My computer got infected by a virus sometime yesterday, and so far the unwelcome guest is really testing the limits of my hospitality. I was generous at first, giving it the lion's share of the CPU and tolerating its flurry of popups when the browser wasn't even open, but when the screen burst into flames I knew I'd had enough. I opened my Common Sense handbook and started taking what we lawyers call "countermeasures."
First I went online and downloaded some more viruses, hoping they'd somehow fight and cancel each other out, including the one I'm currently hosting. This totally didn't go according to plan. Somehow, they managed to find a common ground and united against me.
Then I downloaded three anti-virus/anti-spyware programs: avast!, AVG, and the fearsomely named Spybot - Search & Destroy.
Ad-Aware was already running on my computer, but the viruses had kidnapped its family so it wasn't to be trusted.
I started up all three at the same time, and once again, expectations were not met. These guys are as individualistic as it gets. Instead of doing their job, all they do is moan about not being compatible with your other anti-virus programs. I ended up having to run them sequentially.
Good news: Spybot Search & Destroy found 8 googolplex viruses, and destroyed them all. Avast! did a boot-time scan, and deleted everything on my computer that sounded suspicious and everything else that sounded a little too unsuspicious.
Bad news: absolutely nothing has changed from a user's perspective. The flurry of popups and the obnoxious CPU usage remain standing strong. Also, AVG failed completely. It just threw up its hands and crashed. Twice. And then it crashed during uninstall.
Good news: as soon as I turn off my Internet connection, my computer starts behaving reasonably sanely.
Bad news: without Internet, I will wither and die in 3 hours.
Ok, time for some more scanning. I'm starting to think I'm dealing with SkyNet or something. There's always the tried and true unplug-computer-then-throw-it-down-onto-an-uncarpeted-floor-and-stomp-on-it method, but I'm willing to wait another 15 minutes and see if these anti-virus/anti-anti-virus clowns can get the job done.
Ok, back from scanning. Results:
Avast! should be renamed to Pure Evil!. First of all, it starts on system startup, something I absolutely hate in a program. Usually, in this scenario, I'll Run msconfig and uncheck it under startup/services, but this didn't fly with avast!. I resorted to my trusted Spybot Search & Destroy to take care of the problem. Spybot is capable of detecting registry changes and asking you for confirmation or denial. Usually this looks something like "A program calling itself SlowPainfulDeathToYourComputer is requesting to add a value to your registry, would you like to allow the change?" Then you click Yes, and are successfully infected. Except this time I was being infected by my own anti-virus.
I did the usual, and went to msconfig. When I removed avast! from the startup queue, Spybot asked me if I was sure. There was no option for Hell Yes, so I settled for Yes. A split-second later, Spyboy tells me avast! tried to reenable avast! to start on system startup, do I want to allow this? I said No of course, and got the same message a split second later. Avast! was playing dirty! The next time the query came up, I said "Remember my decision" and was treated to a veritable battle of anti-virus software. Every second or so, Spybot would report to me about successfully thwarting another attempt by avast!. I watched this for a minute, then uninstalled avast! altogether. I wish it were that simple with viruses.
Ten minutes later, I'm in the same situation with my friendly nearby virus. I managed to track down one of its tentacles in the registry, and deleted the key. A second later, deja-vu:
"value added in registry for yigivoguvu, do you want to allow?"
"No. Remember my decision."
Now I'm enjoying the same "denied change" message flickering on my screen, except this time for "yigivoguvu," a random name picked by my latest malware resident, one apparently called Virtumonde. Hopefully Spybot can live up to its name and destroy it once and for all.
...
Ok, after some more unsuccessful attempts at getting rid of stuff with Spybot and manually, I downloaded 15 more anti-virus utilities, including Kaspersky, Webroot and Norton. Webroot was doing great, finding all these viruses on my computer and even freshening up the air in my room, but then it demanded $40 for the task of deleting all those viruses and I showed it to the door. Currently Kaspersky is doing his thing, we'll see if he's any more charitable. I'm starting to get sick of this though.
Funny:
Mark: lust caution
Mark: no martial arts
Mark: so u should be fine with it
Mario: they are too cautious for fighting?
Mario: lets fight!...woah, wait, we might get hurt
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Monday, March 16, 2009
Crime and Punishment
Speaking English in this house is generally a no-no. However, people have been getting away with it for years, especially since Gets-Away-With-It was born. (My sister's maiden name). However, when the prospect of losing the mother tongue becomes apparent, drastic measures are taken. Several years ago, I was commissioned to invent a fun way to punish language offenders. I came up with a silly game consisting of only one rule: If you say an English word and don't immediately correct yourself, you have to come up with five synonyms in Russian, or else meet the dreaded "or else." You also get a point. At the end of the week, the person with the most points gets put up for adoption or crossed out in the will or has to wash dishes or something.
The game was an instant hit, and my sister struggled a bit and got back into the speaking Russian mindset. Then the game was abandoned. (strings come in, melancholy and mysterious)
Well today, a comeback was staged. Seeing as everyone in this house is just full of English words to say, there was really no other choice, if only to give our ears a short respite. The effects were immediate: dinner was highly anomalous. Contrary to custom, it wasn't Michelle's story-telling hour. Instead, we were treated to horror-movie silence, with everyone poised to pounce on each other's throats at the first non-Slavic syllable. I'm now suffering from a mild case of middle-school gossip withdrawal and cat-got-your-tongue disease.
Actually, being a gentleman of outstanding wisdom who thinks before he opens his mouth, I pretty much rock at this game. The other three however, live a life full of adventure. To even things out, they united against me this evening and made me read The Time Traveler's Wife out loud to them till their scores didn't look so pitiful.
My sister's been assigned a project on a most fascinating and fresh topic - why tobacco is bad. She needs the whole shebang - poster, slogan, a pair of fresh crispy-black lungs, and of course an essay. She came to me for ideas, her own being full of blood and guts and oral cancer. After throwing up all over her shoes, I gave her a slightly dangerous suggestion.
I figured that everyone's going to be writing about tobacco staining the back of your head yellow and making your toenails become self-aware and about oral cancer of course; everyone's going to be dragging in their uncle Carl who talks through a harmonica in his throat and the infant corpses of their unborn brother or sisters. Everyone's going to be showing off their collection of family tumors, and in that case there's really just a slim chance that hers is the biggest, especially since we only patronize hard drugs like sugar in this house.
So I told her to write about how it's too expensive a habit to maintain. Now I'm thinking it may backfire. On her. It seemed like a good idea at the time but knowing the conservative audience (her teachers), I'm starting to think I just signed her up for her first mandatory appointment with a psychiastrist. Oh well, too late now, we're not due to talk for another month.
By the way, there's an excellent article on writing that everyone should read before they write anything at all: "How to Say Nothing in 500 Words."
The game was an instant hit, and my sister struggled a bit and got back into the speaking Russian mindset. Then the game was abandoned. (strings come in, melancholy and mysterious)
Well today, a comeback was staged. Seeing as everyone in this house is just full of English words to say, there was really no other choice, if only to give our ears a short respite. The effects were immediate: dinner was highly anomalous. Contrary to custom, it wasn't Michelle's story-telling hour. Instead, we were treated to horror-movie silence, with everyone poised to pounce on each other's throats at the first non-Slavic syllable. I'm now suffering from a mild case of middle-school gossip withdrawal and cat-got-your-tongue disease.
Actually, being a gentleman of outstanding wisdom who thinks before he opens his mouth, I pretty much rock at this game. The other three however, live a life full of adventure. To even things out, they united against me this evening and made me read The Time Traveler's Wife out loud to them till their scores didn't look so pitiful.
My sister's been assigned a project on a most fascinating and fresh topic - why tobacco is bad. She needs the whole shebang - poster, slogan, a pair of fresh crispy-black lungs, and of course an essay. She came to me for ideas, her own being full of blood and guts and oral cancer. After throwing up all over her shoes, I gave her a slightly dangerous suggestion.
I figured that everyone's going to be writing about tobacco staining the back of your head yellow and making your toenails become self-aware and about oral cancer of course; everyone's going to be dragging in their uncle Carl who talks through a harmonica in his throat and the infant corpses of their unborn brother or sisters. Everyone's going to be showing off their collection of family tumors, and in that case there's really just a slim chance that hers is the biggest, especially since we only patronize hard drugs like sugar in this house.
So I told her to write about how it's too expensive a habit to maintain. Now I'm thinking it may backfire. On her. It seemed like a good idea at the time but knowing the conservative audience (her teachers), I'm starting to think I just signed her up for her first mandatory appointment with a psychiastrist. Oh well, too late now, we're not due to talk for another month.
By the way, there's an excellent article on writing that everyone should read before they write anything at all: "How to Say Nothing in 500 Words."
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Nothing Happens Pretty Often
Mom finally listened to my songs. I'm suddenly not sure at all if it was a good idea to let her sensitive ears anywhere near my creations. With her suggestions, seems the album won't be released till 2013 after all. Back to the studio for me.
Ok, just emerged from the home studio.
Good news: album release is being pushed (pulled?) to this year.
Bad news: it's getting pushed up because making it significantly better is a pain in the ass and takes way too much skills and patience. My patience is tied up keeping my pants from falling down, so the album's going to have to suck it up and suck a little more.
The latest developments concerning OCD:
Pei: my roommate was cleaning up the balcony. I was helping her.
Mark: by yelling at her to clean faster?
Pei: she is a monica indeed. I kept telling her, it's ok it's ok...
Pei: but she wouldn't listen. :D
Pei: I don't mind there is trash on the balcony.
Pei: I don't live on the balcony
Mark: hmm, so we have 4 degrees of people
Mark: ur roommate doesn't care if there's trash on the moon
Mark: u don't care if there's trash on the balcony
Mark: i don't care if there's trash in my room
Mark: and mario doesn't care if there's trash in his breakfast cereal
...I feel like we're missing a degree in between the last two. And Franco with his putting-trash-in-the-fridge needs to be in there somewhere.
On Americans:
Pei: americans like turtles
...
Mark: do u think americans have actually been on the moon?
Madelyn: not really...
...
Pei: how slow american clocks run
...
Pei: I blame american everything
...
Pei: I believe americans are weird
...
Pei: yea americans need help
...
Pei: of course I know. and I know the reasons too. I think it's because american faces are too big.
...
Pei: u ignorant american people
...
Mark: i'm an american
Zhang: qu ! (get away from me)
...
Zhang: sorry, forgot u r american
...
Zhang: silly american cannot understand
Oof, Chinese people sure have a lot to say about Americans, especially when looked at out of context.
Today was low on ideas for blog-writing, so Madelyn helped me out:
Madelyn: what about a glass of water
Madelyn: what will you think of when you see a glass of water
Hmm...who knows what I would have thought of before. Now I'm doomed (blessed?) to think of this conversation.
Madelyn: haha
Mark: haha is an idea or just haha-ing?
Inspiration, where are you?
Ok, just emerged from the home studio.
Good news: album release is being pushed (pulled?) to this year.
Bad news: it's getting pushed up because making it significantly better is a pain in the ass and takes way too much skills and patience. My patience is tied up keeping my pants from falling down, so the album's going to have to suck it up and suck a little more.
The latest developments concerning OCD:
Pei: my roommate was cleaning up the balcony. I was helping her.
Mark: by yelling at her to clean faster?
Pei: she is a monica indeed. I kept telling her, it's ok it's ok...
Pei: but she wouldn't listen. :D
Pei: I don't mind there is trash on the balcony.
Pei: I don't live on the balcony
Mark: hmm, so we have 4 degrees of people
Mark: ur roommate doesn't care if there's trash on the moon
Mark: u don't care if there's trash on the balcony
Mark: i don't care if there's trash in my room
Mark: and mario doesn't care if there's trash in his breakfast cereal
...I feel like we're missing a degree in between the last two. And Franco with his putting-trash-in-the-fridge needs to be in there somewhere.
On Americans:
Pei: americans like turtles
...
Mark: do u think americans have actually been on the moon?
Madelyn: not really...
...
Pei: how slow american clocks run
...
Pei: I blame american everything
...
Pei: I believe americans are weird
...
Pei: yea americans need help
...
Pei: of course I know. and I know the reasons too. I think it's because american faces are too big.
...
Pei: u ignorant american people
...
Mark: i'm an american
Zhang: qu ! (get away from me)
...
Zhang: sorry, forgot u r american
...
Zhang: silly american cannot understand
Oof, Chinese people sure have a lot to say about Americans, especially when looked at out of context.
Today was low on ideas for blog-writing, so Madelyn helped me out:
Madelyn: what about a glass of water
Madelyn: what will you think of when you see a glass of water
Hmm...who knows what I would have thought of before. Now I'm doomed (blessed?) to think of this conversation.
Madelyn: haha
Mark: haha is an idea or just haha-ing?
Inspiration, where are you?
Friday, March 13, 2009
Lies
I finally shaved today, mostly hair off of my face, but also about about 10 years worth of appearance. I am now smooth as a freshly flogged bottom, and finally less hairy. I can almost understand why Mario wants to get a Brazilian wax so badly, smooth skin is fun. Unfortunately, other people know it's fun too, and I'm starting to feel a little bit like one of those greasy goats at the petting zoo.
The sugar low is still killing me. I haven't started dreaming about chocolate yet, which means the worst is yet to come, but they sing to me from every cabinet in the kitchen, every bookshelf, every desk drawer, from under every upturned bowl. Yes, this is a very loaded house for a person in my position. My dental floss lies right next to a big jar of Jolly Ranchers that scream "Eat Me!" I almost accidentally strangled myself the last time I flossed.
Still, I lucked out. No sweets is a trifle compared to what could have been. You have to know Gene a bit to understand what I'm talking about.
Gene is a fan of drastic measures. If you say "let's take a vacation" and then pop a Honey Nut Cheerio, before you can crack it open he's already found a buyer for the house. If you suggest a half-hour meditation, you get put in the meditation stocks for three hours. When I naively released "let's not eat sugary foods for a month," just before I decided whether or not it was meant rhetorically, Gene was already pitching his own version: "That's ridiculous! Just give up sweets? That's way too hard. We're not eating at all."
Fortunately I have a mother who still has residual maternal instincts.
More polls below. Can you believe these are people's actual responses? Me neither.
If someone says/does something and you have the urge to feel offended, what do you do?
Mark: impossible situation. I'm always offended to begin with, saves me the trouble.
Ellen: impossible situation. I never leave the house and I screen my calls.
Mario: impossible situation. The urge to get offended? I've definitely never felt that...until now! How dare you accuse me of such a thing!
Gene: oof, that's a tough one. On the one hand, if I get offended, I get to skip today's movie according to the rules of the no-getting-frustrated 30-day trial. On the other hand, if I don't, I'll miss out on the 3 hour meditation to surrender the offended feeling to Buddha. Ah, never mind, impossible situation! I'm on a 30-day trial of not having any urges.
Chun: I keep on writin' that med school essay. It's not going to write itself! Although...maybe the tear stains on the paper will get me some bonus points! You think?
Pei: they will apologize. I will provide dirty looks and the silent treatment as hints.
Lucy: you ever seen Oldboy? I wouldn't do a damn thing differently.
Perry: make up sex usually solves the problem. Sometimes you need a stand-in though. Sometimes both of you do; wouldn't want to exacerbate the situation. God, people are ugly!
Igor: why would Renata say/do something like that?
Madelyn: get offended. Then buy lots and lots of shoes. Then take slow and painful revenge. First I play mind games with them until they beg for mercy, then I shoot them in the back of the head, 1984 style. HAHAHAHA!
Funny:
Mark: when do you want to go? (to the grocery store)
Gene: never
...
Gene: but in 30 minutes is fine
The sugar low is still killing me. I haven't started dreaming about chocolate yet, which means the worst is yet to come, but they sing to me from every cabinet in the kitchen, every bookshelf, every desk drawer, from under every upturned bowl. Yes, this is a very loaded house for a person in my position. My dental floss lies right next to a big jar of Jolly Ranchers that scream "Eat Me!" I almost accidentally strangled myself the last time I flossed.
Still, I lucked out. No sweets is a trifle compared to what could have been. You have to know Gene a bit to understand what I'm talking about.
Gene is a fan of drastic measures. If you say "let's take a vacation" and then pop a Honey Nut Cheerio, before you can crack it open he's already found a buyer for the house. If you suggest a half-hour meditation, you get put in the meditation stocks for three hours. When I naively released "let's not eat sugary foods for a month," just before I decided whether or not it was meant rhetorically, Gene was already pitching his own version: "That's ridiculous! Just give up sweets? That's way too hard. We're not eating at all."
Fortunately I have a mother who still has residual maternal instincts.
More polls below. Can you believe these are people's actual responses? Me neither.
If someone says/does something and you have the urge to feel offended, what do you do?
Mark: impossible situation. I'm always offended to begin with, saves me the trouble.
Ellen: impossible situation. I never leave the house and I screen my calls.
Mario: impossible situation. The urge to get offended? I've definitely never felt that...until now! How dare you accuse me of such a thing!
Gene: oof, that's a tough one. On the one hand, if I get offended, I get to skip today's movie according to the rules of the no-getting-frustrated 30-day trial. On the other hand, if I don't, I'll miss out on the 3 hour meditation to surrender the offended feeling to Buddha. Ah, never mind, impossible situation! I'm on a 30-day trial of not having any urges.
Chun: I keep on writin' that med school essay. It's not going to write itself! Although...maybe the tear stains on the paper will get me some bonus points! You think?
Pei: they will apologize. I will provide dirty looks and the silent treatment as hints.
Lucy: you ever seen Oldboy? I wouldn't do a damn thing differently.
Perry: make up sex usually solves the problem. Sometimes you need a stand-in though. Sometimes both of you do; wouldn't want to exacerbate the situation. God, people are ugly!
Igor: why would Renata say/do something like that?
Madelyn: get offended. Then buy lots and lots of shoes. Then take slow and painful revenge. First I play mind games with them until they beg for mercy, then I shoot them in the back of the head, 1984 style. HAHAHAHA!
Funny:
Mark: when do you want to go? (to the grocery store)
Gene: never
...
Gene: but in 30 minutes is fine
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Coming Soon To Your Friendly Nearby Internet
I've been writing and recording music lately, trying to get enough songs together to get an album up on iTunes. Quantity has finally reached its goal, and I've been sneakily testing quality on various so-called friends and family. The reviews/reactions so far have been pretty mixed. My friends in China generally give me at least one thumb up, partly because their culture doesn't allow them to voice criticism, and partly because of the One-Person-One-Thumb policy in China.
My family is generally supportive, though they express this support in very different ways. The "generally supportive" average is reached primarily thanks to my sister, who lavishes praise with a heavy hand regardless and especially irregardless of quality. (Somewhere Perry is getting very very angry about my word usage. Lucy, do what you can for him). "Mark! You wrote that!?" she shrieks. "It's soo good! You're amazing!" My guess is that up till now she thought I was clinically retarded, because I can literally play one chord and elicit that response.
My mother, the most musically inclined of my subscribers, is eager to listen to my creations but only has time to do so on the 32nd of every month. Never fear, my supreme patience is holding stong.
Gene, who now runs out of the house if you call him "Dad," gives a two-for-one deal: reserved praise and vague criticism. "Hey! That's...pretty good...but something's missing...I don't know what," is his well-rehearsed response. He is as consistent and oblivious to quality as my sister, though in a different slice on the spectrum.
Grandma and Boris never say a single word about the quality of the music. They react, but I haven't decided how to interpret their reaction yet. Usually it goes something like this:
(a three course meal is shoved down Mark's throat to lull him into a false sense of security and a very real sense of nausea)
Grandma: sing us one of your songs! You never sing to us!
Mark: ugh...I only sing to my microphone. But you can hear my computer imitate me. Want to?
Grandma: you didn't eat anything today! Do you want some strawberries? Plums? Chocolate? Herring? Pickles? I know! Let's drink a shot together!
(If you're wondering about the exclamation points, Grandma lives at around 130 decibels)
Mark: no thanks, I only drink with Michelle.
Grandma: well at least have some bread. Nuts. Potatoes. Want me to make you a steak? Pancakes? Why aren't you playing your song to me!?
Mark: uhh...good point. (Turns song on)
Grandma (listens for 5 seconds): BORIS! GET OVER HERE, MARK'S PLAYING US HIS SONGS!
Boris (from the kitchen): meh? You say something?
(They arm themselves with megaphones and yell into each other's earpieces for the next three songs. Boris finally comes over. Mark writhes in pain on the carpet; he is congenitally incapable of habituating to sonic warfare)
Grandma: is that your song playing?
Mark: ye...e...e...s.
Grandma: Boris, listen! Don't fall asleep, you old goat!
Boris: I'm not sleeping, I'm listening!
(5 seconds pass)
(Mark quietly gets up, negotiates the two blissfully snoring geezers, packs his things and drives himself to the hospital)
(scroll down three days and repeat)
Neither Grandma nor Boris has stayed awake for the duration of a single song, which is 3.5 mins on average. Good? Bad? I don't know but I'm going to be optimistic. At their age, if they don't die of something, it's probably really really really ridiculously good.
Mario is the only one who gives constructive feedback. Unfortunately, by some crazy coincidence, he's the one person whose advice I never listen to. Can't do anything about it, the decision was made a long time ago.
Chun is busy 758 hours a week so she has no time to give feedback. My turn to be the object of her attention was coming up, but then a little thing called Daylight Savings Time stole my spot. Now she's back in her exercise wheel, dancing her way into medical school. Don't stand in her way, she has a mean left pirouette.
And finally, there was one person outside the usual circle who got a taste of this album (that's coming soon to your friendly nearby Internet). That was my aunt. Around Christmas, she demanded I send her a song. Being an obedient little nephew, I obliged...and that was the last I heard from her. I should really go check if she's OK. Hmm...nah, I'll just wait till next Christmas. If she doesn't show up, then I'll know something's wrong. Never too late to call 911.
My family is generally supportive, though they express this support in very different ways. The "generally supportive" average is reached primarily thanks to my sister, who lavishes praise with a heavy hand regardless and especially irregardless of quality. (Somewhere Perry is getting very very angry about my word usage. Lucy, do what you can for him). "Mark! You wrote that!?" she shrieks. "It's soo good! You're amazing!" My guess is that up till now she thought I was clinically retarded, because I can literally play one chord and elicit that response.
My mother, the most musically inclined of my subscribers, is eager to listen to my creations but only has time to do so on the 32nd of every month. Never fear, my supreme patience is holding stong.
Gene, who now runs out of the house if you call him "Dad," gives a two-for-one deal: reserved praise and vague criticism. "Hey! That's...pretty good...but something's missing...I don't know what," is his well-rehearsed response. He is as consistent and oblivious to quality as my sister, though in a different slice on the spectrum.
Grandma and Boris never say a single word about the quality of the music. They react, but I haven't decided how to interpret their reaction yet. Usually it goes something like this:
(a three course meal is shoved down Mark's throat to lull him into a false sense of security and a very real sense of nausea)
Grandma: sing us one of your songs! You never sing to us!
Mark: ugh...I only sing to my microphone. But you can hear my computer imitate me. Want to?
Grandma: you didn't eat anything today! Do you want some strawberries? Plums? Chocolate? Herring? Pickles? I know! Let's drink a shot together!
(If you're wondering about the exclamation points, Grandma lives at around 130 decibels)
Mark: no thanks, I only drink with Michelle.
Grandma: well at least have some bread. Nuts. Potatoes. Want me to make you a steak? Pancakes? Why aren't you playing your song to me!?
Mark: uhh...good point. (Turns song on)
Grandma (listens for 5 seconds): BORIS! GET OVER HERE, MARK'S PLAYING US HIS SONGS!
Boris (from the kitchen): meh? You say something?
(They arm themselves with megaphones and yell into each other's earpieces for the next three songs. Boris finally comes over. Mark writhes in pain on the carpet; he is congenitally incapable of habituating to sonic warfare)
Grandma: is that your song playing?
Mark: ye...e...e...s.
Grandma: Boris, listen! Don't fall asleep, you old goat!
Boris: I'm not sleeping, I'm listening!
(5 seconds pass)
(Mark quietly gets up, negotiates the two blissfully snoring geezers, packs his things and drives himself to the hospital)
(scroll down three days and repeat)
Neither Grandma nor Boris has stayed awake for the duration of a single song, which is 3.5 mins on average. Good? Bad? I don't know but I'm going to be optimistic. At their age, if they don't die of something, it's probably really really really ridiculously good.
Mario is the only one who gives constructive feedback. Unfortunately, by some crazy coincidence, he's the one person whose advice I never listen to. Can't do anything about it, the decision was made a long time ago.
Chun is busy 758 hours a week so she has no time to give feedback. My turn to be the object of her attention was coming up, but then a little thing called Daylight Savings Time stole my spot. Now she's back in her exercise wheel, dancing her way into medical school. Don't stand in her way, she has a mean left pirouette.
And finally, there was one person outside the usual circle who got a taste of this album (that's coming soon to your friendly nearby Internet). That was my aunt. Around Christmas, she demanded I send her a song. Being an obedient little nephew, I obliged...and that was the last I heard from her. I should really go check if she's OK. Hmm...nah, I'll just wait till next Christmas. If she doesn't show up, then I'll know something's wrong. Never too late to call 911.
Wednesday, March 11, 2009
Rash Decisions And Other Staples
Today is the third day of a really nutty 30 day trial. The rules of the trial are a bit ambiguous, but several items have been agreed upon:
1. No sweets (excluding ones that grow on trees (excluding ones that grow on trees in Johnny Depp's Chocolate Factory (exluding ones that also grow on trees outside the factory))).
We can pretty much stop here because it's already enough for full-scale clinical depression. I'm an extreme sugar fiend. I eat chocolate before and after a meal, floss my teeth with Twizzlers and use a Jawbreaker for a retainer. When I make myself a cup of tea, it doesn't matter in the least what flavor the tea it is because I drown the flavor in copious amounts of miracle powder. In fact, if I can tell what flavor tea I'm having by the time I finish a cup, I make an appointment with my physician; it is extremely aberrant.
So it's day three now, and I can't help but notice that I suddenly have tons of free time. At least three extra hours. Granted, now I spend them prostrate on the floor of my room, suffering from withdrawal, but they're extra nonetheless. If you could have an extra few hours of life every day with no ultimate changes to your lifespan, with the "BUT" (fancy word for "caveat") being that they were full of suffering, would you take them? I would without a second thought, but only if I were on a 30-day trial of taking them.
Generally, I'm feeling more deflated across the board (hmm, can't think of a way to not be redundant in this sentence, oh well). I experienced this before - during my 4th attempt to quit drinking soda. The abrupt disappearance of the sugar high renders life gray and uninteresting. I'm sure glad I'm giving up sugar and not heroin (NEVER giving that one up).
2. No snacking. Only eat when hungry.
Snacking all but disappears when you eliminate sugar from your diet. Now I only have the urge to snack every three minutes as opposed to after every successful swallow. I spend a lot of time in my room upstairs working up my hunger to earn permission to indulge my mouth. "I'm hungry, I'm hungry, I'm hungry," is the mantra of the month.
3. Decide what to do for the generalized version of this 30 day trial.
The original plan was to give up all impulses. Obviously this is only feasible for living Buddhas and select igneous rocks, but there's a saying about bars and settings that's popular in this house - something along the lines of "set the bar high for everyone else." After much fruitless discussion, we decided to start off with the obvious sacrifices - #1 and #2 (not the ones you're thinking of...well...definitely not the ones you're thinking of after reading this sentence), and then kick it into high gear the second to last or last week of the trial. I'll let you know how that goes if it goes anywhere.
Went to New York today as a chaperone for Gene on his field trip to the dentist. Gene dropped me off at 80th and Broadway and went off to the torture chamber. I took a slow walk to Barnes and Noble a few blocks away, scaring pidgins and people with my hasn't-seen-the-light-of-day-for-months pale zombie face, and read about three pages in half an hour. I decided I was better at walking and went back out to partake of some pollution.
Later, I came to check up on Gene and he was still being held prisoner. The warden said he was due for release soon, but time passes very differently inside and outside the prison; I ended up waiting for another hour. Anyway, I went outside again, and just then this guy passed me carrying a box. The box read "China" and nothing else. Thank God I'm practicing stifling my impulses, otherwise I would have snuck into that box and prayed it was on an express delivery route to Shanghai...and probably would have ended up as dinner. Still, it's obviously a sign that China's anxious for my arrival.
On the way back from New York, we dropped by the King Fung Food Market - a Chinese grocery store in my town. At checkout, Gene, with his usual lack of sensibility, casually mentioned to the Chinese cashiers that I study Chinese. All of a sudden, there was a blinding tornado of blood and headless torsos, followed by an investigation into my abilities. I came out relatively unscathed, being 38.9% Chinese by the latest estimate, but I fear (and am secretly eager) to return. Sometimes enjoying life as a masochist is so easy it's unfair.
1. No sweets (excluding ones that grow on trees (excluding ones that grow on trees in Johnny Depp's Chocolate Factory (exluding ones that also grow on trees outside the factory))).
We can pretty much stop here because it's already enough for full-scale clinical depression. I'm an extreme sugar fiend. I eat chocolate before and after a meal, floss my teeth with Twizzlers and use a Jawbreaker for a retainer. When I make myself a cup of tea, it doesn't matter in the least what flavor the tea it is because I drown the flavor in copious amounts of miracle powder. In fact, if I can tell what flavor tea I'm having by the time I finish a cup, I make an appointment with my physician; it is extremely aberrant.
So it's day three now, and I can't help but notice that I suddenly have tons of free time. At least three extra hours. Granted, now I spend them prostrate on the floor of my room, suffering from withdrawal, but they're extra nonetheless. If you could have an extra few hours of life every day with no ultimate changes to your lifespan, with the "BUT" (fancy word for "caveat") being that they were full of suffering, would you take them? I would without a second thought, but only if I were on a 30-day trial of taking them.
Generally, I'm feeling more deflated across the board (hmm, can't think of a way to not be redundant in this sentence, oh well). I experienced this before - during my 4th attempt to quit drinking soda. The abrupt disappearance of the sugar high renders life gray and uninteresting. I'm sure glad I'm giving up sugar and not heroin (NEVER giving that one up).
2. No snacking. Only eat when hungry.
Snacking all but disappears when you eliminate sugar from your diet. Now I only have the urge to snack every three minutes as opposed to after every successful swallow. I spend a lot of time in my room upstairs working up my hunger to earn permission to indulge my mouth. "I'm hungry, I'm hungry, I'm hungry," is the mantra of the month.
3. Decide what to do for the generalized version of this 30 day trial.
The original plan was to give up all impulses. Obviously this is only feasible for living Buddhas and select igneous rocks, but there's a saying about bars and settings that's popular in this house - something along the lines of "set the bar high for everyone else." After much fruitless discussion, we decided to start off with the obvious sacrifices - #1 and #2 (not the ones you're thinking of...well...definitely not the ones you're thinking of after reading this sentence), and then kick it into high gear the second to last or last week of the trial. I'll let you know how that goes if it goes anywhere.
Went to New York today as a chaperone for Gene on his field trip to the dentist. Gene dropped me off at 80th and Broadway and went off to the torture chamber. I took a slow walk to Barnes and Noble a few blocks away, scaring pidgins and people with my hasn't-seen-the-light-of-day-for-months pale zombie face, and read about three pages in half an hour. I decided I was better at walking and went back out to partake of some pollution.
Later, I came to check up on Gene and he was still being held prisoner. The warden said he was due for release soon, but time passes very differently inside and outside the prison; I ended up waiting for another hour. Anyway, I went outside again, and just then this guy passed me carrying a box. The box read "China" and nothing else. Thank God I'm practicing stifling my impulses, otherwise I would have snuck into that box and prayed it was on an express delivery route to Shanghai...and probably would have ended up as dinner. Still, it's obviously a sign that China's anxious for my arrival.
On the way back from New York, we dropped by the King Fung Food Market - a Chinese grocery store in my town. At checkout, Gene, with his usual lack of sensibility, casually mentioned to the Chinese cashiers that I study Chinese. All of a sudden, there was a blinding tornado of blood and headless torsos, followed by an investigation into my abilities. I came out relatively unscathed, being 38.9% Chinese by the latest estimate, but I fear (and am secretly eager) to return. Sometimes enjoying life as a masochist is so easy it's unfair.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
For Those Of You Who Call Me Lazy
For the last two weeks, I've been wearing a pair of cargo pants with the important button missing. Actually, the button isn't even missing, it's sitting right in front of me, next to my laptop; I can just reach it if I slide my left pinkie off the keyboard. The fly zipper is fine so I don't have to devote one hand to a full-time task of preventing indecent exposure, but a zipper can only do so much and every thirty seconds of walking results in a need for readjustment. You would think it'd be tempting to just go and sew the button back on, an enterprise that would take all of two minutes, but then you'd be forgetting how manly, patient and just plain hardworking I am. I am so uncompromisingly hardworking and NOT lazy that I am willing to lift my pants up and rezip the zipper ninety-six times a day just to avoid those easy cop-out two minutes of sewing. This little piggy takes the hard road.
I have strong precedents in this direction. When I still had my previous laptop, an ancient pre-Internet dinosaur that ran on ant and squirrel power and majored in freezing, there was one time when the keyboard really tested my patience. A bunch of keys didn't work no matter what gauge finger you hit them with. The offenders included four letters, among them 's' and 't,' the left Shift key, Backspace, and most irritatingly - the Esc key. The problem was obviously the nuts and bagel bites and milk and cereal that slowly accumulated under the keys after weeks of use. The most popular solution is to do some cleaning, but instead of being the typical lazybones and buying a can of air and a straw and a slave to press the button and two more slaves to aim the nozzle, I put in some extra effort. I held the four letters in the clipboard - pasting and deleting the ones I didn't need, I slowly taught my right pinkie to use the right Shift key, I highlighted and used the Del key instead of Backspace, and God knows what I did for the Esc key. Probably just restarted my computer. When you're in that kind of situation and you're in dire need of the Esc key, it's like living in that silly quote from Windows hell "Press any key to quit or any other key to continue." Except none of my keys worked.
Anyway, this went on for two months. Finally, when I felt I had mastered patience, I ordered my dad to clean the keyboard for me. He did (instantly, of course), and I was back to appearing normal.
This strategy applies to most situations in life. People love saying "Why put off till tomorrow what you can do today?" or sometimes the exact opposite, but they never think "Why don't I just suck it up, and stop making things easy for myself? Why don't I not pay these taxes, and see what happens?" When I see a button missing on my pants, I don't think "eh, I'll fix it later," nor do I think "I better go fix this right now." I don't try to save myself work either way. I think "hey, a button's missing. Let me just pull the old pants up a bit and zip up...there we go, that'll hold for another ten seconds."
If we always do things the easy way, by doing them at the right time, we miss out so much invaluable suffering. And the density of life lessons in suffering exceeds that of in joy by far. If I go and fix my pants right now, I'll learn absolutely nothing from this incident, and I'm not one to waste opportunities to learn.
More examples from my wonderful dictionary:
邮件 - mail
警方一直截查我的邮件。
The police had been intercepting my mails.
我打开了邮件，惊讶地发现了一个打碎的花瓶。
I opened my mail and was surprised to see a broken vase.
一起 - together
那个妓女和逃犯一起被杀死了。
The harlot was killed together with the fugitive.
擅长 - to be good at
他擅长绘画。
He excels in painting.
她擅长绘画。
She is clever at painting.
I have strong precedents in this direction. When I still had my previous laptop, an ancient pre-Internet dinosaur that ran on ant and squirrel power and majored in freezing, there was one time when the keyboard really tested my patience. A bunch of keys didn't work no matter what gauge finger you hit them with. The offenders included four letters, among them 's' and 't,' the left Shift key, Backspace, and most irritatingly - the Esc key. The problem was obviously the nuts and bagel bites and milk and cereal that slowly accumulated under the keys after weeks of use. The most popular solution is to do some cleaning, but instead of being the typical lazybones and buying a can of air and a straw and a slave to press the button and two more slaves to aim the nozzle, I put in some extra effort. I held the four letters in the clipboard - pasting and deleting the ones I didn't need, I slowly taught my right pinkie to use the right Shift key, I highlighted and used the Del key instead of Backspace, and God knows what I did for the Esc key. Probably just restarted my computer. When you're in that kind of situation and you're in dire need of the Esc key, it's like living in that silly quote from Windows hell "Press any key to quit or any other key to continue." Except none of my keys worked.
Anyway, this went on for two months. Finally, when I felt I had mastered patience, I ordered my dad to clean the keyboard for me. He did (instantly, of course), and I was back to appearing normal.
This strategy applies to most situations in life. People love saying "Why put off till tomorrow what you can do today?" or sometimes the exact opposite, but they never think "Why don't I just suck it up, and stop making things easy for myself? Why don't I not pay these taxes, and see what happens?" When I see a button missing on my pants, I don't think "eh, I'll fix it later," nor do I think "I better go fix this right now." I don't try to save myself work either way. I think "hey, a button's missing. Let me just pull the old pants up a bit and zip up...there we go, that'll hold for another ten seconds."
If we always do things the easy way, by doing them at the right time, we miss out so much invaluable suffering. And the density of life lessons in suffering exceeds that of in joy by far. If I go and fix my pants right now, I'll learn absolutely nothing from this incident, and I'm not one to waste opportunities to learn.
More examples from my wonderful dictionary:
邮件 - mail
警方一直截查我的邮件。
The police had been intercepting my mails.
我打开了邮件，惊讶地发现了一个打碎的花瓶。
I opened my mail and was surprised to see a broken vase.
一起 - together
那个妓女和逃犯一起被杀死了。
The harlot was killed together with the fugitive.
擅长 - to be good at
他擅长绘画。
He excels in painting.
她擅长绘画。
She is clever at painting.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
