Finals Life

In 1940, several Nazi concentration camp architects came to UC Berkeley and designed what would later be known as Etcheverry Hall, the symbol of Berkeley’s Mechanical Engineering Department. Since I just made it up, it probably isn’t actually true. But three weeks ago while I was staying up until 4 am in the desolate computer lab, I discovered how our ME program has become as prestigious as it is today. The color scheme for this building ranges across a beautiful spectrum of black to dull beige. There are no high definition flat screens showing Steve Nash’s latest highlight reels, no video games, and no couches. Indeed, this is the environment necessary for great minds to breed.

So this is what you’ve imagined engineering to be like: staying up late, debugging for hours on the solderless breadboard until you realize that the integrated circuit has a faulty port, so you fix that. Then you find that there’s no way to program the motor without mounting an encoder on the motor shaft. You scream and shout at your group members about how there’s no way we’re going to mount an encoder onto the shaft without the whole thing looking like K’nex. Then you suck it up and mount the encoder, until there are so many different colored wires on your machine that it could have been mistaken for a 2-year old’s coloring book. You decide that you’re gonna turn it in anyway.

Then your parents call. I’ve grown accustomed to the same yes/no questions they ask, and I wonder what it would be like if I just answered them all in one go.

Me: Hello?
Mom: Hi Simon, did you eat—
Me: Yes mom, I ate dinner already (with vegetables), I’ve been sleeping enough hours, I haven’t been working too hard, I don’t have a girlfriend, and I’ll be coming home in 2 weeks.

But I don’t. I usually entertain them by letting them ask their questions individually. All parents have a desire to fulfill at least the 1 minute quota talking to their children, and I will certainly not deprive them of this privilege.

Plight of the Adolescent

It is common nowadays for youth to express disappointment when it comes to age, especially the age of 21. (For my international readers who don’t see the significance of this age, in the U.S. this is the age by which you can finally shop at coveted clothing chain Forever 21.)  But this isn’t what this blog post is about today.  Nay, I will examine the plight of a different generation.  This is the short investigative report on the generation that will support us financially, that we often take for granted, that the fate of the human race inextricably hinges upon.

Just the other day I sat with several acquaintances at a McDonalds, a local provider of free napkins and homogeneous sandwich selections.  Valerie ordered a Happy Meal, which also comes with what looks like a dog chew toy.  As with all drugs, the chew toy came with a health warning: Certified to be safe for children 1 and over.  How sorry did I then feel for those children who weren’t of age!

Readers, don’t you all remember that day when you were finally going to turn 1, and so you invited all your friends to hang out at the Toys ‘R Us that night?  There was partying and dancing, most were just sipping on their warm milk, but the naughty rebellious ones drank soda and got high off of bubblegum blow pops.  Then, finally then, the clock struck midnight, and you turned 1, so you marched into that Toys R’ Us, and said to the cashier, “It’s my 1st!  Can I get that stuffed polyester Spongebob?”

The cashier turned, pointing toward the sign in front of all Toys R’ Us that read, “We know you LOOK like you’re over 1, but we still need to see identification.”  So you whisked out your wallet from your back pocket, flashed the cashier with your ID, who then inspected it for fraudulence (toddlers these days make a killing off of selling fake IDs).  Then, after he was satisfied, would hand you the Spongebob, saying, “Happy Birthday!  This one’s on the house.”

How happy were you then!  You squeezed that toy in euphoric mirth, relishing in its choking hazardness, until finally the customer service came and stopped you before you blacked out from… being too tired.  Babies are supposed to sleep about 15 hours a day, and 1 am was several standard deviations past your bedtime.

The Working Class Man

It was a hard day at work.  I come back feeling tired and miserable.  Immediately, I leave and head to the local tavern.  I sit on the barstool, head resting on my upright arm, and the bartender says in a very tv-sitcom manner, “What’ll it be?”

“Whiskey,” I reply, motioning with my hands in a lethargic manner, “Wait, scratch that.  I’ll have the half-pound angus beef burger.”

And it all happened so fast.  After the burger, I was downing some garlic fries.  After the fries, I ordered a 12-piece buffalo wing platter.  By now I was feeling woozy, my vision fading in and out.  It’s true, I am a foodaholic, and the bartender knew very well how to deal with people like me.

“It’s time for you to go home,” he said, still wiping a mug dry in a very tv-sitcom manner, “do you have anyone to drive you home?”

“No,” I blurted, burping as I said it, “I’m juss gonna walk home.”

And so I left the bar, clutching my to-go container of chicken fingers in a brown paper bag, mumbling obscenities at people passing by.  Some had their children with them, and as I neared, the parents held their children closer, telling them that food was a dangerous addiction, and making them promise never to have any until they were of age.

I finally stumble into my home, my breath reeking of garlic.  Now, all I wanted to do was commit domestic violence.  Unfortunately, I did not have a wife or kids.  So I’m just sitting here, wearing a wifebeater and talking about wife beaters, until sleep catches me by surprise, and I fall asleep on the couch, my arm slowly loosening its grip on my to-go box of chicken fingers, as they trickle onto the ground…

This story is loosely based on a true story.

-Anonymous

Work, Wackos, and Weird Shampoo

Work~
On the first day work, I was supplied an entire care package of safety equipment, all glimmering, new, and mine to keep.  On Thursday (the last day before the weekend since I work a 4-day 10-hour schedule) my supervisor comes into my room and stares at this care package and comments, “Damn, we’re paying you to take all our stuff.”  Which is completely accurate;  after all, I spent the entire week simply tagging along with the engineers on field trips into the refinery, incessantly spewing questions like the newbie I am.  And yes, I get paid 27 an hour for “working”.

Wackos~
After the workweek, I headed home to Fremont for the weekend, via my favorite mode of transportation, the BART.  I was sitting facing the back of the train, when suddenly a dark skinned lady walks in the doors on the El Cerrito stop, rubbing some sort of lotion onto her skin.  As the fumes of the lotion permeated throughout the car, I recognized the smell immediately: Icy Hot. 

She started pacing around the car, angrily yelling some sort of incoherent soliloquy as if she were reciting for a play, gesticulating wildly, and continuing to inelegantly rub that icy hot all over her face and limbs.  The other passengers avoided gawking and retained a posture of being seemingly unnerved by her awkward presence.  Unfortunately, for a split second, my eyes met with hers, and she began pacing towards me, still rubbing icy hot onto her body, still yelling incoherently.  I averted my gaze, and started tightly clutching my bag of dirty laundry close to my chest as if it were a teddy bear, possibly to shield me from an uppercut with that lady’s Michelle Obama-toned arms.

My eyes are now fixed at one my dirty socks, and her footsteps are approaching.  Cue suspenseful music and heartbeat soundtrack.  Closer and closer, the footsteps approached.  As she came right next to me, I held my breath, staring out of the corner of my eye to watch for sudden movements.  And… she passes by my seat, walking into the next car.  Sigh of relief, cut heartbeat soundtrack.  “This would make an okay  blog entry,” I thought to myself.

Shampoo~
My home bathroom seems to constantly go through brand changes every time I come home. This weekend, there was a new shampoo on the shelf: Selsun Blue, a medicated dandruff shampoo with Menthol.  A whiff of it reminded me of Chinese medicine.  After being thoroughly convinced by the long chemical names advertised on the back of the bottle, I decided to give it a shot.  Turns out, the putrid smell emitted by the potion was permanent.  Every time I ran my hands through my hair they would retain some of the smell, which was relatively unpleasant. 

 This leads me to the nonbiographical topic of today, part 1 of a 30000 part series “Stuff I find attractive in women”.  Today’s topic: Hair smell.

When I’m standing behind someone in line at the supermarket, and her hair smells like cherries, peaches, and sweat pea, it hardly matters what she looks like on the other side, or her personality, for that matter.  I’m in love.  I’d go as far as to say great smelling hair will bump girls up a full letter grade on my scorecard.  And when I say great smelling, it doesn’t include hair which smells like Pert Plus or Head and Shoulders.  In fact, I really don’t know what it is these girls dump on their hair to make them smell so darn good.  Herbal Essences?  Vanilla extract?  Tropicana?  Maybe some girls just naturally emit that scent?

Anyway, for all the girls out there with attractive-smelling hair, I dedicate this entry to you.

Much Anticipated Obituary Post

It’s finals time again, but this time with a bittersweet ending.  I spent my last day studying in the Unit 1 ASC  saying congratulations to some graduating seniors, and taking plenty of free food.  The last hour or so was spent with Vtang and Brian sifting through facebook pictures and scoring the physical attractiveness of their friends.  Also, I learned what a “cameltoe” is.  Readers under 18, please go away and finish your book report. 

A long time ago, my leadership and team organizational structure class required me to write an obituary for myself, in order to see what I would like to have accomplished throughout my years.  Here it is:

Simon J. Xu, 142; Abominable business mogul finally dies

    Some called him Scrooge, some called him Mr. Montgomery Burns, but one thing was certain: nobody liked him. Xu, the CEO and owner of International Energy (IE), choked yesterday while he was at Chipotle, where he (humorously enough) choked on a burrito, trying to swallow it whole. Ironically, the local hospital paramedic team was also there eating dinner, but none of them rushed to administer the Heimlich maneuver. When he was pronounced dead 2 hours later, Chipotle customers applauded. He was 142.

    Xu lived a healthy life, far surpassing the world record for oldest age, much to the dismay of his company rivals and consumers. Shortly after IE bought out every competitor in the energy industry and obtained enough seats in the Senate and House of Representatives to repeal the nation’s antitrust laws, IE became the sole provider of the world’s energy. As a result, prices became sky-high and many people of the lower class were forced to live in shantytowns.

    Xu’s selfish disregard to humanity has led to repeated attempted assassinations, though all of them have failed. Xu has never donated to a charity, and instead uses all the money for various forms of entertainment, vacation houses, and of course, Chipotle burritos. His passing away was a welcome relief to energy consumers, and the government plans on using all the gold stashed away in his basements for an economic stimulus plan.

    In remembrance of Xu’s passing, we will be holding a funeral.  Champagne and refreshments will be provided, as well as a free performance by the Jonas Brothers, because Xu hated them.  Dressing in black is not necessary.

Philosophy

     Many people detest going to the dentist, yet I do not completely relate.  This is not to say that I enjoy dentist offices, I’d probably rank them somewhere between a musty classroom and hanging out at Ross.  Still, it’s not that bad.  During my annual dentist visit today, the dentist nurse remarked at my excellent brushing/flossing ability, but alas, my meticulous ritual cleansing did nothing to alleviate the painful pricking and prodding at my wailing gums 2 minutes into the procedure.  Later, when the nurse took out the spinning toothbrush which sounds like a bandsaw, the nurse asked,

“Would you like mint, tutti fruity, or bubble gum toothpaste?”

I laughed out loud hearing the choices.  Unfortunately, it was one of those awkward moments where you’re the only one laughing, and the nurse was wearing a surgical mask so I couldn’t even see if she at least gave a courtesy grin.  But seriously, what 20-year old male in the right mind would choose anything other than mint?  Plus, I am a skinny Asian who is relatively hairless, so I have every reason to need to defend my masculinity.

“Tutti fruity, please.” I replied.

It was pretty good too.

 

     School starts soon, and I am saddened that this entry was the only one I was not too lazy to write during my entire work-free break (the blog goddesses will be mad).  This semester, there is a high probability that I will be taking my first philosophy course.  Therefore, I have been thinking more.  Specifically, I have been thinking about thinkers.  There are many great thinkers, such as Nietzsche, Freud, and Kierkegaard, just to name a few.  But then there are many different types of regular thinkers, such as you and me.  Yes, this entry is another one of my categorization entries.

“Nice Ceiling!” thinkers
These thinkers, when answering a question, will inevitably stare at the ceiling as if you were both standing in the Sistine Chapel.  I usually find this pretty annoying, but I try to be understanding in the rare instance when the person is conversing with Medusa.

Angry thinkers
Thinking makes these types of thinkers mad, as noted by a frown (I call it the crinkly unibrow) which forms on this person’s forehead.  Why you would use the same expression when you are thinking as when you are angry is beyond my comprehension.

Beard Stroking thinkers
You probably don’t need an explanation for this one, although there are two types: Confucius (long beard) and Abraham Lincoln (short beard).  It’s really funny when girls do it. 

Itchy Scalp thinkers
When you make these people think, it sets off a complicated chain reaction which somehow causes the cooties on their head to bite.  But that’s just my theory.  

Living with the Awkward Silence

     So you’re sitting in a generic restaurant like olive garden with a group of people you know, but only slightly well.  That boring girl is telling that story you’ve already heard 3 times again where her friend was driving out in the country and accidentally “killed two birds with one car”.  After a few courtesy chuckles, an AWKWARD SILENCE commences, catching everyone by surprise. What do you do?  From the beginning of time, the human race has been plagued with awkward silences and poor responses to these events.  Solutions to this problem varies upon situation, but to the social novice, it is best to sit still, and most importantly, AVOID doing any of the following.

Don’t stare at anyone.  You may notice that once the silence has begun, your acquaintances will start averting their gaze towards inanimate objects.  If you choose to stare at another human being, you will face the consequences.  They will ask you, “What? What are you looking at?” My socially clumsy friend, you have dug yourself a grave.  No possible response will save you now.  Instead, choose to stare at that vase on the table with a fake tulip, or better yet, retreat to the bathroom.

No stories.  You may suddenly find this an opportune moment to share about that time where you cut yourself shaving and had to get stitches, but unfortunately, it is not.  Rather, keep your mouth shut and let someone who is more verbally flamboyant interrupt the silence.

An Empty Chamber Pot and the Long Goodbye

     A night ago was my roommate’s 21st birthday celebration.  Naturally, this night involved less hitting pinatas and more chugging gallons (or should I say “litres”) of alcohol.  When a couple Americans finally carted him into the room at 2 a.m. with a vomit bucket, I’d say he was punched pretty hard by the iron fist of substance abuse.  Meanwhile, I had fallen asleep reading Skunk Works a couple hours prior, so I sleepily glanced over, saw that the blubbery mess of Pause (actually pronounced “pow-say”) was lying on his stomach like a beached whale and vomit bucket in reach, and said “Glad you enjoyed yourself Steve.”  Pause grunted in reply.
     Three hours later, I was awoken to what I initially believed was my roommate vomiting in his bucket.  Upon further listening to the very consistent and familiar sound, it became more apparent that he was performing the number 1.
“Steve.  Hey Steve!” I uttered.
“Yeah.”
“What the hell are you doing?”
“I dunno man.”
“Are you URINATING in that bucket?”
“Yeah… I dunno man.”
“Well, go dump it out when you’re done, because I don’t want you or I to knock over your chamber pot by accident in the morning.”
“All right, dude, I’m sorry Simon.”
     However, instead of proceeding to the bathroom, he stumbled back into bed.  Sighing, I decided that the thought of inhaling urine fumes for the last hour of my sleep was not enticing, so I got up to empty that bucket of piss myself.  The good news was that when I shined my flashlight on the bucket, I found that it was empty.  Turns out, he emptied his bladder directly on his clothes and all over my backpack.  My backpack not only held my laptop and papers, it held my holy Bible.  Had he been sober, I’m sure God would have dropped a thunderbolt onto Rosemere Backpackers that very night.

     I’ve only got a week left, and I wish I could say I’m not going to miss this place, but obviously I will.  It seems sometimes that spend a large portion of the early part of our lives constantly saying goodbye to things, such as preschool, elementary school, junior high, high school, 1st year freshman dormitory floor, RA Hall Staff and residents, and now this.  Although the thought of unhealthily spicy University Chicken wings in my mouth creates a relentless desire to return home, I look back on the past 10 weeks here and wish that it were a bit longer.
 
     During the time before the German engineer Mark left, the coworkers, my supervisor, and I were gathered at an Indian restaurant, where surprisingly enough, Indians cooked the Indian food rather than Mexicans.  Mark’s parting gift to us all was to treat us to lunch. For all the alcohol that Germans and Irish can handle and I can’t, I make up for in hot sauce.  My boss warned me strongly about the spiciness of the legendary Chicken Vindaloo, so I obliged to his requests for my safety, and only got it in medium spicy.  I dump loads of hot sauce on everything, and I should have predicted that I would be completely unscathed by the mild simmer of the Vindaloo spice.  Unimpressed, I expressed my complaint to my boss, who never again questioned my spice tolerance. Later, we were all at the airport waiting for Mark’s flight, and my boss bought a round of Mac’s Gold.  I didn’t want to drink alcohol, so my boss asked, “How about I get you a nice bottle of Tabasco instead?”  I said, “Sure.” He laughed.  I did not.

     A while ago I ran home from work.  My boss thought it was a stupid idea, but I thought it was terrific, since it would save me $3.20.  The bus ride from my work in Petone to Wellington was just over 8 miles, and since I was physically able to run 10-12 miles during my high school days, I was absolutely certain that I could do the same now, 2 and a half years later, and 5 pounds of leg muscle less.  I chose the best day to run, when the clouds loomed over the sky and torrents of rain pounded mercilessly.  My original path was to follow the shoreline of the bay, which ran adjacent to a set of railroad tracks.  I had trekked a mile down the path, when all of a sudden, the path disappeared forcing me to make a tough decision.  Either I crossed the railroad track, which had a sign that said officials would fine those who crossed $10000, or I ran back a mile from where I came and went on the overpass over the tracks.  Guess what I did.
That’s right!  I chickened out and ran back a whole mile to start my run over, bringing the total number of miles run to 10.  I gasped for air in the final stretch of my run due to my now inefficient lungs, but eventually collapsed in the hostel, accomplishing my amazing feat.  I expected a flock of girls to come marvel at my success, but none came.  I expressed this to Britney, who comforted me by saying in a high pitched voice, “Oh Simon!” and gave me a hug.

     The last full day of fun was when I went up to Tongariro Park, just south of Taupo with Emily and my crush Ronnie (it was her last day in New Zealand).  Ronnie and I chatted away for 5 hours during the drive up north, starting at 4:30 am, while Emily slept in the back.  Once the sun rose, the photography nerd in her was unleashed and she started saying nerdy things such as “The lighting is perfect!” and bad cliched puns (Get the picture?).  As expected of New Zealand weather, the rain and sleet started coming down the moment we began our 2 hour hike to Taranaki falls.  The hike itself was brilliant, the trail traversing through open flat savannah, forested areas, and rocky cliffs.  Meanwhile, Ronalynn had to get each shot just perfect with her Canon 90000XBZasdf and her $700 lens while we all stood soaking the rain water which, before long, was sloshing uncomfortably inside of our shoes.  I told her that once she becomes a photojournalist, she’d be the one in Baghdad spending hours trying to get a picture of a bomb landing right before her, with the “perfect amount of lighting”.  We arrived back in the visitor’s centre at 4 pm, looking like we fell in a lake, and asked for where the loo was.
“You had a good hike?” the vistor centre employee asked.
“Yeah, good thing it didn’t rain.” I replied.

     Half a week ago I went with Bevin (nicknamed Beverage) to the one place in town that served pho.  She doesn’t handle anything remotely spicy, so obviously I dumped her chili peppers into my soup along with my own.  I should have thought twice before dropping it in.  By the end I was a teary, snotty mess as Bevin looked on, frowning in disdain.  I don’t think I’ll ever succeed at dating.

    Marmite is something they don’t have in the states.  What it is is a spread which you should only use in small amounts on bread.  After my boss had raved endlessly about this culinary masterpiece, I had to try it myself.  One German guy at my hostel happened to have some marmite, who willingly obliged to have me try a smear.  The thing looked like tar.  After the group of us sitting at the table almost hurled tasting it, we decided it was food that we could be much better without, such as coconut flakes and anchovies.
“Why do you like Marmite so much?” I asked, grimacing with the taste of the tar in my mouth.
“Well, it’s tasty and cheap.” He replied.
“Yeah, that’s because rat vomit is not expensive at all.”

     The last thing all the American interns had to do was type up a 2000-word essay along with all our journal entries surrounding our trip, and email it to the annoying and questionable Jillian Litster.  This Aussie lady had the nerve to ask us to put “sources and references” within our essay, and then state that she was taking off for 2 weeks.  The rebellious lot of us decided to forego this ridiculous request, and I might even go as far as to not do the essay at all.  I have too many things left to do for fun and not enough time to oblige to a silly BS assignment from a faceless AustraLearn organizer who spends her office time playing Solitaire.  Even if I passed the assignment with flying colors and fireworks, UC Berkeley’s engineering department isn’t going to give me anything more than a free pen, which they give out for free anyway.

     Well, I’m sad to say that that this entry is the last record of my boring adventures.  Pretty soon, I’ll be busier than I’ve ever been, with little time to chug out entries such as this one.  Those stories will be saved for dinner and AIM conversations.  Meanwhile, I’ll occassionally update with the mindless gibberish that I wrote before I came to New Zealand.

Courtesy of Ronalynn

Fatal Food Flaw #1

     Wednesday nights are normally free soup nights, and are therefore my most favorite night.  To ruin the mood yesterday, the free soup had been forgotten.  Immediately I used this as an excuse to go to my new favorite pizza place in Wellington, “Hell Pizza”.  When I first heard of this place and how they had pizzas named after sins, my first thought was, “I need the Gluttony pizza”.  And yes, it did exist, and yes, it was amazing.  Anyway, yesterday my decision was to create my own pizza, which allowed me to choose 8 different toppings, all for the price of $14.  Being the penny-pincher that I am, I decided to choose 8 of what I believed to be the most expensive toppings: salami, bacon, asparagus, tomatoes, garlic, pineapple, mushrooms, and unfortunately… anchovies.  I had never had anchovies on my pizza prior, and after yesterday, never again.
     As I sat, waiting and reading my bible in Hell (not kidding, I really did), I daydreamed about how great my pizza was about to be.  When it finally arrived piping hot, and I took my first bite, I suddenly gagged from the nauseating salty anchovies, clearly God inflicting punishment upon me.  If that pizza had a name, it would be Wrath.  Moral: Just because all the ingredients are expensive, doesn’t mean it tastes good.  I mean, I still finished it.

Simon is unprepared, and faces the consequences

     I spent the past weekend with the dudes.  That means there were just 3 of us: Joncas, my roommate Steve, and me, with a peach pink Corolla station wagon.  Now, to get to Palmerston from Wellington involves a long 2 hour train ride, where sleeping was heavily involved.  Steve sleeping is really quite a sight.  Normal people bob their head up and down in a vertical motion when they are nodding off.  Steve, on the other hand, involves all 360 degrees of action.  Therefore when he nods off, he makes quite a fool of himself.  3 kiwi girls across the aisle were there to witness this event, and eventually I joined their laughter to wake Steve up. 
     We come into Palmerston by 7pm, extremely hungry, and somehow decided to get Chinese takeout.  All three of us got the large $11.50 plate, and piled the food on.  I was pretty surprised that they didn’t charge me extra for the mound that I put on.  Craig is trying to be healthier these days, and having us come over was not conducive to this.  He passes the blame unto us.  
     Palmy is just another college town (Massey University), with not much to do besides go to pubs and eat cheap food.  While we were walking back, a car full of drunk girls passed, whistling and shouting incoherently at us, and I was very surprised, because in Berkeley, GUYS do that to girls, not the other way around.  This was the first time I have ever been shouted at by a car of girls.
     After deciding which hikes to do the next day, we went over to a pub to play pool.  Craig Joncas is an excellent pool player.  Steve and I lost horribly, but we all blamed our performance on the amount of beer we had.  I blamed the amount of alcohol I had too, even though I only had 3 beers.  If alcohol is good for anything, it’s for steak and excuses.
     The next morning, we hiked up to Sunrise hut in an hour and a half.  The sign said it would take 3 hours.  Near the top, it suddenly became extremely chilly and started raining… VERY hard.  I was so wet that by the time I got back to the hostel, I was still drenched.  Fortunately, I did not pack an extra set of clothes, and sat shivering next to heater in the living room.  As we sat eating tacos and watching Jackie Chan’s “The Medallion”, I recounted my stupidity.

     I realized how much time I waste while I’m here in New Zealand.  Back at Rosemere Backpackers yesterday, I put my wet clothes in the washing machine out on the porch, and asked the other American Simon (graduated from Arizona University, now he’s in New Zealand for no apparent reason) how long the washing machine takes.  He said 30 minutes.  If I were in Berkeley, I would spend the 30 minutes waiting for laundry to do something productive, but but I’m not at Berkeley, so I sat myself down on the porch and played snake on my cellphone for 30 minutes.  Life is good.