Peter, Julie, Mel and I went to Yosemite two weekends ago... Here's the damage.
A rock with some fancy name I don't remember
Yosemite Falls
Humans covering up pretty scenary
More mortals obscuring the immortal
Google Reader now lets you share your RSS feeds. It's pretty cool; basically, you can label your feed items, and people can subscribe to your labels. So for example, if you have a friend who shares your interests and is an RSS hound, he can go through many feeds and mark only certain ones as "interesting". You, who are much busier and have, say, a job to do, can subscribe to his "interesting" label (itself a feed) to read all feed items that are interesting to him and, by extension, to you. It doesn't quite replace news aggregator blogs (no comments/discussion), but it's a lot more convenient.
Furthermore, you can have a "clip" of your label feed. I've put up a section on the sidebar with some feed items that I've found interesting. The clip comes with a few (fairly ugly) pre-determined themes, but the best part is that you can style yourself with CSS (though this is undocumented). The relevant class names used are:
Sarah Beth has created this very awesome birthday card for me... I have no idea where she got the pictures, because they're definitely not my pictures.
Not very happy with it yet, but here it is.
for Melanie, who demands that this be posted.
(A COFFEE SHOP. A WOMAN SITS AT A TABLE, STUDYING. A MAN ENTERS, AND APPROACHES THE TABLE.)
Man: Hi there.
Woman (not paying attention): Hey.
Man: Would you mind if I sit with you?
Woman: Are they out of tables again?
Man: No -- yes. Yes.
Woman: Well, okay.
(THE WOMAN REMOVES HER BOOKS FROM THE OPPOSITE CHAIR, AND THE MAN SITS. THE MAN OCCASIONALLY LOOKS UP AT THE WOMAN NERVOUSLY, AND LOOKS DOWN AGAIN WHEN THE WOMAN NOTICES. AFTER A WHILE, DETERMINED, THE MAN LOOKS UP AGAIN, READY TO SPEAK)
Man: Hey, so...
(THEY FREEZE SUDDENLY)
Announcer's Voice: "The Wise Pages of the Bookers", Chapter 3, Section 5. Unnecessary interruptions of social intent during the course of studies result in an inevitable decline into decadence.
(THEY UNFREEZE)
Woman: Mmm?
Man: What are you studying?
Woman: Stats. You?
Man: English. You look a little tired.
Woman: I am. A little.
Man: Take a break, then. It always helps to take a break.
Woman: I've been on breaks.
Man: Take another one.
Woman: Are you taking a break?
Man: I'm always taking breaks.
Woman: But you only just sat down.
Man: Sitting down is hard work.
Woman: Well, you don't have a midterm on sitting down tomorrow.
Man: No, but I do have midterms on other things.
Woman: Then why aren't you studying?
Man: I'm taking a break!
Woman: Well I don't have time for breaks.
Man: Take time. You never have time unless you reach out and take it.
Woman: I'm all out of time.
Man: Take my time! I'll give you some time.
Woman: That doesn't help; it takes my time to use your time.
Man: Well, that's the best I can do.
Woman: That's not good enough.
Man: What would be good enough?
Woman: Not taking a break.
Man: But I'm already on break.
Woman: I'm not on break.
Man: You've been on break all this time.
Woman: Because you've been wasting my time.
Man: So you might as well take a proper break.
Woman: No, now I have to...
Man: Ten minutes. Come on.
Woman (pause): Well, okay.
Man: Good. Doesn't that feel better?
Woman: It doesn't matter how I feel now. Only how I feel after I take my test.
Man: You're too fixated on the future. Just imagine all that the present has to offer. Just think of all the things you're missing when you're looking over there instead of (POINTING TO SELF) looking over here.
Woman (pause): I'm not missing much.
Man: Ouch.
Woman: Too easy.
Man: Had to be said.
Woman: Sorry.
Man: So how is stats coming along.
Woman: It's barely coming at all.
Man: No?
Woman: I just hope I don't fail the test tomorrow.
Man: Are you going to fail the test tomorrow?
Woman: Yes -- no. No, I don't think so.
Man: Then why are you worried?
Woman: I'm not -- well, I am. But I'm not -- not that worried.
Man: Well good.
Woman: I just don't want to disappear.
Man: You won't disappear.
Woman: Be one of those people in my class who fail one of the midterms, and then are never heard from again, disappear from the class, drop off the face of the earth, the chairs they used to sit in now empty, stamped by their own inadequacy, signed by the passing murmurs of those barely scraping by.
Man: You won't disappear.
Woman: I want to do the murmuring. Not the disappearing. I want to be here to murmur.
Man: You won't disappear.
Woman: How do you know that?
Man: Because I'm here.
Woman: So?
Man: You won't disappear from me.
Woman (pause): I'm afraid I have a slightly different definition for...
Man: So what are you up to, now that you're done studying?
Woman: What? I'm not done studying.
Man: You just told me you're not worried.
Woman: Yeah, if I keep on studying...
Man (overlapping): So I'm thinking, a movie.
Woman: What?
Man: Let's go catch a movie.
Woman: I -- no, no I can't. I have to study. I'm already taking a break!
Man: Take a longer break.
Woman: No. No, no, no. I have to study. Now. And the break's over.
Man: Fine.
(THEY RESUME STUDYING FOR A WHILE)
Woman (carefully): So, what movie?
(THEY FREEZE)
Announcer's Voice: And so they went off to watch a movie, in direct opposition to the gentle yet stern teachings of the Bookers. On the way to the theater, they ran five red lights and bought alcohol for fourteen-year-olds. They snuck into the movie theater without paying for tickets, but the man was caught and thrown in jail, where he was gang-raped by six large men. The woman took the test the following day, failed, and disappeared off the face of the earth. Her classmates murmur to this day, referring to her as She Who Disobeyed the Bookers. Yet it needs not be like this, according to various clauses from "The Wise Pages of the Bookers", Chapter 3, Section 6. First, the early disengagement. Rewind, correct.
(THEY UNFREEZE)
Man: Hi there.
Woman (not paying attention): Hey.
Man: Would you mind if I sit with you?
Woman: Are they out of tables again?
Man: No -- yes. Yes.
Woman: Well, okay.
Man: Hey, so...
Woman: Mmm?
Man: What are you studying?
Woman: Stats. You?
Man: English. You look a little tired.
Woman: Why, not at all! I feel knowledge running through my veins, its gentle rhythms bringing me closer and closer to ecstasy itself, its harmony filling my very being with beauty and truth.
Man: You are absolutely right! I now see the errors of my comment and hang my head in shame in front of the glorious Bookers!
Woman: Bookers fill us!
Man: Bookers light us!
Woman: Praise be the Bookers!
Man and Woman (together): PRAISE BE THE BOOKERS!
(THEY FREEZE)
Announcer's Voice: Praise be the Bookers indeed! Their hands fill us with knowledge, their will lights us with joy. Their gentle hearts guide us to the Proper Path, their kind souls forgive our procrastination. They...
(THE ANNOUNCER IS SUDDENLY SILENT. LIGHTS DIM SLIGHTLY. MAN AND WOMAN UNFREEZE.)
Man: I walked into the cafe, and the first person I saw was you. There's something about you, something around you. I couldn't look away. It was impossible to look away. There were other seats around, but I had to sit with you.
Woman: I noticed you the moment you walked into this place, introduced by the metal bells swung lightly around the door knob. You looked at me, and looked away, and looked at me again. There were other seats around, but I wished you would sit with me.
Man: I approached you, trembling, a little. Would you mind if I sit with you?
Woman: I sounded reasonable. I had to sound reasonable. Is it because they're out of tables?
Man: Of course it is. Why else -- why else would I want to sit next to you, to you, to you?
(THEY FREEZE. LIGHTS ON FULL. THE ANNOUNCER CONTINUES)
Announcer's Voice: They protect us from earth's sorrows, they shield us from devil's ignorance. Praise be the Bookers!
Man and Woman (without moving): Praise be the Bookers!
Announcer's Voice: Chapter 3, Section 7. Harsh words cross points. Rewind, correct.
(THEY UNFREEZE)
Man: Take time. You never have time unless you reach out and take it.
Woman: I'm all out of time.
Man: Take my time! I'll give you some time.
Woman: That doesn't help; it takes my time to use your time.
Man: Well, that's the best I can do.
Woman: That's not good enough.
Man: What would be good enough?
Woman: Not taking a break.
Man: But I'm already on break.
Woman: I'm not on break.
Man: You've been on break all this time.
Woman: Because you've been wasting my time.
Man: So you might as well take a proper break.
Woman: No, now I have to...
Man: Ten minutes. Come on.
Woman: Look, just because you don't mind failing your midterms and dropping out of college and ending up sleeping in a dirty ditch where you'll lose one arm to gangrene until one day when a wild dog decides you smell like bacon and starts chewing your leg off and you try to fight it off except you can't because you only have one arm and all you could do with your arm is to pet it encouragingly as it bites into your leg like a breakfast burrito with too much beans and too much sauce and so you try to cry for help except all the words coming out of your mouth make no sense because you did not study for your English midterm -- just because of that -- doesn't mean I don't either.
Man: You're absolutely right! Such a quoting of "The Wise Pages of the Bookers"! Such beautiful prose! Such true words! I had indeed gone astray!
Woman: Then worry not, astray-goer! For the Bookers will lead you back into the light!
Man: Bookers save us!
Woman: Bookers guide us!
Man: Praise be the Bookers!
Man and Woman (together): PRAISE BE THE BOOKERS!
(THEY FREEZE)
Announcer's Voice: Praise be the Bookers, indeed! They show us our naked ignorant selves and transform us into shining beings. They make us stronger. They make us wiser. They...
(ANNOUNCER IS SUDDENLY SILENT AGAIN. LIGHTS DIM. THEY UNFREEZE)
Woman: How I longed to keep talking to you.
Man: What is there to talk about?
Woman: But it doesn't matter. How I longed to keep talking to you.
Man: I finally got you to talk to me.
Woman: But how I longed to keep talking!
Man: Take time. You never have time unless you reach out and take it.
Woman: I would -- I want to -- but I'm all out of time.
Man: Take my time! Take anything. Take everything.
Woman: That doesn't help.
Man: That's the best I can do.
Woman: It does help. A little.
Man: Good, because that's the best I can do.
Woman: The best you can is good enough.
(THEY FREEZE AGAIN; LIGHTS ON FULL)
Announcer's Voice: Let their brilliant light show us the path to eternal glory! Let their ringing truth bridge us to everlasting peace! Bask in their magnificent manificence! Praise be the Bookers!
Man and Woman: Praise be the Bookers!
Announcer's Voice: Again, from Chapter 3, Section 8. The incessant rejection. Repeat, correct.
(THEY UNFREEZE)
Man: So what are you up to, now that you're done studying?
Woman: What? I'm not done studying.
Man: You just told me you're not worried.
Woman: Yeah, if I keep on studying...
Man (overlapping): So I'm thinking, a movie.
Woman: What?
Man: Let's go catch a movie.
Woman: No.
Man: A show?
Woman: No.
Man: Let's go sing karaoke.
Woman: No.
Man: Dinner?
Woman: No.
Man: Let's go smoke out.
Woman: No.
Man: Have you tried shooting heroine?
Woman: No.
Man: So I hear there's an orgy going on tonight...
Woman: No.
Man: You wanna set the school on fire?
Woman: No.
Man: A few friends of mine, we're going to sneak into a hospital, steal some babies and skull-fuck them. Wanna come?
Woman: No.
Man: Let's go register to be Republicans.
Woman: Fuck you.
(THEY FREEZE)
Announcer's Voice: Excellent! Well done, all around. The incessant rejection of all things that do not flow naturally from the Bookers' tongue is the essential protection against decadence and failure. There are three kinds of incessance and three kinds of rejection...
(LIGHTS DIM)
Man: But I'll go anywhere with you.
Woman: I'll do anything with you.
Man: What about a movie?
Woman: But I need to study.
Man: Do you need to study?
Woman: I don't want to disappear.
Man: You're not going to disappear.
Woman: How do you know that?
Announcer's Voice (in the background): BOOKERS FILL US!
Man: Because I'm here.
Woman: So?
Man: So I'm here.
Woman: So?
Man: So I'm here.
Woman: That's good.
Man: It's the best I can do.
Woman: That's good enough.
Announcer's Voice (in the background): BOOKERS LIGHT US!
Man: Or we can stay here and study.
Woman: I'll go anywhere.
Man: I'll do anything.
Woman: What does the present have to offer?
Man: You're not missing much.
Announcer's Voice (in the background): BOOKERS SAVE US!
Woman: I don't know what I'm missing.
Man: You won't know until you miss it.
Woman: There's too many things to miss.
Man: Too little time to miss them all.
Woman: I don't have enough time.
Man: You can have mine. You can have me.
Announcer's Voice (in the background): BOOKERS GUIDE US!
Woman: Is that the best you can do?
Man: It'll have to be good enough.
Woman (pause): It's good enough.
(LIGHTS FADE)
Well, I guess things have happened to me recently.
I just got my Prius 2006. Google sponsors $5000 for the purchase of a Prius, and with a tax credit of $3000 given out for those purchased in the early part of 2006, it's really a pretty good deal. It's a bit too trendy, I concur -- it did take me a year before I reluctantly started using the iPod that Google gave me -- but for once, partaking in a trend actually benefits the environment. How convenient.
On the morning after I picked up my Prius, I was rear-ended.
I hate driving new cars, for all the obvious reasons. I'm happy whipping my '97 Corola around, but whenever I'm driving my Prius, I can't stop picturing a wayward car ramming directly into my side, killing me instantly and worse, cracking the paint and requiring thousands to repair. Sadness falls upon the earth. At my funeral, people gather and whisper softly to each other, "that car only had 300 miles on it, tops. Imagine how much it'll cost to repaint." For me, it seems that middle class guilt will not only be repaid with an ironic loss of things I've purchased to secure my middle class status. On top of that, there must always be certain, horrible death.
These are the thoughts that occupied me as I pulled up to the intersection, stopping at the red light. A few moments, a jerk and a bump later, I was outside of my car investigating the dent.
It happened in East Palo Alto, the slums of the Bay Area. Accordingly, as I got out of my car to face the perpetrator of our little accident, I was met with the most polite resident of EPA, incredibly worried and profusely apologetic. I was dazed and confused, trying to calm him down while jotting down his phone and license plate numbers. There was only the smallest of dents on my rear bumper, and I said my good-bye quickly, with a promise to call him later today. I drove away with a smirk. Middle class guilt. Ha! I only got a little dent!
I got a quote from a local auto body shop for repairing the bumper. It was a breath-taking six hundred bucks. Jorge had braked at the light, but with the ground being wet -- and Californians being unaccustomed to rain -- his car slid forward regardless, and gently bumped into mine. The damage was small enough that he really didn't want the insurance companies to be involved. But six hundred bucks? I didn't think he could pay six hundred bucks. And I know this because he lives in EPA, drives a beat-up mustang, and can't-afford-six-hundred-bucks was the best stereotype I could come up with.
I called him with a cringe. "Six hundred dollars." Silence followed. Inevitably he spoke up. "I, it was, it was such a small dent. I don't think it's worth six hundred dollars."
Of course it wasn't. Middle class guilt is now dancing in the room, flashing stereotypes before my eyes. A decent, poor but hard-working man with a bit of bad luck, running into a new, yuppie car of middle class me, who demands unreasonable repair costs to keep his precious car spanking new, and the man spanking poor. The six hundred bucks will take him months to accumulate, and will be used in service of keeping the rich rich and the poor poor. It's like forcing someone who lost both legs as a child to lick your toe.
"I think it's too expensive too", I followed quickly. "Tell you what, I'll try going to a few different auto body shops and see if I can't find a better price."
Anything to make the toe more palatable, I guess.
A few days and many moments later, we stood at another auto body shop. The repairman offered to pop out the dent for sixty bucks, and we quickly agreed to the attempt. He tried, and he failed. The dent is less obvious, but still very much in existence.
"I could also sand it down and repaint it, which will make it look brand new", the repairman offered. "That'll take $350."
All eyes were on me. Am I going to leave it be, accept the existing but hard-to-spot dent and cost Jorge only $60, or be an asshole and demand the full $350?
"It's really pretty hard to spot", Jorge noted. "But I understand it's brand new, and I understand if you want to sand it down. I just want to do the right thing here."
I can see him lifting his head off the floor, pulling his body forward with his arms, his only means of transport. The right thing for him to do would be to pay the costs necessary to restore my car to the same condition as before the accident. But what's the right thing for me to do?
I hesitated. I didn't care about the dent, really -- God knows many of them are on the way. But it felt like he should pay the $350. It felt like that's how responsibilities fall. That's how the world works. I took off my socks and lifted up my foot.
"I think...", I cringed, and kept cringing as I said it. "I think I'd like to sand it down." The foot is right before his face, his neck strained to meet it in the air.
"Okay", he muttered. He took out his wallet, and counted his money. One hundred, two hundred, three hundred.
One lick, two licks, three.
Yes, I'm a terrible person. I promised to get him a Google shirt, to decorate him with the emblem of my success, a mockery of a sympathetic gesture. The shirt should say, "I licked a middle-class man's toe, and all I got was this lousy t-shirt." On the back of the shirt will be a sticker, secretly and jokingly applied by me, that says "This man is poor. Kick him."
And so the affair ends. Middle class guilt sits across from me in the room, smirking. "You'll never be rid of me", it mouths, completely satisfied with the loud, droning noise as the system churns forward. Before disappearing into thin air for a while, it blinked, its eyes shining with the promise of my demise, an ironic, justifying collapse of my economic status.
Oh, and certain, horrible death.
Yeah, it's been a while.
I am currently a victim of a series of impeccably timed mistakes, all small but fatal. I had decided that today -- yes, today! -- would be the day when I finally work on my personal statement. I had been asking around for a nice cafe for this purpose, and was recommended this one. Unfortunately, I had been running my laptop without recharging it for a while -- my first mistake. I didn't realize that there are no power outlets in this cafe for my laptop -- my second mistake. I ordered a hot cup of coffee -- my third mistake. And I didn't bring anything but my laptop with me -- my forth mistake.
And so here I am, sitting at my table, with my laptop about to run out of power in 30 minutes, a cup of coffee too hot for me to gulp down, and nothing else for me to do. At last, the only productive thing to work on is writing a draft for this blog entry. And so here it is.
And yes, it's been a while.
Clearly, I'm terrible at this blogging thing -- only in the most unfortunate of circumstances do I grudgingly write up an entry. Yet there is little for me to write about, my daily details too mundane, creative writing too time-consuming (and its stench too relentless). Nowadays, I can barely formulate a proper sentence without giving myself a hernia, my thoughts too jumbled and abstract to be tied down in words (at least, by a writer as terrible and lazy as myself). I have thought much, but mostly of tree structures in javascript, of things I should be doing but aren't, of the never-ending backlog of things I need to get to but won't. It's been exhausting.
And it's been like that for a while.
In situations like this, you wonder why you're so much more stressed out than you really need to be. But when all the answers you can find are unsatisfactory, behind them lurking the promise of this lasting into eternity, you get more stressed out. You tell yourself that it'll be better after the next milestone, and it does, but only until another milestone looms on the horizon. The milestones make for neat paper weights, paper or otherwise, and you watch, without much pride, as they build slowly into a very tall tombstone.
I just realized that a blank piece of paper invites me to think somber thoughts. It's the middle-class my-life-is-so-tragic symdrome. Also, I didn't even bring a power cable with me, so scratch the no-power-outlet mistake, and substitute in this one.
Perhaps that's why it's been such a while.
because I have nothing better to do, I wrote this:
(BUS STATION. A MAN AND A WOMAN, WAITING. THEY ALTERNATE BETWEEN NERVOUS GLANCES AT THE GROUND AND AT EACH OTHER.)
Man (finally with some nerve): Hey.
Woman (relieved): Hello.
Man: Slow bus.
Woman: Slow.
Man: Slow in coming.
Woman: Yeah.
Man: Not necessarily slow.
Woman: I know.
Man: Because, you know. It's only slow in coming, because it's not coming, or hasn't been coming, or rather, it's going to come, but it hasn't because it's slow, but not because it's physically slow because who knows how physically slow it is, but it's just slow relative to when it's supposed to be... coming.
Woman (already regretting this): Yeah okay.
Man (realizes his mistake): But, you know, not that it matters.
Woman: It doesn't matter.
Man: No, it really doesn't matter.
Woman: What you said.
Man: Yeah.
Woman: I meant, what you meant doesn't matter.
Man: I know.
Woman: Because, you know, it really doesn't matter what you meant when you said that the bus is slow, but it does matter that the bus is indeed slow, or slow in coming, or whichever, because we are standing here waiting for the slow, slow-in-coming bus, and that matters, not what you said.
Man (also regretting this): Uh, yeah.
Woman (realizes her mistake): Oh, sorry.
Man: What for?
Woman: Oh, nothing.
Man: I'm sorry too. Also for nothing.
Woman: Then you shouldn't need to be sorry.
Man: I just like the feeling.
Woman: Of being sorry?
Man: Of standing here. Next to you.
Woman (pause): Excuse me?
Man: I'm sorry.
Woman: What for?
Man: Oh, nothing.
Woman: I'm sorry too.
(LONG PAUSE.)
Man: So where are you going?
Woman: On the bus.
Man: Where on the bus?
Woman: Probably the back.
Man: I mean where, umm, where do you get off?
Woman: Probably the front.
Man: Me too.
Woman: It's the best way.
Man: Sometimes, it's the only way.
Woman: Not often though.
Man: Not ever, really.
Woman: Not really.
Man: Are you hungry?
Woman: Not really.
Man: Me neither.
Woman: But I love you.
Man: Then why did you leave me?
Woman (suddenly hysterical): I didn't mean to! I was going to find you! I was going to meet you exactly where we were supposed to meet! But I couldn't! I couldn't get there on time! The bus -- the bus was slow. It was slow in coming, and when I finally got on the back and got off the front, you were gone, you were gone, no where to be seen. The air was filled with your cruelty. Or mine. I couldn't tell, but you were gone. But I loved you.
Man: I wish my girlfriend didn't leave me.
Woman (normal): Your girlfriend left you?
Man: She will.
Woman: Is it a surprise?
Man: Not much of one.
Woman: What happened?
Man: Missed connections.
Woman: Isn't it always.
Man: It is.
Woman: Shit. The bus is really late. I'm going to be really late.
Man: Where are you going?
Woman: Down the line. I'm meeting my boyfriend.
Man: Really.
Woman: Or, I was supposed to. About thirty minutes ago. But the bus -- it -- I need it. I need to get on the bus to find him.
Man: It's coming.
Woman: It's going to be too late.
Man: It's coming.
Woman: It's going to be too late!
Man: It's coming!
(THE BUS COMES)
Woman (jumping onto the bus): Thank GOD! Aren't you getting on?
Man: No. I'm waiting for someone, actually.
Woman: Who is it?
Man: My girlfriend. She was supposed to get here thirty minutes ago.
Woman: Well, the bus is running late.
Man: Yeah I guess so. I hope she's coming.
Woman: Are there reasons she wouldn't?
Man: Yes.
Woman: Well, good luck. I hope she comes.
Man: She won't. I hope you find your boyfriend in time.
Woman: I won't.
Man: Well, blame it on the bus.
Woman: Fucking bus.
Man: Missed connections.
Woman: Isn't it always.
Man: It is this time.
(THE BUS DOOR SHUTS. LIGHTS DIM.)
It's one of the rare times when I'd race home to play my guitar, pray that no one's at home, and sing my brains out. Depression. It's good to sing. It's like screaming, but with an excuse. Talking to myself, but for good reasons. And it feels like crying, a little.
Jeff once again shows his committment to intense labor
Mike foolishly attempts to wake Jeff
Mike is proven to be foolish
Mike threatens Jeff with the marker of shame, to no avail
while Chung takes the proper approach
Aggravated, Chung turns from markers of shame...
to detachable Soda alcove chair arm of shame
but Mike shows Chung how it's really done