Wednesday, October 27, 2010

Make Up: The Breakdown

Many years ago (some point in 2007, I believe) I was part of my school newspaper, fittingly named The Eye of the Tiger. This was a fitting title because a) our school's basketball team was the Tigers, and b) it wasn't particularly witty or funny.

From what I can recall in regards to my role in that publication, I was the Editor of the Entertainment section, I think. This may seem like a tall order, but in reality I really only drew the comic, and wrote a little section I liked to call "Guy vs. Girl." [I say that I liked to call it that, because for some reason others on the staff liked to call it "Girl vs. Guy" which really doesn't have the same ring to it at all.]

In this section of the newspaper I would write in opposition to a girl I used to be close friends with, and we would go back and forth on certain topics. If I recall correctly, our very first edition of "Guy vs. Girl" was on the issue of makeup.

I'm pleased to say that I felt the argument won before it had even begun. My stance of makeup not being all that necessary was one shared by my opponent, and that, compounded with a solid ending sentence, cemented my victory. The seven words I chose to conclude my half-page combined to form the memorable phrase: "What's wrong with showing a little face?"

All of this began streaming back to me earlier today when I saw a girl who clearly wasn't wearing any makeup. Suddenly all of the conflicting arguments I had towards the cause I was defending were back in my head, and I began a mental battle with myself.

Why shouldn't I think this girl was looking her best? Because she really wasn't, or because I'm so accustomed to her wearing makeup. Is her wearing makeup caused by people like me who expect more, or because she lacks self-confidence, or both? Why isn't she wearing it now, if she usually does, is she just tired, does she not care anymore? If girls never wore makeup at all, would I think that a girl who suddenly started wearing makeup look better? Wouldn't that simply be more a matter of something new or novel, and not her appearance actually being improved?

Too many questions were running through my head, and I can't say that I've answered any of them. Half the time I don't think I even realize that girls wear makeup anymore, and I'm not even sure how I feel about that. At the end of it all, should I even be concerning myself with the appearances of girls around me, should I be thinking about it this much? I'm really not sure.

Tuesday, October 26, 2010

Starting Out A Bit Heavy, Aren't We?

[SPOILERS: In regard to the Harry Potter series of books, as well as the Holy Bible]

To begin this with a bit of a clichéd phrase, it is said by some that history is "His story," referring, of course, that this story belongs to God Himself. Taking this to heart and viewing the past as a narrative of sorts we are then left with the question of what the climax of the tale is, what the culmination of this story is.

Most Christians will (hopefully) tell you that this event is the death of Jesus Christ, for the forgiveness of mankind's sins. A closer reading of Scripture will reveal, however, that His death served more than simply to save the fallen; the death of Jesus Christ also served to bring glory to His father, God the Father.

This was done in a number of ways. The sacrifice was not merely Jesus', but also God's; it hurt God to have to give up His son, but he did it because he loved humanity. It really was (and is) akin to a father sacrificing his son, knowing that his child understands, but having that ease the pain not at all. The act is compounded by the fact that Jesus is God reincarnated as man, that His death is the most humble act ever, first lowering himself to our levels and then letting himself die at our hands.

Now, assuming that I haven't written any kind of profane blasphemy up above, we can move on to how this connects with literature as a whole. To start off, the concept of sacrifice in literature (and in the media as a whole) is no mystery to anyone. The ideal example for me, is, as mentioned in the SPOILER warning, Harry Potter.

Prior to my reading the entire series I glimpsed many books which drew parallels between the Harry Potter series and Christianity, and it wasn't until the end of The Deathly Hallows that I truly understood why. In letting Voldemort kill him with the Killing Curse (Avada Kedavra) Harry ends up defeating him, and ultimately saving the wizarding world.

To bring this back from Harry Potter and to literature as a whole, I feel that this motif begs the question as to why this theme is so prevalent in literature. The easy reason would be to state that there are chords that stretch throughout man's psychology, a belief strongly held by many Christians, and advanced by psychologist Carl Jung. The main difference between the two being that Christians believe that there is a sacrificial saviour motif due to our being created by God and Him placing within us this innate knowledge of it being true, and Jung stating that it is merely psychological, primordial notions passed down throughout the generations.

While I don’t disregard the thought that it may be a chord of truth that resonates strongly through these narratives, I have a hypothesis that I would like to add. My belief (though to the date of this posting not thoroughly researched) is that the sacrificial saviour is implemented because it brings glory to the author, just as the death of Jesus brings/brought glory to God.

The author's gift of craftsmanship is displayed in this character to be sacrificed, whether he/she be protagonist or otherwise. This character can be created to be likable or not, but he/she is always memorable. What skill then the author has in making this character even more unforgettable. Craft in characterization aside the author is then adored for his wisdom in sacrificing the character. His/her death feels like a deep loss to the reader, as they have become deeply invested in this person. The relationship between author and character is related again to that of a father and son, that there is a sort of pain felt by the creator as well as the created. Having read this and feeling the pain of both character and author, the reader then bestows even more glory upon him/her; "I can't believe he/she did that!" the reader says, in awe.

I am not implying that authors create characters merely to sacrifice them and bring glory unto themselves (although I don't doubt that there are those who do this). All I am doing is drawing parallels between God and His act in sacrificing His Son and the author, and his/her choice to kill of a character. In both cases I believe that honour is due, fully deserved in the example of the former and at your discretion, as the reader, for the latter.

Sunday, October 3, 2010

Wishing Your Fists Were In Faces

I've been updating very early on Sunday mornings lately, so I suppose Sunday evening isn't that much of a stretch.

It was Homecoming Weekend this last couple of days, and it's been crazy and I have not even started my devoirs français (French homework) yet. As a result, I will leave you with this:

Click Here If You Want To Feel Strangely Angry

Saturday, September 25, 2010

Reasons to Like Houghton College pt. 1

I'm not going to apologize for putting this post up on Saturday morning. I will, however, apologize for the fact that my last post was the definition of mental vomit. Next time I'll try to get what's been cogitated and refine it a little.

The Middle of Nowhere

If you were once a kid who liked cartoons, the title Courage the Cowardly Dog might mean something to you. Courage was a little pink dog who lived with two old people in the (extremely) little town of Nowhere, Kansas. I bring this up because if Houghton had another name that would be fairly accurate.

Before I go on, I fully realize and admit to not having lived in a lot of small towns; I've always lived in or near cities, even when I was in Asia, so I can't say I'm an expert on them. Yes, Houghton does have Fillmore and Olean and other small towns nearby, so we're not entirely isolated. Thank you for allowing me to take that paragraph to nullify my hyperbole created in the first.

The main deal is that Houghton College, located in the town of Houghton, New York, is not the largest location out there. Outside of our cafeteria and Big Al's in the basement, the only other places to eat are a Subway and a Chinese restaurant, both within walking distance. We have a post office and an environmental centre that used to be a gas station. This is a college town in every sense of the word.

It really goes beyond being physically isolated from the rest of the world, though. Houghton College is a Christian academic institution, and that makes a world of difference. Walking around at a very warm one o' clock this morning, I took time to marvel at creation and appreciate what I have here. As I go by townhouses I don't hear music that blares or pounds, no screaming or yelling. I can (fairly) safely assume that there aren't alcohol-fueled orgies occurring in the dorms and what have you, and that I won't be drunkenly asked if someone can use my phone (I'd say no, mainly because I don't own a phone). All I could hear was the rustling of the leaves in the wind.

I'd like to attribute my penchant for peacefulness to the fact that I consider myself a pretty chilled individual, but I don't know. Maybe I'm still just trying to brush off my summertime introversion (which sounds like an oxymoron, but isn't), and this is the place to ease into that. Either way, it was a beautiful night last night, and I couldn't have enjoyed it like I did on the campus of Houghton College.

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Music Monday (Ironic Because It's Wednesday)

Roughly ten minutes ago I stepped back into the relative warmth of our townhouse, having just stood in the somewhat cold to listen to what I suppose could be called a "show." Standing out there with my hands deep in my pockets I had the opportunity to be washed in the sounds of deadhorse, a band that dropped by from Pennsylvania. Suffice to say, it really got me thinking about music.

Recently I teased one of my housemates about the genre of music he enjoyed, and he retorted that rock music hits you "here" (as he motioned to his midsection). Being at an outdoor show really allowed me to experience it fully, to feel the music as it hit me here (I am motioning to my midsection). As I listened I was also struck by the fact that in spite of having a purely instrumental sound, deadhorse managed to appeal to my emotions. Did I feel more melancholy because one of their songs reminded me of another I'd heard before, or did the actual sound of the song in and of itself create that feeling in me?

With music on the mind I was almost forced to mull over the theory a friend and I had discussed as kids (and continue to talk about today). Musical trends come and go, and we managed to ascertain between the two of us that eventually there will be a return to more natural sounds, a putting off of auto-tune and distortion pedals and the like. I continue to wonder when pop music will swing its way back to a more simplified sound. Pop music having its etymology in "popular music," though the definition has most definitely changed, especially in our current age.

Lastly, since I feel these are a lot of thoughts at once, I wanted to share this one idea I had while riding home with the radio on one night. We began our trip on a jazz station, and rather than being extremely chill it was very upbeat, prompting my often quiet and confused grandmother (the one with Alzheimer's) to dance. Afterwards the radio was switched to a more contemporary top hits station, with songs such as Usher's OMG. Both songs serve the same purpose, to provide music to dance to, and for the rest of the ride I wondered if somehow the synths of today's dance music could be replaced with strings, the generated beats replaced with an actual drum kit, the singer's modulated voice replaced by three or four singers, or just one with backup.


These are a lot of thoughts about a topic I'm not even that knowledgeable about, so for that I apologize. What I've decided to stop apologizing for, however, is the lateness of these posts. I've come to the conclusion that my college schedule is the most demanding I've had thus far, and I can't always control when I'll have time to write these posts. I do, however, promise at minimum one a week, for each blog, roughly around the days they would usually update. It's not ideal, but it's just how it's going to be for now.

Tuesday, September 7, 2010

Putting the "Ah" in "Palahniuk"

Whenever I am reading one of Chuck Palahniuk's books and am asked who he is, I simply give them the most straightforward answer that comes to mind: "It's the guy who wrote Fight Club." For those of you who have read at least one of his novels you are probably well aware of his literary style and the methods he employs to hook readers. For those of you who aren't (but have seen the aforementioned novel turned film) just imagine verbs, nouns, and adjectives melded together to form the images of cracked ribs, bruised and bleeding lips, and black eyes. Pygmy features graphic homosexual rape, Rant features a protagonist who contracts rabies again and again via animal bites because he enjoys it. In explaining my title it would be wise to bank on the "Ah" referring to the shock and awe descriptions so often employed in his books. This is not the case.

The "Ah" I have found in "Palahniuk" instead refers to science, to the drawn out sound you make when you realize something you never knew before. To be more broad, jargon and technical terminology and the knowledge of how the world works. Fight Club explains how soap is made, as well as how projection booths work. Rant elaborates on how the rabies virus incubates and what its side-effects are, while Diary delves into the facial muscles, graphology, and the ingredients to oil-based paints. Palahniuk writes in such a way that you find yourself completely involved in the story while at the same time picking up the jargon, realizing that when someone contracts their levator labii superioris muscle they're sneering, that something has happened which disgusts them thoroughly. Wading through scenes that make us crease our foreheads and wince and maybe even faint we find ourselves growing oddly more knowledgeable, we begin to find the fact behind the fiction.


As a closing paragraph I would like to include that I believe Palahniuk's works will stand the test of time. In spite of his novels constantly featuring socially awkward protagonists, the way they seem to feature catchy, explanatory phrases ("I am Jack's Raging Bile Duct" Fight Club, "The weather today is an increasing trend towards denial" Diary), the less-than-subtle lean towards shock-and-awe literature, he writes like no one else has, and is continuing to grow as an author. Perhaps he is even the author to be placed on that pedestal labelled "Postmodern," an author for our times. An author to take the madness and confusion and violence and indecisiveness and nihilism and knead it together, a bread that alone cannot sustain, but instead explains.

Monday, September 6, 2010

Tomorrow, Tomorrow

The new blog post will go up tomorrow, because I have to write an article for the newspaper that I forgot about. Maybe if you're all nice or whatever I'll put it up here for you to read.

Monday, August 30, 2010

Still Failing as a Human Being

It's roughly eleven on a Monday night and I legitimately can't recall anything that I wanted to write about tonight. The main problem stemming from today being the first day of college, and three classes has burdened my summer-weakened mind far beyond what it can take.

That being said, this post will be a simple update with a few short thoughts on my classes. Full posts should return Thursday, on "these are stories", with something I have promised will be "special." I honestly don't know what I'll be doing yet.

One Thought Per Class

- American Literature as a class has strengthened my desire to delve into the origins of Canadian Literature.

- Literary Nonfiction was all about writing in a nonfiction manner, but all I could think about was how some people pop the collars of suit jackets, and seem to be okay with it.

- French 101 has cracked down on my inability to roll my "r's." I have been practicing nonstop ever since the class let out.

Monday, August 23, 2010

I Don't Always Watch TV, But When I Do . . .

. . . it's typically cartoons, music videos, cooking shows, or Deadliest Warrior. For those if you who aren't super familiar with the latter, the show pits two of history's greatest fighters against one another to see "Who Is Deadliest?" This is done by testing various weapons from each fighter, and then inputting that data into a "battle simulator designed by Slitherine Studios," which then conducts one thousand battles.

The man who enters said data into the computer is Max Geiger, introduced at the offset of every episode as "computer whiz, Max Geiger." Recently the third season was revealed to be in production, alongside the shocking news that Max would not be returning.

As a loyal fan of the show, I am both saddened and dismayed. Computer whiz Max Geiger was, to me, the lifeblood of the show. His sideline comments were not often useful and were more for comic relief, but he held in his fingertips the ability to turn interval-scaled statistical information into living, breathing fighters. Gaze at the first two seconds of the clip below and behold as numbers metamorphose, matrix-style, into fierce combatants.



In my mind there is no one else who can replace Max Geiger. Apparently there's some ex-Navy Seal or something who's going to be the new expert on fighting techniques, but can he use the computer? Can he type the jumble of keys necessary to prepare the battle, before pressing the one essential to its beginning? There is no other man alive capable of taking over this job.

Here Max Geiger shows us what he thinks of a weapons test.

Max Geiger, computer whiz, genius, expert, you were with us for too short a time. I look forward to this next season not with anticipation, but with a deep sense of loss and disappointment. I can only hope that somewhere out there you are typing keys, and doing what you do best: bringing dreams to life.

Deadliest Warrior, etc. is the property of Spike TV. You should watch Spike TV if you are a man and like stuff that men like.

Thursday, August 19, 2010

32 Emotional Signs That He's Cheating

I can actually give you just one (1) tangible, piece of evidence why I'm cheating, and it has to do with this blog post. Actually, the piece of evidence is also the blog post, and to find out why you will have to keep reading. If you think the title is nonsense it's because it is; it was the first entry I got when I typed in "he's cheating" on a popular search engine. Google, my hat's off to you.

To get down to brass tacks and start beating this bush, let me be the first to say that this post is really just a redirect towards a new blog I am starting as of today. If you want to find out more about it, I strongly recommend the link posted in the next sentence. To describe the new blog in twenty-five words, "these are stories" is a place on the internet I have made to put writing I would not normally place on this blog, i.e. fiction.

This decision was half-made by me quite a while ago, and if you can recall a post made on July Twelfth you will remember that I had asked you all to throw opinions in my general direction in terms of a blog specifically for stories. I read the two comments I had on there, asked others as the weeks went on, and came to the conclusion that this was the ideal route to take.

You will notice on the top of the site, beneath the title "these are words" it now says "updates every monday." This has been changed because, as I'm sure you've already figured out, this blog will now only update on Mondays. The other blog, "these are stories" will update every Thursday.

So go on over there and check it out. If you decide not to now, there will be a new link on a sidebar somewhere to it, and you can always click on it then. That's all I have for today (on this bog, anyway).

Oh, and I'm "cheating" with these posts because instead of being about something it's more just a redirect someplace else. Just wanted to make that super clear.

Monday, August 16, 2010

Kids These/(Those) Days

My grandmother's aggravating antics aside, I'm writing today's post about a topic that passed my mind a number of months ago. I'm . . . I'm going to try to wash this exasperation out of my system before I begin.

[Brief Pause]

Alright, let's do this.

First off, let me admit that writing this at an earlier date would have been ideal. Social trends change, popular tides ebb and flo, et cetera. This issue is dated, but I am going to write about it anyway.

Perhaps you can conjure up a time, long ago, when Miley Cyrus, the Jonas Brothers, and Twilight were at the forefront of every (pre)adolescent's mind. Yes, this is still somewhat the case, but just imagine the time when this was at its peak.

Of course, everyone everywhere (on the internet) was aghast at this cultural phenomenon. We (a collective we) were disgusted with this slurry that had become ever teenage girl's obsession, we took every chance we could to denounce and deride Meyer's books, the Jonas' music, and so on.

In the midst of this, however, it struck me one day what we were doing. A lot of the issues that people were nitpicking were tenets that I not only agreed with, but that I lived by as well.

In Twilight [SPOILERS, I guess] Edward refuses to have premarital sex with Bella, and is adamant that if they are to go any further they must get married first. The Jonas Brothers wear purity rings to symbolize their commitment to, well, being pure. Lo and behold, both of these things were brought under scrutiny and publicly mocked.

Why is it that the one time young people (okay, girls) have role models they should actually look up to, they're ridiculed? Miley Cyrus actually wasn't half bad as someone to imitate, before she decided to grow up. Of course, back before all of this she too was labelled as childish, annoying, et cetera.

Frankly, I'm disappointed with all of us. Yes, the Twilight books were less than stellar, and yes, I read them all. No, the Jonas Brothers are not fantastic at music, but they're not awful either. Here we are, sick of the way Disney gets into every single thing, but when was the last time any of us watched the Disney Channel and saw what was going on there?

Okay, so I watch it every now and then. I have issues with them portraying kids in shows dating, I can't be down with that. What I do notice, though, is how there's this refreshing absence of sexualization that runs rampant on MTV, and on most other channels after six. I honestly don't see almost anything wrong with it.

Maybe we (okay, mostly the internet) should sit back one day and watch some of the Disney Channel (Family Channel, here in Canada) and try to look past the lame jokes and the terrible acting and just admit that it's not terrible. This isn't corrupting kids, and I'd let my kids (I don't have any yet) watch it a billion times before I let them watch almost anything out there these days.

Counterpoints are more than welcome, and even encouraged (though not necessarily anticipated).

Thursday, August 12, 2010

DIY Surgery


I decided to make yesterday a van Gogh day. To be more specific, I painted with watercolours which I had purchased the day before, and I cut off part of my ear.
For a very long time now there has been a slight growth on the back of my left ear. For the past couple of months I have had this desire to rid myself of it once and for all, but never quite got up the gumption to go through with it. Yesterday, as I was preparing to descend the stairs to my abode, I grabbed the sharpest knife I could from the kitchen, a little plastic cup full of cotton balls, a bottle of isopropyl alcohol, a glass of ice cubes, and a bunch of band-aids.

Sitting on my bed I rubbed an ice cube back and forth over the back of my ear. Eventually I came to the conclusion that it was probably just hardened skin, and didn't have all that many nerves in it anyway. I grabbed knife, cotton, and alcohol, and walked to the basement bathroom.
Before I walked in I wisely stripped down to my skivvies. I remembered that a) head wounds bleed profusely, and b) I don't like blood on my clothes. Staring in the mirror I bent my ear and awkwardly positioned the knife. As you can see by the picture of the aftermath below, it was not a small one.

As you can see, I have the tiniest bathroom. Also: yes, that is a lot of blood.

I'd just like to make it clear that I sterilized the knife and the area I was about to cut. Just making that clear.

In spite of the fact that it was the sharpest knife I could find, it was surprisingly dull. I made an incision but only ended up making a slight cut in the skin. With the state of the blade as it was, I actually had to make a sort of sawing motion, moving both my ear and the knife back and forth against each other.

Finally I was able to remove most of said growth. I then set it aside and got to staunching the wound. It bled and it bled and it bled. I alternated between soaking up the blood with alcohol-dampened cotton balls and rubbing ice over it. And still it continued to bleed.

Eventually I got sick of my own blood getting everywhere and but a band-aid over it. The blood still leaked out, but eventually it managed to clot a little, so that was good.

I cleaned up the sink, put some clothes on, Skyped a friend. After a while I got to removing the bandage (and the scab that had grown) and it started bleeding again. So I grabbed more cotton and soaked up more blood and finally put on another band-aid.

This morning all is well. I actually don't think it's infected, and it doesn't really hurt at all. Life is good.

Monday, August 9, 2010

Troubled Standard

I'm writing this with the internet off, because I have somehow managed to contract a computer virus. To be more specific, and more truthful, it is actually malware, and has materialized in the form of a program called, ironically enough, Antimalware Doctor. This program enjoys informing me that I have problems with my computer, to which I mentally respond, Yes, thank you very much. I've found sarcasm to have little to no effect on this program.

Hopefully my Malwarebytes' Anti-Malware software and my AVG Anti-Virus Free Edition will be enough to scour this pestilent persistence from my hard drive. Only time will tell.

And now on to the Real Topic of Today's Post . . .

In spite of the melancholy mood brought about by finishing one of Canadian author Douglas Coupland's novels, I am going to press on and write about racism. The last time I wrote on this topic was in the hodgepodgish bric-a-brac of the post on The Last Airbender. In this case, however, I will take strides to make my thoughts much more cohesive and, hopefully, understandable.

The topic I would like to discuss this evening with you all is when (or more appropriately, why) race is made distinctly clear in conversation, or when an event is being recounted. An example of this would be stating that a guy I saw on the subway was black or Asian, and not elaborating at all if he was white.

Understandably there are quite a few factors to take into account. Where am I at the present (where am I writing this from)? Canada, the West. What is my ethnicity? Filipino-Chinese, Asian. What do I consider myself culturally? An equal mix of Eastern and Western. Who do I find myself interacting with most on a daily basis (ethnically)? Asians.

It's granted that I do live in Canada, where the majority of the populace is Caucasian, but what of it? While I live here I am almost always interacting with my relatives, who are Filipino, or my friend Terence, who is Chinese. Moreover, I live in an area right by Chinatown, where Caucasians are most definitely a minority. With these facts in mind, it would be a poor argument to state that in my current general existence white people are the standard.

Is it because I consider the majority of my audience to be Caucasian, most of the time? Sure, perhaps here on my blog that is the case. And it certainly wouldn't be untrue to consider most of the general populace at the college I attend to be white (as well as my friends at said college).

All factors aside, my issue here is not that other ethnicities are stated, but that Caucasian is the only one that is not. Why this should occur in my case, specifically, when I have lived half my life in Asia, is terribly vexing to me. When I spoke to my friends in Thailand about a scene I saw on the street, was it really necessary that I pointed out that this person was Thai? Shouldn't that have been the standard?

Perhaps this is more a personal issue than anything. If you're white and you interact almost solely with white people, then why shouldn't that be your standard, why shouldn't that just be a given? In my case, however, I find it somewhat troubling. I don’t' know that I'll start stating every single person's ethnicity when brought up in conversation from now on, but I'm going to do something, I just don't know what.

Thursday, August 5, 2010

Trouble Eating

For those of you who have known me for a while, it's no big news that my grandmother has Alzheimer's. I realize that most of you probably know this, but just to be upfront and everything, Alzheimer's is a mentally degenerative disease that specifically affects memory, breaking it down over time.

My grandmother is in Stage Six of Alzheimer's, and well on her way into the seventh. No, she doesn't ever recognize me, though she's become familiar to my general presence around the house. She knows who my grandfather is for the most part, though when he is in another room she will look over at him and ask me who he is.

I guess the real reason I'm writing this is because very recently (as in the past three or four days) my grandmother has somehow forgotten how to eat.

Let's back this up a little and do a little explaining. First off, Filipino people (and many other Asians) eat with a fork and a spoon. The fork is held in the left hand and the spoon in the right; the fork is used to hold food down while the edge of the spoon is used to cut it. Typically the fork is used to push food onto the spoon. [Honestly, I don't understand how people here eat with a fork and a knife, it strikes me as one of the most illogical systems known to mankind.] Secondly, there is normally a bowl of what Filipinos would call sawsawan, which is a combination of soy sauce, fish sauce, lemon, or vinegar (usually not all four at the same time), which is either dabbed onto each bite or only on the ulam, or whatever is being eaten with the rice.

Nowadays my grandmother never picks up her fork. She'll use her spoon to awkwardly cut at whatever meat or fish is on her plate, and then try to get a spoonful of both meat and rice together. This process usually involves using her fingers. The fork just sits there on the side of her plate. The sawsawan also just sits there, almost embarrassingly useless, equidistant between her and my grandfather but only used by one of them.

It's fairly worrying stuff. This is the third summer I've lived in my grandparents' basement, and I have of course watched my grandmother's mental faculties slowly deteriorate overtime. I've been witness to many outbursts; just yesterday she slammed her glass of juice on the table because she didn't want to take her medicine. This however, stands out. Eating is one of the simplest, most standard of daily routines. Having difficulty eating is a sure sign that there's this transition to Stage Seven.

This is the first time I'm writing about my grandmother's condition, but it certainly won't be my last. To end this all off, I leave you with a short snippet I wrote on my old blog.

May Twenty-Ninth, Two-thousand Nine.

Ghosts.


I just realized that to my grandmother, this house is full of ghosts.

Not being able to remember anything, the sounds she hears from above, with Anh and her children on the upper floor, and the noises she hears from below, with me living in the basement with the radio going, are a quiet commotion that cannot be attributed to two octogenarians lying in their bed.

At times I am walking in and out of the living room, and perhaps she glimpses my comings and goings. She is surprised every time, and does not call out. Who does she think I am? Some phantom who stalks a path from basement to sofa then back?

The walls are covered in photos of past celebrations- birthday parties, anniversaries, and the like. There are grandchildren she cannot recognize, their pictures changing every so often as they age. All around the house there are families of strangers- happy, smiling people, all of them foreign and unknown.

Even as I sit here writing this, the door creaks open and eyes peer out of a darkened room. Before I can even raise a hand to wave the door is shut again. 

Perhaps, taking this into account, it is my grandmother who is the ghost- haunting a house that does not belong to her.

Monday, August 2, 2010

Thank You, AP English

When I was in my last year of high school I took an Advanced Placement class in English, to help myself out for what college academic life had planned for me. In this class we wrote a lot of essays, many of which involved comparing and contrasting two literary works of great merit.

Very recently I was able to thoroughly experience two largely varying narratives, both of which I enjoyed immensely. This post will discuss the connection between StarCraft II: Wings of Liberty, a real time strategy game, and The Poisonwood Bible, a novel published in the late nineties.

Wings of Liberty follows the path of ex-lawman James Raynor, and his mission to overthrow a corrupt government he helped put into place in the previous game. The game begins in a bar with Jim down on his luck, drinking in an empty bar on the same planet he began his career as marshal. Who should step through the door but Tychus Findlay, Jim's partner in crime from years ago, offering work that could get his rebel organization back on their feet. This renewing of their partnership kicks off a sector-wide epic which brings them face to face with the two other alien races of the game, and which culminates in a decision Raynor never thought he would have to face.

The Poisonwood Bible is the story of the Prices, a Baptist family who moves from Georgia to the unfamiliar wilds of the Congo. Narrated by the five women of the family, the tale is seen and told through the eyes of Orleanna, wife of preacher Nathan Price, and her daughters, Rachel, the eldest, Leah and Adah, the two very different twins, and Ruth May, the youngest. Originally planning on only staying for a year, their missionary tenure in the village of Kilanga is set awry by the political upsets, many of which are caused by their own government.

I completed the single-player campaign of Wings of Liberty on July Thirty-First, and finally finished The Poisonwood Bibleon August First. Having experienced both in such close proximity, I thought about the two a great deal and was able to tie them firmly together in my mind using a single thread.

StarCraft II: Wings of Liberty and The Poisonwood Bible, despite being worlds apart in both media and subject matter, are both bound together underneath the overarching theme of guilt.

Jim Raynor is a man haunted by the ghosts of his past. The sector's current tyrant, Emperor Mengsk, rules with an iron fist, and sits proudly upon his throne due to the former-marshal's aid in the first war. This despot betrayed Raynor's love, Sarah Kerrigan, by ordering her to place a device on the old government's capital planet which would lure in the voracious Zerg like moths to a flame, and then abandoning her to them. The Zerg would later turn Kerrigan into a creature known far and wide as the Queen of Blades, a malicious killing machine who would terrorize the sector and kill one of Raynor's closest Protoss allies.

Raynor's guilt at Kerrigan's death consumes him, and this is compounded when his old friend Tychus walks back into his life. Years earlier Tychus took the blame for both of them and was incarcerated for nine years. His reappearance in Raynor's life brings back countless memories of the good ol' days, and Raynor is forced to constantly defend his friend against the suspicions and accusations of his crew. The gripping conclusion of the first chapter of the StarCraft II trilogy involves Raynor having to choose between two regrets, two immense sources of guilt, and his decision holds the fate of their world in its hands.

The Prices do not adjust well to life in Africa, and the strain of life in an unfamiliar land is evident in their interactions with one another. While guilt is not present in their lives from the get-go, things take a sharp downhill turn once Nathan Price begins to force Christianity upon the villagers in a manner which borders on antagonistic. Their lives are placed in danger when political unrest begins to encroach on the borders of their existence in Kilanga and natural disasters such as a drought and the resulting famine cause many of them to deeply regret travelling to Africa in the first place. Guilt's immense weight finally falls, however, at the death of one of the Price daughters. None of the narrators are exempt from this event, and all are bowed beneath its burden as they move on with their lives, never quite leaving the past behind them.

The second guilt is felt only by some, and it directly involves the once-hopeful nation of the Congo. America's desire for cheap diamonds and cobalt leads to a scheme that will put the leader they want in charge of the country, a plan which will overthrow the newly-elected Patrice Lumumba, voice of the Congolese. Western guilt lies leaden on the shoulders of most (but not all) of the Price women, the actions of the Belgians in the colonial era and the actions of their own American countrymen in the post-colonial. Lives and hopes lost at the hands of their Western brethren force them to reconsider who they are as people, and to try to come to some sort of reconciliation.

Jim Raynor and Orleanna Price both have lines which, while appearing simple on the surface, speak volumes about who they are and what they've done with their lives. Facing his final decision Raynor says, "We are who we choose to be," a line almost stupidly simple at first glance. In it, however, these seven words manage to encompass his decision to become a marshal, and then a rebel freedom fighter, a path Tychus looks upon scornfully. These words contain within them his choice to set aside revenge for closure, to save lives instead of sit back, and, finally, his decision to choose between what seems right and what could be redemption.

Orleanna, in the first few pages of the book, tells the reader, "One has only a life of one's own." This simple message means more and more as the narrative progresses, yet from the beginning it reveals that she does not really feel needed or loved, and thus has only herself as company. As the novel goes on Orleanna makes a decision for the entire family, opting to set aside her weak-willed self and to put on strength and intensity, a woman motivated by the eventual safety of what family she has left.

StarCraft II: Wings of Liberty and The Poisonwood Bible both feature characters who are riddled with guilt and yet seek freedom from it, who are forced to face it and move on, and who make their largest decisions in the midst of disaster, panic, and betrayal. Both have lived lives full of regrets, yet firmly choose to make one less mistake, for others and not for themselves.

Works Cited

Kingsolver, Barbara. The Poisonwood Bible. New York: Harper Flamingo, 1998. Print.

StarCraft II: Wings of Liberty. V 1.0.1.16195. 31 July 2010. Blizzard Entertainment. 31 July 2010.

Thursday, July 29, 2010

A Letter

Dear Sir/Madam,

It has come to my attention that you are one such individual who enjoys indulging in the mastication of an artificially sweetened preparation known more colloquially as "chewing gum."

Big words aside, I'm hear to talk to you a little bit about your habit, and why it's really started to get on my nerves as of late. Allow me to begin by drawing a family tree and placing you in the same branch as smokers. For a quick second dwell on the fact that on this hypothetical arboreal construct you are rubbing elbows with a group whose habit is such that they deserve their own section in restaurants. Now we move on.

As many of you may have noticed, smokers care little for their general surroundings. For some far-fetched reason that continues to elude me many have come to the conclusion that if there is no ashtray in the vicinity, the logical choice would be to throw used butt on the ground before extinguishing it with a well-practiced turning of the foot. This individual has probably probably finds this somehow satisfying, and it is thereby a form of positive reinforcement to dirtying the environment. This action leads to most waiting areas (bus stops being an obvious example) bearing a liberal dusting of cigarette butts, a trait that has, over time, even become characteristic of such areas.

At this point I would like to apologize, as I did mention in the first sentence of the second paragraph that big words were, to an extent, to be laid off to the side for the time being. There are times when irritation leads to a building up of my diction as opposed to a breaking down, and I ask that you bear with me.

The point that I made in the paragraph before last is that smokers, to put it simply, are a dirty people. However, it is to be noticed that at these same rest stops where cigarette butts litter the ground there are often, accompanying them, a healthy number of dark spots on the sidewalk. It was sometime last month when, to my disgust, I realized that aforementioned dark spots were actually wads of chewing gum, spat on the ground and turned black by dirt and the (unlucky) soles of passers-by.

Please explain to me, good sir/madam why this is. What possesses a person to take the wad of sweetened chicle from their mouth and simply leave it upon the ground for other to trod upon? I am aghast at the thought that it never occurs to you that this may make the ground appear, to be blunt, filthy. Dark spots do not appear to be a beautifying characteristic in almost anything anywhere. Dalmatians are clearly the exception.

I would like to conclude this brief letter by imploring you to rethink your choices. Not the choice to chew gum, since as vices go it is quite tame compared to partaking in heroin, methaphetamine hydrochloride, or the groundless licking of amphibians to obtain a state of altered consciousness. No, the choice I beg you to consider is some sort of alternative to tossing your exhausted inedible on the ground. Please consider the surroundings and soles of those around you. In short words: Be Considerate.

Thank you for taking time away from your busy days to glance through this note, and I dearly hope that you take something away from this, and that that something is a staunch decision to from here on end always dispose of chewing gum in a polite and sanitary manner.

Yours Sincerely,

-Evan Yeong

Monday, July 26, 2010

Dirty.

This is a very spur-of-the-moment just-because-I-can post. It's nine o' clock and I have three hours before this is late, so I am going to write about what is on my mind.

I hate flies.

Why do I hate flies?

Because they are dirty.

I also hate flies because they buzz around my room and nestle in my lamp, the only source of illumination down here. They sound like little German Fokker biplanes that are being piloted by large-lunged vuvuzela players. They are also quite large.

When I finally swat these flies with a rolled up copy of Nintendo Power, I have found, to my disgust/may, that many of them are pregnant. Their twitching bodies release a slowly growing pool of tiny, near-microscopic maggots, which crawl around blindly searching for some corpse to inhabit.

It's gross.

Then I got to thinking about animals people are afraid of, and how they all go under that finger retracting heading of "Dirty." Flies, cockroaches, rats, and vermin of all shapes and sizes; people are afraid of them, and they are all known as being filthy, filthy creatures.

Where did this come from? Is this a Western fear that we have? I'm not implying that in the East people are loving on cockroaches and sharing bags of Doritos with them, that's just absurd(of course that doesn't happen, Doritos are hard to come by in Asia). Since when have we all become Purell-grabbing germaphobes?

I think about how when I see pictures of Africa there are kids squatting on the ground, flies on their faces, just chillin'. This is an awkward example to use, because it's highly likely that they were too weak to swat them away, so let me move on- How about markets in the Philippines, where everything is in the open air, and animals are cut up in front of you and blood and other liquids flow down little drains all around you? Is that any less hygienic than the food you eat now (unless you're in the Philippines, in which case this obviously doesn't apply to you)?

I guess the bottom of line of what I'm saying here is that we (yes, I suppose I count as well) Westerners are terrified of things that are "dirty," and maybe we don't even know why. Or maybe we do know why, but we are being directed by the hype of the media and all that. Just something to think about, y'know?

Notes:
  • One night in Thailand I woke up and there was a cockroach on my hand. It was one of the worst nights of my life. I spent the rest of the night in the living room.
  • There was a lot of unintentional product placement in this post. I'm really sorry for that, it was completely unintentional and I have no idea how it happened.
  • If you go to urbandictionary.com, the second entry for germaphobe has a second definition that is as follows:
2) Someone who is scared of German tourists

Thursday, July 22, 2010

Documentaries

I've watched a few documentaries in my time. And I really do mean a few. They are, if I can recall correctly:

Food Inc. (which is about food)

Supersize Me (which is about fast food)

Capitalism: A Love Story (which is about capitalism)

Good Hair (which is about hair)

This (short) post is deceptively titled "Documentaries." Deceptively in that I'm really only going to focus on Good Hair, which I only really saw about half an hour of.

If you don't know, it's basically Chris Rock going around and researching, for lack of a better word, black hair. This was probably one of the most enlightening documentaries of the bunch for me, because it was legitimately something I had never given any thought to.

Mr. Rock explores the techniques used to "tame" black hair, many of which involve crazy noxious chemicals that will give you terrible burns. Another stratagem used necessitates taking hair from other people and weaving it onto one's head. This hair typically comes from India.

I'm bringing all of this up because the woman I work for currently is black.

This documentary has done something which none of the others have, and that is given me this heavy sense of awareness. Whenever I look at her hair I notice that her straightening (or whatever it's called) is loosening up a little, and that she should probably go get it redone. More importantly, I look at her hair and I judge.

My friend Gordon is used to getting that look from me. To be fair, with him I'm usually kidding, but this is serious business. Every time I look at black women now I'm constantly scrutinizing their heads, silently passing judgement on what they choose to do with their own hair.

It's an issue I'm dealing with. I just thought I'd share it.

An Excuse [Also: Partially A Late Update for Monday]

I didn't update on Monday because:

a) I got back from work and left as soon as I had changed to attend the Scott Pilgrim's Greatest Hour release party at The Beguiling, Toronto's comic store of choice.

Whilst I was there I met cool Americans (crazy, I know), met the Brian Lee O'Malley, and got both the first and sixth books signed. I'd tweet more about how incredibly amazing these comics are, but that is for another day.

Suffice to say, I returned home at three in the morning, because I waited for over three hours to get the last book signed. Worth every second.

b) The next day my aunt and cousin were around (and had arrived the night before), so we all went out and got all-you-can-eat sushi. Then I fell asleep for a while.

When I woke up I went and saw Despicable Me with other cousins. It was pretty good.

c) On Wednesday I had to go to work. So I did that.

When I got back home there was a big potluck-type thing with the whole family because my mom was leaving the next day.

The house was like a sauna, so I left with two of my cousins to walk around. We bought a box of twenty-four ice cream sandwiches, and ate half between the three of us. I feel like a fatty.

d) My mom left this morning to go back to Thailand so that she can return in time for my brother's last few radiation treatments. Oh, fyi, he has cancer. The good news is that it is almost all gone.

That's why I didn't update on Monday, and I couldn't get around to it until today. There you have it. Now I will go write a real update for today, Thursday.

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Dream, June Twenty-nine, Two-thousand Ten.

I'm really sorry I suck at this, you guys. Today I got home and there were a billion family members everywhere, and then I had to clean up my room like a person who has OCD and who relies on cleaning things to stay sane.

I don't feel like I have time to put up a post before it's Friday (and I did promise that this blog would be updated Mondays and Thursdays) so I am going to be lazy and put up something I have already written.

Most people don't know this, but since May Twenty-Fifth of this year I have been recording my dreams when I can remember them. I have roughly thirty dreams recorded, some of them paragraphs long and some of them only a brief scene I can scarcely recall.

Below is a dream I had last month, and I hope it will suffice until next Monday. I tried to pick one in which there weren't any people I knew, and one that didn't contain weird cultural references or memories only I would know about. I also rewrote it slightly, to make it easier for you guys.

Dream, June Twenty-nine, Two-thousand Ten.

It's nighttime. I'm walking around in a parking lot, large supermarket to my right; I have no idea what I'm doing. As I walk around I begin to get flashbacks of what happened in this world. Earth basically fell apart, as resources were depleted, and it became polluted and run-down. People drove their cars, sure, but eventually there wasn't any gas to make them run. Not even the nearest planet cared enough to help them out [Editor's Note: I guess this was the future and we had reached the stars somehow]. Eventually people began taking their cars and burning them to create huge signs, beckoning those on the other planet to come engage in their drug-fueled parties and orgies. Some simply said the name of the planet, which might have been SODEXO, while other had messages as inane as FRANK DILLON IS AWESOME.

In spite of the apocalyptic flashback I had, everything around me seemed contradictory to what I had envisioned. The supermarket to my right appeared extremely well stocked, albeit closed, and as I hide in the parking lot, back against the tire of a parked car and two white pillows under my head, a truck pulls in front of me. I hold my breath and hope I blend into the darkness. I have documents and I need to bring them somewhere, so I rise and talk to the portly man in the truck.

A little ways off, near where the parking lot ends, I see a leather messenger bag with a gun and an axe inside of it. I leave it alone. A man who looks like a bum tells me to just take it, so I walk over, place my documents inside of it, and begin to head off. The owner comes over and says, "That's mine," so I take out my stuff and hand him the bag. "Man, you one badass mofo," I tell him. I begin following him. We walk away from the department store and its parking lot, into the woods.

As we near the woods I spy a really old looking book, which I pick up and put my papers into. The man who looks like a bum begins begging us to take him and let him follow us, but we ignore him. He begins grabbing onto me, almost as if he's trying to climb on my back. The owner of the bag comes over and begins grappling with him, and I can tell he's going to be the one to protect me and keep me safe; no one's going to mess with this guy. I grab a blue ballpoint pen from a pile I see on the forest floor.

The man is dealt with, and we begin to continue on into the forest. A second man, the driver of the pickup, I think, is behind us. He reminds me of the big white guy in Remember the Titans. We begin to cross a bridge, and from where he starts yelling at us. "Why you gotta cross a bridge that's too wide?" It wasn't that wide.

Monday, July 12, 2010

Tell Me What You Think

I've decided to stop putting these before each post. They take up a lot of room, and I don't like how it looks.

For those of you who haven't glanced over at the little sidebar to the right or who didn't know me back when I still updated it, allow me to inform you that I used to have another blog. This blog, angel's asylum, was (and is, I suppose) basically all very short stories, a place where I could flex my creative muscles and test out my theories on "episodic literature."

Glancing through it a few weeks ago, I number of thoughts came to mind, which I will list even though I promised myself I would stop with the lists on this blog.

(1) Writing fiction was a lot of fun.
(2) I wouldn't mind starting that up again.
(a) But it's already difficult enough writing this Mondays/Thursdays
(b) And I don't want people feeling like I'm posting all over the place/too much.
(3) I would actually like new readers of this blog to look through and comment on my old one.
(4) I would also like to rewrite a lot of those old posts.
(5) I want to consolidate all of my work under one email, as both blogs are under different addresses.

My solution to this would be to begin a new blog that would connect directly to this one, and slowly (perhaps once a week) repost old material there. Eventually I would run out of older writing and I could actually begin to delve into fiction again (maybe even intersperse newer stuff with the old if I feel so led).

What I'm asking you (the five[?] or so people who read this) is whether or not you would actually read more of what I write, and if you would if you could comment on it. Please get back to me in the comments section and let me know, since it's something I'm thinking about pretty seriously.

To end this off, here's a piece posted on March Twenty-Eighth, Two-thousand Nine. It was an effort to write a short scene using every single character in a text message. It was written to one (1) Renee Roberts.

The branches reached skyward, scratching the cloudy, troubled heavens and failing to leave a mark. Eleanor Ruby Greenway stood at the bus station and sighed; it should be illegal to have to wait more than fifteen minutes for public transportation.

Only a little past three on a Sunday evening and this weekend had already begun its slow, sullen march to its grave, filled with a heavy sense of resignation. Going to the park was sort of a social excursion, right? After all, there were a lot of people there, and she had even spoken to a man selling red balloons; they had been just like the ones the man in the park had sold in Curious George. Except, that of course there was no Man in the Yellow Hat to buy her one, and there had certainly been no antics or adventures.

A strong breeze blew down the street, as if a semi had roared down this quiet, suburban road. Elly clutched her bag closer to herself and shivered.

Thursday, July 8, 2010

Fun Facts about Canada that Elisa Probably Doesn't Know

Last week I posted in the comments that whatever topics you suggested, I would write on. In this case "you" refers to Elisa Shearer, as she was the only one who thought it would be cool to offer her thoughts. She thought I should write about:

"Canada. Fun facts about Canada that I probably don't know."

I thought this was a great topic, and since I usually don't break my promises, here you go-


As you might have gathered from the title, these are fun facts about Canada that Elisa probably doesn't know. To make this even more fun, I have decided to do no research whatosever on the topic. I guess we'll have to see how this turns out. There are twelve facts, ten for each province I remembered, and two for the provinces I didn't.

EDIT: There are ten provinces and three territories. I had originally counted out eleven provinces AND territories. I forgot Saskatchewan and the Northwest Territories. That's what happens when you don't do any research.

Fact One. I live in Ontario, which is one of Canada's provinces. There's a chain around here called Pizza Pizza, which, in spite of having a redundant name, serves some pretty decent pizza. The best part about pizza from Pizza Pizza (feel the redundancy) is that they give dipping sauce, default setting creamy garlic. Gave dipping sauce, I should say- I don't think they give it free anymore, I think you have to buy it.

Fact Two. The Gay Pride Parade happened in Toronto last weekend. There are a lot of gay people in Toronto, particularly on Church Street. This area of the city has been dubbed "the gaybourhood."

Fact Three. People don't really like Montreal, because apparently they wanted to leave Canada at one point. I don't really mind people from that province, since I think it's cool that they speak French and that their city is so old and cultural.

Fact Four. Margaret Atwood is Canadian. If you don't know who she is, then I will tell you: she is the lady who wrote The Handmaid's Tale. People who read books know about her, which is cool.

Fact Five. Once Canada and America fought each other. We burned down each other's capitals, so we sort of evened it out. Canadian history is actually surprisingly cool.

Fact Six. Speaking of Canadian history, Kate Beaton is one of my favourite Canadian webcomic artists. She writes/draws the webcomic Hark, A Vagrant!, a webcomic about historical things, and is a really nice person. You should read her comics.

A few of the other Canadian webcomic artists I know are also women, and they are Jenny Romanchuk Alison Acton, who write/draw The Zombie Hunters and Bear Nuts respectively. The former is about zombies and the second is about bears.

Fact Seven. My favourite Canadian blogger, MGK aka Mighty God King, recently wrote on national anthems. He claims that the Canadian anthem is one of the only anthems that sounds good sung in two different languages, and I am inclined to agree with him on that.

Fact Eight. People always think of Canada as cold. That being said, I recently heard a weather person on TV announce that it would get "as hot as the tropics" here this summer. He was right.

Fact Nine. All of the Canadian authors I've read these past few months, Douglas Coupland, Robertson Davies, Joey Comeau, and Gail Anderson-Dagatz, have been pretty sombre folk. I often wish that Houghton (the college I attend) had a Canadian Literature class of some sort. Not that I mind American literature, but I think we read enough of it, y'know?

Fact Ten. When I used to think about the word "Canadian" I used to equate that with white people. I also used to be six years old. Now when I think "Canadian" I think multicultural and multiethnic. I suppose I've come a long way from asking my mother whether or not I'm Canadian, confused that I didn't look like some of the people I saw around me.

Fact Eleven. Back in middle school we had extended field trips, and one of those trips was to Ottawa, our nation's capital. While we were there we visited the Diefenbunker. The Diefenbunker was a big ol' government bunker with walls of three metre concrete, or something like that. Important people were supposed to hide down there when nuclear war happened, but now it is a museum.

Fact Twelve. These are just all the Canadian facts I can dredge up in two minutes. Canadians you might know: Jim Carrey, Pamela Anderson, Mike Myers, Russell Peters, the band Three Days Grace, the inventors of Superman, basketball, and the telephone. Canada is the third largest country in the world. Beaver tails are wonderful long flat pastries served with toppings like chocolate syrup or jam; traditionally they are served with lemon and sugar. People are always making fun of Newfies, or people from Newfoundland, but I don't think I have ever met one. On the east coast a lot of America's pollution travels northward and messes up our skies and stuff. Loonies and toonies (one and two dollar coins) make far more sense than one dollar bills. Canada is a large, beautiful country, and I hope to explore more of it one day.

Monday, July 5, 2010

Books

This wasn't intentional, but I am writing this blog post in the nearby public library. I've been meaning to do this for a long time, to go somewhere else besides the dark, cool sanctuary that is my basement, but I just haven't had the motivation 'till now.

So here I am, Psychology, Computer Instruction, and Self-Help books to my back, prepared to defend the written word in a format different from the one you are reading at the moment. If you can see my point, then great; if you can't, that's what the Comments section is for.

EDIT: The title for this was originally: The Written Word (and the Printed Page), but I decided that I should make up for last Thursday's and make this one short and sweet.

The above is a panel taken from the comic Gunshow. Being a very cool guy, KC Green, the creator of Gunshow gave me permission to use this panel for my blog. Clicking here will bring you to the full comic, and the full site.

Sometime during the middle of last week I stumbled upon the comic above, and soon after found in my Twitter feed a link which directed me to Huffington Post, to Marc Ruxin's article "The Death of Touch and the Lost Joy of the Unexpected."

In his article Ruxin spells out the inevitable demise of the Compact Disc (the Music Store), the DVD (Movie Rental Places), and the Book (Book Stores in General); being in the digital age, with inventions like the iPod, Netflix, and the Kindle, soon all media is fated to end up in convenient little handheld devices, a turn of events which Ruxin conservatively describes as being "good and bad."

As someone who cares a great deal for the environment, I'm thrilled that someday the resources and raw materials used in books and CDs might one day be spared. What I find distressing about all of this is the disconnect that will occur, and is occurring, because of this not-so-subtle move from hard copy to soft.

At a mall last year I walked into an HMV (a large music chain, for you Americans) and saw that they had a sale on graphic novels. Upon walking up to the counter and handing the cashier my purchase (DC's Final Crisis), I was surprised to hear her tell me, "This one's really good."

The shock of meeting a girl who knew comics aside, this was pivotal to the first of two points I want to make: people should sell books.

I know a lot of people who might describe HMV as one of those massive soulless corporations, interested only in profits and nothing else. That may be true- but HMV hires people. I've bought many, many books on Amazon and Half.com, but have never had the opportunity to talk to the seller about the book, to ask them their favourite part or if it's even a decent read to begin with. If there's a bookstore you frequent, you know that the people who work there have opinions, and that they're always up for providing them if you ask.

My second point is difficult to separate from my first, but I believe that books should be exactly what their definition(according to WordWeb) entails: "A written work or composition that has been published (printed on pages bound together)."

I can't imagine a world where instead of walking up to my bookshelf I pull open a drawer and take out a Kindle, a gadget that can hold up to fifteen-hundred books. Instead of walking up and down the aisles of a Chapters (a large book chain, again for the Americans), or perusing the shelves of my favourite used bookstore, I'm downloading a full novel in less than sixty seconds. If I don't feel like reading a book, no huge loss, I can just delete it and look for another one. Instead of buying a book strictly on the basis of its cover (not always a bad decision) I can just see what Amazon recommends based on my previous books downloaded.

This might be a strictly personal thing, but I genuinely enjoy feeling the pages of a book between my fingers. I love the feel of a brand new book with the spine intact just as much as I love a book that's worn from many readers, spine creased in their favourite parts. Real books feel and smell and look. I defy Amazon to provide a book open for download where I stumble across a receipt someone has left as a bookmark, or a note left in the margin for a class they took years ago.

Ruxin dealt with music and film as well as books, both subjects I care about strongly in their conversion to a media built for convenience instead of interaction. For me, however, literature has the most to lose in all of this. People will continue to listen to music and to watch movies, but I don't think people will always read books.

Call me a Luddite, but you can keep your Kindles and your e-books to yourself. I don't mean to judge you if that's what you're into, but when it comes to the written word, I strongly believe it belongs with the printed page. Call me a hypocrite, but if I could print this out and hand it to you in person, I would gladly do that instead.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

This Post is Ego"list"ical (and its Title isn't Funny)

Good news, everyone, this italicized text is a Futurama reference! Also: my mom is here. That being said most of the family came over, and after I sat reading in a crowded room with them, I fell asleep.

I have just stumbled down here and thrown myself onto my wondrous double bed. It's opening my laptop that reminded me: This is a Thursday.

So now I lie here, fingers on keys, typing and trying to think of what to write about.


These Are Eleven Things About Me That Some People Know And That Others Do Not

Number One. When I write, I like it to be in ten point dark blue Garamond; I am writing in it right now. As an addendum to this point, I also
prefer to write out my numbers, especially when writing dates.

Number Two. I eat cough drops like they are candy. I asked my mom to bring me back Halls from Thailand, and I have dozens of packs down here in the basement now. Hopefully I can make them last.

Number Three. Gordon Brown and I have been talking about concepts for video games, and I have been writing them down. Some of these are (in my opinion) seriously good, and I hope to one day flesh them out enough to present to a video game studio.

Number Four. Most of you know this, but I have been waiting for the game StarCraft II since they announced it in May of Two-thousand Seven. I spend far too much time keeping up to date on the minutest tidbit of news released on it. If it wasn't coming out at the end of this month, I don't know what I would do with myself.

Number Five. There are times when I do not write with contractions. I attribute this to webcomics. Faye of Questionable Content made this a habit, once upon a time, and many webcomic artists often lapse into writing like this for comic effect.

Number Six. I read a lot of webcomics. Some of the bookmarks on Chrome (my browser of choice) are set up from Sunday to Saturday. Each folder, when pulled down, reveals all the comics to update on that particular day. Thursday's folder contains fifteen; Monday's contains twenty-six.

Number Seven. The Last Airbender came out today, and I'm almost sad at how terrible it is. I really do have a lot of respect for Shyamalan, and to see internet critics the world over simultaneously weeping and laughing makes me feel sorry for the guy.

Number Eight. I use woman's deodorant. For this one Christmas party thing a girl received some Nivea roll-on deodorant, and she gave it to me as a joke. I started using it and haven't stopped since.

Number Nine. When I was in high school I once had dreams of doing stand-up comedy. That was added to the list of "Occuptions I Probably Won't Attain But Wouldn't Mind Being," alongside comic artist, graphic designer, musician and/or singer, and professional eater.

Number Ten. For the past few nights I have been doing crunches and sit-ups to a cover of Katy Perry's California Gurls, ft. Snoop Dogg. You can listen to it here:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J0R_V1RkSDY

I had to go back and change the word "girls" to "gurls." Spelling is important to me, and having to change that hurt me a little inside.

Number Eleven. This list goes to eleven because I didn't want it to go to ten, and I was too lazy to push it to thirteen. I also really like the letter eleven when it's written out.

Monday, June 28, 2010

Movies I Won't Be Seeing This Summer: The Last Airbender

There were other things I wanted to be writing about today, but then I realized that this movie is coming out on Thursday, in three days, and that if I didn't tackle this now then it wouldn't be relevant anymore.

If you're a close friend, or someone I complain to, then you've definitely heard me talk about this before. If you haven't, then great, because this is actually something I feel pretty strongly about.

Originally this post was really content heavy. I had written out a brief introduction on the show the movie is based off of, highlighting the efforts its two creators took to make it as true to their vision as possible. The first few paragraphs were bloated with facts and figures, but. . . well. . . it was too much. I'm going to try to make this as simple as I can, and leave you to do your own research.


Avatar: The Last Airbender is a show set in an Asian-influenced world, and based on traditional Asian culture. More than that, it's a cartoon which manages to balance a childish sense of humour with tenets like honour and responsibility, fantastic concepts for characters and settings, and (to use a word much too overused) epic fight scenes. It's basically the perfect show for anyone who likes anything about cartoons.

Upon first hearing that there was going to be a movie, I was excited. I actually first heard about The Last Airbender film before I had even heard anything about James Cameron's movie. When I heard that Shyamalan was directing I was anything but discouraged; I really trusted him to bring this to the big screen, and to do it well.

Then came the casting. The three protagonists, Aang, Sokka, and Katara were cast as Caucasians, meaning that their respective nations, the Air Nomads and Water Tribe, would be of the same race. The main antagonist, Prince Zuko, was cast as East Indian, and his people, the Fire Nation, were subsequently cast as people of a darker skin tone. The Earth Kingdom, the fourth nation and essentially extras in the first film, was largely cast with Asians.

To put it plainly, this film will feature three white heroes battling against brown enemies to protect the Asians.

I think it needs to be understood that I don't exactly blame M. Night Shyamalan. He said he saw the actress who he wanted to play Katara, and knew he needed her in the film; I respect that. I'm a big fan of what he's chosen to do with visual effects, going above and beyond what others might settle for. he's made great decisions in putting this world on the big screen, and that's great. All in all, I don't slam his vision for this film.

I just don't think his vision is what we need right now. As it is, Asian actors are really only cast in either kung-fu movies or as comic relief. I know it can be argued that The Last Airbender is basically a kung-fu movie, but really it's so much more- it's a rich, complex world, has the possibly of two more sequels, and has an immense fanbase. The thing is that this was more than a movie, it was an opportunity.

Here was the perfect chance for Hollywood to cast Asian and Pacific Islander actors in roles that their audience would understand from watching the show. Perhaps even more importantly, here was the opportunity for a film franchise to have Asians as lead actors, to have Asian actors that could one day be household names not just because they could do martial arts, but because they could act, too.

The Last Airbender, to me, is a missed opportunity.

On top of that, it saddens me that there are kids all over the world who love this show, and who are confused that the characters they once thought were just like them are actually white. I mean, that's a confusing prospect, isn't it? It would be like a Superman movie where Superman is Indian, or a movie based on The A-Team where B.A. Baracus is Japanese.

I've said a lot, and I have more to say, but I'm going to stop here. I had to do an exhaustive amount of research on this for a school project (which I got a C+ on, thank you, professor), and I know that there are a lot of people out there who feel the way I do. Suffice to say, I've decided to boycott this film to show that I can't get behind the casting decisions that have made. I'm not telling you not to see it, I'm just letting you know that I won't be.

Thursday, June 24, 2010

Two Thoughts

Today is an odd sort of post because I have two thoughts. The first was a topic lovingly provided by my good friend Megan Feniak, and the second is a thought that could not have otherwise stood alone. So- without further ado. . .

Yeah, that's it, stop reading this and read on down.


Sunglasses.

Now that it's summer I guess it's completely logical that sunglasses are back in style. If not in style, then at least in use. If we were going to talk in terms of style then it might be noted that big-framed sunglasses are what ladies are using to take up two-thirds of their faces these days.

I don’t really mind, in the sense that it creates this atmosphere of mystery. Sometimes I'll walk by a girl and think, "Huh, she was . . . a . . . female." Then, as I'm walking away, I'm thinking what could her eyes, and, more importantly, her upper cheekbones look like?

The fact of the matter is that a lot of what another person looks like comes down to eyes, and to have anti-reflective, gradient, interchangeable, mirrored, photochromatic, or polarized lenses roughly four inches in diameter over each eye really shakes that up.

I suppose what I'm really trying to say is that I like a pair of nice eyes, and sunglasses are like the abaya of the ocular region. They're almost like the anti-abaya, if you think about it, an accessory which only leaves the eyes to the imagination.

Bits of String

Once upon a time (by which I mean within the last few months) I had string on my wrists. They were all over a year old (most more so), two of them yarn bracelets from friends and the third a red string, colour long lost, that was woven and tied around my wrist my last year of high school.

As time would have it, these 'bracelets' began to wear down. They got thinner and thinner, and eventually they started to break. Undaunted, I would tie them back together, asking friends to help me. Eventually I turned to thin strips of duct tape to bind the loose ends together, hoping that they would hold.

They simply broke in other places, weak from years of being rubbed up and down my wrists, subject to the wear and tear of everyday life. I could remember when and where each one was from, and the memories associated with them, but I was unable to wear them again.

From all this, I got to thinking, maybe friendships are like bits of string. You have a friendship, much like you wear string around your wrist, and it's fun while it lasts. Later on, though, it wears away, and you're left trying to hold it together, trying in every way you can to keep the memories and not let that relationship fall apart.


At the end of the day, though, it doesn't matter. It breaks in too many places, and eventually you have to just take it and put it in your pocket, or in a desk drawer, and try to remember what it was like. Eventually your wrist no longer feels bare, and then you can move on.

Monday, June 21, 2010

I Like Things

So here I am, sitting in the basement with my laptop where it belongs (i.e. in my lap) and I'm thinking- Dang it. I need to write about something.That's happening, and all that's coming up is stuff I want to complain about, like kids these days, and what's on TV, and how living with an old person afflicted with Alzheimer's is a terrible thing- but you know what? No.

I'm going to write about something that's cool, and that I like. That's what this Monday is going to be all about.


What do I like?

I like reading.

I like writing. I like reading. I like being outside. I like cool breezes on days when its overcast but not too chilly, when there're just enough clouds to keep the sun from blinding you in the face (I know that's redundant).

I like books that bring you places, that take you by the hand, then either lead you gently or just drag you violently to where they want you to go. I like authors who understand how people think, and who are willing to take something as played out as zombies and who are willing to do in-depth sociopolitical research to determine how the world would react if they really did exist (props to you, Max Brooks).I like authors who force me to pick up a dictionary with words like cachinnation, deshabille, and consanguineous.

I like writing (with a pen).

I like being able to pick up a pen and put thoughts on paper, because then it's like, whoa, these are my thoughts, except in line-form on a really thin piece of processed wood fibre that only those with the gift of literacy can decipher. I like that you can invent worlds that are sprawling and magnificent, and that you can create worlds that are really just stupid. I like that even though you can't hack or stab someone with a pen (like you can with a sword) you can use that pen to write "REMEMBER TO EMAIL PARENTS" on your inner arm (which sure, you could do with a sword, but at what cost?).

I like living.

I like walking to the subway station on the way back from work and having someone working for Delissio giving me a free Pepperoni and Fire Roasted Peppers Crispy Flatbread Pizza. I like walking across the bridge to a farm on a hill and drawing pigs for half an hour. I like taking snapshots on Skype when the other person makes a ridiculous face and then acting like I didn't do anything. I like counting down the days until StarCraft II comes out, because I know that the wait will make the game itself so much sweeter when it arrives. I like meeting people in the Hong Kong airport who I never thought you'd bump into. I like seeing a loonie on the streetcar, asking anyone if they dropped it, having no one respond, and putting that in my pocket, because that's going out and getting money, and how often does that even happen? I like the internet because even though it can be full of filthy, vulgar things, it can also provide a solid dose of pick-me-up with videos like this: http://www.todaysbigthing.com/2010/05/17. I like going out on a run and grabbing a copy of the Metro on the way home, walking slowly and stopping whenever I get three or four clues in the crossword puzzle.

I like that you actually read all of that up there, to get down to here. I like that.

Thursday, June 17, 2010

K-kinda Busy

As usual, I have far too much to write about, and only two posts a week on which to write. That being said, I want to strike some sort of balance when it comes to the general tone of these posts. Seeing writing in colour, I don't want this to be a mass of dark grey- Hopefully I am maintaining some sort of equilibrium.

Living in the city I see a lot of phones. Phones being taken out of pockets, phones cradled between cheek and shoulder, phones being abused beneath overactive thumbs. Most of all, I see phones being a huge distraction.

Sitting on the subway a minimum of four days (and twice as many hours) a week, my eyes are constantly met with the sight of people hunched over, eyes glued to these tiny little screens. Every time I see them I am forced to ask myself (since I cannot ask them) the question Why?

I'm struck by the irony of the telephone, a device meant to bridge a gap between two people, to facilitate communication, instead being used as a gadget to keep oneself from having to interact with anyone. There isn't even any service underground (unless you're in Hong Kong), so you can't even use the phone to call or text.

I realize that I sound like an old man. To be more specific, an old man who is sick and tired of these newfangled gizmos and doohickeys and how they're complicating the world; who misses the good ol' days when he had to walk two hours through the snow to the closest internet, and where there wasn't no such thing as this wireless he hears young people complaining about these days.

Breaking it down, though, I wish people would look up a little more. People are always sitting there, tight-lipped, avoiding eye contact. If anyone is talking anywhere on the train, you can feel the general atmosphere sour if they're even a decibel louder than they need be, as if the general populace were cherishing the silence like some kind of vestal virgin, in danger of desecration.

Last week an old-ish black dude sat next to me on the subway and asked where I was from. After specifying that he meant where I was from ethnically, and hearing that I was half-Filipino, he started talking about the politics of the country. It turned out that he was in the know because he had worked for the CIA, and that he had retired due to old age and that he took the TTC because he could talk to people; because in a car you can't talk to anyone.

I don’t assume that he ever was with the CIA, or that they gave him a tidy sum of money to live comfortably in Canada. What I do know, however, is that it was refreshing to have someone to talk to. To know that some people share that freedom of being able to engage those around them. People who aren't afraid to ask you what you're reading, or who those flowers are for, or where you got that frozen pizza that you're balancing on your lap.

I'd like to be one of those people someday; maybe I'll even have to pull off a little bit of crazy to do it.

Monday, June 14, 2010

What To Do, What To Do-

So I guess that this is my first official post on the blog, barring the introduction. That being said, if I had had my way then the introduction would have been three times longer, but I’m trying to learn to be a more self-controlled writer, so there's that.

This is more of an autobiographical entry, as opposed to my thoughts on any particular subject. It happened recently, so I thought I would just hammer this out and hope people liked it. Speaking of current events, I saw
The A-Team today; it wasn't bad.

On Saturday day I spent the day with friends, and after grabbing some all-you-can-eat sushi at a pretty decent restaurant, we decided to head uptown to our old neighbourhood. So there we were, riding the subway south, just the three of us.

Now it's important that I paint a picture in your brain of how we were sitting, and hopefully I don't waste too many words on this. I was sitting with my left shoulder against the wall, facing the back of the subway; my friend Peter was on my right. Sitting in front of me, with his back to the wall, was Terence, facing the other side of the subway.

So we're cruising along, nearing our final destination, which is the northmost subway station, and then it happened.

The doors across from where we were sitting opened up, and a man stepped in. He was middle-aged, definitely in his forties or up, and was somewhat hefty. The man stepped on the subway and sat roughly across from where Terence was. The man was wearing a pink tutu, and had a little pink handbag under one arm.

Before I could help myself I was crouched over, silently laughing.

It was a terrible, terrible moment. I quickly straightened up and stared straight ahead before letting an uncontrollable giggle burst from my lips. Staring straight down, I tried to force the amusement away, tried to lock it behind sombre doors with titles like "world tragedies" and "your brother has cancer."

Terence, who had also laughed a little, was crouched over, staring intently at his phone. He gave it his full attention, even vocally informing everyone on the subway that he was reading (and laughing at) text messages. I stared directly at a spot on the side of Terence's chair, and talked to Peter. Every now and then Terence would shake or laugh for a split second, and I would almost lose it. As I was talking to Peter I would hesitate, stuttering through words as I fought to keep it all in.

The man stepped off on the stop before ours, and we all inwardly breathed sighs of relief.

Waiting at that final station for another friend to pick us up, I let it all out. The laughter exited slowly, sporadically, and I felt the tension ease its way out. Out of the nineteen years I've spent on this earth, I can honestly say I've never felt so certain I was going to hell than that moment.

I'm sorry, and still am. It's easy to type and I said it over and over after it had happened. Barring my remorse and shame, however, I had been terrified. I had publicly laughed at a large man in a ballet costume, and I had been frightened out of my mind. It had exacerbated, instead of lessened, my giggling. My initial amusement was further fueled by nervous laughter; I was easily as scared, if not more so, than I was entertained.

Looking back on that day, at those ten or so horrible minutes on that subway, I'm not really sure what to think. The first thing my mind remembers is being afraid, with only the slightest afterthought to the amusement. It's difficult for me to even recall what he looked like.

This is all very drawn out and awkwardly written, but I just wanted to share this snippet of my life with you. Sometimes things happen and you can't control them. It's just that sometimes, after it's happened, it's difficult to understand what exactly to do with that experience.

Sharing this is what I've decided to do with mine.

Thursday, June 10, 2010

The Introduction

You are reading this.

You are reading this and that is, to put it frankly, sort of amazing. It's amazing because it means that for a few short moments, or however long it takes you to skim this, my thoughts are in your head.

End of thought. I don't really have anything more to say about that. What's a little more pressing at the moment is that this is a blog, and that this is that blog's first post and I need to say what I need to say to set-up some sort of structure; to be more clear, to lay out what exactly this is for.

Blogging is, as far as I'm concerned, all about ego.

If you're not blogging news, or advice, or recipes, or some form of knowledge that's generally useful - if you're blogging only your own thoughts - that says something about you. What kind of person just throws their own personal opinions and mental working out there on the internet, the most public forum out there, and expects anyone to read it?

It's not like people are going to buy the excuse that the person doesn't care if anyone looks at it. If they didn't want it to be read they would have scrawled their thoughts into a little leather bound journal with a tiny lock on it, hidden the itty bitty key on its threadlike fake silver chain, and stuffed it under their mattress, or beneath their socks.

All writers know that when people read what they've written, and enjoy it, it is the best feeling in the world.

Am I a writer?

That's really what I think this all comes down to. Sure, I love it when people read my stories and tell me they like them, or when I get back an essay I worked hard on and it has anything upwards of an A- on it. Who doesn't? The fact of the matter is, though, that I don't write.

Well, I do occasionally, but not near often enough. I have a head that is full of thoughts and I spend so much time in it that very little of it gets out there. I feel like one of those pressure cookers they use on Iron Chef America, thousands of pounds of pressure all compressed into a very small space.

This blog is, to put it shortly, a way of letting that pressure out. It's going to be my thoughts and my opinions and it's going to be very honest (or, as I like to put it, straight-up). I want it to be able to be read by anyone, whether I know them or not. I don't want it to be dismal, dark, or dreary, if it's going to be alliteratively descriptive at all I want it to be interesting, intriguing, and inviting.

So it's going to be updated every week, Monday and Thursday, until forever. I don't have any reason to stop, so there's no solid finish line out there.

That's all I have to say for now, but I really, sincerely, honestly hope that if you do come glancing around this side of the internet, you'll flip through a few posts and won't regret that you did. Maybe you'll even enjoy it a little.