Entries for April, 2006
I swear to all that is righteous in the world, I had about three entries lined up to post in the past couple weeks. But in one of those irrational, impulsive bursts of late-night stupidity during which you believe you're being inspired to make rash decisions because "it feels right," I deleted them all. I am convinced that this same impulse will someday result in the jilting of my fiance at the altar and making off to some remote part of Sweden for a bit of "man time."
While I was typing something on my computer a few days back, my sister [who was standing behind me for reasons I don't quite remember] informed me that I was incorrectly placing two spaces between sentences. Apparently, the rule these days is to only insert one space between periods.
Whoa, hold up. Why was I not informed of this change in typist's grammar? For as long as I could remember For over 6 years, ever since I learned how to utilize the keyboard in my 7th grade keyboarding class [although since I remembered when my keyboarding skills were born, it really isn't for as long as I could remember - it's more like "For over 6 years..."], I'd been tapping the space bar twice after each period. It just feels right, y'know? That's what distinguishes the final idea of a sentence from the single spaces that you liberally dish out in between each and every word. SpaceSpace. SpaceSpace. In a country with a rapidly waning literacy rate such as the United States [my sources inform me that about 16% of Americans are able to read these days], each complete independent clause of thought manifested onto a typing medium such as a computer screen is deserving of an ample amount of space between itself and the next. SpaceSpace.
So, there's this middle-aged black guy I see around town quite often. I think he's homeless, because he probably isn't as old as he looks, but has that weathered, leathery look to his skin that [I assume] is a byproduct of sleeping out in the suburub naturals. Most of the times I see him, he's hard at work being one of those sign-holder-advertiser-guys. Screw you, I don't know what they're called.
Anyway, it seems to me that in order to draw passerbys' attention toward his current employer, he has a single trick that he performs while standing around on the pseudo-busy suburban street corner. He'd be holding the Cingular or Subway or Ray's TV sign from the bottom with one hand, then he lifts one foot and balances himself on the other. Then he gets this surprised expression on his face, and he flips the sign in his hand and catches it again. Like Barnum's own handpicked acrobat. The first time I saw it, I was slightly amused. The second, third, and twenty-seventh time, it was just kind of sad.
I'd suggest some different poses for him, as well as a few different ideas for attention-grabbers to mix up his repertoire a bit. But who the hell am I to be telling a man how to do his job? Screw me.
We got a puppy. She is, OFFICIALLY, the cutest dog on the planet. Now, when I say OFFICIALLY, I'm not exaggerating, nor am I misusing the word like many people do. [It's like people who misuse common words - "Oh my God, I literally died today when my mascara smeared during my date with Biff!!" or crap like that.] She's a tiny, spunky [I can't believe I used that word, but it's the only one that fits.] Havanese puppy, and she's so soft and fluffy and she chases her tail and goes slipping and sliding across the wooden floors while trying to pounce on her chew toy and barks at us when she wants us to play with her and pet her and tell her she's the most adorable puppy in the world. And stuff like that. But, as a wise Leonard Nimoy once said, after handily saving the world from a fleet of DeathShips commandeered by an imperialistic flock of obese, communist cross-galactic invaders of the avian variety, a picture is worth a thousand words.
There are three things I've noticed about myself recently. Firstly, my sentences are much too long, with too many commas separating too many dependent clauses, somehow strung together into a coherent bunch of words; although I use far too many adverbs to modify my adjectives to modify my nouns and pronouns, and occasionally split a train of thought with a pair of dashes, I find that I often utilize semicolons and the quirky bracketed thought blurb to further prolong the reader's agony - ironic, since I detest Nathanial Hawthorne and Herman Melville for those exact reasons; I suppose being hypocritical with one's writing is, in essence, the mark of true genius [probably not true, but until a certified Pulitzer-prize winner corrects me, it shall be so in my mind].
Secondly, I am caught in a particular quandary of the follicular kind. My hair is getting pretty long, and I kind of like the look, as well as the feeling of diluted rebelliousness I get by brushing off my mother when she nags me about it. But sometimes I miss the easy simplicity of the short hair - maintenence would be a breeze, although I would lack the sexy ruffling of the hair on particularly windy days. Alas, the only equal solution would be to go for a full-blown mullet, but that's out of the question... Or is it? [Yes. It is.]
Thirdly, if I ever get the opportunity to ride a rhinoceros to the supermarket, then I will.
Written by jihwan at 07:20 PM.
I was a nineties kid. It was the gem of my childhood, an era of the Power Rangers and Goosebumps and Oregon Trail, the age at which I vowed to become a cashier at McDonald's when I got older, when I fought with my sister over who got to drink out of the soda can and not the cup, when Disney created movies worthy of receiving every single Academy award in the whole wide world, and when toy guns I'd begged to have never saw any use because I was too good a kid to actually shoot anything. It was the age at which I could appreciate the good things in life but not be burdened down by adult worries and stresses, and if memory serves correctly, it was a great childhood.
I say this not because I want to pop open a dusty bottle of nostalgia and reminisce at the ceiling about "the good 'ol days," but because a recent car conversation with my sister brought back some really nice memories that I'd like to catalogue here. Over the next few entries, I'll post a different anecdote of my colorful childhood until I run out of interesting memories. Here's the first.
I was about nine or ten years old at the time, and was an extremely elitist POG connoisseur. Both my sister and I had reached the stage at which we wished to shed our 'baby talk' and learn how to speak like the big people. That meant that we would have to learn to say bad words. It was a big step considering the worst words we'd ever dared to say were along the lines of gross and nashty.
So when my mother walked into the living room and heard the two innocent pastor's kids verbally sparring with various curse words such as SHUT UP and STUPIDHEADPOOP, she took swift and decisive action. She set down a set of ground rules and even made us sign a contract outlining the terms of agreement: every time one of us would say SHUT UP, we would have to relinquish one of our POGs. After a small deliberatory conference we agreed to the contract, because in our minds, signing a contract was the sign that we were finally considered one of the 'big people.'
However, it turned out that my sister and I breached the terms of agreement fairly often, more so because it was the only angry expression we could use on each other during arguments than an actual desire to curse. But this often meant that one of us would tattle on the other in retaliation, and soon enough, neither of us had enough POGs to play with. The enemy had tricked us.
Finally, we became fed up with this "Divide and Conquer" strategy our foe was employing on us, so one day we called for a truce and met on the neutral grounds of the kitchen to discuss our very own terms of agreement. We both agreed that it was frustrating not being able to curse freely, that we were sick and tired of being bound to this unlawful, inhumane blood pact to which we had fallen victim. So in a bold, bourgeois mentality of uprising, we came up with an absolutely devious idea to break free from our mother's hellish Gestapo grip.
Emboldened by our brilliant plan, we marched into the living room, and with the ardent fervor and passionate fire that would have made Joan of Arc proud, prepared to set in motion our epic underground insurgence.
Now, dear sister, are you quite sure you comprehend both the workings of the plan and the sheer gravity of this momentous occasion?
Yes, my brave brother. I shall follow you even to the far ends of the block to cast these bloodied chains of oppression from our backs!
Very well. Now, on my mark, we will set the events in motion. Listen very carefully. When I motion with my hands, as such, you will say SHUT UP to me 20 times, after which I shall take the yoke of rebellion upon my shoulders and say SHUT UP to you 20 times. There is nothing that madwoman can do to stop us! She cannot confiscate any more POGs from us, for we have none left! We are the masses with nothing to lose, and everything to gain! We will have achieved immortality!
And with that, my brave sister, aged seven, set into motion a historical upheaval for all children placed within the unjust confines of an adult world. shutupshutupshutupshutupshutup... It was groundbreaking. We giggled madly in elation, drunk with the resounding success of our revolution thus far. Encouraged by my sister's triumph, I gallantly rushed forward to do my part. It was my turn.
SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUPSHUT--
My sister, cackling like the monumental figure she had just become, didn't realize why I'd suddenly stopped short, why I was standing on the coffee table, arms outstretched to the heartened plebian masses with a look of terror on my ashen face. When she turned around, I believe she wet her pants. My mother was standing in the doorway with a stone expression, arms crossed in the fatal symbol of my doom.
After an eternal few seconds of dizziness and flashes of my young life, I swallowed hard and slowly stepped down from the table, already preparing my epitaph. My sister's gaped at me, horror-stricken, indescribably afraid for me and whatever soulless fate I would surely face. I still remember how dry my mouth was, how weak my knees became, and how the people might erect a gold statue in the square in reverence for my martyrdom. As I trudged toward the colossal, iron form of my executioner, everything began to go black, black like the void, black like the embrace of the raven, black like the abyss below my bed at night.. it was over for me.
Then, to our immense surprise and joy, she walked out of the room with a bemused expression on her face [which we misinterpreted as an expression of defeat, respect, and fear]. She walked out of the room. SHE WALKED OUT OF THE ROOM.
victory.
Written by jihwan at 09:49 AM.