New York City Adventures

Today I took a trip down to the wonderful city of New York for the day with my brother, and a few assorted middle aged gems. Our destination was to see the Bodies Exhibition, on display in New York for the time. You may have heard of this, it's a science exhibit promoting a more detailed understanding of human anatomy, health, and well-being along with serving as an incentive to spur our young generation towards fields in medical research. The main feature of the "show" are the many specimens of preserved humans on display in varying degrees of disassembly. I previewed, with a morbid fascination, the intricate workings of the human bone structure, circulatory and nervous systems, and muscle groups. The bodies, as I later learned, were unclaimed deceased individuals from China, were the project was first started. There were about a dozen complete humans and several hundred parts, from preserved hearts, to skulls, to fetuses, and every strange thing in between. I have to say I was quite impressed with the level of preservation and the amount of work that must have gone into removing so much nastiness from so many nasties.

Anyway, I found the entire experience quite interesting and the day was topped off by a triumphant venture into Chinatown where we dined at an authentic Chinese restaurant, right in the heart of America. More on that tomorrow, if I find time.

Regards,
Andrew


As a side note, we were not allowed to bring cameras into the exhibit which is why a large picture of a plasticized spleen is not accompanying this post.

This is Courage, a stupid idea for a poem

This is Courage, a stupid idea for a poem
I laughed, laughed wholeheartedly at the idea
Courage, courage is not something you can grasp
Courage is something invented by people who need
People who need something to hold onto
When everything else disappears, they need
Courage is for people who want something
Anything, to drive away everything that fails their nothing
Abhorring, the very thought, a mental drought, without, I am sure
We would wither and die on the inside, more so than we allude to
Courage, an illusion of magnificent proportion,
Creating a land where the simple addition of a comma can lend
Strange new worlds of significance to the white sheets of paper
Courage is not something that can be stopped or fought
Because Courage can’t be fought
With the same weapons we use against the people we love
When everything disappears and they need
To love they hate what they want they fake for Courage forces
Upon us these blatant untruths

A Machine of Grander Design

You've already been introduced, but I don't think you have a firm grasp of what's about to happen, something that will blow the dust of inactivity from the deepest crevices of your mind.

You'll be forced to think about things.

The first thing I felt was my legs. I was on my right side, with my legs crossed under me. There were a few minutes where I could feel the ground pressing up at me, but then like a tidal wave of pain crashing down upon me I could feel the weight of the world on my legs. They were broken, I was sure of it. It’s a strange feeling to be conscious of a dramatic failure in the structural integrity of your own body. Before the numbing pain, the wash of emotions that blocks out everything else, like a solar eclipse, comes this surreal out-of-body experience. At least it did with me, laying there on the ground that day. I could feel my body helplessly broken, my mind, partitioned itself into a secure corner, safe from the havoc being wreaked upon every sense, exhibiting supreme triage over my synapses, choosing with extreme discrimination what it deemed I was ready to feel. Such a simple thing as a pair of broken legs and stripped everything away until my core lay bare, there on the ground next to me, blistering in the sun, reverting to the most basic of instincts in order to secure the survival. There on the ground next to me. For a second I thought I could see it…

I wasn’t able to see that first day. Whether it was a failing of the corneal or retinal machinery surrounding those delicate lumps of tissue, or something of a more profound nature, I do not know. I do know that it was over a day because I heard the alarm on my watch ringing twice, set to ring every twelve hours by me in some other world. I remember the watch, I remember setting the alarm. I don’t remember anything else. The first time the alarm range out, the sound carried across the ringing in my ears like a jet engine cutting across the noisy atmosphere of an airport tarmac. It rang and I thought my ears would explode from the noise. It cut through the air like a scalpel, drilling into my brain with violent precision. I tried to cry out, but realized I could not. My brain had long ago severed ties with such an inconsequential peripheral as my vocal mechanism. But that first time I heard my watch was wondrous. I added hearing to my list of operative senses. Two down, three to go.

Team Amazing: Justice Taskforce Issue 1

Stupendous Girl crosses her arms in front of to brace for the impact as she leaps from the corrugated rooftop of the watchtower at the dock. The cold night air brushes past her as she lands effortlessly on the cracked pavement below, rolls twice and takes off running. Behind her, bullets smash into the ground, sending jagged splinters of rock flying past her. She ignores a tearing pain in her left arm and keeps running, her toned legs pumping smoothly beneath a blue miniskirt. Turning a corner she darts into the black shadows offered by a nearby warehouse. Hearing the shouts of the guards behind her, she looks for the nearest exit. A door to her left is covered by a rusty padlocked chain, which she breaks with a swift front kick. Running through the dimly lit room she front flips over a construction hole in the floor, missing by mere inches rows of razor sharp rebar covered in germs. Running from pool to pool of light splashed on the floor by flickering utility lamps, Stupendous Girl turns a corner and runs straight into a burly security guard with a mean face and an angry looking automatic rifle. She dispatches him with a neat jumping hurricane kick to the larynx and jumps over his falling body, handplants, and tosses herself through the window at the end of the hall. Falling for what seems like hours instead of mere seconds, she curls herself into a ball, slowing herself down before unraveling for a graceful dive into the icy cold and pitch black ocean below. Utilizing a perfect breaststroke she swims for a twenty yards before coming to the surface, right next to the ladder of the boat floating next to her. Clambering on board she gives a thumbs up to the dark figure in the pilots sea who flashes devilish grin before gunning the engine and turning the wheel sharply, throwing up a sheet of water as the boat races away from the dock at 40 knots. Squinting against the wind and ocean spray Stupendous Girl looks behind her as the dark monstrosity of the military complex that she had just infiltrated fades into the sea night behind her. For a moment she's paralyzed with fear. Did she connect the right wires? Her unvoiced question is answered as the series of warehouses, research labs, and troop barracks explodes in a bubble of white light which slowly fades to orange, lighting the sky with red and wreathing the small peninsula in a halo of smoke.

Turning back around in the boat, she allows herself to relax. "Well, that's one more terrorist base off the list."

My New Instrument

For the past 5 months I've been teaching myself guitar, at first using my mom's ultra-crappy acoustic before stepping it up and buying my own crappy acoustic. Haha, no I am, of course kidding. Mine is not just a crappy guitar but a crappy guitar with a cool sticker that I sort of regret sticking on there. I've diligently memorized the basic major and minor chords. I've taught myself a few strumming patterns. I've restrung my guitar, and can now tune it thanks to the modern technology of the electronic tuner which makes up for the fact that I apparently can't distinguish between different sounds...like AT ALL. I've learned the riffs to about a dozen songs, mostly soft-indie or rock from the plethora of guitar tab sites online. Lately I've been experimenting with adding my voice, but I've found that my voice only goes with 1 in 5 songs I know and I am not comfortable with this ratio, so I'm going to stick to singing with my brother as my audience for the time being. Anyway, I'm writing this blog for several reasons. First, I felt I needed to write a lighter, more funny blog about something in my life, and I don't think I've blogged about my guitar adventures yet, so that seemed like an obvious choice. Second, is that today was the last school day before our nice secular holiday break. We had a half day today and half of the already shortened day was spent at our yearly "Christmas special". All of the kids who are either in band or in a theater group were gone from class for rehearsal and prep and many of my classes were pretty empty. I hung out with my friend Zak for the day and we got to talking about our song. From the beginning of the year we've been singing (in varying degrees of annoying volume) the song "Total Eclipse of the Heart" by Bonnie Tyler to each other in Foreign Policy because we thought that song best epitomized our feelings about life. Plus, last year when I watched this video, I realized it might possibly be the best song for a man to sing sarcastically. So today we decided it was time to upgrade our selection and we decided to run with "I Don't Want to Miss a Thing" by Aerosmith. While it may not completely dominate "Total Eclipse of the Heart" in terms of manliness, it has the distinct advantage of being playable on the guitar. So today we memorized the lyrics and this afternoon when I got home from school I sat down in front of the computer with my guitar, went online, and checked out the tabs for the song intent on memorizing it so I could astonish Zak over vacation. At first it seemed pretty easy, no more than 5 or 6 different chords in all with some pretty easy patterns. Plus, most of the song consists of incomprehensible wailing so I thought I'd be able to pick it up pretty easy. I was cruising along until I hit some new chord I had never tried to play before. B Minor. Now, it is important to note that with there are several different ways to play a chord (similar to piano which I've played about 1000 times longer than guitar). The fingering the tab showed for this chord made it extremely impossible. Absolutely unplayable. I could get four of the five notes but that fifth one would end up sounding like a dying animal. And while I haven't verified this, I'm pretty sure the whole point of the song is love, not dead animals. So I was in a quagmire. I'm sure I'll look back on this some day, laugh merrily and say something along the lines of "Oh Andrew! You were so naive," as I'm playing B Minor chords with my eyes closed. But for right now, that chord is the devil. Like a cruel prank. Like Aerosmith wanted to tease me with a song I could almost play, "But let's throw in this joke chord!" Thanks guys.

Happy holidays,
Andrew

Short Story 1 Installment 1

Alrighty, walking home from school today after an epically short Model UN meeting I was struck with the inklings of a new story, one that centered around a single character (like most of work lately), but put more emphasis on human nature and how a singular existence can effect one's perception of the world. Also, it seemed like a really interesting, if a bit fantastically unusual, concept. I'll be posting stuff as I write it, so the only thing you guys'll see are the bare bones, completely rough draft stuff. I'll post edits when and if I see fit, but seriously who are we kidding? I don't make mistakes.

Short Story 1 (Until I find a better name, you guys can comment with thoughts/suggestions)

Installment 1

The world consisted of asphalt. Perhaps not the entire world, but asphalt stretched into the conceivable distance, and even after the sooty black disappeared into the horizon there was still the thought of more. It stood n a complete circle, encompassing everything like a large black maw of some great creature, swallowing up anything and everything. It was completely flat, as flat as human instruments and design could allow for. When it rained the water simply filled the surface, not running off in any direction. When it snowed it was impossible to judge distance. The completely flat surface of the asphalt was disorienting in it's perfection. But it was a perfection marred by its purpose. Like a beautiful detail on an otherwise grotesque and revolting visage, the great circle of asphalt stood on the earth, so massive that it curved with the land that fell away beneath it, separated by rock or dirt or grass my many hundred feet of compacted tar.

I knew it was at least 200 miles in diameter. A while ago I attempted to walk all the way out of it. It was stupid, thinking I could. I walked for six or seven days; after awhile I forgot to count the sun rises and sunsets. Near the end I was about halfway through my supply of food so I decided to turn and go back. But that failed adventure proved enlightening. I discovered that there was an end, I saw the mountains. From the center of the circle (where I assume I am), I cannot see anything on the horizon but the towering hulks of clouds preparing to make their smooth and rapid descent across the sky until they disappeared over the second horizon. But as I made that journey to the edge I noticed the mountains. At first they were just minuscule smudges of gray across the horizon. But even then I practically lost my mind. To know that there was something except for asphalt. And as I walked on they grew taller and taller until I was sure that the edge was no more than three or four miles away. But then I noticed the clouds. The clouds, that brought rain, and thus life to be on this barren circle of asphalt, were sweeping closer and closer, past the mountains. And when they swept in front of the mountains I realized the true depravity of the situation. These mountains I had seen were indeed huge. So huge in fact that they gave the illusion that I was nearing the edge, when in fact I was not even close. I might have walked 40 or 50 miles that week, but it felt like I had to walk twice that distance to get back to the center.

The center. Where I first woke up, so long ago. I implemented a system of calculation of date several years ago. Using the sun and the moon I've been able to tell time and date since then. A.C. After calendar, I called it. It's a pretty impressive system, but I didn't come up with it until at least a few years after had lived here. The center, that's where I woke up. I don't remember much from those first few years. The thing that sticks most in my memory was the tree. The tree, still there even now. As far as I've been able to tell, that tree, along with some small shrubs and plants, are the only things in this place that aren't asphalt. It's not a gigantic tree, but big enough. I don't know the species. But it has wonderful fruit that never goes out of season. It's trunk is about 8 feet across and it's branches spread out, about 30 feet over the ground and 40 or 50 feet in every direction. It's got these gigantic leaves that are soft and change their color constantly but never wither and die. At first I was perplexed by this tree. I thought at first I was dead and this was some strange after life, something out of a child's imagination. However, over time, I've discarded this idea. The tree is real. The asphalt, though its hard to believe, is real. Everything is real.

The New Oceanic Version 2.0

The blog has a received a massive face lift in regards to the color, layout, and that giant whale at the top. All of the graphics (like the whale) were edited severely by me and I feel pretty proud about that because my 2D graphics skillz are not what you would call "amazing" or "clever" or even that most awkward of compliments "nifty". No, they lie in the large and always expanding plains of mediocrity next to the mountain range of self-adulation across the plateau of indifference. It's about 6:45 in the morning, on a weekday so you can't blame me if a slew of repetitive metaphors comes pouring out.

Anyway, the point is that this is only the first in a series of upgrades I'm going to be implementing over the next few months to dramatically change the way this blog operates. Another big change I'm hoping to implement is the inclusion of more pictures. More updates is another thing I'm trying to go for. Finally, the content of the blog itself may receive a small updates. It'll stil be a "summary of my life with jokes", but it may also contain more reaching philosophical essays, analysis on human nature, and construction guides for potato cannons. All in all my goal is to have the content of this site be completely unpredictable, and I think this new update is moving in that direction.

Until next time, I recommend you guys check out www.stopwhaling.org

Regards,
Andrew DeCoster

Snowstorms

Last Thursday my lovely little state of Connecticut was hit with a pretty good sized storm that brought snow, rain, ice, and strange combinations of the three upon the roads and sidewalks and cultured lawns. It's pretty early in the season, technically its not even winter yet, so this early winter nastiness is a bit foreboding in my opinion. Last weekend we got hit with another storm, and this morning I awoke to the news of a delayed opening for school. While all of this weather might be having a positive effect on the amount of my sanity that is slowly sapped every day during my internment in our local public school, it is also causing just as many problems.

On the plus side, I got the lion's share of my Christmas shopping done over a week ago and our tree is looking more and more festive everyday. Christmas time in my house is one parts Splinter Cell via Ghost Recon via obscure spy movie for every two parts Holiday festiveness. After our shopping is done every member of my family hoards up in their room and waits there, sometimes for three or four days until we believe enough time has passed so we aren't suspecting of harboring gifts for our loved ones. Allowing them to know that we care enough about them to plop down the $9.99 it takes for the collector's edition of Lawrence of Arabia on DVD is simply forbidden. Instead we slowly filter presents on at a time, all stupendously wrapped, until the tree begins to look like a refugee camp for lost or misplaced packets of holiday cheer.

Happy Holidays,

Andrew

Presidential Primaries

The presidential primaries are around the corner and I'd like to take this moment to publicly endorse Senator Barack Obama as my vote for the 2008 elections. Now, before any of you crafty readers jump to some conclusions you should know that I support him for reasons besides his amazingly handsome face, his deep baritone voice, and his deep soulful eyes (although to be fair, that's about 40% of it). In fact, I've read both of his books, Dreams From my Father and The Audacity of Hope. They're both tremendous pieces of work and I recommend both to anyone who is looking to get an insight into this inspiring public servant.

In addition, the concept of Obama as president is very trendy and while that might not be the most noble of assets, it might get him the votes he needs. So, this spring if you're a registered Democrat (if you're not, feel free to use the back button on your internet browser to navigate away from my blog), cast your vote for the man who inspires you to get in touch with your inner American, Barack Obama.

Death of a Magic Trick

There are few things which continually serve to fascinate and amaze me as much as a magic trick. It's not the thought of magic that truly entrances me, but the thought and notion of the reality of the trick. How do they do that? Tonight I decided I would find out just how this magic coin bank my brother has had for the longest time worked. It's a pretty simple setup, now that I know how it works. A large box, walled on three sides, with a clear plastic cover on the fourth. The coin is slipped in the top and falls trough what appears to be an extremely thin tube into a tiny box on the bottom of the larger box. Looking through the two sets of tiny windows allows you to see the coins, just as you put them in, but really small. I knew that a distortion of light was at work here, it's impossible to shrink something like that with the setup I held in my hand. However, I was sill mystified as to how they fit the coins down the tiny tube in the first place. Looking earnestly through the first plane of plastic did not reveal any hidden mirrors. So, I decided to find out for myself. I forced open the plastic cover and discovered the set of diagonally intersecting mirrors. They reflected the walls of the box to make the tube appear thin when it was, in fact just a facade that was covering a larger chute.

Now I know, I suppose.

Impending Stagnation

I can smell it in the air and feel it every time I get out of bed in the morning. Not when I wake up, it should be noted. Shaking off the lingering transience of dreams leaves me feeling like I just left a place I would have liked to stay in a little longer. Perhaps it's just because I don't get enough sleep. I'm inclined to think that I'm awake too long. There is a strange, obscure partition that separates our reality from our dreams and occasionally these defined regions of existence comingle and intersect. Recently I've tried my hardest to work and excel in my reality so that my dreams are tinged with the sadness of what could have been. More recently I've found myself slowly losing the fight against indifference. The outcome is inevitable. There will come a time when I no longer judge my potential worth as an individual in a degree violent enough to warrant my continued efforts. At this point I see it more as a race than anything else. What will happen first? Will I stop trying? Or will I be on the receiving end of a drastic change of scenery? I truly need a change of scenery. I find it harder everyday to cope with the way my house contains no right-angles. Or how when I walk outside in the morning with my dog, my eyes still blurry from sleep, my hand slams into the door. I fear that I am violating the most fundamental of rules of human conflict, don't run from the problem, deal with it. Unfortunately I don't believe that this is a problem that can be fought. The slow degeneration of my place in this town, crowned with the residual indifference I feel every time I read the local news can only indicate one thing: I need to find myself in a way that escapes the reach of indie songs, or slow and reliable mantras, or engulfing myself in work. I need to feel the same sort of way I felt while I was in Biloxi, doing something that anyone could do and reveling in the feeling of oneness with myself.


It all sounds horribly contrived, but I assure you there are few things more genuine.

Thanksgiving Wrap Up

Tonight I find myself scouring the grease and grime from countless plates, platters, and dishes in a seemingly futile attempt to restore some sort of order to our kitchen. Alas, the plight of the overworked Thanksgiving Day dishwasher. Actually I find the entire cleaning routine sort of soothing in a strange way. It must be the rythmic, mindless quality of it, I don't know for sure, but I find myself distancing from the present situation and really relaxing, even while my hands are pruning up. The end result: a sparkly kitchen and a mellow Andrew.

So, today was interesting. I can't say it was a fantastic Thanksgiving, but no thanksgiving with my family ever is. around midday I had a sneaking suspicion my mother was really trying to enforce some family-bonding because this is my last Thanksgiving here at home. Call me crazy, but I was pretty sure the multiple boardgames and movies shoved in my face were a sly attempt by my mom to try and pretend, even for the shortest period of time, that we have something approaching a Platonic relationship. I rather enjoy the current state of affairs between myself and my mom. While I grow and mature I know that my view of my mom and her role in my life will change but for now I'm content and at least we've escaped the stereotypical conflicts.

In addition, today I made up for 4 entire years of misplaced high school pep by attending the Thanksgiving Day football game between the two rival high school in our town. Mine, and the other one. The game itself was underwhelming, but I was prepared for this and only allowed a small part of my heart to die with the hope that I'd at last find some small meaningful side to high school football and all that entails. At least I had the chance to catch up with some friends.

Until later,

Andrew

Update

Recently the astonishing lack of posts in this blog was brought to my attention by a friend. "Andrew, recently I was browsing the internet and noticed a severe lack of creativity" she said in not those exact words. Well my loyal readers, I blame myself. I think it's been too long since my last post and I think that I'm going to have to fix that now, before I go to bed because I'm really tired from doing all the Andrew-things that I do which include, but are not limited to: eating, school, Taekwondo, snacks.

So, I know a lot of you have been dying for an update on my life and I'm here to satisfy that need. I'll start off with a story:

Andrew DeCoster rolled out of his bed with the ferocity of a mountain cougar that has just discovered its work expenses are not tax deductible. Quickly throwing on some random clothes that were astoundingly well coordinated, Andrew leapt down the stairs like a nimble mountain goat with his hair disheveled in a similar manner. Throwing on a coat or three he pried open a can of delicious dog food and poured into his dog's bowl so his dog could eat the food, she's very picky about her food and will not eat it if its still in the can, so needlesstosay Andrew DeCoster is a little anxious as he carefully places the food down on the ground and opens the basement door to let his dog into the kitchen. They keep their dog down in the basement because that's the accepted place for dogs to sleep and if she slept anywhere else she might start getting an ego and that can't happen. Everyone knows that Killer's lack of an ego is one of her main attractive features.

Anywho, Andrew DeCoster briskly walks his dogs keeping a sharp eye out for vagabonds or other people who might want to take his money. Rushing back to the safe cocoon of warmth provided by his house he returned Killer's leash to the weathered and beaten nail on the door frame and takes of his coat(s). What follows is approximately 20 minutes of Andrew laying face down on his sofa immobile amidst the floating melody of the easy jazz featured on the Weather Channel during the morning. The jazz makes Andrew feel very chic but soon he pulls himself up and forces himself to take a shower. The shower is really nice and warm and Andrew spends about 10 minutes drying off and making sure all of his various limbs are in tip top shape. No malfunctioning legs today! Combing his hair and brushing his teeth, Andrew pulls on a fashionable long sleeve top to match his fashionable pants and heads off to school.

If Andrew could go to school in any way he wanted to, he'd probably choose something pretty dramatic, like a dragon or a Mafioso’s limousine. Instead he settles for his mother's silver Hyundai Sante Fe which takes roughly 5 hours in the morning to warm up so it doesn't feel like the artic tundra inside. Andrew's used to this. He prepares. He brings a blanket.

In all seriousness he likes the fact his mother gives him a ride to school. Not only is it considerate on his part, but it gives him a chance to bond with his mom, something he doesn't get the time to do.

An example conversation to illustrate bonding:

Mother: Andrew I just want to say that I'm really proud of your as my son. Anything you want to talk about?
Andrew: zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz

Ahh, bonding at its finest. Andrew feels proud when he gets out of the car. Family is important to Andrew, right up there with breakfast, and with similar qualities. Varying shapes, sizes, flavors, and textures but at the end of the day it's all necessary to survive.

Another thing Andrew needs to survive: his fans. Upon arriving at school Andrew is immediately surrounded by an incessant crowd of screaming groupies he has to literally roundhouse kick out of the way. This can prove difficult especially when his legs aren't working, but this morning they are, and the result is tremendous. THWACK! WHAP! BAM! There's a clear path to school.

The school day that follows is a big blur for Andrew. He excels in all of his classes and as painful as this is to admit, all of the adoration of his teachers begins to blend together after awhile.

Teacher: Andrew, you have great potential but Lincoln Logs have no place in my classroom.
Andrew: No, YOU'RE amazing!

After school Andrew is presented with a few options depending upon the day. A few days out of the week Andrew has extra-curricular commitments. He approaches these with casual ease. A good example of this is the Model UN. Andrew's country is Canada. Many of the students participating in this club believe he chose this country for such greater underlying purpose, when in fact he just chose it because he loves pancakes and Maple Syrup and when he was vacationing at Niagara Falls two years earlier the gay man who owned the bed and breakfast he stayed at made tremendous pancakes.

After school and extra curricular activities Andrew finds himself in a bit of a quagmire. It's roughly 4 o'clock, and he doesn't need to go to Taekwondo (or the Ninja Academy as he refers to it), until 5:30. That's almost two hours, depending on your rounding. Instead of doing homework Andrew usually ends up reading books with such ambitious titles as "Humans: Creatures of Grander Design" or "Compasses: Archaic or Sex Symbols?” Occasionally he well read a book that does not feature a colon in the title but this is rare. He will almost never read a book that features colons as the main topic. Word choice is something Andrew revels in.

The End

So that story sums up (basically) my everyday life but don't be fooled. Everyday is an adventure for me and has something different to offer.

College has become a big part of my life lately, as I imagine it has for most students my age across America. The college search and application process actually proved underwhelming for me. I visited all of my schools in advance, had little to no trouble whittling my list of potential interests down to 5 or 6 I wanted to apply to and so far have not encountered any problems with the 4 applications I've sent off already. I've even been accepted into a University, my Number 2 pick, no less. While some may say this is good news, I disagree. I was really looking forward to the drama and trouble that is associated with the college application process. I'm talking about some last minute panic attacks, rushing to find stamps, kidnapping postal workers, discovering illegitimate children of important school officials, blackmail, and a hell of a lot more paper cuts. Instead I'm faced with the inevitable fact of modern life, the digital adaptation of even the most analog-based processes. I fancied myself a man of traditional nature trapped in a world of circuitry and dehumanizing processes but instead have reveled in the way the computer has streamlined and simplified the college application process. CLICK fill out some forms. CLICK make up some information. CLICK guess my social security number. CLICK send it off to the college of my dreams.

In addition, my brain has been working overtime lately, and not just on the usual stuff (Why DO badgers look like that?). No, instead I've found that the curriculum of my Advanced Placement English (which I find much more gratifying than saying English AP) has twisted my brain into strange new configurations. Suddenly a three sentence poem by such a great writer as E.E. Cummings can be interpreted as if it were a 7 or 8 sentence poem. New worlds have been revealed to me within the dusty pages of books I had never heard of before. As a result, I've been thinking about life and my role in the world a lot more lately than I ever have before.

I could go on and on about the intricacies of my crazy Andrew-thoughts, but I won't put you, my delicate readers with your fragile psyches through an ordeal like that. Instead I've summarized my thoughts in an easy-to-read wish list.

-I want to have the strength of character exhibited by Tommy Lee Jone's character in The Fugitive. You know the part I'm talking about. When he dresses up like a hobo to raid that dude's house with all the other cops and then when one of his officers gets a gun pointed to his head by a criminal, Jones doesn't hesitate but just blows the bad guy's brains out. I hope one day I can get to the point where my morals and values have such an integrity that I wouldn't dream of hesitating.

-Another person I'd love to be more like is Rosa Parks. Admittedly, this would be difficult. First and foremost I am not a woman. Also, not black. But I really admire the ideals she stood for. I'd say that I'd like to be like Gandhi because he seems like a male version of Rosa Parks but I'm not even sure if they had buses in India, plus he didn't have much fashion sense. I have no ideas how many lines I just crossed there, but I'm guessing it’s a few.

-Finally I wish that I could sleep as easily at night as I imagine Mr. Rogers did. I'm not saying I envy the man's life, although being privy to the goings on of a magical community full of puppets is kick-ass. But I would like to be able to, at the end of the day, sum up the lessons I learned and the mistakes I made using simple words and then take off my jacket and hang it up nice and neat before going to bed.

I really hope that this post was sufficiently long to (sort of) make up for the lack of posts in recent weeks.

Updates before the end of the week, I promise.

Thoughts on Halloween

Ah yes, Halloween. It's the end of October and the beginning of November. This is an exciting time for me because my birthday is just around the corner. Halloween is also an exciting time for me because I get to exhibit my extreme pumpkin carving skills. I make a pretty good jack o' lantern using not much more than my bare hands, a knife or two, and a few assorted power tools. Anyway my brother and I celebrated Halloween by renting Disturbia (the movie everyone in the world except for me has seen) and staying up late. Disturbia was underwhelming, as was the trick or treater turn out this year. Usually our porch is festooned with many small ninjas, pirates, princesses, and ghosts. Not so much this year. Luckily my brother compensated for this by giving out handfuls of candy bars instead of the allotment of 1 candy bar per child as recommended by the Federal Candy and Sweets Charity Committee. Due to the laws of physics, it is much harder to grab an individual tootsie roll than it is to grab a mini-butterfinger, so as a result we will have roughly one thousand tootsie rolls floating around my house for the next two months. I don't have a problem with them as long as they don't try to start shit with me. Like get stuck in my teeth and stuff. Tootsie rolls love doing that. They thrive off of cavities, in this way they are very much like the criminal underground of the candy world. While high-rolling socialites like Kit-Kats are strutting around attending shows and functions, tootsie rolls are hanging out in alleys distributing marijuana to children. It's feels pretty late and I start making less sense when it gets late so I'll cut this short.

In other news in my life I recently found that my score on the SAT is now an awe-inspiring 2040. I was very excited to find this out and even danced a bit before someone else mentioned there score which was of course higher. I have to remind myself that in a year or so I'll be out of this state ons oem grand adventure and while this grand adventure might not compare to Link's exploits in Zelda or anything, I think it should be quite interesting.

Until next time,
Andrew

The Ever Changing Spectrum

Everyday across the globe people are presented with the ferocious effects of the ever changing spectrum. The ever changing spectrum is all pervasive. It invades every aspect of life, taking joy in permeating every and all mediums of communication that we so rely on. Television, radio, internet, and print publications revel in the ever changing spectrum and the potential it provides. The ever changing spectrum, when properly presented, can make anything appear to be anything. The ever changing spectrum, when used in its most obtuse sense can make even slights against humanity that would be considered banal when compared against the true history, appear horrific and all encompassing.

The ever changing spectrum is completely impersonal. It does not care for the way people think or feel. It harbors no trace of empathy, the defining aspect of humanity. Its actions, and the painful justifications associated with them, are grounded deeply in the abstract reasoning of a system of logistical equations far too removed for us to imagine.

The ever changing spectrum is completely personal. It seeps inside our very core and distorts our views, taking pride in the way it can change an opinion into an argument, and an argument into fact. The ever changing spectrum takes things and turns them upside down and then sits back and watches as we struggle and fight and resist and, in the end, pull something beautiful out of the mess.

We cannot fully understand the ever changing spectrum but we don't need to, to be able to observe and appreciate the effects of its hard work. We find ourselves silently questioning every decision we make despite the barrage of accepted notions of normality and morality and philosophy that is hammered down upon our frail mentalities, thrust down our throats until our struggle against the system turns horribly and irreversibly organic, until we are left no option but to retch forward with the bile of our core, the instinctual dregs of our beings surfacing only when our accumulated principles and ideals are slowly but surely suffocated by the weight of this ever changing spectrum.

The ever changing spectrum is the way something that is assured suddenly becomes questionable. It's the way we cannot ignore our most pathetic pleas of humanity when presented with an issue of greater importance. It's the way we say one thing and mean another and by the end of the day have forgotten what we said in the first place.

The ever changing spectrum is the way our world challenges the individual to differentiate from the rest by saying what they think and thinking about what they say. By observing and considering popular opinion and then throwing back into the mix our own unique ideas with violent force. The ever changing spectrum is the way the world challenges us to turn the other cheek, before hitting us in a place we would never expect. And it hurts, this ever changing spectrum. It can hurt in ways unimaginable. And it feels good, this ever changing spectrum. It makes you feel better about yourself at the end of the day because even if the ever changing spectrum has dealt you a bad hand you never know what it'll deal you next.

I'm not resigning this to a pile of forgotten drafts.
I'm resigning this to the whims of the ever changing spectrum.

The Short Story From Hell-Part III

Part III

Jacob pushed his way towards the front of the ship, permeating through numerous layers of archaic and forgotten sections, passing many areas of the ship that rung with the sounds of memories that still floated, reverberating through the empty corridors on quiet nights like this one. It was always night aboard the ship but Jacob had long ago realized that some nights were especially dark, even in the pitch black there were periods of time when there seemed to be nothing that existed except the ship gently floating through the lifeless and unforgiving medium. Jacob passed these sections quickly escaping the reach of the past for a little while at least. He reached the part of the ship that served as a command center. It held all the instruments and gauges that measured, through all of their intricate levels of preciseness and infallibility the true nature of the nothingness that the ship had imbedded itself in so many years ago. Settling himself into a worn seat Jacob ran his hand along the smooth surface of the table that sat in front of him. This low lying sheet of material curved gently into the walls of the room on either side and when Jacob ran his hand along it, it came to life glowing like a weak campfire illuminating controls and information that Jacob had long ago stopped caring about. Jacob turned on the sensors; a ritualized practice that he felt was carved, like a groove into his memory, worn smooth over time by repeated use until the action itself was almost instinctual.

The sensors swept for a large distance in all directions from the ship. The ship was currently located deep within the bowels of the remains of a dead star, the nebulous collection of gases had long ago been ripped violently to one side due to an imbalance in the magnetic forces and over the years had drifted until its present state. From afar it resembled a dead creature, disemboweled and flung across the sky. Inside, it was a cavernous, consuming cloud of ionized particles and fragments of metallic dust that shimmer and glinted against light that was coming from hundreds of years away. In galactic terms, this cloud was as isolated as it could get and Jacob reveled in the feeling of suffocating escape, putting as much distance between him and fate as possible. He had felt the same way when he had entered the cloud many years ago. Racing along the convoluted paths it offered reminded him of a maze on certain days. On other days he was overwhelmed with a feeling of déjà vu when he considered his situation. It felt like his attempts as a child to hide from the world underneath the encompassing folds of a large blanket, feeling that the warm insulating layer would protect him from everything and anything in the world. It was this same instinct that drove him to fly into the cloud in the first place so many years ago. Committing to a life of isolation and loneliness was small price to pay for the feeling of safety and security that he occasionally felt, feeling invulnerable among the nothingness.

(to be continued)

The New Oceanic

Recently the blog received a bit of a face lift to commemorate the quasi-anniversary. I say "quasi" because I was too lazy to go back and check the exact date when I started, but I'm 90% sure it was around this time last year. Anyway, I decided to rename the blog. my blog is no longer The Monkey's Corner. I'm not saying that the monkey no longer has a corner, but that is not the main feature of this blog anymore. The monkey has decided that while the soapbox certainly has its place, it must be balanced out with some more coverage of events in my life and the world.

The New Oceanic is the name I chose for several reasons. First and foremost, it is outrageously vague. Second of all, if you think about it for long enough it begins to sound a little trendy. This is the perfect combination to represent my views. Vaguely trendy and comfortably opinionated.

I'll try and update again later tonight when I have more time. I'm still trying to hammer out a part 3 for the Short Story from Hell.

The Secret Faces

Today I had a very revealing conversation about the secret faces people often put on to hide what they're feeling. This is a very prevalent issue, especially in today's increasingly connected world where one feels pressured to commit to certain emotional paths that set concrete restrictions on what we can and cannot feel, or at least how we express what we feel. So, is hiding our true emotions actually a good thing? I think its good in moderation, it's never a good idea to flood your environment with a strong tide of misplaced or unthought-out ideas and notions, especially after emotionally traumatic events. Then again, its not a good idea to let one's poker face slide over for too long. I think that if we wear the mask for too long we start to lose what's underneath.

Picture Time: Crazy break dancers in Boston (though they came from NY). This illustrates a few key aspects of life: 1) people from Boston are fascinated by those hip hopping hip hoppers from Big Apple. 2) Child prodigies till exist today (look carefully, the kid in the foreground was doing exactly what the guy dancing is doing only a few minutes before. 3) It's a completely unjustified stereotype that black people know how to dance better than white people. BUT LOOK AT THEM.

My Slow Descent into Madness...

...is marked by a large amount of whining. Tonight I reveled in the maddening cycle of procrastination that has become quite usual for me this year. It really is quite unfortunate. I don't feel like I've hit a wall or anything, and at certain points, my flair for productivity seems endless, but it's nights like this that really put a damper on my senior experience. I'm currently taking three AP classes, not that many by the standards set by many of my friends and classmates, but enough to convince me, at times, that I may not survive the year. I am a high caliber student but at 11:00 at night when I find myself listening to tracks from the City of Angel's Soundtrack instead of doing my homework I know I'm not living up to my potential (it's a great soundtrack, by the way, and a wonderful movie, just not that conducive to critical thinking and analysis).

I STILL have not found time to work on the Short Story from Hell, I promise that I will write a new entry for that sometime before the weekend, as soon as I finish my work.

Until Later...

andritobandito

My Occasional Introspective

Today I had a tremendous insight. For me entire life I had battled the notion that every child will thank their parents later in spite of what sort of relationship they may have had growing up. My conflict with this accepted colloquialism ranged past the occasional exception; the child who was raised by drunks, the child who was raised in the system and had no parent to thank. No, instead I had always been of the opinion that children could not truly thank and appreciate the efforts of their parents because they didn't have a context to judge them against. They never would, even if they had kids of their own because the experience is unique to the people involved.

So today, while walking my dog, I realized that was not the true reason. Yes, I do not believe anyone can ever truly conceive or appreciate the efforts of their parents. However, I do think that people have the capacity to accept and convey reverence for something, as obscure or arbitrary as it may be. So what, in my opinion, is going to really obstruct my ability to appreciate the efforts of my parents? I think the reason is that, at the end of things, what I do with my life will define my and my family.

A House Smelling of Autumn

Recently I found myself at our local park with my dog, Killer. We were conducting our usual activities (playing fetch with small fluorescent tennis balls in close proximity to the practicing Pee Wee football team). I started to think about life which is something I do often, and usually with the brevity of Bill O'Reilly at a Harlem Globe Trotters expo. I began to think about school and life and the purpose of existence. Pretty deep stuff that was, rest assured, extremely trivialized by my dog getting a tennis ball confused with a branch. I came to a conclusion that everything I've done with my life so far has led up and is leading up to a life of some sort when I grow up. I grudgingly admitted that I had begun to work at school and at my extra curriculars just for the sake of working. This was a truly frightening notion. I began to think about what I really wanted from life. If I had to name one thing that I was dedicating all of this work and effort to. Because college is just another step and lately it's begining to seem like the goal. So I stood there for awhile, listening to the sounds of the park, the pubescent cries of the practicing football players, the incessant panting of my dog, smelled the air and made a decision.

I wanted a house that smelt of autumn. After a long, late, and exceptionaly hot summer, fall in the Northeast is finally beginning to rear its head. And that head smells of ground cloves. And cinnamon. And apple cider. And pumpkin pie. And while I may detest the East Coast for everything it stands for, the saturating humidity, the oppressively backwards social mentality, and their inability to make street signs, I do love the fall. When I dream, I often find myself dreaming of jumping into a steaming fresh-from-the-oven pumpkin pie and eating my way out of the delicious middle. Practically, if I tried that in real life I'd probably end up killing myself in an extremely unique, yet still horribly gruesome way.

So, if I could pick one thing to have that I could work towards, it would be that. A nice house nestled in a small forest somewhere smelling of autumn.

In other news, apparently I want to be a pre-law student now. I haven't wanted to be a lawyer since the 6th grade when that was all me and my friend Tyler could think about (until I saw the Client and realized that carbon monoxide poisoning was not the ticket for me).

Expect updates soon on the Short Story from Hell.

My Lack of Introspection

I've recently found myself lacking the time or energy to seriously take a look at my life and how I'm living it. It might prove to be a blessing later on, as over-analyzing anything your senior year is usually not a great idea. Instead I find myself going through the motions of what any good student should be doing and not having the luxury of being nervous. In fact, Ive found myself unusually calm as of late. I'm sure my true anxiety is manifesting itself in my dreams, but as long as it stays out of my head while I'm awake, I'm grateful. I never remember my dreams anyway.

In other news life is good.

Here's an update on the short story from Hell.


Part II

The sun beat down on the earth with the intensity that was impossible to calculate. Light coming from the star had long ago ceased to be pure white; the rays of energy now hovered on a different end of the spectrum. The light that stabbed through the thick haze was distinctly yellow in color and seemed to saturate the air. Despite the thick cloud cover, the intense heat combined with geothermal elements had long ago destroyed any countenance of humidity in the lower layers of the atmosphere. The air was dry and thin and seemed to break like something fragile into small and tumultuous breezes. The air whipped the land but barely scratched the surface; wind erosion was an unheard of concept. The wind served only to break loose and smooth loose areas of ground. The ground itself was of a distinct appearance. It was composed of hard compacted dirt, mottled gray in color, but covered in scraggly patches by grass. It was a grass of the greenest color and seemed to glow in the muted light cast through the thin air. Occasionally the dry wind would rustle through the grass blowing the blades into sheets of emerald that danced under jocular direction. It was without a conscience that the land was able to exist, and it was without a conscience that the land was without trees. It was an epic land, with large areas of space uninhabited by anything but the earth, the dancing grass, and the light headed wind. There was no life to speak off apart from the grass, and at times their soft, ephemeral whispers could be mistaken for the rustling of the blades against the air. It was indeed hard to distinguish life from the jaded grass. And there were no trees.

In reality, there were trees. Many years ago trees had co-existed with the grass and the wind. They towered above the landscape, not just in stature but in spirit. They dared to do what the grass only dreamed and what the wind could not understand. They were trees of all different varieties, some with broad leaves and some without. But as the years went on, and the rains became less and less frequent, the grass learned how to live without water but the trees did not. The trees died off and the land was barren, empty but for the grass and the wind.

The clouds were the first ones to get angry when the beasts invaded. Their ships burned through the clouds, charring and ionizing the gases they held in miraculous suspension, dissipating entire cloud banks in a single tremendous roar. As the ships lowered their bleeding hulks through the sky, they poisoned the air with tremendous toxins. These toxins were not entirely alien to the wind, but they were unpleasant and served to remind the wind where its priorities lay. It scuttled to a far off corner of the land and would stay there for quite some time. The beasts landed, but the gruesome ravishment was not yet complete. They erected tents and structures on the land, clearing the ground of grass, or as in a few unfortunate cases, merely crushing the grass beneath them. They turned the air humid and thick, saturating it with water and chemicals. These were the chemicals of life, but they forced life where life should not have been. The beasts left quickly, leaving behind the mysterious structures and tents with the rumbling of autonomous technology. The machinery never stopped, grinding away slowly in a mechanical fashion that the ground had never experienced before. After a period of time, the machinery stopped, and the air was still, laced with the bitter after taste of chemicals that were slowly, yet surely being transformed back into the natural components of the ground. It was the state of natural and universal equilibrium that the ground took so much pride in. It found itself lost in the meandering intricacies of chemical replacement and elemental composition, absorbing what needed to be absorbed and releasing what needed to be released, altering the state of things to allow for the variables that the beasts had disrupted. It was time consuming process but at the end of thing, the ground was satisfied with its work.
After a period of time the wind returned. The grass started its slow dance under the cautious direction of the wind. Things began to settle to normal. The structures remained. A great deal of time passed, the ground methodically fulfilled its duties, the grass danced, and the wind stirred the air into frenzied contrails. The clouds were unsettled but for a reason unknown. Something was happening beyond the sky, but the exact meaning or medium of such occurrence was, as of yet, undetermined. Then it began to rain.

My Unmarketable Major

Today I was getting a ride home from my ninja academy when the topic of college came up. They asked what colleges I applied to them. I gave them a list of small violently liberal schools on opposite sides of the continent. They asked what I wanted to major in and I replied confidently, "Anthropology."

"Hmm...Well that's very interesting. Not very marketable, but interesting."

To my credit, I recovered very well. "Well yes, but then I would combine it with a major or minor in something that would be marketable such as industrial welding or agriculture technology (both of which being common majors in my lovely hometown)."

The rest of the car ride home was relatively silent.

I began to think about it. How marketable was my dream degree. I love the concept of majoring in anthropology, the exciting allure of study abroad programs in far off lands, staying in mountain nations sheathed in early morning fog and surrounded by the ghosts of the past as I excavate an ancient bread cabinet. Perhaps I've just read too much National Geographic, however I refused to believe that this dream major of mine was truly unmarketable. Surely there was large demand for people with an extensive knowledge of ancient burial rituals. I don't exactly want to work in a museum when I grow up, but after watching The Librarian I think I could pull it off.

Seriously, Google that right now. The Librarian is basically everything that Indiana Jones strove to be but with slightly less plot, more CG, and also Noah Wyle.

Thoughts on Travel and Guitars

Tonight I was struck with the inklings of a short story as I played my guitar when I should have been wrapping up some English AP homework. Fooling around just seems more fulfilling than analyzing Hemingway. Perhaps I'm just not perceptive enough. I might just be tired. Enjoy.


Part 1

Guitars had changed very little since their conception. Jacob strummed lightly, letting the tips of his fingers brush the metal strings barely touching them, just enough for them to quiver and release a whisper of noise that floated through the air, not even with the countenance of a reverberation but something that qualified as much less, a delicate noise, soft and fragile against the cold, hard surroundings. The true irony of such a noise in such a place struck Jacob but he did not waste the energy to chuckle, even now just letting the slow motions of the ship to draw the hand that was attached to his arm against the strings of his guitar was almost unbearable. The ravaging effects of travel did that to the body, they sucked out whatever energy whatever potent life force inhabited a person and made them so that they longed to find only a place to quietly shut down their bodies and sleep. Jacob had discovered that travel was really the thing that closed off a person to life. He had found himself anxious, staying in one place for too long, but even as he made the arrangements to leave he had known, every time he had planned an escape, he had realized somewhere in some dark, yet achingly overused part of his mind that leaving was at once the best and worst option. He could not afford to stay in one place too long, he did not have the right, nor the ability to. But it was during these long journeys, these expeditions into the unknown he found himself totally at odds with the universe. He found some comfort in knowing where he stood and he had come to terms, many years ago, with the fact that as he ran he was solidifying his place in the grand scheme of things. Such thoughts gave him fearful headaches, to know that he was truly without hope provided some comfort to him, but nowadays he could not even be sure of that.
The state of affairs made all things uncertain, most prominently the existence of hope. Jacob hoped, but he realized that his hopes were of a decidedly lesser caliber. The simple hope to find his ship intact after a restless sleep, or the hope that his destination was coming up as expected. The hope that he would find some food the next day. He hoped for a great many things, and in many cases he felt that his hope was so confined to the strict realities of the world that they went unnoticed by the great demon of fate. Fate had never been kind to Jacob and so he traveled, keeping as close to the ground as possible, making sure he never hoped for anything that was unreasonable or unattainable, for it was the hope of better things that killed a man sooner or later. Jacob had been witness too many times to the destruction of many good people because they had dared to dream. No, Jacob had destroyed any part of him that dared to dream long ago. He had abolished any sense of standard or normality and in doing so had granted his continued survival. For it was from the great demon of fate that he ran from. Jacob plucked a slow tune on the guitar.
It was not a tune he could remember, but it was a tune that his hand knew, plucking it slowly and deliberately, compensating for the lack of dexterity by taking methodical shortcuts, stretching his fingers into awkward chord patterns that he had no knowledge of. He knew that his fingers combined in certain patterns made certain sounds, and these sound stirred within him a swell of emotions that was equivalent to a small bob in the waves of a great lethargic ocean. He could not afford to create tidal waves, or hope for too much in any way. Hope only brought disaster. So the tune he played was not one of hope, but rather one of life. It was not an inspiring tune, it did not strike deep at the core of his humanity. It was simply an account of the day by day living transformed into chords and palm-mutes and the slap of skin against wood. It was a good feeling, skin against wood, he had forgotten what it felt like. Beneath his tired skin he could feel the softness of the wood, oh which he had forgotten the exact species. He knew it was a good wood by the feel and by the smell. Even after many years, the smell of the wood of his guitar provoked in him a flood of memories. He careful allowed them to trickle into his consciousness filtering out the ones that contained too much emotion, too much hope. He could not afford to remember those, not now. Instead he focused on the merely adequate memories, the ones that illustrated a time, a place, an event but did not color the scene with emotion. He illuminated in his mind a picture of a memory that was black and white and lacked animation or color. It was broken and fragmented and in all other respects not much of a memory, but it serves to remind him of a time when he could hope and while he could not hope to hope, he at least could sense the bitter after taste of it, lingering in his mind. These thoughts were far too dangerous, and Jacob reigned them in, stowing and lashing them down to the framework of his subconscious, the same way he secured gear before the next voyage.
Similarly, Jacob stowed the guitar. As he put it back into its proper container, worn thin by years of handling, the instrument still hummed with the remnants of the tune. He closed the lid and secured the latches and placed the case into its proper place, marked by worn grooves. His ship was dotted with worn areas, areas of constant use. The entire ship could be maneuvered by touch alone, Jacob had long ago memorized even the smallest details, and while he could not allow himself to be too proud of this fact, he did allow himself to occasionally explore the ship with his eyes closed, reveling in the way the ship moved, responding to his touch the way he imagined a woman would. He did not remember how a woman felt or what it felt like to be with a woman. He struggled with a memory from long ago, but stopped exhausted from the effort and worried about his proximity to the great demon. The guitar playing had really taken it out of him, and Jacob drifted lazily to the nearest chair, settling into it with a sigh and closing his eyes. For an undefined period of time Jacob sat there with his eyes closed feeling the circulation of air moved around him. It was always cold on the ship, he had long ago realized that he would never get used to it. However, after many years of furtive escape he had come to terms with it, just like so many things. He was cold now but his body had long ago lost its need to be warm. He simply filed his discomfort away as another negligible nuance of his nature. Surely there were larger things at stake then his warmth and if he could survive something as colossal as fate, the concept of physical comfort was almost laughable. Almost.

The Difference Between Latex and Acrylic...

...absolutely nothing. Now, I'm sure I have some extremely opinionated painter somewhere who reads my blog and in a fit of fury tips over a can of expensive burnt umber oil onto an accurate reproduction or Breugel's Icharus. However, before tipping any umber you should be aware of the basis on which I am judging the two types of paint, namely how aggresively they stick to my hair. I recently finished sanding, finishing, priming, and painting the threshold of my front door. While it seemed exciting at first, the coolness of saying 'threshold' (sounds like something out of Star Trek) quickly wore off. I soon found myself bent over at odd angles attempting to belt sand something that despised domestic upkeep with a passion that can be compared only to...well as you can well imagine I'm waaay too tired to make ven half-way decent analogies. The point is that today was very housework intensive. In addition to painting the treshold, I also mowed our lawn and a few bushes (yes, with the mower). And the fun was not limited to just my house. Being a man who enjoys taking the initiative, I also took care of my neighbor's dogs today. At first glance I did not truly believe they were dogs. I suppose my views of dogs might be jaded a bit by my own dog, whose appearance is one that one would commonly associate with the friendly canine. These things were more akin to the disturbing result of some breeding mix up between a guinea pig and a toaster oven. They moved very slowly, had a lot of fur, and enjoyed to poop. Well, I earned myself a crisp Jackson, so I suppose it was worth it. Besides, I got kick out of watching them attempt to eat. When you're that size, Kibbles can be quite an intimidating sight.

Senior Surge

This post marks the beginning of what I have affectionately dubbed my 'senior surge'. Alright, well I'm not really calling it that, I still have a few kernels of dignity left. However, I'd like this to mark the beginning of a new phase for this blog. Honestly, I started this blog with the hopes of keeping a weekly update on the events of my life, taking a trendy and wittily cynical take on the otherwise painfully mundane. However, I forgot to include in my calculations just how all-encompassing that mundane life truly is. Content to simply keep my head above the water junior year, I all but forgot about this blog. Now, in my last year of high school, I'd like to start the blog anew, but without all the trouble and hassle of actually starting it new. So, while this post may just be a summary of what my day was like and how that may affect you the casual reader, I'd like you, the casual reader, to know that there are many more to come. So strap yourself in, world. Here comes the mundane.


In recent events, I have a girlfriend. We met over the summer while I was putting in a stint at the local University, helping to teach a class of small children the fundamentals of introductory Chemistry. Fundamentals of Horticulture so I took the next best thing. My experiences with that program were all over the place. It was an exciting experience, consisting of me attempting to explain to children who have only their video games and trust funds to look forward to, why its bad to eat many things. Now, we weren't exactly synthesizing amino acids, rather more basic stuff like figuring out the density of a block of wood, rock, ruptured can of insecticide, etc. In the afternoons after enjoying a hearty 4 hours of these creative children, Id help clean up the lab, and then head next door to help out with the Ecology class. Now, the Ecology class had two teachers and an assistant already. However, I'd dutifully attend to these kids, attempting to explain to them basic aspects of the world of Ecology such as the difference between horseshoe crabs and very unsettling aquatic based creatures (answer: none). So I met her in this Ecology class (not one of the children). She was the assistant that was actually assigned to that class and my witty charm combined with my natural good looks and the irresistible magnetic force of the Borax all over my clothes from my Chem class certainly did the trick. Now that we've officially entered into a relationship with each other, I'm pleasantly surprised to find myself actually at ease with her. It's my first really healthy relationship, and while I've always been a bit hesitant about opening up about my life to anyone but my dog, I'm happy to say that I'm, well...happy. And happy to say it. It's amazing how a good postivie attitude can see your through the week and while cynical Andrew is I'm sure off in some corner of my mind somewhere laughing quietly about all of this, I've decided that I'm not going to listen to him right now.

So, this week flew by for me. School is hard but enjoyable. My only point of consternation is focused on my Spanish class. I'm taking Spanish AP this year, and while I'm very excited to be taking my 6th year of Spanish, my experiences last year have handicapped me (and the rest of the class). My Spanish has atrophied, withered and shrunk from a full year of undernourishment and abuse. Huddling in the fetal position, whimpering in broken and fragmented Spanish. Luckily, every Friday this year we're watching an episode of a Mexican telenovela. Will Pablo get Diana? Will mustachioed Victor really stand in the way of Isabela's marriage? I personally don't know, but I do know that it makes damn good television.

Until later,

andrito

Picture Time: The photo was taken of my and a few of my teammates next to our broken truck the last time I was in Biloxi during the relief mission in July. From right to left, me, Steve, and yes there he is in all of his glory: Martin Sheen.

Thoughts on the Summer

I have recently noticed an increase in the ferocity of the internal battle that is waged everyday between my common sense and the tidal force of my adolescence. In truth, adolescence is very much the anti-thesis of common sense, from a contemporary point of view. This is the common canon shared my all parents, teachers, developmental physicians, zoologists, etc. However, recent thoughts while in deep meditation (taking my morning shower) have led me to believe otherwise. My experiences thus far in my adolescence have led me to believe that this time is a period of exploration of one's limits. It is during the teenager years that individuals get the chance to explore and create the limits and boundaries of their personalities, the same personalities that will control who they become in their early adult years. Granted, this does not mean that these new personalities are set in stone, however, it cannot be argued that it during this time, when a teenager is most subject to the influences of an increasingly hyperbolic society; one that spawns abstract cultural artifacts faster than the populace can digest them. In this tumultuous environment, it's no surprise that many adolescents push the limits of their personalities and search for different ways of viewing the world. An increased emphasis on 'being yourself' often surfaces during this time. But really, how easy is it to be yourself when the average teenager is bombarded countlessly by different meanings of 'yourself'.

The Txt Based Culture

I seriously doubt that I am the only one to have observed the growing reliance of our culture on text messaging. Texting has become the new medium of conversation, like the telephone, telegraph, and magic wands of yesteryear. And texting does not discriminate. Texting has become popular among more than the usual adolescent bloc. It has spread in popularity to adults, children, and even *gasp* the baby boomers. When you think about it, texting makes sense as the next step toward faster and more efficient conversation. Anyone with a rudimentary knowledge of abbreviations, and how to sound out letters can achieve great success in the world of texting. However, one must ask where to draw the line? At what point does our world stop relying on texting as a way of communicating and start relying on texting as the way of communicating.

Before I launch into a semi serious tirade, allow me to make one thing clear. I have no qualms about the usage of modern technology. Quite unlike my Huguenot ancestors, I trust society to invent new ways to make life easier. Not all technology is good, and quite a lot of it can be misused, but I'm among those that believe that with a certain level of savvy and a pinch of self-righteous, human beings can be trusted to come up with some pretty cool things (like shower radios). However, text messaging as become so prevalent, so fast, that even technophiles such as myself have become unnerved. Take for example, the reliance of adolescents of text messaging to keep in touch with their friends. A recent AIM away message I promise I probably didn't make up was quite forward:

"at my grandfatherss funeral. plz txttt"

Now, I'll be the last person to suggest that a funeral might be the most happenin' place to be at any one time, but I think as a sign of respect, people could try to avoid sending any text messages for, I don't know, 5 minutes?

With that out of the way, I'd like to move on to a slighter lighter plane of discussion. Lighter, in the sense of the thrill of entrepreneurship, and the feeling of accomplishment when you make your first dollar. Yes, that's right folks, Andrew DeCoster is working with his good friend Sean Leitch to start up a small business.

"But Andrew, have you considered the facts? About 110% of all new business owners have their thumbs broken by loan sharks within the first year"

Well, you should take into account two things:
1) My incredible business sense. And by that I mean the one semester of business law I'll be taking next year.
2) The incredible strength of my bones, honed through many calcium enriched quesadillas and my local El Toreros' .

As you can see by my above outlined (and slightly simplified) business plan, our company is destined for success.

Another question that many first time business owners should ask themselves before furnishing their new luxurious office building is:

"Do you have any marketable skills or talents?"

This is really not a requisite. However, being overachievers in the metaphorical sense, Sean and I have actually decided to take the question into deep consideration. Our new start-up company, of which I won't reveal the name of here, to avoid swamping the NY Stock Exchange with expensive bids for non-existent stock, will actually sell something, a service, that Sean and I take a great deal of pride in. For now, this is all the information I am willing to disclose. Just keep your eyes open, because before you know, we're going to own this country.

Thoughts on Thunderstorms

The weatherman is a pathological liar. We all know that he's able to control the weather, that's why they make so much money. However, they still enjoy saying one thing and letting something else happen. For example, today we were supposed to be taking cover from a series of fronts rolling through this region. Thunder, lightning, rain, falling branches, biblical floods, the whole thing. However, a cursory glance out of a nearby window reveals partially sunny skies and a mild wind. Nothing apocalyptic about that. Now, don't get me wrong, I'm not complaining in anyway. I'm a big fan of not losing my house to water damage, believe me, I am. But this dang humidity is seriously driving me insane. I stepped out of a shower this morning, and immediately regretted it. It was so humid outside, after the few steps to my car, I felt like I was Aqua~man, under the ocean (except I couldn't talk to sea creatures, if I could do that, I wouldn't be blogging).

Now, as most people with a general knowledge of weather know, any good sized storm always relieves humidity for a few days afterwards. I was looking forward to this break in the slimy atmosphere of the tri-state area for at least a little while, but now I'm stuck in my house next to my air conditioner.

There's another reason I love thunderstorms. As a small youngling, I used to observe the terrifyingly dramatic thunderstorms from my aunt's garage. I used to sit in a large cardboard box with my brother with he garage door open, sucking on popsicles, and watching people lose power. It was one of those habitual experiences that defines the way I saw the world. I learned so many important lessons from those thunderstorm observation sessions. For example, I learned the electricity can kill you (Andrew if you even think about stepping out of this garage, I'll stick you in the bathroom with a can of ammonia and let you figure out how to make it shine).

So thunderstorms have always held a special spot near my cynical heart.

Thoughts on School

Ahh, May. The Money Month. The Month where the pieces of a high schooler student's life begin to fall into place with very frightening, disturbingly loud noises. May is a time of intense panic for adolescents enrolled in America's most efficient penitentiary system: The U.S. Public Schools system, headed up by none other than Bush-drone, and therefore Conservative Nazi Margaret Spellings (or as I affectionately refer to her, Ms Mags). Is it strange that she has not only never been a teacher in her entire life, but in fact has never worked in a school system once in her career. The Secretary of Education, head honcho of our mighty Department of Education is herself, not technically an educator. However, her last name IS Spellings, which bodes well for a possible future inclusion in Celebrity Taboo.

Now, before I go further, I don't want to send out the wrong vibe. I am not an anarchist/emo/loner/geek/super independent thinker student. I am not one of those kids who stays up late blogging about how much he hates school. I'm in all honors/AP courses (as I have been for all of high school), and my GPA is nestled comfortably in the 3.4-3.8 range. Compound that with an SAT score of 1900, and I'd by lying to you if I said I was really nervous about my future after high school. However, such academic stability shouldn't stop me from venting some rather inane thoughts on the workings of our public school system.

The public school system is not designed to work equally with all children. Which doesn't make a ton of sense, seeing as it's supposed to be the PUBLIC school system. Unless your definition of public is one without handicapped children, retarded children, poor children, stoner children, and children who care more about Dungeons and Dragons then the Algebra quiz (the scary part is, some people's definition do), you're going to have to accept the fact that these kids will be filtering through your schools.

It's never pretty seeing a student crash and burn. It's sort of like seeing a pigeon flying over a road towards a really good source of food (like a garbage can outside of a burger joint), and then halfway over there, deciding he would rather play with the shiny bits of trash in the middle of the highway, swoops down, and gets taken out by the 18 Wheeler of Bad Choices. Hopefully, you got the symbolism there, although I'm sure it was too graphic for some of the kids in my always burgeoning audience.

I have no tie up for this train of thought, as it's late and I need to get back to my independent reading project. Where did I put the water colors?

Blood Diamond

I recently watched Blood Diamond, the highly acclaimed film that won a few Academy Awards in 2006. It starred Leonardo DiCaprio, and that other guy. After watching it, I can honestly say it is one of the few movies that has actually changed the way I perceive the world around me. There were moments in the film where I couldn't possibly believe what I was seeing and yet it was presented in such a way that was gritty and realistic, yet also strangely poetic and heartwarming at the end. All in all, its enlightened me in so far as how I think people value the world around them. So many characters in this movie seem to have no qualms in putting the value of a rock above the value of a human life. This desensitization is one of the most chilling aspects of our modern world, in my opinion.

Thoughts on the Windy City

I recently returned from a short trip to Chicago Illinois. This was an exciting trip for me for a wide variety of reasons. Most notably, I was looking at a couple of colleges that seem to offer the types of programs I'm looking for after high school. Another important aspect of the trip was that I was finally visiting the mythic city so lauded in commercials by the crime fighting canine Scruff McGruff. Am I the only kid who remembers those commericals?

Send it to Scruff McGruff, Chicago Illinois 60652

Heck, I knew Chicago's zip code before I knew my own. Besides the obvious thrill of visiting a city I've dreamt about since childhood (a city gilded in gold filigree and watched over by the wise and friendly Scruff McGruff), my trip to Chicago was remarkable, for the most part, because of the temperature. As some of you may or may not know, this year has been extremely unusual in terms of temperature and precipitation. And by that I mean, it's so cold, I begin to envy orphaned children in South America simply because of their warm climate. It was very windy while we were in Chicago, but not nearly has bad as the Nor'easter that was playing havoc with my native New England.

Thoughts on Empathy

There is truly no notion as abstract as empathy. The ability to feel, sympathize, and connect with someone in a completely non-volatile manner is one decidedly unique to the human race. We are able to feel what other people are feeling and-this is the truly remarkable thing- we often change the way we behave based on such vague connections. An indifferent approach to the subject would render an appraisal of the human empathic system as one that is archaic and incredibly inefficient. However, we do not have the luxury of being indifferent, no; we do not even have the capability. Life would be simpler without such hindrances, we would be able to lead our lives without the fear of rejection; rejection of our actions, principals, and even ideals. This is a rejection founded in the popular thinking of a culture bred to destroy any countenance that spawns difference; any aspect that drives the nail farther out of the wood. But you know what they say about the nail that sticks out.

So, is it really empathy that defines us as human beings? The great equalizer, a balancing system that ensures we are all marked by the exact same handicap? I believe that it is not our weakness but our greatest strength. I believe that empathy is what makes us who we are as individuals. It is truly through the mystery of empathy that I have derived such a fascination for it. Being one of a cynical nature, I have always treated the subject of empathy with respectable trepidation. To describe such hesitancy as doubt would be foolish, rather as a seed of questionable certainty. I do not believe in treating any subject with blind obedience, to close one’s eye in the face of counter evidence is among the most appalling of sins. I do not believe that one can and should choose to believe in something simply based on a set of principles. However, I did and do not doubt the notion of empathy. I do believe that empathy is an alluring subject, because it is through empathy that we have become the most dominant species on the planet. And what, pray tell, is more attractive than an ideal that guarantees, simply through its nature, the excellence of its exhibitors? For this reason I did not treat the subject of empathy with doubt. However, to question its certainty is a matter of course. How can one truly believe in the excellence and abundance of empathy when such horrors against human occur every single day? Just how empathetic is the cold blooded killer, or the suicide bomber? And how can I, as a child of tremendous good fortune, blessed with every possible trace of luck imaginable, truly examine empathy from an unbiased stand.

Empathy biases us all, I believe.

A Rush of Blood to My Processor

Gah, I'm getting a tech headache, am I alone? Am I the only one who finds the constant slew of new and improved products, gizmos, and accessories, features, firmware updates, expansions, updates, and alternatives a bit of an strain on my already beleaguered mind. And for some strange reason, I find enjoy finding myself head over heels in a world of electronic circuits and wireless connections. I think that the general detachment that comes standard in the world we live in today can be very alluring, especially for today's 'young' generation (and I see young cautiously, very much aware of way our teenagers have been polarizes, largely along lines of age, race, and religion). In a culture where you are encouraged to be different by buying products that everyone else is buying, but that will still make you feel different, but only if you buy them by this weekend, and preferably with your parent's credit card, it can be VERY confusing for the average-schmoe, like me, to get a grip on which products are trendy, when, and why.

I like to think of myself as reasonably tech savvy. There are numerous industries out there that are affected by the trends and fluctuations of "what's 'in' ", a notion that is about as vague as Bush's exit strategy for Iraq. The culture encourages you to blindly follow others into a mad herd-like rush to buy whatever is hot, whenever it becomes hot. And in a society where garage sales and flea markets are aspects of a generation we'd rather forget about, there's going to be a whole lot of crap no one is going to know what to do with in about...well...30 seconds.

So I understand tech, and I have a good grip on how things work. Why is it then that I am still confused as to why I should pay 300 dollars for an iPod? It's really stupid. And I could continue in this style, listing off very stereotypically, the reasons why I don't want an iPod, because I am an independent thinking, bright young blogger. But the fact remains: I want one. I mean, I REALLY want one. And its not because my friends have them, and its not because of the cool features, or attractive package design, or the ability for me to load up practically every song I have on my computer three or four times, and then still have time to load every single Diehard movie ever made (yes, all 37 of them).

So, this is naturally a very confusing concept for me. But I like to think about it. Does that mean that the constant addiction to the latest-and-greatest that seems to plague our young ones, be described as 'self punishment'? Most likely not, and this is why: No one else seems too confused by it, and I say this quite honestly. They obviously haven't run into as many conscience conflicts as I have when it comes to buying an iPod.

My Little Slice of Heaven

Okay, I need to seriously compensate for that very livejournal-esque post a few days ago. As per usual Andrew style, I'm gonna aim to over compensate, and bring this blog back onto more of its intended plane of existence (that's right I said it).

Okay, so, visiting my blog today you are probably asking yourself the same question that plagues so many individuals today: "How was Andrew's day?" Well, since you want to know so badly, I'll tell you.

My day was GOOD. On a scale of goodness (1-10) my day would easily rate an 8. Maybe even an 8 1/2! I know what you're thinking. Andrew, how can one person's day possibly be so good, when such problems as global warming, human trafficking, terrorism, and political and corporate corruption plague our world? The answer is quite simple. I DIDN'T WORRY ABOUT IT. That's right boys and girls. I completely ignored the problems and instead focused on the good stuff. Now, before any of my psychiatrist-readers out there brim over with un restrained merriment, it should be noted that the "good things" I was focusing on may have been a bit more shallower than what would normally be expected from a teenager (wait, what?!).

For example:

My super soakers didn't break because of the cold.
I didn't lose my cellphone......again.
I woke up earlier than 6:20 today, which is good considering my alarm is set for 5:45.
I got to school nice and early.
I got to plan out my scheduling for next year.
I didn't get in trouble for making assertive comments about the intellectual prowess of my teachers.
I was able to talk to my friends without getting harassed by THE MAN.
I almost didn't get yelled at, at all in History AP.
I sat at a different table at lunch, and I didn't have too. It was of my own volition, and I am quite proud of that fact.
Gay innuendo was kept to a minimum.
For the first time all year, I didn't miss my bus when I decided I would rather get a ride home than walk my customary 2 miles home in the 10 degree weather.

As you can see, my day was absolutely golden. In addition to that, my after school activities don't include, for the first time in a while, taking a car ride to somewhere a couple hemispheres away (I've been in Norwalk for the past couple of days for some inexplicable reason).

Of course, as always, it is looking forward to the future that often puts a nice glossy shine on my day, and in this case, it was the anticipation of my February trip to Mississippi that put a subtle smile on my face, and a hope to my step (.....).

Seriously though, I AM looking forward to my February trip to Mississippi which comes in a few weeks. I am traveling down with the New York State United Methodist Church Chapter First Response Disaster Relief Program of National Help and Services from New York State (the NYSUMCCFRDRPNHSNYS), of which I am the only non-methodist member, which I think is fantastic. We are traveling down to help with the reconstruction after Katrina (And from what I've heard, even after a year, there's still A LOT that needs to be done). So yeah, that's my life in a nutshell. Like a walnut, or something. Maybe a pistachio. I think that's a nut. I'm not sure if they have shells though. Maybe just husks.



And that's my post for today.

How I Handle Emotions

The way I handle my emotions has been called into question lately, but not by myself. I happen to mildly annoyed at the person who brought up these questions, as I'm not one who is very inclined to, at any given moment, accurately explain, using human words, how I feel about the finer aspects of the human psyche. I like to consider myself 'sorta' good with words; I can be eloquent when I need to be, but find my comfort level to be most concentrated in the areas of lighter banter. I personally feel very strongly that a balance must be found in living with your emotions. Now, I've tried a few times to explain this as best as I could (with such things as stress, hormones, and my usual idiotic nature often getting in the way). Despite this fact (I suppose because I could not explain myself as equally well as the other), I was told that I was afraid of my emotions. Now, here, on my blog (which I know I haven't updated in a while...), I'd like to make my stance on handling me emotions very clear. Allow me to explain....Ahem....

I AM NOT AFRAID TO DISCUSS MY EMOTIONS


Okay? Now, I know that being a teenager, a slew of emotions the size of Niagra Falls will be running through me at any one time. I will admit that I relish in avoiding many of the problems commonly associated with "teenage" feelings. I'm smart enough to know that this is point of my life where I will be thinking with the least amount of clarity, by ability to judge and analyze clouded by the nearly impenetrable cloud of hormone induced illogicalness. I have a made it a point to avoid getting into drama in my life, and am proud of myself. I'll even admit that I may, at times, sound pretentious, explaining why I dislike talking about emotions. The person I'm referring to specifically in this blog is probably right about many of the things we talked about. But, I'd just like to make it clear that...


I AM NOT AFRAID TO DISCUSS MY EMOTIONS


It is getting hard now to type, the urge that overcame me to write up this blog slowly fading, replaced by the empty feeling that it's more effort than its worth, or that I'm not explaining my stance well enough to justify saying anything at all. But I'm trying to finish up at least this paragraph so I can post it, because I feel like I need to get this posted.

I can't explain everything I'm feeling all the time. I know its unreasonable for me to assume that's what you meant, but I just wanted to say it. And I know that I don't dive in "head first" into explaining myself every time. But I do talk about my emotions, and I like to think that I'm good enough to be able to convey what I'm feeling. Therefore, I understand what you're talking about, but I don't think that you have the right to make me question my ability to explain and understand my own emotions. Like a wild plains buffalo calf, my emotions can be brought down, if they need to be (that was the lighthearted, joke analogy BTW).

Last night I stayed over a good friend of mine's house. I stayed up late into the night with him and his older sister watching Season One of the O.C. (Don't you dare laugh, I make up for the loss of coolness by watching Battlestar Galactica.....). We talked about the way members of the opposite sex thought and reasoned, and discussed specifically how both girls and boys could be aliens from another planet, given our ability to understand them. It was to my knowledge that, as members of the primate family, we, as creatures, would be more advanced in the areas of the comprehension of social organization, and its imperative importance in the way humans, as a developing society operate within, and sometimes, without the bounds of basic human nature, the laws of the universe, and the singular spirit that unites us all. However, it can't be argued that, at times, humans resemble fishes in terms of us being able to explain our feelings.

And that's my post for today.