Shit, shit, shit!

For the seventh day in a row, ­­­­Joe had clogged the toilet.  For the seventh day in a row, he had cursed six times before even thinking about brunch.  He plunged away, mumbling to himself. Man, I need a new toilet.  Replace this old piece of shit.  (Make that seven times before brunch.)

After cleaning this debacle with papertowels and airspray, showering with just airspray, and eating hot pockets with just papertowels, Joe took out his things-to-do list, for it was chore day.  Usually, he does not make lists as he believes it to be counterproductive.  Why waste time making a list of things to do, when you could do things wasting time? The reason: Oprah Winfrey.  The American billionaire, producer, philanthropist, and owner of the highest rated talk show host ever in the history of talk shows, claimed that list-making relieves stress and gives life meaning, even if that meaning is to clean the cat’s litter-box.  So, despite his biased disposition, Joe made a things-to-do list—a mighty fine one too.

#1: Clean the cat’s litter-box.

­A huge sigh.  He hated that cat. He hated how it stared at him for hours, like it had nothing to do, but stare.  He hated the cheap, smelly poop-box, filled to the brim with shit and piss.  But, what he hated most was its name.  His sister named the cat “Jesus” and for some reason, he didn’t ever think to change it.  It just stuck.  At first, it was funny.  People would come over and ask for its name.  He would say that it was Jesus and everyone would laugh and pet Jesus.   They would say, “Hey look, I’m petting Jesus!” with more enthusiasm than he had ever see them have.  Some of his more clever friends would crack jokes about CS Lewis, Aslan, and Liam Neeson. Sadly, the smart ones were few and far between.

One day when ­Joe was bringing in the groceries, Jesus ran away from home.  Joe spent the rest of the evening through the streets of his neighborhood yelling, “Jesus!  Come home, Jesus!  I bought that food you liked, you know, the one in the commercial with the woman with the sexy hands and that fluffy white cat!”  Passersby glared at him, judging with their eyes.  Mothers muffled her children’s ears, telling them not the listen to that crazy man.  They told their kiddies that Jesus was in heaven and didn’t eat cat food, especially that yucky stuff in that one commercial with the sexy hands.  Needless to say, Joe’s search for his cat ended his social life.

Joe took out his pooper scooper and his face mask. On all fours, he got of whiff of the pancaked feces. He reached for his papertowels and airspray. …. Didn’t I just do this? He asked himself.

#2.  Wash the car.  ­

­Joe’s car, perhaps justifiably, was an Oldsmobile. “Ole’ rusty,” as he called it, or, “piece of shit,” as everyone else called it, was dirty brown all over—the sides, the bumpers, the hood, the roof—except for the trunk which still held the dark ocean color of the original paintjob.  The first rusty spot started in the upper left corner of the car years ago, next to the headlight.  Joe never knew how it got there. It just did.  He never took care of it believing that everything would be okay. Before he knew it, the rusty spot had grown, a mitosis of oxidation, and travelled horizontally down the entire length of the left side of the car.  Soon, the rust triumphed over its fear of heights and grew vertically, covering the hood of the Oldsmobile.  Eventually, the expanding chemical reactions engulfed the whole vehicle, even the seatbelt buckles. The only place where the rust had failed to infect was the trunk, which to this day, still holds the glistening sparkle of its original carwax.

Joe grabbed a kitchen sponge and took a bottle of water.  He doused the sponge with some water and placed a dab of carwash detergent into it.  He scrubbed the trunk, whistling a tune that he had forgotten the words to.  He rinsed the bubbles off with the rest of the water from the bottle.  He proceeded to dry with a single papertowel.  Soon, he sprayed the car’s cabin with airspray.  Ah, clean, finally!

#3.  Take out the trash.

For others, taking out the trash would have been a simple chore.  Two or three minutes max.  However, for Joe, it was a grueling endeavor, since his trashcan was falling apart. The dull-green, plastic walls sustained cracks from being carelessly thrown around by garbage men.  The lid had been long lost after a thunderstorm a few weeks ago. Due to months of being dragged across the asphalt instead of being lifted (and because Joe constantly stuffed more garbage than it could possibly hold) the floor of the container was pushed out and off.   It wasn’t really a garbage can any longer, but a beat-up, green cylinder, a silhouette of its former self—a gaping hole where the lid used be, a gaping hole where the bottom floor once was.

Joe had gotten the garbage container at the local flee market.  The selling couple bought everything in bulk, believing that doing so would save them money in the long run.  Food, clothes, toilet paper, Glade plug-ins, shoelaces, contraceptives. They accidentally ordered an extra case of one-hundred fifty garbage cans that a flatbed truck delivered to them at no extra cost.  The couple eventually figured out that they had way too many garbage cans when they started using garbage cans as garbage bags.  So to prevent global warming, they decided to sell the extras at the flee market. Enter Joe and his five dollars and sixty-two cents.

Joe pulled the cylinder across his driveway, spilling spoiling meat and pizza boxes.  He looked back, unsatisfied with the trail of dying material.  He walked around back and started pushing, but got the same result. He began hyperventilating, preparing himself for what he calls, “clogging the pipes.” Joe bent down and hoisted the can straight up, rotating the cylinder ninety  degrees, arched his back, and used his chest as a plug.  He was the bottom of the trash-can.  From this position, he could smell the rotting remains of his used discards. He held his breath, but the stench still managed to seep into his nostrils and lungs.

Each step shifted the garbage in a new position, revealing the forgotten trash pieces that he had tossed during the week.  A ripped sock. Empty airspray cans. Shit-stained paper-towels.  At the end of driveway, he quickly dropped the garbage can and coughed.  Garbage stained his shirt; the awful smell was a piggish perfume. Joe gagged.  It was a job well done.

Chores and number filled the rest of his day.  By sundown, Joe had crossed off thirteen things that Oprah told him he should do.  He tiredly trotted into his house, popped a frozen pizza into the oven, set the timer, and went to the bathroom to wash himself.  He gazed into the mirror, looking at that unknown man before him.  Jesus, maybe that cat was onto something. The wrinkles developing on his forehead.  The unshaven beard.  The scar on his left cheek.  Time was going.  He was getting old.

Joe gave a heavy, suffocating sigh, and sulked to the kitchen. He reached for the triple layered cheese, covered with meat-from-every-genus pizza.  He made an almost superhuman bite, and reached for his can of stale beer that had been sitting there for God-knows how long. Stuffing the rest of the pizza into his mouth, Joe reached for another slice.

He was going to clog the toilet for the eighth day in a row.

I wrote this paper the first semester of Freshman year.  I decided to post it. –A schizo asian:

I have a different background than most people at the University of Scranton.  Both my parents emigrated from Vietnam, a country that strongly believes in filial piety.  That region of Asia believes that a son has an ultimate debt to his parents.  No matter how old he gets, he should always listen to their decisions.  He should be there for his parents every day and care for them into old age in the hopes that his children will take notice and do the same.  That was the way my parents were raised, and, looking back on it, that was the way they were raising me.  It was a system that has worked for thousands of years. Every moment that I wasn’t studying or practicing karate, was just another opportunity to lecture about how I should conduct myself in the future when they grow old.

Throughout my life, for instance, my mother has always tested my piety in the form of questions.  This particular one is her favorite.  She asks it in a somewhat playful but also serious kind of way.  “Years from now, our family will be on a boat.  The boat will crash.  You and the others will wash upon the shore.  Yet, your mother and your wife will still be in the ocean, slowly drowning.  You only have enough time and energy to save one.  Which one will you choose?”  I hesitate every time she asks this and groan.  Can’t we talk about something else? I mean, c’mon, I am only seven years old.  She sighs and replies, almost yelling.  “You will save your mother!  You can have many wives in your lifetime, but only one mother!”

Although I was surrounded by the Asian culture and its philosophies, I grew up in the American one instead.   I watched the American shows, read the American books, and listened to the American music while subtly rejecting the culture of Vietnam.  This fact is evident in my language.  I cannot speak Vietnamese, nor can I read it.  (At best, I can understand simple sentences and can only respond in a yes, no, thank you, and where is the bathroom?) Because of this ignorance to her culture, my mother has this crazy idea that I am going to put her in a nursing home because I am an integrated American and that was what Americans do.  They don’t care for their parents.  Children hate their parents and the constant fighting, divorce, drug abuse, and neglect are a result of this.  She isn’t stupid or blind. She has observed these occurrences over the many years that she has been in the states.  Although they are extremely inaccurate, her observations are justified and I do not blame her for her beliefs.

I think that no one will argue that parents are the most important factor in a child’s life.  I remember when I was in grade school, I went on a weekend campout with a friend and his parents. His mom and dad were really cool compared to my parents.  They were easy going and fun, so I was looking forward to the trip.  When we got there, my friend and I found a frog and he started to chase it.  I told him to leave it alone, but he wouldn’t.  He grabbed it, pulled at its limbs, threw it, and poked it with a pointy stick.  His parents saw what was happening, but they overlooked it and went back to doing whatever they were doing.  How could they condone the slow torture of the frog?  My parents would have disowned me if they ever saw me doing that to another living creature.  I realized just how well my parents were raising me.   At that moment, all I wanted was to go home again.  In retrospect, the parents’ ignorance to an obviously violent act could explain why this former friend was so physical during school and had to be expelled. (Needless to say, I never hung out with that guy ever again.)  In conjunction, I have heard on many occasions, children calling the act of receiving a family a game of chance.  Fortunately, I got extremely lucky in the parent lottery.  Although they were strict, my mother and father did their best to raise me.  They brought me up with love and devotion.  It is because of their positive influences that I have become a confident, young adult who can think for himself and write a paper that somewhat goes against their own beliefs.  I appreciate what they have done for me.  I feel as though I am indeed obligated to give them something in return.

One philosopher argues that children owe their parents “absolutely nothing” because parents raise their children out of love and do not see them as a monetary investment. On one hand, I agree with the part that says parents should not see children as monetary investments.  It is common understanding that bringing up children costs money and that children will hopefully grow up to have a job of their own.  Yet, children should not be treated like mutual funds, and it would be wrong (and extremely stupid) if they did.  There is no guarantee that the child will give money back to parents with interest, or even have a job which pays better than the parents’.  In addition, with this market, children may be worse off than their parent’s ever had been and might struggle to just stay alive.  Thus, raising a child for gain in money is unsound.

On the other hand, I completely disagree with the component which says that children do not owe their parents anything. In respect to that philosopher’s thinking, it is true that a parent raises a child from an innocent infant protecting it from the dangers of the world.  Parents try to instill in the child love, a sense of purpose, and values.  This is an arduous task, both time-consuming and tiring, but they still do it because they want their child to grow to be a well-balanced and moral person.  Since we have already established that parents do not raise their children for monetary gain, why would they go through the trouble of rearing a child?  The above philosopher answers the question: love. Parents do what they because the level of love has become so deep that the child becomes a part of them.  Human nature is to protect oneself, and so a parent must also protect his child.  My father told me one time, he hated to watch me spar in karate because every time I was kicked, he was kicked too.  This example supports my belief that a parent’s love can be a connection greater than logic.

Beyond this, love itself is not a one way street.  There must be love coming and going from both sides. If a parent and child truly love one another, than the materials of the physical world should not come between them.  A son should not care if he gave money to his parents because they are more important than cash.  Most importantly, it must be noted that parents are family.  They are the reason why a child was given life, was able to grow up, and is still living today.   Because of this, there are moral obligations in which the child needs to fulfill. I do believe that children do owe their parents respect, love, and honor.  Even if parents did not choose to have the child (sadly, in many cases) they still decided to keep him.  Their decision is a life-changing move and it reveals the kind of character that parents possess to make such a choice.  A child must care for his parents because they cared for him.  It is indicative that a child pays them back.  I mean, if someone was to lend you money, wouldn’t you want to pay them back in some way or another? It is common courtesy, and with parents, this courtesy should be amplified.  Therefore, a child does owe the parents a great amount.

Nonetheless, the term “owe” is a somewhat broad term.  In the sense of a child to parent relationship, I think that both sides owe the other at least something. The parents owe it to their children to do their best to protect, feed, clothe, shelter, and provide for them.  In return, the children should do their best to do the same when the parents get older.  People might believe that there are different levels of owing. I agree.  I think of the parents as the initial “ower.”  They are morally obligated to care for their child.  However, if they neglect the child and do not nurture him, then the child owes the parents just the same.  It is my belief that the child should give back as much as the parents gave to him in the first place, and even more if they have raised them with love.

Yet, it is important to keep in mind that a child is his own person.  It is no doubt that the first years of a child’s life solely depend on his environment and the care that the parents give to him.   However, as a child grows older, he is able to choose who he becomes.   If he was raised in hardship, he can choose whether or not to build his character to overcome this adversity.  If raised with a loving environment, he can choose to embrace it for the better, or reject it to counter the norms of society. As a free, separate individual, a child can choose to follow the path his parents laid out for him, or he can take a different one.  It is the parents that lay the foundations for life, but it is the child who chooses where to build the framework and place the bricks.  It is because of this reason that I admit children do not owe everything they have to their parents.  The child’s decision and paths they walk are a result of themselves and themselves only. Still, the parents still plays the monumental role of the giver of life.  Without them, a child would not have the opportunity to choose one path, or reject another.  It is because of this, that I believe children owe a lot, but not everything they have.

Many people might have objections to my belief.  For instance, the Asian culture would call me a disloyal and bad son.  The son should owe the parents everything he has because they gave him life.  Others might point out that parents might have children to “fit in.” It may be possible that some parents do not raise their children out of love, but because the law requires they have to, or they want gain the approval of their neighbors.  This gross misinterpretation of parenthood is another reason why children may feel as though they do not owe their parents anything.  Do children still need to owe the parents if they raise them for the wrong reasons?  Again, I respond that they were the people who did give you life.   The fact that you can argue whether or not you owe them anything proves that you do indeed owe them at least something.

Other critics might point out that if a parent truly loves a child, that parent would not care for the material things.  They would not want the money or the gifts.  Although I do agree with this, the child should recognize that it is the gesture that counts.  When a son gives a parent a gift, it shows that he cares and has been thinking about them. This notion is far greater than anything money can buy. The physical commodities that a child gives to a parent assures the caretaker that love is not a one way street.  This is the real moral obligation of the child: to show that he cares.

Growing up with the contrast of ideas, the American culture vs. the Asian culture, I have developed a hybrid of thinking.  Nothing in life is always black and white, but mostly grey.  I believe that children do owe their parents much of their lives.  They are the origin of his life and his sole provider in the first years of his life. However, we must not overlook that a child is his own person and that his choices are what made him who he is.  But again, without his parents, he would not have the opportunity to make those choices. Therefore, helping out parents is morally obligated.  If the parents are struggling and the child has excess prosperities, then it is morally contracted that the child helps them out. In terms of debt, children owe their parents as much help to, but should give beyond what is necessary to life to their parents because if they truly love each other, the material things in life won’t matter.  It is the gesture that matters most.

Haikus are pretty,

Yet often, they don’t make sense…

Cannibalism!

whoops

By: a schizo asian

Mistackes? Bah, I certainly don’t make them. I am blessed to be a

perfect being, void of blemishing inadequacies. I laugh at the tepid,

drooping face of chance and her failing aroma. She doesn’t touch me! I

don’t smell her! Mwuahaha!

You hastily assume that I am wrong and that I must have made at least

one mistake in my life. Maybe, you might think, I am insane. I assure

you: a feeble mind like yours would come to such a thought.

Paradoxically and subsequently, beyond all energies of a world in which

the sun most positively revolves around (because I, along with China, am

the center of the universe), I am consummate. I am a god. The

erroneous events that you blunderingly coin “mistakes” are simply

purposeful actions taken so that you may deem me human and I may easily

assimilate into your meager culture.

For instance, just a moment ago when I was casting polyacrylimide

gels in lab, you think that I forgot to degas the solution before adding

the hardening substrates. However, you brutes are incorrect! I

intentionally neglected this step because I enjoy being in lab during

the summer and wanted to spend a few more trite hours in slaving

captivity.

Similarly, earlier this week, you think I broke a couple of

graduated cylinders because I was carrying too many objects at one time

and they slipped through my hands. Again, you brutes are in the wrong!

I forcefully threw these worthless pieces of pyrex glass at the ground

for they did not measure out 50 mL to my satisfaction.

The automobile that I use as a means of translocation was flooded

the other day because I ignored to shut the windows during a powerful

thunderstorm. You think this a mistake? I assure twas not! I take

pleasure in blow-drying my car and airing it out for a full week. I

bask in the glory of wet seats and moldy upholstery.

Although I am indeed perfect, I did come from human parents. Both

natively speak Vietnamese. As a child, I refused to learn such an

abominable language, for English is the one true language of a god! To

this day you may term me as “confused” when relatives come over and

speak in their native tongues. Howbeit, I remain resolved in my

approval of English as the best language ever.

For one more example of my perfection, I draw upon the scar upon my

elbow. I was riding down a steep hill on a bicycle of which I refused

to replace the brakes of. You immediately bear the idea that a

reckless, young, and hasty teenager smashed into a neighbor’s mailbox,

obliterating the box and his arm. Yet, again, you are incorrect! I

plainly rode the un-tuned, broken bike to get rid of such an ugly

mailing apparatus. I was noble enough to sacrifice my arm to save the

neighborhood from this eyesore.

Ending my prompt, I reiterate that I have never made a mistacke in

my entire life because:

Humans make mistakes.

I don’t make mistakes.

Thus, I am a god. QED

Power rangers used to be so fucking cool.  It was totally awesome to see a group of teens using flips and shit to pullverize baddies.  Each episode was full of disgusting monsters that seemed to crawl out of your toilet; puddies poppin out of orifices and shit; the pink ranger was totally bangin and used a huge cocklike bow (is that wrong?); there was a floating hologram named Zordon (coolest fuckin name ever); and the arch-nemis had gigantic Z on his head.  I mean, c’mon, even look at this poster.  I repeat: totally awesome.

With the advent of newer rangers and crappier writers, the show has started to see a smaller, shitlike audience.  A shitlike actors.  And shitlike story.  And shitlike effects. The girls aren’t even hot.  However, despite these recent, blatant sodomies to the human race, no one could ever degrade the kind of twinkle and sparkle the original Power Ranger series had.  So with that, here are the Top Five Badasses from the Power Rangers.

5. The Lord Zed 

What a badass mutherfukka.  He was made for a single reason: to fuck shit up.Damn son, if I ever bore a child like that, I would just kill myself cause he would shove his Z right up my ass.

Zedd is the self proclaimed all-powerful “Emperor of Evil” and “sworn enemy of all that is good and decent”. He simply appeared out of the cosmos, like God, just spontaneously being.  He was disgusted with the notion that the Power Rangers were still living. Stripping Rita of her powers, he shrunk  her down size of a Barbie, and caged her in a gerbil cage.  Eventually, after raping Rita, he hurled her off into space.  She was never seen again.

In fact, he was such a frightening badass that after the first few episodes of him being on, parents actually complained that he was “too evil”  and “too scary” for the show.  Thus, they tone him down a bit.  What you see on the left is the toned down version of the Lord Zedd.  Imagine what he was like before the censorship.  That’s right.  Badass.  Like pure evil badass.

4. The Gold Ranger

Gold is probably one of the coolest colors out there.  Mix that with super morphing time watches andyou get a badass Gold Ranger.  For those of you who don’t know, the gold ranger was actually Jason, the previous red ranger.  Very few details are known about this guy.  He lies in the shadows until it’s time to kick ass.  He wields a power gold power staff which was used as a pure blunt, petal to the freaking metal club, or a laser shooter.

To be mysterious is to be badass,; it’s just titilizzing.  The veil behind his background peaks your interest which is why he is number 4.

3. The Pink Ranger

This ranger had a bow, erm, and shot arrows.  Uh, she was pink and girlish.  She enjoyed, urhm, spas and stuff….and she, uhh…Okay, admittedly, she was not badass.  She was puny, rarely did anything but stand their and take hits, and it seemed like her arrows never did anything to the monsters. But you have to admit she had a  bad ass.  And in case your thinking that I only put her because she was hot and wanted her to play with my bow and shoot arrows, you are dead wrong.  She was gymnist as well and was able to stretch and stretch and stretch.  Gigidy goo baby.

2.  The Red Ranger

It is hard to deny it. With a tight red shirt, ripped muscles, and the voice of God, Jason had pussy-magnet written all over him.  He was the leader of the Power Rangers, taught karate to youngster in his community, and held a fuckin master belt in the martial arts.  Not just karate, or Tae Kwon Do, or Ju Jit-su. But the fuckin martial arts itself. 

Not only that, he was the only ranger who stood a chance against the powerful green ranger.  Using the spirit of the Tyranorsaurus Rex, he wield the power sword to split his enemies down the middle. Yes, that was a sexual remark.  No, I am not gay.  At the power ranger convention, the Red Ranger was named #1 Ranger of all time.  Yet, in the eyes of an asian attuned only to detect badassness, he falls short of…

1. Tommy, the rainbow-freakin’colored ranger

God, some people just have it all.  Looks.  Smarts.  A talking dagger.  A huge robot. All the colors in the world. It’s just not fair.    This guy, Tommy, has been in almost every single Power Ranger Series to date.  First green, then white, then a white ninja, then red, then red neoagain, then black dino, then  just a normal guy still kickin ass.  He is, bar none, the most popular and beloved ranger ever to come to fruition.  He is an incredible martial artists an is one of the few rangers ever to take on monster without having to morph into a ranger. Whenever the regular cast was getting raped by the monster, he would show up and kick the shit out of it.  By himself.  He is a modern day Hercules.

Over the years, fans have been craving for his return once more, in order to put life to the dying animal that is its current series.

However, most importantly, this guy banged Kimberly.  Like all the time.  This alone puts our hero, the man of many colors, at the tope of our list. Badass.

Shoes with wheels = gay

A brief rant by Mike Le

I was embarking on a quest for new jeans at the mall today, when I noticed a quirky and, quite frankly, most moronic phase of pre-pubescent, fluctuating hormonal stupidity ever the grace the ground.  Shoes with wheels on the bottom of them.  In the middle of the mall, there was a group of either overweight or anorexic little faggots dressed in emo-ish attire with piercings in God know what body parts, eating cheap, fast-food cardboard from McDonalds, and pretending that they were cool.  They were running up and down the aisle and gliding along the pathways (might I add blatantly disregarding anyone in their way) only to turn around and do the the same thing again.  What the deuce is going on? Did shoes with wheels nullify common courtesy?

Let’s get this straight:  I got nothing against rollarblades, skates, or even those grind “soap shoes.”  But when some idiot designs a shoe that weighs three times a steel-toed Timberland boot wrapped in a snuggie, he is only asking for disaster.  He is only inviting the apethetic and lazy pre-teen to do what he does best, which is to be lazy and NOT give any effort to locomotion.  I have seen, albeit hilarious as it was, kids fall down and hurt themselves while skating on these God-forsaken soles.  Moreover, I have also seen, again ignoring the hilarity of it, kids knock over displays which someone worked hard to construct.  These kids need to learn that if they want to do a wheelie, they simple have to go outside. They need to learn that these shoes are not polite, moreover even safe, to use in public.  They need to learn that simply because they have the latest fad, it doesn’t mean they are cool.

Shoes with wheels — $49.99.  Bloodabsorbing Socks– $9.99.   Trouble they cause–priceless.

So, the next time you see a kid gliding, instead of walking in your path, do the world a favor and give them a good shove.  Topple them over.  Trample their false sense of purpose.   They deserve it, and you’ll be doing them a favor.

Education + 1 = infinite possibilities

The end of the world is near. Or, at least, so it seems.   Recently, there has been so much tension around the world, that I could not stop myself from thinking about the end of the world.  How’s it going to happen? How can I, one meager little asian boy, do to stop it?  How can I change the world?

When I thought about that state of the world and the kind of changes that I would make, a myriad of ideas were splashing visions of reformation in my head. Ideas like world peace, the termination of hunger, and a cleaner earth jumped out as the epiphany of change. Yet, the longer I thought about these ideas, the more I knew that they were the most impossible of tasks, given the condition of the world. I started to ponder what change could be drastic, life-altering, and actually feasible. I thought of us. Students. America. Mankind. To make a change worldwide, we will have to start with the world, one person at a time.

If the problems the world are compared to a locked door, then education is the key. A fellow student, Nick Caselli wrote, “One of the best investments we can make is in our future.” He is not satisfied with the current system of education, and neither am I. The first action that I would want to take place is to get rid of the No Child Left Behind Policy. Although I believe this was a noble piece of legislature created with the intent of bettering our children, it has proven to be haphazard and negative. The test narrows the curriculum to English and math (the subjects of the standardized tests), holds back our gifted and talented youth by keeping them in remedial classes with others, creates biases towards schools with higher scores (without looking at the students’ background or the school’s themselves), focuses on testing education rather than life education, and unfairly gives funding to schools who already are “doing well.” I think that we can come up with something better than this policy. The next portion of the system I would want to revamp is the way teachers teach. Growing up in public school, teaching was going to class, after class, after class. A normal school day consisted of listening to words said in monotonous tones drawn up in boring ways. Teachers should be excited about teaching. We should have more field trips to cultivating places, amass assemblies with exhilarating speakers and educators, assign homework that have meaning, and pave the way for spiritual journeys. We should try something new instead of keeping to the outdated methods which are obviously not working.

Mostly, I would want to teach children the mystery of learning, show them the mysticism in the things that we don’t understand but are trying to reveal. We should implement humanities courses, like philosophy and theological studies, to open minds to new ideas and new ways of thinking. It seems that as a society, we force children to go to school, compulsorily shoving meaningless information down their throats. I admit, having been brought up by a public school, many of the subjects I was made to learn were pointless. I simply learned the information to pass the test and beat the class. However, I think school should be a place where students WANT to go and learn. We should be teaching children WHY we want to learn, introducing them to the world and her problems, and how we can fix it by exploring our imaginations and creativity. Education should teach them how to live, how to love, how to change the world themselves.

When I was rummaging through the vast abyss of notes that have haunted my desk for the past three month,  I noticed that there is an underlying background of each subject.  What do I mean by background?  I mean a feeling, an attitude, an overarching ambiance.   Now, I know what your thinking:  How can a feeling, some internal passion of one’s self, be universal?  Just accept these notions, simply for the sake of argument, so that I can explain them to you subject by subject.  And in the end, you can decide whether you agree, or disagree.  You can even call me a dumbass too.  (The comments section is always open, folks!!).

Foremost, I would like to start with the subject of MATHEMATICS, especially that of higher level calculus, theoretical, and statiscal.  When studying math, you feel small.  Like the universe is an infinity of numbers and you are only a single digit.  You come to realize that the world is not about you, that you are insignificant.  Studying math is both humbling and empowering, but demeaning and belittling.  This is arguably THE most important subject mankind has to study, for it is obvious that math is the universal language, and could be the basis of the origin of the universe.  MATH is important for the sake of itself and its consequences.

SCIENCE.  You come to grips about your body and the organisms in, around, and outside of you.  You feel honored to be alive, learning how the smallest change in a genetic sequence could have the direst effect.  Outside the classroom,  food tastes better, air is cleaner, colors more vibrant–for you know that you are important in the ecological sense of the word.  The human body is a structural and biotic marvel and you are delighted to be one; even moreso, thankful to be healthy for you are cognizant of the horrors and disease that can take place.  You are a unique snowflake.  Science is important in understanding the nature of the universe and how things work.

HISTORY.  You hit an epiphany: the things that are and are to be are all a consequence of the things that were.  You realize that history (whether a major effect or a minute detail) has be culminated to this one point.   The fact that I am typing right now, that fact the you are reading it, is all an after-effect of someone else inventing the the internet, the computer, letters, language, mankind, world, universe, nothingness.  Class leaves you honored to be alive.  Truly honored and happy that the events that have happened prior, good or bad, happened and you are able to study it.  History is important in learning how to avoid making mistakes.

LITERATURE.  Class leave you feeling good, because it teaches you about life.  Every written word has a meaning and you are happy that someone was willing to guide your path with words.   There is not one thing that is new in life.  Some one prior to you has experienced it, felt that feeling that you feel right now.   The author wrote the book or poem or piece for you.  To teach.  To learn.  To live.  LITERATURE is important in learning how to be human.

Finally, there is PHILOSOPHY.  Overall, it is important for the sake of itself; it defines the human condition, seperating man from animal.  And is the basis for all prior subjects.

Thanks for listening,

MIKE LE

Freshmen year is finally over! Because of this I hope to write more on this blognet thingy.  A lot of my co-contributors are writing reviews of movies and video games… and so to bring deeper, more meaningful post to this blog, I offer a short story that showcases an observation that I have made in the past twenty years of life:

“In a second, he had lost the sense that he relied on the most, his ability to see.  Blindfolded, alone, cold, and wet, his hands and ears were the only guides.  A rope made of a prickly, nylon-polyester flaunted its lumps, twists, and cuts, and paved the way through the thickened woods.  Although the exact destination was not known, it was assured that happiness laid at the end of the journey.  All he had to do was raise his hand and ask for help.  But, determination, pride, almost arrogance, glued his hand to his side, clutching the nylon rope that led him in circles…”

Just something to think about.  Have a great day!

Cheers,  –Mike Le

I am new to this blogging thing, but decided to give it a shot when a friend invited me.  He was all like “wanna join?”  I and I was all like “okay.”  So yea, that’s it.

A little bit about me:  I am a student at the University of Scranton, majoring in biochemistry and philosophy.  Unfortuantely, I am not a founding father of this blog… wahhh.

I love being asian.  I am interested in everything and everything, a polymath of the universe.  I am kinda like Leonardo da Vinci, only Asian and not as smart, innovative, good looking, or artistic.  Or homosexual. But seriously, I am open to new ideas, ways of thinking, liberal or conventional thoughts.   Feel free to post on this blog and comment.  I will try to update regularly.

Thanks for your time.

Cheers,

Mike Le

Brotherly Love