Out of Control. (via Metafilter) It's a sad story--a young prodigy abused by football players--that somehow doesn't surprise me. If you stick a naive, trusting person (of any age) into a situation where others can take advantage, the worst is probably going to happen. I don't think the blame could rest on a single person or subset of people, but apparently no one was acting responsibly especially when a minor was concerned.
At Tech, this particular scenario can't happen. Sure, there's no shortage of young prodigies that enroll, but there's no football team (generally, Techers are not good at sports, even if they're very enthusiastic). But that doesn't mean that the youngsters are having an easy time either.
On the same year that I matriculated, a 14-year-old also managed to get into my house. He was loud and obnoxious and by default (because no one else wanted to be his roommate) ended up rooming with a transfer who was always in lab. He was nicknamed "Narcoleptic Carl" because he would sleep everywhere and anywhere. One time he fell asleep in the lounge and people decided to prank him by painting his fingernails dark purple.
That was fairly mild. But couple that with a sense of not belonging and alienation plus Tech's notorious back-breaking courseload and you get one schizoid adolescent. On one of those weekends during second term when his parents came to visit him, he went home with them and never came back.
I sometimes wonder what became of him. He probably took a year off before enrolling in a different, less rigorous school. But one thing is for sure. Not all 14-year-olds are mature enough to go off to college. Rather than risking a young child to the "outside world" (college is in itself isolating, but it's a lot more worldlier than your mother's house), parents should wait. Go ahead and let them learn more things (you don't need some money-grubbing institution to do that), but also let them develop the social skills needed to interact with their peers. Understanding the people around you is more important than getting a degree as early as possible.
The house's informal senior dinner was held today to wish all the impending graduates good luck. Unfortunately I wasn't there. I was stuck in class analyzing the apparent randomness that made up Tristram Shandy. (Not that analyzing Tristram Shandy wasn't fun, mind you, but I could have gotten food in the mean time.)
But afterwards, I got my newspaper-wrapped present all the same, and a card that my friends had signed. The little notes made me smile, and yes, even chuckle. The King of Spoons still thinks I'm crazy. A lot of people hope I keep up with my writing. In fact for my "senior prediction" (which usually are pretty silly) I was to become a world famous science fiction writer with the longest running series ever. As a result, when prefrosh come to Tech and have to fill in one of those interest sheets they'll have to answer the question: Grendel or Smaug?* Well, I'll have to get published first!
However, this interest in my writing has actually surprised me. I'm not hiding in the closet about this, but I never really publicized it. Yeah sure, I told some people that I was novel writing, but they didn't seem interested in it and signed me off as insane. Not very many people (in real life, that is) have read my stories. Even fewer have paid attention to my poetry. I'm not complaining, but I just find this sudden interest a bit odd.
Officially, the last day of classes for seniors is tomorrow. For next week, I still have classes to go to anyway--the professors, I suppose, are trying to toe the line and cram as much stuff as they can down our throats before we're released.
*Just as Smaug is Tolkien's monstrous creation for his fantasy work, Grendel is my monstrous creation for a sci-fi serial. No relation to Beowulf though.
Linkage: Say So Long to Summer: Is More School Better School? I participated in activities during the summer. That's not school, but at least it kept me active. The Marrying Kind. Let people do what they want. If gays want to get married, fine. It just annoys me when self-righteous people attempt to force others into conforming to their own little utopian ideal. Airport Monitor at LAX. Am I going to look this up the next time I go flying? No. Game of Life. I can just waste hours on this java applet.
Blogger Insider: This week, the questions are brought to you by Bazil from Miscellaneous BS. Great questions. I usually don't think about these things at all. (Perhaps I take them for granted.)
1. You seem so artistically minded and yet you are studying to be a biologist, which in my mind is far from artistic (I could be wrong...never took much interest in Bio). Please explain your thoughts on this supposed dichotomy.
Biology can be a dizzying heap of facts, figures, and boring lectures--only if you let it. And being artistic is not solely dabbling in paint or composing a magnum opus. I think the key is to ask the right questions. The questions can be creative in themselves and if they're productive questions, they'll generate even more questions. That might equal more time in the lab, of course, but it'll bring into focus more of the "big picture".
I don't think there is any conflict with my non-scientific side. In my view, it can only help. What's the use of all the data you've painstakingly gathered when you can't articulate what it means to others?
2. What do you think of while playing your instruments? Do you go off into a trance, do you focus on the notes themselves?
I'm usually on autopilot. It's almost like I'm having an out of body experience where I'm just watching myself go through the motions. I don't really feel anything (unlike other ardent musicians) although I do feel a sense of accomplishment after I finish a piece. While I'm playing, I don't think of anything at all and let my hands and eyes do the work for me.
3. Do you read other blogs often? What is your favorite?
Yes. The ones which I read with any sort of regularity are found on my links page. I honestly don't have a favorite because my reading tastes are all over the place anyway.
4. What affects you the most: visual, audio or old factory?
Um, I assume you mean "olfactory"? Well, I'd have to say visual because I ignore smells unless they're really strong (i.e. rotten eggs, chemicals that should be in a fume hood, excess perfume) and I'm desensitized to noise (last year I lived next to three neighbors who liked loud music--one played Britney Spears in the afternoon, the second played techno at night, and the third played Backstreet Boys really early in the morning--and learned to sleep through it all).
5. Where is your favorite place on earth? Why?
I'm going to cop out on this one by saying I haven't been to every place on earth to make adequate comparisons.
6. I have really started to enjoy talk radio. Do you listen to the radio, if so, what type of music or talk?
I don't listen to very much radio now, but I usually liked listening to those weird programs public radio puts out around midnight. I studiously avoid the country and spanish polka channels. As for talk radio, I like listening to foreign channels even if I don't understand a word of what they're saying.
7. How do you normally handle someone who is really annoying to you- but that you have to work with/live with/study with?
Even if I'm angry, I'm not a drama queen or confrontational (you could say that I'm a bit of a wimp) because they are not actively hurting me in any way. I act normally and ignore whatever it is that is annoying. Eventually they either go away or I become desensitized to it.
8. Do you consider yourself average, above or below?
Average. Plus hard work and persistance.
9. What made you laugh today?
I don't laugh that often. But completing the exit interview today made me smile.
10. When is the last time you had a good solid cry?
I don't cry that often either. I think it may have been a month or two ago about my lack of social life.
1. What's the best thing you did over the holiday weekend?
Sleeping. (It's the best thing I do every weekend, but who's counting?)
2. Who would you want to spend the afternoon/evening with getting the answers to all your questions? What do you really want to know from this person/animal?
One of those paper pushers working in administration. I want to know what it is that they do all day besides sitting at the computer and playing solitare.
Having a bloated material life does not mean that one is happy. I'm personally not sure what the goal of life is--I'm still groping around for a coherent meaning--but I have a vague notion that it should be doing something that you find fulfilling and nurturing productive relationships. Yes, and happiness factors into there somewhere.
I may be losing my taste for milk, but I still like cheese. It's like eating rubber. But after that initial bite, it loses its smoothness and begins to stick to the crown of your teeth. There's a pungent and salty aroma that first assaults the nose and then the tongue. Sure there are different types of cheese. There's the soft melts-in-your-mouth cheese that trickles down the gullet like an invading slime mold after it dissolves on the tongue. Then there's the harder cheese that tries to masquerade as licorice. Some flake off like a piece of shedding talc. Others are gooey, dripping off the roof of the mouth, attempting to form stalactites.
Once, I imagined myself as a piece of cheese--one of those large cylindrical wheels you see in cartoons--bright orange and full of holes. I had managed to escape from a cheese shop from France and was rolling down the cobblestone paths of some quaint little village, stopping for no one--not mice, not men. I skittered across the Alps and rumbled down through dusty Spanish roads, occasionally jouncing from obstructive pebbles and stones. And finally I would tumble into the Atlantic Ocean, only to sink to the bottom. And for the rest of my existence I would be a moldy sponge with sea life darting merrily to and fro from my holes.
All cheese is fun. Except blue cheese. Especially the blue cheese they put in salad dressings. It looks like somebody hacked up some congealed spittle into a cup of ranch and then dumped in a tablespoon full of dye to make it look interesting.
Other stuff: Why Won't We Read the Manual? I almost always read the manual. I found out that if I asked anyone how something worked, they would look at me funny and refuse to tell me. But that doesn't stop people from asking me how something works. Fluxus Research: Opening and Closing Doors and Drawers. Once again, another example of the web being the meeting place of the bizarre and banal. The Ginger People. Sure. Anthropomorphic ginger. Tell me when I wake up.
This morning, I filled out a survey on racial discrimination.
I felt bad answering that I haven't experienced any racial discrimination. Either I'm too sheltered and naive or I've been living in the wrong places. Or possibly I've been too dense to notice anyone who could have possibly been calling me names. Or maybe my personal definition of racial discrimination is different. Sure, I've experienced racial stereotyping, but that isn't the same thing as discrimination.
Primarily, the survey was geared towards how other ethnic groups were treated by white people. Of course, there's a problem, but a kazillion surveys won't be able to alleviate it. To solve part of it, the majority group would have to make an effort at understanding. The other part would also have to come from the ethnic groups themselves. I cannot speak for the Hispanics or the blacks or the Indians or even most Asians (although the principle should be the same since they are also human beings) but the minority groups should also make a go at open-mindedness. This cannot happen if they stick to their own elitist associations and fail to interact with anyone who is different from them.
I also think that if people stopped being such busybodies and telling (or forcing) people what to believe and who to associate with, the world will be a much better place. But hey, nobody will listen to my advice. At least people will continue to tell me what to do with impunity even if I turn around and completely ignore them.
But on the whole, perhaps I was the wrong person to take the survey. My general feelings on the subject are wishy-washy at best. I'm not the hypersensitive person who blows my head every time someone supposedly maligns me. (I can get angry at stereotyping, but that's a generalization about who I might be, not an obstacle in preventing me from going someplace.) I can probably relate to sexual discrimination better, but that's another can of worms.
I'm a klutz at technological gagetry (even though I secretly covet them). I can barely operate powerpoint or photoshop (for one thing, they're not on my clunker of a computer for me to practice on). I can't tell heads or tails of a digital camera, and please don't ask me to operate a DVD player. Most likely, I might make it catch on fire before I figure out which button is "play".
There's more of an affinity with something mechanical, something that I can actually put my hands on. It's more visceral, gut-feeling. Maybe it's more of a feeling of control. With push-button technology, you just press something and something else will do the work. If it doesn't turn out the way you want it, then it's just too bad.
Updates: A new gallery is up. They're mostly pictures of interesting buildings around Tech. Yes, and I took them with my old non-digital camera. The Fairytale Archive (my fairy tale site) is currently down. I'm doing some redesigning and moving it elsewhere. It'll probably be back up in a month or so.
I feel like an uncivilized person because I don't like formal dinners.
Today was senior dinner. A formal dinner. With those little hors d'oeuvres decorated like miniature pieces of art. We waited around for forty-five minutes before getting seated, and even then, it was about half an hour before the first course was served. In the meantime, the waiters kept pouring champagne into our fluted glasses while the guy in charge of student meal services kept giving a lecture on the different types of wine we would be tasting.
They probably kept serving us wine while we were waiting for the food to get us drunk and to keep us from noticing that there was no food. Yes, no food. The portions of each course was a tiny smidgen on a large plate. A mouthful of lobster puree was served in a large tea cup. A finger of sea bass drowned in bright pink beet sauce was served on an oversized saucer. Half a handful of mashed potato with a single scallop on top. I'm sure the chefs were trying to be artistic, but I was hungry and had no patience, so as a result everyone at my table and I left after the fourth course.
But instead of moping around, I went to Airband--Lloyd House's annual lip-synching contest. Cross-dressing and hilarity ensued. The seniors, most of them drunk from the formal dinner, lurched around on stage doing an imitation of "YMCA". Apparently, I was the only senior left actually lip-synching anything. The rest of them collapsed into a giggly pile of wriggling arms and legs.
At least I got pizza afterwards.
Links: Health experts question water rule. I've always thought the eight-by-eight rule was a little excessive. I probably drink about half that much every day and still get by. Evolution of supercats. Sounds more like a learned response. Cats aren't bright enough to do their own selective breeding. If you compared their brain size to their body size against other mammals, they come up short. Shower Shock Caffeinated Soap. But caffeine gives me a headache anyway.
I checked up on the maze, intending to take a couple of pictures for posterity. It's not there any more. Building and grounds probably killed it. My roommate is going to be really mad when she finds out about this (she was intending to recycle the materials for her dad's garden--building materials for mazes cost a lot).
Some seniors argued that we should have really put Ditch Day tomorrow (i.e. Thursday) due to the intense media hype and general lack of secrecy of the date of Ditch Day due to PR's desire to "milk it for what it's worth." What started as rebelliousness, intellectualism, and just plain fun has been reduced to a simple cash cow. If only PR had been a little less crass and a little more discrete. Jay Leno could have toured through a genuine chaotic day at Tech and not through a crowd filled with camera huggers.
But this is no longer the honest fun of yore. Stacks are submitted in a contest to see which one is the best. Seniors no longer ditch when Ditch Day arrives. Some hang around to see how their "baby" is doing. Others want to make sure the stackees are doing the right thing. Obviously, they've never heard of a phone. I stayed on campus five past eight hanging up the last minute clues and only breathed a sigh of relief when I stepped off campus. Obviously, they've also never heard of the tradition that any senior found wandering around on campus past 8 AM was to be duct-taped to a tree for the rest of the day.
Perhaps I should say a few words about my own stack (after all, I spent a few sleepless nights working on it). It was titled Rasputin and in summary: the investigation of a detective's mysterious death and the prevention of Rasputin's spirit from taking over the world. The stack was cheesy, silly, and sometimes a bit disturbing. The stackees mentioned that the weirdness had my fingerprints all over it. The mastermind, they declared me. I don't think so. My partners and I had talked over the plotline, sometimes nearing shouting levels--clearly a democratic process.
Our stack did not come out as anticipated either. Instead of using a stash of aluminum bats to crack open a pinata that we had made in a shape of a corpse, the stackees used the bats to terrorize other stackees. They ended up showing Leno some "bat tricks". But mainly we were the type of stackers who gave stackees free reign (within limits).
We also had a maze built on the southern part of Beckman Auditorium. Little kids apparently loved it. The stackees used it as a watergun tag obstacle course. We're leaving it up until a week before graduation. Yes, bring your kiddies too. Maybe they'll also have a blast.
1. Do you have a "little kid" adventure story? Consider the term "little kid" relative to your age.
I have many. Here's #472 (just kidding, I don't number my stories):
When I was in elementary school, we used to live near a girl and her younger brother who came over to befriend us when we moved in during the summer. I didn't know what to make of her--she was rather ditzy, absent-minded, and rambunctious. Her parents held her back a year citing maturity concerns (but that seemed like a stupid idea in itself, she was prone to bits of ego-trips even without lording over younger children). She howled whenever she didn't get her way. My sister and I would privately make fun of her by making up songs about her screaming when she missed the school bus.
One summer while I was lounging outside on a swingset the previous owners had built, she ran over dressed in a blue swimsuit with black polka-dots. Curious. It wasn't that hot and her parents didn't have a pool. To my knowledge, she wasn't going to the public pool either.
"Come on! There's this really cool place!"
Her idea of cool places was tresspassing on the neighbors' yards. I wasn't too keen on the idea. One of our neighbors had enclosed his entire back yard with a five-foot-high chain link fence. Inside was a scraggly bulldog as big as my sister's tricycle. He liked walking to the fence to stare at us and drool. But no, this time she was talking about the neighbor directly in the back of us.
She tore off one of the lavender flowers from the towering honeysuckle hedge that curtained our yard from the yard beyond. She sucked on the petals, making squealing noises. "It's sweet," she informed us. I didn't want to touch them. Bugs could have been crawling over them five minutes ago. My sister tried one anyway, but blanched and clawed the flowers off her tongue. Definitely not tasty.
"You have to see it," she told us, finally spitting out mangled petals like a seasoned tabacco chewer. She immediately tore into the greenery and disappeared.
I shrugged and followed. The honeysuckle had covered a fence, but there was a gap that led to the other side. Even more strangely, the ground was worn away--someone had frequently used this passageway. Golden light shone through from the other side, and I was immediately reminded of The Secret Garden and I wondered if I had just stepped into a book.
This new yard was a bright spring green. The most prominent feature was a giant weeping willow, its leaves brushing the ground. I stood there, stunned for a moment. Here was an escape, a small hidden alcove in the suburbian jungle. And then she let out one of her infamous ear-piercing screams.
The tree only partially hid the neighbor's house. When I looked more closely, I saw a shadow lurking in one of the windows. We ended up fleeing after her.
2. What issue would you like to see the Supreme Court of the United States grapple with, or perhaps there's a case you feel they should re-think? Why this particular issue or case?
Hm. This is a hard one. I haven't been catching up on the latest Supreme Court rulings. Maybe I'll answer this one later when I've had more sleep and a clearer mind.
3. What is the URL of the most weird site, or the URL of what you consider a dangerous site? If it's a dangerous site, why do you think it's dangerous.
I cannot pick just one. What I think of as weird changes from day to day. There are definitely some amusing sites that I like such as The Brunching Shuttlecocks that has some weird stuff.
I don't know about dangerous sites. Everything is dangerous because information is dangerous.
4. You wake-up on death row, and you realize it's not a dream. Even though there is copy of Death Row for Dummies on your bed, you decide to question the guard. What do you ask, and what advice does he/she give you?
Why am I in death row anyway? Who did I kill?
I don't think the guard would be very responsive anyway. What sort of advice do you give a condemned criminal? Find religion and pray for forgiveness? Try to appeal or whatever legalese is required to get out? Grin it and bear it?
I'll probably look at the Death Row for Dummies book first. Maybe I've been inadvertently placed in a mind game experiment.
Entirely different: Apparently Jay Leno is coming on campus tomorrow for filming. May I suggest amassing some water balloons and super soakers to give the illustrious Tonight Show host a big wet welcome? Stephen Jay Gould, Biologist and Theorist on Evolution, Dies at 60. The scientific world needs more great writers like him. As many have said, he will be missed.
The official numbers are in. Next year's matriculating class will be the biggest ever at over 250. The enrollment of females is down though from almost 40% to less than one-third. I thought admissions was making some progress the past couple of years, but apparently not. And there will be a definite housing crunch. However, this will only mean that next year's pool of accepted applicants will be smaller.
Do I care about these statistics? Not directly. I won't be here when the new frosh trickle in. I'll be far away, possibly attempting to settle into an apartment with roommates I haven't even met yet. There's a housing crunch for grad students too, and unfortunately, the choicest real estate goes to couples. (No, I don't understand the rationale behind this, but it is not sufficient reason for me to give up my single status.)
These sorts of housing problems, however, do not compare with the ambivalence that I feel about the next phase in my life. It's not that I'm afraid of spending long grueling hours in a lab (done it before, wasn't so bad), but the absence of classes. This particular pressure would be gone; I'm not sure how I'll end up taking it.
A link: I Am Frequently Asked Questions. I'm glad I stumbled on this. The author of this nifty blog is participating in something called "The Game" which actually sounds a lot like Tech's modern Ditch Day. I'd say the people behind "The Game" has more of a buffer. It's stretched out over days. Techers don't have days. We only have hours (workday hours, but hours nonetheless). And even though Techers aren't dumb, we can't have clues as obscure as their game due to our time limit.
The project is inching along. I'm surrounded by papers, writing furiously (nowhere near done, unfortunately). My roommate is arm deep in goo. Some people are memorizing lines and that fencing guy who dresses in black is busy procrastinating.
Whenever something annoying happens, the Lakers are behind it.
This time, most of the Super Shuttle people at Burbank were off duty to watch the Lakers game so passengers had to wait practically forever to get a ride home. People became cranky and pissed. It's not a pretty sight with the backdrop of an ugly airport with flaky and disorganized personnel.
At the Las Vegas airport I got searched. So what did security find? A handful of change and my hefty copy of Tom Jones. Sure, search a grubby college student, nuns, pregnant women, little kids who don't know how to speak English, and some guy who had the lousy fashion sense to wear a bright gold t-shirt. Besides, Las Vegas was my connecting point. You'd figure I'd be harmless if I got through the previous airport. Ah well. There goes racial profiling in favor of randomness because people are afraid to get blamed for discrimination. (I'm not saying that randomness is a bad thing--just a necessary annoyance.)
The highlight of the day was definitely the morning when I dragged myself out of bed despite the time difference to go to a computer show at the Tennessee State Fairgrounds. There's this distinctive air of geeky squalidness--the pot-bellied men with cigarette stubs at their mouths mumbling about processors and hard drives, the obviously foreign vendors, the stink of new plastic--that is completely engulfing, embracing.
And we got to cart away a new computer system for my sister who has managed to convince me to help her build a website to sell her kooky chicken art. Hm.
It rained. But ten minutes before the ceremony, the drowning stopped. With the water dripping from the edge of my dress to create fleshy streaks down my white hose, I watched at the top of the stadium as lines of square cardboard with tassels paraded out to wet chairs. I listened to the hyperactive valedictorian and at the end, the cheerleaders singing the alma mater out of tune and out of rhythm.
I wondered about a lot of things. Like why I didn't bother to learn the alma mater. Like why no one recognized me (I swear I didn't change that much over four years--I can prove it with pictures). Like why I felt so detached from the event, why I didn't understand why so many people thought this was such a great deal. Perhaps I didn't understand because that little scrap of paper declaring the completion of secondary education never really changed my life that much.
Even though I was never close to anyone then, no soap opera dramas or memorable triumphs, I wonder what happened to those I had gone to school with. We exchanged wastes of ink and paper, thinking we would e-mail, but never did. A teacher mentioned that someone from my class had come back looking thirty years older. What trauma did he endure? What trials did everyone else have to go through?
I have no doubt that a mere four years have changed them. But did I change? Stress is a factor for change--I'm no longer as gung-ho. Maybe I'm a little more practical. I don't care so much about what others think of me. And maybe this carelessness, this apathy, removed me from the cheering, clapping crowds.
Links: Pepsi Blue Blog. For all those people coming here looking for Pepsi Blue info, I had none. Just a link. But I do have an opinion about blue Powerade. Don't drink it unless you don't have any other option. Meanings of Meow. Or like my Dad jokingly says, "Maybe the aliens made them do it."
I've never been to the Burbank airport before. It's a retro 70s lump--mixture of ugly factory and office building--that constantly played motown on its speakers. Some people say that they like a small airport. I'd have to disagree. There's something about them that throws me into a time warp, into a former, simpler time that is like a flimsy but tight trap, attempting to keep me there.
I don't like it because I feel held back, as if the future was completely out of my grasp.
On a lighter note, I saw Star Wars: Episode II. This is back at home. No sci-fi freaks, but plenty of southern teenagers trying to look cool. And the only line was to the concession stand.
Biggest gripe about the newest installment? Cheesy dialogue. I'm not looking for Oscar-worthy drama, but it could have been better (in fact, a lovestruck hormone-ridden teenager could have written parts of it better). And what's up with that shiny non-camouflage ship that Anakin and Amidala took to Tatooine?
Outside, the night sticks to the skin, soft, sticky, and intimate. The air is a heavy breath crowding the ears. Sometimes stars appear. Other times, there is no light except for the faint shading--a patchwork quilt of clouds--that indicate a break above.
Time stands still. Most people are asleep, suspended animation, mannequins wrapped in blankets. The shadows lurking next to the lamppost skitter and innervate the surrounding foliage with sharp fingers.
1. The "ideal" body image has changed over time. During the last 50 years, not only has the image changed; the image is in your face in a way it's never was before (i.e. television). I remember the skinny guy on the back of the comic books, watching forlornly as the muscle boy got the girl, who BTW was not skinny as she would be today (an advertisement for pumping iron). Is it important to you, or your partner that you resemble the current ideal image? Why or why not?
I admit it would be nice if I looked like the current ideal image, but at the moment, I don't bother too much about it. There's so much other stuff that's more important that I don't worry too much about my appearance unless it's for something important like an interview. I'm the typical grubby college student because it's pointless to get dolled up to go to lab or anywhere else for that matter.
When I was in sixth grade, some guys made fun of me for not shaving my legs. For goodness sake, I was only ten years old! I don't think ten year olds are supposed to be obsessing about make-up or weight or appearance in general. I was annoyed, upset, and mad. I figured if people didn't like me for me then they weren't worth socializing with in the first place.
I guess I didn't make too many "friends" that year.
2. The Boston Avon 3 Day Walk for Breast Cancer (60 miles) starts on May 17th. My sister and her daughter are going on this trek across generations and gender; it can strike at any age, and while it is uncommon, men also can get breast cancer. Why is it important to give up your time unselfishly for others? Is there an issue or circumstance in your life/family that you would be willing to give up 3 days for? Is there an organization or community action that you are part of, or support that we should know about?
Community service and benefits like the walk mentioned above are great ways to help out other people. I think we take our own fortune and health for granted a bit too much; it wouldn't hurt to give a helping hand. As for my family and the people close to me, yes I'd be willing to give 3 days (or more) up for an emergency. Breast cancer, to me, seems particularly scary. I've lost a great-aunt to it. And my roommate gave me quite a scare when she told me she found a lump. Luckily it was benign and easily removed.
I first got involved in community service because, frankly, it was required. It was first the local library. And then the local hospital. I actually discovered that this type of stuff was fun and when I was finally on my own, I still volunteered. I've done things for soup kitchens, Boys and Girls Club, and beach and river clean-ups. However, lately my schedule's been too crowded to do any of this.
3. Are you the black sheep, or prodigal son/daughter of your family? How come?, and If not tell us who is and why?
No one is the black sheep in the family. I have my parents to thank for that. They've been understanding and easy going in almost every respect. It's hard to rebel against that. I'd have to classify myself as the dutiful elder child: practical, a bit conservative, and a prude. I like what I'm doing, but you've got to admit that this higher learning bit that I'm aiming for is practical. My sister, as I've mentioned before, is a bohemian. Unlike me, she's totally into clothes but she doesn't follow the norm. She sets her own trends. She's a romantic and I think right now she wants to be a children's book illustrator. But she's also rather practical--she's always scheming about selling her art projects for the best price.
Reading aloud is a dual art: the voice and the words. For the voice, the speaker must get his intonation just right or everything will fall apart. The trick is to sound so effortless that the listener will stop listening to the speaker as an individual and start listening to the words. A special trick is involved in speaking the words. Enunciation and elocution. You want the words, not the tongue.
The precise voice is that of the documentarian. It has none of the red-faced rhetoric of the impassioned public speaker. Instead, it is calm and almost emotionless. Accentless. And it flows through words like water through a seive. Some people are graced with sonorous voices that come from their throats (not their noses) and could make the telephone book sound like a recitation of the Illiad.
So many other people have flawed voices. Some are intriguing. Some just sound like an imitation of scratching nails on chalkboards. Some people sound breathy as if they're imitating Marilyn Monroe or have just sprinted the 800 meters. Others have a rough edge to them, perhaps from smoking. And yet others for some reason sound like they've pinched their nose and turned up the pitch on a synthesizer. On long passages of prose, they trip over every four words or so. William Shatner on speed.
But is there a perfect voice? I don't know. If it exists, I haven't heard it yet. Even if it does have the precision of a machine, it should never be heartless. The perfect voice, I would imagine, would have an emotional warmth to make it the aural equivalent of a Monet.
Another online test: Goddess Archetype Quiz. (via Sasha) I am the Artemis archetype. Considering the mythology surrounding her, just tragic.
I have the upmost respect for my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Humble. She was a smiling, grandmotherly figure who helped a young girl uncomfortable in English adjust to a group of babbling peers. I remember being taught to count to 100 and the days of the week. I remember practicing writing my name. And show-and-tell. She didn't mind that I always took that disabled Barbie doll, that a misguided but well-meaning realtive gave me, to show the class because it was the only thing I thought I had in common with the rest of the kids.
Even when I wasn't in kindergarten anymore, the teachers still held this mystical, patient air. They were so good, so efficient at dealing with hyperactive children. Be the teacher a man or woman, something set them apart from the graded teachers.
When I was still in elementary school, I managed to get a job at helping one of the kindergarten teachers clean up her classroom after school. I thought it was fun, putting away puzzles and toys, cleaning up the bookshelf, and preparing activities for the next day. But then the school got a new kindergarten teacher.
She had a classroom across from where I worked. She was short, perhaps only a few inches taller than me at the time, and fresh out of school herself. Her bobbed blonde hair was almost white and she wore her face like a mask: caked makeup, as stark as a clown's. There was something not right about her, how she wore her stiff suits and how she opened her bright red lips in a practiced "O" when she talked. I avoided her.
At the school, all the kids sat in a perfect que in the gymnasium to await the buses. As usual, I was late because I had been helping the other teacher, but she was there, patrolling. And when she saw me, an unholy fire lept up into her pitless dark eyes. A typhoon of fury descended on my head and I was verbally beaten to the ground.
When my shivering husk stumbled to the end of the line, the younger boy in front of me clutched his lunchbox like a talisman.
NYT Linkfest (registration required): A Man Who Would Shake Up Science. A new look at the world through simple programs? Looks like Wolfram is trying to aim for the title of 21st century Renaissance Man. I'm not saying that's a bad thing (the sometimes crusty institution of old science needs to be shook up once in a while) but conclusions shouldn't be so hastily reached. I'd wait for the reviews to come in when people can actually get their hands on a copy of his mysterious book. Global Village Idiocy. Not everyone has the ability to take everything with a healthy amount of skepticism. I get most of my news from the internet these days, but that doesn't mean I believe everything I read either. If only there wasn't so much blind devotion floating around. Kicking Up Cosmic Dust. I'm sorry, but I'm not that much of a Star Wars fan. Of course, I'll go to the theater dutifully like any other sci-fi geek and watch it, but I'm not a nut (like a guy I knew who bought all the Episode I toys, held a countdown 100 days before it opened, played the trailer 24/7, and ran around with his Star Wars blanket like a maniac). I mentioned this less than stellar review to my roommate. She just hopes that N'Sync isn't in it.
Wandering aimlessly snapping pictures for a future project, I came across a set of benches in a secluded area bordered from the roads by hedges and architecture perhaps designed by someone consumed by Victorian "hysteria". The benches were nailed within a square plot outlined by driftwood logs. Within, the earth was strewn with smooth, dark stones. I picked one up and stuffed it into my pocket.
Some of the odd embellishments on buildings could even be out of a designer's hallucinogenic dream--like some of my dreams maybe. Last night, I dreamt of climbing water-soaked metal stairs which were interspersed every so often with steaming bathtubs. I scribbled on the face of a villain in four clashing colors and went scuba diving in the middle of a hurricane and discovered an underwater grotto.
And now, when I take that stone out of my pocket, I rub it and it smells of the keys which were its companion in the pocket. It grows cold quickly and I wonder if this is how many people view me: an unresponsive, unfeeling rock. I find it difficult to muster up any enthusiasm for anything anyone else deems important or interesting. Sometimes I wonder if I'm suffering from ennui and attention deprivation.
I've been reading more blogs lately, of college students graduating. It's torturous, like the carrot constantly dangling in front of you, tantalizing and elusive. Midterms here aren't even over yet and there are already pictures all over the place of happy faces in graduation gowns and tassels and posts about moving out. I could throw a tantrum, pound on the windows as if they were prison bars, but I would scare the hell out of everyone. They would drag me to a shrink to get my head examined first.
Maybe it's a case of weird senioritis. I'm not homesick. I want to flee. The room, the classes, the regularly scheduled meals are like a cage. I'm the parrot whose owner tries to train me to say "Polly want a cracker?" and even if I do say it, the cracker is denied. Some say that the college years are the best time in your life. You're independent from your parents yet you don't have to worry too much about bills and such because they're already paid.
I beg to disagree. I've practiced delayed gratification. I hardly went to parties or associated with anyone more intimately than on a casual basis. As a result, I'm a socially inept clod. Most likely five years from now, no one I know from my undergraduate years will remember me--just as everyone from high school (including my teachers) have forgotten me. I'm the domesticated parrot, constantly yearning for freedom, yet when released, would have no idea how to survive in the wild.
I'm seeing way too many movies this week. As I've mentioned before, Robinson Crusoe (the book) was a silly imaginary journal in novel format where the author was inconsistent about dates and various other details. The movie, however, goes beyond silly. It was a politically correct mess with a contrived beginning and ending (the writers probably stuck in a love interest to titillate the female demographic) with Pierce Brosnan as the title character. He should stick with the none-too-intelligent films like James Bond where he wouldn't have to really act (and let all the stuntmen do all the work).
The screenwriters should have left an unfilmable novel alone. The entire story was butchered. Example: In the book Crusoe was from York and he cowardly ran away from home. He was stuck on the island for 28 years and his dog died from old age. In the movie Crusoe is from Scotland, fleeing because he accidentally killed a friend in a duel. He was stuck on the island for 6 years and his dog died from an explosion when he tried to blow up a bunch of savages.
There was so much wrong about that movie on so many levels. They should have changed the characters' names and marketed it as something else.
I don't usually talk about politics.
For one reason, I don't feel knowledgable enough about the topic, and another, I cringe at the side taking that it involves. I'd usually mention an article that I've read to somebody and they'll say, "Oh that's not possible" or "That's not true." If they left it at that, I'd still be fine--the media isn't always honest. However, instead of just those few words, they immediately launch into a tirade of what is right or wrong, their own viewpoints, and how the opposing viewpoint is just plain stupid.
And I haven't even opened my mouth to say anything else! Just because I mention something, I get lectured. They haven't read the article or even thought about it. They're just blinded with loyalty to their own pet ideology. After listening to their torrent of words, I'm too tired to even argue. It's like being preached at as if the preacher thought I was a heathen or an atheist even though I'm not.
Geez. Is it so hard to be opinionated and open-minded at the same time?
Mindless: Dog-hugging monkey. Random fuzzy animals. Awwww. Pepsi Blue is coming. There's also blue Powerade. Did you know that by mixing blue Powerade with chocolate milk, you can get a concoction that tastes like Tootsie Rolls? Winged Cats. I want one! Just like the kitty in the children's book Catwings.
I can understand the chips, the carrots, and the celery. Heck, I even make exception for cereal, cucumbers, and those weird chex-mix-like condiments you put on top of salads. They're crunchy and you simply can't help but make sounds when you chew on them. What I don't forgive (or perhaps I'm just growing more and more intolerant as I grow older) is the making of food sounds that aren't necessary. Slurping soup? Sucking noodles? Sloshing and snorting and swallowing other various food particles audibly?
Don't give me the excuse that eating with gusto heightens your appreciation of the food. It's plain irritating and noisy like polka music at a wedding reception. In fact, in some ways it is worse. It's not terribly polite and the sound of smacking lips gives me horrible visions. I don't want to be mentally picturing liposuction surgery or the squishy-ness of something nasty that accidentally caught underneath someone's shoe while I'm trying to eat lunch.
I'm also wary of people who recommend too many movies. I tend to ignore them eventually because they're always going around telling people, "This is one awesome movie!" while their eyes bug out and their lips purse. Please don't try scaring me into seeing something. And then of course they have to say, "You've got to see it, so-and-so is so hot!" Arg! Why do people mistake me for someone who goes to theaters to see some skin? I'm not some teenybopper with posters of cute guys pasted all over my walls. (The only posters that I do have are by Gil Bruvel.)
Well, despite being the middle of the week, I got to watch Momento. Normally after hearing such an enthusiastic review as above, I tend to avoid the said movie like the plague. Unfortunately, this movie was "required". Homework is going to be based on it. (No, this is not similar to the film appreciation class I took a year back. This is a neuroscience class where the prof gets to rant about consciousness both philosophically and physiologically.)
So what do I have to say about it?
To my surprise, I actually liked it. Definitely one of those "thinking" movies. Now I'll have to see it a second time before I forget everything.
Yellow Biker's roommate was going around to everyone's rooms collecting the mirror that hung above the sink. All the mirrors are going to be decorating one of the alleys (which is already pasted with aluminum foil) to create a "hall of mirrors". The purpose? I have no idea. The people who live in that alley must be high on something--pot or ether or alcohol.
But I replied, "Sure, why not."
He took the mounted mirror off the wall and I placed a piece of tape on the back. It had my room number to distinguish it from all the other mirrors being used for the whole edifice for vanity. And when he left with the mirror, I looked at what remained, the hole in the wall.
The hole was more like a rectangular indentation where the piping for the sink ran through. But what was more amazing was the wall in the hole. There was a list of names written in marker; the names of the previous inhabitants of the dorm room went back all the way to 1989. If the mirror had never been taken out for some frivolous construction, I would have never known (and future students would be forever pondering who lived in the room from 2001 to 2002).
So I took up my sharpie and wrote.
An interesting quote: "Have pity on those who fear to hold the pen, the brush, the musical instrument, or the work tool, for they assume there is someone superior to them, and feel unworthy to come within the noble gates of art. But have more pity on those who have held the pen, the brush, the musical instrument, or the work tool, and have turned their hold on inspiration to a wretched tool of vanity." -- Translated from: Paulo Coelho, 'Diario de un mago' This was taken from Reality.
An interesting link: BlogSnob. It's a free text ad. A combination of the randomizer button on a webring and a regular link. And another great way of finding interesting blogs.
In regards to the question (below) of whether or not the blogs of men and women are different, I'd have to say this: no matter the subject it is all navel gazing. This whole blog is navel gazing. This post is navel gazing. Why? Because it consists of my opinions and despite occasional random visitors, I look at this page. No matter how insightful (or insipid) a blogger is, he or she is also putting the persona into html whether it's photographs, emotions, commentary, or the banana sticker collection (yes, even the banana sticker collection can reveal a blogger's character).
I don't believe a person's gender, age, sexuality, or race has anything to do with the content of the blog, but of course through observation I've seen the so-called divide. Perhaps it has to do with society and what we're conditioned to reveal or not reveal. Perhaps it has to do with how comfortable the blogger is about spewing his life onto the internet. For all we know, those girly diaries online could be a complete fabrication, made up by some creepy middle-aged geezer. But those aside, why would I care if there is a divide? People can write whatever they feel comfortable with, and if it's interesting I will read it even if at first glance you have nothing in common with me.
But dividing up types of blogs via gender? It's a murky classification at best. Types of blogs should be defined by their structure because it's much more clear cut. Just because someone looks and acts differently than you doesn't mean that they also think differently. Maybe someone should do a detailed statistical analysis on who does what kind of weblog--there might be some interesting figures--but it won't change anyone's blogging style.
On another note: Stuck at Prom Contest. I never went to prom because I thought it was a waste of time and money. (I'm an unabashed cheapskate. Nobody asking me to the prom is besides the point. I was glad no one asked me.) My sister, however, is another story. She's a bit of a bohemian so I wasn't surprised when I found out she had designed a duct-tape dress for herself. I might be able to get my hands on a photo of the dress in the next week or so.
1. Over the last few months I've run across a few blogs (disappearing blogs) that state "I've stopped blogging because..." Why might you consider stopping your online journal? If nothing could stop you, and you're totally committed to blogging Why?
I'd stop blogging if I don't have time or an internet connection. This won't be happening any time soon because I always somehow find time to write. And even if my computer imploded right now, I could still go to a computer lab or the library.
2. You arrive at the gates of heaven, and the gatekeeper says, "there's been a mistake..." What mistake? or Who is mistaken about what?
Nobody's mistaken. The gatekeeper is just saying that to scare the newcomers.
3. There is a theory in Psychology about silencing the self. Current research looks at whether men and women differ in how much they silence themselves and at what time/stage in a relationship they do so. On Chad's site I once read a post about how men's blogs differ from women's blogs. Do you think this is true and if so how do they differ?
From what I've seen, mostly true (teenage bloggers, both male and female, are in their own class). Men generally like to show off their smarts and wits whereas women are more prone to treat their blog as a diary. I'm weary of generalizations though. I've come across male bloggers before who've spilled out their guts like any "emotional" female and vice versa, female bloggers who primarily do commentary.
This is an interesting question though. I might have to continue ruminating about this in another post.
Bark can be worse than bite. Yep, one half of the couple who's put charges against the dog owners is the prof for the writing class I'm taking this term. I'm not sure what to think of the story. I just sit there in class while the prof happily points out the errors in the news article.
I'd personally prefer she keep to the topic of writing short stories, but what can I do? Maybe the class is really a cathartic release for all the stress she's going through.
Anyway, this morning the seniors had a fake Ditch Day. That means we woke up the underclassmen at 7:30 AM just for the hell of it. And what comes with fake Ditch Day but fake stacks! I've started a new gallery which can be viewed here.
Occasionally I get the urge to flee. Anywhere. But today, I settled for the next best thing, walking to Old Pasadena. I could have taken the bus, but it's impossible now. Approximately two months ago the routes were changed so the buses don't stop at Tech anymore. It's a shame since most students don't have cars.
So why was I, the single grubby college student, mingling in a mecca filled with trendy yuppies and fashionable teenagers? I'm not quite sure--maybe because of my personal masochistic streak--but I went to see Spiderman.
I was a bit peeved that I had to wait in a line to get into the theater. It was two days after opening day and in the early afternoon. I expected sparse attendance! But I suppose the multitude of six- and seven-year-olds made up the rest of the seating. I mean, little kids like action figures, and what better way to realize them as on the big screen? (Actually I'm just speculating. When I was little I thought of action figures like different versions of Barbie. They were only good when the head was torn off.) While I was waiting, a girl behind me remarked that this movie might make more money than Harry Potter. Quite possible if people keep on lining up to see it.
As for the movie itself, it was fun--as in slightly mind-numbing for its two hour duration. There were some funny parts, but the action scenes could have been a bit better. And parts of the dialogue were atrocious. (And did anyone else catch the editing faux pas at the end where MJ's hand appears, disappears, and reappears on Parker's face?) So it was ultimately amusing and to be filed in the same vein as Charlie's Angels and Mission Impossible 2. Nothing to write home about.
I spent the rest of the day grousing through bookstores. I mostly look and don't buy because the booksellers hardly stock the authors that I do read. However, my primary purpose wasn't to buy a book but to buy a card. That's right. A card. For Mother's Day. I was disappointed because there were many "cutie" cards on sale. My personality is not "cute" and it would just be plain weird if I sent my Mom one of those cards.
People have been ranting and raving due to a network shortage for most of the day. So for most of the campus, the internet was broken. There was a warning of the shortage. Via e-mail. So no one really was informed.
It's sort of scary how wired everything is these days. Class materials are distributed via a course website. The best way to contact someone is by e-mail. Talking is replaced by instant messaging.
It's the slippery slope argument. Sure, some people were addicted to the internet all the way back to the early 90s (and possibly even before that), but I wasn't. I didn't really get an internet connection at home until the latter part of 11th grade. I had no idea what a search engine was let alone how to build a webpage. The local library didn't get wired until after I got out of high school (yeah, I know--typical for a small backwards southern town).
I never did much on the computer during my first year in college either. In fact, I had planned on not even having a computer while I was a student--but I gave in after half of first term passed by. Why? Because when it came to typing a paper up for class, I couldn't get to any of the computers in the computer labs because they were clogged up by internet junkies playing Quake and Counterstrike.
Then I discovered personal homepages and it completely went downhill from there.
Changes: The links page has been updated. There are now more blogs listed. No, I'm not trying to score brownie points with anyone (I'm pretty sure most the people I've linked to don't give a crap) but I do actually read them. Go look in their referrer logs if you don't believe me.
Neat link: The most beautiful experiment. It's an interesting essay that could easily apply to the aesthetics of all science. In physics, especially, they're still chasing the ever elusive grand unified theory that will unite classical and quantum mechanics. It's tough trying to make beautiful science, though. You either have to be dodgy and persistent or a genius.
Official International Toroid Day Song Lyrics (sung to the tune of The German Friendship Song)
Ist das yas ein donut-schlagen? Ya, das ist ein donut-schlagen!
Ist das yas ein Noah's bagel? Ya, das ist ein Noah's bagel!
Donut-schlagen! Noah's bagel!
Oh, du shone! Oh, du shone! Oh, du shone!
TOROID DAY!
Never heard of Toroid Day? I'm not surprised. It was instigated by a former (and work-exhausted) Techer who had donuts and math problems on the mind. The celebration includes pasting signs about Toroid Day on your door, singing the above song, and stuffing yourself silly with donuts and/or Noah's Bagels. Toroid Day comes at a critical time in a Techer's life. Many benefits include stress-relief, an outlet for foolishness, and being bloated with junk food.
CURJ: The new issue isn't online yet, but the editor made an interesting point in his introduction. However he didn't pose a solution to the problem. In educational institutions today, there's a sharp dichotomy between the teacher and the researcher. There are certainly some excellent teachers, but they also get counter-balanced with the researcher who has little (if at all) motivation to inspire future scientists via the classroom.
He says that Tech provides an excellent opportunity for research. I can't argue with that, but he completely side-steps the issue on whether or not suddenly throwing a student into research without a firm basis (just like tossing a kid into the deep end of the pool before he learns to swim) is a good idea. I believe the problem is not so much rooted in where the student ends up, but the relationship between the teacher and the researcher. On one hand, researchers get a great deal more respect because they are able to bring in grant money and recognition through novel studies. Teachers, on the other hand, are snidely ridiculed because they do a good job at teaching. Frankly to some people, good teaching equals bad research.
I don't have any fool-proof solutions, but I do have a few suggestions. First off, teachers should not be brushed off as simply baby-sitters. They're trying to do their best in training the next generation on how to run civilization. Second, teaching may not be a big pay-off in the short term, but in the long term, the benefits will be much more rewarding. And lastly, the breed of researchers will die off if there are no good teachers. If you dump an inexperienced student suddenly into a lab, he will flounder and most likely fail. Not all good teachers are bad researchers. Ultimately, researchers are intimately dependent on teachers. Every researcher at one time or another had someone as a teacher.
Oh yes, and I got tagged today. So if you want more info on this comment-tagging whatchmacallit go here. It reminds me of leaving weird pictures in people's guestbooks. So who did I tag next?
It's not that I want any kids of my own (my motto is, "I'm too young!" but that sort of gets warped when I remember that when I was in high school I was confronted by a plethora of pregnant freshmen) but more of an odd fascination with something small, cute, and inherently full of potential. When they look upon the world with fresh, curious eyes I am suddenly snapped out of my usual stupor which usually revolves around work and lack of sleep. For a few hours I'm elated thinking "To hell with homework, there's so many other interesting things to do!"
Later: "Oh crap, this problem set is due in X hours and I still haven't started yet."
Anyway, I have no conscious access to any thought before the age of three so I can only speculate what babies really think about. At least I have pictures. My first picture was right after I was born. It was a mugshot of my face and my fists against a sea of pink-puce blankets. I fancied myself constipated or at least pissed at the photographer according to my expression.
Apparently, I was also quite the world traveler before the age of one. My parents took me to all sorts of wild places, and lucky for them, I was one of those kids who sleep through entire plane rides. I vividly remember one picture that was taken in Munich, Germany. In the background was a gothic church. My Mom was the slim hippie with the long hair and my Dad the dork with the plastic-framed glasses. I was esconed in my Dad's arms wearing a light blue jacket and a psychadelic red and orange yarn hat.
Yes, even in those days I completely lacked a sense of fashion.
Back on topic: I like reading the views of new parents because they're so enthusiastic. They've got this fascination with this living thing that is both a naturally produced mini-clone of themselves and a stranger. Parents declare their child beautiful, and at the same time I wonder if it's really the parents declaring themselves beautiful because the child is them. When I ask my own parents how I was when I was a baby, they grin with a nostalgic mist about their eyes. They sound so happy that I kind of feel sorry that I didn't stay perpetually three months old.
I really should start digging around for blogs of parents with rebellious teenagers to balance myself out.
Links: US colleges complain of anti-terror laws. If this goes into effect, international students wouldn't be able to major in anything at Tech. Besides, I find the whole rationale for this kind of thing flawed. If someone really wanted the information, they could order textbooks from Amazon. Scientific journals are also readily available. And don't forget the internet itself. There are sufficiently enough well-educated people abroad that it wouldn't be a problem for somebody to learn what they wanted. The Royalty Quiz. I'm a revolutionary. Says I could care less about the monarchy. That, at least, is true.
Some people are naturally loud. Bubblehead girl easily falls into this category. Sure there will be people who will defend her saying, "But she doesn't sound shrill like so-and-so." Nonetheless, I can hear her from some distance when she's using her normal voice and I can't help but eavesdrop.
Today she was talking about the design of a dress that she's going to wear to some formal occasion. I don't pretend to understand any of it.
"Am I the only girl who doesn't find clothes interesting?"
As usual, everyone nearby ignored me and I was left mumbling to myself.
I don't like shopping for clothes. I look for something utilitarian and simple and get out of the store as fast as possible. There's something vain about caressing fabrics and prancing in front of a mirror to see how you look in it. A conversation about clothes? It's worse than a lecture on the structure of the Supreme Court. Getting excited about clothes? Please hit me over the head with a pogo stick before I have to hear any more exclaimations about how pretty it looks on somebody.
Instead of thinking this as unnecessary narcisstic behavior, I'm trying to convince myself that this is a woman's way of attempting to attract a mate. What better plumage is there to use than clothes? How else can you explain the inevitable strutting in high heels in front of available bachelors?
But try as I might, I simply can't get into my head that clothes are all that important. At the moment, I'll have to relegate this into the heap of other things I don't totally understand--like video games and the existence of country music.
Another link: Vietnamese Sandwich Tour (via Metafilter) I may be a bit biased (as I'm part Vietnamese, ethnically) but I think the sandwiches are awesome. And don't forget noodle soup like pho--it's some great stuff for cleansing the palate because it's not greasy.
