MacMonst3r with a 3 cause Liz stole the e...

I Have a Rendezvous with Death (07-16-2008)

2008-07-31T15:07:00.001-07:00

I have a rendezvous with Death
At some disputed barricade,
When Spring comes back with rustling shade
And apple-blossoms fill the air—
I have a rendezvous with Death
When Spring brings back blue days and fair.

It may be he shall take my hand
And lead me into his dark land
And close my eyes and quench my breath—
It may be I shall pass him still.
I have a rendezvous with Death
On some scarred slope of battered hill,
When Spring comes round again this year
And the first meadow-flowers appear.

God knows 'twere better to be deep
Pillowed in silk and scented down,
Where love throbs out in blissful sleep,
Pulse nigh to pulse, and breath to breath,
Where hushed awakenings are dear...
But I've a rendezvous with Death
At midnight in some flaming town,
When Spring trips north again this year,
And I to my pledged word am true,
I shall not fail that rendezvous.

-Alan Seegar

Salt Lake City (07-05-2008)

2008-07-31T15:06:00.001-07:00

"I don't think you've really given it a chance," was the counter argument. Fuck that. I packed my shit into a Honda Accord, left my friends, and drove nearly a thousand miles to Salt Lake without any second thoughts or reservations. I only changed my mind once I got here. I think I gave it a fuckin' chance.

I moved up here to climb and enjoy life for a year before commencing another six to ten years of graduate work for my doctorate. I was excited at the prospect of moving to a new place known for its climbing where I could meet new people. I was excited at the idea of living closer to two of my brothers and spending more time with them. I was excited that I thought I knew what I was going to do. I was wrong.

It's not that I don't like Utah. The mountains surrounding Salt Lake are breathtaking. The people I've met are chill - my roommate is one of the coolest people I've ever known - and the climbing lives up to the hype. But I've quickly realized that this is not where I want to live. I need a place of culture, a place of mental stimulus, a place not Salt Lake City. Everything here feels so isolated and static, which might be attributed to its uncharacteristic cleanliness of an urban center. It doesn't feel like home.

I've been here roughly a week, and I'm already anxious to move back to California. Regardless of whether I stay or go, I know others will cite people as my justification for the decision, but this most certainly is not the case. I've made some messed up decisions in my life because I based them on other people, and as a result I've learned to be extremely selfish in my decisions. So if you think I make a decision because I was influenced by someone else, then you can go fuck yourself.

Nearly every night I've been here has involved either alcohol or marijuana, which can be fun, but a lifestyle of perpetual intoxication due to indifferent boredom is not where I see myself. I can't see myself achieving what I want to do here, namely getting my graduate applications finished and enjoying life, soberly.

I know that I will disappoint my brother, sister-in-law, and roommate by moving back to California, and that's not something I want. I'd rather live with their disappointment though than be unhappy for a year.

Perhaps when I start my new job as a server I'll meet some people and my feelings will change, but somehow I doubt it. And I'm sure I'll hear more of "you didn't give it a chance." To make an appropriate epicurean rebuttal, you don't tell someone to keep eating something until he likes it. He merely spits it out and attempts to rid his palate of any disgusting aftertaste.

I Am Stephen Dedalus (06-02-2008)

2008-07-31T15:05:00.000-07:00

(Caveat: The writing in this entry is utter shit, but I'm tired of looking at the old entry...)

The first time I ever read James Joyce was in senior year of high school for my AP Language and Composition class. Because Ulysses was deemed too inappropriate by the puritanical school board, we were reading A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man. By the end of the first page Joyce had used the word 'moocow' and discussed the transient temperature of urine. I liked it already.

My senior year of high school was not particularly stereotypical. Unlike the vast majority of my peers who had a blast partying their remaining days away with close friends before the exodus to various universities, I spent the year enslaved by my own naivety. For the first time since puberty I looked normal, which consequently resulted in my first girlfriend, the antithetical paragon of myself.

She had beautiful dark skin and luscious lips. She was a great kisser, but her kisses were bitter like the kind that can only be sweetened with copious amounts of cheap wine and cigarettes. Unfortunately I did not realize this at the time and spent the fourteen months of our relationship alienating my close friends and family in a nihilistic attempt to be what she wanted. I went from being a happy sheltered conservative nerd to being a dishonest angry liberal stoner. It is not a time I particularly care to reflect upon.

Fortunately my perfidious twin brother convinced me to attend UCI, and it is here that I came into my own - to be painfully cliché. Like Joyce's Stephen Dedalus I left my native home and ventured to a place where I was free to be what I wanted, or at least what I thought I wanted.

It is only in the last year, however, that I have truly embraced my passions and become who I am. Unfortunately my life seems to be an archetype for bad timing, and everything is going to change just when I have come to thoroughly enjoy my current circumstances.

In less than two weeks, I am leaving behind all of my closest friends, whom I love dearly, and Southern California, where I've lived almost my entire life, and moving to Salt Lake City for a year before attending graduate school. In order to avoid moving home with my über conservative Mormon family for that time, I'm moving to the Mormon capital of the world. Irony's a funny little bitch.

Like any ending, this one is bittersweet. I have only recently met many wonderful people, the majority of whom I will probably never talk to again after I move. I guess that's life though, full of it's own comings and goings.

Ma Jolie and Nicotine

2008-04-24T15:12:00.000-07:00

Pablo Picasso was the first artist I studied who gave me a true appreciation for Modern Art - quite fitting as its founding father - but it was not his art that captured my interest, rather a sense of shared voracity with the man. The revolutionary Spaniard loved to eat (he didn't trust anyone who lacked an appetite) and, as relentlessly evident from his art, thoroughly enjoyed all manner of licentiousness. After spending countless hours studying Picasso's various works, I realized he had corporally encapsulated my abstract understanding of art and human experience. Although in most regards I cannot compare myself to the 20th century genius of Modern Art, Picasso and I do share one common attribute: our passion for physicality.

In the wonderfully brilliant movie SLC Punk, the main character Stevo entertains the viewer with an epexegetical monologue about "The Fight" and its philosophical justification in Punk subculture. The final summation, despite Stevo's null assertion, is that pain reinforces one's sense of being alive. Growing up with a twin brother, this collective sensation of rage, adrenaline, and pain was all-too-familiar, and it gave me an understanding of certain emotions and feelings that the majority of others lack. I dare say that you have never been in a real fight and likely never will. I'm not saying that's a bad thing or attempting to make a bold claim of machismo, merely that experience has provided me with an erudite understanding that many lack. I think that much of my life hinges on this notion of intense understanding through experience.

I've been told that smoking too many clove cigarettes can result in hemoptysis, the coughing up of blood. I believe it has something to do with small particles of fiberglass contained within these flavored, carcinogenic tools of meditation. Luckily I have never discovered firsthand whether this is true, perhaps due to my historical limitation of debauched indulgence. However, lately I find myself smoking more than usual. Each clove provides me with a three-minute session of introspection and relaxation, a type of Zen meditation in which I often lose myself to the act of smoking. On the more rare occasion that I am accompanied by a fellow societal deviant, rarely is there a dull conversation; if no conversation ensues, we simply enjoy our personal meditations with one another.

I'm not advocating smoking. I've been force fed the dangers of smoking since before I could read. But I suppose it goes back to my feelings about experience and something that Joe Strummer said. Upon hearing from a friend that she was trying to quit, he encouraged her to keep smoking. He told her to imagine all the wonderful music, literature, and art that had been conceived while artists and writers smoked their cigarettes, and what it would be like if it were all gone. Would Picasso still have been the father of Modern Art had he not spent his twenties smoking in the cafés and brothels of Montmarte?

In some irrational way, I suppose by smoking I feel somewhat more connected to the many bohemian artists I so greatly admire, though perhaps it merely reminds me of good, albeit largely incoherent, nights I've spent with friends.

Whatever my original purpose was for writing this has become lost, and thus I shall leave you, the reader, unsatisfied by my lack of cogency while I go meditate.

(originally posted on http://dagdha.deviantart.com)

Reconstruction

2008-04-17T10:14:00.000-07:00

Please excuse the bulk of recent posts. I've been transferring my blogs from another site to my updated blogger page.

Cheers,
T.

La Vie Bohéme (09-04-2008)

2008-04-17T09:51:00.001-07:00

With only eight weeks to graduation, I've begun the tedious and soul-sucking task of job hunting. I've finished my résumé and I'm stuck on the cover letter with only one more line to write. I would write something along the lines of You should hire me because I need the money and I'm fucking awesome, but the more conservative masses who lack an understanding of my sarcastic, self-righteous humor require a more delicate facade. The upcoming year before graduate school is going to be a painful intellectual void...

I must say that the last half-decade of higher education is coming to a bittersweet close, though predominantly more bitter. I look at my curriculum vitae and see the tangible accomplishments of my sleepless nights and endless cups of coffee, but it falls incredibly short representing the vitae aspect of my college career. So I learned a few languages and looked at pretty pictures? That's not really what I care about. These things define my academic interests, but they do little to elucidate me.

Recently I have greatly questioned my desire to attend graduate school. I honestly would rather move to Africa and spend my time traveling through countries like Malawi, Ethiopia and Mozambique. When I get tired of the heat, I could make my way up to Egypt, cross the Mediterranean and bum through Europe. I could visit the Parthenon, the Baths of Caracalla, and then settle down in Montmarte for a few years where I could pretend to be Picasso or Toulouse-Lautrec. This is the life I would choose if I had the courage to do so.

Some people spend their lives chasing monetary gain; others wish for a sense of accomplishment. I desire neither. The only thing I want is to be a crazy old man with elaborate stories of his youthful shenanigans. I want to look at an Impressionist painting and understand what Monet felt because I've been to the gardens at Giverny. I want to comprehend the words of Herodotus when describing the Greeks as cultural and artistic children in comparison to the Egyptians. And ultimately, I want to suffer because it is the basis of all human experience.

Perhaps I will find the courage to live the life I desire in the coming year, but more likely I will end up back in school, which is my second choice.

Hide and Seek (07-03-2008)

2008-04-17T09:50:00.000-07:00

I counted to 11 or 12 before I realized you were gone. I was probably supposed to wait a little longer, but I've never been the patient type. Wherever you are though, you have me stumped. I have looked everywhere I can think, and yet you remain well hidden with no clues to your whereabouts. There were a few times I was sure I had found you, but it wasn't so.

You were not any of the girls I played tag with during recess and lunch.

You were not the beautiful blonde with the french braids I would dance with on rainy days.

You were not the cute soccer player from science class whom I often tried to impress.

You definitely were not the one who deceived and corrupted me, altering my world and causing the alienation of my friends and family. You could never be that cruel.

You were not the one who saved me from the one before. The one I found on a moonlit beach at the beginning of winter. The one I loved for over three years, with whom I shared all my deepest secrets, and who shattered my heart as I tore hers to pieces. The one who left me scarred and will always have a piece of my heart. No, you were not her.

You were not the perpetually drunken, meaningless rebound that followed.

You were not the amazing girl I spent so many years in class with, whom I love and admire for her innocently blunt personality. She is one of my best friends, but you are not her.

Where are you? Every time I think I've found you, some little nuance or subtle detail manifests otherwise. Perhaps I am exhausted with the tedium of searching, but I think rather it has to do with what Alex said. Amidst one of our monthly beer-soaked barbecues, we discussed the finer points of Hide-and-Seek tactics. As the coals slowed to a hypnotic dance, he elucidated the absurdities of strenuously searching and his preferred Tao-like approach. At the time I dismissed his philosophy with the curling cigar smoke filling the patio. Though, like the smell of smoke, his words have lingered with me and I have come to realize their truth.

So wherever you may be, I will find you. But until then, I will enjoy the search with my newfound patience (and perhaps a cold beer).

Untitled (22-02-2008)

2008-04-17T09:49:00.000-07:00

O mater lvminis, mea domina
mvsaque mevm cor cepisti
mevmqve animvm delenivisti.
Tva absentia tenebras est et
abvsvs svm ne infaceta hominis
verba capere essentiam tvae
formae possent, qvamvis carvs
Paris decrevit vt Venus amoenissima
esset, neqve promissvm neqve
temptatio circvmagere svvm
te aspectvm potverit, nam tva
forma perfectionem vllae dea tviqve
ocvli ignem qvis illvstrior qvam
fvrtiva miseri Promethei flamma
est. Si avferre solvm basivm
carorvm porcellanorvm avscvlorvm
possem, serenvm caeli noscerem
sicvtque stvltvs Fortunae damnatvs essem.

(I originally wrote this poem in English and then translated it into Latin, thus it is highly likely that there are numerous errors and not nearly as elegant)

Electricity and Autophobia (04-02-2008)

2008-04-17T09:48:00.000-07:00

As per my usual caveat, I caution the reader that due to a lack of skill, style and patience, my philosophical ramblings are typically stream-of-counsciousness and of little or no value to the poor souls who masochistically read on.

You're still reading? Alright, I tried...

Once again I find myself compelled to write in the early hours of a new day rather than visiting Wonderland. Unfortunately if i do not expel my thoughts in one manner or another, I rarely sleep and the cheshire cat is left without a victim to torment. I fear I've been blessed and cursed with an over active imagination, perpetually spurred on by caffeine addiction.

January has already come and gone, a month of many beginnings and endings. I have spent a great many hours reflecting on how my life has changed in a mere twelve months. I have experienced loss as I never imagined - in many different spheres, traveled to the edge of insanity, questioned my nihilism and discovered cynicism, and in some sense found peace, but it's an eerie peace. As though birds singing in the trees after a spring shower suddenly ceased their melodic hymns, replaced by a ringing, uncomfortable silence. Try as I might, I can't seem to find the tangible cause. I suspect that it has something to do with loneliness.

As with any hypothesis, however, I cannot prove my postulation one way or another without controllable circumstances, therefore I am confined to mere conjecture. The overwhelming question preoccupying my mental faculties of late concerns the effects of physical human contact. Why is it that physical contact with others excite the senses so much? Is it the electrical circuit produced between both bodies? Or is it more metaphysical? I'm sure there are countless sources that discuss the physical and psychological effects, but I personally would argue the latter.

From my point of view, I would argue that autophobia, the fear of being alone, is the most common phobia - though I don't think phobia is quite the proper term because it suggests an irrational quality, and I would argue that it is inexplicable, not irrational. Social interaction is an innate humanistic desire, and extended periods of isolation wear down the mind and augment the soul. People do anything and everything to avoid being truly alone. Religions believe in God(s) because to them it means they are not cosmically alone. Society forms clicks for particular demographics, and it despises those it sees as outcasts, loners, and aliens. And people endure loveless relationships because it is preferable to solitude.

In my humble opinion, intimate physical interaction between two people (I'm not just talking about sex) is the antithesis of isolation, and thus the reason we find true happiness in an act as simple as a hug, which I guess brings me back to my situation.

Mentally, I do not mind solitude. I have enough trouble understanding my own thoughts, and effectively sharing them with someone else is often rather difficult for me (as evidenced by my writing - these blogs never turn out on paper as they do in my head). That is not to say I do not thoroughly enjoy good conversations, philosophical debates, and the occasional voracious diatribe.

The more I think about it, the more I come to realize that the lack of physical human contact is likely the cause of my eerie silence. For nearly five years, I was never want for such a thing, but now I have forgotten the pleasant peace that comes from snuggling with someone and waking up next to them in the morning. Wonderland is a cold and lonely place, but the warmth of a companion helps you to find your way back. Without it, you often find yourself wishing you could return to the land of talking caterpillars and an evil queen because at least then you would not be alone.

Yarrrrr! (29-01-2008)

2008-04-17T09:46:00.002-07:00

"We shall have a magnificent garden party, and you're not invited."*

It's one in the morning, and I'm drinking coffee. Why? Who knows? Despite the fact that I consider myself to be rather intelligent, I do stupid shit like drink coffee when I should be sleeping for no apparent reason other than the fact that I like the taste. Yes, that was a long sentence. No, it was not a run-on. I'm a little hyper. Can you tell?

Anyway, I've decided that I was definitely a pirate in some past life (or perhaps all of my past lives) - apparently I believe in reincarnation. Huh...

So yeah, if it were reasonably possible, I would definitely be a pirate in this life. Sailing around the world. Drinking copious amounts of rum. Sword fighting. Pillaging. Plundering. Pirate wenches. Devils, and black sheep, and really bad eggs. What could be better? Nothing says I.

Ooooo, and I'd have a pet monkey.

And now I leave you with a poem:

Casanova and the Jabberwocky

"Discite grammatici cur
mascula nomina cunnus
Et cur femineum mentula
nomen habet?" Queried
the loquacious deipnosophist,
glaring ominously at the
seemingly taciturn dilettante.
Unbeknownst to his majesty,
however, the amateur was,
in fact, an unconventional
philologist. In any other milieu,
the innate innocuousness
of such a conundrum would
have been comedic, but the
perfidious petulance of the
scholar vexed his prudence.
The odious, feculent master
therefore responded:
"Disce quod a domino
nomina servus habet."

(*Jack Sparrow/Johnny Depp)

Errare Homo Est (03-12-2007)

2008-04-17T09:46:00.001-07:00

"Experience is the purest form of knowledge. Thus I seek to learn all things."*

Roughly a month ago I was watching a movie at an early screening with my good friend Bryan when an overwhelmingly strong thought materialized in my small, inadequate brain - it runs purely on caffeine and only recalls the most trivial minutiae at inopportune times. What occurred to me, even though it may seem rather obvious and instinctual, is that experience is the purest form of knowledge. No amount of studying, lecturing, or painful rote memorization comes close to actually experiencing something. The movie we happened to be watching stems from an utterly amazing television series that deals with human experience in quite an awesome manner (I use 'awesome' here with its original, intended definition and not the watered-down modern anachronism). I was so struck by this idea that I literally pulled out my moleskin notebook and wrote it down in the middle of the movie, and it has since provoked a rather lengthy philosophical meditation, which has proven quite effective at aiding my perpetual procrastination.

In my life, I have often learned things the hard way despite constant admonitions from various mentors, such as my parents. As an extremely cliché example, I once cracked my head open because I dove into the shallow end of a pool. Unfortunately, that was one of the least painful lessons I chose to learn the "hard way." Consequently, my belief that experience is the purest form of knowledge is reaffirmed by a plethora of autobiographical experiences. This leads me to the more philosophical aspect of this entry.

A recent paper I wrote for one of my Anthropology classes discussed the conflicting natures of science and religion. I concluded the paper by stating that the two are irreconcilable because the unification of physical and metaphysical truth would result in mankind's deification. Now assuming that God, or whatever supreme entity exists (if there is such an entity), s/he/it would presumably possess a pure knowledge of all things. Therefore by my logic, which is surely flawed, God/Flying Spaghetti Monster/Whomever has experienced all things. Now knowing what little I've learned and experienced during my infinitesimally short lifespan, I would hate to be omniscient. Perhaps it's just my pessimistic vantage point on life, but to experience all things seems rather agonizing. Regardless of all the true happiness one might experience, is it enough to overcome all the pain and suffering?

I guess after writing all of this, it seems rather pointless. The main philosophical question I'm posing is whether or not good is more powerful than bad/evil, and no question is more prevalent in any humanistic inquiry. Ergo, I apologize for anyone who has endured my inane digression.

(*a quote by the very unoriginal, non-thought-provoking writer T.J. Adams)

Life and Death (18-10-2007)

2008-04-17T09:45:00.001-07:00

"Vivere continget dolore morique."

-My realist modification of Ovid, Amores 1.3

You can't have your cake... (09-10-2007)

2008-04-17T09:44:00.002-07:00

...and eat it too. Harsh, I know, but it's true.

Not even if it's ice cream cake. Especially if it's ice cream cake! You have to painfully watch as it slowly melts into a puddle of room-temperature dairy soup.

Relapse (08-10-2007)

2008-04-17T09:44:00.001-07:00

It's weird how something you thought you were over can come back one day, totally untriggered, and bring with it a tidal wave of melancholy. It really shouldn't bother me, but it does. Most of all, it makes me wish for times before when I was carefree, and the most important people to me would be (and are) always there. Times when movies, anime, and simple pleasures were readily available, as well as the capacity to lose oneself in them. Times before I became a cynic of romantic love. Times before her, the one who REALLY messed me up.

Now I seek solitude. I often try to find solace in the things that used to bring me so much joy, but my jaded consciousness only makes them palatably bittersweet.

EDIT: I think I've become so cynical lately that it's actually making me depressed. I think I should do something about that... maybe sacrifice a goat?

EDIT: I don't think that was a good idea... it got kind of messy and didn't really help to resolve anything...

Prodigal Son (03-10-2007)

2008-04-17T09:42:00.000-07:00

There are few things more depressing than coming to the harsh realization that your parents, the two people who have the most unconditional love for you in this wretched world, don't know who you really are, and, despite the fact that you know they will love you regardless, you keep your true self hidden because of the shame you feel for disappointing their expectations.

I wish I could sit down and tell them everything about me, but I don't think that will ever happen. I am an outsider.

New York

2006-08-14T10:27:00.000-07:00

It's been one week to the day since I got back from New York, and I feel it's time to make a blog entry about it. Let me preface this entry by saying that this was the first real vacation I have ever been on. Growing up I would I always go with my family to visit my extended family for the Fourth of July and Christmas, but that doesn't really count because you can only go somewhere so many times before it's not new and exciting. So that being said, this was the best trip I have ever gone on.

The original plan for the trip was to go between sessions of summer school here at UCI so that no one would miss any class and three of us had planned to go: Caroline, Dory, and myself. Dory had to cancel going due to a lack of funds after applying to a large number of graduate schools. This was but the beginning of complications we would experience. We had also planned to stay with some friends of Dory, who we already knew but are more of acquaintences. After Dory cancelled we got word that these two friends were going to be extremely busy and would not be able to accomodate us. Despite these complications, Caroline and I were still determined to go. Trying to think economically, we booked a relatively inexpensive hostel, which ironically had the word "royal" in its name, but we'll get back to that.

On Wednesday August 2nd, we rushed to get ready and pack our bags amid a bad haircut and a disastrous mystic tan. After a difficult morning we got to the Long Beach Airport with a good 45 minutes to spare. Our flight took a good six hours or so but luckily we flew Jet Blue and had Direct TV, books, and a Nintendo DS to keep us entertained as we flew across the continent. So aside from the smelly man that I competed with for the arm rest the entire way, the flight was rather enjoyable. I don't think we, or at least I was really sure what to expect New York to be like. It was, among many other things, HOT. If you thought that California's heat wave was bad, New York had it worse with heaping dose of humidity. I digress.

After getting our luggage from baggage claim we waited in a really long line for a cab that we could take to the hostel. I've been in a few cabs in my life, but was certainly the most interesting/frightening ride I've ever taken. We got in the cab and told the guy where we wanted to go he took off. At first all seemed normal but then he turned up the radio. It was rather annoying because he wouldn't leave it on a single station for more than a minute, even if the station was in the middle of a song that he had started listening to. Then he started to sing. He would sing along with the most eclectic array of songs and do it all out of key and sometimes with the wrong lyrics. This was the interesting part of the ride. The scary part was his actual driving. Now I've heard that New York drivers are the worst and that you have to be really agressive to get where you're going, but this guy was ridiculous. He would drive lanes that didn't really exist, start merging with cars right next to him, completely stop in a lane so he could merge, stop halfway into an intersection, and the list goes on and on. And then he didn't know where he was going. We gave him the cross streets, which should be fairly easy to find considering the city is on a grid patter, but we spent probably 20 minutes circling a few blocks until he realized he was in the wrong spot. At long last we finally got to the hostel and pay the driver.

We go inside and after waiting a while to speak to someone in order to check in, we find that the side we were on was closed for renovation and had to walk around the black to the other side. We do so and fine a long, really slow-moving line we have to wait in to get our room key. So after some really annoying and whiny Europeans (I think they were Swiss) get their room situation figured out, we get our room key and head up to the fourth floor. We took the elevator once and only once. Aside from the rickedy construction of it, something must have died a week beforehand in the elevator shaft because it smelled awful. We get out as quickly as possible and find our room. When we got inside we realized why the room was so cheap. Aside from the funky smell, small critters we were rooming with, and dirty sheets, there also was no AC. As previously mentioned, it was extremely hot and humid. I don't know what Hell is like, but this must have been pretty close, at least in terms of heat filth. Needless to say, we got very little sleep that night. At one point I tried putting the fan they gave us in front of the mini fridge thinking that would supply some relief, but the fridge stops working when the door is open. We finally got a little bit of sleep by dosing off with a wet t-shirt and an ice pack on our faces.

The next morning we couldn't wait to get out of there and find places that had AC. After getting ready and discovering there was no mirror anywhere, we used the built-in iSight on my Macbook and Photobooth as mirror. We finally got out of there and headed for Times Sqaure. We stopped at a small deli near the hostel to get bagels because it was one of the food we had resolved to get while in New York. After eating our food we headed out again.

As we walked down Times Square we would walk a few blocks and find somewhere to stop and rest and enjoy the AC. After seeing Times Square and getting pictures of places seen in Project Runway, we headed towards 5th Ave. and that's where my test of endurance began. As anyone who knows Caroline can tell you, she loves to shop, and I don't mean that lightly. If there was an Iron Chef for shopping, Caroline would win every time. Anyway, we go to 5th Ave. and immediately start shopping. We go to H&M, Saks, Tiffany's, FAO Schwartz, and more. None of these stores had fewer than three floors and we went through all of them. Saks was ten floors and Tifanny's was seven. Now I am often confounded with the shopping stamina of the female sex. They can go all day without stopping to sit down but by hour two I'm looking for every available place to sit including the floor.

Surprisingly enough though, the one store I enjoyed the most was not FAO Schwartz (yeah I know that's surprising considering I have action figures all around my room) but it was Tiffany's. After buying a few things from the Tiffany's here at South Coast, I've come to terms with how ridiculously expesive everything is and thus I wasn't shocked by that aspect of the store. What really left me amazed as the engagement ring floor. Aside from the fact that I was with my girlfriend and being intimidated by that, the jewelry was absolutely amazing. The whole floor was illuminated by the stunning luminesence of the shinning diamonds, saphires, emeralds, rubies, gold, and platinum that rested inside the glass cases. I finally understood why women (and dwarves) love diamonds and other precious stones. They are solid, everlasting gems that have an extreme depth to them. Their endless reflections and the limitless spectrum of colors they produce makes them one of Nature's finest masterpieces no artist can even come close to achieving. And at the risk of sounding any less heterosexual, I'm going to move on.

After working our way down 5th Ave. we eventually came to Central Park and decided to walk around there for a bit. I took a lot of pictures and we looked at all the really cute dogs running around. We eventually stumbled onto what looked like a fair in the part and sat down on a large rock overlooking the fair. During our previous night in the Hell hole, we had decided that we couldn't stay there any longer, at least not do so and enjoy the rest of our trip. So as we sat there in the park we called a few numbers that Caroline had looked up when we had stopped at a Barnes and Noble and found a nice little hotel really close by called Park Savoy. They had some vacancies so we went over and booked the room after we made sure they had AC. We got our key and then went up to check the room out. It was a cozy small room on the second floor. We cranked up the AC and then just laid down on the bed while our body temperatures returned to normal. Caroline shortly discovered that the TV in our room got Bravo and she became even more happy with the room. After having walked all day we just decided to hang out the rest of the day.

We got dinner at a small little pizza place next door to the hotel that had extremely good pizza and garlic knots. After a few hours of zoning out and digesting our food, we decided that we had to go get our stuff from the hostel. We hopped on the subway and went back to the hostel just to grab what we would need for the next day and headed back. In retrospect we should have just taken all the stuff with us but carrying everything at once would have been a burden, especially getting through the subway entrances. After taking our luggage to the hotel we went out for a bit and walked around Times Sqaure at night. Everywhere you went people tried to sell you fake bags, watches, jewelry and the like. A lot of people tried selling their spray paint artwork which was actually quite good. And everywhere there were cars, people, lights, advertisements. I loved everything about it. I understood why New York has been called the "Mecca and Hub of the cultural world." Everyone spoke a different language, looked different, and dressed differently but they were all together We got back to the hotel and then continued to just rest and plan out the rest of our trip.

Following a blissful, air-conditioned night of sleeping, we both got up and began getting ready for the day. We had to switch rooms because someone had already booked that room for the rest of our stay, but we did that quickly and then were on our way. It was Friday and we decided to go to the Museum of Modern Art (MoMA). The museum was not too far from where our hotel was so we walked over there. We stopped by Starbucks on the way there for the typical modern American breakfast consisting of extremely sugared drinks. After our short pit stop we got to the museum, got our tickets, and went inside. Like all the shopping places we went to the day before, we thought that it would be best to start at the top floor and work our way down.

The top floor of MoMA is where their special exhibits are held, and the current exhibit was on the Dada Movement. The Dada movement originated in Europe during the time of World War I and was an artistic political reaction to the current events of the war. A lot of the work that arose from the movement appears somewhat mechanical due to the artists' rejection of the machine of war. In all honesty I'm no expert on the movement but I found the whole exhibition extremely interesting, though I could tell Caroline was more interested in seeing more familiar art. Unfortunately most museums don't let you take pictures of special exhibitions because they typically don't own all the rights for the art, so I don't have any photos.

After we left the Dada exhibit, we came to art that is a bit more familiar, at least in terms of their medium. Listing everything we saw would be a bit tedious so I'll just mention the major works and artists. The first extremely famous work we saw was Salvador Dali's "The Persistence of Memory," which is the surrealist painting with the melting clocks. It was much smaller than I thought it would be but still equaly as beautiful. After that we came into a room where an entire wall was dedicated to a very large triptych by the impressionist Monet that depicted waterlillies on a lake (not sure if it is THE Waterlillies painting, but it was gorgeous nontheless). One of Caroline's favorite artists is Monet and she said she wanted a room in her house for that painting.

We wondered through the galleries a bit more and then we came to the works of Picasso. Pablo Picasso is credited with the start of Cubism and generally given the title as the Father of Post-Modern Art. Needless to say I was very excited to actually get to see his work in person. After going through a few rooms we came into the room that housed his very famous "Les Demoiselles d'Avignon. This last year I had written an extensive paper about the painting and actually getting to see it was very exciting for me. I must have spent a good ten minutes in front of it and would have stayed there longer but Caroline had already wandered off and other people were crowding in around me. Luckily Picasso's "Ma Jolie" ("Angelina Jolie") was in the same room and not nearly as crowded. Many scholars view this painting this painting as the high point of his cubist career but most people don't pay much attention to it because it is so abstract. I was equally as excited to see this painting. In the very next room was Van Gogh's "Starry Night".

By this time I was a bit overwhelmed by all the masterpieces I had been seeing. Coming from California, the museums here have a lot of art, but not a lot of what comes out of Art History textbooks. So seeing all of these works that I had studied for so long finally in person was quite an experience that I will be sure to remember for the rest of my life.

We went through several other galleries and then came to a works by Warhol, including Warhol's Cambell Soup Cans. Being a soup fan, Caroline was really excited to see these and took a picture next to the Bean with Bacon soup can. We also saw one of his Marilyn Monroe silk screens. In that particular gallery, however, I was more interested in a painting by Roy Lichtenstein. Ever since I studied him in my basic Art History survey course, I've loved his work, especially his "Drowning Girl." I don't know what it is about his work and this painting in particular, but I've always found his clash of high and low Art fascinating, probably because that is something I would do if I were an artists. Anyway, getting to see "Drowning Girl" in person was really cool and probably one of my favorite pieces that I saw next to "Ma Jolie" and "Starry Night".

And then there was Jackson Pollock. Most people refer to him as the guy who just splashed paint onto a canvas and claim that they could do the same. Before I say anything about his art let me correct all those naive people who think they have the same talent as Pollock. NO, you don't. Like much of contemporary art, the end result is not always the most important factor of a work. In Pollock's case, for instance, much of the meaning in work was held in the process by which it was created. He meant to capture the energy that came from creating the work itself within the paint on the canvas. And if you look at one of his large pieces, you get a sense of that energy. The paintings seem alive and in constatn movement. If you look at some of his pieces long enough they appear to expand and extend beyond the boundries of the canvas they are on. This is why I love Pollock. I love the energy he captures and the depth of meaning in his works. I had only recently seen one of his larger works at MoCA in LA and getting the opportunity to see a lot more was really exciting.

We took a break in our gallery wanderings for a late lunch at the museum's cafe. I always enjoy eating at museums because I think their food is superb. We waited to get our food and sat down at a place that overlooked the large courtyard that MoMA has. We talked about some of the things we had seen and admired the buildings surrounding MoMA. Caroline found a particular building she would like to live in and we talked about the architecture. Our food was delicious and a bit different. It was also nice to give our feet a bit of break. We finished our meal and then went back to admiring all the art.

After a couple more hours at the museum we decided that we had seen everything we wanted to see and left MoMA after picking up some souveniors. Caroline was happy to be back outside where it was a bit warmer because she had been freezing inside the museum all day. We headed towards the Metropolitan Museum of Art to try and make a 7:15 tour that one of my friends was giving. We took the subway and then a bus over there and had an hour or so to peruse the museum's Egyptian collection before the tour started. Unfortunately I didn't have my camera because I had dropped it off at the hotel on the way over thinking I would just be back the following day and would have ample opportunity to take pictures then. We went on the Museum Highlights Tour given by my friend that highlighted key areas and works of the museum. It was a very informative and well-presented tour.

By the end of the tour we were both tired and starving and ready to find food. We headed back towards the hotel so that we could change and go find a place to eat. We were both very tired from walking around all day so rather than trying to find a more famous restaurant, we just ate at a small Italian place that was really good. The whole time we were there I don't think we really adjusted to east coast time because we always ended going to dinner at around 10 o'clock at night. After dinner we decided to walk over to the Apple Store on 5th Ave. to so I could try and find a usb cable or a card reader for my camera because I had run out of space on my card and ingeniusly left mine back home in California. When we got there we were a bit suprised at what we found.

The store is open 24/7 and is underground. A spiral glass stair case and elevator lower you into the store where it looks like most other Apple Stores, just a lot bigger. What was shocking though was the fact that it had been turned into a club of sorts. There were several live DJs taking turns spinning while an entire group of people were dancing in front of them. People kept taking turns going in and out of the group but it steadily grew larger the longer we were there. Unfortunately I couldn't find what I was looking for, but the whole experience of what happened was worth the trip.

We left the Apple Store and walked back to the hotel. After a little Bravo, we both fell asleep in our lovely air conditioned, non-bug infested room.

Saturday I got up early and went to several electronic and camera stores to try and find a USB cable or a card reader. Those stores are ridiculous. They take advantage of tourists like no others. I went to four different stores and every time I found what I needed they gave me an outrageous price. They wanted $80 for a compact flash card reader or $30 for a USB cable, both things cost them as a reseller no more than $5 each. I was pissed but at the same time I needed to be able to take more pictures. So I haggled one guy down to $30 for the card reader and went back to the hotel more than a little peeved. I got back and Caroline had gotten up and started to get ready. I waited for her to finish up and transferred the pictures from the previous day to my computer and we took off for the Met.

We took a cab to the Met this time because it was cheaper, faster, and cleaner than taking the subway and bus. We got in and started our adventure through one of the largest museums in the US, which was in no means chronological. Now the museum is not only very large, but it is extremely easy to get lost as learned throughout the day. Luckily we ran into my friend Jenn so she was able to get us our pins we needed so that we could avoid being guilt tripped into "donating" to the museum.

We started with the Egyptian art because we had seen a lot of it the night before and we were able to get through most if it fairly quickly before we went on to the rest of the galleries. Caroline put up with me taking my sweet time photographing all the statues, pottery, jewelry, etc. Greek, Roman, and Egyptian art are among my favorite areas to study in the field of Art History because to me it seems so rich and purely representative of the culture as a whole. I really enjoyed seeing the statues of Hatshepsut and I think Caroline's favorite was a small statue of a guy grabbing a woman's boob. One of the most amazing parts of their Egyptian collection, however, is an entire temple that was transfered to the Met after Egypt gave it to the US as a gift. It was really cool because you could walk up into the entryway and there very detailed heiroglyphs on the outside of the temple with a portrayal of Augustus, a.k.a. Octavian, in an Egyptian style.

After going through the Egyptian collection we realized that we hadn't eaten anything yet that day. We went to the small cafe (there are two cafes) and ended up just getting something to drink and sat down for a short while. As we left the cafe we admired the collection of Tiffany's glass they had on display in the courtyard including a large stained glass window that depicted a beautiful sunset over a very colorful landscape. If I could design my own house with anything in it, I would have the window.

We then decided to follow our routine and start at the top of the museum and work our way down, which we figure out later didn't work quite as well as we had hoped and ended up getting lost a few times, but we went up stairs to start in any case. We went up to the Ancient Near Eastern gallery that includes art from places like Mesopotamia and Babylon. I was elated to see two giant Lammasu guarding the entrance to the gallery. All of the relief sculpture came together at a point with these giant gryphon-like creatures. I could just imagine walking up to an ancient sacred temple and seeing these magnificient creatures guarding the entrance with their muscular bodies and sharp claws. Up close you really notice all of the fine detail and the Sumerian script, which looks a lot like Cuneiform and I'm not sure if they are the same or not. I love Philology.

Moving on we entered the galleries that were primarily modern art. The Met had a substantially larger collection of Van Gogh than did MoMA, including his famous self-portrait and one of his Iris paintings. Another famous artist whose work was on display was Georges Seurat, who most people associate with the technique known as pointilism. They had a smaller, less refined copy of his "Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte," which is one of his most famous works.

Most exciting for Caroline, at least I think, was the number of Monet's they had on display. An entire room of the gallery was filled with his paintings that overflowed into other adjacent rooms. The organic array of brilliant colors in his impressionist paintings reminded me of the diamonds I had seen in Tiffany's two days earlier and I could see why someone would like his work so much, though perhaps I just misread it.

Now Monet isn't to be confused with Manet, though the common confusion is completely understandable. Not only are both artists different in name by only a single letter, but the time periods in which they painted are fairly similar and even the Met has them in the same gallery but a few rooms apart from each other. Monet painted pieces with vibrant colors that often depicted scenes from nature. Manet used flat, often dull colors and commonly painted subjects like prostitutes, though his work is very good in its own right.

Naturally next to the collection of Modern Art is the collection of Post-Modern Art. Just to clarify the difference, Modern Art is generally considered to have begun in the seventeenth century and gone up to the beginning of the twentieth century. The first World War and it's impact on the cultural world is generally considered a great turning point in the development of the artistic world and thus most art following the World Wars is generally considered Post-Modern. Now I say "generally" because those are rough time periods that I can think of off the top of my head and don't know the exact dates that distinguish these two periods of art.

The Post-Modern galleries were nice but after having been to MoMA the day before, they seemed a bit small. There were a few Pollocks and a few Rauschenbergs that were cool to see, but buy this point were were getting rather tired of walking and our stomachs were growling, so we decided to go eat at the larger cafe next to the wing of American Art...

burned out again, finish writing later...