Menacing metropolis, righteous rural

            Stranded on the grey concrete island, I did a 360 spin and observed the madness unfolding around me. Checkered flags atop yellow glaciers crept along the blacktop rivers on either side of the island, while people danced and dodged them, crossing from the mainland to my tiny island and back. I tried crossing, but suddenly the glaciers rushed downstream and I stopped suddenly, my foot inches from the black, murky depths. I blink. Suddenly my head was throbbing, blood pulsating in my ears as I observed the scene around me now. The illusion gone, horns blared, lights flashed, cars raced down the street. The occasional screech of wheels could be heard from blocks away. I inhaled sharply; it was too much for me. The other people, strutting on the sidewalks, easily ignored the loud falafel vendors on the corners, whereas I got stuck on the island by the blinking orange hand of fate, let alone evade the beckoning commercialism.

            Blink again. It’s so loud. Not the cars and passersby now, the silence. A soft wind tickles my cheeks and I feel the heat on my neck. Turning, I squint my eyes as Phoebus’s chariot crosses the sky and enters my vision. I wish for a second that I could have taken some sunglasses with me from the shop that moments before had contributed to the ache of my crown. The breeze continues whipping playfully. The silence dies and a soft rustling begins. The tall golden wheat that surrounds me follows the wind as if God is tugging at their invisible marionette strings. A mockingbird leisurely flutters past me, serenading me with a cheerful song as I breathe in the crisp, clean air. My pain alleviated, I can think clearly with a clear mind and focused senses.

            Look down. Foot-shaped depressions in the grass seem to lead nowhere. I can only imagine who the footsteps might belong to, who I may be following, whose shoes I’m filling. This, right here – where I am right now – is where thinking happens. Theories are proven. Laws are made. Ideas are developed. No distractions can demand my attention, the only taxis present here are the Anemoi, giving save passage to a butterfly or a fallen leaf. Never before have I heard that Sir Isaac Newton developed his three laws on the F-train between 71^st Avenue and 36^th Street. Nor has it ever occurred to me that Galileo might have redesigned the telescope on a walk along Sunset Boulevard.

            Looking down the trodden path of footsteps, I notice the trail seems infinite, meandering about left and right, but continuing on nonetheless. The only way to be sure is to stay the course, don’t stray. The melody that the bird sings is tattooed on my eardrums and loops repeatedly inside my brain, to be transcribed only for musicians to play and all to hear. The wheat, though it dances, pauses for a moment that I might blink quickly and save its image in the hard drive of my mind. The chariot in the sky rides off, its horses galloping into the horizon, leaving me blind to the path I follow.

So many uncertainties when walking in the countryside, yet certainty lies in the cityscape. I may not know what comes next in the countryside, but I know for certain the city can’t be as good.

A Dramatically Fictitious Story of Why My Pinkies are Crooked

        Dr. Philip Kowalinski wasn’t feeling so well. His home had been foreclosed, he recently was made aware of his status as a cuckold, and his kids weren’t speaking to him.

Needless to say, he sought the safe, familiar comfort that we all long for in times of emotional distress and turmoil.

Dr. Philip Kowalinski went to a bar.

“Double Johnnie Walker blue, neat. Thanks.”

The bald bartender, initially caught a bit off-guard by the expensive request, replied “Coming right up.” He picked up the $225 bottle of scotch and a small glass.  “1… 2… 3… 4… There ya go, sir,” said Mr. Shiny Forehead, and slid the glass over to Philip.

“Thanks.”  Philip picked up the glass and tossed back its contents in a fluid motion that only years of drinking experience can provide.

Except for periodically ordering another double Johnnie Walker Blue Label, Dr. Philip Kowalinski sat at the bar in silence.

Two hours, a bottle of scotch, and $225 later, Dr. Philip Kowalinski stumbled out of the bar and into a taxi.

        Dr. Philip Kowalinski flinches at the explosions around him. He rubs his eyes and blinks in an attempt to defend his eyes from the needles that attack them.

Sitting up slowly, Philip grabs his aching head and squints at his sunlit front yard. He can see the trail of matted grass where the cab driver had dragged him from the sidewalk to the front door.

BOOM

Looking around frantically to stop the noise, Philip soon realizes the source of the noise is his pager.  Pop goes the weasel? he thinks.  When did I make that the ringtone? Looking down, he sees the word “STORK” flash on his pager.

Dr. Philip Kowalinski’s eyes widen at the sight of it. He quickly scrambles to his feet, brushes himself  off, and pulls out the “cellular phone” that the hospital has given him for precisely these sorts of predicaments.

“Hello? I need a cab at 410 Canal Street, Livingston, New Jersey STAT!”

Ten minutes later, Philip is back in another taxi and on his way to the hospital.

Philip throws a bill with Ulysses S. Grant at the cabbie, tells him to keep the change, and runs into the hospital. He scans his ID badge to clear security and throws on his white coat. Though extremely hung over, he won’t let his job suffer. The Stewarts are a good couple, and Joanne is supposed to be due any day now. He’s been their OB-GYN for 9 months, and he isn’t going to miss the end of it all just because of his depression-driven decisions from the night before.

He quickly, but efficiently, washes his hands and bustled into the delivery room.

“She’s at 10 centimeters, and there are 3 minutes between contractions. She’s ready.” The doctor’s assistant doesn’t give him a chance to apologize for his lateness. When Dr. Philip Kowalinski looks down at something he sees nearly every day, he knows why. This baby was coming. Coming quickly.

Philip Kowalinski has a strong stomach. On top of that he has experience. He received his bachelor’s degree in biology at Johns Hopkins University, and his medical degree at the Perelman School of Medicine at the University of Pennsylvania. He had done his residency at Jefferson University Hospital, and practicing medicine for 25 years.

All this to say that Dr. Philip Kowalinski has a very strong and experienced stomach. However, never in his 30+ years of medical experience has he done his job hung over. What happens next can probably be attributed to this fact combined with the bloody sight he was looking at, but there is truly no way of knowing.

        Number 1323394 enjoyed swimming. Of course, in this world there was no other mode of transporting oneself. So there he was one day just minding his own business, swimming along.

The collision was quick. He hadn’t seen her. In retrospect, he didn’t see how he missed her considering she was about fifty times his size. All he knew next is that he couldn’t leave her. It was almost like they were becoming one. Not in that cheesy, romantic way though. And most certainly not in some deep, spiritual way.  But they were actually becoming one physical being. On top of that, it felt like forever. No. 1323394 must have forgotten to wear a watch that day, because he lost track of time.

All of a sudden, he was blind. No, he wasn’t blind. In fact, the opposite was true. He could see. And he wasn’t aware of her anymore. He didn’t know if she’d left or if she’d disappeared or if he and she had actually become one. What mattered most was that he could see. He could see too much. Shouldn’t have left the Ray-Ban’s at home today, he thought. Not to mention he suddenly became so hungry. Outrageously hungry. Nobody’s ever been so hungry in the history of the world. Wait no, he had to poop. So many needs, and they were all striking at once. Overwhelmed, he just let out a bloodcurdling scream…

        I remember a man. An older man with a beard and goggles. He won’t let go of me. But there is something wrong with him. His hands are so determined to hold on to me, but his green complexion says that he wanted nothing to do with me.

I am covered in blood. I don’t think it is my own, but it is blood nonetheless. The man’s gloves are stained scarlet as he relentlessly tugs. I don’t notice at first, but I guess I am stuck because when I come free I just remember the primal fear.

Falling. I am falling. My life flashes before my eyes. "Free Fallin'" by Tom Petty blasts in my head. How do I know that song? I reach out helplessly to the man whom, just moments ago, I’d been trying to avoid. I can see the panic in his eyes, and he the panic in mine.

I suppose my fate is sealed. Turning to face the depths that I am falling into, I do what comes naturally and stick my hands out to brace myself for whatever lies below.

SNAP SNAP… BOING!

        Very few people know this, but the umbilical cord doubles as a bungee cord for adrenaline junky babies. The umbilical cord saved my life that day, but it was seconds too late to prevent a bit of damage that would become a permanent bodily deformity.

My pinkies are crooked, and it’s all because that damn drunken doctor Philip Kowalinski.

My Letter to Toms Shoes

Dear TOMS:

I would like to do those kids a favour, the ones without shoes. The world is a cruel place, and I am saving the children from the suffering that will continue if you give them shoes. It would be much more to their benefit if they should contract some sort of fatal infection via a cut or scratch in the foot. Only then can a child truly move on to the paradise of the neo-life.

Thank you for helping me save the souls of countless children. However, should you not follow my instructions, I will start my own shoe company called KENS. We will be your rival company, and our policy will be similar to yours, but in an opposite fashion. For every pair of shoes we sell, we will steal a pair from a young child in a third world country, thus saving them. It would be in your best interests to just follow my orders if you're all so "philanthropic".

In all seriousness though, I noticed right on your very own website that your shoes are manufactured in third-world nations already, such as Argentina, China, and Ethiopia. I happen to know that in these nations child labour laws are minimal or absent completely. Therefore, I accuse you, TOMS Shoes, of being hypocrites. Sure, you're providing shoes to children (which most people thing is benevolent), but they don't realize that you're forcing the kids to make the shoes which they just might wear.

Don't get me wrong, I think the concept is neat and your shoes all look really cool. But don't put up a philanthropic front if you're just going to have kids working in factories to make them anyway. Just be a normal shoe company like Nike or Adidas or Phat Farm. Ok, don't be like Phat Farm, nobody wears those anymore.

Having said all this, I plan on purchasing a pair of your shoes in the near future. However, I don't want you, under any circumstances, to give a child a pair of shoes with my order. I will not contribute to your hypocrisy and it ends here. I've already told all my friends about this, and it would be a shame if you lost any more customers because of this.

Hoping you heed my advice,
Kenny (aka Child Saviour)

Ten seconds

Drive ten seconds with your eyes closed

Let the car drift as it will
Don’t peek, don’t touch the wheel


Doesn’t it feel good?

Knowing for these ten seconds
You have no control?


Things will happen as they will,
You’ll probably live
But the chance there lies
Whatever you do,

Don’t open your eyes.

Instantaneous Existence

As any decent science student knows, there is a delay (though negligible) between the neurons firing across the synaptic gap and processing the information of said firing. Now consider the speed of light and the speed of sound. When one combines the miniscule neurological delays with the time it takes for the light rays to travel to the eyes or sound to the ears, the delay is perhaps doubled, though still microscopic.

I have reached a conclusion after toying with the concept of these delays: it is impossible for anyone or any living thing to exist instantly. Regardless of how quick someone's synapses are or how fast the speed of light is, it can never all occur at once. In other words, nobody has ever, is, or will ever live precisely in the moment of an event.

Think about it. When you look at a tree, you're not seeing it as it is now. You're seeing it as it was 0.000000000000000001 seconds ago. Though this is close to the moment you see it, it's not the instant you see it. You are never hearing a song at the part that it is currently at, you are hearing the part it was at 0.0000001 seconds ago.

With this conclusion, I would be willing to agree with Descartes in his assertion of mind-body dualism. When a man (or woman) thinks about what he will do in the next instant, he is taking into account all the aspects of his condition at the time he is experiencing. If he is not perceiving the instant he is actually in, then he cannot trust his senses to prove his existence in a moment. If he cannot trust his senses but he is still a thinking thing, then his mind is independent of his body.

This is not to say that you should not trust your senses from day to day; after all, they are all we have in the physical realm. However, be cautious. Xbox Live isn't the only thing that can lag...

Purpose?

Although it has no doubt been questioned before, I would like to ask it once more: What is the purpose of life?

As everyone says, money can't buy everything and I won't for a second entertain such a notion. However, the money fueling such materialistic pretenses can allegedly not buy happiness, but is this to say that happiness is our purpose?

For instance, I can purchase an Xbox 360 and thoroughly enjoy myself and have times of great fun. However, once I progress from my Xbox stage and have had my fun, what comes next? In this sense, happiness is like a drug. As it has been described by drug addicts, the purpose for continuing to use a drug is to chase the first high or to continue smoking is to feel the sense of relieved stress that they felt the first time they smoked. If this is the case with happiness, then happiness can't be that good of a thing.

I have many a-time pondered upon this topic considering perhaps the purpose may be companionship. However, such a source of pleasure is not stable enough to be our sole purpose of "existence" (if we exist, that is). Our friends and family can provide times of joy, as well as distress, so at the troughs of these waves of emotion, the fickleness of friendship is questionable.

So if happiness - comparable to a drug - and friendship - unstable as can be - are not our reasons for living, what is the reason?

The Sword

I've just set sail,
My sword in hand.
Land ho! is called
Before I planned.

I feel that I've
Been here before.
This place is not
A foreign shore.
Familiar yes,
But I want more.

Legend holds
There is a beach,
Always in sight,
Just out of reach.
How to get there,
You cannot teach.

Inhabitants
Are native, so
How to find it
They do not know.

A man stands there.
Drop your sword! he shouts.
Can I trust him?
I have my doubts.
Why?, I call.
You'll soon find out.

I toss the sword
Into the sea.
The man, he grins.
I gasp with glee.
The shore draws nearer
Towards me.

Is this not
The land you seek?
I nodded yes;
I could not speak.
My future here
Would not be bleak.

Never again pick up a blade
If you enjoy this peace we've made.

Firefighters

I sit and observe, not an active member
Though occasionally I will take a poke at the embers
Add fuel until the flame is an appropriate height
Finally, an adequate source of light
Erect a screen on which you project the show
A pay-per-view fight rather, as you exchange blows

From a safe distance, I sit and enjoy the view
Your brawls, so routine, present nothing new
Until the screen ignites; fire chases me
But I've no place to go, nowhere to flee
I prepare for battle and hoist my sword
Off to fight I go, please forgive me, Lord

Though evenly matched we three may be
Experience is your advantage over me
Back and forth we quarrel, no progress made
We tire and retreat back to the shade
Trouble may never cease to brew
But we'll all be friends in a day or two

Colour me

How do you do?
No, I am not Chinese, I am Filipino.
Yes, the Philippines.
Yes, Filipino.

Oh?
So that’s where you got that yellow skin.
Jet black hair?
Oh, so you’ve had spicy tuna rolls?
Not me either.
Oh, so you’ve been to Comic-Con?
I find it boring.

Yeah, we have towns in New York and San Francisco.
It was a mighty nice of you.
I don’t know where to get good sake.
Still not me.
No, I don’t know how they make the purses look so real.
No, I don’t wear this everyday, I just left Tae Kwan Do practice.
Thank you, I like your black, thick framed glasses, too.
I don't have a dojo.
No, I don’t watch Dragonball-Z.
No I didn’t invent Pokémon,
But I did collect the cards.
No, I’m not looking at the sun.

These are my eyes.

Nessie and the Viking

I was in the Scottish highlands doing some hiking
I reached Loch ness where I spotted a viking
He was all caught up in a battle with Nessie
He could've used a comb because his beard was so messy
He raised his sword and began to yell
You could tell this viking was giving Nessie hell
He fought and screamed and pounded his chest
This viking was better than the rest
Next thing I knew, Nessie made a bad move
It appeared that this viking was getting in his groove
He slashed and stabbed and dodged and ducked
Anyone could have seen that Nessie was fucked
Mr. Viking went "CUT" and it was off with the head
Nessie's body floated in the water clearly dead
The viking had Nessie's head as a trophy for his wall
But the viking was a warrior much different from all
He used physics to help him win the fight
And his sword was ceramic; he made it one night
He then let out a victorious belch
And that was how I met Mr. Welsch

Sincerely...

To whom it may concern
From the elephant in the room
Based on my observations
I sense impending doom.

But it's not the way you think
Not a normal sense of ruin
You're speaking different languages
In which none of you is fluent.

You can't credit a third-party
With fueling the complications
It's evident that your specialty
Is not communication.

Sincerely, here I sign
The elephant in the room
Learn from what I say I have seen
And rather, you may bloom.

Now here is a message from
The spying fly on the wall
At least he likes to think that he
Is O, so very small.

I've seen your many hardships,
I've seen you have a ball
But I implore you to refrain
From getting me involved.

I've grown accustomed to
The events that here transpire
But I have a feeling that pretty soon
The house just may catch fire.

Sincerely, I conclude
From the fly, humble and wee
I imagine envy fills your hearts
For I am truly free.

Voice of an Era

Above the chattering of the people, a distinct BOOM! is heard.
This is just the beginning.

Whew! BOOM! Whew! BOOM! Whew! BOOM!

He creates sounds that remind man of times preferably left forgotten, in oblivion.
Though many try to conceal their emotions with a stoic front, their efforts are in vain as tears steadily pour from their eyes.

The ants believed it to be raining as the salty tears fell to the earth below.

Sniffle, sniffle, hiccup! Sniffle, sniffle, hiccup! Drip, drip, drip.

But of course, going above and beyond is his specialty.
Citizens scream.

Aaaaahhh!!! Aaaaahhh!!! Waaaaahhhh! Wah, wah, wah!

The crowd files out as they reflect on what they’d just heard.

Meta

It is that which wrings the soul of feeling
Drenching a page with ink, organised in curls
It is that which the creator makes appealing
If a girl, to a boy; if a boy, to a girl.
It is that which provokes scorn and laughter
The question remains as to the stranger's wit
It is that which may incite grins after
Perhaps frowns; asses may elect to quit.
It is that which elicits the utmost confusion
Interpretations subjective, as is to be expected
It is that which utilises the most complex illusions
Many a-time they proceed undetected.
Alas, don't read too much into what I've just said,
The topic I speak of is what you've just read.

An Appeal to Metric

America, I have one question for you: Where have you been since the late 20th century?

Perhaps, I shouldn't have named this "An Appeal to Metric", but rather "Why customary?" What I'm struggling to understand is why halfway through the 20th century, most countries would decide "screw metrics, customary is the way to go" even though the metric system functioned perfectly well for over a century. What I'm struggling to understand even more is why, when everyone decided "customary was a mistake, we're going back to metrics", America remained customary.

Ignore, my prior regrets as to the name of this post - this is where the appeal comes in. First off, it makes interaction unnecessarily complicated. If we converted to the metric system, not only would international businesses benefit from ease of commerce, but there would be no need to bother with those cumbersome conversions from metres to feet or litres to gallons, and vice versa. All the units would be universal, which in turn would allow for quicker, more efficient trade.

Furthermore, the metric system is set up in such a "user-friendly" manner, for lack of a better term. The metric system, unlike the customary system, has a central measurement on which all other units of measurement of the same type (length, volume, weight, etc.) are based. For example, the unit of measurement for length, the metre, has variations such as the centimetre for smaller measurements and the kilometre for large distances (one-hundredth of a metre and 1,000 metres, respectively). Similarly, the litre functions as a measurement of volume with millimetres and kilolitres as smaller and larger units (one-thousandth of a litre and 1,000 litres, respectively).

Now, take the customary system. Let's start with length, what is the basic unit of measurement for length? A foot? An inch? A freaking football field? Who knows? Also, the division of them is overly complicated. The mile is divided into 1760 yards, a yard is divided into 3 feet, a foot is divided into 12 inches. A kilometres, however, is 1,000 metres, one metre is 100 centimetres, and so on.

Granted the United Kingdom measures speed in miles per hour, but it shouldn't be hard for them to adjust to kilometres per hour, as they use it for distance there.

Perhaps you may be thinking "But Kenny, the switch will result in disaster! Nobody will understand the new units? And how will all of our products in stores become measured in terms of the metric system?!"

To answer your first question, students are already taught in school the metric system under the alias "SI units" or "International System of Units". The problem is that American students are told that this is a supplementary system of measuring only used for scientific experiments. All we have to do is teach students this system as the only system, thus rendering the customary system obsolete. Besides, the measurement of an inch is already in terms of a metric measurement: the inch is defined as 39.79 inches=1 metre, according to the Mendenhall Order of 1893.

To answer your second question, keep the same sizes, just convert their customary system measurements to metric system measurements. For example, change the label on a pound of steak from one pound to 0.45 kilograms. Or just ask a metric country what they measure their products in and follow suit. Not too difficult.

If you, like me, have been wondering why America hasn't converted to the metric system (yet), I have a theory:
"America is the best country in the world, and therefore we should have our own system of measurement that other countries don't use."

-This theory can't be true; America picked up the English system from Great Britain before the imperial system was standardised in 1824. Though the English system and American system aren't the same, they are very close and the units vary only slightly.

-This theory could be true: Americans are stubborn and prideful.


I propose America switches over to the metric system as soon as possible, or at least show signs of changing by the end of 2011. Also, we should get Liberia and Burma on board for metrication as well. We're all stuck in the same imperial bubble. In summation, the global metrication of the world would be most convenient and pragmatic

Plus, I really want to be able to say when I'm older "I remember when they sold milk by the gallon."

Theory of Relativity: A Concept Explored

It's quite often I ponder the world; that is to say, it's quite often I ponder the mechanisms and purposes behind the world's many processes. However, today in my American history class, we were made to read an excerpt from a book about Einstein's Theory of Relativity. This got me thinking about abstract concepts of time, light, sound, and waves; these concepts, except time, we have just begun to study in physics.

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Einstein's Theory of Relativity, it essentially changed the world's views on the space-time continuum. In a nutshell, it states that relative to the human eye, light is moving at incomprehensibly fast speeds, thus allowing us to see. Each colour that is in the visible light spectrum is a different wavelength: red is between 600-800 micrometres, purple is about 400 micrometres and so on. Since each wave has a wavelength and speed of the wave's reflection depends on the medium of the wave's travel (usually air, sometimes water), the colours we actually see are just reflected light waves.

In other words, what the eye sees each second is a reflection of light off of an object. Every time you see something changing before your eyes, what you're really seeing is a different reflection of light waves off of an object.

This is where Einstein's theory gets extremely theoretical and extremely advanced. The estimated speed of light in air 299,792,458 metres per second. Each second that a purple shirt is lying on a sidewalk, that shirt's colour will travel 299,792,458 metres at a wavelength of 400 micrometres. If, and that's a BIG "if" we were somehow able to create a ship that could travel faster than that speed, theoretically we would be able to time travel.

Now I know you're probably thinking, WHAT?! How could that possibly mean you can time travel? Think about it: How can you be positive that an event is taking place? By seeing said event, obviously. What happens if you're moving faster than the light of the event that you're supposed to be seeing? You are ahead of the event itself in terms of the space-time continuum.

Hopefully if you've reached this point, you somewhat understood what I was trying to explain. Having explained the theoretic possibility of time travel, I leave you all with one simple question that I've been pondering all day:

If you're moving faster than light, what DO you see?

Alter-Egos

First of all, I would like to apologise to the one person, Sung Li in Laos, who reads this - though only because she's trying to learn English. I haven't blogged in forever and I regret not doing so.

That being said, I have a story to tell:

As you may know, I'm big on doing accents. I recently had it confirmed by legitimate British people who live in England and speak with British accents that my accents are, in fact, extremely authentic. So you can imagine my surprise - nay, astonishment - when I began speaking to myself in a British accent and it sounded like a Mexican girl trying to tell the world that she's just finished a cup of tea on the train returning from Hogwarts with a baked potato halfway down her throat. (That means it was awful.) I nearly burst into tears as I rushed my dog back into the house, rushed to my Harry Potter film collection, and attempted to shove all six DVD's into the player at once.

The above anecdote was just a little intro to today's real topic: Alter-Egos. Recently (as in 4 months ago), I was exposed to the cult classic film that is Fight Club. For those of you who haven't seen it, stop reading immediately and go watch it. Netflix. Blockbuster. Torrent. WATCH IT. If you don't watch it and plan on watching, skip the next paragraph because it IS a spoiler.

The narrator of the film, played by Ed Norton, has an alter-ego named Tyler Durdern, played by Brad Pitt. Brad Pitt plays Ed Norton's characters "id", which is the psychological term for the part of a person's subconscious that acts impulsively and does what it wants.

Now, you may be thinking "How many alter-egos could you possibly have, Kenny?" The answer is "Several." Your next question probably is "how legitimate could these alter-egos be?" My answer to you would be "Legitimate enough to blog about." I'll introduce you to them one by one.



-Eugene. This alter-ego is the most Tyler Durden-esque. Ed Norton in Fight Club has extreme insomnia. The only reason Brad Pitt exists is because of a condition called "mininaps" common in insomniacs. Brad is the one who creates Fight Club, Project: Mayhem, all the other impulsive things; he only did so because he was Ed Norton's character in his sleep. If you don't know me very well, you don't know that I, too, am an insomniac. Over the summer was my biggest case of insomnia. I would stay up for days at a time to the point that one day as I began my book for summer reading (which I had to write an essay on), I suddenly spaced out. When I became aware again, I noticed that I was holding my printed essay in my hands. Eugene had taken over my body, finished my book, and written my essay. Often times I would start off at home and end up at Bennigan's with my friends. Everything that happens in the spaciness of mininaps, at least to me, is done through Eugene. Eugene, I acknowledge your existence and would like to thank and welcome you into my life.

-Simon. This bloke is, you guessed it, British. My fascination with accents resulted in my ability to pick them up. This friendly Londoner, unlike Eugene, is a conscious alter-ego I intentionally put on. Occasionally when I'm in the mall or at a summer camp or going to a new school (that hasn't happened yet, but when I go to uni I'll totally do it), I'll activate Simon and start speaking with an accent. I've devised a whole identity for him, as well as my other conscious alter-egos. He's probably my most believable conscious alter-ego as well because of how solid my British accent is.

-Patty. With a stereotypical Irish name, this alter-ego enjoys a nice pint of Guinness and some cheery folk music. He often comes off as leprechaun, though only in my own fault; I'll occasionally forget that if I don't intentionally make my voice deeper, he sounds like his Lucky Charms have been stolen. When it is a quality impersonation, it's spot on. Try not to be fooled if you ever catch me at a restaurant ordering with a little jiggy tone.

-Sean. Scottish and damn proud of it, Sean is a lad who wouldn't mind being treated to an ice cold Irn-Bru. If you run into Sean at Disney World, Universal, or Busch Gardens, feel free to say hi, but don't say anything bad about Scotland. He'll kill ye (See Begbie in the film Trainspotting). If you ever stop by a rugby or football match with Scotland playing, you might be able to find him in the sea of Scotch blue shouting the national anthem, "Flower of Scotland" at the top of his lungs. Wanna hear a live bagpipist? He's your guy.

So I hope you enjoyed the company of my four closest friends. In case you're wondering, yes I do speak to Simon, Patty, and Sean on a daily basis. Out of the three, Simon and Sean are my favourites. Patty is often nowhere to be found, probably at my mental pub. So if you see me talking to myself, I'm not REALLY talking to myself and I'm most definitely not alone.



And to finish the anecdote from the beginning, I woke up this morning and Simon was back. I suppose he went on vacation. I could use one of those. Regardless of where he went, I'm sure he had a wonderful time.

Vlogging too?!?!?!

Hey, all you readers (or reader). I realise it's been a while since you've heard from me, but I'd just like to announce that my rants can now be seen/heard on YouTube. Simply click the following link, and you will gain access to all (though not many as of now) of my rants/complaints/views on/about/regarding society.

CLICK ME!!!
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Hipster? Nah...

Recently I've been informed that I am partaking in the ever-growing hipster lifestyle. I have one question: how? I was sent the following link as a means of explaining how I'm a hipster, and I agree with a few of the points on there, but other than that, I don't see why I've been hastily labelled a hipster. I can understand the whole sarcasm and ironic part. I do have sarcastic proclivities but I don't see how I can be very ironic considering I don't fully understand what irony is. (Not to say I don't have any grasp on the concept, I just don't understand how it can apply to daily life) I also enjoy musical tastes that aren't very popular. But that's only because I enjoy broadening my tastes and talking to other people about music. I don't think that necessarily makes me a hipster. As for the hipster fashion, I don't think I am included AT ALL. First off, I have no money to fund a hipster's wardrobe, because if I were a hipster it would be the splurging and wealthy one, not the cheap and thrifty [ironic] one. Furthermore, I was under the impression that hipsters don't care about anything. This couldn't be further from the truth. In fact, I develop obsessions rather quickly. As my readers will remember, I have Anglophilia (obsession with Brits and Ires). I always thought hipsters were people who are aloof and just go wherever they feel like going and doing enjoy anything except music, sex, and drugs. Sure, I like music, but I'm not one for drugs, and I've never partaken in sexual acts, but I can imagine most people would dig sex if they had experienced it. Similarly, I thought hipsters were aiming to be individuals, not be homogenous to the rest of society. If this is the case, then I am not a hipster. I try too hard to be like other people to be a hipster. I am simply the result of the people I know and try to act like.


To conclude, Jack Kerouac has been labelled the original hipster due to his book "On the Road", which defined the Beat generation. However, it was recorded in an interview that Jack "hated the Beat generation". It wasn't about people who were going where they wanted and did whatever they wanted. It was about the era when people were beaten down (oppressed, if you will) by everything, so they had no choice but to do so. Second of all, the Beat generation was defined by his book as the 50's. Jack Kerouac simply got the book published in the 50's. The events in the book actually occurred in the 40's. So apparently Jack didn't even write about the era he defined. To connect this to hipsterdom, it has been stated that hipsters are simply a Beat revival. If I were to revive the alleged "Beat" generation (the 50's), I'd be doing the twist and listening to Elvis, Buddy Holly, and Chuck Berry. And I don't listen to any of those geezers.

Score
Hipsters: 0
Me : 100000

Wait... Don't hipsters blog? Damnit...

A Summer-y of the Summer (Haha...)

I consider this summer a summer of discovery. Not a discovery of land, electricity, or mathematic formulas (well I didn't discover them). This summer - the hot and humid summer of 2010 - was, indeed, a summer of discovery. I discovered myself. Now before you laugh at the corniness of that statement, let me explain. I will begin by outlining what I discovered about myself:
-Music
-Communication
-Preference
The awesome part is that they are all connected. (Side note: If you don't want to read the worst and most dragging blog ever, please skip to the 2nd to last paragraph. I was distracted while writing this, so it's a terrible blog post.)

I suppose I'll start with music. As you may or may not know, I go to FSU every summer for their summer music camps. Choral camp, specifically. While there, I roomed with a kid I met at last year's All-County choir. He and I both played guitar and took the guitar class at the camp. We shared our musical interests and gave advice on playing, singing, etc. However, while there the men's choir sang an Irish folk song called "Fergus an' Molly". Also, while there, my roommate bought a CD by the Irish band Flogging Molly. This is where the communication portion will take over.

While I and all of my friends speak English, there are still many ways of using the language. All of my life, I have had an enormous fascination with accents, mainly English, Scottish, and Irish. Then a friend suggested the movie "Trainspotting" to me, and it was the spark to my obsession. If you read earlier post, you know the extent of these obsessions. Most recently I've distinguished the difference between the Irish and Scottish accent. One day as I was leaving Ross, I walked down the sidewalk and saw a store called A Touch of Tartan, which is filled with only Celtic/Gaelic products and other British goods. The owners are from Scotland themselves, so I spoke to them and I've decided to go to the store everyday for the rest of my life. (Exaggeration) But I also recently downloaded the complete discographies of Irish bands Flogging Molly and The Pogues (Still music related.). The accents are coming along alright, but the more exciting part is that I now have RosettaStone for Irish (Gaelic/Gaeilge), Tagalog, French, and Italian. I should probably learn Tagalog first because my mom's entire side of the family speak it. But I'm working most on Irish because it's a lesser-known language and I think it's more interesting. So we'll see how that goes...

I guess now it's time for the preference portion. As I'm sure you know, the English are famous for their tea traditions and whatnot. So recently I have taken a liking to all teas. I used to only enjoy sweet tea and flavored teas, but I actually decided that iced tea is best served unsweet and with a bit of lemon juice. But most recently (as in yesterday), I bought two boxes of Twinings of London tea. I got Irish Breakfast Tea and English Breakfast Tea. They are simply delicious. I have a pot of hot water and all I've been doing all night is pouring hot cups of water and putting bags of tea in them. (Or making tea if you wanna be a killjoy.) I think I'm on cups 11-12. I've been making them in pairs so I drink an even number of English and Irish teas.

On top of those three main things, I've been taking two online classes: Pre-Calculus and HOPE (Health Opportunities throught Physical Education). I recently finished only Pre-Calculus (today).

So here I sit. Naked on my living room floor. (I'm home alone for the weekend, so that's what I do when I'm home alone.) I rode my bike to Office Depot this afternoon to buy my school supplies and I had to bring a backpack to carry all of the stuff. I can't believe school starts next Tuesday. Less than a week. Ugh.

However, my summer will end perfectly. Tomorrow, I'm going to a Demetri Martin show. Then school starts. The second day of school I'm going to a Jack Johnson concert. The third day of school is my birthday. The first Saturday of the school year, I get my license.

This was a terrible blog post because I'm so distracted. I'm sitting naked on the carpet with my laptop on my right side, and my guitar on my lap, while watching Friends and getting up to make more tea every five minutes. I apologize. If you would like a better explanation, just hit me up I suppose haha.

P.S. I also got CPR Certified. I can save your life.

American-Born Scot, Update

So if you'll look below, you'll see a post that says "My Life as an American-Born Scot". This is because I'm trying to master an Edinburgh Scottish accent. I'd gotten pretty good at it up until about a week ago.

I came across an Irish folk choir song that my friend sang and I was a huge fan of. However they sang the song in an Irish accent. Now what's the problem, you may ask? I'll tell you: as I began to hum and whistle the song to myself, I also began to sing it to myself... IN AN IRISH ACCENT. Of course you're probably wondering why this is a problem.


Well if you're geographically advanced as I am, you know that Scotland and Ireland are both on the British Isles so they have somewhat similar accents. HOWEVER, they have some IMMENSE differences about other things.

For example: a Scotsman would pronounce the word "about" as 'aboot', or 'aboat'. An Irishman would say it 'abaht' or 'abut'.

Another example: Scotsmen say the world the letter "I" as 'ay'. So if you came across Gerard Butler or Ewan McGregor, he would say "Ay 'ave never meht yew bafore ehn may layfe." (I have never met you before in my life.) The Irishman next to him would say "Oi hahv nehver maht you bafore in me loife."

The letter "R" is also key in both accents. Scots roll their R's heavily. If they don't roll it, they flip it. On the other hand, Irish people don't roll the R, but they overuse the r sound. It's quite hard to remember .

Scottish people also tend to say the "i" in words like "lift" as "lehft". Irish say it more like "laft". Scottish also say "word" as 'werd', which Irish say "wahrd".


But anyway, the problem is that Oi'm star'en tae fahrgeht whech is whech (I'm starting to forget which is which) and I'm getting them mixed up. But I've decided from now until I master it, I'm going to stay away from all Irish influences and focus only on the Scottish culture. I even checked a book out from the library about Scotland. I'm very excited to read it. I've also become very fond of the Scottish national anthem, "Flower of Scotland". It's not the official national anthem, as Scotland is part of the UK (whose national anthem is technically "God Save the Queen" and oddly enough goes to the same tune as "My Country 'Tis of Thee").

As you can tell, my life is a wreck right now...