The first half of today felt like the Radiohead song "Treefingers" on repeat. Numbingly, capriciously complacent. I spent the latter part of today at a year-end Ph.D/professor and spouses gathering. I tend to masquerade well as one of them, and perhaps thats because I have been built up to some level of standard that at this point I believe I am simply too weary to live up to. Its time to hit the reset button on that damn thing called ambition.

I am too comfortable. I need to get out somewhere. I'd like to go fetch a future. Perhaps the steppes of Kazakhstan and Lake Baikal. Whatever. I just want to wander around and laugh at things.

So while I'm still up and enjoying my buzz, with my brain hovering over that wide grey area between creativity and nonsense, I ought to say a few words about why I can't really blog anymore.

It appears to me that no matter what one blogs about, one does so most likely because one thinks the contents are interesting to a certain extent, either to himself/herself or to others. In most cases, this is a rather momentary feeling. In the past, I often woke up feeling quite ashamed for my public drunken ramblings on Facebook or Xanga. But there probably are those who find that it rather titillating to twitter "just brushing my teeth!" or to describe their status: "thinks I get Monday and Wednesday's lectures down... will review this a few more times to make sure I get it tomorrow, study bones over the weekend (along with the gazillion things I have to do over the Memorial Day weekend)!" (the latter courtesy of Facebook)

Of course, there's nothing wrong with this. The seemingly honest and heartfelt comments on these otherwise absurd posts suggest to me that there are indeed caring people and friends out there who care about the rather mundane thoughts and actions of others. But I sometimes feel tempted to write shit like "fuckin' Luis Scola needs to cut his hair!" or "BACTRIAN CAMELS!" only to find these feelings pass by quickly, because I know that the next morning I will ask myself: what the fuck. why am i sharing my private emotional baggage with others? why the hell did i just give a shoutout to Bactrian camels? (fyi, people in Central Asia used to put cannons between their humps) These moments of doubt and insecurity arise probably because my thoughts, ponderings, and inquisitions are usually nothing but fleeting, temporary moments; I either find a quick answer or find that their significance disappears shortly afterward. Either way, I usually end up finding them contrite and meaningless.

I'll probably wake up sober and find that all this was stupid and that I should cut this shit out, which should probably also be a reminder of why I should stop drinking the wine. This social networking, status update nonsense thing has certainly worked toward encouraging our narcissism.

Drag his ass back home!

An utter unwillingness to doozy myself, a lack of interest in peoples' stories, and a nagging feeling of responsibility to that which returns no satisfaction. Well, throw in some fifty-cent coffee at the bookstore and the twisted smiles of the ambitious. Its time that I go play dress-up and have superficial small talk with people; its the way of the world, they say, our Pomp and Circumstance. But all those charmful gestures are pouring out the punctures and holes scattered throughout the suit. Very soon, the guest lobby will flood, and may we all smother ourselves with our gracious words. Your annual thoughtfulness and caring heart, as expressed through your gentle words, are much appreciated.

Its becoming very hard to write in here.

Subjectivism

There's always meaning if we look hard enough. But who really has the time to care? It's all just "imitating fiction."

Holding on.

The non-fish finds itself amidst a stupendous forestmaze of bewildering dazzling lights. What am I to make of this landscape? With every turn that ends up in some dead-end nook, I hear echoes from a not-so-distant past, whispering: 'You've nothing to fear, nothing to doubt; your naivety has been misguided, but never look back...' But this was all an accident...it must be some sort of psychological fissure! What a cruel ventriloquist, a heartless puppeteer! A deliberate strangling to the point where I don't recognize my own face. This is really happening! Its the moment when I beg for directions from a mirror.

"Weird Fishes"

Sanity has became compressed into an uninspired white, sterile room devoid of the necessary aesthetic functions conducive to creative stimulation. Only here do clouds gather in the absence of winds. When the storm has finally finished its deliberate dawdling it unleashes a lethargic torrent of disgust, apathy, but calm. [ ] waddles doggy-paddles and twaddles. As he floats and sinks through this chilly inundation of dry words and empty thoughts, he can't help but notice the solemn expressions of the mute fishes attracted by this newcomer, although whether or not they extend their greetings cannot be surmised. He wonders what they make of this uninvited loiterer and his unfocused, deadpan gaze, but soon realizes the absurdity of wondering the wonders of fish. However long they have mindlessly or deliberately swam circles in their confinement cannot be known. But as with any fish, no matter what tank one tosses them in, he or she will always appear calm, at ease, and habituated with their new surrounding. [ ] is reminded, though, that he is no fish.

I'm sorry friends, but my weekend just got Dirli[c]ked

I don't know why and I usually don't care.

But holding a ph.D shouldn't allow you the liberty to litter your publications with needlessly protracted six-line sentences jumbled with baseless theoretical jargons and passive voice structures. More pictures in your books would also help too. Why must you deliberately make what otherwise would be an interesting argument so difficult to read?

Hong Kong.

Macau

Right Proposal

Amidst extremely heavy procrastination, with stacks among stacks of academic literature by my side threatening to submerge me into a maddening fury comprised of pretentiously gaudy eight-line sentences (see Goldstein's chapter in Walder 1996: 168). But I won't allow myself be drowned, no, not yet; I still have much more time-wasting to do. I'm reclaiming my weekends. This all brought about from some spontaneity, much apathy, and an overall lack of concern for the work left to do in the remaining days of this quarter. Nowadays, whenever my eyes fall upon my mound of books, all I really want to do is laugh and sleep. Wait, what? Well, so appears I should use some of the analytical and critical assessment skills, which for the past two months have been developed in class through much writing, to figure out what the hell I'm doing.

sea people and me.

Nothing new. Excessive consumption is surely, shirley conducive to the arts; and perhaps contributes to their image as stereotypically broke losers who reside on the side of the road. Certainly enjoyed a much-needed bike excursion after being dismayingly cooped up in the library attempting to analyze a few political economic articles. Ugh, fake sciences. Dear history, I'm coming back; currently drooling over my bountiful collection of primary sources right now - about Uighurs! Or as Penelope would have it...weeeegers.

Happy Birthday Jean

Maybe I've realized this before, but when it comes to me most realizations tend to disappear into the vastness of space after a few minutes, hours, or days. First of all, well hey just right now!I've developed a habit of sitting like a peasant with my left feet on the chair. And so I hear this blood that's gathered underneath my toenail isn't going away for two more months.

Second, more or less insignificantly, I tend to not take sides or have opinions on a lot of matters. Not really news, but offers a plausible explanation as to why the only thing coming out of me in a certain class lately has been my smiley smile. Smiles tend to beat stupid opinions at least. Like girls ranting about why there shouldn't be population control. Really...Really? Why don't you get the fuck outta here and go feed them then?

...so now that I've just been found guilty of some opinionated ranting, I just want to defend my occasional lack of opinions by the fact that the world tends to happen regardless of what youmetheyuswe thinks.

From religion's judgmental standpoint this is a lack of conviction. But if Dante's right, !and I think maybe that I should save up some money to place a bet regarding the afterlife once that technology becomes available! then hopefully I'll end up in the first circle of Limbo. Did you know that not only does it feature green fields and a castle, but is also populated by the likes of Homer and Virgil? !Finally!maybe! I will learn to appreciate the classics!

And maybe I'll have more opinions and convictions once there's proof that the eternal happiness that majestically!radiates throughout heaven is actually more of an eternal acid trip. Happy Birthday Jean.

"Every bear knows that honeyed tea can sweeten you dreams..."

Reverting. A walk through campus armed with MEH flask.

My mascot is a stupid tree, so perhaps its sparsely fitting that many varieties of fruits grow here. Next to classrooms. Outside my apartment. Apples, oranges, and limes. There's always something refreshing about them? Lately I've been "stealing" both limes and vodka (from fellow classmates) for the obvious concoction. All this while making a fool of myself, including my traditional stereotypical race rants. Maybe I had similarly assholes friends in the past, but that shit does not fly here.

I often stroll my neighborhood slash campus. Sure it's historical; pretty pillars and bricks and busts elicit that WOW effect to some degree. But sometimes I can't help but visualize all the dusty redundancy that surrounds me. The fact that prestige is somehow hinged upon history. Even peoples' attitudes here evince a great deal of nonsensical arrogance. Maybe its because that they think of themselves as people who should be looked upon as geniuses and deserve respect just based on that false asset.

Whatevers. I can go fuck a history right now.

So here i reside, comfortable in my stanford dormitory, with all the amenities and facilities that a near $40,000 tuition better goddamn afford. here i drift there i drift. orientation has brought me into a longed-for social contact with those with "similar interests," but amongst them i am still adrift. serious people with serious goals. and its to them that i try to lie and stretch my love for something i'd rather hide? such envy pains, such a pervasive envy at the ambitions emanating from those around me.

How the LA Times pulled a drive-by and nearly killed a friend who was standing in my frontyard.

Five, six, nights, weeks, [fuckit] since an honest, toxin-free natural sleep has actually descended onto an ungracefully noisome body. A little while ago, as I finally, but most importantly, consciously, awaken at an hour when most people with real lives and jobs get off work, I thought it'd be mentally refreshing to peruse them periodicals and be enlightened with all the bullshit and misery find its way into the press. I, alone and sympathizing with the unfortunate peoples for some minutes, secretly believing that such worldly moments will satisfy my substandard prerequisites for an adequately well-spent day. Then chucking that shit out the window, the same generous window which provided the light required to read in the first place, because as much as I'd honestly like to tell myself to care to remember, brain realistically declares! that I'm already bored for today, and that pattern recognition will throw me the same bone tomorrow.

Because the current focus as of now rests in MOPA: The Boardgame, set in Monterey Park, California, and surrounding areas. A game that you will never find in stores because of the possible hundreds of propertyrights privatedomain advertisingcopyright fuckyourself infringements that litter the board. A game made by the often-bored and slightly neurotic children of Monterey Park. Not because we'll play it in a few weeks, or even twenty years from now, and remember all those Tapioca Expresses and pleasant landmarks that defined our childhood. But because we'll be fueled with some degree of alcohol-induced cynicism as we play, asking ourselves if we really want to stab and mug a friend so we can steal his Tapioca Express as part of our violent path toward becoming Monterey Park's next fictitious mayor. Which we will because the pride and glory that comes with winning a game has never been so pointless. A game where, for the sake of fair and balance, the recently-graduated creators attempted to apply high-school-textbook knowledge of standard deviations, something we used to ace, but gave up halfway because pizza delivery came and set off a chain of irrelevant events so that they eventually just made up numbers. A game that is not finished.

Chapstick. There's nothing I lose more on a weekly basis that you, Chapstick.

someday. you'll feed on a tree frog.

Still voyaging. At the halfway point in my summer, I could say that I've come to realize the many monotonous joys that come from my deliberate absence of any plans and goals. But "coming to realize" obscures the fact that this was exactly what I've intended all along, minus the psychological results part. Somehow, the summer boredom that used to grind and gnaw away at my sanity now offers a much more enjoyable alternative when compared to my old and new companions who've suddenly, and mostly out of necessity, entered the responsibility-prone post-college world. The world where they dissipate from our radars as their time schedule resembles that of some eighth grader, except that they sometimes come home with a face conducive to creating some sort of domestic abuse. Minus the spouse, but rather on themselves. Kind of like some John Mayer music, where such bright young talent suddenly turned into some elderly Jack Johnson-esque shit.

Though it looks as if I should commit to something, it just got unbearably hot again. Weather is to blame. Blameblameblame.

"Tell me what wisdom or lesson I can possibly begin to share with the world about an afternoon's journey that began with the kindness of an old woman and ended with a front-row seat to a mass murder?"





I don't know, Mr. Futurist[slash]fictional character, conflicted protagonist in a depressingly cynical novel about the world's obsession with the future. Although it piques a fascinating impudence in my habitually-static mind, that perhaps from now on I will refuse to root for the protagonist. No matter how noble the said protagonist's intentions may be, and no matter how despicably immoral of designs that Mr. Antagonist wishes to impose upon a person, family, animal, or world, I believe I'll just fuck it for a day[slash]many days. Side with the bad, that dark side. Maybe because I am that evil. Ambivalent. Or you deem me ignorant. A "pussy" perhaps. Tunnel-visioned, immature, inexperienced. Disrespectfully unheeding of literary prose that such and such author worked so hard on. But in the end, it'll be refreshing to not care about the point. Misread a novel. Refuse to accept an argument that Mr. Author has supported with so many fine detailed examples.

Because after countless novels that officially began to suck starting high school English honors, where five unoriginal, overworked, short-answer questions followed every story, I bore. Such and such authors, editors, compilers with their little nice degrees, forcing me to acknowledge that the Greeks sure diddly-do know well how to write tragedies and comedies so that I can earn my full five points on them questions. As if to nudge you to think carefully about what they carefully think matters. The literary vicissitudes of human emotions.

Maybe I'll elaborate later. But more likely, when I read this again I'll mentally badger myself for what an asshole of an entry this is.

Daft - adj.

1.	senseless, stupid, or foolish.

2.	insane; crazy.

3.	Scot. merry; playful; frolicsome.

If explaining to one who asked, that it was two dudes in robot suits mixing stuff in a pyramid that periodically, spontaneously, and equivocally changed colors amidst a roaring stadium, such blandness would irrefutably sabotage the perfuse, visual epiphany that left some crying, others dazzled, but mostly folks like me and Claudio still wondering at 4 in the morning about what-in-fucks-plethora-of-meaning we had just witnessed. A most rewarding 90-minute discourse in the audiovisual color spectrum. Perhaps I'll never look at colorful lights the same way again. Dafted.

The captivating lobby ceiling at the Bellagio. Imagine that in light beams shooting everywhere (you could, but I don't know how close to the real thing you'd get).

I can look for something to do, I can pretend, I may crash. Through this blistering heat the consequences of the above mentioned are approximately the same. Relinquishing initiative - it's a very useful war strategy applicable to life. John F. Kennedy sure used it to his advantage. There are solitary figures behind every wall that echo a recurring, superlative wisdom. Cosmopolitan? Why yes, catchy with that chic flair, ambitiously waddling against the current. Constantly keeping a lookout for the uglies; beware!

Beautiful Benjamin here showing us how to relinquish initiative: