Cal should give me my Ph.D. NOW, my research is so awesome

Jack Bauer's official biography states that he graduated from UC Berkeley with a Master of Science in Criminology and Law. Unfortunately, no such degree exists, or else I would be all over that shit (imagine being able to tell your friends that you majored in the same field as Jack Bauer. And they would ask you, "You majored in Legal Studies of Techniques, Procedures, and Protocols in Torture?" And you would say, "Boom, muthafucka.")

So I did a little bit of internet research, because everything the internet says is true, especially because Facebook and Wikipedia are on the internet. It turns out that at the beginning of Season 1, the viewing audience was informed that Jack Bauer was 35 years old. (I'm not going to use extrapolated ages based on later seasons, because multiple years pass between seasons, making Season 1 the most accurate benchmark for the actual age.)

Season 1 ran from 2001 to 2002. Let us make a logical extension and assume that Season 1 (more specifically, that entire day) occurred in 2002, giving Jack the benefit of the doubt. This means that Jack was born in 1967. Let us also assume that the Master's in Criminology and Law is a two-year Master's degree, because that's simply the most common timeframe for terminal Master's degrees. His biography states nothing about any educational or occupational activity between finishing his Bachelor degree at UCLA and his Master's degree at Berkeley, so we can assume that he went straight from four years of college to two years of graduate school. After crunching some basic numbers, we figure that Jack Bauer graduated from UC Berkeley at the age of 24 (HURHURHUR) in the year 1991. (Ph.D., please!)

Now, why did I bother doing all that? So I could make this:

I wonder how much he gives back every year, assuming dead people isn't considered legal tender in the United States of America.

Now, all that needs to happen is that his face needs to be on 1) the big board on Dwinelle Plaza with all the faces and 2) on the Campaign for Berkeley website.

Welcome to American music, here's your complimentary Kleenex pack

One of the first memories of living in the U.S. is the old infomerical advertising Wilson Phillips' first album, Wilson Phillips, featuring that freaking catchy hit single, "Hold On." I still remember being a young, pre-obese tyke with my soon-to-be fat ass parked in front the grainy television in our rental home in suburban south San Jose, a.k.a. WHY DOES 3/4 OF CHINA LIVE HERE OH EM GEE TOO MUCH MATH NERD BLAHRGAHRG

I was just sitting there, munching away on snacks that five-year-olds should not be allowed to touch, when all of a sudden, I saw a flash of platinum blond hair and hooker red lips. Only fifteen years later did I learn that her name was Wendy Wilson. The only words I knew to that song were, "But you hoooold on, for one more day...blahblahblah Incoher, ent fooooreign lang. uage, English sounds so. stuuuuUuUpid...." (Five, new to the country, waddaya expect.)

So, to Wilson Phillips: thank you for introducing me to American music. I owe you one. I think.

R-r-r-r-reeeewiiiiind:

Racial profiling, but not

Event number one:

I walked out of Safeway holding only a box of Cream of Wheat, that being the only thing I purchased and my breakfast of choice at the moment. One of the Safeway staff who happened to be black saw and commented, "Mmmmmhmmmm. Cream of Wheat. My favorite." I replied, "Yes sir, none better" and continued on my way towards the car.

But he snuck up on me and, before I was even halfway to the car, he tapped me on the shoulder and asked, "Hey man, you half black?"

Now, I've gotten Japanese, Korean, Filipino, and most commonly Samoan/Hawai'ian, but this was my first time getting half black.

I gave a puzzled look and replied, "No, why do you ask?"

He blurted out, "Then why you like Cream of Wheat so much? Cream of Wheat's a black man food."

In the split second thereafter in which I froze up and racked my brain's fifteen-year library collection of racial stereotypes/jokes, Cream of Wheat was noticeably absent. I'd always known about the controversy regarding B&G/Kraft's usage of the character "Rastus," the smiling black chef on the box cover, but I hadn't heard anything along the lines of "white people : stealing other people's cultures :: black people : Cream of Wheat."

I really didn't know how to respond, but he just kept looking at me, looking for an answer, so I responded honestly, "I'm allowed to like Cream of Wheat if I want to. It's easy to prepare, low in cholesterol, and an adequately filling breakfast."

Taken aback at my super lame answer, he said, "Oh is that so. Well then, what, you like fried chicken, watermelon, okra, and that purple shit too? Huh?"

This guy was getting on my nerves. All I did was admit that I enjoyed Cream of Wheat, and somehow he's throwing random accusatory-sounding remarks my way, though I still wasn't quite sure what his point was. And, of course, I once again honestly said, "Yes, actually, I thoroughly enjoy all of those things."

He grabbed his forehead.

"Damn, man, you blacker than ME. I HATE fried chicken. Go enjoy your Cream of Wheat, brotha."

Acontecimiento numero dos:

Earlier today, SRS was headed to a potluck, for which he decided to make a simple Cracker Chicken recipe he found online. The recipe involves grinding a ton of Ritz crackers and mixing it with paprika, garlic powder, salt, and black pepper, and then dredging it onto drumsticks covered in eggwash and baking the drumsticks. I tasted one, and it seriously tastes like a giant chicken nugget, but that's neither here nor there.

Conversation:

Me: "What are you making?"

SRS: "I'm making cracker chicken for this stupid meeting."

Me: "CRACKER chicken? Does that mean that we're not allowed to eat it?"

SRS: "You're dumb."

Minutes pass while he tinkers away in the kitchen and I watch a ESPN special about Steve Bartkowski and his kick-'Boys-ass Falcons team back in the '80s. Go Bears.

SRS: "I added a secret extra ingredient in the dry mix. Bet you can't guess what it is. You might be able to taste it when it's done cooking, but I doubt it."

Me: "Is it chili powder or dried chili flakes of some sort?"

SRS: "Fuck you."

Me: "What?"

SRS: "How did you know?"

Me: "Because you're Korean."

Event the third:

G-Unit got two dwarf hamsters a couple months ago, which he named Flotsam and Jetsam (Flo and Jet for short). He took them home over winter break and brought them back to the apartment a couple days ago, but poor Flotsam was missing. He informed us that Flo got out of the cage somehow while he was at home, and is now MIA in the house. (She'll probably die pretty soon, but whatever. Jet was always the less temperamental one anyways.

SRS and I figured that, since Jet is darker than Flo, Jet has to stay in prison for much longer. We felt bad for about five seconds after making the remark.

Jet tends to run on the wheel a lot. We think she's bulking up so she can eventually break out of that hellhole.

Chinese Culture, Lesson 1: American Football = ???

January 1st came and went, and once again, I spent a significant part of it in front of the television (now new-and-improved 42" HDTV that my parents bought WITHOUT TELLING ME) watching USC beat the crap out of yet another undeserving and overrated "Big" "10" "team." To tradition!

The next morning (that's January 2nd for all you non-math majors), I woke up and found that nobody else was home - apparently, my mom and sister had miraculously decided that I was mature enough to be left alone and not burn the house down. (Not kidding - in the days of old, leaving me alone at home was verboten because they were honest-to-God afraid that I would somehow hurt myself or, more importantly, somehow hurt the neighbor's adorable dog.) I read through the sections of interest in the Mercury (translation: glance fleetingly at the front page, read the comics, flip to Sports) and, before putting my paper down, I saw my mom's Chinese newspaper of choice, the World Journal, sitting underneath it. And, oh, how I laughed and laughed at my own people's ever-more-interesting culture.

Here's an overall shot of the front page of the Jan. 2nd, 2009 issue of The World Journal:


It's about the Rose Queen for this year's Tournament of Roses down in Pasadena. The same Tournament of Roses that culminates in the aforementioned football game. This is page A1. Like, MAIN HEADLINE. The same place where the New York Times would have put something urgently important, such as the unfortunate bombings going on yet again in the Gaza Strip area or the international economic crisis. But maybe I'm just jumping to conclusions and should give these people the benefit of the doubt. Maybe they're talking about something else. Let's take a closer look, shall we?



That red headline states that, in the Tournament of Roses' 120-year history, this year's Rose Queen, Courtney Chou Lee, is only the second Chinese person to receive the honor.

I suppose it's a point of Taiwanese interest to be celebrated in ANY manner nowadays, no matter how mediocre, after the mind-boggling disaster that was Chen Shui-Bian's presidency.

(And now, a message from NBC: Boys and girls, if you want to see a real modern history lesson in nepotism, embezzlement, and general abuse of power, look no further. Indicted on Dec. 12, 2008 for forgery, money-laundering and misuse of public funds, former President Chen was one of the greatest embarassments to the Taiwanese people in its short history. For more information, Dr. Wikipedia has more here.)

This message brought to you by THE SHOW.

It makes sense that the article made absolutely zero mention of the results of the football game, since American football is generally not in the interest of the people of Taiwan (or anyone living outside of the US and Canada, for that matter), but just to make sure, I very slowly made my way through the article and found that, like any respectable Chinese/Taiwanese newspaper should, the writer did indeed mention the football game.

But there was no mention of the game itself or the scores or the history of the Rose Bowl game at all.

The only mention of the Rose Bowl game was the names of the two schools playing in it - the University of Southern California and the Pennsylvania State University - AND THEIR UNDERGRADUATE RANKINGS ON THE LATEST US NEWS & WORLD REPORT. (USC is at 27 and PSU is tied at 47 with UT-Austin; Cal is at 21...again.) Leave it to a Taiwanese newspaper to make sure the readership develops an immediate impression of these schools (if they hadn't already heard of them) based on a single comprehensive and, might I add, totally inaccurate representation of their academic reputation.

I come from a people of goddamn nerds. Pride!

P.S. Just for kicks, I took a picture of the Rose Queen herself.

Not bad.

I need a Pensieve like Dumbledore

Over the course of the past month, I effectively killed half my brain cells studying for final exams and killed the other half in the drinking process afterward. So I'm pretty surprised that I'm able to remember these two moments at all. I point out these two moments because they remind me of how, for lack of a better description, "cartoony" some people can be. By cartoony, I mean not that they have jaws that drop beyond physical possibility or are seemingly immortal. I mean that as soon as you mention a name, an image and a personality and all the little catchphrases and quirks belonging to that person instantly pop to mind. Bugs Bunny, Homer Simpson, Dwight Schrute, George W. Bush - the instant kind of recognition that really makes these people stick in your mind for long after you've lost contact.

Moment #1: At UCLA in May, Boyer Hall - my second day on the job. I walk into a conference room and meet my PI and her lab for the first time. Not many people - a white girl, a Chinese girl, a nerdy-looking FOB Chinese guy, and a white guy. I sat down nervously at the end of the table waiting for each lab member to present their weekly findings; my PI told me to pay close attention, because I would eventually have to start presenting my own findings in the coming weeks.

It was the most distracting hour and a half of my life, because I swear to Bruce Wayne that the white guy I was staring at was Brett Haas.


The greatest American leader of the 21st century.
(Source, kids.)

Cue Captain Kirk monologue:
"But...no. It. Cannot be. He...LOOKS just...like...Brett. Minus the wife-beater and. The. Extravagant amounts of Lakers fan gear. Also. No...iPhone. NO iPHONE! But he looks EXACTLY. LIKE. HIM."

Just as I was about to tell myself "There's no other explanation for this: I guess I DO have a drinking problem," this Brett Haas doppelganger spoke up. I breathed a sigh of relief as I reassured myself that I could indeed continue to drink to my heart's content: this guy's voice was much higher than Brett's.

It was only after the lab meeting was over did I dare to ask this Brett impersonator what his deal was. He introduced himself to me as Blake Haas, Brett's older brother. Small world. Turns out that he's on UCLA's Bridge team, just as Brett was on Cal's Bridge team. No, not bridge-building like the CivE folks seem to love so much. Bridge, as in the card game universally embraced by old, retired Jewish women living in Florida. I thought it was peculiar that they had taken up interest in a game typically considered an old fogeys' pastime, but I appreciated the educational time afterwards that he spent teaching me about bridge and how difficult it is to do well in the game.

Moment #2: In Haas Pavilion on Nov. 24, 2008, watching the Bears take on North Carolina A&T.

(aside: band locker room before game.
"Who are we playing today?"
"North Carolina."
"...we're fucking playing UNC? Like, the Tar Heels? The number one team in the country? The team with GODDAMN TYLER FUCKING HANSBROUGH?"
"...A&T. North Carolina A&T."
"JESUS THANK YOU")

It's fairly early in the game, and the refs are making some pretty bad calls ("my eyes, I cannot see, I am a Pac-10 referee..."). The band present is a decent size - thirty people, maybe. There's the usual smattering of complaints and boos and random taunts towards the referees, but some third and fourth years and I looked around and felt that something was off. I couldn't quite put my finger on it though, and Greg corroborated the feeling: "I feel like something is wrong or missing." We shrugged it off and continued to watch the game.

Towards the end of the game, Cal was winning by a boatload, and North Carolina A&T was getting obviously frustrated. Their coach was a pretty animated guy who kept jumping off his chair and stepping onto the court to yell at the refs. One of the players on the A&T team hard fouled one of our guys, seemingly out of frustration at being down by 30 points (that, or being two letters away from being the #1 team in the country). It was a pretty blatant foul, and the Cal fans got fairly rowdy but quieted down because short of going to the scorekeeper's board and literally changing the numbers, nothing A&T did could help them win at that point.

But what's this? A lone voice dared to fight the mob mentality. That voice chose not to quiet down when common sense would dictate that it should have already shut up. The bold, the audacious, the foolhardy Robin Hood of sports arena taunts and borderline non-PC insults - who was this brave soul who chose to rise above the rest?

Who, of course, but KNak. All of us turned around to find him spitting his usual smattering of insults, half of which was indiscernable and the other half of which came with a free side of flying saliva.

Suddenly, it occurred to us who had known KNak for the past three or four years that we actually had NO IDEA that KNak was at the game until this very moment, especially because he was standing in the very back row. All at once, the band stopped paying attention to the basketball game and turned its attention toward the man of the hour, as if he had just called a press conference:

"Are you sick?"
"When the hell did you get here?"
"Why haven't you said anything until now?"
"Where the hell have you been?"
"What the fuck did you just say?"
"Can you stop spitting on me?"

I swear, if Cal Band would only put all its talents toward mass entertainment, we'd make a damn good group of TV sitcom writers. Untapped gold mine, swear to Tedford.