I cut my hair after leaving dance, a gesture that has historically been symbolic of both freedom and grief.
I'm back now (kind of), in pit, because it's only 1 season. It's not really
Pit is perverted. I've been in it for less than a week, and already, we have lubed the drummers' cars (real KY Jelly), repeatedly told the drum major his weenis (the end of one's elbow) is showing, etc.

- posted by pocketlint @ 2:08 PM|

 
Washington, D.C.

It was an amazing experience.

Personalities really change based on the expectations of people around you. In DC, I did not overachieve. Everyone was so intelligent that I probably couldn't have overachieved if I had tried, but I really didn't try.


This is a picture of our little crew. We got in trouble on the first day...I think in the two weeks, we got in trouble 2 or 3 other times.

Everyone was so unique:
The tough New Yorker taught me the correct way to "twahwk". Cool people say "hot dwog" for the thing in a bun you put ketchup and mustard on, and "yeeh" when answering in the informal affirmative. She also taught me the three places to hit someone to kill them, and how to play poker.
The young businessman was the only guy who didn't swagger. Unfortunately, even the security guards made fun of him for carrying his backpack like a briefcase and powerwalking everwhere.


She probably dances-like-no-one's-watching more than anyone I know.
There's a story behind this picture. She had a fever, so that explains the ice. We danced in the hotel room, but it was not particularly delirious activity for her, anyway.


We found out that it is impossible to buy a sweet sixteen dress at Forever 21 (obviously not for me...I don't buy things there) because it's hard to tell what article of clothing you're trying on. This is a picture of the guys trying on scarves that we initially thought were supposed to be shirts.

- posted by pocketlint @ 5:34 PM|

 
Drugs, lies, an ATM machine, blackmail, an abortion, debts...
Wow, I so need a private journal (I'd blog about it, but it's not about me, and other people's privacy should be preserved to a certain extent)

- posted by pocketlint @ 11:22 PM|

 
The Overachievers' Club (please have your standardized test score ready to go at the entrance)

Perfection.
It should be reassuring, but it's so sinister. Like a serial killer's smile. The way the word curls around your tongue and ends in the finality of "tion", one single point, an acme of being that cannot be found in the way life moves.

"You're not wearing that, are you?" my mom asks. The holes are miniscule, really, but I change anyway, into something that's just as messy but doesn't have holes.

We creep into the meeting fifteen minutes late, making a lot of noise. I notice the overwhelming number of formally-dressed Asian overachievers. I wave at Grace, who I seem to see everywhere (mock democratic convention, SATs, various loserly board game/ice cream get-togethers....).

It's serious, this question of post-high-school education. The lady in front who's usually so nice to me is barely even civil anymore. It's a race, it's a fight, I feel the tension in the air as the speaker in front describes the wonderful features of the university.

"...We have wonderful extracurricular activities, such as the Anti-gravity Association---they're jugglers..."
[forced laughter from crowd, all the parents sizing each other up and glaring from behind the pearly whites]

For once, I'm glad to see the few people who don't look that serious, but must be if they're here.
The guy with the hair down to his collar, who appears to be half-sleeping. The girl next to me who looks like Paris Hilton, but almost drools when the speaker announces the bountiful opportunities for community service. The stupid guy from my math class (maybe he's not as stupid as he seems?).
My little sister continues crinkling the plastic bag way more than is necessary to eat a sandwich.

"...Now, our typical applicant has an SAT score of 1500, that's 750 verbal and 750 math..."

The speaker sneaks that in after a few jokes, and the overachievers all pretend to look like they could care less. It's a game, perfection.

"...However, anywhere from 1380 to 1600 is in the ballpark..."
I am a bit more relieved. However, my brain kicks in and starts calculating (why can't it do that better when I'm actually taking the SAT math section?) percentages, how many of the people in this room can actually get in, and it's not pretty.

"...and we rejected 60% of the applicants this year who had 1600, so having a perfect score does
not mean you're a shoo-in---I can hear the sighs of relief at that..."
It could be interpreted one of two ways, though, depending on which end of the ballpark your seats are at (sorry, ended a sentence in "at", according to the rules of grammar, I think that's illegal)

I have tried to break my addiction to words but it is words like that one (p-e-r-f-e-c-t-i-o-n: noun. The state of being perfect.) that keep me here.

To me, the good news is the admissions essay:"...The worst thing you can do is go buy a book on how to write an admissions essay and follow it exactly. It can be written however you want."
I toy with the idea of raising my hand and asking if it can be a series of haikus (is the plural "haikus" or "haiku"?) or a set of photographs, but decide that that's too dangerous, considering the guy whose speaking is on the admissions board.

"It can be written however you want, and should show your personality."
Now dat's what I'm talkin' 'bout, brutha!

- posted by pocketlint @ 10:54 PM|

 
On the other hand, political correctness could make the art of narrative extremely depressing, and rather ridiculous:

So I woke up, lazily throwing on a pair of "oppressing someone in Indonesia" that perfectly matched my "sweatshop slavery in Guatemala", and stumbled down the stairs. For breakfast, I had a glass of skim "cruelty to cows" and some bread. Leaping into my Nike "manufactured by a third-world kid whose fingers are bleeding and eyes are blind", I barely had time to catch the "mammoth factory of greenhouse gases and consumer of precious fossil fuels" before it groaned and roared off to pick up everyone else. At "still-not-equalized indoctrination of the American public", we barely stayed awake through history, where we learned about Pizarro conquering "oppressed, intelligent, and technologically less barbaric Native South American non-whites". In math, we learned more about linear equations, which has yet to be politically corrected, but will be soon because of the implication that it HAS TO BE A LINE. At "cruelty to something or other, you big fat consumer" (alias/formerly known as lunch), I stood in the taco line in hopes of striking up conversation with the "oppressed workers", disgusted at the pinatas that were meant to make the tacos more authentic. I am proud that my group of friends includes both "oppressed" (non-Caucasian; female) and "non-oppressed" (Caucasian; male).

- posted by pocketlint @ 9:41 AM|

 
For Shawna's surprise party (an ill-advised venture, but what can we do?), I was forced to sign up for AIM, which I hadn't re-downloaded after we upgraded computers because I was wasting way too much time on it. Anyway, I put my birthday as 1/9/1670. Apparently, they'll tell you that your email is invalid, but they won't tell you that you're dead (or cryogenically frozen, or cloned and choose to go by your original birthday, etc. etc.)

- posted by pocketlint @ 5:10 PM|

 
Surprises are nice, like the Spanish discussion group that turned into a Spanish folksong session. The guy with the smile like Santa Claus was singing, fingers dancing over the borrowed guitar. The sad lady and the grandfatherly figure with the eyebrows joined in, conjuring up images of lonely nights and untraveled roads in the little room in the library. The self-assured college newbie didn't know what to think, coming from a place where surprises are easier to squash because they come in a language you understand.

- posted by pocketlint @ 4:37 PM|

 
Multiple personality disorder
The main cause behind adolescence:
 
"I don't want to be labeled" / Avril Lavigne
"I'm mature, I'm independent" / "Mom, Dad, can I have $30,000 for, um, a...science project?"
"My parents are so stuffy, but I'm liberal" / "Dogs are black too" (seriously, Faxon and I heard
                                                                                                 from the teens behind us at the movies,
                                                                                          obviously political correctness is lost upon
                                                                                                            some)

- posted by pocketlint @ 4:26 PM|

 
Cherub-o's (Evil genius) diary
There has always been an uneasy peace between the camps of Nurture and Nature, and I feel it is my turn to weigh in.
 
While I believe that every child is born with an inherent evil, slithery personality waiting to erupt in an explosion of teeth and fangs ( my publicist, who suffered an unfortunate...accident...told me I should use imagery to liven things up), this evil must be nursed carefully, or it will always be stunted and somewhat lacking (like Keanu Reeves in Little Buddha)
 
The first step is to eliminate that plague called guilt that affects, yes, even most evil geniuses. This is extremely easy---our society is designed to eliminate guilt. Just buy a couple of movies with titles involving words such as "Ultimate", "Lethal", or "Muppets", and watch the conscience disappear! Alternatively, for the cheapskate (what makes the difference between rich evil genius and homeless bum), the news is good enough.
 
Another important step is to place the child in the public school system, where he or she will learn essential lessons like the unfairness of being shoved in a toilet, and the concept of bully or be bullied. This will breed resentment against the world at large, as well as one or more mental disorders.
 
Self-control is the most important virtue of hardworking members of society, such as ascetic nuns, taste testers, doctors, and of course, evil geniuses. Help the trainee gain self-control by placing sharp objects and weapons of mass destruction in his/her room, his/her bathroom, everywhere he/she will be every waking moment! I'm sure your hormonal teenager, angry at the f***ing world, HOW STUPID IT ALL IS, will be perfectly well behaved, and nothing violent will happen. However, if anything opposite occurs, you didn't hear it from me.
 

- posted by pocketlint @ 4:04 PM|

 
My Experience Herding 17 2nd graders

Little kids are delightfully devious.
"If the guys lose, they have to dress like girls," the little devil on their side offers.
"They have to shave their legs and wear thongs!" exclaims the little devil on our side (gleefully)...

Interlude: Being a camp counselor is awesome. It's a weekend, what happens stays there, and the chances are good that you'll never see each other again. Bonding happens quickly and unusually. You talk to people who you'd never otherwise be seen with, if the normal social hierarchies were in place.

...We were discussing the terms of the volleyball game. On our side, me, Shirley, Billee the cheerleader, Alexa the caffeine-addict, and the aforementioned little devil. On their side, two football players, Cody and Josh, and the aforementioned little devil.
It's planned out: If the girls lose, we scrub their toilets (who knows what they'd do to them), if the guys lose, they cross-dress.

"No, I won't bet, it's a religious thing," protests Josh.
"C'mon, man, it's just for shits and giggles," Cody whines.
"Actually, that's very literal," I remark.
"Yeah, if they lose, it's shit, and if we lose, it's giggles for them," Cody finishes.
However, the game's just a little unfair, especially if Josh won't play, and the only thing left for Cody is to grab the ball and run...

Interlude: The adults assume that we, as counselors, are responsible. So when the lights go down, there is absolutely no supervision. The only rule of that sort is that girls are not allowed in the guys' dorm, and vice versa (because certain people were kind of getting it on last year). However, no one said anything about a little game of nighttime volleyball.

...Flashlights are set down in the corners.
"That was OUT!!!"
"That was INNNNNNNN!!"
"Dude, I can't even see the ball, because of the backlighting."
"It's not my fault I close my eyes when the ball comes!"
"Ergh!"
"Look, we can't see the net, we can't see the ball, we can't even see each other!"
Josh is the gentleman. Cody is the idiot.
We abandon the volleyball for a game of cards.
"Meet you guys at the top of the hill in 20 minutes."
We go back to "freshen up"...

Interlude: It's a heritage camp for adopted children, who are extremely cute, though hygienically questionable. Maybe it's just the camp setting that makes us counselors much less mature. Maybe it's hanging around all day with kids, and being influenced by that. The adults assume that just being Chinese gives Shirley and me the associated mad skills, such as Chinese jump roping (which we learn in 10 minutes and have to teach the kids). I realize that aside from speaking Chinese, I'm not really that in tune with my Asian roots. I don't even know how to play mah-johng. Which is why the game of cards we have chosen is BS.

...The Freshening:
"Look, let's flirt with them," volunteers(jokes?) Billee the cheerleader. "There is still time for the shirts to come off."
"We have to find a way to cheat. They're going to be cheating too."
20 minutes later, we still have not established a method for cheating.

"Mind if I turn on a little music?" Cody switches up his "rock" music. It's kind of an emo band, but designed to be distracting.
The only cheating is the most obvious kind. We girls sit together. Shirley and I speak Chinese (the others we are playing with are non-Chinese since the Chinese counselors are enjoying a game of mah-johnng) and add up the cards. Alexa asks me to pass her a six, but I have absolutely no idea how to do that.
Cody has his male ego that causes him to believe he can still beat us.
In the final legs of the game, Josh accuses us of having cheated the whole game (true), so we stop, being at a point where it is inevitable that we will win. I am told that I am a good liar.
Josh finds this all amusing and abandons his friend to our whims.
When we finally win, Alexa grabs Cody's hat to try to keep him from fleeing. He agrees to meet us in one hour to get the shrieking females off his back (this is literal as well). The mah-johnng table ignores us.

We shower and prepare the outfits, forcing ourselves to be slightly calmer so we don't disturb sleeping children.
"Look," says Billee, who is extremely nice, "let's not shave his legs because, you know, leg hair grows back differently. It's, like, thick, and not as soft as before, and we don't want Cody to be...furry. Let's not pluck his eyebrows either."
And nobody wants to donate a thong to the effort, for obvious reasons.
"Can I still dangle the pluckers and the razor, to scare him?"
I practice on the rest of them.
"Sure."
"Is a black bra under a white shirt too slutty?" asks Billee. See, girls think of everything.
"Just bring the beige one, too." And the digital camera, of course.

"Have you guys seen our victims?" we ask the mah-johnng table.
"Is that Skintimate?" The guys at the mah-johnng table either smirk or wince for their fellow male, depending on their niceness.
"Yes."
"Why'd you let them go? I would've just shaved them right there. You shouldn't trust them."
Of course, they don't show up. We go down to their cabin. They've jammed a chair behind the door, and because of the stupid rules, we can't go in.
There are two suspicious lumps, under the protection of the Spiderman poster, nestled amidst the Pringles.

We go back to our place and discuss it until 2:30 am. We consider the moral implications, whether we would've won had we not cheated, whether we were taking advantage of Josh's gentlemanliness, whether the pride is satisfaction enough (especially since we abandoned the prank idea for the bet), what to do now, whether Cody was high during the game, whether the guys are really sleeping or just pretending to, and whether they would want to play another friendly game of cards ("Hanging around with little kids all day, especially so many little girls, you just need to interact with the opposite sex," Billee sighs. Then she repeats the words "opposite sex" to entertain Alexa. "Yeah, it was fun playing cards with them."). We venture back to their place twice more to shine flashlights. We overanalyze the whole situation, thinking in circles. It ended up that Cody was just sick. He had thrown up. They were really sleeping.

Oh, and about herding the kids. That was a'ight. We didn't lose any.
- posted by pocketlint @ 7:06 PM|

 
Lasts suck. Cannot think of anything englightened to say.
Last time watching the band's practice block. Heel, heel, squinting, all in step now, all in time.
Last practice block. When will I ever again feel the frustration of continuous right left pop tosses? You drop one and it's hard to get back in, it mirrors life. Dance and colorguard: it's an art, it's a science, it's a sport, it's a way of life.

"Hi," I haven't seen her for years, and here she approaches with a fake smile before I can attach myself to a group of friends and leave. "So, I hear something about your parents forcing you to quit?"
The silent pressing means that she wonders if I am flunking my classes.
"Yup."
"Why?"
"They're crazy." My evasiveness confirms her doubts, and I don't bother to correct them. It's useless trying to change people's thoughts, might as well use it as an experiment in how rumors are spread.

Rose Parade wasn't something like fall or winter, where you could leave your heart on the field or floor. What we thought was water was apparently horse pee. Last time marching with the bandies, bright red uniforms, bright red sunburned patches on our noses.
Return to the monotony. "All things that we ordained festival, turn from their office to black funeral..."
The sun which has so long been our enemy sneers at our lasts--- idiotic humans with their little emotions. Reach for the stars, and find out they're balls of gas. Hearts bleed, unlike neat little rows during Valentine's day. Why are we yet so sentimental?

I cannot keep my thoughts together because this team has sheltered me, and it's all coming apart.
- posted by pocketlint @ 6:05 PM|