The Earth doth quaketh.

"Come on, Bobby, move faster! ...Bobby?..."

11:42 AM: in my apartment (being lazy and not yet at work), third floor. Building just started shaking like Shadowfax's nuts while he's running through the forest.

15 seconds of legitimate fear. My books have fallen on the floor, a plate fell and broke in the kitchen, and I was panicking for a second. Car alarms up and down the entire street blaring like a symphony performed by morons, starring Moby as the surprise guest.

Then I remembered all that bullcrap that they taught in elementary school about standing under the doorframe because it's one of the strongest structures you can find in the immediate vicinity. The quake continues on for about two minutes. It feels like half a lifetime.

A quick Google search tells me that it was a 5.8 magnitude quake that reached Los Angeles, Chino Hills, San Diego, and a little in Las Vegas.

Dick housemate in the other bedroom evidently slept through the whole quake.

I love California with all my heart.

Matt Stone and Trey Parker are human.

I was watching South Park last night on SouthParkStudios (full episodes, HQ!) and, not knowing what episode I really felt like watching, since I've seen pretty much all of them, I hit the Random Episode button. Fortunately, the little Buddy Holly airplane, The SPS, in which I was flying crash-landed on one of the older episodes, episode 4 of season 3, "Tweek vs. Craig." Also fortunately, it's one of my more favored episodes (the newer seasons are way too hit-or-miss).

As with any South Park episode, Stone and Parker throw in some sort of preachy, didactic lesson at the end of the episode in which the boys learn some important life lesson as they go through adolescence and ultimately A) accept their lessons or B) decide that the aforementioned lesson is retarded (or secret answer C) Cartman makes fun of them anyways). But one quote that came from this episode was "Saying goodbye doesn't mean anything. It's the time we spent together that matters, not how we left it."

It's cheesy and stupid, but as soon as I heard those words spoken, I thought about how many farewell lunches and dinners I've attended for people in both of the labs for which I work.

Four. Four farewell meals thus far, and I will attend another one this Friday intended for Christine and...um...myself. (It's a bit like Tom Sawyer attending his own funeral, isn't it?) And here's the free side of fries for playing along: three of them were buffets.

I've been here since the Twenty-Third of May in Two Thousand Eight The Year of Our Lord and two of those farewell meals were within the first two weeks of my arrival. The turnover rate here is just too damn fast.

But that is neither here nor there. My ultimate point is this: I wish more people would leave the lab so that I can have more excuses to eat at buffets.

I kind of miss the Bat-nipples. Anyone?

I managed to get two tickets for The Dark Knight Thursday midnight preview showing at the Mann Village theater after some vigilant calling of theaters and harassing of theater websites for a full week prior to the release. (Every time I think about how awesome it is when I get some really rare crap I think about Dave Chappelle sucking dick for crack. But that is neither here or there. Moving on.)

We figured that 3 hours would be plenty of time for us to get in line and get great seats. We figured, "Who the hell is hardcore enough to get there at some ridiculous time, say around 6pm? Nobody, that's who."

How incredibly wrong we were. Not wrong like "2+2=5" wrong. We were wrong like a certain Dora the Explorer toy is wrong.

If Mittens chose to save baby penguin based on his beliefs, and Mitten's beliefs are not in his direct control, does Mittens really have free will?

By the time we got in line at 9pm, we were already two block lengths away from the theater entrance. Turns out that the people at the very front of the line got there at - wait for it - 3pm. They were willing to sit there for a full 9 hours for this. The best part is that they didn't even bring anything fun to do, as far as I could tell. No cards, no games, no portable DVD players, no computers, nothing. These four Batfans (har har har shoot me) were so hardcore and were so focused that they wanted zero distractions.

But for all intents and purposes, this movie opened my eyes, most importantly in new possible uses of an ordinary #2 pencil. All those awesome reviews you read? Totally true. Point: I'm sorry, but Aaron Eckhart was a dull choice for Harvey Dent. He was good in Thank You For Smoking, for sure, but he just wasn't super convincing in this rendition of Batman.

So overall a pleasant and very, very satisfactory experience. But now that I've had a taste of the nectar, I need to go for the honey jar (or whatever shitty analogy you prefer). IMAX!

Here's the kicker: remember those guys at the front of the line who got in line 9 hours ahead of time? They sat right in front of us. One of them nodded off in the middle of the movie.

My brain got Garrett Cross'd (Zack Folletted?)

A 6:30 PM dinner at the Corner Bakery Cafe turned into the strangest philosophy-academia discussion I have ever been involved in. Which begs the question, what the fuck happened last night?

Oh right, 99 BANANAS happened last night. And somehow 99 Bananas, Malibu, and Jim Beam led to a 5-hour long debate about Buddhism, the state of academia in the United States, American hegemony, cutting-edge Jesus professors, why public schools rock and private schools are le suck, how the Greek system at UCLA is ridiculous, why midwesterners are the damned nicest people ever, and 3/4 of a can of Scrubbing Bubbles foaming spray being used, like, EVERYWHERE.

And I woke up with sunflower kernels - not seeds, kernels - all over my bed and in my hair.

Binge drinking with band-geeks-turned-frat-boys: just like cheesing, except legal.

Frailty, thy name is fish-out-of-water (and vice-versa).

"So pick ME. Love ME. Choose ME.

Here's the thing about fishing: it's not fun.

What's so fun about sitting around for HOURS and waiting for some stupid creatures to get tricked into biting into the shiny, completely unnatural hook with some little piece of dead squid or shrimp or worm or, better yet, a fake, plastic, ENTIRELY unnatural piece of plastic that just LOOKS like it could be yet another mysterious yet unquestioned piece of free lunch just sitting in the water? Nothing. There's nothing fun about it. Perhaps if you had a good buddy or two with whom to crack open a couple of beers, sit and chat the times away, look at the beauty of the water and the coast. But then again, you could do that in a cool summer backyard evening. And at least home would be nine steps away from the backyard porch swing.

But here's why I love fishing: Remember in Cast Away when Tom Hanks' character, Chuck Noland, finally successfully made fire after trying fruitlessly for days on end? Remember how incredibly overjoyed he was and how he celebrated like it was 1999 B.C.? Remember the look in his eyes that told the audience that his faith in life was rekindled and that, thanks to this major step forward in technology, he decided to take a step away from giving up his life? Remember his pompous yet grateful declaration to nobody (or was it to himself?) that "I...I! I have made...FIRE!" Remember that? Sure you do.

Of the seven or so previous times that I had gone fishing, I had never caught a damn thing. I have spent hours upon hours of just standing on the pier, enjoying the sun, but feeling frustrated that the fish had somehow figured out beforehand that I was coming and therefore decided to collectively piss me off by ignoring me intentionally. Of course, this is not a new experience for me - it's basically middle school all over again, except this time, the people ignoring me can't speak English, so I was spared the searing pain of a repeat of all the ridicule of my glasses...and how I dress...and my weight. Um...excuse me while I call my mother.


Just like Tom Hanks, minus the beard and that stupid volleyball.

But I. I have caught mackerel. Six - count 'em - six mackerel on the first day that I successfully caught anything - I have decided to commend the day by naming it "Bloody Thursday." In tandem with my cousin and DKao, we collectively captured and slaughtered fourteen mackerel.

There is, however, one possibly tear-jerking part of the process: when you drag the poor fish's rapidly decaying body out of the water, it fights. Oh, does it fight - like Maximus for his chance at vengeance, like Ali to prove his invincibility, like Marshawn for those last few yards - it fights for precious, priceless, perspiring life. I hold its body down for a few seconds while it struggles to live. In the final seconds of this David versus Goliath battle (except Goliath destroys David, who evidently now has gills), it makes one final desperate gasp. And it is an audibly loud gasp.The first time I heard that final gasp for life, I actually felt bad. For four seconds. Why? Because I was fucking hungry, that's why. Stop it with your silly questions.

But alas, I deny it the chance to continue its sad, short little existence. Why? Because I am a man, and I must be pleasured.

(Wait a second.)

Okay, I can't think of a better way to put it. I am a man. And I must be pleasured. I will hunt these fish down for my entertainment and to shower myself in LoCal (or Lower California) aplomb. I will kill them for that last adrenaline rush and to remind myself that, yes, I am a man, and I can hunt for food, albeit using advanced modern technology to do so. But I am Chuck Noland without, well, the shittiness. Sorry, Chuck, but Wilson sucks. And I think he might be coming on to you.



And today? Four yellowfin croakers.

And oh, they are succulent. A little salt, a little fresh-ground pepper, some garlic powder, a little soy sauce, an overnight in the fridge, and 45 minutes in the oven later, be our guest.So suck it, Venice and Malibu. I may never be able to afford to live in your precious high-cost homes and your pompous reputations, but at least I have taken a minor victory in this pompous, much-too-sunny area known as LoCal.
(Photos courtesy of DKDog)

Chinese police, for the win

In a stunning hilarious AP photo released by Xinhua News Agency of China, we see that the Chinese police have upgraded from walking like us common chimps to utilizing the next wave in military technorogy, the Segway. Running be damned! Using the legs are for suckers and athletes.

To be honest, it really isn't that intimidating when you're dressed in all black with a badass suit but you look like you're on a amusement park ride at the age of 6, you have to pee really badly, and you're holding what appears to be a toy gun that goes with the new line of "Ghetto Barbie."

So come on, champs. Protecting the public and ensuring that the olympic games run smoothly is great and all, but just stop this. Please. The Segway really can't go much faster than a person running, and you guys especially are SWAT-trained, so stamina should not be a big deal for you.

Segway PT: $5,145.00

Human legs: Priceless (like a mother's love, not the good kind of priceless - BS)

There are some things money can't buy. Sometimes those are the best things.

But I only see one Starbucks!

It's cold down here...but hotter than two rats fucking in a wool sock (ICHIROOOOOOOOOooooooooo) up in the Bay Area.



I look to my left...

and I look to my right.

There is indeed a Starbucks to my left.

There is, however, no Starbucks within sight to my right side.

I sure as hell ain't in Seattle or in Houston, TX. So where the hell am I?

How is it possibly colder - yes, COLDer - down here in subtropical desert climate than up in The Bay?

Speaking of hot, it looks like the Cal Athletic PR Department actually put a decent amount of effort into the advertisement/highlights video. Check it out at www.CalBears.com.

EVERY BEAR COUNTS.

I'M BACK IN THE GAME

EDWARDS, YOU HOBAGS!

If Disneyland is the Happiest Place On Earth...

...then why do people commit suicide there?

For our 66-dollar-entry worth 12 hours of plastic costumes, superficial family unity, and make-believe magic, I must admit that this trip to Disneyland was the happiest time I've had in a long while. Normally the "Joy" slot in my heart would be filled by Cal football wins, but since "Nate Longshore" is to "field general" as "MTV" is to "music" (as "KFC" is to "chicken" - LB), guess that can't really happen. But heavens, the fireworks show was fantanstic. I can't believe that they have that fireworks show every night - it's insane how much effort they put into every detail, into keeping the park pristine (there is NO litter ANYWHERE), and most importantly, keeping up the image of the Magic Kingdom, the place where wishes do come true and magic is everywhere. Or something like that, I'm not sure, because they only blared those messages over the park PA system about fifty billion times, and I usually need something repeated to me fifty-one billion times to really sink in.

As we watched the Walt Disney's Parade of Dreams (presented by Sylvania, I might add), David pointed out that among all the park attractions, the costumed princesses walking around, and the costumed princesses on the float waving hello to all, Mulan does not appear among any of them. I argued that most would not consider Mulan one of the classic Disney princesses, as 1) she is a war hero rather than a damsel in distress, 2) she has yellow skin and slanted eyes, which Walt would never approve of as an American role model, and 3) she's probably a lezza, having mixed in among men without any problems for a long period of time. God knows good ol' true blue American Walter Elias Disney wouldn't want to promote THAT kind of anti-Christian, un-American behavior (perhaps blaming the Jews for all of America's problems and banning bagels from Disney movie sets are more his cup of tea).

We went on Space Mountain five times. FIVE. Because, damn it, if I'm paying sixty-six dollars to relive my childhood dreams, I'm going to beat the horse to death, beat it some more after it's dead, cook and eat the dead horse, crap out those remains, and then beat those remains some more.

What is Americana?

A true American. He's, like, just beneath George Washington and Jack Bauer.

There are new strangers sleeping in our apartment. I have no desire to meet them.
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I tried PinkBerry for the first time yesterday. It is, without question, the shittiest froyo I have ever tasted. I took one bite and just left the cup with the cashier and shot him a look of disappointment and anger, turned around, and walked out.
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Being an immigrant from a tiny East Asian island nation whose governmental structure is basically modeled after that of America, I thought I had it all figured out. After spending 16 years here in the good ol' U. S. and A., I am, for the first time, whoring myself out to the patriotic nature of America.

I am paying $15 to feel patriotic at AmericaFest 2008 at the Rose Bowl. AmericaFest. Subtle (read: "SUB-tul").

So what is Americana? What makes us who we are as cheeseburger-chomping, hot-dog-inhaling, horse-piss-beer-brewing, guns-a-blazing, freedom-fries-declaring, big-stick-waving, hegemony-pushing, too-fat-and-lazy-to-do-jack-squat Americans?

Hell, I don't know, but here's a gem:

(11:03:20 AM) Yatin: hey i like to think in some instances i am actually lazier than a normal american
(11:03:55 AM) Yatin: altough like a true american i am on my second drink of the day
(11:04:43 AM) Gordon: a true american would be completely wasted by now

What would Jerry say?

Here's what I have decided after living in Westwood for about two months:

Los Angeles is basically the more attractive, less intelligent younger sister of the Bay Area.