Cool story time.
The other day, my family was having dinner. Business as usual. That is, right up until my mom tried parenting. When we arrived at the table, all that sat on our plates was salad. We were told that we would not be allowed the main course until we finished our salad.
Mom. I'm freaking 17. I can eat my salad without being forced into it.
This sums up nicely what my first problem was. The babying. I've found that children like to behave the age they are told they are. If they're handed responsibility, they like to act as if they deserve it. The opposite is also true. If they are treated like they have no idea what they're doing, or if they're sheltered to the point where they have no idea that there are people out there who actually drink beer, then they've been subject to bad parenting. I understand the need to try and baby kids, but in the long run, it's damaging.
My other issue with this is how the salad was treated. It was an obstacle, a mountain in the way, a bad thing that must be endured. By treating the salad-eating as a requirement, it immediately becomes associated with punishment. Though this wins the battle, it loses the war. My dear impressionable siblings will forever view salad as that thing they hated for keeping their dinner away from them.
At this point, all zero of my readers who have their own children are saying, "gee willikers, how on earth do we get them to do what we want them to, then?" My answer, in its simplest: You don't. The best you can hope for is that they'll follow the path you want them to, and the way to do that is to lead by example. Little kids like to imitate what they see as the adult way of life. If you want your kids to eat salad first, put all the food on the plate, then eat your own flipping salad first.
Now, I'll be gone fighting bears out in the woods for the next few days. Don't expect any updates for a week or so. In the meantime, tell your friends, tell your wife, tell your husband that this page exists, and enjoy your lives and stuff.
Peace out, readers.
Sunday, July 29, 2012
Friday, July 27, 2012
Stupidity
This piece of crap keeps showing up on my newsfeed:
Okay, I get it. Feminism. That's great. But if you want to make a craftsy sign like this, make sure your data supports your claim. I agree with every part of this sign, except for the last sentence. Could I rewrite this, it would go something as follows:
There is MALE inside feMALE (as awkwardly suggestive as that sounds)
MR in every MRs;
HE in each sHE.
This proves that words describing females are hard to write without inadvertently writing a word to describe males.
One last note on this: if you're going to make a poster like this, at least grammar properly. "Which prove that" is a horrendous mess of letters that ought to be outlawed.
Peace out, readers.
Okay, I get it. Feminism. That's great. But if you want to make a craftsy sign like this, make sure your data supports your claim. I agree with every part of this sign, except for the last sentence. Could I rewrite this, it would go something as follows:
There is MALE inside feMALE (as awkwardly suggestive as that sounds)
MR in every MRs;
HE in each sHE.
This proves that words describing females are hard to write without inadvertently writing a word to describe males.
One last note on this: if you're going to make a poster like this, at least grammar properly. "Which prove that" is a horrendous mess of letters that ought to be outlawed.
Peace out, readers.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
Fishing
Compliment fishing. Specifically, the variety of, "I'm such a failure, pity me". Now, normal fishers are hard enough to stand. Those ones want compliments, which is bad. This variety wants pity, which is worse. The point that gets me every time is that they're right: they do suck. Then why on earth are they calling all this attention to it? That's what happens when pity is asked for. It's saying, "I suck. Tell me you feel bad about me sucking, because I suck." They draw unbelievable amounts of attention toward something they claim to hate about themselves.
That's when I realized that they don't hate it, they like it. It's their way of getting attention. It's not positive attention, but it's attention, so they don't care. Pity is a wonderfully ironic form of pride. We are proud of failing, proud enough to draw attention to ourselves. It's a completely tooling move, and I hate it.
Im not saying that we shouldn't feel bad when we fail. Quite the opposite. That bad feel is a necessity for self-improvement. Failures are not meant as attention-hogging flags. Rather, they are for quiet reflection. Feel free to impart your worries on others, but don't do it in a way that'll invoke pity. Rather, use it as a resolve for improvement.
Peace out, readers.
That's when I realized that they don't hate it, they like it. It's their way of getting attention. It's not positive attention, but it's attention, so they don't care. Pity is a wonderfully ironic form of pride. We are proud of failing, proud enough to draw attention to ourselves. It's a completely tooling move, and I hate it.
Im not saying that we shouldn't feel bad when we fail. Quite the opposite. That bad feel is a necessity for self-improvement. Failures are not meant as attention-hogging flags. Rather, they are for quiet reflection. Feel free to impart your worries on others, but don't do it in a way that'll invoke pity. Rather, use it as a resolve for improvement.
Peace out, readers.
Friday, July 20, 2012
Speaking
Shakespeare once said that brevity is the soul of wit. If this post were to be witty, it would be over by now. I'm not going to do that. Nope. Instead, you get a post about discussion etiquette.
Inspired by one of my friends, I have taken up the practice of never sending one-word texts. The funny thing about language is that it usually takes more than one word to convey an intelligible sentence, let alone a meaningful one. Our word choice betrays much of our personality. If you have spent any time around me, it will be evident that I'm well aware of this. To offer my own evaluation, the way I speak is a fairly straightforward one. I try to convey my message, but at the same time, tinge every sentence with a bit of flavor, a slice of irony. It doesn't matter if I'm addressing my parents, my teachers, or my live studio audience, my voice remains the same. I try to use the voice the Blarney Stone granted me to attempt conveying my thoughts in the most effective way possible. I've got a few rules I hold to when speaking, most of which I've already touched on in this piece. The rest of this post will be me expounding on them:
1) Don't be brief
We've already touched enough on this one.
2) Don't be long-winded
Almost as harmful as being brief, saying too much is another speaking pitfall I attempt to jump over at any opportunity. Nothing loses a crowd like drowning them in supplementary material.
3) Always censor your thoughts
One of the things that drives me crazy are those who have no filter separating their brain from their mouth. There's a reason that our brain isn't broadcast for the world to hear: it says a ton of stupid things.
4) Never censor the way you expound on them.
One thing I consider to be a strength of mine when I speak. Regardless of my audience, my diction remains rather constant. If you have to change to fit your audience, your voice isn't good enough.
5) Always speak with a hint of humor
The most sure fire way to engage a crowd is to make sure that they have something worth listening to. Whether I speak as an orator or as a disgruntled student, I want my audience to know that I want them to be entertained.
Following my own tip #2, I'm done.
Peace out, readers.
Inspired by one of my friends, I have taken up the practice of never sending one-word texts. The funny thing about language is that it usually takes more than one word to convey an intelligible sentence, let alone a meaningful one. Our word choice betrays much of our personality. If you have spent any time around me, it will be evident that I'm well aware of this. To offer my own evaluation, the way I speak is a fairly straightforward one. I try to convey my message, but at the same time, tinge every sentence with a bit of flavor, a slice of irony. It doesn't matter if I'm addressing my parents, my teachers, or my live studio audience, my voice remains the same. I try to use the voice the Blarney Stone granted me to attempt conveying my thoughts in the most effective way possible. I've got a few rules I hold to when speaking, most of which I've already touched on in this piece. The rest of this post will be me expounding on them:
1) Don't be brief
We've already touched enough on this one.
2) Don't be long-winded
Almost as harmful as being brief, saying too much is another speaking pitfall I attempt to jump over at any opportunity. Nothing loses a crowd like drowning them in supplementary material.
3) Always censor your thoughts
One of the things that drives me crazy are those who have no filter separating their brain from their mouth. There's a reason that our brain isn't broadcast for the world to hear: it says a ton of stupid things.
4) Never censor the way you expound on them.
One thing I consider to be a strength of mine when I speak. Regardless of my audience, my diction remains rather constant. If you have to change to fit your audience, your voice isn't good enough.
5) Always speak with a hint of humor
The most sure fire way to engage a crowd is to make sure that they have something worth listening to. Whether I speak as an orator or as a disgruntled student, I want my audience to know that I want them to be entertained.
Following my own tip #2, I'm done.
Peace out, readers.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
Being a Man
Nothing Interesting is on TV. There are a lot of stupid people on the internet, I don't want to be knocked out by the Summer Reading Assignment again, and my jaw is still to sore to do anything meaningful outside. I'm blogging.
Now, this post is derived from a discussion I've had with quite a few of my female friends (yes, this demographic does exist). It is the age-long discussion that has re-emerged in every generation: What does it mean to be a man?
Let's enter into this discussion the most fitting way possible.
Now that we've been properly introduced, let's do this the good old-fashioned way. Doubtless, there are many benefits to being a man. Of course, the Y chromosome is also a burden to bear. Ladies and gents, I give unto you a Pros and Cons chart!
Pros of Being a Man:
Never have to worry about hair
Allowed to watch stupid movies and not be judged as harsly
We can freely admit that bodily functions exist in front of each other
No make-up
Generally less dramatic lives
Interior design doesn't bug most men
We aren't expected to be as artsy
7 shades of color. That's it
Guy jerks, although usually pretty bad, are nowhere near as bad as female jerks
You get to like cool things like Avatar and Batman and not get shunned because of it
Get to be as mysterious ad the dark side of the moon
Most members of your sex don't talk
Getting to be a dad. How cool is that?
Con, Man (See what I did there?)
You end up hanging out with a lot of pyros
You are expected to like sports
Having to always take the initiative when dealing with relationships
Have to fight a bear like every night
The constant pressure to appear masculine
Most other members of your sex can't talk
Men's locker rooms
Get to work until we're 65
Hair must remain above the neckline
Often viewed as the brute workers, not fun
Wangst is often more frowned on
That's all for now. This post may very well warrant a part two.
Now, this post is derived from a discussion I've had with quite a few of my female friends (yes, this demographic does exist). It is the age-long discussion that has re-emerged in every generation: What does it mean to be a man?
Let's enter into this discussion the most fitting way possible.
Now that we've been properly introduced, let's do this the good old-fashioned way. Doubtless, there are many benefits to being a man. Of course, the Y chromosome is also a burden to bear. Ladies and gents, I give unto you a Pros and Cons chart!
Pros of Being a Man:
Never have to worry about hair
Allowed to watch stupid movies and not be judged as harsly
We can freely admit that bodily functions exist in front of each other
No make-up
Generally less dramatic lives
Interior design doesn't bug most men
We aren't expected to be as artsy
7 shades of color. That's it
Guy jerks, although usually pretty bad, are nowhere near as bad as female jerks
You get to like cool things like Avatar and Batman and not get shunned because of it
Get to be as mysterious ad the dark side of the moon
Most members of your sex don't talk
Getting to be a dad. How cool is that?
Con, Man (See what I did there?)
You end up hanging out with a lot of pyros
You are expected to like sports
Having to always take the initiative when dealing with relationships
Have to fight a bear like every night
The constant pressure to appear masculine
Most other members of your sex can't talk
Men's locker rooms
Get to work until we're 65
Hair must remain above the neckline
Often viewed as the brute workers, not fun
Wangst is often more frowned on
That's all for now. This post may very well warrant a part two.
Participation Points and Punks
In a nutshell, I hate both.
This is a post I've been meaning to write for quite a while, so I guess I'll elaborate a bit more.
Participation points are the great hoe of of the grade book. They can take the average student's grade and pump it up to a ridiculous level. Never mind grades acting as a measure of aptitude! You can color in a map? Take some points. You read the chapter last night? Have a few points. Points piled upon points, until only minimal skill is needed to pass the class.
Now, I'm not saying that participation points should be done away with entirely. No. A few participation points, when used sparingly and wisely, can give a bit of wiggle room for the stressed student. Participation points, however, should not be enough to raise a D to an A.
This is where the punks come in. If somebody sits in a pool of participation points long enough, they will eventually notice that something is up. As soon as they do, people start riding the system. Remember that kid I told you about a few posts ago? The one who was just going to "have fun" on the final? It was because he felt he had the security of a thousand fodder assignments at his back. Participation points are stupid. The end.
Peace out, readers.
This is a post I've been meaning to write for quite a while, so I guess I'll elaborate a bit more.
Participation points are the great hoe of of the grade book. They can take the average student's grade and pump it up to a ridiculous level. Never mind grades acting as a measure of aptitude! You can color in a map? Take some points. You read the chapter last night? Have a few points. Points piled upon points, until only minimal skill is needed to pass the class.
Now, I'm not saying that participation points should be done away with entirely. No. A few participation points, when used sparingly and wisely, can give a bit of wiggle room for the stressed student. Participation points, however, should not be enough to raise a D to an A.
This is where the punks come in. If somebody sits in a pool of participation points long enough, they will eventually notice that something is up. As soon as they do, people start riding the system. Remember that kid I told you about a few posts ago? The one who was just going to "have fun" on the final? It was because he felt he had the security of a thousand fodder assignments at his back. Participation points are stupid. The end.
Peace out, readers.
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
The Pre-Surgical Post
In a few hours, I get to undergo the removal of my wisdom teeth. Wheeeee. I was considering a great number of things to talk about in this post. You could have read about the blues, about arterials and side streets, about participation points, or perhaps about forging signatures. Nope. Today, you get to read about the ever-so-exciting topic... Of fandom.
Ah yes, the raving sea of devotees that find a book or television show that is so magical, they have to tell everyone. Their greatest joy in life, aside from watching their show of choice, is rubbing it into the face of every other teenager on the planet. If my view isn't clear yet, I really hate fandoms. Let's take a look at a few:
Harry Potter:
The staple example. Harry Potter is a series of fine movies and even better books. JK Rowling is one of the finer authors out there. I fear that her subtle wit goes unnoticed by most of the crowd, in favor of the story of a boy wizard. Here's my problem with the fandom: everyone and their dog has jumped on it. It is one thing to look at the book carefully, as a piece of art, and admire it a such. It is another thing entirely to dress up in robes and point sticks at everything. You're 17 now. Stop it. Harry Potter has been drowned by so many fans, the chances of finding an intelligent, practical one are remote.
Avatar: TLA/LOK:
This is a fan base I tend to tolerate a bit more, on account that there are significantly less cheerleaders on this fandom because they were too busy reading the Harry Potter books to fit in. However, this is where the problem starts. Although a dedicated fanbase, they are, once again, a little too dedicated. Meaning that they don't shut up about it. Ever. Some of the spoony first years took this to crazy proportions. Some kid throws a spoon. "He's a spoonbender!" A guy fans himself while drinking water. "It's the Avatar!" No, kid. It's not the Avatar, he's not spoonbending, and you're giving the show a bad name. Shut up.
(Spoonbender is now part of my auto correct dictionary. How cool is that?)
Doctor Who:
Another one of my favorite shows. Another freaky fandom. True Whovians are great people, mind you, but the number of posers you get in the fandom, well, that's something else entirely. Doctor Who, due to both it's off-the-wall sci-fi nature and being produced on the other side of the pond, produces a great number of stupid hipster fans. I really don't like about 80% of the fandom at my school, because they make up this body of posers. And for what? Who are they trying to impress? Other stupid hipsters. Why can't they have their socially awkward make-out sessions without getting my show in the way?
The Hunger Games:
A fandom crazy enough to drive me away. Future Gladiators fighting to the death in a huge, man-made stadium? Cool. Debates over whether Peeta has nicer abs than Gale? Not cool. This inner bickering, alongside the Harry-Potteresque hype, drove me away in disgust.
Twilight:
This one, I'm not going to discuss the fans. Nope, I'm going after the haters this time around. So I'm defending the books? Sue me. I have never read Stephanie Meyer's book, I don't intend to. It doesn't sound like an appealing series. However, there are too many haters directing their energy at Twilight. I understand if you don't like it, but please at least refrain from telling Facebook three times a day about it. If your final literature project is to graffiti Twilight and call it art, you've probably gone too far.
Fans. I'll never understand them.
Peace out, readers.
Ah yes, the raving sea of devotees that find a book or television show that is so magical, they have to tell everyone. Their greatest joy in life, aside from watching their show of choice, is rubbing it into the face of every other teenager on the planet. If my view isn't clear yet, I really hate fandoms. Let's take a look at a few:
Harry Potter:
The staple example. Harry Potter is a series of fine movies and even better books. JK Rowling is one of the finer authors out there. I fear that her subtle wit goes unnoticed by most of the crowd, in favor of the story of a boy wizard. Here's my problem with the fandom: everyone and their dog has jumped on it. It is one thing to look at the book carefully, as a piece of art, and admire it a such. It is another thing entirely to dress up in robes and point sticks at everything. You're 17 now. Stop it. Harry Potter has been drowned by so many fans, the chances of finding an intelligent, practical one are remote.
Avatar: TLA/LOK:
This is a fan base I tend to tolerate a bit more, on account that there are significantly less cheerleaders on this fandom because they were too busy reading the Harry Potter books to fit in. However, this is where the problem starts. Although a dedicated fanbase, they are, once again, a little too dedicated. Meaning that they don't shut up about it. Ever. Some of the spoony first years took this to crazy proportions. Some kid throws a spoon. "He's a spoonbender!" A guy fans himself while drinking water. "It's the Avatar!" No, kid. It's not the Avatar, he's not spoonbending, and you're giving the show a bad name. Shut up.
(Spoonbender is now part of my auto correct dictionary. How cool is that?)
Doctor Who:
Another one of my favorite shows. Another freaky fandom. True Whovians are great people, mind you, but the number of posers you get in the fandom, well, that's something else entirely. Doctor Who, due to both it's off-the-wall sci-fi nature and being produced on the other side of the pond, produces a great number of stupid hipster fans. I really don't like about 80% of the fandom at my school, because they make up this body of posers. And for what? Who are they trying to impress? Other stupid hipsters. Why can't they have their socially awkward make-out sessions without getting my show in the way?
The Hunger Games:
A fandom crazy enough to drive me away. Future Gladiators fighting to the death in a huge, man-made stadium? Cool. Debates over whether Peeta has nicer abs than Gale? Not cool. This inner bickering, alongside the Harry-Potteresque hype, drove me away in disgust.
Twilight:
This one, I'm not going to discuss the fans. Nope, I'm going after the haters this time around. So I'm defending the books? Sue me. I have never read Stephanie Meyer's book, I don't intend to. It doesn't sound like an appealing series. However, there are too many haters directing their energy at Twilight. I understand if you don't like it, but please at least refrain from telling Facebook three times a day about it. If your final literature project is to graffiti Twilight and call it art, you've probably gone too far.
Fans. I'll never understand them.
Peace out, readers.
Sunday, July 15, 2012
Surprises, Part II
Remember my dear old friend I discussed in "Surprises"? Earlier this week, this flower girl of a woman dropped another stick of dynamite among the petals. Sitting around, preparing our final homework assignment, she turned to the boy on my right and said,
"Hey, boy on Eli's right. I totally had a crush on you last year."
My reaction when she dropped a bombshell like this on me earlier:
"What."
I daresay his was far more spectacular:
"What?!?!"
I enjoyed a solid laugh for the next ten minutes or so. Despite the name of this post, this one was not a surprise to me at all. In fact, it wasn't a surprise to most of the returning cast of last year's camp.
The funny thing about human relations is the more objective and outside your view is, the more obvious relationships are. Inversely, those at the heart of the connection are usually the ones who are completely unaware (I've already talked on this subject, you can find it a few posts ago). This was no exception. From the outside, it was obvious that the two home-schooled kids had a thing for each other, and every punch imparted onto this boy's shoulder was a punch of love.
I enjoy that now, a year later, we are able to discuss such things with impunity, and that our awkward web of love did not affect the deep friendship the three of us share. But that is a story of another post.
Peace out, readers.
"Hey, boy on Eli's right. I totally had a crush on you last year."
My reaction when she dropped a bombshell like this on me earlier:
"What."
I daresay his was far more spectacular:
"What?!?!"
I enjoyed a solid laugh for the next ten minutes or so. Despite the name of this post, this one was not a surprise to me at all. In fact, it wasn't a surprise to most of the returning cast of last year's camp.
The funny thing about human relations is the more objective and outside your view is, the more obvious relationships are. Inversely, those at the heart of the connection are usually the ones who are completely unaware (I've already talked on this subject, you can find it a few posts ago). This was no exception. From the outside, it was obvious that the two home-schooled kids had a thing for each other, and every punch imparted onto this boy's shoulder was a punch of love.
I enjoy that now, a year later, we are able to discuss such things with impunity, and that our awkward web of love did not affect the deep friendship the three of us share. But that is a story of another post.
Peace out, readers.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
The End, Part III
First off, a brief announcement: I'm backed up on posts. This, of course, means that I have several deep thoughts, they just need to be put out on display for the world to see. These are all going to be here soon. Some things you may look forward to reading:
Surprises, Part II
Results
Participation Points and Punks
Thoughts on Whatever I Just read in Crime and Punishment
Timing
One Little efy and How He Grew
Now, onto the post itself.
Goodbyes are bittersweet, often for the same reasons. On one hand, you enjoy the opportunity of leaving behind everything you didn't like. On the other, you are forced to leave behind everything you loved. Today, I left the one and only STARTALK for the third time. Each year has blessed me with a different flavor, a different set of challenges and pleasant surprises.
This year, of course, was no exception. I had my ups and downs, my great days and my wangsty day. Returning home will be no small feat. I find myself missing such things as homework, dorm rooms, and meals surrounded by efys. These are days of my life that I will not be able to return to, and I have cherished it as much as I could. Every year, I tell myself that I must recreate these moments. So I re-apply. It's not the same, of course, but then I remember why I love it so. This year, however, is different.
At this time next year, I will be graduated. Up until this point, I have been positive I could make it in again. Now, I'm not so sure. This could very well be my last goodbye. The final end, if you will.
The above thought is not one I usually like to think, but it occurs to me that this had already happened. Out of the 50 people I knew in STARTALK 2010, a grand total of 2 returned. My first year is gone. Things end. Life moves on.
This is one of the saddest endings of them all, but I will survive. It takes a while to readjust to the other 98% of the bell curve. Even so, with a clear goal in mind, I intend to begin anew, and let this very bittersweet end truly come to a close. I will cry manly tears tonight, I will remember my new aquatints with fondness, then I will move on.
That's a lie. I'm not going to move on. I will build on. I stand here with the utmost intent to see every member of my group of peers ten years from now.
It's midnight, my words turn to gibberish. Chinese camp 2012, it's been real.
Peace out, readers.
Surprises, Part II
Results
Participation Points and Punks
Thoughts on Whatever I Just read in Crime and Punishment
Timing
One Little efy and How He Grew
Now, onto the post itself.
Goodbyes are bittersweet, often for the same reasons. On one hand, you enjoy the opportunity of leaving behind everything you didn't like. On the other, you are forced to leave behind everything you loved. Today, I left the one and only STARTALK for the third time. Each year has blessed me with a different flavor, a different set of challenges and pleasant surprises.
This year, of course, was no exception. I had my ups and downs, my great days and my wangsty day. Returning home will be no small feat. I find myself missing such things as homework, dorm rooms, and meals surrounded by efys. These are days of my life that I will not be able to return to, and I have cherished it as much as I could. Every year, I tell myself that I must recreate these moments. So I re-apply. It's not the same, of course, but then I remember why I love it so. This year, however, is different.
At this time next year, I will be graduated. Up until this point, I have been positive I could make it in again. Now, I'm not so sure. This could very well be my last goodbye. The final end, if you will.
The above thought is not one I usually like to think, but it occurs to me that this had already happened. Out of the 50 people I knew in STARTALK 2010, a grand total of 2 returned. My first year is gone. Things end. Life moves on.
This is one of the saddest endings of them all, but I will survive. It takes a while to readjust to the other 98% of the bell curve. Even so, with a clear goal in mind, I intend to begin anew, and let this very bittersweet end truly come to a close. I will cry manly tears tonight, I will remember my new aquatints with fondness, then I will move on.
That's a lie. I'm not going to move on. I will build on. I stand here with the utmost intent to see every member of my group of peers ten years from now.
It's midnight, my words turn to gibberish. Chinese camp 2012, it's been real.
Peace out, readers.
Thursday, July 12, 2012
An Answer
Remember the question I asked yesterday? If no, go back and read that before coming back here. Read it? good. I have come up with an answer for my question. I think I will go the extra mile, and be the very best. This is not because I like work, nor is it due to wanting to be the very best. Heaven knows neither of those have been things I actively seek after. No, the reason I choose this is because I have seen the alternative.
I recall an experience from earlier this year, wherein a fellow student complained about they didn't enjoy their workload in a certain AP class, and asked when they would ever have to use the material in real life. This common complaint alone is enough to drive me over the edge. As a slight tangent, I will give my answer to this complaint as well. No, you will never use calculus in real life. you will probably never have to work with electrochemistry, nor list the rhetoric devices an author uses. A football player never has to lift weights during a game, run laps, or do push-ups. The reason behind both is the same. These classes are not going to translate directly into your job, but it's mental conditioning, mental conditioning that anybody complaining about chose to do themselves. Every time I hear this complaint, I resist the urge to go to the instigator's house and step on their plants.
But I digress. The remainder of this fool's speech explained how he, tired of the work, was just going to "have fun" on the unit final, and not prepare in the slightest for it. He blamed the course for not being well-adjusted toward his needs, and began to criticize its ineffectiveness. It was at this point my brain had to tell my hands, "No, hands. You can't strangle people and not be held legally culpable." Again, my argument against this. I have sat within the same room as this kid for at least 4 years of our educatory lives. The straw that broke the camel's back is the way he consistently played the blame game. He couldn't perform, but it wasn't HIS fault, no. It was the fault of the teacher for yelling at him to wake up in class, or of the kid next to him who wouldn't share his notes.
The problem with sponge learning is that it works fine for a while, the minute things get hard, sponges turn their back and give up. They sit there, silently asking for the pity of everyone around them, because the big bad system is so hard to fight. I chose to become the best because I have grown to hate the alternative.
I recall an experience from earlier this year, wherein a fellow student complained about they didn't enjoy their workload in a certain AP class, and asked when they would ever have to use the material in real life. This common complaint alone is enough to drive me over the edge. As a slight tangent, I will give my answer to this complaint as well. No, you will never use calculus in real life. you will probably never have to work with electrochemistry, nor list the rhetoric devices an author uses. A football player never has to lift weights during a game, run laps, or do push-ups. The reason behind both is the same. These classes are not going to translate directly into your job, but it's mental conditioning, mental conditioning that anybody complaining about chose to do themselves. Every time I hear this complaint, I resist the urge to go to the instigator's house and step on their plants.
But I digress. The remainder of this fool's speech explained how he, tired of the work, was just going to "have fun" on the unit final, and not prepare in the slightest for it. He blamed the course for not being well-adjusted toward his needs, and began to criticize its ineffectiveness. It was at this point my brain had to tell my hands, "No, hands. You can't strangle people and not be held legally culpable." Again, my argument against this. I have sat within the same room as this kid for at least 4 years of our educatory lives. The straw that broke the camel's back is the way he consistently played the blame game. He couldn't perform, but it wasn't HIS fault, no. It was the fault of the teacher for yelling at him to wake up in class, or of the kid next to him who wouldn't share his notes.
The problem with sponge learning is that it works fine for a while, the minute things get hard, sponges turn their back and give up. They sit there, silently asking for the pity of everyone around them, because the big bad system is so hard to fight. I chose to become the best because I have grown to hate the alternative.
Wednesday, July 11, 2012
A Question
Consider these two stories:
There once was a tortoise and a hare. The tortoise challenged the hare to a race. The hare, arrogant, fell asleep along the route. Through the diligence it displayed, the tortoise won the race.
The second story:
There once was a tortoise and a hare. The tortoise challenged the hare to a race. The hare, arrogant, fell asleep along the route. Later, he woke up and finished in second place, which is still pretty dang good.
Now, here's the question: Is it worth the extra effort to be that perfect?
Now, I, by no means, usually strive for perfection. I find the idea of valedictorianism annoying and counterproductive, and usually find myself detesting that group as a whole. I find myself much more attracted to the 3.5-3.9 range. But that is another post for another time.
The perfectionism I speak of is of a different sort. The understanding of a concept to the very best of your ability. The willingness to seek out complete knowledge, to actively chase it. It's something I used to do quite a bit, when I was a wee second grader. I wanted to learn, I was eager for understanding.
Then homework was introduced. The problem here is not that the homework wasn't too difficult, but the opposite. There was no challenge. I still got perfect grades in school. It took a long, hard three years of pain to realize that I was sliding into a much larger workload than that sixth grade had put on my shoulders.
I do homework now. I attempt to do well in classes, to hold a good GPA, and learn the material. In doing so, I am faced with my greatest boon and curse: the spongy way I learn. I can easily soak in most of what I hear, but I usually over-judge how much I can retain. I still do fine, fine enough where I don't have to read the textbooks at all, but I could be better. I have come to realize that although my "good" is already hanging around the upper quarter of the bell curve, I could be very near the tip.
The question now is: should I go for great, or settle for good?
My answer: I don't know.
Peace out, readers.
There once was a tortoise and a hare. The tortoise challenged the hare to a race. The hare, arrogant, fell asleep along the route. Through the diligence it displayed, the tortoise won the race.
The second story:
There once was a tortoise and a hare. The tortoise challenged the hare to a race. The hare, arrogant, fell asleep along the route. Later, he woke up and finished in second place, which is still pretty dang good.
Now, here's the question: Is it worth the extra effort to be that perfect?
Now, I, by no means, usually strive for perfection. I find the idea of valedictorianism annoying and counterproductive, and usually find myself detesting that group as a whole. I find myself much more attracted to the 3.5-3.9 range. But that is another post for another time.
The perfectionism I speak of is of a different sort. The understanding of a concept to the very best of your ability. The willingness to seek out complete knowledge, to actively chase it. It's something I used to do quite a bit, when I was a wee second grader. I wanted to learn, I was eager for understanding.
Then homework was introduced. The problem here is not that the homework wasn't too difficult, but the opposite. There was no challenge. I still got perfect grades in school. It took a long, hard three years of pain to realize that I was sliding into a much larger workload than that sixth grade had put on my shoulders.
I do homework now. I attempt to do well in classes, to hold a good GPA, and learn the material. In doing so, I am faced with my greatest boon and curse: the spongy way I learn. I can easily soak in most of what I hear, but I usually over-judge how much I can retain. I still do fine, fine enough where I don't have to read the textbooks at all, but I could be better. I have come to realize that although my "good" is already hanging around the upper quarter of the bell curve, I could be very near the tip.
The question now is: should I go for great, or settle for good?
My answer: I don't know.
Peace out, readers.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Expectations and the Unexpected
On the statistics part of the Holy Blog Control Room, there's a map showing where the density of my views come from. Of course the good old US of A was a healthy shade of green, beautifully showcasing where most of my views come from. However, something caught my attention. While nearly other country stood a stark shade of white, one had a faint tinge of green. Yep. I have myself one viewer in Russia. Kudos to you, Russian reader guy.
On a different note, let us (and by "us" I mean "I") talk about expectations. Expectations are a great thing to have, except maybe when it makes you spend all the money you own and makes you paranoid of neighbors who never change out of their wedding dress. However, some expectations can quickly be turned into disappointment. Take, for example, the AP scores the mailman oh-so-generously left me after I wrote an essay describing how his job is useless. 4, 4, 4, 5. Not bad. Scores that some kids would be ecstatic about. My reaction was nowhere near that. I sat there, for a moment, wondering how I had dipped so low as to only receive one five. Why was I so disappointed, I asked myself, when these were scores to be proud of?
The answer, of course, was because I was sitting in a room filled with highly intelligent people at the time. Had I been sitting, for example, in my APUSH class, I would have felt like a beamy ray of sunshine-filled happiness. The fact that everyone else in the room was on par with me intellectually greatly changed my excitement level toward the results.
Now, readers, I'm well aware that most of you have drawn the obvious moral of the story: surround yourself with stupid people to help your self esteem. Wrong. The moral of this story is the exact opposite. Seek out good company, those who don't annoy you, who can match every bit of your wit and intellect, who can ask you a question you can't answer, whose lexicon is just as diverse as yours, and whose opinions exist. Put yourself in the midst of worthy opponents, who can make you aware of the fact that you are not the very best. Only then do we get the taste of a greater expectation.
On a different note, let us (and by "us" I mean "I") talk about expectations. Expectations are a great thing to have, except maybe when it makes you spend all the money you own and makes you paranoid of neighbors who never change out of their wedding dress. However, some expectations can quickly be turned into disappointment. Take, for example, the AP scores the mailman oh-so-generously left me after I wrote an essay describing how his job is useless. 4, 4, 4, 5. Not bad. Scores that some kids would be ecstatic about. My reaction was nowhere near that. I sat there, for a moment, wondering how I had dipped so low as to only receive one five. Why was I so disappointed, I asked myself, when these were scores to be proud of?
The answer, of course, was because I was sitting in a room filled with highly intelligent people at the time. Had I been sitting, for example, in my APUSH class, I would have felt like a beamy ray of sunshine-filled happiness. The fact that everyone else in the room was on par with me intellectually greatly changed my excitement level toward the results.
Now, readers, I'm well aware that most of you have drawn the obvious moral of the story: surround yourself with stupid people to help your self esteem. Wrong. The moral of this story is the exact opposite. Seek out good company, those who don't annoy you, who can match every bit of your wit and intellect, who can ask you a question you can't answer, whose lexicon is just as diverse as yours, and whose opinions exist. Put yourself in the midst of worthy opponents, who can make you aware of the fact that you are not the very best. Only then do we get the taste of a greater expectation.
Sunday, July 8, 2012
Willful Obliviousness
A funny thing about humans is that if there's something they don't want to believe, they won't. You can pour in overwhelming amounts of evidence, but if they're in denial, it won't happen. In politics, it's annoying, in debate, it's painful, but in the public relations part of our life? It's pretty entertaining.
Yep. This post is Eli's relationship advice lecture. Ladies, gentlemen, listen up. Here we go.
Every time you think a guy's just being "really nice", he's sitting Somewhere nearby, staring at a camera, thinking to himself:
Yes, he's a nice guy, but I think I will take this opportunity to remind you of what I have oft spoken before (once, to be exact):
"Any good relationship needs to be built on a good deal of scheming."
Yes, lady. He's a nice guy normally. But you ignore the fact that he's doing things especially for YOU. Ever notice the little things? The carrying of a tray? Allowing you a better seat, or taking you on a walk down by the duck pond? Despite these actions being dropped with the subtlety of a brick, they seem to still be wonderfully uninterpreted.
Perhaps the use of these wonderfully wangsty photos help the idea sink in.
This picture is an answer to the first. Dude, ambiguous mutual crush is thinking about you at least a million times per day. Despite the short attention span this proves, this means that they're totally into you. Now notice it.
Even though the Internet is filled with these stupid pictures, there are signs even more obvious than the ones that have A MILLION TIMES written out in bright blue text. The signs are there. They are obvious, data waiting to be observed.
Now that the obvious has been stated, let's talk about why this phenomena, this willful ignorance, exists. The answer isn't too hard to reach. When somebody ignores an outcome, it's usually for two reasons: they either think it impossible or frightening. I think we have a bit of both here. Picture time!
Like I said, fear and impossibility. "There's no way they could like me back!" Bull. You're a likable person. Get over yourself and realize how awesome you are. If they didn't think you were cool at all, they wouldn't spend time with you. If they weren't trying to win your heart, they wouldn't spend every moment they could with you. Women, here's a little secret. If a guy likes you enough to where he is desperately trying to get your attention, you probably shouldn't second-guess yourself. Another secret:
This is also bull. Guys are not good emotion readers. It almost sounds hypocritical, but it would be nice if you just came up and asked us. We would love nothing more than to hear a conversation kind of like this:
"Hello, Man"
"Hello, Woman"
"Hey, Man. I notice that you talk to me enough for this to be statistically significant. Do you "like like" me?"
"Yep"
"Wanna hold hands?"
"Yep."
One final note: you're so arrogant, you probably think this post is about you. Yeah. It might be. It might also be directed at an additional crowd.
Peace out, readers.
Yep. This post is Eli's relationship advice lecture. Ladies, gentlemen, listen up. Here we go.
Every time you think a guy's just being "really nice", he's sitting Somewhere nearby, staring at a camera, thinking to himself:
Yes, he's a nice guy, but I think I will take this opportunity to remind you of what I have oft spoken before (once, to be exact):
"Any good relationship needs to be built on a good deal of scheming."
Yes, lady. He's a nice guy normally. But you ignore the fact that he's doing things especially for YOU. Ever notice the little things? The carrying of a tray? Allowing you a better seat, or taking you on a walk down by the duck pond? Despite these actions being dropped with the subtlety of a brick, they seem to still be wonderfully uninterpreted.
Perhaps the use of these wonderfully wangsty photos help the idea sink in.
This picture is an answer to the first. Dude, ambiguous mutual crush is thinking about you at least a million times per day. Despite the short attention span this proves, this means that they're totally into you. Now notice it.
Even though the Internet is filled with these stupid pictures, there are signs even more obvious than the ones that have A MILLION TIMES written out in bright blue text. The signs are there. They are obvious, data waiting to be observed.
Now that the obvious has been stated, let's talk about why this phenomena, this willful ignorance, exists. The answer isn't too hard to reach. When somebody ignores an outcome, it's usually for two reasons: they either think it impossible or frightening. I think we have a bit of both here. Picture time!
Like I said, fear and impossibility. "There's no way they could like me back!" Bull. You're a likable person. Get over yourself and realize how awesome you are. If they didn't think you were cool at all, they wouldn't spend time with you. If they weren't trying to win your heart, they wouldn't spend every moment they could with you. Women, here's a little secret. If a guy likes you enough to where he is desperately trying to get your attention, you probably shouldn't second-guess yourself. Another secret:
This is also bull. Guys are not good emotion readers. It almost sounds hypocritical, but it would be nice if you just came up and asked us. We would love nothing more than to hear a conversation kind of like this:
"Hello, Man"
"Hello, Woman"
"Hey, Man. I notice that you talk to me enough for this to be statistically significant. Do you "like like" me?"
"Yep"
"Wanna hold hands?"
"Yep."
One final note: you're so arrogant, you probably think this post is about you. Yeah. It might be. It might also be directed at an additional crowd.
Peace out, readers.
Friday, July 6, 2012
An Explanation For the Required Chinese Post, Followed by an Ironic Shout-Out
I don't actually hate tall people. And there are some tall people at Startalk. The funny thing about learning a different language is realizing how bland your lexicon is. With a vocabulary of under 1000 words, max, it is quite hard to play the language to finer times of meaning.
No, I don't hate tall people. In fact, I try not to hate people at all. It's stupid to becoming oblivious to reality by binding yourself to a certain way of thinking. But I do heartily dislike what they stand for: looking down on others. Pride. Generally unwarranted pride. I have come to notice something of those who have ample pride: by filling themselves with their own admiration, they seldom leave room for that of others.
Rather, I am a fan of meekness. Much like pride is belligerent stupidity, meekness is quiet strength. The meek are an incredibly rare group, but some of my favorite people live there. Meekness is a virtue that I have found myself hardly able to obtain. As much as I say I dislike pride, I'm a performer at heart. I try to do good work, and I don't usually actively brag, but I do enjoy applause and attention. Being good at something is hard, being both good and not talking about it: that is an art.
Ladies and gentlemen, let's give a hand to the meek.
No, I don't hate tall people. In fact, I try not to hate people at all. It's stupid to becoming oblivious to reality by binding yourself to a certain way of thinking. But I do heartily dislike what they stand for: looking down on others. Pride. Generally unwarranted pride. I have come to notice something of those who have ample pride: by filling themselves with their own admiration, they seldom leave room for that of others.
Rather, I am a fan of meekness. Much like pride is belligerent stupidity, meekness is quiet strength. The meek are an incredibly rare group, but some of my favorite people live there. Meekness is a virtue that I have found myself hardly able to obtain. As much as I say I dislike pride, I'm a performer at heart. I try to do good work, and I don't usually actively brag, but I do enjoy applause and attention. Being good at something is hard, being both good and not talking about it: that is an art.
Ladies and gentlemen, let's give a hand to the meek.
The Required Chinese Post
我今天不可以说英文。为什么？我的老师说，“如果你们不说英文，我给你加分和贴纸。”对。加分。和贴纸。 我现在三年级，可是我的中文不太好。 我不喜欢中文天， 可是我不恨那个。一面，我没有英文不可以说我心中的觉得 ，一面，我的中文说得很好。
This is the part where I say deep things:
中国人说：“高人一等”。那个说，“人想他们很重要” 非常真。 我知道很多高人（没有在星说）。他们觉得：“我最重要”。我不喜欢高人。
Whoa. That wasn’t deep at all. It’s kinda hard to be deep in
your non-native language.
Tuesday, July 3, 2012
Surprises
Yesterday, something happened to me that I don't admit to very often. I was taken completely by surprise. You know how it feels when you think you're the only person who knows about something, and then hear somebody talking about it like its nobody's business? Kind of like that. It's been three years since we met, and all this time, I was under the impression that girl from camp had no idea I had ever fallen for her. Imagine my surprise, when I hear it from the source's mouth herself:
"Hey Eli, remember our first year? And then on the last day when I figured out you were into me..."
What.
As far as I remembered, this information was never disclosed. I certainly could not of hinted at it at that time, since I was clad in the steel of social awkwardness. Now, nearly two years after that day, I'm finally informed there was no barrier between my thoughts and her knowledge.
Startalk, year three. Our friendship is alive and well. In fact, we're some of the very few survivors from our first year. We passed a unique point where we mutually friend zoned each other in the dark. Life moves on.
That's all. Enjoy my public emotional battlefields.
Peace out, readers.
"Hey Eli, remember our first year? And then on the last day when I figured out you were into me..."
What.
As far as I remembered, this information was never disclosed. I certainly could not of hinted at it at that time, since I was clad in the steel of social awkwardness. Now, nearly two years after that day, I'm finally informed there was no barrier between my thoughts and her knowledge.
Startalk, year three. Our friendship is alive and well. In fact, we're some of the very few survivors from our first year. We passed a unique point where we mutually friend zoned each other in the dark. Life moves on.
That's all. Enjoy my public emotional battlefields.
Peace out, readers.
Monday, July 2, 2012
Post-Curfew Post
Somebody just posted a fortune cookie quote on Facebook that was something to the effect of:
"Stop searching for happiness. It will find you."
Bullcrap.
The quest for happiness is not a passive one. One will not be able to obtain happiness if they just sit there waiting for it to come and embrace them in a bear hug of cheesiness. Rather, happiness is a business, an art, a final project that none of your group shows up for. The quest for happiness is indeed a very active one.
Take, for example, the quest for academic fulfillment, often mistaken as a quest for a 4.0 GPA. This is a journey that is not only painful but also impossible without taking an active role. Throughout my Junior year of high school, I pointedly improved the way I learned. In doing so, I realized that something had been missing from school. Something I had left behind in fifth grade. Excitement. Initiative. The need to learn, to take the class not for the grade, but for the material. I looked back at elementary school days, and realized how much happier I was. Not because of how ignorant I was, but the opposite. I knew things. I wanted to know things. I wanted to be the best. Alas, I was a minimalist. A fine ailment for a care-free child, but one to be feared when entering the hormone-sack prison we call middle school. For years, this disease carried itself with me. Only during the later part of this school year did I realize that my problem was that I had forgotten to be active, that my own mediocrity was because I wasn't allowing myself to be anything more than mediocre. As soon as that clicked, I found the last bit of junior year, despite being surrounded by hindrances, to be bliss. I had come full circle.
Cheesy teen romance is another great place to find the fruits of activity. So many foolish young people expect their one true love to fall from the sky. Nope. That's not how it works. As counterintuitive as it sounds, a good relationship needs to be based on a good deal of scheming. Let's face it. There's hardly a couple in the world that just "fell in love". Understandably, there are a few couples who have a mutual base of loveliness from the start, but by and large, there's a large deal of effort on part of one side to get noticed by the other. Whole epics could be written describing the arduous task of convincing somebody you exist. This is the effort taken to find happiness. Of course, there will be failures, but that's for a future post. The point remains that effort is necessary for any good relationship to begin to exist. An effort that carries on through the relationship, along with the rewards.
I'd love to write more, but I was supposed to be asleep 42 minutes ago.
Peace out, readers.
"Stop searching for happiness. It will find you."
Bullcrap.
The quest for happiness is not a passive one. One will not be able to obtain happiness if they just sit there waiting for it to come and embrace them in a bear hug of cheesiness. Rather, happiness is a business, an art, a final project that none of your group shows up for. The quest for happiness is indeed a very active one.
Take, for example, the quest for academic fulfillment, often mistaken as a quest for a 4.0 GPA. This is a journey that is not only painful but also impossible without taking an active role. Throughout my Junior year of high school, I pointedly improved the way I learned. In doing so, I realized that something had been missing from school. Something I had left behind in fifth grade. Excitement. Initiative. The need to learn, to take the class not for the grade, but for the material. I looked back at elementary school days, and realized how much happier I was. Not because of how ignorant I was, but the opposite. I knew things. I wanted to know things. I wanted to be the best. Alas, I was a minimalist. A fine ailment for a care-free child, but one to be feared when entering the hormone-sack prison we call middle school. For years, this disease carried itself with me. Only during the later part of this school year did I realize that my problem was that I had forgotten to be active, that my own mediocrity was because I wasn't allowing myself to be anything more than mediocre. As soon as that clicked, I found the last bit of junior year, despite being surrounded by hindrances, to be bliss. I had come full circle.
Cheesy teen romance is another great place to find the fruits of activity. So many foolish young people expect their one true love to fall from the sky. Nope. That's not how it works. As counterintuitive as it sounds, a good relationship needs to be based on a good deal of scheming. Let's face it. There's hardly a couple in the world that just "fell in love". Understandably, there are a few couples who have a mutual base of loveliness from the start, but by and large, there's a large deal of effort on part of one side to get noticed by the other. Whole epics could be written describing the arduous task of convincing somebody you exist. This is the effort taken to find happiness. Of course, there will be failures, but that's for a future post. The point remains that effort is necessary for any good relationship to begin to exist. An effort that carries on through the relationship, along with the rewards.
I'd love to write more, but I was supposed to be asleep 42 minutes ago.
Peace out, readers.
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