42 Years From My Senior Discount

I woke up one morning, and found out I'd gotten old.

It's a strange thing, that has a nasty habit of creeping up on you. Rather than the gradual emancipation from the fog of youth, it seems our brains tend to prefer the sudden shock of a Monday morning, and an immediate awareness that time has, somehow, passed.

You would think it was strange, to feel this way, after so short a time has passed, that so great a chapter has ended. Despite this, every facet of this place seems to bear down on the fact that my life has, somehow, changed.

I signed a check yesterday. It was so strange to see the name on it; the chicken-scratch scrawl that had been there yesterday was the same, but at the same time, was different. The laughable signature was no longer representative of a legal proviso attached to half-rights and a watered-down constitution.

It was my name. My name.

I was told by a rather interesting neighbor on the bus that everything is an illusion, except for everything. Not to me, at least. If tomorrow, I call a rose a sunflower, does that change anything for the rose? Will it sprout bright sunny petals? Shed thorns? Blossom into the new boundaries I've made for it? Of course not. But it's no longer a rose; not to me.

Thus, it makes sense, that at a party in celebration of the many years of someone far older and wiser than myself, I was told the meaning of that mentally-fragile man's words, and it came from a barbershop quartet.

"Life," they sang, "is what you make of it."

Well now it makes sense.

So, in my humble opinion, I think I won't change. I think I'll keep up the good work. keep writing, keep laughing, keep joking and jumping. It's kind of my thing. Sure I'll vote. I'll stay out of trouble, and cringe with a smile when others celebrate with a cigar, but for the most part, I'll just keep being me, as it turns out, I'm pretty good at it.

I mean, after all, I'm only 18.

Berkley Donut Girl

At one point in our lives, we are probably going to be in a situation we didn't expect. Perhaps, even, a situation mildly ironic given the circumstances. Sometimes however, these random, freak occurrences develop and blossom into something beautiful.

Berkley Donut Girl was one such thing. I can't say I find her more than mildly attractive. Nor does she have a personality that is admirably engaging to me. However in the right creative whirlwinds, Berkley Donut Girl was something amazing.

It started as an obsession. Not with a second-generation Asian immigrant working for her parents, no, an obsession with donuts. I like them. A lot. During second-semester of my senior year, this obsession was kindled into a passion, burning with the white hot intensity of a grease filled deep-fryer. Donut holes, old-fashioned, éclairs, bear claws, all the donuts you could imagine! Did I want chocolate frosting? White? Maple? Even the rare treat, Pink? Should I get one with sprinkles? Without? Perhaps cream filled, or jelly-filled, stuff to the brim with delicious oozing custard?

I was young, I was in love, and my body could handle the massive amounts of fat. Soon, though, my frequent (read: nearly daily) visits began to be noticed. Though sometimes the counter of nirvanic goods was manned by her vaguely metro sexual brother, who's flair for scarves was truly something to me admired, more often; it was Berkley Donut Girl who worked weekday mornings. And first it began as a simple hello, how are you, what would you like today, etc. Eventually it delved into (for me) more serious topics like why I always chose white sprinkles, or my reasoning behind preferring glazed jelly-filled to the chocolate custard-filled, why I bought three or four donuts (Jon's stomach can attest to this fact). Eventually this developed into mutual intellectual discourse.

Inevitably, it grew to be a symbiotic relationship -- Berkley Donut Girl's gentle ribbing at my lackluster parking job as I approached the shop, her curiosity as to how I was doing, what was going on in school that day, the results of that test I told her about last Thursday, her wondering why I hadn't come in for three days. These things brightened my morning, woke me up, and set the tone for the rest of my day. Similar to her genuine curiosity at my life, I began to learn things about her; she graduated a math major from Berkley and was now working for her parent's store as was tradition in her family/culture, how she liked the shop, but found its customers dull. I like to think that my faithful visits served as a somewhat comforting way to greet the day, and a break from the monotonous "I'd like a maple sprinkle please" conversation she usually dealt with.

The way she engaged people, really talked to them not just your usual storekeeper flair made me really feel for her. This bright, lonely intellectual toiling away with grease fryers, dutifully helping her family, her own ambitions placed aside, reaching out for mental and social stimulation that her life was so lacking. A bright star of curiosity and friendliness in the most unlikely of places, one that has helped me better understand people, their positions, developed my sense of sympathy, and truly taught me see the benefits in all that I interact with.

I saw Berkley Donut Girl today at the JC. I said hello to her. I didn't have the heart to tell her that she had changed my life.

It's 8 A.M., and I'm Feeling Fine

I'd like to say it's odd to see how quickly one adjusts to a new schedule. How strange that I've already gotten used to waking up at 8 O'clock each morning, and then rationalize it by suggesting that it's because I've only been "on break" for two weeks.

Instead, I wonder how it's possible to be this groggy and still conscious. How many bleary-eyed face plants I can put into the closed bathroom door before I break. How I ever managed to function like this before. That's right boy's and girls, it's June 22 and I've already had my first round of summer school!

Now, to be fair, this is more or less entirely my fault; I don't need to take a 10:00 Psych 1A class this summer by any means. That's what next semester is there for. Instead, impassioned (is that a word) by my desire to begin learning and some kind of self-destructive, masochistic streak, I chose to begin early, during the summer semester, so I could have all the fun of a semester of psychology squeezed into six teeny tiny weeks (not counting Fridays, of course. Woo three day weekend!). And it hasn't been all bad; even though most of the stuff I've learned so far has been a certain degree of review (<3 AP Third Block) I still find that I'm learning enough to keep me going. And it's not like I'm uninterested, by any means -- I find Psychology absolutely fascinating, and am now toying with the idea of being a (rich) Occupational Psychologist (who is also a swinging bachelor by night -- and a doctor [PH.D, not M.D.]).

No, the trouble here comes from waking up. As I currently lack the means of transporting myself from one area to the next in a motorized vehicle, without parental supervision, I take the bus. And hey, I love the bus, I really do -- so many new and interesting personalities -- but I wish their schedule didn't go 7:30 bus 8:00 bus 8:30 bus 10:00 bus, leaving me stuck with 8:30, so I can arrive at 9, and spend an hour haunting the halls and coffee shop like some kind of ghostly beatnik. Or I could always blog.

Stuck with this, I have to wake up at 8 A.M. every morning. There has been more than one morning in which I have failed to do so. I know that we were done with school just a few weeks ago, but my body had already happily settled into the comfortable routine of waking up at noon, scratching myself, feeding myself, and going back to sleep. Deprived of that, it is now punishing me; I have more aches and pains than an old man, my vision blurs, my joints pop audibly as I get out of bed, and I feel infirm and unrested.

So, barring some kind of narcotic wake up material, it looks like I've resigned myself to quite an enjoyable six weeks of classes, and not so enjoyable six weeks of waking up.

Lazy Sunday

I stand here, with the world at my feet, bus pass in hand, a wealth of opportunities before me. I could go to the De Young and see that new French Impressionistic art exhibit! Or I could see if there are any good concerts coming up in the city. OR I could plan that trip to the largest bookstore in the world, out in Portland, Oregon!

But not today. Perhaps tomorrow. Today, is a Sunday, like every other Sunday, just as lazy. Sucking the last dregs of relaxation from the weekend before starting all over again on Monday. That's one thing I really like about the SRJC; three-day weekends, EVERY WEEKEND.

Though I'm not disturbed by this lethargy. I feel like I'm about to kick-start, about to get going, about to be just bored enough with the opportunities afforded me by this laptop and this house to seek adventure elsewhere, and look outward for my enjoyment. A little relaxation is a very, very good thing, so long as it doesn't consume the entirety of your summer. I'm at three weeks, and counting, and I've got plenty of time left.

So my adventuring cap sits on the wall, my camera tucked away, my cell-phone still charging, and my walking shoes too worn-through. For today, is a Lazy Sunday, tomorrow a Bustling Monday, and maybe soon, a day of exploration.

I Moshed in a Pit (and I Liked It)

Yes, that is a reference to a Katy Perry song, and yes, I do like some of her work. Pseudo-lesbian nuances aside, it really is quite catchy.

Nonetheless, that's a blog for another day. This story is a tad bit old, but I wanted to share it anyway; my friend Robyn has some unique music tastes, many of which, I don't share. Regardless, with my fresh new summer and "why not?" attitude, I jumped at the chance when he invited me to a Pestilence concert at the DNA Lounge in San Francisco. Now normally a heavy metal band named "Pestilence" is not really my thing, but I figured I could at least give it a try.

Soon enough the day came by and I hardly remembered it was time. So I rushed to get ready and ran out the door to Petur's waiting car, and we went off to a rather unremarkable dinner at In-N-Out. Little aside -- In-N-Out is the most delicious food one can get from both heaven and Earth, and if you haven't yet done so, you owe it to yourself, your family, and your country to do this immediately. We chit-chatted for awhile, and talked about what exactly the concert would be like, and as it turned out, there were actually five different bands playing; Pestilence, Warbringer, Vital Remains, Sacrificial Slaughter, and one I can only remember as being "Mustache-Guy's Band." Sounds like a real pleasant bunch, huh?

After a good forty minutes getting lost in the city, violating traffic laws, and attempting to navigate some rather odd parking structure rules, we had arrived at the DNA Lounge just a few minutes early, and went up the entrance to be patted down for weapons. After that auspicious start, we headed inside and I got my first look at the place. In all, it was smaller than I expected, with a two-tiered stage, and an open central area in front of it, about twice as big as my bedroom (I have a big bedroom), a slightly out-of-place after-work bar in the rear (to the left of the doors in) and a wide staircase next to it leading up to the second floor, which was really just a light outcropping around the central area, allowing people to watch from up their in (relative) peace. Think like the second story of a mall. Also, upstairs had a taco stand. An overpriced taco stand. on the right side (facing the stage, away from the entrance) of the room was a few tables set up with a couple of band t-shirts hung up on the wall behind them and manned by a few sour-looking groupies that looked-like they were in their 40s.

Robyn, most likely afraid that I -- with my dirty blond hair and distinctly positive attitude --would stand out to much, insisted I go get a band shirt. Not recognizing any of the bands, I decided on a pestilence shirt because they were headlining, and as Robyn put it "they have a wikipedia page, so you know they're good." Given the choice between a shirt depicting a man's face being devoured by swarming locusts, and the depiction of some ancient, deathly skeletal king (remember the ghost king in Lord of the Rings? Yeah, just like him), I chose the latter. When I asked him if he had any smalls (having recently decided I was a small who just had broad shoulders, rather than a medium with a tiny waist) the groupie gave me an exasperated look and replied "All I have is large." Then why did he even ask my size? "Whatever, I'll take that." I replied. Secretly examining myself in the bathroom mirror while washing my hands, I decided that I look very much like a metal-head. This pleased me immensely, which of course, ruined the effect, so I adopted a much more angry countenance.

We took up our posts at the foot of the stage, which Robyn claimed would be the best place to watch. As you may have guessed, this was not his first rodeo (or metal concert) so I decided to generally trust his advice. Forty-five minutes late, our first band came out, Sacrificial Slaughter. They were very loud. I can't tell you much about the music, because my ears were still adjusting to metal volume, and it sounds like a lot of noise. A lot of noise. Afterwards, we had a short break, during which me, Robyn and Petur shot the breeze for a while longer, and I came to realize that my hearing sounded as though it were underwater. Great.

Just a bit later, Mustache-Guy and his compadres came out. Again, I can't tell you must about his music, not because it was loud, though, but because I was too distracted by his mustache. His ridiculous, waxed and twirled mustache, and how well it went with his pasty white complexion and 18 year-old looks. Also, he kept screaming things like "YEAH, WORSHIP SATAN!" and "DO DRUGS EVERY DAY! GET SMASHED AND SHIT!" which completely depleted my take-you-seriously reserves. Petur and Robyn kept snickering the whole time too.

Finally, one of the really big bands came out, Vital Remains. I like Vital Remains. Why? They played music. At last being able to here the difference between notes, I was able to appreciate the songs they were playing, and some of them were actually quite good. Also, during their performance, they started bringing fans on-stage (including Carrot-Top, the ridiculous thin, white kid that reminded me of Ben Jones with glasses and an orange afro) and throwing them back out into the crowd. Security was not pleased. For the record, the crowd was catching them, but, hey, one slip and the Lounge is liable. I understand. It was also during this band that I decided to try my hand at Moshing. Now, keep in mind, I was completely in the dark about this. The only thing I knew was "don't throw punches -- you'll get your ass kicked." As a result, I at first was only timidly pushing people back in on the outskirts of the pit. Still, I felt like I was participating, which made me bolder; I shoved people harder, and even got shoved a few times. At one point, however, Vital Remains called for a whirlwind. I did not know what to do. The person behind me clearly did, and pushed me into the middle of the pit.

Have you ever imagined a whirlpool? Getting violently swirled around like that, inertia completely forgotten? Yeah, that's what it was liked. It wasn't so bad though. In all honesty, I was surprised by how... well-behaved everyone was. One guy started throwing punches. In seconds security was on him, and had thrown him out. If anyone ever fell down, instantly everyone around them stopped to help them out. One guy dropped his glasses Velma-style, and three seconds later, the people nearby had stopped moshing, and produced a flashlight, while helping him look for them. Nobody actually wanted you to get HURT, just thrown around a bunch.

After Vital Remains had wrapped up, I went over to my friends, eager to brag about my in-pit combat. They were impressed (obviously). Feeling like a war-hero, I decided to mosh from the beginning with the next band. Robyn warned me Warbringer might be a bit different. I didn't listen. If you've ever heard one of Warbringer's songs, you can tell why Robyn said that. Warbringer is the reason people mosh; great music, combative beat. Despite the fact that the pit had become much more... energetic, I was still having fun. There were a couple surprises though; at one point, the crowd hushed, and the lead singer yelled "PREPARE, FOR COOOOOOMBAAAAAAAAAT!" Clearly recognizing the singer's intent, the crowd roared it's approval. I did not understand (as usual). However, two minutes, three body blows, a sore shoulder, and a stiff rib cage later, I understood. Combat Shock; great song, not fun to mosh to.

Feeling the effects of the moshing and the fact it was 12 AM, I was getting pretty tired. After bumming $5 ($5 for a flippin drink?!?) to get a Red Bull upstairs, I felt a bit better. Awake, at the very least. Finally, Pestilence came out, and I was glad they came out last. Pestilence beat is less mosh, more technical, and very interesting to listen to. I wish I could say more about the headline band, who's shirt I now owned (fun fact: it's apparently bad manners to wear a band's shirt to their concert, unless you bought it there. Who knew?), but frankly, I was tired, spent, and a little sore, and spent most of their performance sitting down (for the first time that night).

Finally we drove back home, hoping Petur wouldn't get in trouble for staying out past 1, and I slept most of the way there. Arriving home, thanked my friends, and completely crashed in my bed. The next day I would wake up to find that my hearing had still not returned, and would not for many hours. It's a lot easier to sleep when you cannot hear.

All in all, it was a fun night that gave me an insight into the habits of some genuinely fun and good-natured people, and given the opportunity to, I would do it again.