Today my GSI (Graduate Student Instructor), when taking attendance, told me he liked my sweater. For some odd reason, knowing that his statement was a compliment, I had a difficult time mustering up a "thank you." In fact, what came out of my mouth sounded like a sheep saying "franks." He continued taking role without acknowledging my baaaaaa.
In one of my political science courses, the professor used UC Berkeley as an exception to the general rule that political and social involvement typically declines after high school. Contrarily, students tend to get more involved in clubs and extracurricular activities at Cal regardless of their involvement in high school. Just today, I saw a poster for a club called ACCAJA (A Club for Chinese and Japanese Affairs). I also saw a Prop 8 club that was promoting a march called "A Day without A Gay". Interesting.
When I was in high school many more moons ago than most students on this campus, I was involved in a few clubs. Once I got to Cal, I continued my involvement by joining the Black Recruitment and Retention Center (which unsuccessfully attempted to raise the declining black population at Cal--that has incidentally declined at the same alarming rate that the Asian population has increased), played basketball, and accidentally found myself a member of a radical group called BAMN, which conducted several (violent) protests against affirmative action--that I steered clear of.
Anyhow, my walking through campus each day at noon, I can't help but reminisce on my experience as a student heavily involved and revel in Cal's social conscience. Today, I actually considered starting my own club. Movement, rather. I've become nauseous several times en route to class from noticing the grown trend of girls of all shapes and sizes wearing lycra, spandex, leggings, etc. I equate this trend to men punching holes in their stomachs and eating their jeans and underwear so that their leg flesh will cover their undergarments. That was definitely a strange analogy but I just can't comprehend the idea of wearing stockings essentially with nothing covering them. One out of 10 girls who walk by in such an outfit give me a different type of sensation just below my stomach actually, but the other nine are the sole cause of my noxiousness. That stuff is so tight that I really feel that it is no different from painting your legs. My biggest issue with the nylon and lycra is that it doesn't hide texture. Some of those cotton tights leave a little to imagination and allow the observer to give the (oft overweight) model of the garments the benefit of the doubt. However, the lycra and nylon reveal cottage cheese, craters and at times, thinning in the thigh area from excessive rubbing and friction.
I'd like to lead the movement to ban this trend that like the recession, is moving our society in the wrong direction.
Thursday, December 4, 2008
Thursday, November 20, 2008
November 18
Just a few minutes into my basketball game, I found myself struggling against the sub-par competition. I was missing layups, getting the rebound, missing again, getting the rebound and finally scoring. My field goal percentage would have been a solid average for a baseball player. On one of my missed-layup streaks, I jumped up for a rebound and scored, only to find a stream of blood flowing down my forearm. I wiped the blood off on my shirt as I ran back down the court. About 12 seconds later, I saw a puddle of blood on the court and noticed that I was bleeding profusely. Great. Black-eyes are cool and signify toughness, but a deep cut across my wrist would probably elicit a different type of assumption. I had sliced my wrist on a sharp piece of metal that was protruding from the missing padding at the bottom of the backboard.
The Emergency Room welcomed me with a fresh aroma of Clorox mixed with a hint of vomit. I signed in fully expecting to wait a minimum of 5 hours and briskly walked back outside to exhale.
I was surprised to hear my name called after only 10 minutes. I had my vitals tested three times and answered 47 about my home-life, stability, alcohol and drug consumption, and depression—testing for a suicide attempt. I again reiterated that I love myself and wouldn’t consider taking my own life.
Up to this point, I was beyond irritated with the whole experience. I had a midterm the following morning, which barring a miracle, would be returned with an F; I hate hospitals (aforementioned aroma) and there were tons—several—a couple other things that I could have been doing with my time. And then walked in the doctor.
Dr. Moss was an amalgamation of the cast and crew of the Star Wars trilogy. I heard his voice while we were separated only by a curtain and I thought, “gosh, he sounds like the main Klingon in Star Trek.” I know that’s not a part of the Star Wars trilogy but I’m sure Luke, Captain Kirk, etc. will cross paths at some point. Dr. Moss walked in and standing before me was who must have been the twin brother of George Lucas. He had that gray and white Mexican-style perm, the beard and a neck that transitioned right into his lower lip just like Lucas. As he came closer I noticed his eyebrows, which were twisted at the ends and turned upward, slightly resembling an Ewok (weird, I really think he used gel to keep the shape). I couldn’t figure out if I was excited or nervous about him stitching me up.
The Emergency Room welcomed me with a fresh aroma of Clorox mixed with a hint of vomit. I signed in fully expecting to wait a minimum of 5 hours and briskly walked back outside to exhale.
I was surprised to hear my name called after only 10 minutes. I had my vitals tested three times and answered 47 about my home-life, stability, alcohol and drug consumption, and depression—testing for a suicide attempt. I again reiterated that I love myself and wouldn’t consider taking my own life.
Up to this point, I was beyond irritated with the whole experience. I had a midterm the following morning, which barring a miracle, would be returned with an F; I hate hospitals (aforementioned aroma) and there were tons—several—a couple other things that I could have been doing with my time. And then walked in the doctor.
Dr. Moss was an amalgamation of the cast and crew of the Star Wars trilogy. I heard his voice while we were separated only by a curtain and I thought, “gosh, he sounds like the main Klingon in Star Trek.” I know that’s not a part of the Star Wars trilogy but I’m sure Luke, Captain Kirk, etc. will cross paths at some point. Dr. Moss walked in and standing before me was who must have been the twin brother of George Lucas. He had that gray and white Mexican-style perm, the beard and a neck that transitioned right into his lower lip just like Lucas. As he came closer I noticed his eyebrows, which were twisted at the ends and turned upward, slightly resembling an Ewok (weird, I really think he used gel to keep the shape). I couldn’t figure out if I was excited or nervous about him stitching me up.
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
Thursday, October 16
For weeks, students have been complaining about Professor Bander’s handwriting, which is poor at best and illegible because it is small. She frequently misspells words and some have diagnosed dyslexia. Her diagrams and pictures are the most troubling. Circles often look like squares, males like females and graphs like cityscapes. A couple weeks ago, after several email complaints and anonymous stickies on her office door, she acknowledged her handicap. “I’m a political scientist,” she proclaimed, “not an artist. However, I will make a better effort.”
And make a better effort she did. Today, while discussing schemas and degrees of attitudes, Professor Bander drew what was meant to be a thermometer on the board. She made sure that it was large and visible to even those in the back of the room. “Attitudes are the weighted sum of the valenced beliefs weighted by salience and/or centrality.” While I nestled in my seat reflecting on her nonsensical statement—lecture for that matter, I glanced over at her illustration hoping that the visual display would provide some clarity. What I saw instead was a giant penis! Shortly after my discovery, Professor Bander glanced over to her graphic for reference and screamed. “Oh my god!” She quickly began erasing.
And make a better effort she did. Today, while discussing schemas and degrees of attitudes, Professor Bander drew what was meant to be a thermometer on the board. She made sure that it was large and visible to even those in the back of the room. “Attitudes are the weighted sum of the valenced beliefs weighted by salience and/or centrality.” While I nestled in my seat reflecting on her nonsensical statement—lecture for that matter, I glanced over at her illustration hoping that the visual display would provide some clarity. What I saw instead was a giant penis! Shortly after my discovery, Professor Bander glanced over to her graphic for reference and screamed. “Oh my god!” She quickly began erasing.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Thursday, October 9
Section is always interesting because it’s so much more casual than lecture. I guess lecture can be perceived as “casual” too given the number of people who sleep, show up in pajamas and surf tmz.com while the professor teaches—but section is different in that the class is smaller, there is actual discussion between students and it takes place around the lunch hour so people eat.
My eyes are always wandering in section because there are so many interesting people, such as Larry: our gay Graduate Student Instructor. Larry received his BA from Yale about 5 years ago, but you’d never guess that he was barely 30 if you noticed his conspicuous scalp not very well by his Trumpish comb-over. Each week Larry exhibits a different style—none concealing his sexuality. The first week of school he wore a rainbow striped sweater, the following week it was a seersucker suit and last week he wore plaid shorts that might have been boxers. He’s flamboyant the way a straight man mimicking a homosexual would act in a comedy routine.
Today my eyes locked onto a young lady who typically doesn’t demand my attention. She has an athletic build—not like a sprinter, but similar to a recently retired rugby player whose career ended due to a knee injury. She wears a lot of spandex and lycra—much to the chagrin of those materials. Even with her risqué outfit, I only noticed her because the guy next to her was beat-boxing just before Larry began his lesson. There was a clump of mustard on her right cheek. I assume that it was from a sandwich or something, but there was so much that I couldn’t rule out the possibility that someone squeezed the tube on her while she was sleeping.
My eyes are always wandering in section because there are so many interesting people, such as Larry: our gay Graduate Student Instructor. Larry received his BA from Yale about 5 years ago, but you’d never guess that he was barely 30 if you noticed his conspicuous scalp not very well by his Trumpish comb-over. Each week Larry exhibits a different style—none concealing his sexuality. The first week of school he wore a rainbow striped sweater, the following week it was a seersucker suit and last week he wore plaid shorts that might have been boxers. He’s flamboyant the way a straight man mimicking a homosexual would act in a comedy routine.
Today my eyes locked onto a young lady who typically doesn’t demand my attention. She has an athletic build—not like a sprinter, but similar to a recently retired rugby player whose career ended due to a knee injury. She wears a lot of spandex and lycra—much to the chagrin of those materials. Even with her risqué outfit, I only noticed her because the guy next to her was beat-boxing just before Larry began his lesson. There was a clump of mustard on her right cheek. I assume that it was from a sandwich or something, but there was so much that I couldn’t rule out the possibility that someone squeezed the tube on her while she was sleeping.
Tuesday, October 7
I am right now sitting in Professor Sails’ class, who last week admitted that he vividly recalls waiting in the breadline during the Great Depression and that the current recession is capitalism utopia in comparison, which is again killing me slowly. I can literally feel myself dying. To take my mind off my imminent demise…
Yesterday I stood naked in front of people—they showed me no attention and went on with their business. This is true. I was in the locker room at the Recreational Sports Facility (RSF). Now prior to this, I hadn’t taken a “public” shower since my collegiate basketball-playing days—the first time I was an undergrad. And even then, it was a little uncomfortable. Not because my sexual preference conflicted with the majority of the males who were in the locker room and I feared that an anatomic change would take place in my mid-section at the sight of male nudity, but because I have OOD: Obsessive Observance Disorder, which does not fair well in the shower when other people are present. My observance isn’t academic or research-based; its more like curiosity—like a cat. And my cat whips her head around every time she hears something. So you can imagine how my OOD would look to a locker room full of naked dudes.
As I was taking off my sweaty clothes and changing into my birthday suit, a ton of questions came into my head: where do I look when everyone surrounding me is naked? Can I strike up a conversation while in the shower? Can I wash my feet (think about it)? As I made the 40-meter journey from my locker to the shower room (no curtains), I concentrated on keeping my towel on (approximately 30 inches x 20 inches) and maintaining my laser like focus on—nothing. Several men, who seemingly forgot their towels or preferred to air dry, passed by but I didn’t notice them. Really. I was focused on—nothing. When I finally made it, I hung up my towel on a hook and took another 12 steps to a showerhead.
Losing “focus” briefly, I couldn’t help but notice that I was the only person in the shower room with facial wash, although a couple guys had shampoo. I was also the only person with a loofa—or anything remotely similar. As the water sprayed my body, I stared at the tile floor and/or the ceiling. In between gazes at these two beautiful scenes, I couldn’t help but notice a guy (who happened to be naked) lurking around the area where people hook their towels. A feeling of horror crossed my mind as I thought out the scenario of him mistakenly grabbing my towel. Given that the clean towels are located at the locker room reception area, a missing towel is a more severe circumstance than one might think. So I wouldn’t look too curious—he was naked—I returned to the tile floor.
After I finished exfoliating and micro-derm abrasion on my face, I turned off the water and stanchly strutted over to my towel. But there was no towel. My eighth worst fear had come true. At first I chuckled because I had already run through the scenario in my head, but that didn’t last long—the chuckle—because the scenario involved me running to the front desk with my package in my hands and grabbing a towel with my teeth. The two other guys in the shower (separately) were facing the wall and focusing on the tile and ceiling, so I tried to shake off the water on me. That got the majority of the water off but I was still wet—and one of the guy’s eyes started wandering and I really didn’t want him to see me naked and bouncing. So I stood there pensively, hoping the air dry process would expeditiously kick in. No luck. I walked toward the area where everybody else’s towels were and again checked the hook on which mine was located in awe. I then crept gingerly toward the sink/toilet area in hope that there’d be another clean towel area for people who had run out of toilet paper, forgot their towel or had their towel stolen like me. Again, no luck. All I received were confused glances from the fully clothed men combing their hair and urinating.
To prevent athlete’s foot, I had on a pair of sandals. Typically, having these on offers me a sense of security but yesterday, they prevented me from sneaking past people—I sounded like a duck walking through a marsh. So each time I walked past someone, they would turn around to inspect the strange noise only to find a butt-naked “undergrad” prancing through the facilities without a towel. Unfortunate, yes, but I had to find a towel. No one under 68 air-dries in public.
Not to belabor the point, but seriously, a man walking through the locker room stark naked is as obscure as a man walking through the mall stark naked. For men my professor’s age (pre-ice age), its okay to do the nudie thing—just as its slightly more acceptable for a man that age to be naked at the mall—but for me, a 26 year-old undergrad, its not acceptable.
After about six minutes of wandering back and forth to each corner of the spacious locker room, I mustered up the courage to dry myself off—with a towel located in the reception area. I figured that if I moved quickly, I could get to the inconspicuous clean towel basket without being spotted by too bystanders.
So as to appear oddly comfortable with my liberating nakedness, I whistled all the way to the entry to the locker room, all the while looking up and to the right. I whistled Ice-T’s “Cop Killer” for some reason.
When I got to the door I froze. For one, I was cold (reference Seinfeld), and that made me a little less inclined to risk seeing the opposite sex. And two, it just would have been weird if I streaked into the reception area—but that wouldn’t have been as strange as what happened next.
Thinking I could have someone else grab a towel for me, I stopped the next guy who rounded the corner and said “hey—uh.” The guy’s face stopped me in mid-sentence—and I think my nudity stopped him in mid-stride. Remembering my mission, I tried again. “Hey.” I realized why he was so flabbergasted. Not only was a I naked, but it seemed that I was trying to woo him with a pick up line. I continued, “hey man, I’m naked and wet.” Fuck! This is not working. “Uh, can you just grab me a towel?” A couple more guys walked by and shamefully observed the exchange.
He came back shortly after my request and tossed three towels at me.
Yesterday I stood naked in front of people—they showed me no attention and went on with their business. This is true. I was in the locker room at the Recreational Sports Facility (RSF). Now prior to this, I hadn’t taken a “public” shower since my collegiate basketball-playing days—the first time I was an undergrad. And even then, it was a little uncomfortable. Not because my sexual preference conflicted with the majority of the males who were in the locker room and I feared that an anatomic change would take place in my mid-section at the sight of male nudity, but because I have OOD: Obsessive Observance Disorder, which does not fair well in the shower when other people are present. My observance isn’t academic or research-based; its more like curiosity—like a cat. And my cat whips her head around every time she hears something. So you can imagine how my OOD would look to a locker room full of naked dudes.
As I was taking off my sweaty clothes and changing into my birthday suit, a ton of questions came into my head: where do I look when everyone surrounding me is naked? Can I strike up a conversation while in the shower? Can I wash my feet (think about it)? As I made the 40-meter journey from my locker to the shower room (no curtains), I concentrated on keeping my towel on (approximately 30 inches x 20 inches) and maintaining my laser like focus on—nothing. Several men, who seemingly forgot their towels or preferred to air dry, passed by but I didn’t notice them. Really. I was focused on—nothing. When I finally made it, I hung up my towel on a hook and took another 12 steps to a showerhead.
Losing “focus” briefly, I couldn’t help but notice that I was the only person in the shower room with facial wash, although a couple guys had shampoo. I was also the only person with a loofa—or anything remotely similar. As the water sprayed my body, I stared at the tile floor and/or the ceiling. In between gazes at these two beautiful scenes, I couldn’t help but notice a guy (who happened to be naked) lurking around the area where people hook their towels. A feeling of horror crossed my mind as I thought out the scenario of him mistakenly grabbing my towel. Given that the clean towels are located at the locker room reception area, a missing towel is a more severe circumstance than one might think. So I wouldn’t look too curious—he was naked—I returned to the tile floor.
After I finished exfoliating and micro-derm abrasion on my face, I turned off the water and stanchly strutted over to my towel. But there was no towel. My eighth worst fear had come true. At first I chuckled because I had already run through the scenario in my head, but that didn’t last long—the chuckle—because the scenario involved me running to the front desk with my package in my hands and grabbing a towel with my teeth. The two other guys in the shower (separately) were facing the wall and focusing on the tile and ceiling, so I tried to shake off the water on me. That got the majority of the water off but I was still wet—and one of the guy’s eyes started wandering and I really didn’t want him to see me naked and bouncing. So I stood there pensively, hoping the air dry process would expeditiously kick in. No luck. I walked toward the area where everybody else’s towels were and again checked the hook on which mine was located in awe. I then crept gingerly toward the sink/toilet area in hope that there’d be another clean towel area for people who had run out of toilet paper, forgot their towel or had their towel stolen like me. Again, no luck. All I received were confused glances from the fully clothed men combing their hair and urinating.
To prevent athlete’s foot, I had on a pair of sandals. Typically, having these on offers me a sense of security but yesterday, they prevented me from sneaking past people—I sounded like a duck walking through a marsh. So each time I walked past someone, they would turn around to inspect the strange noise only to find a butt-naked “undergrad” prancing through the facilities without a towel. Unfortunate, yes, but I had to find a towel. No one under 68 air-dries in public.
Not to belabor the point, but seriously, a man walking through the locker room stark naked is as obscure as a man walking through the mall stark naked. For men my professor’s age (pre-ice age), its okay to do the nudie thing—just as its slightly more acceptable for a man that age to be naked at the mall—but for me, a 26 year-old undergrad, its not acceptable.
After about six minutes of wandering back and forth to each corner of the spacious locker room, I mustered up the courage to dry myself off—with a towel located in the reception area. I figured that if I moved quickly, I could get to the inconspicuous clean towel basket without being spotted by too bystanders.
So as to appear oddly comfortable with my liberating nakedness, I whistled all the way to the entry to the locker room, all the while looking up and to the right. I whistled Ice-T’s “Cop Killer” for some reason.
When I got to the door I froze. For one, I was cold (reference Seinfeld), and that made me a little less inclined to risk seeing the opposite sex. And two, it just would have been weird if I streaked into the reception area—but that wouldn’t have been as strange as what happened next.
Thinking I could have someone else grab a towel for me, I stopped the next guy who rounded the corner and said “hey—uh.” The guy’s face stopped me in mid-sentence—and I think my nudity stopped him in mid-stride. Remembering my mission, I tried again. “Hey.” I realized why he was so flabbergasted. Not only was a I naked, but it seemed that I was trying to woo him with a pick up line. I continued, “hey man, I’m naked and wet.” Fuck! This is not working. “Uh, can you just grab me a towel?” A couple more guys walked by and shamefully observed the exchange.
He came back shortly after my request and tossed three towels at me.
Friday, September 12
Today I was granted an invite to the Pi Kappa Epsilon “formal” dinner at the Spaghetti Factory. After growing more comfortable with reliving my day as an undergrad, I decided to rush several fraternities, partaking in such activities as mechanical bull riding, a few felonious activities I’d rather not mention, panty raiding and various competitions involving beer helmets. I’m guessing it was my exhibited skills with beer that wowed the brothers of “Pike”, as they are known. I drank 2.8 Liters of beer from the utter of a rubber cow in one minute, 29 seconds and only spilled two ounces (I too was amazed by how accurately they tracked this stuff, but I’ve learned that fraternity selection has become increasingly more competitive). Anyhow, they were impressed to say the least, especially after I won the dance contest that immediately followed the “Utterly Utter Suck.” The matrix move is still my bread and butter—and the brothers want to learn it. Now I’m invited to the “formal” dinner. I can’t wait to eat the Neapolitan ice cream.
Thursday, September 11
September 11th. We had a brief discussion on the tragedy that took place some years ago on September 11th. Midway through the discussion, the professor says, “wait, how well do you all remember the collapsing of the towers? You all were what—13 when it happened?” Prior to the verbal fart that squeezed from my mouth immediately following that question, I had not uttered (“utter”: hee hee) a single word in this class. Well, I certainly made my presence felt (and age known). I subconsciously blurted “Ta! 13? Recognizing I had completely disrupted the piercing silence, I slowly raised my head and looked around to find everyone pensively nodding in agreement. They really were 13 at the time! I broke a slight sweat, lowered my head again and also began nodding in an effort to blend in and somehow erase what I had just done.
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