Superbowl Sunday

Despite the fact that I haven't watched the Superbowl for years (not even the commercials or half time), despite the fact that I never know who's playing or where it is or how it works or even when exactly it is...I can't help being jealous anytime I hear about families getting together to watch the Superbowl.

When I was little (back when the Cowboys were really successful), my family used to go to my parents' friend's house for every single Superbowl and most of the other Sunday night football games. The family whose house we went to had an adopted son who was a few years older than my big brother and they had three different houses that I can distinctly remember (the first of which being across the street from ours' which is how we knew them).

I always brought a book or some toys with me because everyone there was an adult except for their kid and my big brother who always played with each other. Because we were the same size, the dog always thought we were playmates, but even then I wasn't a big fan of pets so I had no one to play with.

When the mom of the host family could tell that I was getting bored with the game, or if all of the other adults were picking on me, she would always let me have some Rocky Road ice cream while we sat in the kitchen, just the two of us. I hated Rocky Road ice cream because I don't like nuts or marshmallows, but I never told her this because I felt so special getting ice cream and didn't want to hurt her feelings.

Going to watch the game at their house was where I first discovered priceless things like beanie weanies, that you're not supposed to swallow gum, and that people who don't like the Cowboys wear giant foam pieces of cheese on their heads.

I also learned the words "breast cancer."

The mom of the family, Carla, had breast cancer for the third time. Her mom had had it too and she had died when she was three (this sentence, copied exactly how my mom told me, confused me for at least five years as I tried to figure out how Carla could've been born if her mom had died when she was three). Some of her sisters had it too and this was why they adopted their son so he wouldn't have it. Breast cancer was something that made you have no hair. Other than that, I couldn't figure out how it hurt you.

One night, when my parents had left my brother and I home alone for the night, Carla's husband left a message on the answering machine saying that Carla had died.

I remember my brother screaming as tears poured down his red face. He was nine. I was seven. I didn't cry. I wanted to, but I couldn't. I figured that being nine must mean that you understand something you can't understand when you're seven and that makes death more sad. I suppose I was right because, looking back on it, I didn't actually think Carla was gone. I knew she was dead, but I thought that meant she was my guardian angel now. A selfish thought, if you think about it.

Every year when the Superbowl rolls around or anytime a friend tells me that they're watching the game with their family, I get a little jealous. I miss that feeling of being around a bunch of people who (kind of) care about each other eating potato chips and home made salsa while the game plays on the television and the wives all gossip on the porch with the dogs running around their ankles and one lone kid (who never has and never will care about football) eats a bowl of Rocky Road ice cream in the kitchen.

Gabriela Garcia Medina

Last night, she performed at my school. She was awesome.

Earlier this week, a traveling Buddhist teacher (who holds a Masters from St. John's) came to speak and he mentioned how jaded college students get from professors always having to be politically correct. He said how people who don't give a fuck about being politically correct are very refreshing when you're in/just out of college. I'm not talking racial slurs or anything equally heinous. What I mean (and what he meant) is someone who just says what they mean without being concerned about offending someone in the room.

When he said this, I agreed about how the extent to which professors are PC is a bit bogus, but didn't really think I'd automatically enjoy someone just because they have an unadulterated way of thinking.

But last night I got it. I completely understood what he meant. Gabriela Garcia Medina (ps - for the past two weeks as her performance has been advertised on campus I keep mistakenly calling her Gabriel Garcia Marquez) says what she wants. I wouldn't even say that she's particularly un-PC, but her energy and her manner and her insistence that she is a revolutionary makes you feel that she is.

Here's my favorite verse of the poetry that I heard last night as well as the one that probably best sums up her style (and a style I aim for):

"Know that when the Revolution comes
I will be prepared in green fatigues, combat boots with a top of the line AK
And underneath it all….
my favorite set of matching lingerie"

Hahaha, great. Ok, that doesn't nearly do her rhyming and rhythm or energy any justice, but it's funny.

I was thinking today about a group project I did freshman year in my theatre class. We had to create a film company and block a skit and advertise for it and such. We spent a whole six weeks on it and it was loads of fun. I got to know the people in my group pretty well. We decided to give ours a Star Wars theme. To open our presentation we turned out all of the lights in the black box and staged a duel with lightsabers we made out of flashlights and gels we jacked from the stage lights. Our group ended up winning best overall film company.

As I thought back on the project, I realized that out of the six of us in the group one is now in jail and another has died.

Guess we weren't such a winning group after all.

Or were we? The boy who died was an amazing guy who left behind ingenius art work and the guy in jail was arrested for playing paintball inside the school one night.

Hm.

Last Hour of 2008

In some (better) parts of the world, 2008 has already ended. The time differences across the world had the biggest impact on me in 1999 when several parts of the world had already entered the new millenium. News stations were calling China all day to ask if the world had ended. Could they not tell themselves?

Earlier I read a poem by Alfred Lord Tennyson about the "old year" dying. It was no "Ulysses," but a nice accidental read for today.

I thought I'd take a moment to list some of the things that happened in 2008:

My parents celebrated their 25th anniversary.
I turned 18.
My brother turned 21.
My mom turned 50.
The Summer Olympics were held in Beijing.
I graduated high school.
I began college.
I voted for the first time ever.
Barack Obama was elected the first biracial president of the United States.

Basically, more milestones than should ever happen in one year. In addition, there were more personal milestones for me that I'd rather not write about on here. What I'm trying to get at is that 2008 was a remarkable year. I anticipate a calmer, more normal 2009. Or, as normal as a year can be when you don't know where you're going and every day you discover a new truth, a new friend and a new direction.

Less than an hour left.

I'm home alone. All plans fell through. If I weren't imprisoned by that ridiculous "no driving on New Year's Eve" rule (ok, it's a legitimate rule, but I don't see any of my friends subjected to a similar fate), I could be party-hopping with Clay, on my way to Glen Rose, or taking a last drive with Max before he returns to Michigan.

Is this supposed to foreshadow the rest of the year? Being alone and battling between depression at my missed opportunities and bleak apathy to not care about silly things like New Years?

Last year, I knew what was coming. I was going to turn 18, graduate, start college, vote. There would be the Olympics and election buzz. Sure, it was all scary and an emotional roller coaster, but I knew that going into it.

What does 2009 hold? I have no fucking idea.

So here's me: over analyzing everything and simultaneously convincing myself that there is no cosmological-symbolic reasoning for anything in this universe. Here's me playing the tough misanthrope who sees no reason why tonight should be unlike any other, while I honestly want nothing more than to be at a party with a glass of champagne to toast and a boy to kiss at midnight.

2009 is a prime number. It's not divisible by anything. It stands on its own. Strong? Or lonely? I guess we'll find out at the end of this hour. Except that they already know in other (better) parts of the world. Maybe I'll call up China....Ni hao ma? Qing wen....

Rest in Peace

Maybe it was providence that I didn't get more involved with the Student Peace Alliance this semester. As cool as the idea of being so politically active was, I always felt a Department of Peace wouldn't really do anything. I also felt bad because I had selfish reasons for wanting to go to the meetings. Apart from wanting to be a part of a group of kids I thought were really cool, I mostly wanted to go to see that cute senior with the chin piercing who had invited me to the drum circle. He was essentially the president (though Martin was the real one) and he was into all sorts of spiritual ideas and practices I was familiar with.

I'll never forget the night of the first Korouva party of the year. I had too much homework to attend, but the whole crowd of Student Peace Alliance and Korouva people ran through all the halls of Mabee (and the entire campus) banging on cymbals, djembes, maracas and any other makeshift instrument they could get their hands on, screaming for revolution and for the party that night. I watched from the third floor balcony as they shouted their way out of the building. The last one out, pounding his soul into his stout djembe, was the cute boy who had invited me. I punched a revolution fist into the air as he looked back. Then, staring straight at me now, he thrust his fist up with a heart-jarring shout that shook every fiber in my body. And with that, he turned and left behind the others, beating his drum all the way.

He died last night. He was hit by a car while crossing Highway 29.

I never got to know him like I wanted to. I feel almost intrusive to be so hurt by his death when I wasn't as close to him as others, but that just goes to show how unique he was that I can feel so deeply for him after only having spoken to him on a few occasions. He was the one person in the Student Peace Alliance who I thought would really make a difference. Someone I thought I would hear about in a few years, lobbying for that fire in his heart, for peace, for a peace that he never saw.

It seems strange to say "rest in peace," when peace meant so much more to you than a pithy saying. But you are in peace now. A peace we've all dreamt for. A peace you fought for. A peace we will all continue to fight for in your honor.

Your drum will never stop beating.

Rest in peace, Rob Atkinson.

Distastefully Written Prattle Through the Looking Glass

As per usual, I was exponentially less productive this break than I anticipated. It had been my hope to finish all of my work before Thanksgiving Day so I could spent the rest of the break reading leisurely (I have so many books from people that are waiting for me), listening to my 4.3 gigabytes of new music, messing around with Final Cut Express 4 and attempting to relax for once.

Alas, all that will have to wait until Christmas Break when I honestly have no homework (except for three videos to edit for the school and a book to read for Dr. PM's book club next semester).

When will I learn to set reasonable goals for myself? Now, here I could justify my actions by saying that setting unreasonable goals is how one achieves greatness even if one does not fulfill their goals entirely, they've still gotten further than the average person with reasonable goals might (something I do believe). However, the fact of the matter is that I feel ashamed, stressed out and often depressed when I don't accomplish everything I set out for myself to do. It's typically that I don't realize how long it really takes to do things and how often I'll get distracted with friends. I'll have over a month during Winter Break with no essays, no Chinese homework, no infernal World Civ readings. I will be working and more of my friends will be in town, but since I have no obligations (apart from my two jobs) I might just maybe get some recreational reading/writing/research done and relax.

That being said, Winter Break might not be so bad. I hated every moment I had to interact with my father during this break, but it was quite minimal. Plus, my mom is growing ever more to my side. Not to mention work. I went there earlier today and seeing a few people (namely my favorite manager) made me ridiculously happy. Almost as happy as I was yesterday evening at Buon Giorno with Kate watching Will work, making fun of Jeff and speaking in Chinese and Japanese to each other. So there are my two escapes when this Birdcage gets to be too much over winter. Max is making me work with him on Christmas Eve and I intend to spend every other moment that any normal person would be spending with their family either at work, at Buon Giorno or with my friends and their families (or maybe I'll take some road trips to Glen Rose...).

This next week and a half will indeed be hell-ish. Beginning with a four hour road trip back to campus tonight (four hours because the added half hour to get to Austin and then a half hour back to SU) through the finishing of an essay for English and those analyses I never did for Islam to my terrifying Chinese and World Civ finals ending with dorm arrest until I can finish a 10 page final for Islam and three essays for English. Only then will I get to return to the GVC, weary-eyed and lonesome, having completed my first semester of college and thirsting for more.

10 Things I Hate About You

I like Shakespeare. I like Heath Ledger. I like the 90s. I like Sarah Lawrence. I like Joseph Gordon-Levitt. I like writing poetry. I like mimicking things that aren't mine. The following was taken from the movie 10 Things I Hate About You and adapted to fit moi:

I hate the way you talk to me
and the way you cut your hair.
I hate the way you "LOL."
I hate it when you stare.

I hate your nude photography
and the girl who left her bra.
I hate all the girls you've slept with.
I hate how they never saw.

I hate the way you drink so much
and the way you talk to Her.
I hate the way you push the limits.
I hate your lack of culture.

I hate how dumb your hometown is
and that you think you're smart.
I hate when people say you're an asshole
I hate it even more because you aren't.

I hate your Twenty-Sevens
and the way you read my mind.
I hate you so much is makes me sick.
I hate that you're cruel to be kind.

I hate the way you're always right.
I hate it when you lie.
I hate it when you make me smile
even more when you make me cry.

I hate it when you're not around
and the fact that no one knows.
But most of all I hate the way I don't hate you
and that I don't want you to go