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Monday, April 15
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Demise of the *SUPERPLASTIC
In my high school, we had a dress code: White polos and khakis. It's hard to imagine brand names coming into the mix with such simple clothing, but in a suburban school that cut across the demographic lines, differentiation through what you wore was always on the menu.
"Is that from Gap?" I'd have to think to myself, What is Gap? In the 10th grade, I had no idea. "No, it's from Target." That was my reply, one that was shot down, spit upon and kicked away. Gap. Old Navy. Somewhere down the line, these two stores stormed through my high school and permeated our culture.
Hilfiger was only afforded by the very top and no one had heard of A&F. There was a bloody stench of middle-class domination that was not only societally inappropriate, it was just outright pretentious.
New York City is different. It tries to justify itself. Unlike suburban Texas, it doesn't plead ignorance as its justification but rather its overwhelming knowledge. Somehow, it's forced me to believe Gap is not cool, that Macy's is for the weak and that malls are dirty. And no one here wears Dockers. It's beyond me, this thing with what we wear. But for some reason, I'm still trying to decipher it.
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Last Thursday, the Chinese Student Society at NYU threw their annual EXPO Benefit Cultural and Fashion Show. I had some great front-row seats and took a good lot of pictures. Check 'em out!
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Thursday, April 11
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Yeah, That's My School
Fucking cock-sucking piece of shit bastards.
Yah.
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Tuesday, April 9
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Fall of a Content Mind
Several things have been on my mind for the last few days. Many of them seem highly pressing simultaneously, which puts me in a position to pick and choose when I really can't. And all of them deal with life's typical dilemmas/ideals, including happiness, career and love. After all, I'm nearing the end of my sophomore year of college in a big, fast city. And I have big plans to go along with it all.
Unfortunately, everywhere I turn, there is a Catch-22. One thing always limits another. That's what all these interconnected theories of life dictate, no? So, yeah, I'm as lost as the next guy. I'm trying to work on it, but then again, it's easy not to do what you want to because you're too cautious—or even too intimidated?—about the possible consequences of such actions. It almost feels like a withdrawal from reality; everything I act upon is based on some sort of far-fetched dream.
I'm probably not making much sense. It's almost 4AM and I have class in four hours. It's hard to sleep. This head, it's not feeling right. It's filled with chaotic synaptics that drive my neurons to their doom. I could use a boost of seratonin about now.
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Also: Scott has updated. Satan sends his regards on the sudden change of weather.
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Monday, April 8
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Supersonic Weekend
A few days just passed me by. Without telling me. But it's okay. I had fun.
Two nights of blitzing events followed by two afternoons of mad, crazy recuperation. First, at Stern (that would be my school and NYU's business school), we had our annual Semi-Formal on Friday night. Held at the #1 rated luxury hotel by citysearch.com, the Wall Street Regent, the five hours were well spent and well enjoyed.
Saturday night, the very beautiful Lisa had her birthday party at a lounge in the meat packing district called The Meet (Is that a pun? Yes it is!). A delightful place where I met a lot of wonderful new people while relaxing to some chilled music and old friends.
Wait, what's that you say? I'm leaving you empty-handed? Never!
Here are some pictures to satisfy your cravings:
>> 2002 APR 05 Stern Semi-Formal
>> 2002 APR 06 Lisa Cheng's Birthday
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Friday, April 5
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Waiting For You
Girl at the 42nd Street/Grand Central station waiting for the 4/5/6 trains. 1:59AM.
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Thursday, April 4
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I Like Loud Music
01 FATBOY SLIM [the rockafeller skank]
02 PRODIGY [firestarter]
03 PIGEONHED & LO-FIDELITY ALLSTARS [battleflag]
04 ASIAN DUB FOUNDATION [naxalite]
05 MANSUN & 808 STATE [skin up pin up]
06 U.N.K.L.E. [guns blazing (drums of death, part i)]
07 FILTER & THE CRYSTAL METHOD [trip like i do]
08 PRODIGY [breathe]
09 STABBING WESTWARD & WINK [torn apart]
10 JUNGLE BROTHERS [jungle brother (aphrodite mix)]
11 DELTRON 3030 [things you can do]
12 SYSTEM OF A DOWN [chop suey]
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Tuesday, April 2
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An Excercise in Nostalgia
The previous post was an excercise in nostalgia. Sometime in the early months of 1999, Nick Britton posted a series of journal entries in which he fooled his readers into believing he had flown off to New Zealand at a second's heartbeat. Some of his reading populace was heartbroken, no doubt, and was calling for his return. Others wished him a good trip.
In June of the same year, I came to conclude the experimental journal (found in Version 1.0) that I had run for the past one and a half years. But I felt that for many of my readers who were loyal to an anonymous face, understanding the psyche behind the writer was just an important part. For that, I published Nick's New Zealand entries in order to "fool" people. To see if they would realize it wasn't me.
Some did and some didn't. Some even recognized it was Nick's. It was something I had to do then and had to do now, if only because it shows one thing: Writing anonymously gives you a level of credibility that is highly insubstantial. When your readers know you, it's a completely different story.
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Monday, April 1
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Next Stop: Wonderland
It's a cloudy 5:30PM here in Wellington, New Zealand. Why am I in New Zealand, you ask? Well, I was sitting in my apartment, and I just got all wrapped up in how things were spiraling downwards and at some point I just snapped. I packed up my bag with some clothes, a few CDs, a couple of books and a notebook. I withdrew all my money from my checking and savings accounts. A friend of mine gave me a ride up to the airport, and I took a flight out of there to Los Angeles. Then from there,it was a long, exhausting flight to Auckland, New Zealand. I was totally disoriented when I arrived. I didn't even notice that my bag never came down the little belt. I just sat there and waited and waited. For weeks it seemed. Finally, my poor green bag came sliding down, exhausted in its own right from its own journey.
So, here I was in the middle of a foreign airport far away from home. I was so confused, so tired. I didn't even know what time it was. People were walking back and forth around me, not noticing the scared little brown kid in the middle of the airport.
I eventually got myself together and rented a car—a 1997 Honda Civic, much like the one my roommate used to own that one of my friends now drives. Thank god for credit cards. And then I tried to buy some food. This proved to be a hassle, because New Zealanders do not use American dollars for some reason. I, therefore, had to exchange the remaining funds I had into New Zealand dollars, which was odd. Finally, I was in my car and I looked up to the cloudy sky and said, Oh my god, I did it.
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Now I'm here in a library on the outskirts of Wellington. Computer usage is free, so I couldn't help but take advantage of it and tell you guys about my decision.
New Zealand is the most amazing place on earth. Nice people, nice weather, nice streets, nice buildings, nice everything. the antithesis of New York City, in a way.
My writing will continue. From Wellington, New Zealand, however.
It still feels like a dream.
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Sunday, March 31
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A Good, Last Sunday of March
Something feels perfect about today. I wish more days could be like this.
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I came across an absolutely amazing personal story titled "Space Cake" on the Amsterdam Stories site. It fit my escapist tendencies perfectly, mixing in a bit of Trainspotting with a dose of healthy touristy paranoia. It starts off...
I’m on a train to Paris. Returning home. I’ve just spent two days in Amsterdam doing a drug deal. I’m an expatriate waster, the kind without papers and illegal substances in my pockets. I support myself passing off a few pills and powders to the extremely wealthy students who go to the American University of Paris.
And continues to subtly develop into an event of sorts. The part about the Canadian Scott is especially clever. And this, as it seems, is a true story.
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Thursday, March 28
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Broadcasting The Gauguin
There's this girl in my Modern Art class. No, I've never spoken to her. But then again, it isn't exactly a very social class. But she—
She has a look. The look, if you will, that defines the New York City dynamic. Today, she sits one row back and four seats to the east of me. Right leg crossed over her left, black-rimmed glasses—I think semi-circular, but my perspective is flawed—and she's scribbling down notes at a relaxed pace.
"Do you know anyone in this class?" I'll ask her one day. And she'll say no. And I'll ask her if she wants to catch an exhibit sometime. And she'll say yes. And that'll be the beginning of something else, something completely different.
But that's just an absent-minded imagination speaking. Suddenly, beautiful, naked Tahitian women on the projector screen capture my attention. Because there's always something else, a theoretical alternative to what you're dreaming of. Always.
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