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Sunday, March 31, 2002 I remember the eggs. The entire idea was so completely outlandish that it had a certain charm to it. Cupping your hands about a shiny round object was a revelation. The first Easter eggs I remember were the plastic kinds, the ones which dropped out of vending machines after you stuck twenty-five cents in. I collected those throughout the year and when Easter came, my Mom helped me decorate them by gluing bits of ribbon and glitter to them. Later, I was allowed to use hard-boiled eggs. We might dye them or use markers. I was a horrible designer. The eggs usually turned out like a tie-dye gone wrong. My hands ended up looking the same. I wanted to eat the eggs afterwards, but my parents never let me. I guess they were right, because I cracked one of the eggs open and discovered the colors had bled inside--the egg whites had turned blue and the yolk an unpleasant gray. That had been fun. But now all I have are chocolate bits wrapped in shiny foil. Damn commercialism. More: The Origin of Easter. I tried finding something that was not an extended religious rant on the evils of pagan worshippers. Sad, but funny. Oh, what lengths die-hards try to be popular (when they already are). (See March 29th entry.) [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 1:14 AM : Saturday, March 30, 2002 It's another round of Blogger Insider and this time JF from Testzone Blog Report got to ask the questions. Don't forget to drop by her site and cheer her on in completing her thesis! 1. Why would/wouldn't you like to like to get a job in your hometown? My hometown has very limited options in regards to jobs. Mainly the only openings are for grocery store clerks. Most people commute to Nashville for something more exciting. So no, I would not want to get a job there now although for one summer I did. I worked at the local library. Even though I don't have a degree in library sciences, I knew the ins and outs of pretty much everything (perhaps even more than the older librarians who had been there for ten or twenty or more years). I probably knew more because I knew how to operate a computer. 2. Are you sure your graduate education should not revolve around writing? Why? I like doing research. Yeah, I may complain from time to time (usually due to lack of sleep or a failed experiment), but I find it cool that I'm doing something that no one else has done before. Besides, are you sure it won't revolve around writing? I'll have to write a thesis eventually too. 3. You find that the only available summer job is working as an assistant to the top wedding planner in Pasadena. What do you say in your interview that makes you the top candidate for the job? I can follow orders. And I won't flinch if the customers want Stayin' Alive by the Beegees played non-stop at the reception. 4. You are selected to be on the committee that gives the top award to comedians. Who do you cast a vote for? Conan O'Brien. Sophomoric but hilarious. 5. You discover your mother is secretly trying to match you up with a dork. What's your excuse for not going to the party? I'll try my ubiquitous "I've got work to do". That usually does the trick if I want to avoid anything. But if that doesn't work, nothing will. 6. Your great great grandmother has risen from the dead. What do you want her to tell you? The names of all the relatives that she knows. Then I'll be able to contribute some valuable genealogical information to the morass that already exists on the web. 7. Why do stars only come out at night? Oh, they're always out. It's just that the evil sun outshines them during the day. 8. Are you an only child? If so how was that good or bad, and if not what would your siblings say is your greatest accomplishment? I have one sister. If you ask her what my greatest accomplishment was, she'll look around furtively and say, "Uh...graduating high school with top honors?" We're close, but we never brag to each other, so she would be rather unsure of what to say. 9. Are able to make major decisions with relative ease? Yes and no. What I usually do is not think about it and procrastinate until the deadline. Then I decide. 10. You have the means to live anywhere in the world. Where do you put down roots, and why is this place special to you? I'm rather restless so most likely I'll be traveling a lot rather than staying at home. So my home base would probably be a large city like New York, London, or Hong Kong where I can get access to an international airport. 11. A Greek goddess asks you "which way is the way of the truth slayer?" How do you respond? Point vaguely in a random direction and say, "I think he went over there." [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 1:33 PM : One of Those Weird Dreams I think it was processing one of the last thoughts I had when I was falling asleep last night. I had been reading angst-ridden journals all day and had finally given up in disgust. All they talk about is the trials of romantic love. Perhaps it had irritated me because I've never had the (mis)fortune of being in love to understand what they were yammering about. All of this had reminded me of a girl I knew in high school who constantly complained about her love life. What she ended up doing was going out with a geek for senior prom which her mother approved of and then immediately ditched him for some effeminate Goo Goo Dolls look-alike with piercings in inappropriate places. I think she broke the geek's heart. As for the dream, I was revisting high school. I was in a classroom with my former physics teacher and the geek. The geek was standing around looking rather lost even though he insisted that he was waiting on someone. The physics teacher kept jabbering at me. "Oh, that's wonderful!" she said when I told her I had read both Tommy I and II. Ironic since she had gone ballistic whenever someone used calculus in her class. I spent the rest of the dream wondering what she would do if I started writing integrals and derivatives on her pristine chalkboard. Linkage: Female or Shemale? I got a 12/16 like everyone else. It just goes to show you can never assume. When I was a toddler, people mistook my gender. In fact, people still get my gender wrong. Queen Mother Dies. Enough said. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 12:51 PM : Friday, March 29, 2002 Into A Cat's Mind Bob the tailess wonder sat hunched on the concrete railing, overlooking the thick bushes. The pattern of his fur coat shifted as he struggled to find just the right position. Bob was cold, a little hungry, and lonely. The sky darkened. A human male on roller blades whizzed by him, nearly careening into the lamp post a few feet away. He remembered when he was important. Just a kitten, he had thought his world was his kingdom. He was presented with a multitude of fingers and hands and rubber toys to chew on. There was warm milk. There were hugs and warm laps. And when he yowled, the humans always jumped to attention. And then there was the accident. It didn't bear thinking about. So Bob didn't. Instead, he delibrately filled his thoughts with butterflies and voluptuous queens. But they were only pipe dreams--in actuality there were only ratty gray moths and the crotchety neighbors who fought over olive-stuffed squirrels. "Hey Bob!" Jerked from his reverie, he looked back seeing a bunch of humans in jeans and baseball caps burst through a pair of glass doors. They were grinning, leering. Bob leaped into the bushes and sprinted into the welcoming shadows, his heart pounding. Other things: Grayed. Shameless self-promotion. Go see a novel in progress. The Museum of Unnatural Mystery. And I say the Loch Ness Monster is behind all the UFO sightings. The Anagram Genius Archive (Music). You don't suppose they're also sending subliminal messages too, do you? [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 6:44 PM : Thursday, March 28, 2002 Happiness noun 1. obsolete: good fortune: prosperity 2. a: a state of well-being and contentment: joy b: a pleasurable or satisfying experience 3. felicity, aptness The ancients had numerous deities to personify happiness. But what is happiness? I can tell you what it isn't. Happiness isn't listening to other people rant about what they think is right. It isn't bratty kids swapping significant others more often than they change their clothes. It isn't religious propaganda. Happiness is certainly not an insincere smile or a false compliment. Happiness does not originate from bitchy cat fights or revenge. It isn't drinking yourself into a stupor or getting high. It doesn't come from snide remarks. It isn't a loud noise. It isn't a haughty tilt of the head. And it definitely isn't required reading. So what do I think is happiness? It's the smell of damp earth after a rainstorm. It's a rambunctious pop song. It's an early Van Gogh (before he cut off his ear). Happiness is sitting in the sunlight and writing about nothing. It's the faint stirring of an orchestral tune. It's a fat cat. Happiness is a dark-colored dream phantom who whispers posessive things in my ear. It's a finished book. It's genuine laughter. Happiness is a foriegn language that can be easily learned. I'm happy when someone actually listens to me. To think about: The Review Revue. There's not much here yet, but it looks interesting. We'll see how it evolves. Rukeyser flap shows how PBS must be careful in trying to go young. Hey, I'm a twenty-something and I thought Rukeyser was pretty cool (for a 69-year-old). True, I'm completely out of touch with other people my age, but I too think there's something to be said of age discrimination. Who says an old geezer can't have broad appeal? (Besides, there's something inherently creepy about a youth-obsessed culture.) [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 11:12 PM : Wow, those people at Dartmouth are quick. I just found out that I got accepted into their MCB (molecular cell biology) program. This means I'm definitely going to graduate school, one way or another. Now Dartmouth is in no way the last of my choices. Their faculty to grad student ratio is great (about 1:2) and the research is top notch, but I'm just going to wait a little bit so see what the other schools say before I send any replies back. Actually I'm still quite shocked at the fast response time. My interviews must have went pretty well. Or maybe it was the fact that I wasn't competing against the thirty or so other applicants who were dead set on getting into the immunology department. In any case, I'm breathing a huge sigh of relief. All I need to do now is concentrate on surviving the next ten weeks before getting my bachelor's degree. On a completely different note, I also haven't forgotten the crazy project I'm starting on April 1st. The problem, though, is that I haven't made any progress in the plot. I don't know who my protagonists are, where it's going to take place, or what will happen. That's why I'm currently scouring the net in a vain attempt to find real life angst that will inspire me. But one thing's for sure. This novel is going to have a happy ending, even if half the characters I end up introducing get killed off. Awesome linkage: Snippets. Another cool way to find some excellent blogs (via Sasha). LEGO Builder. Bring on the square plastic! I must have been a construction worker or architect in a previous life. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 3:08 PM : Trailer Mania It's Death to Smoochy, not Death to the Smoochies (correction from a previous post). The trailer looks funny, but guys in rhino suits and Robin Williams acting how he always acts doesn't do it for me. I'll be content to wait for the video. I've been watching online movie trailers and taxing my poor computer's virtual memory with the junk. Like The Powerpuff Girls. I've never seen the television show so it only looks like a bunch of inane cut-out characters to me. Linkage: The Pompatus of Love Personality Test. I'm a Joker/Toker. I'm a grinner and a picker and a sinner, but not a lover. I'm rarely on the run, and I don't get my loving there. Which Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy Character are You? I'm Ford Prefect. I'm fun loving and I write for the Hitchhiker's Guide. I happen to be from a planet near Betelgeuse and I always know where my towel is. Spelling Britney Spears. Does it really matter? I don't think she cares. Slumber Inc. If only everyone else also considered this important. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 12:34 PM : Wednesday, March 27, 2002 Nosiness The majority of the ads on the internet capitalize on this one human weakness: nosiness. Sure, this comes in handy if you want to find out if your neighbor is an axe murderer or trying to build a non-compliance nuclear reactor in his backyard, but this must be applicable to only a small segment of the population. Unless you are a crazy old lady (or man) who thinks peeking into other people's lives (dirty voyeur!) is more interesting than spinning conspiracy theories, it's practically maddening at how many spycam ads and high school search services pop up everywhere. Most people do not like these ads. Thus, it's obvious that they're marketing to the wrong people. They should restrict their ads to conspiracy-oriented sites, cyber sex chat rooms (for those who think their spouses are cheating on them), private dectective agencies, gossip monger webrings, the FBI's most wanted list, and high school reunion-type sites. Because why market to me? I have no inclination for spying on my next door neighbors. (If I really wanted to, I could just turn down my music and listen. There's no sound-proofing.) I don't want to look up my high school classmates. E-mail would work just fine. But more importantly, I escaped from my hometown as soon as I could to a place far away (about 2000 miles away) so I wouldn't have to endure my "friends'" endless psychotic whining. I'm a poor college student who doesn't have money to buy these services, even if I wanted them. What we need is an anti-nosiness detection screen. Sort of like mosquito repellant that actually works. It'll eliminate the pesky ads from ever being downloaded (you don't even have to visit their websites to disable it) and deter gossipy people from coming near you. Yeah, yeah, I know there's already a lifestyle to describe this: hermit. Neato Astronomy: Solar System Simulator. JPL always churns out great stuff. Check out how the solar system looked on your birthday. Celestia: A 3D Space Simulator. Haven't tried this one yet, but looks awesome. I think you can create your own solar system too. WinStars. Nifty planetarium program. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 7:32 PM : Tuesday, March 26, 2002 I didn't get very much done today except for finishing up a spiral bound notebook full of my scribblings. No, I'm not going to let anyone read it (let alone get any of it published). Most of it is for my own benefit. Writing is a skill to be practiced, not full fledged instinct that can be simply called upon. So I do practice. It's horrible. And it will never see the light of day. More links: Rabbits and Pointers. Neat little flash time waster. Law Limiting Internet in Libraries Challenged. The internet definitely should not be censored by self-righteous moralists. It's the parents and educators who should teach the kids to be responsible. The Death Clock. This is a little too morbid for me. And a little too much like fortune telling. As I've ranted in a previous post, I hate the notion of a predetermined fate. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 11:55 PM : Address Incompetence Generally students have post office boxes for snail mail. The address consists of the box number and the name of the university. It gets annoying when you have to call up someone to have something delivered and they absolutely insist on a street address. What street address? Whatchamacallit University can take up several hundred acres. The mail boxes are inside the campus where the sidewalks are just nameless blocks of concrete. Look on a map. Most universities are a splotch the size of a small national park. You don't see people asking for the street address of Yellowstone, do you? Okay, so maybe I don't have any cause to complain since my school is about two to three blocks (squared) and it's pretty well known (except for the people who mistake it for Cal Poly), but I guess it's the principle of the thing. I figure if the student mail boxes have their own zip code, I don't have to waste more ink writing out a street address. And I keep on getting phone calls asking for people I've never heard of. I'm thinking of disconnecting it. Links: Enneagram Personality Test. I am a 4: Fours are all about being unique and creating their own distinct culture. They experience the highs and lows of life more intensely than other types. This makes them great creative forces (artists, writers, filmmakers). Fours often feel like misplaced children, and they long for a sense of real family. A Way with Words. The way people think is probably more influenced by culture than language (because language itself is shaped by culture). But really, I don't know. Let the sociologists figure this one out. Electric fish. I do not work at this lab. I was assigned to do a presentation on the subject matter for a neuroethology seminar. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 4:58 PM : I usually don't do these questionnaire things, but what the heck, I'm a sucker for memes. Here's the Tuesday Too: 1. New evidence suggests expansion of the universe is speeding up. Your time is now limited. What unfinished personal business would be your highest priority? I assume you mean that the world is going to end. Well, I'll take the first flight out of Los Angeles to be with my family and wait for it to be over. Otherwise, the earth will still be spinning around the sun (which will not be burning out in my lifetime) as the galaxies are flying further apart. I'll go about my own business and let the physicists, astronomers, and cosmologists solve the problem. 2. Because you are an expert, you are asked to give a lecture at Harvard. What is your field of expertise (real or imagined)? In fact, I just gave a seminar talk on electric fish two weeks ago. I still have the powerpoint presentation on my computer. I'm not an expert on electric fish (or anything in particular) but if you give me at least two weeks warning in advance, I can whip up something to fill up an hour. 3. This is your midnight or midday confession. Do you have an embarrassing vice to share? I like karaoke. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 12:58 PM : Monday, March 25, 2002 Strange cookie fortune: "Promote literacy. Buy a box of fortune cookies today." I fail to see how this is a fortune. It's a blatant advertisement. There are a string of lotto numbers below the message though so it's not a total loss. However, I usually don't see the relevancy of predicting the future. The weather people might be an exception, but then again, you can never go wrong if you always carry an umbrella. Crystal balls, tarot cards, runes--all entertainment devices. But it gets annoying after awhile, especially with those psychic network infomercials and spam. Besides, I find future predictions constraining. There's no room for free will if the time line is already planned out. I'd feel more comfortable believing that I could become anything if I just set my mind to it. I don't want to be predestined for a predetermined fate. Speaking of time, I've just finished To Say Nothing of the Dog by Connie Willis. Yeah, the book has been sitting around on my desk for over a year gathering dust, but slowly (and surely) I'm getting to all the novels I have managed to accummulate the past year and a half. To Say Nothing of the Dog (winner of a Hugo Award in 1999) is a time-travel, futuristic, historic, comedy, mystery, and romance all rolled into one. And did I also mention the novel is chock full of literary allusions? It's ultimately cerebral and entertaining at the same time. Ned Henry, a historian hired by an obsessive aristocrat wanting to restore a cathedral bombed during World War II, is constantly "dropping" through time to authenticate a hideous object called the bishop's bird stump. Hijinks ensue when Verity Kindle, another historian, accidentally brings back something from the past. For those of you unfamiliar with science fiction, the beginning may be a little disorienting. Henry, the narrator, starts off suffering from "time-lag" and the first few chapters are an immediate submersion into rambling and time travel lingo. However, it's not your typical sci-fi with space ships and exploding planets--most of it, in fact, takes place in 1888 Victorian England. It's easily one of the more funnier books I've read in a while. Highly recommended. Other reviews: Ala.org Epiphyte.net Good Reports Ooblick.com SciFi.com SFF.net SFSite.com Stanford [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 9:47 PM : Sunday, March 24, 2002 I always manage to get a window seat. I feel less hemmed in if I have a window to look through. The best views are in the lower altitudes, below the cloudy ceiling. Even better are the views in the evening over a large city. When I flew back in this evening, L.A. looked like a rhinestone studded blanket. Each light was a shimmering golden beacon woven into a filmy gauze draped over the darkened countryside. Plane rides aren't all fun and games though. I'm still recovering from whatever disease I caught last week so my ears were all stopped up. It was annoying (and painful) when I tried all sorts of things to get my ears to adjust to the changing cabin pressure when ascending and descending. And when I was comfortable, I found it difficult to sleep because people were busy trying to outdo the plane engines in wailing power. Some grown-ups are worse than babies. Yes, I'm talking about those notorious airplane passengers. I couldn't get any sleep at all when I was flying to the east coast because a woman sitting directly behind me kept jabbering away for over four hours straight. I got to hear her talking about her college-bound daughter, her ex-husband, bar mitzvahs, and a bunch of other things I didn't really want to know about. When I flew back west today, a pair of ditzy blonde graduate students sat in front of me bouncing in their seats while they gossiped about breakups, boyfriends, and wedding invitations. These people were loud. I could care less about their lives. I just want to get some sleep. Sure, some people would argue with me that they're only being assertive--that I should be admiring instead of resentful. But I think they're loud and obnoxious by drawing unneccessary attention to themselves. Assertiveness does not require loudness. Then again, perhaps I'm a grumpy old prune who doesn't know how to have fun. Wait a minute. I'm not old. I'm tired though. And I wish some people would just shut up. Woozy linkage: The Official Ninja Webpage. I wish I could flip out and still be considered cool. From Windmills to Whirligigs. Wheee! All Look Same. Not surprisingly, I did horribly on this test. I could justify my score by saying that I've mostly lived in areas populated by Caucasians and that even within a ethnic group there is great genetic diversity--but in reality I'm just lame. I can tell the difference between Asians (heck, I'm an Asian myself so there really is no excuse), but I've never really thought about particular features being associated to a particular group. I'd rather have people know me for me and not as some "Asian girl". In fact, I feel rather uncomfortable when people want to identify me by ethnic group. I'd rather be identified by nationality (i.e. your passport country) than by some ethnic identity which I don't have much of an affinity for in the first place. I don't feel so bad though; other Asians have done rather poorly on this test too. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 11:14 PM : Saturday, March 23, 2002 Yay! I found a computer. At the moment, I'm in one of the main Dartmouth libraries overlooking a vast field covered in a thin layer of snow. The trees are just dead brown twigs stuck into the earth at regular intervals. Today was quite idyllic. I slept in at the fancy Hanover Inn (somehow I managed to get a roomy, luxurious single that overlooks the campus, especially the tall clock tower) and went out to brunch with a pair of current graduate students at the local Lou's Bakery. Afterwards I roamed downtown Hanover which only includes a few stores and a giant GAP. Apparently, the locals allowed that chain store to stay because the guy who started the GAP graduated from Dartmouth. Yesterday I had interviews and after dinner I just went to bed. I was tired because of the time difference, but I'm not as sick as a couple days ago. I think the cold weather is doing me some good. The other prospectives went to a nearby bar and said they witnessed the break-up of a fight. Hm. The architecture at Dartmouth is a cross between colonial and neo-classical. Everything is huge on the outside. The undergraduate dorms are very aesthetically pleasing. But I guess that's the case when you have a bunch of alumni endowing an Ivy League school. There was one ugly building on campus though that was pointed out during the campus tour. It looked like a dark gray morgue. Supposedly it's for a secret society and you can't get in unless you have their password. But why call it a secret society when their building is in plain view on a major road? I'm going to take off and wander around the rest of campus for a while. See you later. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 11:25 AM : Thursday, March 21, 2002 At least spring break is here. My sleeping schedule (if there ever was one) is disrupted once again. In approximately an hour I'm heading off to LAX to fly to New Hampshire. New Hampshire?! Yep. I'm visiting Dartmouth. Apparently people have told me that it's out in the middle of nowhere. As before, no new updates until Sunday unless I find an internet connection. These links will have to last you until then: Anemonefish. They always have the coolest pics. I used to buy old National Geos for fifty cents at the library book sale just for the pictures (and the maps). The Culture of Tapas. This is a big hint for the college cafeteria service. It's getting better over the years, but dining services need to seriously cut back on all that Mexican food they keep churning out. BuzzWhack. Buzzwords needlessly butcher the English language. Buzzwords are also used by stupid business people. Why can't they just invent words and create their own secret language? Jelly Belly Recipes. Okay. This is even weirder than the jelly bean story I wrote a couple months ago. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 1:28 AM : Wednesday, March 20, 2002 Two Theories My roommate is pretty much in denial about the second theory. What she has proposed is that I am suffering a severe form of allergies. There are several pieces of evidence that support this. (1) My nose is running and my sinuses hurt like hell. (2) But I'm not coughing. (3) Pollen, seeds, and other plant reproductive material is clouding the air. (4) The window has been open for several days. I'm a bit skeptical though. I've never been sick before in California. However, I react violently to ragweed and mosquito bites. I don't have any sort of insect bites so it must be an imported form of ragweed. My other proposal is of my own making. I must have caught something when I was visiting Cornell. There is also some evidence to back this up too. (1) Ithaca was cold. It snowed while I was there. (2) My body is not acclimated to east coast weather. (3) Nor am I acclimated to east coast fauna. (4) I must have caught an east coast bug. Needless to say, my roommate would be panicking if the second theory is true. Fortunately for her, I'm leaving in approximately ten hours. Unfortunately for me, I'm heading toward another disease ridden part of the country that has epidemiologists grinning in glee because of a weird form of pinkeye. I want one of those biohazard suits that was worn in Outbreak. At least I'm done with finals. Time Wasters: You Are Where You Live. Due to people moving all the time, this is even more inaccurate than the weather channel. Red Alert! Is this supposed to be surprising? I felt the same exact way when I was plopped in a place full of like-minded nerds. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 5:42 PM : If it wasn't bad enough, I feel worse today than yesterday. My head feels like a bloody pulp that has been run over several times by a ten ton tractor and blasted by an annoying leaf blower. I haven't had much sleep (as usual) but I was awake for the Ride playlist at 7 A. M.: The Ride of the Valkyries - Wagner Halloween Sounds (including screaming, wailing, howling, and chirping birds) I Touch Myself - Divynyls Some Aerosmith song (they sound all the same to me) "Petition the Lord with Prayer!" shouted over and over by a preacher-type maniac. If I wasn't awake already, I would have gotten up pretty quickly after the Halloween shrieking. And why was I up? I was furiously working on a paper. Still not done with work though. Links scrounged up from yesterday: Mental Health Test. They say that I am mentally disturbed (score: 490). Common Errors in English. Great resource for anal-retentive grammarians. Me? I break the rules all the time. Bringing Up Adultolescents. Now that I think about it, that could be me. But I was never that dependent. Sure, my parents helped pay for (part of) my college education, but after that, I know I'm completely on my own. Improve Your Handwriting. I absolutely hated those tutorials. With any sign of deviation, my teachers would brutally chastise me. Oddly enough, my handwriting didn't turn out so bad. In fact, I get compliments. Go figure. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 11:47 AM : Tuesday, March 19, 2002 I slept through the Ride again. I remember hearing it this morning, but it was more like background music to a dream that I have already forgotten. Instead of being hypersensitized to Wagner's magnum opus like most Techers, I'm desensitized. Don't be surprised if I sleep through it yet again tomorrow. I think I might be coming down with something. My nose is constantly dripping (not a good thing since I've just run out of tissues), and I have a headache. I feel as if I've been mashing my head against the wall for about half an hour or so. During high school, I've been consistently sick during finals. I'm sure my loud sniffling distracted all the other students from taking their exams. But is this malaise actually self-induced? Subconsciously maybe, but I always end up doing the work anyway. Memes: Random Blog Quotes. Yeah, and they're completely out of context too. It might have been a better idea if the owner selected the quotes himself. The current ones aren't too original, profound, or funny. Globe of Blogs. Yet another blog directory. The only thing missing now is a directory of directories. Why It Sucks To Be Cool. Coolness is all relative. I think a more accurate term would be popularity. In Times of Terror, Teens Talk the Talk. Surprisingly, the lingo has also crept into Techer vocabulary. It's not obvious, but it's there. I guess Techers aren't as isolated and ignorant of the outside world as they'd like to believe. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 12:45 PM : Monday, March 18, 2002 It's finals week and I'm feeling sluggish. I stare at something for maybe five minutes and it still won't click. Either I need more sleep or a diversion. At 7 A.M., the Ride was being played rather loudly from an adjacent house. I had only managed to briefly surface to consciousness before going to sleep again. Other news: Apparently last Thursday, the sophomores declared a fake "ditch day". Ditch Day is traditionally reserved for the seniors. The seniors will have their revenge. Reading: The New Yorker. There's an interesting article about Japanese fashion by Rebecca Mead in this week's issue. If you actually have the hard copy, there's some really bizarre photographs by Martin Schoeller. Makes me glad that I have no style whatsoever (as compared to bad style). The Last Words. Both morbid and fascinating. I like H.L. Mencken's quote, "If, after I depart this vale, you ever remember me and have thought to please my ghost, forgive some sinner and wink your eye at some homely girl." Fumes and Visions Were Not a Myth for Oracle at Delphi. Productive dreaming? Eh, just those wacky geologists and their notorious happy hours. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 7:02 PM : Sunday, March 17, 2002 I'm back from Ithaca. The trip to New York was uneventful except for my initial surprise of Ithaca's dinky airport. There are only six gates--which are just doors that lead outside. Apparently, as people continue repeating, Ithaca is out in the middle of nowhere. Cornell, as a campus, is very dramatic. Gorges and waterfalls cut across steep hillsides that are littered with some of the older Gothic buildings. The faculty was very easy going and the research being done is even more interesting, but knowing me, I'll probably leave it to the last moment to decide where I want to go. The grad students were hilarious. You had to wonder if they were all drunk by the way they were carrying on. And yes, there was lots of alcohol, including the wine tasting tour (apparently wineries are prevalent). It's a wonder that none of the prospectives were smashed. I also had to room with a nudist from Florida who kept talking for several hours on the phone with her fiancé. Evidently, she's trying to decide between going to Caltech or Yale while her fiancé is deciding between Caltech and Purdue. I tried blocking the rest of the mushy conversations by reading papers and going to sleep (I'm good at sleeping through practically anything). Flying back made me nauseous though. I nearly overslept, but I suppose I shouldn't have worried. The Ithaca airport didn't open their security checkpoint until 6:45 AM even though the first flight was at 7:00 AM. Getting out of LAX was really crazy. Just after I grabbed my bag from the baggage claim, the entire terminal was evacuated because of a bomb threat. Linkage: Which HTML Tag Are You? I'm the style tag. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 4:02 PM : Thursday, March 14, 2002 My brain is just scratching by. I plan on sleeping on the plane. Hopefully there will be no crying babies in transit. If anyone is curious (or even reading), I'm heading off to Cornell in about an hour. I won't be back until Sunday so I won't be updating until then. Unless, of course, I happen to stumble into some cyber cafe. Not likely though. More links: Minstrelsy. A cultural curiosity. Frequent fliers can cash in miles for a trip to space. Yeah, I'm saving up, but I don't think I'll be heading off to the big black vacuum any time soon, even if I did have that many miles. Not in this life time at least. The Pi-Search Page. A certified cool geek tool. My birthday is at position 969110. My lifepath number is first found in position 2. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 1:51 AM : Wednesday, March 13, 2002 The Wind Is Strong The vibrant breezes whipping up a storm of leaves reminds me of the 17th century mechanistic theory that there was no vacuum, that the universe was filled with minute particles and corpuscles. These particles would grate upon each other causing movement--en masse they would form gigantic vortecies that would be strong enough to cause planets to move around the sun. The trees are helpless in the wind. The air is filled with falling vegetable debris--blue and orange berries, small white flowers, branches, small brown seeds, long dry pods that burst open with snowy cotton, prickly burrs--all of this includes leaves of different shapes: frilly, spade-like, oblong. The wind is against my back tugging me along, whipping my hair against my face. I feel light-headed. I round a corner. The venue of shops are strangely empty. Only road workers at the edge of the sidewalk are present. They sweep up their handiwork; the smell of drying asphalt stings. I pass a few people. Two gay homeless men rolling a cart stuffed with luggage. A pregnant woman in a sparkly purple dress. A thirty-something in a fashionable black turtleneck and shiny cell phone. A young woman with brown streaks in her dark hair, a purse trailing on one hand and a smoking cigarette in the other. Her lips are pursed as she hisses out a stream of carcinogens. I pass a trash can, and the ends of the trash bag flare upwards in the gale like a flickering flame. The normally pounding traffic is subdued by the dry leaves, crackling kodamas skittering across the concrete. Some of the leaves fall into the lily pond where the white crane stalks for his food. The pond is filled with leaves, a thick cooling stew of rotting matter. For a moment I stop to watch the crane as he walks along the edge. His head bobbles back and forth as he struts. Nearing the student houses, I see a crowd has gathered. It's a farewell party for the vice-president of student affairs. He's stepping down due to health reasons. Then I hear a voice boom out on a microphone and I flinch. It's the dean. And he's ranting like a madman. What's new? First Female Caltech Division Chair. If we're lucky, she might decide to revive the popular yet defunct anthropology classes. Google hit by link bombers. Yet another gratuitous link about Google bombs. I bet someone's already hard at work trying to fix the vulnerability. A Life Revealed. I smell exploitation. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 5:21 PM : Tuesday, March 12, 2002 Sleep Deprivation A few friends are sprawled on the couch with books of equations on their laps. They're laughing uncontrollably and attempting to sing "Happy Birthday" Marilyn Monroe style. Too little sleep is my guess. Yep, it's nearing that dreaded time again--finals. I'm scrambling to get things done (and hopefully get passing grades) since my weekends are going to be completely wiped out by graduate school interviews. One of my professors invited the whole class for lunch at the Atheneum. I'm going there for lunch tomorrow for the same reason, with a different professor. The prof pointed out that even at the Atheneum, there's a "popular kids" table where stuffy old elitist professors convene for meals. We all found it humorous. For undergraduates at Tech, there are no "popular kids" table. Only the geek table. Links: Attack of the Clones Trailer. There's a lot of eye candy, but I wasn't impressed. Am I finally outgrowing the demographic Star Wars is catered to? Twin towers of light beam from 'Ground Zero'. People were also talking about the documentary that was aired last night. I didn't see it since I don't watch television. But I don't think I missed anything. Unexpected Images. When digital cameras get as cheap as the disposable ones, I'll chuck it in the nearest swamp. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 11:15 PM : Monday, March 11, 2002 For a small moment, I let myself enjoy the sunshine and warm air. Then I was abruptly stopped in mid-stride by an outstretched hand holding a white pamphlet. The words "Prepare for the Second Coming!" were emblazoned in Times New Roman on the cover. "Prepare for the Second Coming!" reiterated a man with nerdy glasses and button-down shirt. "Find out all about it!" He shoved the pamphlet into my hands. "Um, sure," I mutter. I quickly walked away and wadded up the offending paper. It went into the nearest trash can. This was the fourth time in six months I've been propositioned by a religious zealot. These guys had a lot of nerve to wave their propaganda about in a mostly agnostic campus. But I should count myself lucky. It's a lot worse back home where everyone is a religious zealot. Stress relief for upcoming finals: Sprott's Fractal Gallery. It's as mesmerizing as a lava lamp on full throttle. Palm Pilot Pizza. There's neo-cooking for you. Oh and don't forget the recipe for cooking an egg on a CPU. As Rabbis Face Facts, Bible Tales Are Wilting. When I was younger, I never challenged the validity of the Bible. I was the ever obedient child who went to Sunday school without question. But as I grew more aware of the hypocrisy displayed by the religious people around me (and more uncomfortable with organized religion in general), I wondered. I don't think the Bible is wrong--quite the contrary--but I find it more an instruction manual for moral and spiritual living. It shouldn't be used as an iron-clad document to subjugate everything else (scientific or otherwise). [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 3:19 PM : Sunday, March 10, 2002 I'm an underappreciated underling. I was relentlessly recruited to clean up the mess that people left last night in "Casino Night" even though I only visited for fifteen minutes, twenty minutes max. I hate cleaning up after other people. Have you ever finished a concert and the audience refused to clap? I don't think we were horrible. I don't think that they thought we were going to play more. My theory is that the audience fell asleep. The major demographic attending this concert was 60 and over so I'm pretty sure we just ran past their bed time. And no, my friends didn't attend either concert. They never come to hear me play. Linkage: FLOW. Clickable flash craziness. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 10:11 PM : Saturday, March 09, 2002 Beethoven and Jazz "Wind players have to carry extra reeds. String players have to carry extra strings. Music directors have to carry extra podiums." Apparently, the previous podium was cracked and the music director had to scrounge for a back up right before the concert. The concert at Thorne Hall could only be called a marathon. "Arg! Endurance!" complained one cellist. We performed Weber, Prokofiev, and Beethoven. Two whole hours of non-stop playing. If I don't get any sleep tonight, I'm going to drop in tomorrow's concert. One shiny spot in the performance was a little girl and her father in the audience. They arrived when we were warming up. The girl piggy-backed on her father's shoulders to get a good view of the stage, particularly of the violins and cellos. Later, she went up stage to try out the timpani. During the performance, she sat at the edge of her seat to see and hear the violin soloist. The same enthusiasm is palpable for anyone who plays in an orchestra. It's pitiable that some former music players are bitter because of rivalry. I think it's the love of music that draws everyone together; in the end, it doesn't matter if you sit in the first chair or last (at least I don't care where I sit). What matters is that you're part of the music. No one can play an orchestra piece themselves. When I came back, tired, I was getting ready for some R&R when Fire Engine Girl passed by and shrieked at me to "come play!" Our house is holding a "Casino Night" where everyone is dressed up to play poker and other card games. Everyone is given a set number of chips. At the end of the night, prizes would be auctioned off to the person will the most winnings. As usual, I grabbed food. I'm not much of a socializer, so I watched for a while. The lounge was set up for gambling. Girls in slinky dresses and guys in suits. The dealers were either slick (in black tuxes and ties) or flashy (neon hats and polyester suits). Plastic chips of red, white, and blue were bandied about seriously. I sat down to watch a particular game of cards. I didn't know what game it was, but the dealer had a slight smirk on his face as if he knew something the players didn't. He put down a seven of spades. Nine of spades. Ace of spades. Queen of clubs. Between each card the players slightly frowned at the revealed card and their personal stacks of chips, thinking and weighing possibilities. I could tell when someone would fold by the twitch of their eye or mouth. When I tired of this (which was after three games), I peeked next door to the dance floor. A trio of jazz musicians pounded out melancholy melodies while enthusiastic dancers paced the floor. I noticed that the dancers weren't real couples, just people happy to be showing off their skills they learned in a dance class. The real couples were sitting on the nearby couches, making out. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 11:52 PM : This morning I passed a few bushes and stopped. I saw nothing, but the chattering was deafening. Looking closer, I saw a congregation of small, dull brown wrens squatting in the pebbles and perched on the lower branches of the bushes. They were warbling angrily at each other. One would hop forward and chirp loudly and hop back. Then the other would hop forward to reply. The constant hopping rustled the bushes. There was no interruption in their constant stream of bickering bird-words. They didn't even notice me when I stepped closer to see what was going on. Was it a territory dispute? But I'm not a behavioral biologist. For all I knew, it could have been some bizarre mating ritual. Linkage: What Vegetable Are You? I'm Broccoli Final Chapter for a Cold War Relic. No! Book burning is bad! Couldn't they just give it away? How 'The Simpsons' Has Stayed on Top. The show has a cult following among college students at least. And the creator Matt Groening was a top contender for this year's commencement speaker. But I guess not surprisingly, we ended up with Alan Alda of QED (and M*A*S*H). [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 1:24 PM : Friday, March 08, 2002 A Dream The window was open. Air was gusting in. Looking out, I saw that the entire building was moving. A house on wheels. We were speeding down a highway with red traffic lights. Who was driving? I didn't know. There was no cockpit. Just a house rolling down the road. Eventually we reached a wooded area. The trees were striped of their leaves, like the forests in the north. The house moved down a path that ended in a steep ramp sporatically painted red. It reached the top and I saw that the ramp ended with a tree stump. On top of the stump were three bloody carcasses of fetal pigs. Apparently, the sacrifice was to help blast the house into space--just like a space shuttle. A Link: What rubber duck are you? I'm a Devil Duck. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 9:58 AM : Thursday, March 07, 2002 Sometimes I wish I was still a small child. Unconditionally protected and loved. But inevitably, you have to make a break. You have to strike out on your own and immerse yourself in the cold, lonely world. Just Looking I loved shopping, but only if the stores had anything of interest (which excluded bric-a-brac like clothes and shoes), and once I graduated from stroller-riding to walking, I would trail my parents through the stores looking for treasures. I was enamored with the grocery store. Cheeses glazed in wax hung like plump red rubies in mesh bags in the chilly dairy section. Unshelled nuts—pecans, almonds, cashews, peanuts, walnuts, hazelnuts—spilled out from wooden crates like shiny brown cabochons. The fresh fish for sale wore chain mail of silver and gold links. Even the salad dressing attracted my attention. I could shake the clear bottles for all I was worth and still note (with some frustration) that the little specs in the Thousand Island or Ranch or Italian took their time lazily spiraling back and forth. In the front of the grocery store was a garish yellow and red vending machine with a clownish majolica hen that laid plastic eggs when a quarter was slipped in the coin slot. The hen would spin once, squawking, and an egg would clatter out of the machine. The hardware-sports store even had its perks. The tools were lumped together in a towering junk yard of sharp metal. The clinking nails and colorful bathroom fixtures were a cacophony of possible trinkets. The rack of hockey helmets held a particular morbid fascination. The glossy plastic that encapsulated the entire head except the face and the prison-like mouth guard was a beautified guillotine. I once had the pleasure of trying one on, resulting in a complete blackout except for the floor. Of particular interest was Zellers, a discount store of questionable descent. It was an amalgam of Wal-Mart and Sears that sold both cheap paper products and designer bedding. The prim red logo in front of the store and the drab off-white lighting that illuminated the interior tried to disguise a pack rat’s paradise. One day I tagged along with Mom who was out running errands. Actually, I dragged along. I was stopping at every rack and shelf to see the objects on display. Mass greeting cards were stacked up to eye-level. Bags of pink and green candy slumped on a nearby counter. There was a photo bay with example pictures of smiling babies that looked like they had been injected with stimulants. The most interesting section, though, were the shelves of children’s books at the center of the store. Reassured that Mom was nearby I turned my attention to them. The shelves were arranged like a magazine rack, a lower section and an upper section. I could only reach the lower part of the upper section. A book with a green cover caught my eye. There was a red and white sticker in front proclaiming “Only 99 cents!” I used the lower section of the shelf as a seat and the upper section became a small shade from the glaring overhead lights. The book had animals. But I was more drawn to the colors than the story. I liked how the brown splotches came together with red and blue and yellow. I was mesmerized by the black type marching below each splotch. The picture book was a spinning hypnotic pinwheel that tried to suck me in but failed because I closed the cover. I looked up and found Mom had disappeared. Perhaps she was looking at something on the next aisle over. I dropped the book back on the shelf and ambled a few feet away. All I found were action figures and dolls. The shelves were almost as tall as the ceiling and were stacked top to bottom with G.I. Joes, Transformers, and Barbies. They stared out, unblinking, from their cardboard and cellophane coffins. They did not acknowledge me when I walked past them. Perhaps she was looking in the houseware section. I meandered past a heap of limp tea towels and porcelain kettles. I passed countless aisles of skillets, toasters, and blenders. I lost my sense of direction when things became unfamiliar. They were all smudges of color that briefly flashed as I neared and then wandered away. The store, previously a playground, had turned into a dizzying labyrinth. I was nowhere and lost, cast adrift in the unknown, my safety net gone. I was alone. Eventually I found myself among a display of discount shower curtains. The pearly plastic glinted. It didn’t have the new paper smell of books and boxed toys. It didn’t smell like a cold pungent supermarket. This new area was drowned in a noxious nylon odor. I was an adventurer in an exotic locale smelling, touching, seeing strange flora. Then I noticed the door. The shower curtains and bath mats were stacked near the back of the store. A small alcove in the wall led to an unvarnished wooden door that swung forward when I pushed it. I had found the entrance to a secret cove in the jungle. Instead of large beige glossy tiles, the floor was a mosaic of blues. The hidden grotto was a cool and mildewed respite and for a moment I was delighted in my discovery. Then one of the restroom stalls opened revealing a chunky giantess, a dangerous yet oblivious monster in the cave, and I froze. Indulging in wanderlust had turned from amusing to frightening. She sauntered toward the sink to turn on the faucet; the crackling of water inundated the restroom. The giantess then turned the water off and cranked the towel dispenser. Each time the lever was pulled down, the mechanism squealed. Throwing the towel away, she sauntered back out, her large vinyl purse brushing against my shoulder. The sudden flush of the toilet jerked me from my paralysis and I backed out of the grotto before I could hear the jangling of another opening stall. Walking out of the alcove, I spotted a counter and a woman stacking multi-colored hand towels. I approached the counter. It barely reached my head. I asked the woman if she could page my Mom since I couldn’t find her. She broke into a grin, relieved temporarily from boredom, and a few moments later, I saw Mom hurrying towards me. Even though Mom told me later that I was clever to have her paged, I was more reassured that at that moment, my hand was firmly in hers. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 12:32 PM : Wednesday, March 06, 2002 Double Helix, Single Guy. It's an amusing review of James D. Watson's latest memoir from the New York Times although the reviewer was too harsh at taking Watson to task over his insensitivity to the feminist revolution. Then again, the reviewer was also a biologist, so perhaps it isn't surprising to see a huffy reaction. Nowadays, science is so uptight and competitive that it makes my head spin daily. Take for instance, the guy who got the Nobel Prize for PCR. Mention Kary B. Mullis and all the professors will chuckle and shake their heads. "Flaky!" proclaimed one instructor. "Now he's just some surfer beach bum making DNA fingerprint cards. Not unlike baseball cards," said another biology prof, rolling his eyes. I think they just don't know how to have fun. It's a rare thing when I run into some self-deprecating humor in some scientific papers: Both authors have a propensity for working on long-shot projects. We thank each other for mutual encouragement in these projects, which despite the modest success rate are intellectually stimulating and fun. Bridesmaids Anonymous. I knew I wasn't the only one who despised the annoying pomp that the whole wedding institution entails. If I were the one getting married, I would convince the groom to simply get a marriage license from city hall and be done with it. After all, isn't it the only necessary thing? A big elaborate wedding is only for people who live in a fantasy world or are trying to show off social or economic status. The same thing applies for graduations. It's been pointed out to me that today marks "100 days until graduation" which is all well and good, but it gets rather tedious when the fact is pounded into you relentlessly. I don't want to buy or rent expensive graduation gowns with matching caps. I don't want "graduation photos" which are just silly glamour shots. Yeah, I might be a cheapskate, but I'm also not one for thrills and frills. I just want to get my diploma and run. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 10:14 PM : If the grass was sentient, it would be crying out in pain at 7 a.m. every morning. The workers from building and grounds have an irrational dedication to slaughtering plants: from mowing the grass, to pruning the bushes, and to hacking off tree branches that don't grow just so. They also like to start their jobs in the early morning next to the student residences. Don't they realize that our schedules are different? Most people don't get up until 11 a.m.; only people taking the dreaded chemistry labs are ever awake at that time (and they aren't particularly happy either). The large white crane that frequents the lily ponds now has competition. For the past couple of days, a small white crane has been looking for fish in the same area. Squirrelly students and nostalgic visiting old people gather around the pond to gawk and exclaim "how cute!" or "how adorable!" How boring. Instead of the mouthful "the large white crane" and "the small white crane", I'm going to start calling them Big Bob and Tiny Tim. See and "do": Earthship Biotecture. Obvious that whoever designed these things did not subscribe to the same school as Frank Lloyd Wright. Elvish Names. What's your Elvish name? Predictably enough, my name isn't on the list. The closest I can come to is Erua, Ainatara, or Iluuvatara. Tarot Test. I am the High Priestess. Hm. Reminds me, I need to get a replacement deck for the one I had stolen. Neuroprosthesis News. The Past of a Future Nobel Prize. See my comments in the previous post. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 5:19 PM : Tuesday, March 05, 2002 Just a shameless plug. On Saturday and Sunday (March 9 and 10) at 8 p.m., the Occidental-Caltech Symphony will be playing at Oxy (Thorne Hall) and Caltech (Ramo Auditorium), respectively. For you classical nuts out there, we're playing Weber's Overture to "Der Freischutz", Prokofiev's Second Violin Concerto (the soloist is awesome!), and Beethoven's Sixth (Pastoral) Symphony. It's also free admission. You have no excuse not to come. But don't ask me about next term's program. Fun links: Interactive Rubix Cube. I know people who could solve this thing under 5 minutes flat. The Euphemism Generator. Try to find one that's not funny. Google Time Bomb. It's another article on influencing searches on Google via weblogs. I'm a bit skeptical. Yeah, the popular blogs will have some influence, but I'm just a nobody from nowhere who doesn't get hits from searches that often. I don't get hits, period. I'm also assuming this is true for most bloggers. So I don't see what the fuss is about. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 11:09 PM : My motivation for writing has dwindled to nothing for the past couple of weeks. Is it due to work, preoccupation with other things, or sheer apathy? I'm not quite sure, but last night I came up with an idea to jump start myself. I'm going to write a novel in thirty days. Again. It'll be like last November. I know I can do it with the goal of 50,000 words. So this month I'll be planning. And on April 1, I'll be off on a running start! Linkage: Which vampire are you? You're Brad Pitt. You're not really a vampire, but you play one in a movie. The Google Bunny catches Easter Eggs. Google Holiday Logos. I especially like the older ones where you can see the evolution of their logo. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 1:46 PM : Monday, March 04, 2002 Revenge of the Yuppies They're everywhere--on the street and lurking in offices doing "administrative" work. They have cellphones attached to their ears and Starbucks coffee stuck to their mouths. They wear those really chic sweaters with the red stripe at the collar. They are groupies without a leader. They try to be hip, popular, and friendly--instead I shiver at the inherent creepiness of their too white smiles. If I were telepathic, I wonder what murky and perverted thoughts would I be able to dig up? Maybe I shouldn't. They're like apples rotting from the inside; the glossy and perfect red skin hides the writhing, hungry worms. Why do I get the impression of insincerity and deception? Perhaps it's their wannabe attitudes. Guys go bald not because they're losing hair but because they shave themselves squeaky clean. Like eggs with salmonella. Silly flash animations: The Double Yolker Panasonic Kiddie Ad Uncontrol [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 8:57 PM : Sunday, March 03, 2002 Sniper From the upper-story window, I have an unobstructed view of the path that runs from the sorry excuse of a wedding reception pavilion and through the houses to terminate at the grassy knoll that no one dares step on. An olive tree stands outside partially obscuring the window from casual observers. People walk past in their bright t-shirts making them easy targets. I can even hear them talking since the window is open. Either sound carries well or they're talking too loudly. This would be a perfect waiting place for a sniper. Silent and intent. Completely in his own world despite the crowds. It's a nice view, but it's Sunday and most people are cooped inside doing work. I like the solitude. Nothing, not even the faint clicking of distant closing doors, bother me. It's a pity that tomorrow morning when everyone is still sleeping, the lawn mowers will start roaring even though there's no grass to cut. Ah, I hear some people coming by. They're stuttering over something I had written on the whiteboard. "Ohmygod, ohmygod, ohmygod...." They sound like they're chanting a litany over a dead body. What Flavor Am I? Cor blimey, I taste like Tea. I am a subtle flavour, quiet and polite, gentle, almost ambient. My presence in crowds will often go unnoticed. Best not to spill me on your clothes though, I can leave a nasty stain. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 9:49 PM : Laundry requires memory skills. The weekend is usually the worst time to do the laundry because everyone else is doing it. Wednesday is a pretty good day to do laundry unless those cleaning people get there first and fill up all the washers and dryers with that week's linens. (I'm not quite sure why the cleaning people need the student laundry rooms though--I thought they had their own industrial grade washers for all their cleaning needs.) The worst thing is that people forget to take out their clothes after the washer or dyer is done chugging away. As a result, the laundry room has turned into a clothes jungle. Because other people need to get their laundry done, the forgotten clothes are taken out and piled on the racks that are supposed to be used for air-drying. Some people are lazy and pile the clothes on top of the washing machines, thus making it difficult to even open the machine. Clothes get lost and mixed-up. Just because people forgot. If you forget too long, your clothes may even get moldy. Links: Blogtracker. Another device for the stats-obsessed. What Drug Are You? I'm crack. The Canadian-ness Test. According to this, I'm 44% Canadian. Arg! I've been Americanized! Maybe it's time to apply for dual citizenship. The Pepys Project. An Index of Web Logs, Journals and Diaries from around the World. Find out which of your favorite bloggers live closest to you. Vast stalking potential. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 12:39 PM : Saturday, March 02, 2002 The Reich Mutiny has an awful cover. The author, one of my English teachers in high school who was dubbed Coach Reynolds because he coached wrestling or basketball (I can't recall which), did not seem like the type to write books. He was a robust man who towered above practically everyone. He was loud, vigorous, and stentorious. He had a concentrated air about him that made you glad you weren't the bug underneath his shoe. When I was in his class, there were rumors that he had written another book (not the one I mentioned, an earlier one) that was also based on history. Students were dying to know what it was but were too afraid to ask him. Coach Reynolds, for that matter, did not volunteer any information. Instead, we were barraged with his daily antics that ranged from maniacal readings of The Scarlet Letter to throwing tantrums to illustrate particular points in poetry. Although this was amusing, I can't say I learned anything. Except that I despise William Faulkner. Trivial: Seussville. Today is Dr. Seuss's birthday. My favorite book was The Lorax. The Man Project. Reminds me of gummy bears. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 2:55 PM : Friday, March 01, 2002 Rule #1 for college parties: The music must be loud. Not loud as in you can hear the music through the walls, but loud as it starts vibrating the walls. It isn't a good party unless you've placed the amps at strategic places to blast the neighbors. It must be loud enough so that everything shakes and the window panes rattle. It must be loud enough to be heard half-a-mile away. I guess I shouldn't really complain about the party next door though. The same things can be said of bagpipe players who've never heard of sound-proofed practice rooms. And people who can't control the decible levels of their voices. The pounding techno isn't that bad. It's putting me in an odd psychadelic mood. But I have a proposal. Since Tech parties are generally planned out in advance with a fair amount of construction involved, people shouldn't be troubled to put in a little extra effort to make it a masquerade party. It won't be garish like Halloween or extreme like the annual Posh where people dress up in duct tape. It'll be both gothic and classy. And the repertoire will be all classical. If anyone decides to throw a masquerade party, it will also have the added bonus of deterring greasy grad students. I know from personal experience that greasy grad students abhor classical music. Interesting links: Fatmouse. He's got a pretty idyllic life compared to all those lab mice I see butchered every day. Teenagers from Mars. Some very cool poster art. The Meretrix Online Virtual Prostitution Museum. Not for the overly uptight. I thought this was bizarre, just like The Virtual Toilet Paper Museum I mentioned a few months ago. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 11:13 PM : I hate waking up to light. Back at home, my room has a window that faces east. And every time the sun rises, the rays blind me unless somehow I had wiggled underneath the covers and pulled them over my head. Those were only on the days I've overslept, though. I usually get up before the sunlight has a chance to vaporize my vision. My roommate is light-switch-happy. Whenever she comes into the room, she turns on the light. Whenever she wakes up, she turns on the light. Sometimes she even leaves the light on when she goes to sleep. Her desk has a cord of lights which are always on. Is she afraid of the dark? Is that why her sleeping schedule is completely the opposite of mine? I'm too chicken to ask her. Maybe I need to invest in some eye shades. [posted by S. Y. Affolee on 8:20 PM : |
