And it came to pass that on the 13th day of the 10th month of the two hundred and thirty second year of the reign of the constitution...ish a memory was brought back to my remembrance.
2 For I had been working diligently in the office of Dialogue Marketing when my elder brother did say that he felt strange. This brought to my remembrance the following:
3 As I was in the third year of my studies in the division of schooling called high, I was invited by my beloved brethren in Calculus to endeavor to run on the cross-country team.
4 And verily, I said unto them, yea.
5 And on the first day of running, they did decide to run to the next city, yea, which was a distance of six miles.
6 And behold, we did commence our journey at the school called high, yea, and I did quickly fall behind.
7 And when I could no longer see them in the horizon, I did wheeze a great wheeze.
8 As I was thus under this influence which held me breathless, yea, at this moment of great alarm, I saw red, yea, everything did have a red color applied to it. My legs also did begin to feel like rubber.
9 It no sooner happened than I found myself understanding what it would be like to be red jello.
10 Nevertheless, my thoughts did speak unto me, saying: Thou art not yet as jell0; thy friends do not slurp thee, neither charge thee with tasty fruits, as they do jello.
Friday, October 17, 2008
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Easter!? Revisited
Due to much demand from certain people...mainly me, I will divulge one of my dearest Easter memories--brought back to me by the scent of marshmallow peeps.
I must have been about four years old when I had my first Easter egg hunt experience. With six kids running around like hotdogs without buns, I suppose it was only a matter of time before my dad decided that we needed a structured activity. He told us that we would have an Easter egg hunt and that he had hidden exactly six jellybeans for us. That's right, one for each of us. Since I am the youngest and quite possilbly the most lethargic--I couldn't find my jellybean. My older siblings had found the easiest ones so the most difficult one to find was mine. After much tedious searching and a little help from one of my brothers, I finally encountered what I had been searching for--the most delicious Easter jellybean to ever be confectioned. It was a triumph--however it was not my first, for I had already mastered the loo.
I must have been about four years old when I had my first Easter egg hunt experience. With six kids running around like hotdogs without buns, I suppose it was only a matter of time before my dad decided that we needed a structured activity. He told us that we would have an Easter egg hunt and that he had hidden exactly six jellybeans for us. That's right, one for each of us. Since I am the youngest and quite possilbly the most lethargic--I couldn't find my jellybean. My older siblings had found the easiest ones so the most difficult one to find was mine. After much tedious searching and a little help from one of my brothers, I finally encountered what I had been searching for--the most delicious Easter jellybean to ever be confectioned. It was a triumph--however it was not my first, for I had already mastered the loo.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Easter??
This semester I have class at 8 every morning. I live south of campus and on my way to class I pass many apartment complexes. A lot of people have 8 o'clock classes. Each of them get showered, get dressed and leave. A few days ago, as I was walking to class, I saw a girl leave her apartment. She was about 20 feet in front of me. All of the sudden, memories of past Easters flashed through my mind. Huh? Needless to say, I was confused. Then I realized that the girl in front of me smelled like marshmallow peeps...from twenty feet away.
I have smelled plenty of strange people on my way to class in the mornings. New smells are created once I get to campus. People are closer together and their showering smells, cologne smells and whatever else there may be all mix together. I suppose its better than pheromones.
I have smelled plenty of strange people on my way to class in the mornings. New smells are created once I get to campus. People are closer together and their showering smells, cologne smells and whatever else there may be all mix together. I suppose its better than pheromones.
Thursday, September 11, 2008
True Story...kind of.
Recently I had the novel opportunity to explore the vast regions of space. I had the choice of the visitation of the planet of my choice and also a ten-dollar certificate to Starbucks. Contemplating on this mind-blowing choice, I thought of Saturn. What do we know about Saturn? I definitely didn’t know a thing. I promptly returned my request to the prize agency and they accepted graciously.
They informed me of the departure date and I prepared anxiously. When the determined date came, I got up at sunrise to put everything in order. Upon arriving at Cape Canaveral, I saw the subtle name of the space shuttle, Big Bertha. The only other people there were the pilots of the colossal machine. I yelled, “Yo…space cowboy. Where do I put my luggage?” Chester, the pilot, pointed to the loading station right under the huge sign that said, “Put your luggage here,” while Gilroy, the co-pilot, snickered. I felt tremendously inadequate next to these rocket scientists, as you can probably imagine.
The shuttle was entirely different than my expectations. I had the notion that it would be filled with delicate, highly technological equipment. Boy was I wrong! It was mostly made of tin foil and duct tape. But science was on our side. The tin foil might be some extraordinarily expensive metal alloy like titanium. No matter what it was, I called it foilium. The duct tape could be an astonishingly sticky strip of unknown material. Wait!! That is duct tape.
We had been in space for a couple of measly hours when the pilots decided to give me a crash course lesson on space flight. I thought it was great but little did I know: they secretly wanted me to be the designated driver that night when they had their space party. As astronauts they weren’t allowed to drink alcohol, but they said that was and Earth law. We weren’t on Earth, so the rules don’t apply.
The next morning Gilroy woke up with a frightening hangover lying on top of Chester. He slowly looked around and realized where he was. He was in an escape pod headed for Earth. I had strategically placed them there when it dawned on me, I didn’t need them! They taught me how to direct this multi-million dollar hunk of household products.
I skillfully landed on the planet Saturn with ease. I swiftly found a motel to plug in my oversized RV. Finally, I had that task completed and then became cognizant of what I just did. I had just found a dumpy motel on Saturn! I tried to think of what the receptionist looked like. My mouth dropped open. I ran back to make sure. Yep, it was Elvis. I called out, “You’re still alive?” He sang, “uh-uh-huh,” in his savvy singing voice we all have heard.
This was way too eerie, so I had to get out of there. Although I did hesitate for a short time long enough to get his autograph and ask him how things were going. I launched into outer space once more on my journey home. I recalled all the memories I had made on this trip: learning to navigate the space shuttle, talking with Elvis, and watching Chester and Gilroy hurl in zero gravity. Ah… it was fun, but just like this story, all things must come to an end.
They informed me of the departure date and I prepared anxiously. When the determined date came, I got up at sunrise to put everything in order. Upon arriving at Cape Canaveral, I saw the subtle name of the space shuttle, Big Bertha. The only other people there were the pilots of the colossal machine. I yelled, “Yo…space cowboy. Where do I put my luggage?” Chester, the pilot, pointed to the loading station right under the huge sign that said, “Put your luggage here,” while Gilroy, the co-pilot, snickered. I felt tremendously inadequate next to these rocket scientists, as you can probably imagine.
The shuttle was entirely different than my expectations. I had the notion that it would be filled with delicate, highly technological equipment. Boy was I wrong! It was mostly made of tin foil and duct tape. But science was on our side. The tin foil might be some extraordinarily expensive metal alloy like titanium. No matter what it was, I called it foilium. The duct tape could be an astonishingly sticky strip of unknown material. Wait!! That is duct tape.
We had been in space for a couple of measly hours when the pilots decided to give me a crash course lesson on space flight. I thought it was great but little did I know: they secretly wanted me to be the designated driver that night when they had their space party. As astronauts they weren’t allowed to drink alcohol, but they said that was and Earth law. We weren’t on Earth, so the rules don’t apply.
The next morning Gilroy woke up with a frightening hangover lying on top of Chester. He slowly looked around and realized where he was. He was in an escape pod headed for Earth. I had strategically placed them there when it dawned on me, I didn’t need them! They taught me how to direct this multi-million dollar hunk of household products.
I skillfully landed on the planet Saturn with ease. I swiftly found a motel to plug in my oversized RV. Finally, I had that task completed and then became cognizant of what I just did. I had just found a dumpy motel on Saturn! I tried to think of what the receptionist looked like. My mouth dropped open. I ran back to make sure. Yep, it was Elvis. I called out, “You’re still alive?” He sang, “uh-uh-huh,” in his savvy singing voice we all have heard.
This was way too eerie, so I had to get out of there. Although I did hesitate for a short time long enough to get his autograph and ask him how things were going. I launched into outer space once more on my journey home. I recalled all the memories I had made on this trip: learning to navigate the space shuttle, talking with Elvis, and watching Chester and Gilroy hurl in zero gravity. Ah… it was fun, but just like this story, all things must come to an end.
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Hungry Boy Revisited
For those of you who are just starting to read my blog, please read about hungry boy in the post called ‘Hunger’ down below before continuing with this post.
My second to last day in Taiwan was pretty good. I went swimming in a cool river, saw a fun waterfall, and little did I know—I was going to eat dinner with the hungry boy…and the rest of the branch. When I saw the hungry boy, my eyes lit up just like his do when he sees food. Now I know a portion of what he feels towards food. But not nearly the portion that he knows.
As soon as the prayer was said, he was the first person to start eating. As he looked over the table filled with all sorts of dishes, his joy was so great that he used just enough energy to smile—not without great effort of course. Since there was a returned return missionary visiting at the time, she showed a video apparently made for her wedding several months earlier. By this time, I was done eating already even though I hadn’t had lunch. When the video started, everyone stopped eating and started to watch the video. Everyone…except hungry boy. I watched him for the next several minutes. He didn’t even stop eating long enough to look up at the video the entire time.
Much later, other people had come by for dinner and were eating. Everyone that had been there from the beginning was done eating. Everyone…except hungry boy. He scooped the food into his mouth with his chopsticks so fluidly and methodically. It was mesmerizing. His mother told him that he should at least take a break. He replied that he had taken a break, a five minute break, and he was hungry again.
At the end, when everyone was leaving, Rita saw that nobody had taken the dessert that she had brought from Tainan where she was visiting some friends. She quickly went around telling people to take some. I noticed that everyone hesitated before taking some. Everyone…except…well, you probably know by now.
I suppose that if he is hungry after five minutes, then it really might be quite a feat to fast for an entire hour. Let’s just make it clear that I don’t want to walk a mile in his shoes.
My second to last day in Taiwan was pretty good. I went swimming in a cool river, saw a fun waterfall, and little did I know—I was going to eat dinner with the hungry boy…and the rest of the branch. When I saw the hungry boy, my eyes lit up just like his do when he sees food. Now I know a portion of what he feels towards food. But not nearly the portion that he knows.
As soon as the prayer was said, he was the first person to start eating. As he looked over the table filled with all sorts of dishes, his joy was so great that he used just enough energy to smile—not without great effort of course. Since there was a returned return missionary visiting at the time, she showed a video apparently made for her wedding several months earlier. By this time, I was done eating already even though I hadn’t had lunch. When the video started, everyone stopped eating and started to watch the video. Everyone…except hungry boy. I watched him for the next several minutes. He didn’t even stop eating long enough to look up at the video the entire time.
Much later, other people had come by for dinner and were eating. Everyone that had been there from the beginning was done eating. Everyone…except hungry boy. He scooped the food into his mouth with his chopsticks so fluidly and methodically. It was mesmerizing. His mother told him that he should at least take a break. He replied that he had taken a break, a five minute break, and he was hungry again.
At the end, when everyone was leaving, Rita saw that nobody had taken the dessert that she had brought from Tainan where she was visiting some friends. She quickly went around telling people to take some. I noticed that everyone hesitated before taking some. Everyone…except…well, you probably know by now.
I suppose that if he is hungry after five minutes, then it really might be quite a feat to fast for an entire hour. Let’s just make it clear that I don’t want to walk a mile in his shoes.
Thursday, August 21, 2008
Unexpectedness
One afternoon after spending time with a 5 five year old, I grabbed the bike and was about to leave. Little did I know—it wasn’t going to be that easy. A middle/upper aged woman asked me a question. I was in a hurry and was caught unawares so immediately I said that I don’t speak Chinese. That didn’t stop her. She said that I was very handsome and asked if I was twenty. I said that I was 22. She asked if I was American or Canadian. I responded that I was an American. She asked what I was doing in Taiwan. I said that I was here to have fun. She found out that I had only been here for less than two months and couldn’t believe it. She said my Chinese was very good. She asked me if I had a girlfriend. This question brought back memories from my mission. So many snakes would ask this same type of question. I shrugged it off because I didn’t think an old lady would hit on me. I told her I do have a girlfriend. She told me that her daughter married an American from Tennessee. Then the whopper came—she asked me out to dinner. A woman old enough to be my mother was hitting on me!!! I told her that I couldn’t. Finally, she said goodbye and cackled as she rode away on her bicycle. It was the most unexpected experience I could have had that day.
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Ping Pong
Ping pong is inseparable from asian culture. I had always believed that to be true but didn’t realize what that entailed. I suppose the only way I really could find out was by playing with an asian in an asian country—with someone who hadn’t been adulterated with American culture. Believe it or not, I have had this opportunity and would like to share some of my thoughts on the subject.
People in Asia practice with machines—just like in tennis. (pictured below) I practiced with a man named Greg. Ping pong is more than a game when people train with machines. They practice ping pong almost as much as the average American spends on the sofa watching endless hours of ‘prime time’ television. Never mind, that can’t be true. Only Americans have that much time.
As you can see in the picture, they start at a young age in their training to become ping pong masters.
People in Asia have names for each type of hit—whether it has a spin, what kind of spin, what direction the ball was hit to, what direction the ball was hit from. It’s like the Eskimos and the twelve words they have for snow. While I was playing with an asian, he kept telling me something in Taiwanese that sounded like do da ha. I couldn’t figure out what the ha was let alone how to do it.
The person I played first was a retired ping pong master. He hadn’t played in about four years. That was good because it has been about four years since my ping pong glory days in high school. As we began playing, we were both a little rusty. After a while, he had missed a few slams and took his sandals off. Everyone’s jaw dropped. He really meant business. Well, several minutes later, after I had missed a few shots and I took off my flip-flops. The crowd went wild. Really, all seven of them. I lost in the end but I am happy to say I held my ground for quite some time. Its just something in their genes. Asians have uncanny ping pong skills. In the United States, football players are the jocks. You can see where this is going. In Asia, Ping pong champs are heroes.
People in Asia practice with machines—just like in tennis. (pictured below) I practiced with a man named Greg. Ping pong is more than a game when people train with machines. They practice ping pong almost as much as the average American spends on the sofa watching endless hours of ‘prime time’ television. Never mind, that can’t be true. Only Americans have that much time.
As you can see in the picture, they start at a young age in their training to become ping pong masters.
People in Asia have names for each type of hit—whether it has a spin, what kind of spin, what direction the ball was hit to, what direction the ball was hit from. It’s like the Eskimos and the twelve words they have for snow. While I was playing with an asian, he kept telling me something in Taiwanese that sounded like do da ha. I couldn’t figure out what the ha was let alone how to do it.
The person I played first was a retired ping pong master. He hadn’t played in about four years. That was good because it has been about four years since my ping pong glory days in high school. As we began playing, we were both a little rusty. After a while, he had missed a few slams and took his sandals off. Everyone’s jaw dropped. He really meant business. Well, several minutes later, after I had missed a few shots and I took off my flip-flops. The crowd went wild. Really, all seven of them. I lost in the end but I am happy to say I held my ground for quite some time. Its just something in their genes. Asians have uncanny ping pong skills. In the United States, football players are the jocks. You can see where this is going. In Asia, Ping pong champs are heroes.
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