The Brain Dump

Christina and I have begun studying Mandarin on our own in preparation for our journey to China. We have set aside Tuesday and Saturday as our "Mandarin Lesson" days, Tuesday being a new lesson and Saturday being review (in a perfect world, what we were reviewing separately). We started with the Teach Yourself approach, but then last week my parents bought me the Rosetta Stone Mandarin I language software, so we've started using that.

It's . . . slow going—like those Chinese people have a different word for everything. I'm not even sure the title of this post ("I study Standard Mandarin very well") is entirely correct. But I am also incredibly excited about being able to speak Mandarin (as well as watching kung fu movies without subtitles), so I have no intention of slacking off.

The tones are a little arresting. There are four in Mandarin: high (1), ascending (2), descending then ascending (3), and descending (4). This is kind of a pain although it could be much worse. Cantonese, for instance, has eight. Furthermore, we aren't really supposed to be worrying about the tones right now, just focusing on the bigger Mandarin picture.

We've learned some vocabulary, but since the Rosetta Stone thingy uses an immersion technique it's a little hard to say anything beyond some silly phrases at this point (i.e. "Zhe4 ge nan2 hai zi zai4 chi1 fan4," which, I think, means "That boy is eating food"). But we're sticking to the lessons and have been assured by the box's pretty packaging that all will become clear soon.

I'll keep you updated on our progress.

Zi4 jian4!

And they did bring the rock. Riding their cellos from the pages of Revelation, they stormed onto the stage, heralded by a roid-raging gorilla on the drums.

For those who may not know them, Apocalyptica is a Finnish cello quartet, first gaining fame by covering Metallica and other heavy metal favorites in a style that I will call . . . heavy cello.

But back to the awesomeness. And it was awesome—I mean that in the archaic, wrath of Odin sense of the word. The power of their playing was something to behold. Being surrounded by screaming, jumping metalheads certainly added to the experience as well. I was introduced to the band by Christina. She has a love for Metallica that seems unlikely to abate and, while I can’t quite share in that passion, that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate those who cover them.

The only bad thing about the show was that it was at the House of Blues. Man, does that venue blow. A two-story sweatbox with about seven chairs on each floor and wonderfully obstructive pillars, Christina and I were crammed into it with one thousand of our newest close friends. We managed to steal a view of the stage (I could see the right side at least) from around one of those wonderful pillars. Luckily, Apocalyptica thrust us into a euphoria far away from the crappy venue we were in.

There was a short lull in the awesomeness when Corey Taylor, a founding member of Stone Sour and member #8 of Slipknot, joined them on-stage. He sang three songs with them, I believe: “I’m Not Jesus,” the appropriately named “I Don’t Care,” and maybe some other song I can’t remember. It’s not that he was bad, per se,—and granted, this genre is generally not my thing—but Apocalyptica by themselves was just so much more awesome that I found myself distracted by Mr. Taylor more than anything.

Oh, but Apocalyptica was sweet, sweet sweetness. They did a heavy cello version of David Bowie’s “Heroes.” “Heroes,” people! Played, as Perttu Kivilaakso explained with his heavy Finnish accent, “very sexually.” He and Eicca Toppinen even entertained the crowd with impromptu slapstick dialogue while their gorilla changed snare drums. An excerpt:

Perttu: How did you think to play the heavy metal onto the cello?

Eicca: *Gives knowing look to crowd* This is very new question, yes, that I have not heard before. I play the heavy metal onto the cello because . . . it helps for the children.

Perttu: When I am to grow up, can I become as beautiful as you?

*crowd cheers*

Eicca: Hope you don’t get the fat like me.

Perrtu: *raises a fisted hand and his skinny arm to crowd*

Oh, Perrtu and Eicca, you’re so good to us.

They really were, too. They played four encores. Contrast that with Explosions in the Sky, who I saw earlier this month, who didn’t even play one. I recognized four songs: “Heroes” (very sexually), “Enter Sandman,” “Nothing Else Matters” (a favorite (most of the time, the favorite) of Christina’s), and a delicious punishment courtesy of Edvard Grieg (the highlight of the evening for me).

Their musical dexterity was remarkable as well. Perhaps it shouldn’t have been. I knew they were classically trained. Maybe it’s just the cultural disconnect between seeing a man clad in black with long black hair, a huge skull impaled by a cello behind him, playing a melody that could have made Beethoven weep. And the head-banging—seriously impressive. It’s hard enough to shred on any instrument as it is, but to be able to do that while swinging your hair in continuous (sometimes synchronized) swirls, losing all manner of equilibrium: Inspiring.

I recommend you check them out, especially if you like rock or classical music. They’re at least worth a few watches on youtube. I will happily go see them again.

I added a short story I recently completed for my fiction writing workshop in the sidebar. It is entitled "Dick and Jane: A Love Story." It is my first (last?) love story and certainly my finest. I would love to hear what you guys think of it. Thanks!

People whine on and on about the existential angst of trying to effectively communicate to another person. They brood and mope about the meaning (they're soul!) that is lost in the empty space that separates each island of a person from the other. But they never talk about the wonderful things that are gained.

That's where this Pic o' the Week comes in (brought to my attention by my wonderful girlfriend, Christina). She and I will be teaching English soon in China and she found an article that gives her a preview of what she has to look forward to:

The photo comes from an article in Gawker, entitled "Chinese OBGYN Will C U Next Tuesday." They get any and all credit for taking it.

Do you have a picture you think is funny or otherwise worthy of note? Email it to me and if I agree it could be the next Pic o' the Week!

As the Democratic Party makes the trek from Pennsylvania to Indiana, many people are agonizing—many in the media, the party, and in the greater population—over the seemingly endless slugfest that the primary has become. In prior years, a presumptive nominee was usually chosen after Super Tuesday, the day when many states hold there—

Wait a minute. Wait a minute. People are freaking out because for the first time in a long time everyone’s vote is being counted? Oh the dregs of democracy. How could we reach such a lowly state?

If you had to boil it down to one thing, you would probably have to point to the proportional representation delegate allotment rules. Instead of getting an entire state once a candidate gets the majority of its votes, candidates receive a representational percentage of the state’s delegates. In other words, the candidates get the delegates they earned; thus, the results more accurately reflect the minds of the voters.

Well, I can see why that would be a problem.

Now people are sick of it. Stupid democracy—sure we want to know what the people think . . . but not when it takes so looooooong.

Don’t worry, though, people. Because the Democratic Party isn’t about to let the people decide who they want to represent them. That will ultimately be up to superdelegates. Which is how it should be, I mean, really. After all, it’s the Democratic Party, so the presidential candidate should be someone who is sanctioned by the elite of that party. People with experience. People who know the direction the party should go. People like this guy.

Now. All of that said. Why do I still want to tear out my eyes at the thought of more months of this? How can I still look to the government and its mechanics and see hope for the future?

Sigh.

I’ll get back to you on that . . . until then, thank you, Jon. The Star Wars reference helps.

I added the prologue and first three chapters of my novel, which I will call Duncan and the Heart of Aria until I think of a better name or whatever, to the sidebar. Html is very picky about spelling. But anyway: Read, enjoy, love me. Now you'll know what I was doing all January.

More to come.

Hello peoples,

I added a a new feature in my sidebar over there on the right. It is the "Writings" section where I will put my various literary ramblings. Why I have not done this sooner, I can only attribute to my abysmal self-esteem as a writer. Right now there are just a few pieces--my two latest short stories (and, coincidentally, previous two posts (<---resisting urge to link to self: *resisting*)) as well as a personal essay I wrote last quarter for my essay workshop class. Feel free to read away, I do hope you find some enjoyment in it. I encourage you to let me know what you think of it, either via email or even if its a quick posted comment. I would love to hear what parts worked for you, what parts didn't, but if you just want to fawn over my genius, that's okay too!

Also, I added a newsletter on the left in case you would like to receive updates on my latest posts. Tired of wondering whether I found the time to blather something out and don't want to mess with RSS readers? Sign up for my newsletter! In a perfect world, I will send it out at the end of each week with that week's postings--hopefully meaning I will have posted a thing or two that week worth checking out.

That's the plan anyway.

Also, I will start a Pic o' the Week every Sunday (again . . . that's the plan) for your enjoyment. Do you have a picture you think is funny or otherwise worthy of note? Email it to me and if I agree it could be the next Pic o' the Week!

This week's photo: The new hair-do.

Don't mind if I . . . do . . .

Once upon a time there lived a tortoise and a hare. The hare was always running this way and that, chasing after the latest fashion, listening to the latest number 1 pop hit, never letting a thought rest in his head longer than the average MTV jump-cut. The tortoise, on the other hand, met each day as it came, plodding through each of them on his fat little legs. One day the hare was hanging out with his posse when they happened upon the tortoise shuffling down the road.

“What a loser,” the hare said, and his friends laughed.

“Where you going in such a hurry?” one of them asked.

“Be careful not to strain yourself,” another one said.

“Wouldn’t want you to fall down,” the hare said and kicked the tortoise onto his back. The hare’s friends laughed and jeered while the tortoise waved his stumpy legs in the air. Frowning in concentration, the tortoise began rocking back and forth on his shell until he was able to swing himself back onto his feet. The hare and his friends laughed all the more.

“Not everyone is in such a hurry,” the tortoise said.

“They are if they plan on going anywhere,” the hare shot back.

“Well slow and steady wins the race,” the tortoise said, “that’s what my dad always tells me.” The hare and his friends laughed again.

“Yeah, right,” the hare said, “like you could beat me in a race!” His friends laughed some more.

“I could beat you any time!” the tortoise said. “Just name the place.”

When the hare finally caught his breath after laughing so hard, he managed to say, “By the elm tree outside the new Chili’s in town. Be there tomorrow at noon.” He started to spring away, adding over his shoulder, “If that’s enough time for you to get there.”

The next day came and everyone gathered at the old elm tree outside the new Chili’s. The tortoise was preparing for the race with his father while the hare lounged on the grass with some friends. The rest of his friends and family were waiting at the finish line.

“You didn’t even bring your running shoes?” one of his friends asked the hare.

“You kidding?” the hare said, glancing at his size twenty-three Crocs, “I’ll be done with this before I get through all the singles from the Fall Out Boy CD I ripped to my iPod!”

The tortoise frowned an angry frown at them.

“Don’t worry about them, son,” his father said. “Remember: slow and steady. Your mother is waiting for you at the finish line.”

The tortoise nodded, his face set in grim determination.

The hare sighed, bounding to his feet. “Let’s get this over with,” he said, trotting to the starting line.

“Okay,” the tortoise said, hunkering down in his shell. “Reeeeeeady . . .”

“Go!” the hare yelled and sped off

The tortoise placed one of his front feet a few inches in front of where it had previously been along with the opposite back foot and then he heaved his bulk forward, and then he placed his other front foot a few inches in front of where it had previously been along with the other back foot and heaved his bulk forward. He continued to do this.

The hare sped down the street by leaps and bounds, breezing past shops and trees, all the while rocking out on his iPod. In the blink of an eye, he was so far ahead that the tortoise was no more than a spec off in the distance.

Then the hare happened to spot a Best Buy on the corner. He glanced over his shoulder at the tortoise plodding along far off in the distance and thought, I got enough time to peak at the new releases. Ears twitching, he ducked into the store, perusing the hot buys, sale items, then—yes! New releases.

“Heard it, heard it, heard it,” he said, glancing through the music section, but then a familiar logo flashed beyond the DVD rack.

“American Idol!” the hare cried, vaulting over the movies and video games to the wall of brand new plasma screen TVs, each displaying a high-def close-up of Simon, Paula, and Randy. The hare slapped his forehead. “I forgot the new season started today!” He stood before the screens, eyes wide, mouth slack, mind racing through all the possible humiliations, all the possible triumphs, all the possible pop hits he could hear reimagined. He sat down and awaited them.

Meanwhile, the tortoise placed one of his front feet a few inches in front of where it had previously been along with the opposite back foot and then he heaved his bulk forward, and then he placed his other front foot a few inches in front of where it had previously been along with the other back foot and heaved his bulk forward.

The hare laughed along with the rest of America as the contestants humiliated themselves in front of the cameras. He did this until the first commercial break. But the slow pace of the commercials weighed heavily on the hare’s racing mind, making him sleepy. Then, just as he was nodding off, he realized why the commercials were putting him to sleep when they never had before.

“I don’t need to watch this here,” he said. “I totally Tivoed it!” And with that, he picked himself up and ran out of the store, turning on his iPod again and zipping past the finish line while listening to “Thnks fr th Mmrs.”

The hare’s friends and family cheered and clapped and hugged and laughed. The hare shrugged it off, playing it cool. He asked them, “You really think I was going to lose?” Then a rabbit in a smart business suit approached him.

“Hi,” the rabbit said, “my name is Chet Zipgower and I’m here as a representative of Red Bull GmbH,” he flashed a grin, “and I saw your race and I gotta tell you, kid, you’re going places, no doubt in my mind, and Red Bull GmbH is looking for kids like you—kids who want to go places—and I’m here to offer you, kid, a place in the Red Bull extreme sports family.”

The hare opened his mouth—

“As your sponsor,” Chet continued, “Red Bull GmbH will show you the world—Europe, Asia, not so much Africa or South America but what do they have anyway, am I right, kid?”

The hare opened his—

“Of course I am and you know it and I know it, but the real question I have for you today, kid, is are you ready to go places—Germany, Greece, Thailand, China—cuz we wanna take you there, kid: photo shoots, clothing lines, TV spots, the works—you and Red Bull GmbH, can you handle that, kid?”

The hare—

“I think you can, kid, cuz I saw your race and you’re just the kind of go-getter that we at Red Bull GmbH want to represent our brand, so whaddya say, kid, you ready to turbo charge your life with Red Bull—turbo or no-go, kid, turbo or no-go?” Chet blinked at him three times.

The hare glanced at his friends and family, each of them holding their breath in anticipation for his answer. The hare turned back to Chet with a wicked grin and waved two pairs of bull’s horns at him with his hands.

“Turbo!” he cried and his friends and family cheered wildly.

As Chet escorted the hare to a helicopter waiting to fly them to fame and fortune, the tortoise’s mother called out, “Excuse me!”

Chet and the hare paused, glancing over their shoulders.

The tortoise’s mother called again, “Excuse me!” She plodded through the crowd, one foot after the other, trying to catch up to the executive, sweat glistening her forehead. She lumbered around one person, then another, then one more, continued weaving herself through the hare’s family, panting for breath, and then finally stopped in front of Chet. “Excuse me,” she said, gulping for air. “Wait . . . can you, please . . . take my . . . son with you.” She turned back to the tortoise still in the distance, trudging towards a finish line he could barely see, one dour step after another dour step after another dour step.

Chet twitched his nose. “I guess we could use him,” he said, watching the tortoise, “as a counterpoint to our hare here. A kind of ‘You-Don’t-Wanna-Be-This-Loser-When-You-Got-Places-to-Go’ sorta thing.” Everyone turned back to the tortoise.

The tortoise placed one of his front feet a few inches in front of where it had previously been along with the opposite back foot and then he heaved his bulk forward, and then he placed his other front foot a few inches in front of where it had previously been along with the other back foot and heaved his bulk forward, and then he placed that first foot a few inches in front of where it had previously been again—

“Forget it,” Chet said, “we can use a studio tortoise.” And even the tortoise’s mother saw the wisdom in that.

The End

The Lord God made garments of skin for Adam and Eve and clothed them. And the Lord God said, “Man has now become like one of us, knowing good and evil. He must not be allowed to reach out his hand and take also from the Tree of Life and eat, and live forever.” So the Lord God banished him from the Garden of Eden to work the ground from which he had been taken. After He drove Man out, He placed on the east side of the Garden of Eden cherubim and a flaming sword flashing back and forth to guard the way to the Tree of Life. But as Adam began to walk away from the Garden of Eden forever, Eve turned back.

“Excuse me—” she said, but stopped. “I’m sorry, can I just . . . can I say one thing?”

The Lord God closed His eyes, drawing a slow, deep breath. He opened them again and glowered at Eve.

“Sorry,” she said. She became acutely conscious of her face getting hot but couldn’t tell if that was a product of her shame or merely a consequence of receiving a glare from God. She cleared her throat. “It’s only . . . there’s this one thing.”

“Very well,” the Lord God sighed.

Adam pleaded with his eyes for her not to make their situation any worse than it already was. Eve shifted her weight from foot to foot. “It’s just that . . . this isn’t exactly . . . fair, is it?”

The Lord God narrowed His eyes. “What do you mean?”

“Well, we’re getting kicked out because we did something wrong, right? Something evil . . .”

The Lord God nodded.

Sweat glistened Eve’s brow as she continued. “But we only knew the difference between right and wrong—good and evil, that is—until after we ate the apple, right?”

The Lord God opened His mouth . . . and then He closed it. He did this again.

“So it . . . it seems to me like we had no idea what we were doing until we had already done it. Now that we do know, of course, yeah, we can totally see Your point. It’s just . . . we had no way of knowing that . . . beforehand . . .” Eve let her words trail off, that last statement hanging in the air.

“Oh,” the Lord God said. He scratched the back of His head. “Well . . . geez, I hadn’t really thought of it that way.” He chuckled. “That must’ve been some apple.”

Eve gave Him a half-smile. “It was the Tree of Knowledge . . .”

“Well,” the Lord God said. He sighed. “You know, I feel like I went at this all wrong. Listen: C’mon back into the garden.”

“But—” the cherub nearest the flaming sword said from behind them. They turned to him. He swallowed. “Sire, I . . . I made a flaming sword and everything . . .”

“I know,” the Lord God said, “but you see the mess I’ve made.” The cherub’s shoulders slumped. “Now, now, c’mon, don’t be like that. We’ll find a use for that sword, I promise.” He beckoned to Adam and Eve. “C’mon back, you two.”

Adam and Eve looked at each other. Adam asked, “You’ll forgive us just like that?”

“Of course,” the Lord God said. “What kind of a father would I be if I just threw you out the first time you made a mistake? And a mistake—as Eve so astutely pointed out—that you made in complete and utter ignorance.”

Adam looked once again at Eve, uncertain of what to do. Eve shrugged. They walked back to the gate. The Lord God wrapped an arm around each of their shoulders as all three of them made their way once again into the garden.

“You can take off those smelly animal skins, too,” He said. “The animals will want them back. And you don’t need to be ashamed of your bodies; I don’t know what I was thinking. I mean, they’re beautiful, aren’t they? I made you in My image after all. I just have weird body issues. I guess I should take more pride in My work.”

“That’s just what Satan said,” Adam quipped.

“Ho ho!” the Lord God bellowed. “Adam, you dog!” His laughter shook many leaves from the trees. When He finally regained control of Himself, He turned to Adam and smote him with a baleful glare. “Seriously, though, I’m turning you into a dog for that.”

Adam flinched and averted his eyes from the Lord God, his legs trembling, his bowels unwinding, his jowls quivering with fear. But as the moment dragged on, Adam saw that still he stood, the man the Lord God had made him. He chanced a glance in the Lord God’s direction.

At this, the Lord God could no longer hold in His laughter. “I’m just kidding,” He managed between gasps. Eve’s shoulders bounced with merriment.

Adam said, “Not funny.”

The Lord God doubled over with laughter anew.

“That wasn’t funny.”

Eve tried to stifle a snicker. “It was a little funny . . .”

“Aw, let’s go, you silly kids,” the Lord God said, wrapping His arms around their shoulders again. “What’re you thinking . . . veggie tapas tonight?”


Editor’s Note Scrawled across the Bottom of the Parchment: What is this sentimental, lovey-dovey drek? We’ve been traipsing around this friggin desert nigh on forty years and you wanna give the people this? You yutz! They’d string us up by nightfall. And that ending—feh! It’s a cheat. A good ending comes outta the characters’ decisions. Yeah, G-d can fix everything—that’s doesn’t mean He’s gonna! Fix the characters. Adam’s a complete schlemiel. And when did Eve get so smart? And would you please give the Almighty a little gravitas? This is G-d we’re talking about—not you’re Uncle Bubeleh!

Rewrite it. Lose the ending. Give Adam some of Eve’s lines. Rework your characterization of G-d—and do it before I plotz!