labyrinth of words

no more toilet paper

Aside from the rather obvious comedy of three men aiding each other as they multi-task, there's also the question of hygiene that I just can't seem to overlook. Take the man on the right, for example. He's drinking his cocktail while urinating, and then proceeds to hold and shake the next man's genitals. Does he not question where that said man's penis has been? Granted, by the looks of him, it's touched nothing more than the cotton of his tighty-whiteys, but still, the possibility does exist that he's come into contact with something other than his underpants. The same goes for the smoker. That hand, after having touched multiple male parts is put only inches away from his face as he lights up a fag. All I can hope for is that the smell of the smoke covered whatever stench was emitting off of his probably sticky, germ-infested fingers. Poor bloke on the left asks for nothing, but just lends a helping hand. He's done his good deed for the day. He finishes up; gives a little shake, and he's on his way... straight out the door! No little detour to the sink to wash his hands. Given the extracurriculars in which two of the three men part take, I can only assume that the locale is a pub, one filled with smoke, spit and foul smelling, yet horribly bland English pub food. But it's food he will nonetheless eat, after touching another man. Is this acceptable behavior in Britain? Or is this just typical behavior in all men's restrooms?

However, from what I can see, a simple shake to the left and shimmy to the right is enough to consider yourself done, ready to pack in and zip up. For that, I suppose I must commend you, males of society. As we are in an environmental crisis, some would call it so, you have found a way to reduce your impact, save a tree and some water, too. There's no need to wipe, and no desire to wash, so your ability to extend the life of a roll of toilet paper is quite staggering. Unfortunately, for us women, a simple wiggle of our pelvis doesn't render us clean. No,were we to do that, the urine would find it's way down our leg, meandering freely around the curves of our calves. So, I guess male genitalia is just conducive to a more environmentally friendly means of urination. Men, you win this round.

encouraging words - Apr 19th, 2010

two fetid feet - Dec 2nd, 2009

There're some pretty bad smells in the world, a dead rotting animal, month-old expired milk, the unisex bathroom for the 7-11 just off the New Jersey Turnpike, for example. While producing quite the vomit-inducing smells, they do not compare to the malodorous stench of my roommate's friend's feet.

Do you not smell them yourself and feel compelled to try and hide it? At all? I'm almost embarrassed for you. When you're sleeping on the couch of an apartment that you don't even live in, It's common courtesy to be as out of the way as possible. So, stinking up the entirety of the apartment does not quite qualify as being "out of the way."

I recently discovered that he's been stashing his sparse belongings in the closet where the water heater is also concealed. It was a chance finding, actually. And to be honest, I'm surprised I hadn't noticed it sooner. The stink had been seeping out from the cracks of the closet, only to be clouded by his wafting odor. I regrettably opened to the closet door to see what he had been stowing away. My god! When that door opened, I kid you not, my eyes watered, my knees gave way, and my stomach churned. I don't know how, but luckily my upchuck reflexes were stifled, keeping the smell of vomit out of the mix with feet.

Suffice it to say, I will not be sitting on that couch ever again.

jesus christ, happy birthday - Dec 1st, 2009

What a magical time the holidays are. The Christmas carols, the smell of pine trees wafting in the cold, crisp air. And who doesn't love the crunch of the just-fallen snow. It is a wonderful time. Fa la la la la, la la la la.

Unfortunately, however, the holidays prove to be a bit more of a stress inducer than anything else. Winter time in New York is no picnic. In trying to save money, we turn the heat pretty low and then off between certain hours. It's bone-chillingly cold, and it's a burr under my saddle just to go to the bathroom. The distraction from the pain of the cold is only the pressure to get everyone the "perfect" gift. I usually end up settling for whatever I can afford, hoping that it's generic enough that they can find some use for it or at least be able to re-gift it. I've gotten to the point where the ever-endearing, homemade IOU's don't seem to cut it. Remember the days when you were young enough to get away with making weird crafts with scraps that you found lying around, or better yet, when you didn't have to get anything at all? Your mom'll take care of it and attach your name. Gone are those days.

Then there is the celebration of the new year. There is a tough decision that needs to be made throughout the holidays. Do you engorge yourself to the point of disgust, having the intention, of course, to completely change your lifestyle for the new year? Or do you try to employ some degree of will power to look your best during the frequent picture-taking season, when you're perpetually surrounded by sweets, candy, and every type of baked good? The New Year is looking less and less auspicious, huh? 'Tis the season, I suppose.

Well, happy holidays all. May your level of stress be as high as your wallet is empty.

little me - Nov 29th, 2009

It's a "minnier" me. I suppose I'm below average when it comes to height. Standing at a whopping 5 feet 1 inch tall, I'm definitely no Leviathan. I'm only two short inches away from being legally called a midget and being able to use a handicap parking spot. And believe you me, there are some days I wish I could shave off those two inches and spare myself the extra 20 feet to the store entrance. Apparently, not only am I short, but I'm lazy as well. I look distraught in this picture. You know what it is? I think I'm wishing that I was just a bit more diminutive in size so that the ginormous balloon could take me away from whatever horrible situation I was obviously in.

the creativity of old man river

The following is an old post (Nov 10th, 2009) from a different and now nonexistent blog. But, I thought it was worthy of having a spot in my current one.


Old Man River's front door

Stephen R. Heck. My roommate and I affectionately call him Old Man River, and he’s been my neighbor for over a year. I’ve finally been able to overcome my mild fear of him. He’s a gangly man, about the age of 70. Seemingly very disturbed and unable to coherently express his thoughts, he spends his time wandering the streets of South Beach. What is so intriguing about Stephen Heck? For 37 years, he’s made his home Miami and has maintained a comfortable lifestyle for himself. But, it’s not without numerous late night rants about rocket science, the Vietnam War, or killer rats. His existence is a nuisance to others around him, and yet no one has tried to rid their lives of his angry outbursts. What makes Miami residents so tolerant? Or, is it something about Mr. Heck that they can’t rid themselves of? I went to the source to find out for myself.

Me: Mr. Heck, you’ve lived here for almost four decades, and now you own this complex. What is it about Miami that has kept you here?

Stephen Heck: It’s safe. There’s no one here that meddles in my business. They might be coming soon, but for now, it’s a safe place. I like the people here because they allow me to stay here without bothering me. I can do what I need to do. I can do what I need to do and not be bothered. But you can never let you’re guard down

Me: Are you expecting someone or something to come around at some point?

SH: I am always expecting. Always be prepared, ready. Ready for anything.

Me: I know you write a lot, but I can’t help noticing that much of what you write has a rather undecipherable quality. What is the purpose behind these writings, and who is your intend audience?

SH: I write what I know. I write what I hear. You need to keep a record of these things, so you don’t forget them. Know it all. Know it all. I save every piece so it’s always there if I need to recall. Milk prices went up, but I get a discount. 7.58%. Keep your files straight, and you won’t miss anything. I save on milk because of it.

Me: Well, it’s always good to save, especially nowadays. Along with your writings, you have a great deal of amazing sketches. Where did you learn to draw so well, and what do you pull from as your inspiration?

SH: I write what I know. I write what I hear. But I draw things too. There’s a lot out there that deserves to have its own portrait. That car above the doorway [in Dewey’s] is one that I stopped in the middle of the road to admire. The sun hit it in the most rousing way. I found a small stone once that had a picture of a werewolf on it.

Me: I was hesitant to ask this next one, but you’ve been heard late at night, speaking loudly about strange things. Who are you addressing during these bouts of anger? And what compels you to do so at such an odd hour?

SH: I don’t know…I don’t know. When I’m the only one speaking, they have to listen to me. They have to hear what I am saying. It’s always nighttime when they pay the closest attention. They need to be the most aware at that time.

Me: Who is ‘they?’

SH: They. They is all those out there lurking. They need to hear my harsh words sometimes. I’m keeping the area clear, very clear. I sense they are nearing, and that’s when I need to let them know that it’s not their territory. Have to keep it clear. Keep it very clear.

Me: Well, I think you’ve done a good job keeping this obscure ‘they’ far away. So when you’re not writing, drawing, or protecting us from the bad guys, how do you spend your free time?

SH: I like to watch people. People are everywhere. They give you a lot of things to think about. All sorts of people everywhere. Sometimes I come here and sit and write. Good thinking spot. Good, good thinking spot. There’s…there’s a science to these people. Matter and atoms make us up. Nitrogenous gases fill the air, and nitrates and nitrides are important ions.

Me: You’ve created a world in which you are perpetually alert, taking heed to everything that happens. Does this sort of hyper vigilance relate to your involvement in the Vietnam War?

SH: Oh. Oh no. No, no. Keep them away. They weren’t allowed then, and I won’t allow it now. No. Keep them away.

Me: Well, I think I’ve gotten a great picture of your source of creativity. Between your writing and sketches, you’re able to portray your thoughts the way you want them. So, thank you for your time. I can’t wait to see what else your people watching will inspire you to come up with.

SH: (smiles)

happiness is...

Everything about this video made me smile.

a little shell with shoes

Of all the crazy videos people post, this has to be one of my favorites. Marcel shares with us her life as a shell with shoes and the difficulties it sometimes brings her. In a perfectly-pitched, pipsqueak of a voice, she childishly, if not innocently, takes us through what it's like to be her. And with the introduction of Alan, her pet lint, any feelings of pity we may have had initially are immediately quelled.

the 'f' word

I know you've all probably seen this video about the 'f' word, but this is a great lesson in, not only the history of the versatile word, but the parts of speech and grammar in general. Enjoy.

more americaner

This entry is to answer the follow up question, "Are immigrants more American than Americans?" Hmmm...

So, I’ve conceded my status as an immigrant, a status upon which society has deemed somewhat negatively. I’ve also acknowledged that I was adopted and that all Asians seem to “look alike.” I have to be honest, sometimes, even I can’t tell. What I propose to you, now, is the idea that foreigners, to a degree, possess a quality more American than native Americans. To clarify, this is not a discussion about Hiawatha or Sitting Bull. By “native American,” I mean to say, those who were born in the States.

What does it mean to be “more” American anyway? Does it mean you eat more hot dogs and watch more baseball than the next guy? Or maybe it’s that you get the most excited when you see the red, white and blue fireworks on the Fourth of July. However you define it, you exude those qualities to a greater degree than the average American.

Is that all it is? Part of displaying these “American” characteristics is the ever present need to fit in, not in the cookie-cutter mold kind of way, but in the I-don’t-want-to-be-ostracized-from-society kind of way. Immigrants are already qualified as “other,” so in order to rid themselves of that title means a greater need for compensation. It means more tightly embracing the American way of life and every aspect of its culture.

There’s obviously no definitive way to classify what is American, and it makes this question a rather difficult one to answer. Is it being more patriotic than your neighbor? Is it about being the most generic, all-American individual? There are so many angles to tackle this, but none of which will result in anything conclusive.

Perhaps it can be whittled down to the Ken Burns trilogy of the Civil War, baseball, and jazz. So if you are the most knowledgeable about those that make up a large portion of the American experience, then you are more American. Doubtful, though it doesn’t hurt to be familiar with them.

The other obstacle rendering this even more challenging is the fact that there is more than one America. Save from the fact that there is a South America and a Central America, North America is comprised of more than one country. The United States seems to pretty confidently maintain that whenever someone says “America,” the reference is to it. Unfortunately, I’ve also erred in that way throughout this entry, but at least I’ve acknowledged it here.

I seem to have inconclusively answered this question, talking in circles and winding up even more confused than when I started. The United States, America, whatever you want to call it, has become an amalgamation of all sorts. As Israel Zangwill said in his play, The Melting Pot, “..America is God’s crucible, the great melting-pot where all the races […] are melting and re-forming…” Metaphorically, this epitomizes what America is, and as such a mixture of people, cultures, beliefs, ideologies, how can one pinpoint what is more? I truly implore you all reading to respond because through the countless hours of rumination, I’ve come up short.

am i an immigrant?

As a kind of continuation of my portfolio class, I was told to do write a blog entry for my teacher. If it was worthy enough, he'd post it in his agency's blog. Hooray! He deemed it as such, so here is my contribution to that day's entry:

Do I feel like an immigrant? Well, the word, immigrant, has an inherent "outsider" connotation. The word, adoptee, has a similar connotation of abandonment and being left behind. And, to a degree, neither is fully accepted in society. I was adopted, and I look like an immigrant, so where do I fit in? Do I fit in?

Born in South Korea, I was adopted by a Japanese-American family in the States. I never felt like I completely fit in growing up, but still I maintained that I was American. I raised as such, so among my peers, I always felt "white." To outsiders, I looked like the foreigner. I was, and too a degree, still am, the ultimate Hostess dessert, the Twinkie, yellow on the outside and white on the inside.

Now, the adoptee paradigm within society was one thing, but within the nuclear family context, it was completely different, and unexpected.

I first must impress upon you that my childhood conundrum was only possible because of American ignorance, for which I am now thankful. The narrow-minded thought that all Asians look alike enabled me to deny my Korean ethnicity and substitute it with Japanese.

This conundrum was one I faced on a regular basis. It was figuring out what to say when asked, "Where were you born?" For most kids, it was a pretty simple question, but I had to go through a whole thought process before responding. As a child, I was told not to share the fact that I was adopted, so the answer, “Korea,” was out. I could've said, “Japan,” but being a foreigner somehow felt wrong as well. So, I told people I was born in the good ol' state of New York. And, people bought it! It was a feasible answer, and it was quickly and unequivocally accepted. I have my Japanese mother to thank for that. Korean, Japanese, it’s all the same, right? Because if all Asians didn't "look alike," my lie would have never worked.

Under the guise of a half-American, half-Japanese child, I was American enough to be embraced as one. The immigrant status was thus debunked. It was a simple enough answer, and more importantly, it deterred further questioning about my background.

The environment in which all members knew the truth was surprisingly where I maintained a status as "immigrant." I am not American. I am not Japanese, but I am biologically Korean. Everyone else in my family fit in one of the two categories, if not both. Here was the one place I couldn't lie or hid behind my Asian exterior. My home, my safe-haven was the one place I felt different.

So, to answer the initial question, "Do I feel like an immigrant?" I respond with this: if by "immigrant" you mean "outsider," then yes, I feel like an immigrant. However, I can't ignore my status as an adoptee. As its meaning is essentially synonymous with abandonment, I do believe being left on a doorstep in a basket qualifies. But, that's a story for another time.

But, you should read the whole entry. So click here to see it.

look at me

Selfish words from an ego-maniacal tube. "Look at me!"

pop urself

Fifth Quarter work for the class, Digital Campaigns.

Creative Team: Sachi&7 - Alejandro Quilici, Ramzi Sarieddine, Vicente Jorge, Veon Watson, Sara Barreiro, Miryam Menendez, Mauro Putti, Sachi Brown

Awarded Miami Ad School Top Dog

"Pop Urself." It's a call to action and a useful gateway to promote and define Miami Ad School's pop culture engineering motto.

brighten your day.

Second Quarter work for the class, Short Format Writing.

Print ads for Windex. "Brighten your day."