Fruitipity!

While preparing myself a snack for tomorrow, I came across my housemate who suggested we make honeydew juice. He told me that he remembered having icy honeydew juice on the streets of Persia on hot summer days. So that was my moment of serendity, in the form of a frosty glass of green. Is this the bliss that is honeydew juice?

Dawn Perfumed by a Shower of Cold

The past few days have been so chilly. The fog refuses to let in any sunlight. I've been faintly shivering everywhere I go, including the top of the Berkeley's Tower, the Campanile, this afternoon on a whim. After running out of things to do at work (sometimes it pays not to be efficient), I happened to pass the base of the Campanile and decided to pop in to see if I could go up to the top. The tower is in fact open for free to students everyday that the University is open. I got a ticket and had a nice chat with the elevator girl on the way up and down. I guess it is an easy job as long as you don't suffer from claustrophobia. The view was a bit obscured by the sky's general grayness, but I could still see clear down Telegraph to Oakland and peer at the distant blue hills that poke out of the water of the bay. I also finally figured out where the outdoor pool is on campus, all sparkling blue with no brave swimmers in sight.
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Yesterday I said goodbye to my visiting space cadette. We ended up spending a lot of time studying, which is just what we both needed: a working vacation. But we did squeeze in a visit to the MOMA where I saw Joan Miro's painting, pictured there to the left. How I wish we could have some "Dawn Perfumed by a Shower of Gold".

"China must be the most traumatized nation in the world."

Check out this article from Friday's San Francisco Chronicle,
"Mao debunkers defend their book: Critics call it effort to discredit communism".

Mao is portrayed in a new book as "a cynical hedonist who rose to absolute power on Societ strongman Josef Stalin's muscle and his willingness to crush millions of peasants in famine, war and sadistic repression". I thought this was common knowledge, but I guess I could be wrong.

Good gravy! Have a heart!

I spent my first Thanksgiving away from home with new and old friends. (You know that girl scout song that goes, "Make new friends, but keep the old. One is silver and the other gold"? Well, I never figure out which was silver and which gold and frankly did not appreciate the application of monetary values to people!) Coinicidentally, all of us in attendance happened to contain some mix of Asian, so it was preemptively declared an Asian Thanksgiving, which meant that to varying degrees we all wore something "Asian"--this ranged from an impressive silk robe to a t-shirt most probably made in China.

It was a dinner that started at 3 in the afternoon and lasted until 12 at night. The six of us plied through turkey, stuffing, potatoes, corn, prochiuto stuffed mushrooms, cheese, and bread. Then, with the skin over our bellies still stretching, we tackled pumpkin pie, green tea ice cream, and funfetti cake. But what would a Asian banquet without fruit, so we also ingested oranges and pears. Needless to say, we all felt painfully full and pregnantly stroked our food babies while groaning into the night. But the quality and quantity of food was matched by the quality and quantity of our conversation, which left us with satied souls as much as we had accomplished satied stomachs.

During a break between courses, our hostess told us that the gravy we had generously applied to our food was made from the turkey's heart! I am all for not letting any parts go to waste in respect for the animal I consume, but certain entrails just don't seem to lend themselves to pleasant eating. Agh, I think I might go veggie for a while just to purge myself of unpleasant rumination.

Help me Obi Wan Kenobi! You're my only hope!

I was just enjoying a warm shower to cap off a long day (don't worry, I locked the door) and my fingers creeped across a pimple that crested above my ear like the forehead of a beluga whale. Good thing it's hidden in my hair or might have to beat off record keepers for the Guiness Book. The first symptom of crunch time stress! It'll be downhill from here until finals are finally over. Only three papers and two tests away...

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On the plus side, I'm looking forward to some massive procrastination as a certain blue fairy comes to trip the light fantastic with me over Thanksgiving. Food! San Francisco! Food in San Francisco!

I may end up with more beluga appendages before long. I'll have to pop them with lightsabers.

the new minority, wears red?

Today's Wall Street Journal has an article on its front page entitled "The New White Flight" discussing not the exodus of affluent whites from growing minority neighborshoods, but an exodus of white students from two Cuppertino, CA high schools where Asian student have become the majority. The parents of the white students argue that Asian parents push their children to succeed in academics so much that it raises the academic bar unusually high, making it more difficult for white students to excell.

While I do agree with suggestions for accessing the negative implications of parental academic pressure at the expense of extracurricular activities and enjoyment of life, I do not think Asians should be seen as one homogenous flood. We are not a monolithic machine with all the same abilities, goals, or desires. Though the cultural pressure may seem homogenous, we are all individuals! And sadly even when affluent whites become a minority, they still have money and opportunity to stack things in their favor. I will try to link or paste this article here if I can find it somewhere online; then you can tell me what you think.
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Oh, today was also Berkeley's Big Game with Stanford. I guess I knew about it, but didn't think too much of it. Just a football game, right? So thoughtless me, I put on a red shirt--no not red, more like maroon. Stanford's school color. What should I hear as I trek to the library past all the frat houses but, "Take off that red shirt! Take off that red shirt!" I made it library just fine, but I really need to not make that same mistake next year.

Oh, and we won. Go Bears!

They got me!: On Germs and Gelly Rolls

Inevitable. Unavoidable. In the stars.

I knew it would happen sooner or later, but part of me believed I would escape untouched. I'm getting enough to eat. I'm drinking lots of water. I'm getting sleep (sord of). But there are only so many things you can do when bombarded by kiddie germs. Three-year-olds from my internship at Head Start have been coughing and sneezing in my face for weeks now. Oh, they are getting the lesson of coughing into their arms, but they all seem to remember that only after they let one loose into the vunerable orrifices in my face. Obsessive hand washing and furious application of hand sanitizer weren't enough. I could have guessed it would happen--that I would soon join the ranks of the little snot-plastered faces around me. So that is what my weekend has been: a battle to breath through my clogged sinuses.
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In less disgusting news, I got to meet Ira Glass and Chris Ware when they came to Berkeley to speak with the Performing Arts Center's speaker series! They presented a video that they had created together: piece on a boy and his love of the disappearing Louis Sullivan buildings of Chicago. With Ira's interviewing and sound manipulation and Chris' meticulousy spare drawings, it was a paeon to love of beautiful things, one's passion in spite of an indifferent world, and the particular haze of memories. I had read that NPR was offering a dvd of the movie in conjuction with pledge drives, so I'm glad I got to see it despite missing the goings-on of the radio. The following interview proctored by the dean of the School of Journalism was a bit less satisfying, with the dean obviously more comfortable discussing current media issues with radio host Ira Glass, then fishing for anything related to comics to draw out cartoonish Chris Ware.

Chris seemed terribly uncomfortable on stage, with clenched fists and bowed head, but he was enourmously engaging in person afterwards signing books. Right after the talk I dashed home to retrieve my copy of Jimmy Corrigan and zoomed back--red-faced and puffing--to find a long line of fans waiting to get their stuff signed. Ah, I needn't have run so hard! I got to tell Ira Glass how much I loved This American Life--I told him that my dream was once to write for the show, to which he responded, "Check out website to figure out how."--and chat with Chris Ware about the biopsychosocial analysis I did of Jimmy Corrigan for a paper in my Human Behavior in the Social Environment class. Of course my trek home then consisted of a pained reflection on the the words I had said and how stupid I must have sounded. I got the biggest kick out of the white Gelly Roll pen Chris used to sign my copy of his book. Sakura pens rock!

a good hair day

Last night Afro House had its first event, a Reggae and Poetry night with the musical stylings of the aptly named band Hairdoo. I don't believe I've seen so many dreds in one place! The night began with lots of heaving of furrniture to clear a space in our small, dark living room. The band set up and began playing a bit, but with only 2 ppl who were non-house members things looked ufortunately grim. I was even a bit surprised by how good Hairdoo was. Also discouraging was how many house members insisted that they would not come b/c they weren't down with parties. Hey ppl, I'm no 24 hr. party person either, but we've got to represent for our house!

But after a while people began rolling in and we had a cozy crowd listening to ppl read their poetry and freestyle with the band. House members trickled out of their rooms and when the Hairdoo began to play we all rushed to floor to dance together; the fire in our fireplace cast moving shadows on the walls.

I also made some killer chocolate chip cookies for the house and for sale. I'm surprised by how good they turned out; we could have charged more than 25 cents for each. Here is the recipe if you'd like to make cookies as beautiful as the ones the cafeteria ladies made.

Loques!

Last night, while drying off after a shower, I happened to hear the door knob of the bathroom turn. Too bad for you, I thought, it's locked. I thought! Mutual squeels of embarrassment ensued when my roommate and I both found ourselves in a sticky situation. In the end I think she was more mortified than I was. I'm actually very glad that if it had to be anyone, it was her and not some guy.

I haven't described my roommate yet. She's everything you'd think to expect of a LA, SoCal girl: long blonde hair, likes to surf, loves the sun. But then there are the things that will make me always think of her when I think of Berkeley. Like her extreme love of Jamaica, where she spent her summer studying African religion. Or her die-hard love of Damion Marley, son of Bob. And her passion for music, all kinds, especially Latin and Carribbean. Or her mini samba practice sessions everynight. And just passion for life and people. With luck, she'll fulfill her next travel destination in the spring in Cuba. Ah, I don't think I'll find another roommate quite like her.

B is for Busted.

One of the biggest challenges, which I didn't even think would be such a problem, is learning how to be a student again. Suddenly realizing that on top of work, internship, and school I still have to come home to reading and assignments and group work and looming exams is too much sometimes. I didn't think it would be hard to go back to school! And yes, as the title suggests, I have not been making shining A's on my recent exam and paper. I obviously still have some room to improve, don't I? It's time to do the reading I have postponed, the research that I put off, and (alas) the sleep that I so dearly need.

I had a meeting with the faculty and graduate students that I am working with on a empirical review of parent training programs for my work study job as a research assistant. Thankfully, I did not repeat my comic performance of head-bobbing this time and actually had something constructive to offer. I repeat--I need more sleep! Social Work school has also been my training ground for appropriate work behavior. So much more formal than I am used to. By the way, evidence appears to suggest that parent training programs are beneficial, though it is a tricky balance to fit the needs of the target client population. Longer programs seem to work better. Let 's work together to end maladaptive and coercive parenting behavior!