely 3 weeks left I'm not sure if my visions will peep into reality before the conclusion of the year. I figure there are two scenarios. I can either spill my food all over the ground/person, or someone can spill their food all over the ground/me. I would definitely choose the later. And I would sieze the moment just to stand there and sulk in my pitiful Orange-Chicken-Vegan-Sunflower-Cutlet-Basil-Marinara drenched self to look the world in the eyes and say, "Worst day ever..."

Yeah, spoiled Easy-Mac (tm) not cool at all. Possibly most not cool entity ever created ever. I had a hankering for some munchies post 3am on a 5am work-night which consequently led to a 6:30am stomach grinding whirlwind of doom.

Remind me to write a blog about the perfect team members for a hoodlum posse.

I finally washed my laundry after 3 plus weeks. Yeah, probably too much information, but I stayed relatively clean. It just comes to a point when you see me wearing dress shirts and under-armor, remind me that washing my clothes is most definitely worth the effort.

I reminisced about Jean-Claude Van Damme in "Blood Sport" tonight (another awesomely bad movie that I've seen on TNT superstation eleventy thousand times). There's that sick part where Van Damme has his hands around Chung-Li's neck at the very end and screams at him, "SAY IT!" attempting to forcibly coerce the antagonist into surrendering in the fight. And of course Van Damme has his eyes sickly-wide-open because that villainous cheating bastard threw blinding powder in his freaking eyes.

Twiggy, the hippy on Telegraph Ave. right in front of T-Shirt-Orgy (tm) made me a custom pair of Rasta juggling sticks (also referred to as Devil Sticks, or Mystix). After a friday of class I proceeded to "stick" with Twiggy for about an hour trading moves, chatting about stick construction preferences, and he said he'd make me a custom pair of whatever I wanted. Obviously, I asked for an 18inch Wood Core Black tape with red, yellow, and green leather flares and two bi-symmetrical 18inch fiberglass wands without hand padding and roll direction grip tape. Basically, their sick, and I feel seventy times cooler wielding those custom made bad-boys. Childhood fantasy, maybe 3 people in this world would agree with me.

Vivian made a sick Psychology Informational Booklet of fluffy child-saving joy. No, seriously. The thing is probably sevent one times more well crafted than any Adolescent Psychological Analysis Handbook that I could have ever made.

A friend of mine just tried to Google Map the driving time from here to Columbia.

Well friends, the Academic Services Center dictators just whipped out the bullhorn to inform me that my computer lab time is running to an end. Before I sign off I'd just like to thank you for accompanying me on this wonderful poetic journey. And to be perfectly honest, with how amazing this just felt I may be utilizing this writing style many more times over. God help us all.

Sleep well, if you can't--sip some Nyquil, and dream easy.

Dream of me.

Labels: easy mac, juggling sticks, random

Courtesy of ridiculous friends:




Group Info:
Name: If I was a dinosaur, I'd be a wrecking-ballosaurus
Type: Common Interest - Pets & Animals
Description: This is for people who--if they had to be a dinosaur--would make the obvious choice and be an anklyosaurus (commonly known as wrecking-ballosauri). It's a very simple choice for several reasons, the most obvious being that there is a giant fucking ball attached to your tail that you can rampaged through the jungle with hitting shit. Other uses include: child discipline, "monkey wrench gang" style environmentalism, leveling people who laugh at their own jokes, and being able to do whatever the hell you want because no one can stop you. Essentially, this group is designed for everyone who isn't a complete idiot.

Labels: dinosaurs, facebook, group

So it’s a little bit late on a Thursday night. And by Thursday night I mean Friday at 4AM. The hours have lent themselves to sifting through 200 pages of Foundation Profiles for quality Berkeley Group research.

And to be honest, all I’ve been doing for the past 10 minutes involves blasting Jay Z and Beyonce at full blast off of my laptop jamming out and dancing by myself in my floor lounge.

Oh, the life.

This post was really meant for the 30^th of March but copious blogging procrastination and fiery passions for other stimulating topics delayed its maiden voyage.

Nonetheless, over Sping Break, a good friend and ridiculous individual, Sean, and I embarked on a cinematic adventure known as “Hammerhead: Half Man, Half Shark, Total Terror.” After raiding King Soopers (it’s a freaking supermarket silly Californians) for FunFetti Frosting, Chocolate Chip Teddy Grahams, and an economy size jug of Sunny Delight we destroyed our health feeding ourselves these glorious munchies and nestled in for 2 hours and 15 minutes of the named previewed Blockbuster DVD. It was easily the worst movie I have ever seen. Ever.

Honestly, did I expect anything different? Nope, not one bit. Apart from the cruddy CGI of the man-shark-beast-swimming-thing and chubby office man turned mother fucking Rambo, “Hammerhead” hosted a Credits listing with all Russian names (every single one)—which basically means this overseas sensation had most likely been seen by more people that just Sean and me. (I had believed differently up to that point).

Sean, my older brother, and I have this sick sick obsession with viewing what I like to refer to as “Awesomely Bad Movies.” The quintessential example would have to be Vin Diesel’s sci-fi thriller “Pitch Black” or basically any Vin Diesel movie for that matter. There’s just something about those fist-pumping-screaming-for-no-good-reason juvenile feelings we derive from utterly ridonkulous (I said it again) films. My brother recently provided us with a cinematic epic starring L.L. Cool J entitled “Mindhunters” where Christian Slater is sprayed with liquid Nitrogen and falls on the ground only to have his body crack into a million pieces. Unbelievably glorious? I think yes.

So what was going through Sean and my head as we forked over $9.95 to purchase “Hammerhead?” Basically we had this mutual image in our mind of a Hammerhead shark with beefy legs chasing some unsuspecting swimmers in the water and as the poor souls believed they had found safety on dry land the freaking shark would run straight out of the wave to chomp straight into some sorry woman in a polka dot swim suit.

So it’s true, a little pitiful, but most definitely true that I have no qualms with the Straight-To-DVD flick. Anything with LL, Jean Claude, or good ol’ Vin will do just fine for my fellow movie-watchers and me.

By the way did I tell you about the part where the Shark jumps out of the jungle onto the careening Jeep to try to mate with the hot secretary?

Labels: bad movies, hammerhead, vin diesel